Life x 2

Post-MFA angst

2011-10-02T12:07:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I've written anything, creative or otherwise, my writing these days consists of emails and press releases. I wonder if it's a common trait, but since graduating with my MFA and getting a career job, I definitely feel a little lost. And yet typing that, I don't feel that's the right wording either. I don't feel lost... I love my new job. I love the freedom it has given me to do more things, extend my friendships, meet a man, who I really like, and start a relationship. Perhaps it's more accurate to say I feel uninspired. Since the day I stopped working on my thesis I have felt completely blank. No characters are chirping in my ears, no songs are inspiring stories.

Writing Watch the Sky was an amazing experience. It was one of the hardest things I've done in my writing life. It wasn't just about getting the story out and the words on the page, it was about getting the right words on the page and the best story out of my protagonist. Writing is solitary, and yet, when I was working on my thesis/novel, I had a group of writing friends. We talked about writing, we had class together, we went out together, we went to conferences and readings and other events together. Now, some are still at Adelphi finishing their own theses, but my friends, my year, they are in New Orleans, Delaware and Oregon. Some are still around but it's not as easy to stay in touch and hang out when there isn't an MFA program tying us together or maybe it's just not easy for me.

Either way, I need to figure out how to get the creative juices flowing. I'm less myself when I'm not writing. A piece of me is missing. I'm not sure where to look anymore, what character wants to talk. I thought I knew but even the tried and true characters are keeping mum.

Writing in times of great stress.

2010-09-29T11:00:00.000-04:00

I recently broke up with my boyfriend, recent now being about two weeks. It was my call, something that after months of arguing I decided I needed to do, but that didn't make it easy to say. I was surprised at how firm a resolve I had in my decision. Yes, sometimes I still miss him, but mainly I feel like I did the right thing, for both of us. I'm putting this up here because it very actively had an effect on my writing.

For a good few days I had trouble writing anything. Looking at the screen where my novel waited, a cursor blinking back at me expectantly, Andi, my protagonist was silent. She had nothing to say. She had retreated to a safe place in my mind where the pain couldn't reach her, change her. After a few days I forced her out with painfully constructed sentences. A battle with the keyboard and as her voice came back to me, I grew stronger, less sullen, fewer moments of life halting fear hit my stomach. And then I realize what was to start my next chapter and the writing took a reprieve. My 12th chapter started with a break up scene.

To channel the emotions necessary to write that scene I would have to delve into a part of me I was protecting at the moment. To let it come to the surface would be potentially dangerous to my mental health. It took several days of writing bits and pieces before I thought I was going to explode. I came home from work and just did it. Had Corey say what he needed to say, had Andi feel her heart break as she realized she'd been wrong. And then it was done. Emotionally drained I'm not, but I also haven't started the next scene yet. It's like my brain needs a rest, it worked hard to write that scene without giving up the control on my heart.

Though two weeks is a lot better than my last break up. Last time, I stopped writing for months. I had to find my way back to writing and everything I knew because it was gone. This time it was different because I am a writer and I have fully embraced that. Being a writer means being able to put something on the page, not for profit, but because you have to, it's like breathing. It keeps you alive and without it you die a little inside.

I'm back - well read

2010-08-25T21:40:00.000-04:00

Hey bloggers!

So it's been a busy summer, but that really isn't what this blog is about. I read a so many books this summer and wrote many pages of my novel, but I felt like all that was for school. So I decided to end my summer by reading a book by someone I felt like reading. We talked more than once in my practicum class about Colsen Whitehead and I have an essay from the NYT Book Review written by him taped on my wall in front of my computer so I thought why not check him out.

I had never actually checked out his blog but I heard he was big on self-promotion, a big no-no in the land of writer/blogger. I was excited nevertheless to read one of his books because he seemed a praised and talented writer with a funny edge. Only his novel, Sag Harbor, was completely about nothing. And not in that funny Seinfeld way. Just plain old vignettes about Benji's summer in Sag Harbor. I saw no growth or anything that really made me laugh out loud or even feel like I was getting a scope of time just before I was born. I was born in 1986. I love the 80's. They are a fascinatingly horrible time or leg warmers and sideways ponytails. I think of Pat Benetar and hair bands. Okay, so I don't know a lot about LL Cool J or anything like that and yes, Benji talks a lot about the going ons of an affluent young black man in 1985. It wasn't the fact that the narrator was unlike me though that kept me from really getting in his head. Whitehead was too, I don't even know, I just know that I couldn't ever fully get into the book. I tried too. I kept reading even after I wanted to stop.

So, with Whitehead being a bust, I have put Victor LaValle's Big Machine on my library queue along with The Romantics. Hopefully it will be a better end to the summer reading list.

Untitled Blog

2010-05-07T11:39:00.001-04:00

So Philip Umbrino hasn’t quite found the right title for his blog but that doesn’t keep it from serving its purpose. (My vote for title: Are Authors Boring? – it’s the title of his very first entry and, I think, a valid question).

Phil’s blog is incredibly useful. In two of his entries he talks about Writer Beware and Readers Read. Both are resources, almost not blogs but still places that writers should check out.

In his post about Writer Beware, a blog run by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Phil’s personality shines through in a way that is not overwhelming but honest.

“I have to believe this blog is more important than most, because for new aspiring writers, they are usually told the exact same thing: start writing, polish it up, find a publisher that likes it enough, and bam it's in print. But the writing world is full of jerks just like every other part of the universe,” he writes. “Being rejected by a publisher is the nicest bad thing that can happen. Being scammed by someone willing to steal your work, or take your money to be published in an anthology of 5,000 other writers, or send your entry fee money somewhere where it may never return are all real problems writers face that most people gloss over. Not to mention agents who are prowling for writers to swindle and bamboozle and other funny words than really mean ‘screwing you over.’”

The Readers Read post is in depth enough to make me want to check out the site but opinionate enough to make me sigh in exasperation. Phil mentions an entry about how Hilary Duff is writing a young adult fiction series. He goes on to mention a Lindsay Lohan memoir and call the entirety of teen/20-something princess drunks. (Yes, Lohan is pretty much a drunk, Duff, not so much).

Though I’m ashamed to admit it – I am a huge Hilary Duff fan. I’m almost positive I own all her movies. She’s not a drunk and well, she’s pulling her life together, she’s engaged. She played freakin’ Lizzie Maguire. I’ve never seen her writing but experience-wise I say she’s qualified to write a teen series. But that’s just me.

(By the way, Duff's series starts with a book entitled Elixir due out with October. It chronicles the life of photojournalist Clea Raymond. I think this is something she can relate to. As Duff also writes her own music, well I guess we can assume she can handle YA fiction. I hear she's also working on a nonfiction book about children dealing with divorce.)

I know plenty of people are quick to label actors/actresses/musicians and I’ve come to terms with it. It did undermine the post for me however. I had a hard time staying with Philip because he was dissing someone I like.

In his first entry, Are Authors Boring?, Phil uses a pop culture reference himself however.

“It's fun to hear that Brad Pitt needs to do some sort of body yoga before he acts. We're watching the process by which an upstart pretty boy turns into a Jewish psychopath in a Tarantino film. We're seeing him the entire time. But writing is too personal,” he writes. “Have you ever watched someone write? Or stood over their shoulder asking why they used that word? That's no fun for anybody and frankly I'd assume a little irritating to have someone breathing on you while you type.”

I like the reference especially because it’s relevant and true. Not to mention it’s fun to imagine Brad Pitt doing yoga.

(No, that's not him in the picture but imagine him doing that...)

Aside from my pop princess protective instincts, I really enjoy Phil’s blog. I want to hear more on what he thinks about actual events he attends. I’m interested to learn a little about him through his blog because right now it’s solely about well, blogs.

Some thoughts on my blog

2010-05-07T11:35:00.001-04:00

Before I get to my thoughts... I got my thesis advisor this week. Vince Passaro. My second reader is Anton Dudley. I'm happy with this combination. I think the pair will really be able to help me refine my work the way I want it to be refined not how others think my writing should be. It's going to be a long summer, filled with writing. I hope to stay on top of this blog though. I want to continue. I want to believe that eventually people will start reading it.

But anyway, when I woke up this morning I had a bunch of my classmates, who are just posting their final blogs for our practicum class. We had to review writing blogs/author blogs and then do peer reviews of each other's blog. One of my classmates reviewed my blog, Lifex2. I can't really tell how he felt about it, but either way one thing he said really made me start thinking about just who we are writing for as bloggers, novelists, poets, anything.

He said, I write as if I already have an audience. (Look at my followers list... I don't lol). It got me thinking How else would I write? If I write like I am trying to convince people to read my blog or as if no one else is reading I think the writing, insights, everything would be much worse. Similar to how I view my fiction, I write my blog for that one person. I don't know who she is, but I write for the one person who will find my blog or read my novel and whose life will be effected by my words. That's it. Success would be great, but I'm not writing to be a superstar. I write because I have to. It's an inherent part of me. It's that simple.

As for my blog, I try to keep it fun. It grows with me. My practicum brought back a lot of journalism I thought I had to leave at the door when I joined the MFA program. It was fun. I enjoyed transitioning my blog from a forum of work to antidotes and reviews. It let me use a skill set I have a lot of expertise in.

I posted reviews of my blog one day. It was a riot trying to create the fanfare you see on the back of a book. I had fun. Writing is supposed to be fun. Sometimes I think we forget that. We get so wrapped up in grades and what's right and what works that we forget to just sit back and have fun.

Who do you write for? How do you write? And why do you write? I have this assignment for next week where we have to observe how we write as we are writing. It's like meta-squared. Try it... see what you come up with. You might surprise yourself.

Book, Line and Sinker

2010-03-29T14:34:00.004-04:00

I knew this day was coming. I just didn’t think it would come so fast and I didn’t think I’d miss it. That’s right, I’m reviewing my last blog for class today. Surprisingly, Book, Line and Sinker is actually one of the first blogs I found. I glanced at it, thought it seemed interesting, bookmarked it and then found a bunch of other blogs I felt more related to my situation at the time. But with the semester almost over, I’m excited to find out about all the books that came out since winter break that I haven’t had time to read.

So I didn’t actually find any books I wanted to read on the main page of Book, Line and Sinker but I really admire the formatting and dedication Natalie (this is the only name we get) gives to her reviews and her blog. Natalie is an English teacher at a private high school in New Jersey.

One of her recent posts talks about how she revamped the blog. The site is very clean with good use of white space. Her rating system is clearly visible on a sidebar, along with upcoming books she is going to review and on what days they will be posted. This list goes up to May. I find that pretty impressive.

Her most recent review is of Mia the Magnificent by Eileen Boggess. It’s a young adult fiction novel. I haven’t heard of it but Bancroft released it this January. She only gives the book 1.5 bookmarks. Even without knowing her rating system, it’s easy to tell that’s not good.

Natalie noticed quickly that Mia is not intended or marketed for actual high school kids, even though the protagonist is in 10^th grade. It has a cartoon cover and apparently the writing is suited for the younger “tweens.” She starts by commenting on the cover art. She compares Boggess’ cover to the covers of two highly successful teen authors, Sarah Dessen and Megan McCafferty.

“Many popular YA books feature slightly out of focus stock images of teenage girls, their faces blurred or obstructed, so that readers can project themselves into the situation,” Natalie writes.

This comment relates directly to what Dessen herself said about how she writes her characters at the NYC Teen Author Festival. Teens need to see themselves in the book. Giving a face to a character limits the imagination. Try listening to a book on tape of one of your favorite books. The voice will not be what you hear in your head when you read. Trust me, it’s disconcerting.

Boggess, according to Natalie, falls into the pitfalls of adults writing for teens, she doesn’t actually understand them. Natalie explains that, “Much of the dialogue in this novel felt forced–an adult interpretation of how teenagers speak.” And Boggess’ plot - predictable. This is not to mention that this is the third book in the series. It makes me wonder how one and two would hold our attention.

This is just an example of one of Natalie’s posts but it is exactly how she reviews all her books. She looks at them logically, in terms of audience and marketing. Book, Line and Sinker is great. Next time I want to read a book, I might just go and see what Natalie has to say first.

Rants & Ramblings: On Life as a Literary Agent

2010-03-23T22:06:00.002-04:00

Google is an amazing thing, honestly. I typed in writing blogs and literally a minute later was scanning Rachelle Gardner’s blog, Rants & Ramblings.

Gardner is a literary agent for WordServe Literary based in Colorado.

The first thing I noticed about her blog was how clean it was. With clean lines and breaks and a white background the page looks open. It’s easy to read and nice to look at.

I quickly noticed a trend just by scanning through her blog. Gardner takes the time to answer questions she commonly hears. Her most recent post is simply titled, “How Long?”

As someone who has been playing the waiting game with agents this is a relevant question. She actually answers several how long questions.

How long should I wait before following up with an agent on a submission?

Gardner’s answer: When dealing with agents and wondering when to follow up, check their submission guidelines. They sometimes give you a clue about when to check back after submitting. It could be anywhere from several weeks to several months. If they don't offer any advice, I think it's reasonable to check back every couple of months until you hear something definitive. Also, note that some agencies have a policy of only responding if it's positive, i.e. "If you don't hear from us after three months, consider it a no."

The bottom line for this post is that nothing is set in stone. Agents vary, companies are different, the market is changing.

The next post, “Perseverance Really is Key”, might be the most helpful thing I’ve read on the web – ever. Gardner tells the story of author Sandie Bricker. Bricker had a horrible go of it trying to get her first book published.

“Sandie's former agent, Steve Laube, chimed and and mentioned that when he'd been representing her back in 2004 and 2005 and submitting her projects to publishers, they received 100% rejections,” Gardner writes.

Bricker has published three books in the past year and a half and has five more contracted. It seems she found the genre she so desperately needed to find.

The point asks Gardner.

“Hang in there, folks!” she writes. “Every author, agent and editor has stories like this. It doesn't happen right away. You may not be ready when you think you are. But if you really want to be published, the best approach is to persevere even in the face of disappointment and weariness and frustration. Determine to learn from every rejection, even if no feedback is offered with it. Pay attention to feedback when you do get it - from agents, editors, readers and critique partners.”

Aside from more than helpful posts, Gardner’s site offers an impressive blog roll and a list of agent twitter accounts and/or blogs.

I think I found an agency that is my YA novel's soul mate.

Looking to get published? Check out Rachelle Gardner she’s got a lot to say.

Annotated Americana

2010-03-21T22:25:00.003-04:00

I make it a habit to check out someone’s blog if they are linked to my own blog, Life X 2. So, when Bradley Warshauer tweeted to me that he was linked to my blog, I excitedly added him to my blog roll and then checked out his work on his blog, Annotated Americana.

I wasn’t disappointed. Having known Brad for a semester and a half now; if I had to read this blog without an author. I’d pick him. And that’s not just because he means New Orleans in his very first post. Brad has a voice in his writing that is just uniquely him.

In his first post on Inkygirl, Brad points out author Debbi Ridpath Ohi’s obsession with Apple.

“Yes, Ohi's an Applephile, a Maccite, a worshipper at the altar of the almighty Steve Jobs,” he writes.

Yes, I laughed out loud here. Good thing I’m sitting in my office practically alone. And it wasn’t the only time.

In his most recent post, Brad reviews Andrew Selig, a fellow classmates’ blog. He opens with a line that again made me glad my coworker is zoned out on headphones.

“Andrew Selig's writing about a writer's blog--and I am here writing about Andrew writing about a writer's blog. How many degrees of separation is that? Three? Four? Dunno. I digress.”

Besides being funny, Brad’s entries are concise and to the point. They give just the right amount of information to get through the post without wondering when it ends. His insight into the world of blogging is interesting because everything he reviews is diverse.

He has a review of the Penguin blog and just from reading a quick sentence, I know that it seems like a blog I will like.

“It exists in the happyland between stodgy old-school publisher, some dude who probably sits behind a desk down the block from the Empire State Building smoking a Cuban cigar and drinking brandy, and the pretentious indie publishing crowd, in which every man is a king because every man is a Silicon Valley Venture Capitalist who can buy the chicken farm and put the damn chicken in his own pot every night.,” Bradley writes.

Overall, I have to say I like Annotated Americana and I intend to keep reading it on Tumblr after this class is over. I enjoy hearing a real voice with opinions that don’t smack you over the head. I want a clean review, good or bad, so that I can go and decide for myself. So many bloggers today are over the top and just look at things from their perspective – well, it’s a big world, honey, open your eyes a little. Bradley’s posts never have this problem and I welcome and trust what he has to say about the blogs he reviews. And that’s really all anyone can ask for.

Teen Authors United

2010-03-20T19:09:00.000-04:00

It was fate really. I logged on to Twitter one day and there it was. One of my favorite authors was not going to the NYC Teen Author Festival. The what, I said. I followed her link and found a Facebook page for a weeklong festival throughout the city’s public libraries. It just happened to be on our Spring Break. And I just happened to have Friday off.

Friday was the Teen Author Symposium. A day of panels filled with some of the top young adult fiction authors in the country, including my favorite, Sarah Dessen.

Dessen, along with Jessica Blank, Eireann Corrigan, Jenny Han, Terra Elan McVoy, Siobhan Vivian, Adrienne Maria Vrettos and Jacqueline Woodson, sat with host David Levithan during the capstone panel Friday evening to talk about Writing in a Teen Girl’s Voice.

Each of the eight authors read a selection from one of their books. Dessen read from her newest release, Along for the Ride.

She mentioned in her discussion that she had originally wanted to title the book “The World of Girls” definitely not as good a title and not as in tune with Dessen’s other titles.

One of the biggest things the panel talked about was the importance of appearance when having a teen girl as the narrator.

Dessen said she does not like to use too much description of her characters.

“I want the reader to be able to see themselves in the story,” she said. “The more specific you get…there are not a lot of people who can relate to that.”

The most exciting panel of the day however was the Boy You Can’t Have Panel featuring Susane Colasanti, Elizabeth Eulberg, Robin Palmer, Elizabeth Scott, Melissa Walker and Maryrose Wood.

Wood was hilarious. She brought a life to the panel. She admitted that after her divorce at 40; dating brought back all the memories of being a teenager. The fears, the wonder, everything it was to be sixteen. She uses that feeling to create her teenage characters in her books like My Life the Musical.

But it was Susane Colasanti who really seemed to capture for me just exactly what it means to be a teen author. She said her internal age is sixteen.

“People a lot of the time ask me how I write for teens,” she said. “I look at them and I’m like how don’t I write for teens.”

Levithan didn’t share any of his work but he was a great host. He just really brought the authors to life. It was easy to see the small world of writing that Susan Henderson spoke about on the stage Friday. In between panels, he Nicholas Sparks bashed, which is always amusing. He even read samples from the lastest book-turned-movie The Last Song. There was some Miley bashing too, but then again, can you blame them?

Have you stopped to smell the roses?

2010-03-20T18:30:00.003-04:00

Anna Papachristos is a friend of a friend. I met her on a trip to an anime convention in Baltimore this summer. Yes, the things I do for love. Anna is a lively, smart, fun woman. We had a blast that weekend.

We started following each others’ blogs soon after that trip. Her blog Stop & Smell the Roses is a breath of fresh air in a world of writing blogs. Her commentaries on life, writing and notes on other blogs are great.

Anna’s most recent post from March 4, entitled, They’re There: An Assault on Grammar & Word Choice, holds a list of the most common grammatical errors. It’s in honor of National Grammar Day. I didn’t even know there was a National Grammar Day or that it was on March 4.

The post starts off with a quote from George Simenon, “Everyone who does not NEED to be a writer, who thinks he can do something else, ought to do something else.”

The quote leads into the crux of the blog about how everyone thinks they are a writer now that we have the Internet. But how more often than not, blogs contain horrible spelling and grammar errors.

“…we are constantly bombarded with improper spelling, grammar mistakes and word choice errors that leave the blog world a tattered mess (despite the efforts of Grammar Nazis, such as myself),” Anna writes.

Here are just a few of the errors that Anna points out : there/their/they’re; whether/weather. She does a complete section on Lay vs. Lie (vs. Laid) although it is cited from Writer’s Digest. You’re/Your and It’s/Its is another topic followed by the proper usage of the apostrophe cited from The Oatmeal.

There’s more there too, with links to the sites she cites and a list of commonly misspelled words.

Writing and grammar aren’t the only things Anna writes about though. It is clear throughout her blog that she pays great attention to it. Everything is done in great detail with photos, links, and correct grammar.

Another post is about love and The Bachelor. It is clear that she is just slightly disgusted with the show (aren’t we all?). The most astounding thing however, is how honest she is with her readers.

“Love is supposed to be a strong bond between two people, something not clouded by desire for another,” she said. “If love is true, every member of the opposite gender will cease to exist in your eyes, leaving you to see only each other.”

Yeah, Anna’s in love or something like it.

Stop and Smell the Roses is a great blog. It’s honest and it will teach you a thing of too. I highly
recommend everyone go check it out today.

A Rainy, Cultural Weekend

2010-03-15T22:17:00.003-04:00

Who says just because there is a hurricane storming outside that you can’t have a great weekend? Not me. I had quite an eventful weekend despite the craziness outside. It’s hard to say what was the most entertaining or interesting part of the weekend so; I’ll just start at the beginning.

Let me preface this post with the fact that I am not a city person – or I wasn’t until this semester. I’ve lived just a short train-ride outside New York City my whole life. Twenty miles by car. Unlike many of my classmates and college acquaintances, going to the city was never particularly appealing. I hated having to run around a train schedule (I still do) or wait for the never showing up late night subway. Now that I have class in the city, all bets are off. I spent three of the last four days going into the city, to the Public Theater, to Brooklyn, to the KGB Bar. It’s tiring.

I had the unique opportunity on Thursday evening to see Suzan-Lori Parks’ new play, The Book of Grace at the Public Theater. Having read two of her plays, I was interested in just how her new play would be written and performed. Book of Grace seems to be a standard written play, though I haven’t seen the script. It is separated by different chapters in the Book of Grace.

Grace is one of the three characters in this play. Grace is a woman tries to see the good in everything. She is trying to reunite Vet and his estranged son, Buddy (Snake). Set along the Mexican border much of the plays actions are dependent upon Vet’s border patrol job. He is receiving a medal. This brings Buddy home.

Vet is unforgiving and relentless. He has made plenty of mistakes, but he will never own them. He will never change. Buddy is a lot like his father, though he doesn’t want to admit it. He returns home to give his father a second chance but winds up just wanting to kill him, and attempting to.

Vet was played by John Doman. Doman is a pretty popular television star. He’s been in “NCIS”, “Law & Order” and “ER” just to name a few. To be honest, as much as I was enthralled by the play I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how I knew this actor.

The play was great. The Public Theater was pretty and I added yet another city location I am now comfortable navigating.

So after seeing the play I traveled back to Westchester just to come back to the Varick street campus of Adelphi about 12 hours later.

Then the rain came.

My Friday class in the city was probably the highlight of the weekend. We had the opportunity to have Susan Henderson and Marie Mockett come and speak to the class about their writing lives. I felt inspired after class. I felt that I learned a lot. They both had great advice for how to get an agent and just about writing in general.

As someone who has been trying to write a synopsis for about a year, this class period really put things in perspective. I was able to write my one-sentence pitch and narrow a 380-page novel into a concise thought. I even queried an agent for said novel.

Then I went to Brooklyn. I’ve never been to Brooklyn and now I know why – it’s far away.

Henderson told us we should go to the KGB Bar and talk to people and to make sure we had our pitch ready. I’d already been planning on visiting KGB Sunday for an Electric Literature reading.

I have to say, I’m surprised. KGB is a room, literally. It was so crowded and I can’t believe we found seats. It was a great experience. Rick Moody was the headliner so to speak. He read his “Twitter” story, “Some Contemporary Characters.” He’s a great reader and the story was funny. It spoke volumes about the differences between men and women, between young and old. It was a telling piece that made you laugh.

Just for a quick example, after the older man and the young co-ed have sex, they realize they have lost the stuffed rabbit from the carnival. The man says philosophically thinking about where it could have gone, “Did I slay the rabbit?” It’s hard to catch the humor without Moody standing in front of you reading this piece but let’s just say it was funny.

Before Moody hit the stand, Jenny Orfill read part of her story from Electric Literature 3. Most inventive and inspiring were two lesser known writers, Cristina Moracho, a recent Brooklyn MFA graduate and Wythe Marschall.

Moracho read a non-fiction piece about a neighbor who only referred to as “The Flasher.” The story itself was witty, funny, lively, but even more so was Moracho’s voice in reading it. Her ability to read the story with the right amount of grace, humor and irony made the piece everything it needed to be.

Marschall’s piece, a story from his collection The Pale Weed Bender, was called “I Heard the Bells of Graveyard Walk.” Wythe premised his story by explaining that they are set in the 1860-1899 period. He read a little too fast but his accent added to the already original narrator, Jake. The story had honest humor, the type of humor that makes you laugh because it’s true. As a reader, Wythe was perfect. He would skip descriptions in his story for time, but summarize in a comical way.

“Then he worried some more but you don’t need to hear about it.” Or something along those lines.

The night ended in typical Metro North fashion. The 9:56 train I planned to take – missing in action. The 10:05 that arrives – doesn’t go to Dobbs Ferry. So, I miss the 9:20 by four minutes and have to wait an hour to catch a train home. Needless to say, after I got off the train, drove my boyfriend home and drove back to my own apartment… midnight. I work at 5 a.m.

Yeah…exhaustion but it was totally worth it.

Some reviews of Lifex2 from my classmates

2010-03-13T16:10:00.000-05:00

Amantha Kuhn writes:
"...just seeing some of the blogs she has managed to find and what she says about them is enough to put me in a good mood when I need it. From Bitch Media and Editorial Ass to an interesting anecdote about getting stuck on the Adelphi campus, everything in this blog is both amusing and thoughtful at the same time. Not everyone can pull off such a fantastic mixture of the two."

Tiffany Nesbit writes:
"Life x Two is an informative and interesting blog that doesn’t just cover Casey’s relationship with the industry. It covers her feelings, thoughts, life in general, and her self. Casey blogs about current books she’s reading, the play she had to see for class, and interesting sites she’s found, but every entry is filled through and through with that utter Casey-ness that you can’t help but love."

Philip Umbrino writes;
"Though the blog is relatively new, there is no feeling of a novice writer at the helm, and I am interested in seeing what new play or reading she attends, and what new blog or book she reviews. All of her work has been stellar so far and an inspiration to my own fledgling blog experience."

Midterms, AWP, Thesis Thoughts

2010-03-10T13:25:00.001-05:00

First off, I cannot believe that I am halfway through my second semester. Time is going so quick this semester. Maybe it's because I'm having more fun and I feel happier. I officially count my MFA classmates among my friends, we go out on weekends, they came out for my birthday, we talk outside of class. It's a great feeling. All I wanted for the longest time was a group of friends who understood what it was like to really be a writer. I hadn't had a group like that since to be honest middle school. I tried to fill the void with expansive novels and a college newspaper, but it just wasn't the same. This is the first time I feel (not to be cheesy or cliche) complete. That doesn't mean it's all figured out or anything but it does mean that I am happy and writing, which is all I ever wanted.

Secondly, I have a midterm today. I honestly thought midterms were done. I mean, why have a midterm in a writing class? Okay, so it's a literature class but it's an open book short essay exam. I would rather write a 5-page essay at home but that's just me. So, I've been studying, a skill I really don't usually have to do, and it's just so tedious. I have like six books I have to bring to class just in case I need them for the essay topics. My back hurts just thinking about it. I'm also getting critiqued today. I submitted the first chapter of my new novel. SCARY!

This brings me to the topic of my thesis. Adelphi is a really new program, I'll be part of the fourth graduating class. I like that. I like that I can be part of building something that is clearly going to be great but it also means there are kinks. The thesis project tends to be expected to be a compilation of short stories but I'm a novelist and I want to be working on my novel. I don't want to stop working on my novel so I can prepare separate things for my thesis. I want my thesis to be an organic part of my program experience. I have one short story I just wrote that was the basis for the novel I'm writing but nothing else in the short story genre has really spoken to me. I'd like to include that story and have the rest of the thesis be parts of my novel. They don't have to be consecutive parts just chapters I think show my best work. I don't know if this is possible. I'm afraid of losing my characters voice and not being able to continue the novel because it's going to be great. I think it could be one of those books that really helps a lot of people dealing with absentee or dead beat or just horrible fathers.

I'm officially going to Wilmington, NC this summer. It's the place that inspires me the most. It's peaceful and beautiful, not to mention the nearby college has a great writing program. I'd love to live there, maybe teach and UNCW one day, who knows. I'm going for a week with friends and though we're going to be busy hunting down the filming locations for One Tree Hill and trying to stalk Hilary Burton and more importantly James Lafferty, I know I'm going to be able to sit at the Riverwalk or at Port City Java and just write my heart out. I think the best part of me comes out in Wilmington. The best ideas now, those come from my many drives up Route 17 in New York. I planned my whole novel out this weekend while I was driving. It's a great feeling.

Last semester was hard. This semester I've found my footing and I can see that I am growing into a writer. I didn't want to be a person of letters when I started. I just wanted to improve my skills and go edit someone else's book. Now, I'm embracing a life I've tried hard not to want. It's scary to make your passion your work. I don't want to resent it. I'm trying to let that fear go though and embrace writing as a lifestyle and not just a job choice. I don't mean I need to be a starving artist, I just mean I enjoy readings, I enjoy forums on writing and for once I am just doing all those things. I am making time in my life for being a writer and not just letting it be a side project. And it doesn't feel forced. It feels natural.

I actually have to go get ready for that midterm so, I'll just leave with this last bit.

I can't wait for AWP!! I'd love to meet up with anyone. I know there's like a dance party or something every night. So let's talk and find each other.

Writer Unboxed

2010-03-04T14:52:00.001-05:00

As a writer who came into the MFA program with a large body of work that could solely be classified as genre fiction, finding Writer Unboxed, a blog about “the craft and business of genre fiction” was like finding a lost $20 on the ground outside of your apartment.

I came to Adelphi hoping to refine my skills. I wanted to take what I had and make it better. Make it mean something. And even though I still love genre fiction I have found my way to the more literary end of the writing spectrum but on my own terms. I want to take my genre fiction and make it literary. I think the two can be one and the same. I don’t believe there is a great divide when it comes to the two types of fiction. I think what I’m writing can toe the line perfectly.

That’s where Writer Unboxed comes in. The blog is well put together and classy. It is a group blog with 12 bloggers and additional contributors. The posts are well written and approach writing in a serious yet inspired way. I find that writing magazines sometimes come off as dry. I pick them up to check out an article and wind up throwing the issue away a month later without having fully read anything. That’s not the case with Writer Unboxed.

The most recent post entitled, “The Dark Side” is by Juliette Marillier. According to the website, which has full-length biographies for each of its bloggers, Marillier has written nine historical fantasy novels as well as two young adult fiction novels. She is also a cancer survivor.

Her post deals with the question of where do story ideas come from. She says her life. She writes about an opportunity to write a memoir based on her fight against cancer and her dread and fear at the idea.

“I have been wondering if that makes me less honest than I should be as a writer,” Marillier writes.

“After all, the more real the emotion behind the telling – anger, guilt, passion, frustration, envy, grief – the more powerful (and the more emotionally true) the story that arises from it.”

She later states that even if the situations in her stories are far from her real life, magical even, the emotions her characters go through are true to her and her own journey. She admits though that it was an organic process and not really intended.

“Looking back over my novels, I can see that the dark stuff does creep through those walls,” Marillier writes. “I was intrigued when several interviewers picked up on this in Heart’s Blood, asking me to what extent Caitrin’s personal journey was based on my own experience. Factually most of it wasn’t; emotionally much of it was. I was happy with the question, because it meant Caitrin came across as a real person rather than as a character.”

Just one post before Marillier’s look inside herself and her writing is an entry by Donald Maass. Maass is the president of his own literary agency. His post, “The Element of Awe” is just the first in a series he intends to write. This post deals with a study done by the University of Pennsylvania to see what factors tie into a newspaper article being e-mailed to another person.

Positivity and emotional were the two keys to success. Maass approaches the task of putting emotion into your novel and not by throwing in words like sad, frustrated or perturbed.

“You can’t expect your reader to feel what your protagonist feels just because they feel it,” he writes. “Only when that emotion is provoked through the circumstances of the story will your reader feel what you want them to. “

After talking about the topic, he offers a “practical application” to making your story chock-full of emotions.

“What is the strongest emotion you want your reader to feel? Search and delete that word everywhere it occurs in your manuscript,” he writes. “Now, how will you provoke that emotion through action alone? Got it? Good. Next write down three ways to heighten that action.”

That was only this month, next month Maass promises to go into what makes characters fascinating and touch on the title of the piece, awe.

These two posts are only two examples of the greatness that comes out of Writer Unboxed. With 12 educated and experienced writers, agents and editors to pick from, readers are bound to find one, if not more, that they follow.

Everything Here is the Best Thing Ever

2010-03-02T14:50:00.003-05:00

Just reading Justin Taylor’s new collection of stories “Everything Here is the Best Thing Ever” is enough to realize that this up-and-coming author has an immense talent that is just waiting to be fully realized. But hearing the words out of his own mouth at a reading at McNally Jackson Monday makes it clear that the voices Taylor is introducing are not your run-of-the-mill characters.

In his short story, “What was Once All Yours” the protagonist is witty and honest. He tells the story of a girl he dated in high school, Cass. It jumps around a lot, between various stories and various characters in the protagonist’s life. Most vividly and for the longest period of time is the story of Cass.

“Well, I had knocked Cass up,” Taylor writes. In just a page and a half, Taylor is able to express a range of emotions from fear, excitement and relief. The decision to have an abortion is lightened by the comic, sarcastic witticism of Taylor’s writing.

“Oh Merciful God of Heaven, I am no more fit to play daddy than jazz trumpet, and I thank you for leading this girl into wanting to kill our baby. Amen.”

Aside from the comic relief, the protagonist also offers some lines that offer insight into the new, older, more mature version of himself. In the beginning of the story he starts speaking about his mother’s conversion to religion.

“It’s scary when a person you have always known becomes a raving stranger before your disbelieving eyes,” Taylor writes.

Towards the end of the novel while discussing his evitable parting with Cass after graduation, the narrator explains the situation as “We became ourselves, is what happened, and whenever I miss her I remind myself of that.”

Taylor is able to mix the right about of sincerity and sarcasm throughout the piece and it makes the narrator believable. It makes us as readers want to listen to his strange, meandering tale.

The reading itself was a little bittersweet. I enjoyed it. The story Taylor read was great. Unfortunately, it started ten minutes late and after reading one of his stories, Taylor answered questions for barely five minutes before being shuffled off by his editors.

We didn’t get to hear a lot of Taylor but one topic was introduced that seemed more than relevant in today’s publishing industry. Taylor’s collection went straight to paperback release with no hardcover release.

“It’s a more practical perspective,” he said. “It’s fantastic, I’m really lucky. I have a book out that is the same price as a movie ticket. I don’t have to wait a year for my audience to be able to afford my book.”

As of now, Taylor is working on his first novel. It is set in the summer of 1999. The untitled work is about a group of theological-minded anarchists who form a cult. Hearing Taylor talk about it, the novel is certain to have the same smart, funny, telling voice as his short stories.

I am Editorial Ass, Hear me Roar

2010-02-25T13:30:00.001-05:00

From the moment I read the About Me section I knew I was going to like Editorial Ass. The author only goes by Moonrat (on Facebook and Twitter too) but the nameless author feels like someone I know and love after reading just a small blurb about her life.

“I'm a recovering editorial assistant,” Moonrat said. “I'm like most of my kind: impoverished coffee-and-gin survivalists, underpaid but ambitious, bitter but hopeful. Painfully self-conscious, woefully self-congratulatory, willfully self-indulgent. Yes, I'm white, but I'm trying to get over it. Accurate spelling (to the dismay of my boss) is not among my interests. So read forgivingly.”

I haven’t caught any typos yet but there are a lot of parenthetical opinions and all capital letter exclamations. Her posts vary from light and airy to serious industry ideas. Either way though, Moonrat never let’s her tone change out of it’s light and slightly agitated tone. It’s easy to feel like you know her.

In a recent post, February 24, 2010, Moonrat posted a story about what it’s like to be scooped in the publishing industry. I’m sure for those in the industry it’s a common tale but Moonrat adds her personality to it and makes it interesting.

“When I first started at Tiny Publishing House, I bought the Most Excellent Book in the World.,” she writes. “I knew it was not only going to be a great read, it was going to change the world. I KNEW IT! Four months later, Huge Giant Publishing House bought from Extremely Fancy Agent a much more expensive version of the exact same book. I was infuriated and heartbroken at the same time. I cried and screamed and waved my fists.”

There’s more but I think you get the point.

Moonrat’s posts vary, as I said, on topic, but what is most helpful to her readers is the guide on the side to “Favorite Backlist”. The sidebar offers links to some of the essential posts by Moonrat, including Moonrat’s Guide to Getting Published and Moonrat’s Guide to Getting a Job in Publishing. The latter was especially interesting to me because I’ve been trying for two years to break into publishing and have still found myself hiding out at a sports reporter’s desk.

The blog is funny and personal but Moonrat, the Editorial Ass, knows her stuff and she puts it out there for aspiring writers or editors, or both (like me) to see. It’s a very useful guide and it’s such an easy read that you might even forget you are reading a how-to-guide.

A commuter's journey

2010-02-19T10:58:00.003-05:00

When I found out I had to go see two plays for my African American Women Playwrights class, I was at first a little flustered. Two more days I had to take off of work. Two more weeks that would be thrown completely out of wack. That feeling wore off though and I was excited. It's always great to see performances. On the upside I figured maybe I could use one of them as a cultural event for my practicum class blog.

I wasn't going to blog about the performance of Topdog/Underdog at Adelphi University on Feb. 18. I wasn't going to just take an easy path but as it turns out it was anything but easy.

I arrived on campus around 5:45 p.m., more than a little early but I didn't have to sit in any traffic and I ran into a friend so it worked out well.

The play Topdog/Underdog, written by Suzan-Lori Parks, was a reading experience from the first time I picked it up. The play itself was great. I understood why it received a Pultizer Prize for Drama in 2002. Parks has done an amazing thing in Topdog that allows us to reach out and understand the lives of brothers, Lincoln and Booth.

Seeing Parks words performed on stage though was something completely different. I laughed, a cried (not really but I felt for them), I was mesmorized by the rivalry presented to me on stage. Two of my classmates comprised the cast, Matthew Hancock and Patrick Johnson. Seeing them come to life on stage was an experience I won't soon forget. It's easy to see an actor on stage but to see someone you sit next to in class once a week come to life as another being and to completely embrace that character. It was definitely an experience.

After the play their was a brief talkback. I think it might have been longer but the play ended after 10 p.m. and everyone seemed tired. The actors spoke about the process they went through to even get Adelphi to allow them to put on the performance. We learned about the idea behind the set. It was in the round, with the audience on three sides and a small space in the middle as the stage. The set was a room at a boarding house where the brothers lived. The set designer used a fence and barbed wire to portray the room.

The set designer saw the rivalry between the brothers as a constant dog fight and tried to get the set to look like a dog fight arena of sorts.

LikeI said the talkback was brief. But my trip home was anything but brief. I go to Adelphi University's MFA program. I commute from Westchester county35 mile drive, about an hour trip, just to get there. It's a hike but I make it and most days I dont' mind it. It gives me time to think about my writing or work out revisions in my head.

However, walking out of the play last night at 10:40 p.m. I got in car, pulled out of my spot, only to realize I had the flattest of flat tires. Yeah, great. I went to public safety who kindly informed me that they couldn't help me because of insurance issues, but the gentleman who I found was at least helpful. He made sure he found someone to come out and at least get my donut on my car so I could drive somewhere.

The process however was long. We didn't find someone willing to come out to Adelphi and change a tire for almost an hour. It then took the repair guy almost an hour to get out to Adelphi and about 40 minutes to change the tire. It was a process. I didn't get in my car until after 1 a.m.

I don't know what you know about donuts but let me tell you, you can't drive very fast or very far on them. Luckily, I have relatives in the Bronx who were nice enough to lodge me for the night. So I drove 30 mph up the Cross Island and over the Throgs Neck Bridge to my Uncle's. I didn't get there until after 1:30 a.m.

I had to call out of work too because even with the donut I still can't get all the way home until I get two new tires. Yes, two. Both front tires are shot. Thank God for tax refunds.

I feel like this was a cultural experience because I saw so many different sides to humanity out there stranded. The public safety officer was really nice to me. He helped me out. The rest of public safety kicked me out of their office and made me wait alone in the lobby of Levermore Hall for the mechanic. Nice, I know.

The mechanic was really nice. He called to check on me as I was driving home to make sure my donut was okay and everything.

My job on the other hand gave me a hard time about not coming in. I tried explaining how I was literally stranded. My car couldn't make it to Westchester and that Starbucks would have to go on without me but they didn't seem to want to hear it. (I found out later it was because my shift supervisor had to go to a funeral but I couldn't predict this was going to happen).

You learn a lot about people when you are stranded late at night. I learned a lot about myself. I don't handle stress well, not when it comes to my car, my job, my property (ie my Macbook). I usually cry and freak out. I remained calm the entire time. I dealt with everything as it came and figured it out.

So maybe I didn't have an indepth conversation with a writer about process or style but Topdog/Underdog isn't a performance I will soon forget and for that reason I'm putting it on here because it was an event for me. I saw a play about how people tear each other down and then I went outside and had to depend on the kindness of others to get me home (or close enough). I see a parallel. Maybe I'm wrong but it was an experience I won't soon forgot and I am absolutely going home and signing up for AAA.

Feminism on the menu

2010-02-18T16:27:00.001-05:00

Bitch: A female dog; a person who is thoroughly disliked; a Meredith Brooks song released circa 1997; a nonprofit magazine for the popular culture-loving feminist in all of us.

Bitch Media began in 1996 as a magazine distributed out of the back of someone’s car. Bitch: Feminist Reponse to Pop Culture was founded by Lisa Jervis, Benjamin Shaykin and Andi Zeisler as a way to bring news to the masses of feminists in the world. After 12 years and much success, the website wasn’t started until 2008. A year later, Bitch become Bitch Media and continues to grow.

And if you want to know more…their Web site offers a full timeline of the growth of the Bitch Media conglomerate.

But I have to give it to the ladies (and men) over at Bitch… they know their stuff.

The Bitch Media book blog, though filled with inappropriate language not for the faint of heart, is a qualified source for news on the book industry. Between the Bibliobitch reviews and the Douchebag Decree chronicles many different sides of the book world are introduced to their readership.

The Bibliobitch reviews seemed to provide a little too much summary. The author Sarah Stoo does a good job of offering thoughts on the plot and writing of the book, claiming that she is “a softie for well-penned lines about striving for justice in impossible situations, which Stockett sprinkles throughout with aplomb”

Yes, no period, seems editing escaped the writer here.

In the end of the post though, Stoo enjoyed The Help but steers readers to a different book altogether. The review in that way upends itself. I cannot get a grasp of what the reviewer actually believes. In essence she reviews two books.

“Both books have their relative merits, but it was my rewarding memories of Jordan’s Mudbound that propelled me through The Help and it perhaps those same memories that led to my feelings of deflation at the end.”

The merit of the review aside, the blog still provides a lot of information on a lot of different books and I think it would be beneficial to any reader if they are looking for books that appeal to feminists. It would be good for writers too, to see how a feminist might view the topics in their own work.

The Douchebag Decree opens with a header – Ye Old Douchebag Decree – Bitch hereby declares the following person a total douchebag.

Bitch’s victim is Lori Gottlieb for her book Marry Him: A Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough.

Just from reading the review the book seems a little off balanced but Bitch particularly hates it because Gottlieb tends to play feminism the inability of women to settle down. In the first chapter of the book, Gottlieb apparently claims that feminism has fucked up her life.

Blogger Kjerstin Johnson makes it more than clear that she is quite unhappy with Gottlieb’s views.

“So not only is it feminism's fault that women (ALL. WOMEN. EVERYWHERE.) end up unhappy and without husband, with nothing to show but a bunch of voter registration cards, college degrees, and property deeds, the other take-home message isn't that successful relationships (and yes, even those recognized by the government) rely on compromises; but that it's your fault for being too picky to settle down.”

The book is also reviewed in the most recent issue of Bitch.

Overall, the Bitch book blog is opinionate. It’s in your face. But that’s kind of the point. Bitch started out with a specific purpose and it stays true to that. If you are a feminist check it out, it might make you smile. If you are happily indifferent to the feminist rage then if you must grin and bear. You might just find some good books to read but you’ll also probably want to slap a bitch. If you are anti-feminism, stay far away from Bitch. It is not for you.

Is there such as a thing as too much expression?

2010-02-07T12:17:00.003-05:00

People blog for many different reasons, personal, professional, recreational, but where does the line between funny reflections and over sharing lay? Many authors are still trying to figure this out. Megan McCafferty, a New York Times Bestselling Author and author of five successful novels, tiptoes on the line between personal and professional each day she posts a blog on her website. Sure, it’s funny but is it necessary?

Some might comment that no blog is really necessary. We have the newspaper and the television and the normal Internet to find our news. Social networking and blogging just clogs up the Web space. Nevertheless, author blogs are a great way to get to know the people behind our favorite books. It’s an easy way to see just how related to the author the characters we love are. For instance, McCafferty is a Fanilow – a Barry Manilow fan. For anyone who has read her Jessica Darling series, Manilow plays quite a large role in the lives of Jessica Darling and Marcus Flutie.

McCafferty’s blog, simply entitled, (retro)blog, is in fact a retrospective on this author’s life. It started with McCafferty posting entries from personal journals she kept from the ages 10 to 26. It was a success. We the readers truly got into the head of an author who had kept us turning pages for five successive novels about the most indecisive couple in the world.

In June, McCafferty called a halt to her blog. With the Jessica Darling series complete, she had a new book to write and blogging was tedious.

“For four years, I posted many, many, many pages from diaries, creative writing assignments and other miscellaneous scribblings from my youth,” McCafferty posted on June 11. “Alas, there’s only so much material worth recycling. Instead of digging deeper into my trove of juvenilia, I’ve decided to bring the (retro)blog–in all its forms–to an end so I can totally focus on writing BUMPED.”

BUMPED is McCafferty’s last endeavor.

Only a week later, she was back online resurrecting the (retro)blog, sort of. She linked her blog to a twitter account and started posting shorter entries there.

In 2010, the (retro)blog got yet another makeover. McCafferty broke out the baby pictures. Every Friday McCafferty posts a (retro)photo and it’s accompanying story.

“So the general idea is that I’ll upload random pictures from my youth and write a little about them,” she said in a post on January 8.
“I think I’ll do this on Fridays because I like the alliterative flow of the words (retro)photo Fridays and also because I hope I’ll get enough writing done on BUMPED at the end of each work week that I’ll be able to take time out to do this without feeling like I’m screwing myself priority-wise.”

While the idea is fun, playful and amusing at times, the 1980’s was a bad decade for hair, it seems a little too personal for the average author website. It’s a nice place to stop if you are having a bad day and need a good laugh at someone else’s expense but in general the sight lacks any authority on writing. Instead of talking about her writing and the process she is going through to write BUMPED, or why she is having such a hard time staying focused on it that she needs to end her blog, we get pages of pictures and videos of “Barry-oke”, that would be Megan singing Barry Manilow songs.

Getting to know Megan McCafferty is great but as an author whose books I found interesting and relatable I haven’t seen any advice on how to get there. McCafferty needs to reach out to the readers and the writers in her fan base. She needs to talk about the issues she’s had ending the Jessica Darling series instead of just alluding to them. McCafferty shuns away from the actual issues and instead posts an embarrassing picture from over a decade ago. If McCafferty can find a way to reconcile both the personal and the professional in her (retro)blog then it will be as successful as it should be.

An attempt at a short story

2009-12-28T22:00:00.001-05:00

It had been years, nearly a decade since Andrea had been in this house. On first glance it looked the same, a few more figurines and a few less beer cans, but the same. If she’d had her way, she’d never have come back. After her mother dropped her off with her alcoholic father at the age of 14 one night and never returned to get her, Andi had done everything in her power to get out of her father’s house. When high school ended, she left for college on the opposite side of the country and never looked back. She took out loans she’d be paying off for the rest of her life to spend summers and winter vacations in the dorms when she didn’t have friends’ houses to crash at.
Once she was far away from her father, she’d tried to find her mother but they all led to dead ends and unanswered letters. After a year, she gave up and called herself an orphan. Who needed parents? One had abandoned her just when she needed her the most and the other had never been there to begin with, just lost in a drunken haze. Most of their weekly visits prior to her mother’s abandonment had been spent at a bar, he would watch football while she drank too much soda and played on the pinball machine. She hated football and though she drank occasionally, she’d never touched beer.

Andi stopped at the base of the stairs willing herself to walk up them, to go to her room. The only sanctuary she had in the whole world when she was a teen. He had never stepped foot in the room, not while she lived there. In the few years before his death, when he had sobered up, enough to attend her wedding and remain on speaking terms with her, he’d gone in there to send things to her but at 16 that room was a safe haven from a frightening home life.

She took the stairs two at a time, a task not quite as easy as it used to be, and arrived at her old room in seconds. She turned at the top of the stairs. She could hear the memory of her father calling to her as he used to do when she came home from sports practice. She heard herself respond, ‘not now, Dad, I have to do my homework.’ Her room was just to the left of the stairs. Andi opened the door quickly and took a step in, surveying what remained of her bedroom, no longer hers. She wondered whom he had fixed it up for or if he had just wanted to erase the memories of his mistakes from his home.

She sat down on the bed, new sheets, at least 300 count, a blue comforter with pink sheets. It matched the mismatched lamp on the bedside table that Andi remembered picking out years ago. She rested her head back on the pillows, fluffy and fuller than anything she’d ever had in her time there. The room had been repainted, a light pink. When she’d left for college there had been 511 posters, cutouts, random pictures cut from Tiger Beat or J-14 or some other equally horrendous magazine of boy bands and pop princesses, actors she loved, actresses she wanted to be. Anything. A lot of friends, a lot of boys, her life was plastered on those walls. With open walls the room looked bigger than she remembered it ever being. She could imagine her father standing on a ladder, sitting on the floor, moving the furniture to get posters off the wall. She could only imagine how long it took to get all the tape off the wall; readjustments to the posters had taken hours for her.

Andi glanced towards the closet and noticed a letter taped to it. She stood and walked over to the door, pulling the envelope down. In her dad’s familiar handwriting was her full name Andrea Leigh Scott, her maiden name. She was Andi Sawyer now; Andrea Leigh Scott died along time ago as far as she was concerned.

Changing her name was easy. She remembered the decision as clear as day. She had never really thought about doing it. It just came naturally. She sat in an auditorium with over 1,000 other freshmen waiting for orientation to start. They were dividing the larger group into smaller groups. An overly eager sophomore directed her to the front left corner of the room. Andi walked over slowly. Her head down. She felt as if her father’s mistakes could be seen on her. As if they hung over her head or permeated a smell through her skin: dysfunctional.

She wrapped herself tightly in the John Glenn High School sweatshirt she’d allowed herself to bring with her to school. It had been Corey’s. When she’d left for college only a few days ago; he’d told her to take it. She had kissed him goodbye, got in her car and driven away. Across the country. She’d already changed her cell phone number and had told Corey and her father she was going to college somewhere she wasn’t. She didn’t want to be found. She hadn’t been able to throw the sweatshirt away though. She clung to it; a safety net even though Corey could no longer be in her life. She had to cut all ties; no matter how much she loved him, or how much it hurt.

“Andrea Scott?” another student, this one a junior, said loudly. He was taking role call. She lifted her head at the sound of her name. It was the only connection remaining to her past life. She’d been Andrea her whole life. Nothing shorter; nothing different. She met his eye.

“Andi, actually,” she said with a small smile.

“Okay, Andi. Christine Shroder?” And he continued but Andi felt different. She was a new person. She could feel this boy’s eyes still on her even as he continued to call names. He was cute, more a man than a boy. His light brown hair fell softy in his eyes and just covered his ears. He was raggedy and yet put together. He wore the same orientation tee-shirt as everyone else running the program but the rest of his outfit spoke for his style. Loose-fitting khaki shorts with a belt and a worn out pair of Vans. A small tattoo on his ankle showed fraternity letters and a crest.

His named was Roger Smith. Seven years later, she married him.

Remembering was easy; but as hard as she tried Andi couldn’t forget.

Open the closet first, the back of the envelope read. Andi was already annoyed. He couldn’t tell her what to do. He’d lost that privilege long ago. She started to open the letter but stopped. Grumbling to herself, she dropped the letter onto the desk and opened the closet door.

There was a box sitting on the ground; she picked it up surprised by its weight, and lugged it over to her bed. Pulling the top off she found her old volleyball windbreaker.

For two years she had lived in that jacket. Even in the off-seasons, when it snowed or when it was so hot outside the back of her legs stuck to the chairs in her classes, she’d drag the jacket with her. A connection to something outside of her house, to her friends. To a life perceived as normal.

She picked it up now, turning the worn out fabric over in her hands. The familiar swish of the material reminding her of high school. She had to forge her father’s signature to go to the state tournament senior year. By then she’d perfected the art of his name but every time she handed a form in she waited, holding her breath until her teacher or coach ushered her onto the bus.

She placed the jacket on the bed behind her. Taking a deep breath, Andi peered down into the box. Under the jacket was an assortment of junk she’d left and never thought to ask her father to send. She picked up her senior yearbook, only imagining how many hours it took for him to find this. How thorough of a cleaning he’d had to do to find all four years worth of yearbooks. He must have flipped through them; leafing through the pages, seeing faces and reading names he didn’t recognize or couldn’t remember because he’d been to drunk to notice. She wondered if he’d read her private notes, from a best friend and Corey. She hid the yearbook almost as soon as it was signed by everyone, in a small cabinet on the top shelf in her closet, where she decided to put all four. Incriminating stories lay in those books.

Senior year she’d lost her virginity in her bedroom while her father was passed out downstairs. She smoked pot and cigarettes; she got too drunk to walk, all with a boy who she had loved with all her heart. Corey had slept there many nights; too high to make it home, especially since it was well after the town curfew. He’d written of all these things in the yearbook, detailing as he said the best year of his life.

Andi read the entry now, remembering how she had loved him and hadn’t wanted to let him go. Fear had motivated her to detach herself not only from her father but friends and lovers as well. She wondered what her father had thought if he’d read this. Was he ashamed of her, of himself? She glanced at the desk with the letter; did it hold the answers she so desperately needed, had needed for a decade.

She hadn’t thought about Corey in years. But with his presence so entwined with the essence of the room it was hard to keep the memories out.

They’d only been dating a few months by the time they’d fallen madly in love and wanted to have sex. Corey was against the idea of having sex in her house but Andrea was adamant. Her father was half-dead downstairs and she wasn’t wasting fifty dollars on a hotel if she didn’t have to. It had taken weeks to convince Corey it would be okay. He stayed over several nights; they got high a few times. Nothing happened. Her dad didn’t move from the couch. When Corey insisted on sneaking out her bedroom window every morning; Andrea went downstairs to find her father still passed out on the couch. She’d check for breathing and get ready for school. Corey would be outside waiting with his truck by the time she finished getting dressed. She’d shake her father awake, place a tall cup of coffee on the table in front of him and run out of the house before he was coherent. She had nothing to say to him, but going to work was essential. They needed a roof over their heads.

After 10 days of this routine, they couldn’t wait anymore. Hormones were racing and it took all their willpower to keep their clothes on until her father was properly drunk downstairs. By 7:30, they were in the clear. She had to give Corey credit. He tried to make it romantic. But it was what it was, sex. Awkward and uncomfortable. She met his eyes just a moment before he penetrated her. She stifled a cry of pain, leaning up and into his body, kissing him slowly. Their bodies relaxed into a rhythm and soon the pain was gone, replaced by a pleasure she’d never known before.

“I love you,” she whispered, feeling him inside her. He stopped, fully connected on every account. He brushed a few loose strands of hair out of her eyes and kissed her softly on the lips.

“I love you, too,” he murmured. He allowed himself to get back into a rhythm and Andrea heard herself moan in pleasure. She felt sensations that changed her; made her feel like a woman. She felt ready to let go of everything and then she felt him slump forward on her. She took a deep breath. She felt the urge to cry. She had never felt more loved and completely connected to another person; yet at the same time she felt the most alone she’d ever felt. As if this moment, this feeling was too good to last.

He rolled off of her and she pulled herself close into his body. He draped the covers over them.

“Will you stay tonight?” she asked, not daring to look up.

“Always, babe, always.”

Andi was aware the love Corey and her shared had been more than real. She was aware that they would’ve probably married and had kids right out of high school; had she not runaway. She knew what she was leaving behind and she left anyway. She looked down into the box, her vision unclear, blurry. Tears were starting to form and she brushed them away and sniffled them back. She found herself staring at a stack of letters; she pulled it out flipping through them casually. They all had the same return address; Corey’s. First love dies hard. There were around 50 odd letters. A letter a week, though at some points the letters came closer together and at other points they came almost an entire month a part.

She remembered how obsessed she’d been with love stories back then. She knew life didn’t give second chances and yet she had always hoped. She had wanted her happy ending but getting it would take more than she was willing to give up. It had taken her years to trust anyone after leaving her father. And Corey.

After several dates and several fights, Roger had broken down her walls. He forced his way into her life and her heart. He made her believe in him even when it was the last thing she wanted. She let him into the craziness and the past she was so desperately trying to hide. He didn’t try to analyze or fix her; he just listened and accepted her choices. They made a life together. It had been three years since the wedding. And they were happy. A decade of happiness with a man who knew exactly who she was.

Andi flipped to the last letter and sliced through the worn adhesive. It was dry against her finger and she felt it slice through the skin. She put her finger to her lips trying to soothe the pain with her saliva. It never worked but she did it anyway. She looked down at her finger. No blood seeped through the wound. Andi slid the letter out of the envelope. It was short.

This is my last letter. There’s not much left to say. You are really gone. I can’t wait for you to come back any longer. I asked a girl out today. Her name is Sophie. I’ve liked her for a while but I was waiting; hoping for your safe return to my arms. I hope, wherever you are, you are happy and someone is taking care of you.

Andi set the letters aside, glad they had been sealed and her father hadn’t seen into the recesses of teenage love.

There was only one thing left in the box, but already Andi could feel the weight of the years holding her down. She picked up what appeared to be a photo album. She didn’t recall making it. She opened it and realized that she hadn’t made it. Inside the pages lay every picture, poster, quote, anything that had once been in her room. The 511 pictures were pressed and mixed together on the page. Her prom photographs rested silently on the page and yet they screamed at her. She looked happy. She didn’t remember being that happy.

She tried to picture her father going through the piles, filling a page just to start over because it didn’t look right. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t imagine him in her room; redesigning, and plastering teen heartthrobs into an album. What had he been trying to do? Why was he documenting a life she’d tried so hard to erase?

She reached across the small distance between her bed and her desk and grabbed the letter. She flipped it over in her hands. It was at least a few solid pages. She ran her hand slowly under the clasp of the envelope, only to discover it wasn’t sealed. Andi pulled the pages out, three. How, in three pages, could he explain a lifetime? She started reading despite her better judgment.

When you were about five; I had an affair. When you were seven, we found out that I had HIV; I gave it to your mother. And so she left me. I would’ve left me too. In her absence, as you are well aware, I turned to liquor. I’d always been a drinker but this was worse. It was different. By the time your mother dropped you off at my doorstep at 14; I couldn’t go an hour without a drink. There was something I always needed to tell you, Andi, but the time…it never seemed to come.

You’re mother didn’t abandon you; she left you with me because she was dying. She never wanted you to know she had AIDS. She didn’t want you to see her die. I know I should’ve told you long ago but like I said, there never seemed to be a time.

Andi stood up and threw the letter down on the bed. She didn’t want to read anymore. She didn’t want to know. She looked down at it. It seemed innocent enough but it wasn’t. What had he been thinking? Why tell her this now…Now that he was gone. She bent down to pick up a page that had fallen to the floor. A copy of her mother’s death certificate. There was no denying the truth now. It was in front of her.

As she stared at her mother’s name she couldn’t help but wonder how this had never been unearthed. Why no one she’d ever hired had found this. A memory flashed through Andi’s mind. Something she hadn’t remembered until this moment. She would’ve been too young to understand but the signs had always been there.

She was about ten. She loved to spend her afternoon climbing trees in the backyard. Her mother hated when she did this. It made her nervous. But her mother was inside carrots for a homemade soup. Andrea sat on the lowest branch of the tree and watched a squirrel climb higher and higher carrying nuts to a whole in the tree.

She ran into the kitchen twirling in circles and yelling about the squirrel in the backyard. She caught her mother off guard and they next sound her heard was a scream from her mother. Then she saw the blood. Andrea rushed to her mother, grabbed her hand and pushed a paper towel on it.

“No!” her mother screamed. “Don’t touch me.”

But it was too late; Andrea’s hands dripped with blood. They’d rushed to the hospital; her mother to get stitches and Andrea getting blood taken. She was nervous; she didn’t understand what was wrong with her mother. Why was she mad at her for trying to help. For the next few months, Andrea kept having to getting her blood taken. She’d cry every time they drove near the hospital, but her mother assured her it would all be over soon. And it was and Andrea went back to her normal 10-year old life. Four years later, her mother was gone.

She couldn’t read anymore. Not today, maybe not ever. After all this time, she really was an orphan.

Andi threw the letter in the box along with everything else that rested on her bed and closed the lid. She opened the desk drawer hoping to find packing tape and it was there right where she’d left in 10 years earlier. She taped the box shut, no corner of it left open to air. She could hear a car in the driveway and knew Roger was back from the meeting with the lawyer. Andi picked up the box and brought it to the edge of the stairs. Roger looked up at her, tired, stressed, uncertain in this unfamiliar house.

“Well, the house is ours,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time. He was standing in front of her in no time. She hugged him.

“Sell it,” she said into his hair.

“Are you sure?” He pulled away and met her eyes. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. “Okay, I’ll call our agent tomorrow.”

She lifted the box back up and Roger took it from her quickly, shaking his head.

“You shouldn’t be lifting, honey. You are pregnant remember?” Andi rolled her eyes.

“Can you drop that at storage?” she asked, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“What is it?” he asked, attempting to find a hole in the tape, some way to break into the box.

“Just some old stuff from high school,” she said. She took a few steps down the stairs before turning back to him. “I don’t want to see it again.”

With a shrug Roger down the stairs and was out of the house before Andi could say anything else. He knew her well enough not to question. Andi followed him slowly and stopped at the door. She turned and looked back at the house. She couldn’t forget and she didn’t want to forgive. Andi closed the door behind her and without looking back got into the car.

Ennui - A new story

2009-11-27T18:09:00.002-05:00

I untangled my hand from Harry’s hair when I heard the phone ring. I reached slowly across my desk and flipped the phone over to voicemail. The office returned to silence, the only sound Harry’s shallow breathing as he kissed the crook of my neck. His hands worked on the buttons of my blouse.

His wife had been in town. I knew because it was only on Mondays, after she’d been home, that he wanted to fuck in the office. Her presence made him frisky for reason.

He pushed me back further on my desk. Pens pressed into my ass and I could feel the papers of a manuscript crunching under my weight. Harry slid his hand slowly up my skirt. I wrapped my leg around his torso pulling him into me. I had missed him this weekend. I reached for his pants, trying to unbutton them without breaking our liplock. I felt a vibrating under me, my cellphone. I picked it up from the desk with one hand and pushed his pants down with the other. I shifted my gaze for a moment to my cell. It was my mother. Ignore.

Besides the obvious reasons, now was not the best time to talk to my mother. I needed to get Harry out of my office as soon as possible. It was only so logical for a meeting between the president of the agency and a measly junior agent to last so long. The last thing we needed was a suspicious office. We’d kept quiet for two years; there was no reason to blow it now.

I felt him press up against me, playing with the barrier that was my underwear. I wanted it. I let my phone drop to the desk and let my hands freely roam through his hair and down his back. I slid them under his boxers and squeezed.
I felt it again, the vibrating. He pulled away, barely an inch but enough for me to notice.

“Who keeps calling?” he asked, leaning down and placing little kisses along my collarbone. He stopped as he reached my bra and glanced up at me waiting for an answer.

“It’s my mother,” I said, pulling his face back up to mine and licking his neck. I felt him against me again. His lips were just centimeters from mine and I could barely contain myself as I waited for them to touch mine and then it happened again.

“Just answer it,” he said. I picked it up and said hello. My skirt fell to the floor and I gave Harry a disbelieving look.

“What is it, Mom? I’m in a meeting, with the president.” I waited; this had better be the most important news she’s ever had in her life. And then she said it. Everything stopped moving and I look down at Harry. He was on his knees down, waiting for me; looking at me. His eyes held confusion, concern, coyness and impatience all at once. I felt his lips on my inner thigh. I pushed myself into a sitting position on the edge of the desk and I could feel his smile. I heard my mother say my name and I turned away from Harry and tried to concentrate. She said it again: My dad had died. I didn’t have words; I didn’t have feelings. He’d been dead to me for a long time, 10 years. “Oh. Okay.” I hung up. Before the phone even hit the desk I could feel Harry back in my arms. His lips on my lips, our breath intermingled, my hands tangled again in his hair. I felt him enter me and I silenced my sigh.

I wanted him more now than I ever had before. This moment, this pleasure, this absolutely wrongness, reaffirmed that I was alive. I felt more awake and alive and in the moment than I had in the past two years. I pressed him further into me; I tied my legs around his back. A gasp of pleasure escaped my lips as he let his tongue linger on my ear. He smiled at me disapprovingly and covered the noises I couldn’t quiet with his lips and his tongue.

And then it was over. He pulled his pants back one and gave me a quick peck on the lips. He sat down in the chair across from my desk and watched as I reassembled my business attire.

“Someone got a little carried away.” Harry laughed and I laughed. I could breathe despite the pounding of my heart and the spinning of my head. “What did your mother want?”

I looked at him. How could I explain? He knew, in a vague way, that I wasn’t in contact with my father. He didn’t know why and he didn’t ask. We were having an ongoing office affair – it kept me employed – we weren’t in a relationship. If I said it out loud it would be real. I didn’t know how to feel; if I felt anything at all.

“My father died.” I didn’t look at him. As I said it, I felt nothing. My father, for all intents and purposes, had died long before now. I heard him stand up and I felt him put an arm around my shoulder but I didn’t look up; I didn’t see him.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay, Harry? I haven’t spoken to my father in 10 years.” I knew before I finished the sentence that the anger was coming. The anger that was always followed but guilt and doubt. I could never take it back; not that I would ever want to but I couldn’t even explain one day how I felt about him. He would never know how much I hated him; or maybe he died realizing he’d never be forgiven.

“Andi?”

I shook my head and stood up, taking a few steps away from him. I sat down in my desk chair and picked up the manuscript I’d crushed. I tried to straighten in out. I felt his gaze on me.

“Appearance Harry, I think our time limit for normal is being breeched.”
He audibly started and I waited for some sort of tirade but instead made his way to the door.

“Andi, I know that this ...thing isn’t exactly…well, you can talk to me if you need me.” It might have been the nicest thing he’d said to me in two years. I smiled and it was real; I felt it inside. Maybe this thing would get more normal. I heard the door close before I could respond. A voice in my head laughed; an affair with your 48-year old boss can never be normal.

A Writing Exercise

2009-11-09T14:43:00.001-05:00

Prompt: A man or a woman -- youngish, say 28-34, married or unmarried, children or no children, as you see it – arrives at parent’s home because his/her father has died. Mother died many years before, or left, not a powerful presence in any case. Your character goes to his/her old room and sees it’s been rearranged a bit, cleaned up, certain furniture gone. Your character imagines his/her father in this room, going through the desk, closets, nighstand drawers, the shelves and under the bed, etc etc – whatever you envision – cleaning it and making it into a straightforward guest room: the father’s hands on whatever you envision of significance to your character, what the father might have been thinking or feeling, and of course what your character is thinking and feeling envisioning this.

It has been years, nearly a decade since Andrea has been in this house. On first glance it looks the same, a few more figurines and a few less beer cans, but the same. If she’d had her way, she’d never have come back. After her mother dropped her off with her alcoholic father at the age of 14 one night and never returned to get her, Andi had done everything in her power to get out of her father’s house. When high school ended, she left for college on the opposite side of the country and never looked back. She took out loans she’d be paying off for the rest of her life to spend summers and winter vacations in the dorms when she didn’t have friends’ houses to crash at.

Once she was far away from her father, she’d tried to find her mother but they all led to dead ends and unanswered letters. After a year, she gave up and called herself an orphan. Who needed parents? One had abandoned her just when she needed her the most and the other had never been there to begin with, just lost in a drunken haze. Most of their weekly visits prior to her mother’s abandonment had been spent at a bar, he would watch football while she drank too much soda and played on the pinball machine. She hated football and though she drank occasionally, she’d never touched beer.

Andi stopped at the base of the stairs willing herself to walk up them, to go to her room. The only sanctuary she had in the whole world when she was a teen. He had never stepped foot in the room, not while she lived there. In the few years before his death, when he had sobered up, enough to attend her wedding and remain on speaking terms with her, he’d gone in there to send things to her but at 16 that room was a safe haven from a frightening home life.

She took the stairs two at a time, a task not quite as easy as it used to be, and arrived at her old room in seconds. She turned at the top of the stairs. She could hear the memory of her father calling to her as he used to do when she came home from sports practice. She heard herself respond, ‘not now, Dad, I have to do my homework.’ Her room was just to the left of the stairs. Andi opened the door quickly and took a step in, surveying what remained of her bedroom, no longer hers. She wondered whom he had fixed it up for or if he had just wanted to erase the memories of his mistakes from his home.

She sat down on the bed, new sheets, at least 300 count, a blue comforter with pink sheets. It matched the mismatched lamp on the bedside table that Andi remembered picking out years ago. She rested her head back on the pillows, fluffy and fuller than anything she’d ever had in her time there. The room had been repainted, a light pink. When she’d left for college there had been 511 posters, cutouts, random pictures cut from Tiger Beat or J-14 or some other equally horrendous magazine of boy bands and pop princesses, actors she loved, actresses she wanted to be. Anything. A lot of friends, a lot of boys, her life was plastered on those walls. With open walls the room looked bigger than she remembered it ever being. She could imagine her father standing on a latter, sitting on the floor, moving the furniture to get posters off the wall. She could only imagine how long it took to get all the tape off the wall; readjustments to the posters had taken hours for her.

Andi glanced towards the closet and noticed a letter taped to it. She stood and walked over to the door, pulling the envelope down. In her dad’s familiar handwriting was her full name Andrea Leigh Scott, her maiden name. She was Andi Sawyer now; Andrea Leigh Scott died along time ago as far as she was concerned. She sat down at her desk chair and opened the envelope. She carefully pulled the letter out. It was several pages long, all in the same scrawl her father always had.

Open the closet first, it read. Andi was already annoyed. She dropped the letter onto the desk and opened the closet door. There was a box sitting on the ground; she picked it up surprised by its weight, and lugged it over to her bed. Pulling the top off she finds her old volleyball windbreaker. She had lived in that thing but left it behind at the end of the day. Under the jacket was an assortment of such she’d left and never thought to ask her father to send. She picked up her senior yearbook, only imagining how many hours it took for him to find this. How thorough of a cleaning he’d had to do to find not only freshmen year but all four years worth of yearbooks. He must have flipped through them; leafing through the pages, seeing faces and reading names he didn’t recognize or couldn’t remember because he’d been to drunk to notice. She wondered if he’d read her private notes, from a best friend and a high school sweetheart she’d also left behind. She hid the yearbook almost as soon as it was signed by everyone, in a small cabinet on the top shelf in her closet, where she decided to put all four. Incriminating stories lay in those books.

Senior year she’d lost her virginity in her bedroom while her father was passed out downstairs. She smoked pot and cigarettes; she got too drunk to walk, all with a boy who she had loved with all her heart. He slept there many nights; too high to make it home, especially since it was well after the town curfew. He’d written of all these things in the yearbook; detailing as he said the best year of his life. Andi read the entry now, remembering how she had loved him and hadn’t wanted to let him go. Fear had motivated her to detach herself not only from her father but friends and lovers as well. She wondered what her father had thought if he’d read this. Was he ashamed of her, of himself? She glanced at the desk with the letter; did it hold the answers she so desperately needed, had needed for a decade.

Under the yearbooks had been a stack of letters; she pulled it out flipping through them casually. They all had the same return address. First love dies hard; he had written her a letter every day for a year. She remembered making him read that Nicholas Sparks book. It had always been her favorite; even back then she found it hard to believe love like that existed; Noah and Ali were fictional; life didn’t give second chances. She flipped to the last letter and sliced through the worn adhesive.

This is my 366^th letter. There’s not much left to say. You were right, Ali and Noah cannot exist. I asked a girl out today; I hope, wherever you are, you are happy and someone is taking care of you.

Andi set the letters aside, glad they were sealed and her father hadn’t seen into the recesses of teenage love.

There were only two things left in the box but already Andi could feel the weight of the years holding her down. She picked what appeared to be a photo album. She didn’t recall making it. She opened it and realized that she hadn’t made it. Inside the pages lay every picture, poster, quote, anything that had once been in her room. The 511 pictures were pressed and mixed together on the page. She tried to picture him going through the piles, filling a page just to start over because it didn’t look right. She couldn’t see him. What had he been trying to do? Why was he documenting a life she’d tried so hard to erase?

The last thing in the box was a manila envelope, written on the front were two words. The truth. She unclasped it, fear shaking her body. She pulled it out and looked down, unable to comprehend the words in front of her. It was a death certificate for her mother, from 13 years earlier. Cause of death pneumonia due to low immunity caused by AIDS.

Andi stood up, throwing the certificate to the floor and snatched the letter off the desk. You’re mother didn’t abandon you; she left you with me because she was dying. I gave her HIV and she left me and I drank away my sorrows for over two decades. I should’ve told you long ago but when I got you back, I was too scared to lose you again.

She couldn’t read anymore. Not today, maybe not ever. After all this time, she really was an orphan.

Andi through the letter in the box along with everything else that rested on her bed and closed the lid. She opened the desk drawer hoping to find packing tape and it was there. She taped it shut, no corner of the box left open to air. She could hear a car in the driveway and knew her husband was back from the funeral parlor. Andi picked up the box and brought it to the edge of the stairs. Her husband looked up at her, tired, stressed, uncertain in this unfamiliar house.

“Ready?” he asked. He met her at the top of the stairs, taking the box from her. “You shouldn’t be lifting, honey. You are pregnant remember?” Andi rolled her eyes. “Where’s this going?”

“Storage,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I don’t want to see it again.”

With a shrug he walked out of the house. Andi followed him to the door but stopped. She turned and look back at the house. Now, I know, she thought. She closed the door behind her and without looking back got into her car. It was over.

Veronica: Act I of a Tragedy

2009-09-30T22:59:00.001-04:00

By Casey Tolfree

CHARACTERS:

VERONICA – Poor girl betrothed to Logan at his wishes

LOGAN – Rich businessman, runs much of the city

VINCENT – Poor boy who Veronica was in love with before Logan took her.

JOSEPHINE – lower class citizen involved with Veronica and Logan

SETTING AND TIME:

A small city in the present day

NOTES ON PUNCTUATION:

“…” is a short pause

“—“ is an interruption

ACT I

Lights come up on Veronica sitting at her desk writing.

VERONICA

The civil unrest grows greater every day. It was on the news last night that three of my friends and my oldest brother were arrested. Why is this happening? Why am I not able to stop it? Would it matter if I pretended to be happy by Logan’s side? No. They would know better. I was in love with Vincent, I am in love with Vincent. God, I miss him. Sneaking out is hard and I only see him now maybe once a week. Logan has me watched when I’m here I believe but I try to steal away to see my love. I don’t understand why Logan chose me, chose to steal me from the arms of love with a bribe to my parents.

Vincent and I plan to run away, when the time is right. He thinks that Logan will not chase us. Logan’s pride is too big though, he will find us -one way or another. I keep telling Vincent that but he doesn’t want to listen. I will go with my love though, even if it means, death or banishment or never seeing a familiar face again. I would be with my love and that is all that matters.

Why, oh why, did this happen to me? When Logan suddenly came into wealth at the death of a father he never even knew he had and inherited the company, we were all happy for him. Finally, a lower-class citizen breaking through the ranks and making money, doing well for himself, moving on. We thought perhaps now the classes would become more equal. Logan took quick to wealth however and when he told us he had to be married by year’s end, Vincent and I laughed. Logan was an awkward person to watch him fall in love would be fun. Then he chose me. What right did he have? I am Vincent’s. My parents forced me from the house and now I am here, with a fiancé I hate and my love as my partner in crime. If he finds out that Vincent and I are still together, it will end it all, lives may be lost.

I will not sleep with Logan. I told him I was a virgin – and he believed! – I told him it would be wrong and we have to wait until the wedding night. I cannot hurt Vincent by giving in to Logan until, if that times comes, I must. Logan’s touch reviles me. I feel the need to take a scolding hot shower whenever he touches me, kisses me, tries to woo me to bed.

He is but a dictator these days. He is overcompensating for what I don’t know, I may find out by our wedding day. I may die before then though for I never intend to let that vile creature inside me. He lets me speak to but one friend, Josephine. My dear friend. She is naïve however, she thinks all is right. She always tries to talk to me of Vincent. Why break my heart more, dear friend? I am allowed to speak to my parents but I refuse. I will not break my silence with them until I am allowed to leave this hell. It’s been two months, my mother writes me daily but I still refuse. She is no longer my mother, my father not my father. I hate them. I hate everything, I hate myself for liking these fancy clothes and getting used to my luxury meals and nice cars. I will give it up in an instant for Vincent though. Nothing will keep me from my love. I will beg on the street to be with him; I will die. There is no measure of my love. I am scheduled to see my love tonight, I hope I can escape and be there, last week Logan detained me with guests.

It is good to get these feelings out, it allows me to smile when I need to. I can pretend for a day or two that I care of Logan at all, that I don’t hate him. As with all my other writings, I must burn it. For if Logan finds it and I think he snoops around when I am out, he will know my plans and it will be too late. So goodbye thoughts, goodbye love, I keep you in my heart.

VERONICA pulls a lighter from her pocket and burns the edge of the paper until it catches on fire. She drops it in an empty trashcan. Logan enters.

LOGAN

What are you burning now?

VERONICA

It’s a letter from my parents. You know I can’t stand to see her handwriting.

LOGAN

Can’t you just shred the letter like a normal person?

VERONICA

Burning is more therapeutic. Was there something you wanted?

LOGAN

Yes, my dearest fiancée. I have news — News of the unrest in Casse has reached the investors overseas. I must go over there and speak with them, explain that by year’s end the unrest will be a thing of the past because we will be married.

VERONICA

Yes, we shall be married by year’s end. Why shall the unrest end then?

LOGAN

By year’s end you will love me. You will tell the entire city that you were wrong to protest and you do love me with all your heart and cannot wait to be my blushing bride.

VERONICA

I will do no such thing, Logan.

LOGAN

I think you will. One phone call and I can have Vincent arrested or killed. A brick broke through my office window yesterday. I’m sure I can get him in trouble for it. In fact, I bet I can get the entire unrest of the city blamed on him.

VERONICA

You would not. Leave Vincent out of this. Have you not hurt him enough?

LOGAN

Veronica, do not forget to whom you are speaking. You are enjoying your time now. I can make that very difficult. I am respecting your no sex rules and if you protest much longer…

VERONICA

By year’s end I will marry and love you. I will proclaim it to the city.

LOGAN

That’s what I thought, my dear fiancée. I have called Josephine to come stay with you while I am gone. It should be less than two months. You two will have fun, the city will see my kindness in letting you keep your friends despite the danger to my wellbeing. We both win. I will only be in Aimer for the next week, if you need me, then I will be traveling.

VERONICA

Thank you, Logan. I see you have a heart left in you.

LOGAN

I do want you to be happy, Veronica. Listen, Josephine has arrived. I must be going. Be good.

LOGAN steps close to VERONICA and kisses her forehead and then her lips. JOSEPHINE enters.

JOSEPHINE

I am sorry to interrupt. I shall wait in the hallway.

LOGAN

(Standing upright) Nonsense, Josephine. Let me show you to your room.

Exit VERONICA, LOGAN AND JOSEPHINE. Enter LOGAN and JOSEPHINE.

You have your instructions, Josephine. Do not betray me.

JOSEPHINE

Me betray you, sir? You are good to me. I shall find out if Vincent still owns Veronica’s bed.

LOGAN

Oh, you are a sweet, beautiful thing. I was right to trust you.

JOSEPHINE

Sir, if I may ask, what will you do if it is true? I do not wish to see Veronica or Vincent harmed.

LOGAN

Harmed? Never, simply banished from my city. Vincent thrown in jail, Veronica an outcast. Social pariahs but they will live.

JOSEPHINE

What of your year deadline?

LOGAN

I will find someone else, you naïve thing. Perhaps, I will marry you.

JOSEPHINE

Do not joke of such things, sir. I know I would never be lucky enough to have your love and be in your home.

LOGAN

Do your job and we shall see.

LOGAN caresses JOSEPHINE’S face with his hand, looks about to kiss her.

I must be going, the car waits.

Exit LOGAN. Enter VERONICA.

VERONICA

Is it suitable for you, dear friend?

JOSEPHINE

It is more than suitable, Veronica. I am so glad to spend this time with you. I hope that I may return some happiness to your life.

VERONICA

You do already, Josephine. It is okay. Logan is kind to let you come visit me. He treats me well.

JOSEPHINE

But you do not love him.

VERONICA

I cannot love him. My heart will always belong to another.

JOSEPHINE

Do you think of Vincent often?

VERONICA

Do not be cruel. Do not speak his name to me. I do not desire to think or speak of what I no longer have.

JOSEPHINE

I apologize. I did not realize it still hurt you. With a man like Logan, so handsome, in your midst I would think your heart would turn.

VERONICA

I am not that fickle, Josephine. A nice body does not a nice man make.

JOSEPHINE

I did not think badly of you, Veronica. I did not mean that you could just forget your love. I just meant that maybe…

VERONICA

I know what you meant. Let’s move on. Tell me about Casse.

Blackout.

Hot For Teacher

2009-09-22T22:51:00.001-04:00

CHARACTERS:

EMMA JENKINS - Female teenager. 16.

ASHLEIGH WILSON - Female teenager. 16. EMMA’s best friend.

JUSTIN JENKINS - Male teenager. 17. Nerdy. EMMA’S brother.

KAREN JENKINS - Female. Mid- 40’s. EMMA and JUSTIN’s mother.

BRADLEY FELLER - Male. Late 20’s. EMMA’s soccer coach.

WADE JEKINS - Male. Late 40’s. EMMA and JUSTIN’s father.

SETTING:

A small town in mid-Atlantic America. An average living room. A high school locker room.

TIME:

Late fall. The Present.

NOTES ON PUNCTUATION:

“…” is a short pause

“—“ is an interruption

Lights come up on EMMA and ASHLEIGH entering a house wearing bright sports warm ups and carrying matching sports duffle bags. EMMA wears a backpack, ASHLEIGH’S is missing.

EMMA

Okay, one hour of homework and then Monday night on the CW!

ASHLEIGH

XOXO Gossip Girl…(giggles)

The two girls sit down on the couch. EMMA starts to take her books out of her backpack and places them on the coffee table. ASHLEIGH looks around confused.

Shit! I left my bag in the locker room.

EMMA stands up, looking at ASHLEIGH expectantly.

EMMA

Well let’s go then. We need to be back before eight.

ASHLEIGH

We’re going to walk all the way back to the school now? I mean, where are your parents when we need a ride?

EMMA pulls ASHLEIGH off the couch and drags her towards the door.

EMMA

My dad will be home in like 30 minutes. My mom went to the movies or something. I have no idea. She’s been acting weird lately. Anyway… stop stalling. Let’s go. If I miss any of my show, I will cause bodily harm.

Lights fade on scenery come up as spotlights on EMMA and ASHLEIGH, now walking to the school. They stop mid-stage, ASHLEIGH points off stage. EMMA follows her gaze.

ASHLEIGH

Isn’t that your mom’s car?

EMMA

Ash, my mom and about two dozen other people in this town alone drive that model, in the same shade of blue. It’s ridiculous. Why would she be here anyway?

ASHLEIGH

Homecoming soccer game?

EMMA

She doesn’t even come to our games, Ash. Anyway, you are so lucky it’s homecoming week because otherwise this school would so be locked.

They continue walking and double back around to mid-stage. Lights come up on the school locker room.

ASHLEIGH

School is officially creepy at night. Now, I know why you never go back inside after away games.

EMMA

Just go get your bag already….

ASHLEIGH picks up bag across stage. EMMA holds her finger up to her mouth to silence her.

Did you hear that?

ASHLEIGH walks over to EMMA fishing around in her backpack, she pulls out a video camera and hugs it to her chest.

ASHLEIGH

It sounds like someone making out. Eww… in here?! Let’s go. — Thank god nobody took my bag. The film department would have murdered me.

ASHLEIGH turns the camera on and starts filming the empty locker room. The sound of people making out gets louder and more pronounced. A male voice sounds from offstage, an undeterminable word.

EMMA

They aren’t just making out. (Giggles nervously) Let’s see who it is. Why are you filming me?

ASHLEIGH

This could be the next “Blair Witch” if we make it out alive. (Laughs)

They walk towards the sound and slowly. Lights come up on the stage to reveal two people partially clothed. ASHLEIGH sticks the camera in the room. The lovers aren’t disturbed. EMMA drops her keys and the couple tears apart.

ASHLEIGH

Coach Feller?

KAREN

Emma? (Simultaneous to above)

EMMA

MOM?! (Simultaneous to two above)

EMMA and ASHLEIGH run from the locker room off stage and the lights fall. In the darkness a door slams and the sound of people shuffling to get dressed can be heard. Light come up in Emma’s living room.

ASHLEIGH

Your Mom! Oh my God!

EMMA

My dad is still not home, great. You got that on video?

ASHLEIGH

Yeah, gross. Our project is on here too. Why do you care?

EMMA

I’ve got to tell my dad. My mom has been acting strangely but this goes over the line. He needs to know.

ASHLEIGH

I don’t know about that, Em. You might want to say out of it. Definitely do not show him video. Getting in the middle of your parents marriage doesn’t sound like the best idea.

JEREMY enters the room without notice from the girls. He is barefoot, in sweat pants and a tank top.

EMMA

Wouldn’t you want to know if Trevor was cheating on you?

ASHLEIGH

Yeah, but I’m not married with kids, Em. It’s different.

EMMA

Exactly, it’s worse. I have to tell him.

JEREMY walks over to the girls on the couch.

JEREMY

You will not tell Dad that Mom is cheating on him.

EMMA

Excuse me?! He has the right to know.

JEREMY

He already knows. If you tell him or show him what’s on that video that will be it. He can’t take much more of her games and this will kill him.

EMMA

How do you know this?

JEREMY

Because Emma, I’m the one who is HERE when they fight. I’m the one who hears him talk to his friends on the phone. I’m the one who heard Mom make sex plans with your soccer coach. While you are out, I am here.

EMMA stands up and faces her brother. ASHLEIGH sinks down in the couch trying to be invisible.

EMMA

You’re wrong.

JEREMY

If you tell Dad, he’ll leave. Do you want to be a child of divorce?

EMMA

No, Jeremy. Dad isn’t just going to leave Mom because she made a mistake.

JEREMY

Did it look like a mistake to you, Emma? God, did Mom know it was you? (EMMA nods). This is bad. Whatever you do, do NOT say anything to Dad.

JEREMY walks off stage as WADE enters from the opposite direction. WADE holds a briefcase and wears a trench coat. He drops an umbrella to the ground before stepping towards the girls.

WADE

Girls. I assume homework is actually being done?

ASHLEIGH

Of course, Mr. Jenkins. (Laughs nervously) We are just finishing up a… biology project.

WADE

Did you girls eat yet?

EMMA and ASHLEIGH shake their heads. WADE looks annoyed and glances at the clock.

I could attempt to cook if you want. Or I am an expert at ordering pizza. (Laughs).

EMMA

Pizza would be great, Dad. We’re just going to watch…

WADE

It’s Monday, dear. I know what you to are doing.

EMMA and ASHLEIGH laugh and flip the television on. WADE leaves the room. The din of a television fills the silence.

EMMA

I have to tell him, Ash. Do you think it’s fair to him. I mean, I’d rather him be happy than hurt.

ASHLEIGH

I would let it be, Emma. Give it a few days. Talk to your mother. Maybe now that you know, she will tell him.

EMMA

She won’t. She hasn’t even come home yet. They probably went back to screwing.

ASHLEIGH

Maybe I should go home. There’s a lot going on here right now.

EMMA

No, Ash. Stay. Our shows are about to start and we haven’t even done any homework yet. — I can’t support her lies. I can’t be a part of them.

ASHLEIGH

It’s the wrong move, Emma. I’m telling you, everyone loses if you tell.

EMMA

He needs to know.

ASHLEIGH

I’m going home. Call me when this all goes to hell, okay? I promise I won’t say I told you so. But, Emma, I’m telling you not to do this.

ASHLEIGH grabs her bags and rushes offstage.. Wade reenters the room. EMMA stands.

WADE

Where’d Ashleigh run off to? The pizza should be here in a few.

ASHLEIGH

She went home; she wasn’t feeling well. Dad? Can I ask you something? How did you know Mom was the one for you?

WADE

Is this about that boy of yours? Carter?

EMMA

No, Dad. Carter is not the one. He’s just a guy.

WADE

Well, honey, I knew I wanted to marry your mother after our very first date. She was the funniest, smartest, most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

EMMA

How do you two keep your love alive now, all these years later?

WADE

What’s this about honey?

EMMA

Dad…I saw something today I never wanted to see. Something I never should have seen. Ashleigh and I, we went back to the school …

WADE

Is everything alright, Emma? Did someone hurt you?

EMMA

No, Dad. We’re both fine. Ashleigh just forgot her backpack.

WADE

What did you see?

EMMA

Coach Feller…and… (Whispers) Mom…

WADE

You saw your mother with Coach Feller. Were they having sex?

EMMA looks up at WADE complete shock on her face. EMMA opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

(Aside) She said it was over. She promised after I caught them.

EMMA

Dad?

WADE pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and hands EMMA a wad of money.

WADE

I have to go.

EMMA

You knew, Dad? How could you know and live with that. Hug her, kiss her, live with her, like nothing happened? Dad?

WADE

I have to go.

EMMA

Go where? Dad?

WADE

I won’t just hit here and be made a fool anymore.

KAREN enters the room and stops in mid-step as she sees WADE and EMMA standing in the middle of the room.

Honey, welcome home. Have a good screw?

KAREN

What dear?

WADE

Well, it appears you let our 16-year old daughter and her best friend catch you having sex with their soccer coach.

EMMA

Mom? Dad? (Looking in turn at each of them)

JEREMY enters opposite where KAREN is standing. JEREMY glares at EMMA, who has started to cry.

WADE

Goodbye.

EMMA

Wait, Dad. I want to go with you.

WADE

No. That is not possible.

JEREMY

Dad!

WADE

Take good care of your sister, Jeremy.

JEREMY

Dad, please. Don’t leave us here with her.

WADE exits brushing past KAREN. KAREN stands rigid, anger not sadness on her face.

You are happy, Emma? How about you, Mom? Was the sex really that amazing? Fuck you both.

JEREMY exits from where he came. In a moment a door slam can be heard.

KAREN

You told him? Without talking to me?

EMMA

He knew. You said it was over, he claims. What could you possibly have send to convince me otherwise anyway?

KAREN

Nothing, probably. It wasn’t that simple. I care for Bradley.

EMMA

Coach Feller, Mom. He’s my coach, remember? You are disgusting. He’s married, you know.

KAREN

I am aware of that, dear. You can’t help whom your heart goes to.

EMMA

Bullshit, Mom! You are married, he is married, and you are not ALLOWED to be with each other. I don’t care if he is your soul mate or whatever. You took a vow.

KAREN

Don’t be naïve, Emma. It’s unbecoming.

The doorbell rings. KAREN walks offstage and comes back quickly with a pizza box.

Do you want some? — Fine. Since your dad is gone, Bradley can just stay here tonight. We were just going to get some food anyway.

EMMA

You are disgusting.

KAREN opens the box and pulls out a slice of pizza.

KAREN

Welcome to the real world. People disgust you all the time. — Oh, and you’re grounded…indefinitely.

KAREN walks past EMMA and offstage. EMMA sits down on the floor and cries.

Blackout.

Grad school update...

2009-09-21T21:54:00.003-04:00

It's funny how revision comes over time. When I finished APT 509 I thought it was amazing. Then I revised it and thought it was even better. Now I workshopped it and it's still even better. It just makes you wonder your writing could go if you had all the time in the world to just do this.

As the weeks go by I'm beginning to notice that I'm not the typical MFA student. I like to read, I love to write and I am there to become a better writer but I have no illusions. Unless something hits it big, it will never be my career. I want to be an editor and write on the side. I want to be journalist and still be creative. I mean I'm not even writing in my writing program because there is so much reading. When I do write I consider it fun time. Not work time.

I'm loving being back in school. I love my new community don't get me wrong. I'm not regretting my choice. I just think that I'm not what the usual MFA student is about. I want an MFA because I want to be a great writer - even if it never gets past my friends. I want to study the thing I love and maybe get to help people learn how to do the same things I do.

I don't know. I'm just tired and bored and want to not be at work right now. lol

2009-09-19T01:30:00.001-04:00

Hey bloggers! Just testing out my new mobile blogging. I finally got a blackberry. Yay me!

A FOUR-LETTER WORD: A one-page play

2009-09-10T22:30:00.001-04:00

By Casey Tolfree

CHARACTERS:

HANNAH - Female. Early 20’s.

JEREMY - Male. Early 20’s. He has been dating HANNAH for two months.

SETTING:

College Dorm Room, somewhere in New York.

TIME:

Late fall. The Present.

NOTES ON PUNCTUATION:

“…” is a short pause

“—“ is an interruption

Hannah’s dorm room. JEREMY and HANNAH are in bed. Clothes are scattered around.

HANNAH

Don’t go, Jeremy. You miss class all the time. This is a special occasion.

JEREMY

I’ll come back afterwards. We can…(lifts eyebrows suggestively) continue.

HANNAH

At least tell me how you feel, what you are thinking?

JEREMY

It would be ungentlemanly for me to express my thoughts at the moment.

JEREMY sits up. He reaches down to find his jeans and shirt.

HANNAH

Jeremy! (playfully slaps his upper arm) I’m serious. You are running out of here like we didn’t just make love for the first time.

JEREMY

(Pause) Fine, I was thinking that you look so goddamn hot and I wish I didn’t have to go to class and we could —

HANNAH kisses him. JEREMY pulls away and stands up. He throws a sweatshirt on.

I’ve got to get to class, babe. I…lo…left my books in my dorm.

HANNAH

Okay, bye boyfriend. (Pause) I…can’t wait until we can…continue.

JEREMY turns to leave hand on the doorknob. HANNAH puts on pants. He turns back.

JEREMY

Oh one other thing.

HANNAH looks over at him expectantly.

I love you, Hannah.

HANNAH jumps out of the bed and into JEREMY’s arms. JEREMY barely catches her.

HANNAH

(Squealing). Oh my God! I love you too, Jeremy.

JEREMY laughs and pushes the door closed. Blackout.

First week of grad school out of the way

2009-09-04T20:02:00.001-04:00

I have to say after a year and a half out of the game, it felt really good to be back in a classroom. I hadn't realized how much I missed the classroom and discussions on literature and having new people to talk with, bond with over books and writing.

I will admit I was a little nervous at first, afraid that I wasn't as smart or well read as my peers but I think I held my own. I read a good amount between high school and college and then on my own. I feel well-rounded.

I had two classes last night. Five hours of class - my butt hurt for sure. The day started off with Genre Development: Novel. It's a reading intensive class. 12 book. I have to do 90 minute presentation/discuss on September 29 about Mrs. Dalloway. Great. A preview of what my future in teaching may be. There's eight people in my class and it seems like a good bunch. A little quiet though.

My second class was playwriting, which I was a little worried about but my teacher is a riot. I think I'll really enjoy it, as long as he lets me keep my shoes on from now on. We had to trace our hand and foot, draw our body and our liver... lol.... there is a method to the madness I'm sure... we just haven't gotten to it yet.

I have a lot of homework this semester. It's going to be a challenge for sure

My fiction workshop was not quite as exciting and exhilarating. We didn't write or read. We didn't do much of anything. Basically for two hours we went around and introduced ourselves and went off on tangents about various authors or ideas. I felt at a loss with such little structure. We didn't even get a syllabus yet. I think it will get better once we start workshopping and writing but my first class did not have me leaving happy. Or feeling like I was studying writing, nonetheless anything.

I'm debating what I should get ready for my first workshop which I hope to be the week after next. A few chapters from my novel? The beginning of my novella.... I'm not sure yet. Something good.

My teacher said that all first year students think they can write but they can't and they suck.

I don't like that statement. Writers can always get better. I get better every day. I mean the change from my last novella to my current novel is insane. I didn't want to study writing originally because I didn't want someone to tell me I couldn't write because writing is my life and even if I never get published and even if my boyfriend and friends are the only ones to ever read my stories, I don't care. I will still write. So I'm going to try and take advice and really get something out of the workshop but I'm not ever going to say mine or someone else's work is bad.

Next week should be interesting.... the real work begins...

It's all mine ;)

2009-08-26T22:49:00.002-04:00

So in case you were waiting with bated breath... I get to keep my job :)

Strangely enough, I was able to write through all this stress. I wrote some pretty great stuff today before I found out and then I was informed when I arrived at the office.

I don't think I fully realized how stressed about the waiting I'd been though because after I found out I completely felt like a weight had been lifted. I felt like I was laughing for the first time in two weeks and really meaning it. I was light on my feet.

It's just a great feeling. I don't even have the words to express how I'm feeling right now. All that worry and I made it through.

I have the next two days off and then it's a really busy weekend for the paper but it'll be good, I think. A nice way to get my job back in order.

This blog entry is so disoriented but that's how I feel right now.

Sigh.

Start to my synopsis

2009-08-22T19:13:00.003-04:00

Let me know what you think please...be honest this is like attempt one million:

The Vikings of VanBuren

Standing in front of her house waiting for the rest of her friends to arrive, Gabby Stall can't help but notice the latest edition to VanBuren Street. She nudges her best friend, Conner Edwards, and motions towards the offending vehicle with her shoulder. "Who's black no-top-in-the-middle-of-March Jeep is that?" she exclaims distraught. The seven other teenagers turn and look with knowing smiles. Nobody had told her.

"The new kids on the block," a tall, slender brunette in a too short skirt and barely there top says.
"They moved in over the weekend."

Gabby glares at JenniferAnn, off put by the fact that no one bothered to inform her she had new neighbors. At 14, Gabby doesn't take kindly to change. Only a few months later however, Gabby has a new best friend in Morgan Banks, the strawberry blonde with eyes only for conner, who moved in next store. The Vikings have maxed out membership at 10 and everything seems to be changing.

The Vikings of VanBuren are the elitest of the elite in the small town of Pineville. Comprised orginially of the men who lived on VanBuren Street, the Vikings society lay dormant until one summer day three years before, Gabby found the village secret tucked away in a shed in JenniferAnn's backyard. Now, the teens of VanBuren were taking their rightful power back. Necklaces with intertwining V's still mean something in the small town where former Vikings remain hidden within society.

Morgan is still adjusting to her new role of best friend, girlfriend and privledged as freshmen year rolls around and after a summer camp affair leaves her feeling uneasy, she's going to have to use all her composure to ensure her secret does in fact remain a secret or her days as Conner's girlfriend will be over.

Synopsis

2009-08-22T18:25:00.002-04:00

Anyone have an supportive advice on how to write a novel synopsis. I've been trying to write a synopsis for at least a year. I can't seem to get it to have the same voice and pace as my novel though. It comes off as a telling. It sounds trite. I just can't figure it out. I don't want to read the story again to try and find it either because I'm writing my other novel . Any advice would be great....

Teetering

2009-08-18T22:13:00.002-04:00

So the interview this morning went well, even though I've been a mess all day. Between it being like a freakin' sauna in my apartment and being exhausted and generally not feeling well (not to mention I had to get up and open at 5:15 and work for 2 hours before my interview at 9:30) it's been a strange day.

I feel I got my points across strongly in the interview and knowing that the final decision comes from senior management really gives me a little more confidence that I may be one of the people rehired. I have to wait until next week but I think it's turning out okay, at least I hope. I don't want to not worry and then get blindsided. I want to be prepared. I've applied to so many jobs in the past six days since finding out but I haven't heard anything yet. Maybe this will open a door for me I would've otherwise missed, who knows.

I was finally able to write again. Started a little bit last night but Monday's are my day with Vinny so I don't have too much time to write before bed. Wrote a good amount today, not a lot but I got the chapter back on track. I was confused for a few days as to where it was supposed to be going but now I have it all in order and I think that the relationship I'm trying to let the readers see between Anna and her little sister in the sorority is really shining through.

So keep your fingers crossed for me because it's hard to write a novel when you have no income!

Sigh.

Distractions

2009-08-15T17:37:00.002-04:00

Things were going really well with my novel. I was on a role and I was just about to start chapter 9 and things were just going to flow from there on until like chapter 14 - it was all planned out. Things were good. Life was good.

Until I heard the news.... my job might be having layoffs. Again. Only this time I'm affected. Of the 190 reporters/editors at my job - we all have to reapply for new jobs according to the new restructured paper. Fifty people will be laid off. I could be one of them. I could survive to work another day. All I know if I just got myself 30 grand in debt for grad school and now I am be losing my biggest source of income. Talk about killing a writer's buzz.

I've written since finding out but not too much. I feel unfocused. I forget where I'm going with a line of story. I stop and stare at the computer and feel as if I should be applying for more jobs. Anything to make sure I can pay all these bills I have acquired.

My reinterview is Tuesday morning. Let's hope that after that I find out I'm still employed because I've worked my ass off for these people... more than some of my other coworkers and I feel that I should stay and they should go if that's the case.

I'm going to try to write tonight but I can already feel that itching to go on mediabistro and monster and start sending in applications. It's overwhelming.

Soundtrack to My Novel

2009-08-08T00:56:00.002-04:00

Before this became all the rage thanks to Stephanie Meyer, I always had soundtrack to my stories. I had entire chapters based on a song. I know you guys don't know too much about my novel so far but it give you a musical image here is the soundtrack so far:

1. I Do Not Hook Up - Kelly Clarkson
2. Bent - Matt Nathanson
3. Never Say Never - The Fray
4. Shattered (Turn the Car Around) - OAR
5. Cry - Kelly Clarkson
6. 99 Times - Kate Voegele (Amazing new artist!)
7. Sooner or Later - Michelle Branch (check out her new stuff sooo good)
8. Show Me What I'm Looking For - Carolina Liar

A possible B-side (not sure if it makes the cut or not):
9. Hanging By a Moment - Lifehouse

Well, if nothing else this is all great music to download :)

The Time Traveler's Wife

2009-08-07T18:56:00.002-04:00

I finished The Time Traveler's Wife a few hours ago. My first reaction was huh. No question mark, just the phrase. Now, it's still, huh. The book cast such different feelings throughout me that I'm not really sure how to feel. At points it was the most romantic story, destiny and fate intertwined to bring this one couple happiness. Other times, it was creepy, pedophilic and incestuous. And over all it was confusing and yet still easy to follow. It was a book of contradiction about something that could never happen.

All I keep thinking was, if you sleep with a younger version of your wife/husband... is it cheating? and the thought grossed me out. A 42-year old Henry sleeping with an 18-year old Clare, while married to a 34 year old Clare, was strange and not okay but still okay. I don't even have words to describe how I'm feeling right now. Huh.

Despite it's weirdness, I'm happy with the book. I enjoyed it and didn't want to put it down when I had to go back to work or go to bed or drive home from work. Besides that however, it was a good learning experience to see how it all plays out.

The novel I'm working on plays out mainly in flashbacks with an overlaying present day problem. You watch this couple on the verge of a break up and through flashbacks see why their relationship is even worth preserving. It's a little different, a little out there, but it's working right now.

Reading books with flashbacks in them is helpful though. Time Traveler's Wife is very out of sync and doesn't particularly follow a solid path. It meanders through time, literally. At times I was highly confused and sometimes it all made clear sense. It will definitely help me when I get to out of order flashbacks. Right now, they are in order but soon it will jump to a first date and a first time and other random but meaningful events.

Bottom line: I have no idea how they turned this book into a movie but I'll find out next Saturday, I guess.

Fears

2009-08-03T21:26:00.003-04:00

For a year and a half all I thought about and focused on was getting into graduate school. After my first round of rejection letters, I had to wait an entire year to reapply. Fortunately for me, in that year, I wrote some pretty impressive stuff. I spent months revising, cutting down, doing everything to make my samples perfect. And then I mailed them out and waited.

Grad school had been my ultimate goal for so long, I didn't care about the time it would take or how I'd have to change my work schedule. It was what I wanted. It still is but everything is just different. Between mailing out my applications and getting my acceptance letter; I fell in love. He became such an important presence in my life and the thought of not seeing me all the time is a scary one.

Vinny is the most encouraging person in my life right now. He rolls with it and promises that we will intend find enough time for each other between my jobs and school and his job and his school. This means that usually I think he doesn't care, but I know he does. Vinny just doesn't want to make me not want to go to school and I get that and I appreciate it more than I could ever explain to him. He inspires me to write, he is a support system I've never had before. He'll read my stuff and tell me he's proud of me and tell me it's great but he'll also call me on my bull shit. If he doesn't think it would ever happen in real life than I'm going to know about it. He's not a writer but he's creative and though I don't think he fully understands my passion for writing, he supports it. That's not something many people in my life openly do. They know I write and they'll maybe read something I post up on myspace but I'm not certain anyone but Vinny really thinks I will ever get published. I'm not sure I think I'll ever get published.

I guess the point of this blog is that I want to go to school more than anything but it's freaking me out right now. It's in four weeks and I'm not ready to give up my Monday night dinners with Vinny or the ability to actually take a day off at the newspaper and yet I have to. I already miss out on half of my life and I'm so tired of missing out on things and yet I can't get a full time day job - I've been trying. I can't get catch a break. I don't know how to quiet the fear that grows inside of me every day, especially as with each day my novel progresses more and more and my writing gets better and better. It's scary being a writer and I've never felt that way about writing before. People talk about the life of a writer and I love to write and I want to be a published author but I don't know if I can adopt that lifestyle and be a person of letters. I want to think I can have the best of both worlds but maybe the truth is, eventually, I'm going to have to choose.

Starting Again

2009-08-01T20:05:00.002-04:00

It helps to write it down, even if you then cross it out. – Nada Surf

I’ve been having a really tough time writing recently. Honestly, ever since I was accepted into an MFA program. I’ve been having so much trouble that even sitting here trying to blog about it is giving me a headache. I don’t know if it’s just honest writer’s block or if I’m subconsciously nervous about entering the program come fall or if maybe I’m just tired from two jobs and a love life.

Whatever the case, writing has become a hard topic for me. I have a few stories I’ve been working on sporadically but the last real story I wrote I finished in August. And I miss it. I miss my characters, I miss my protagonist; I just miss everything about that story. I have an idea for a second part. One of those year later pieces written from a different characters perspective, but I’m reluctant to start it right now because I have a tendency to attach to characters and just not let them go, just continue writing the familiar and not branch out to anything new.

I’ve been working on a sequel to a novel-length story I wrote in high school with my best friend. At this point I’ve been writing Gabby for nine years. I know her inside and out, she is a part of my life and I’ve seen her grow from a tenacious eighth grader to a harried college student in those nine years. She’s made choices I’ve never expected her to make, choices I would never had made for her. I was going strong into the sequel but even that voice, so in sync with my own has gone quiet.

It’s scary. Writing is all I’ve ever known; all I’ve ever been good at, truly good at and now I can’t find a voice. I have a few that I’m trying to find. Working at it day after day only to delete the one line I’ve written or to just not write anything. Stare at a blinking cursor until I turn on one of my TV on DVD sets or pick up a book and read amazing fiction by amazing authors and wonder when I’ll be back on the path to becoming one of them.

The above passage I wrote about a month ago. I was in a bad place writing wise and everything just felt uninspired and boring. Since then I've started a novel. Believe it, seven chapters, 13,000 words, in and I'm still going. I found voices that spoke to me and a story line I wanted to see through. It came back around. For me writing is cyclical. There are times when all I can do is write and write and read and read and then I have dry spells and I can't do either. The thought of it makes me itch because I know a part of me is missing.

I revisited the protagonist I missed so much this week when I revised the story to get it ready to be sent out to an agent. I didn't miss her as much as I thought. I always wanted Apt. 509 (the title) to be a novel but it's only 30,000 words and it wasn't expandable unless I lost the entire pace of the story. After starting an actual novel, Apt. 509 is not a novel. It's nowhere near how a novel should be written. As I went through and made the necessary revisions, I was happy to keep her voice but make it formal, help me prepare it for a novel extension. It's getting there; it's evolving.

I was amazed how much my own writing changed in a few months without even writing anything worth mentioning. I'm writing in ways I never have before. I'm growing without trying. I think reading helps. I've been reading a lot - it helps that my boyfriend works at Barnes and Noble. My point is, I'm becoming one of those authors that amazes me, somehow. If you are stuck or uninspired, wait it out, it will come back around.

An Introduction of Sorts

2009-08-01T19:20:00.002-04:00

Hey bloggers! Welcome to my new blog, Just Surviving.

I wanted to give you a little information about myself and what my intentions for this blog are before just jumping in. I think you need to know just want you are getting into.

I graduated from St. John's University in 2008 with a Journalism degree. I'm about to start my MFA in Creative Writing at Adelphi University. I'm a sports reporter right now for the Journal News, you can check me on the volleyball this fall if you want. I also work at Starbucks, have to love the day job. Things are pretty crazy around here.

This blog is going to be about writing and literature, about what it takes to be a writer, how to fight through writers block (I haven't figured it out yet) and generally, about me trying to get by on a daily basis as a writer and a person.

So that's my introduction. I'm going to post this thing and then go back and start an actual blog post. I'm not sure how frequently I'll be posting here, at least once a week will be my goal, but I guess we'll have to play that one by ear once the school year starts.