I’ve kept a journal since I was nine years old. And from my fairly sizable stack of composition notebooks, my favorites have got to be the ones that cover my traveling experiences. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but they are a riot. Probably because I was so drunk on the marvelous stuff all around me. So every single sentence, every syllable had to exude the same degree of passion that I felt.

But it wasn’t all intoxication and excitement. Some of it was downright silliness. I came across the following, amidst colorful descriptions of sunrises and the black sand beaches of Santorini:

“Emily and I concocted a wild story about an Egyptian-bound cruise ship from Canada with maple syrup dripping off the sides, which was attacked by whales with knife-like tongues. It became shipwrecked; Sara lassoed the whales to bring us to safety. We made it to an island of flowing rum & coke and ice cream plants. And Nutella grew from the trees, but we didn’t have any crackers! We met the natives, who were half-whale, half-human. And then we found an underground passageway to the lost city of Atlantis where we found Mike Meravali chatting it up with the underwater creatures. Then we took our rocketship to the moon.”

Wha?

A thought: I think it’s really sad when I go back and read old journals, and there are phrases & quotes that were obviously inside jokes at one time, but I can’t for the life of me remember what the hell they mean.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I truly cannot think of a better high than stumbling upon something that inspires writing. Scratch that - there's loads of things that are a better high (i.e. first kisses, Sam Beam's murmurs, fat paychecks, cuddling with puppies)

But oh sweet Jesus, artistic inspiration is like lightning from heaven! Especially when it's run dry for a while.

mmmm hmmmm.

In other news, I shaved Paul's gorgeous head of hair into a mohawk. He looks ridiculous, but he sort of deserves it for having such unforgivably gorgeous hair.

I'm a loser and I don't have Netflix, so I've been on a bit of a RedBox kick. I finally watched Crazy Heart, and it was superb. If I was male, I would want Maggie Gyllenhaal so bad. As it is, her brother will do just fine for me.

Speaking of ambiguous gender roles, I'm getting into Virgina Woolf - in my own way (which amounts to reading 1-2 of her books and then declaring myself an avid fan). Anyway, she's mad and killed herself so I'm bound to worship her.

Viva la Spring

I've got to get myself back into the habit of writing everyday. It's funny - you know, I don't even always enjoy the actual process of writing. Really, I don't. It's hard and I slave over every freakin' word and it takes me over an hour to plod through a measly paragraph and then I backspace the shit out of it leaving myself with one word, if I'm lucky.

Mostly what I like is the finished product. It sounds indulgent and bigheaded of me, I know, but I get pleasure from reading some of my polished work. Oh, I wrote that, did I? How positively clever! How quaint! If that sounds dick-ish, well, I don't care.

I saw Monsters Vs. Aliens last week, and I liked it OK, but I think I mostly liked it because we saw it in Imax 3D, which was just top-notch.

I’m excited for warmer weather so I can bike like a maniac. I will just bike and bike and bike until forever. Until my lungs explode.

I also would like a tattoo. Soon, but not too soon.

Fiction/Poetry Update

Volume 2 Issue 3 of Sub-Lit is now live!!! You can still check out my story "Reincarnation" in their archives.

Also, these just in -

3 of my poems appear in the current issue of Clockwise Cat.

I have a short piece of fiction, "Nude," in the current issue of Mud Luscious. (scroll towards the bottom)

And lastly, my short story, "Performer's Lot" appears in the April issue of The Battered Suitcase.

where in the world is carmen sandiego?

There’s no excuse for a 3 (almost 4!) month gap.

And it’s not just my riveting blog that’s been suffering from neglect. I’ve read a grand total of two books since December. I can’t even remember what the first one was. Unforgivable.

Here’s the thing -

Getting the itch to write is like embarking on a novel dieting routine – at first, it’s all gung ho, fire up the engines and plow straight ahead. I’m going to chuck those dimples on my ass once and for all, gosh dammit. Then the cravings kick in full-force. And with them, the carbo-loading at Dunkin Donuts (or Tim Horton’s for all you Upstate New Yorkers – holla).

And you let yourself sleep an extra half hour instead of free-writing.
And you look at the world lazily instead of keeping a sharp look-out for new leads.
And all earlier ambition that had been so fervent you nearly gave yourself carpal tunnel, that ambition has sizzled out like a dud on the Fourth of July.

But still. Other than making tomato Quiche and alphabetizing my modest library, writing is the only thing I’m quasi-good at. So, there’s really no acceptable excuse for shelving it. But – just for kicks – I’m going to try to come up with some.

For one thing, life post-college has been so preposterously dull, I haven’t the heart to let you in on it. I live with my mom, I have a shitty job, I babysit my nephews most days when I’m off. True, any half-decent writer can put an interesting spin on life’s most trivial crap. In fact, I often enjoy doing so. Just not lately. Maybe it’s my own disappointment with the monotony of my pathetic life. Maybe my brain is still adjusting to life without professors, Elizabeth Browning explications, and long night sessions with articles on modern theatre.

More likely, I’m just lazy.

Secondly, my long-distance lover has finally bridged the great divide and found his way to my hometown (and with him enters a whole slew of complications regarding our future. More details in another note, maybe). When I am not working at my shitty job or babysitting my nephews, I am spending time with him. Twirling his luscious curly-cues, making him sandwiches, reading him David Sedaris excerpts. All much more important (and satisfying?) than gathering worthwhile submissions or proofreading. Blame him! I’m weak in the presence of that gorgeous head of hair!

Thirdly, when I have an hour or two to spare, I’ve been channeling all literary efforts into reading for Sub-Lit (A subversive online literary journal that gave me my debut in the publishing world – check it!) Not an overwhelming task, to be sure, but I like to take my time with peoples’ submissions. Since I’d expect as much, myself.

So - the pot may not be boiling over in a brilliant gush of wit, but at least it’s starting to bubble. That’s half the reason this blog exists in the first place – to keep me on top of my game. I don’t know what the other half of the reason is, but the point is (do I ever have a point?) the POINT IS: the writing bug is back, and however schizo my writing may appear to you –

at least it’s appearing.