I felt like posting again.

I wonder how much of writing is purely fiction.

Every time I set out to write lately, I'm faced with the phrase "write what you know". And I've found that it's so sewn into my psyche that I can't part with the concept. I ONLY write what I know, whether it's mindless ranting like this or stories and jingles about my friends and family with names changed to protect the innocent. I am finding no stories in my brain, only embellishments of what I already know. My originality is for shit or the truth really is stranger than fiction.

I saw a movie sunday night about one of my favorite icons. She died three months after it wrapped shooting of an unintentional barbituate overdose. The movie is meant to be semi biopic, again, with the names changed to protect the innocent and avoid lawyers. The directors wanted the main character to be similar to their starlet, but what they got on film isn't her acting, but playing herself in the last few fragile moments of her life. Her monologues are true stories, are her ramblings in her warped and jaded voice. The movie, as a movie, is probably shit. But the movie as a glimpse of HER is sublime. The point I'm trying to make with this, is that in the end for them the value lie within their truth and not their fiction--her truth, which truly outshined all others around her.

Just a thought. A mangled thought that didn't quite make it from brain to livejournal properly.

This livejournal is so incredibly self indulgent! Cheers to that! I want to KEEP IT!

So today in my hallway, there were two guys waiting for a girl outside of her room.

Guy 1: "Dude have you ever seen A Walk To Remember?"
Guy 2: "No..."
Guy 1: "Well... it's even worse than The Notebook. Trust me, if she gives you a choice, watch the Notebook."

Last night there was a giant chicken outside of my door, knocking at it, but when I answered he didn't do anything. I think I was supposed to be surprised to open the door and find a chicken... but it was Halloween, and doesn't he know that we have peep holes?

I found it really impressive how quickly Halloween decorations went up and disappeared in the dorms and cafeteria. I also thought it was very sweet that the ladies at J&H gave out caramel apples along with the usual cookies and fruit assortment.



...



I find writing so much easier when I don't have the opportunity of time, particularly time to edit. There is more pressure involved when you have time to edit, especially when you're presenting to other people. This is why you're getting this instead of the writing I promised in the post from 30 seconds ago.


I think one of the top five best pieces of advice I've ever recieved was from CosmoGirl. No shit. It was for writing a paper, but I think it applies to nearly everything creative: to just go, just start writing and sort out what matters in the end. Of course whenever I approach something like this, it makes the editorial process even more difficult. When something flows through you, idea to thought, thought to pen, pen to page, organic, euphoric, it's much more difficult to write it off as unessential. Writers are arrogant.


I also think, because my LJ values my opinion, that one of the top five worst things to do while writing is play backgammon. It's incredibly distracting.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: "The Glory?" - The gospel choir next dorm

This is an apology to those whose stories I missed discussing in class today. I'll give you my comments next Tuesday. I feel terrible, because I know you spent a lot of time discussing my own short story and I wanted to grant you the same courtesy!

I have been miserably sick since I got back from my birthday journey on Monday. If this is a taste of adulthood, then I'll trade you a pack of cigarettes, a box of squand, and my voter registration card to get it back.

Last winter my mentor, junior year English teacher, and good friend was hospitalized with menningitis. He was out of school for a month and nearly died. He told me that coming back from the brink of that also kicked him out of writer's block. Now I just have the standard, miserable cold of this season, but I did manage to write a few short pieces. I'm editing now that I feel better (hot showers do wonders), and we'll see about posting it here later.

On the bright side, the people who have been sleeping my dorm's common room since last night have finally moved out and into their respective beds.

Again, so sorry, I'll see you all Tuesdee.

Current Mood: blah
Current Music: Something In The Way She Moves by the Beatles

I've been trying to post something here for the past hour.
It's not coming out.

I should write a story about someone who is too busy to post in their live journal for their creative writing class, and decides that they should write a story about someone who is too busy to post in their live journal for their creative writing class.

Current Mood: blank
Current Music: Diguedin - Les Charbonniers de L'enfer

"People sometimes say that the way things happen in the movies is unreal, but actually it's the way things happen to you in life that's unreal. The movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it's like watching television -- you don't feel anything.”
--Andy Warhol"

That is one of my favorite quotes, and I think it would have fit in nicely with my previous post.





I feel the need to point out that the third and second posts are not the same. The third is a more well thought out version of the second, and hopefully has more food for thought. It also comes from a place of contemplation as opposed to aggravation.

I really need to get to bed. Math midterm tomorrow that essentially decides whether or not I will be in the honors program for spring (which decides whether or not I will maintain sanity for the rest of my time at Temple). I'm sure you're not reading this, nor do you care--why doesn't anyone in our class ever speak to one another? Is this an upperclassmen thing? A temple thing? A north Philly thing?--but it feels nice to get it off of your chest.

I was watching friends reruns inbetween SVU reruns, and Chandler said something that stuck with me, it was along the lines of; "It got to the point where I was laying in bed thinking that 'okay, if i go to bed now i'll get six hours of sleep' and then 'if i go to bed now i'll get five'." I did that so much in high school, and I feel like I'm doing it now--it must be the math.

Current Mood: bored
Current Music: James Taylor - Fire and Rain

I had an extremely difficult time writing my short story. I never know where to draw inspiration from when trying to write something viable (sp?), because most of my writing is about people I will never meet and situations I can only fantasize about. I believe that this is why I classify my writing as "garbage" and "commercial", because as much fun and engaging as it is, it's never above the calibur of a well written prime-time soap. The writing I present in class is my attempt to be legitimate, and I struggle because it's not what comes naturally. I question if this makes me a bad writer, or simply an inexperienced one-or, for that matter, someone who has their own style. There is a market for stories about men who are only over 6' and women that are only less than a size 6, and it's called television. I think much of my dribble comes from the fact that instead of enriching my mind with literary treasures I have favored to stuff it with sitcoms, dramas, and most often-yes-i-will-admit-it-reality television! But despite saying this, I believe that there _is_ some truth to what I write. My film professor at UArts told me that all great stories start from something small; they all talk about what we as writers relate to-we write what we know. Troy is an epic poem and a C-grade film, but essentially its focus is on matters as simple and relatable as love, the relationships of brothers, and the human ego. I think that if I strip down what I write about, and ask myself _why_ I enjoy writing and reading (viewing) that sort of nature, I'll learn about myself as a writer and as a person.

Not quite on that note... When I wrote my short story, I found myself faced with a constant dilemma; I never finish what I start. In life, in relationships, in _ideas_, and always in my creative endeavors. Somehow I give into pressure, and let it crush me before ever really getting my point out of my head and onto a page. So for this story I decided to try a new tactic that came from my experiences and not Pat's; writing backwards. I started with the end section, and built off of that before I finally got to a point where I understood where the stroy was heading. As our prof put it; I understood what was at stack for the characters and why they were doing what they did. It was cathartic, and I believe that it produced a good product. I am very proud of what I wrote-nervous that you will all hate it and think it's simplistic chick lit, but very proud of what I know it is. Now I'm not sure if it successfuly translated entirely from my brains to yours, we'll find out next week, but it was definitely a step for Amber the writer. (PS if i hear any of these comments in workshop thursday i'll know you stole them from this blog :) !).

With that, I go to bed. I have a math midterm tomorrow that I will not be studying for. My apologies to the authors who haven't recieved my commentary. I took time to read and review your stories, I just unfortunately was confused by the directions. I will get them to you by tuesday's class at the latest. You guys were wonderfully tolerant today, and I hope you post about how the workshop experience helped your writing!

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Janis Joplin - Me and Bobby McGee

So I'm driving myself crazy with this short story... and it occured to me that I never posted my second journal entry.

I want the story to reflect something personal. I want it to be true. But my problem is that I never write things that are true--where is the fun in that? I write epics, with gorgeous beginnings and no endings and about people I've never met and places I've never been.

It's difficult for me to translate that into something concrete; the bare essentials--because the bare essentials are one thing I've never been good at. I fill my story with fluff. I pack them with description and unnecessary frills. It's what I enjoy. I've never claimmed to write great literature... and trying to pack down anything so... UNprofound into a few hundred words is impossible without it coming out as completely trite.

They say that bands play loudly, play wild, use pageantry, to hide the fact that their lyrics aren't solid. They might have an idea, but they aren't getting it across. I always have ideas, glorious ideas, but I've never been able to find a nice, quiet voice to tell them in.

This is extremely difficult. I apologize for whinning, but maybe a few of you out there feel the same way as I do--or at least I'll garner some sympathy!

Current Mood: aggravated
Current Music: Bob Dylan - Tambourine Man

In her book, "Writing Alone and with Others," Pat Schneider asks her readers to recall their earliest memories. Clearer than I can identify events in my life, I remember the people that shaped it.

My mother and her best friend gave birth to baby girls 6 mos. apart. Lauren and I grew up like sisters, both unfortunate but beloved accidents of our mothers' misguided youths. As much as the women had in common, our parents were different in technique because of how they themselves had been raised. My mother raised herself--her own mother in both the metaphoric and literal state of California and father too lost in his own ego--but my godmother's parents were always present.

Having only known them in the later stages of life and in an early stage of mine, I could not explain to my reader why Lou and Brightly Eustace were ever married. I knew Brightly as a tense yet gentle old woman, with owl-like spectacles and a penchant for musty paperback novels. She was a loving and warm grandmother, but in her tone always sounded disappointed with how brutally her own daughters and granddaughter had turned out. She simultaneously embraced me and rejected me for being everything that she could never raise herself. She used to let us ride in the trunk of her mini-van without seat belts and take long, bubble baths at her farm. And she never denied us the pleasure of a late afternoon trip to the beach.

She married Lou presumably young. And since they both loved kitschy places like New Hope, Pennsylvania , new cultures, and Italian food I would assume they had more in common. They had two girls, Ramona and Eve. Ramona was Lauren's mother, an insecure and tragic woman, with an addictive personality and a misfortunate lack of courage. She never loved Lauren like she should have, because no one had ever truly loved her. Eve was a pinched Barnard law student, desperate to be a wasp.

Lou was my favorite member of the family, but I could cite him as the most obvious reason for its downfall. Ramona discovered her father's homosexuality young, but he and his wife stayed unhappily married for a decade until Eve finished school, never telling the younger daughter her father's dark secret. Even as a small child I wondered how he could have masked his naturally flamboyant personality for so long. I only ever knew him as having an aging lover called Ray. The two of them loved antiques, wine, and good bread. They lived in a 3-story former apartment complex and traveled to Italy. Their cats were called Dante and Lila. Lou Eustace taught me how to play pinnacle, and was always my partner. It was at Lauren's prompting that I started to call my own grandfather pup-pup, and never anything but.

I think despite his role as the obvious "problem", Lou was the most level headed of them all. Brightly went on to marry a short-tempered farmer and become a Buddhist, and while Lou continued to meet new friends in Italy, Ramona and her daughter turned to narcotics and further issues with their bodies. Eve crumbled after a failed engagement, and has since become a lesbian and a frequent user.

I always thought that the characters of my life would be an amazing basis for a story, and these, un embellished, are only a fraction. But as Schnieder wrote in her book, one of the fears of writing is a fear of honesty. I am afraid to be honest about these characters because of my love for them and their impact on my life. A fear to write about them, is also a fear to write about myself. I believe that every person leaves an impact, and surely that means that there is a part of them within me now.

Current Mood: uncomfortable
Current Music: James Taylor - Sweet Baby James