Fruitcake
Religion? Christian. No adjectives.
I am not a conservative Christian, not an evangelical Christian, not a fundamentalist Christian, not a church-going Christian, not Catholic, Protestant or Orthodox, not a non-denominational Christian, not a Christian existentialist, not a Christian rationalist, but not irrational, and most of all, not especially religious. They’re all nice words but each of them is too pure for me.
If I started a church it would be called the First Christian Baptist Methodist Orthodox Pentecostal Existentialist Armenian Revivalist Non-Nondenominational Church of Current Day Anybody. Every week I’d spin a giant wheel filled with random words to add or delete. And then I’d leave because churches bore me.
I’ve visited every type and sub-type of Christianity and always felt like a round peg in a square hole. And then I realized no one could peg me. I’m not a peg. I’m more like a fruitcake. Strange but familiar. Unpredictable, but not necessarily good. A little of this, a little of that, all ground up and baked into a crazy incoherent unsolicited Christmas gift that looks weird and tastes like everything. And I can’t help it.
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Tags: christianity, faith, jesus
Gabriel’s intro
I have a decent amount of writing for Gabriel in my initial draft and while I’m going to keep the plot, I think I’m going to throw most of the writing out. It’s just too… lame. Anyway here’s an attempt at the new first paragraph.
When I’m an old man I will look back and remember the most beautiful creature I encountered in life. I’ll remember exactly when and where I was when my life was irrevocably changed. It was a brilliant day and I found myself on a pathway made of finely cut stones, with trees on either side of me. It was by all accounts an ordinary Wednesday, and I had to meet with a man to discuss business. He was interested in purchasing a piece of my property. I walked towards the front door of his home, which was situated in a vast orchard of blooming flowers. A place like a dream, full of the delicious fragrance of pink floating petals. I was fully dressed in a suit and tie and shined shoes made of polished aligator skin. With every step I felt more and more like I was being preposterous for thinking I could look properly refined in such a place. The sight of the orchard seemed to ridicule my clothing and I felt as if my thousand-dollar suit was a rag. I wanted to return to my vehicle and fetch something better, but it was too late. I came upon door. It was tall and round double-door, cherry wood with a light stain and an elegant glass handle. Every inch was finely detailed and exquisite craftsmanship. The owner was no doubt a man of impeccable taste and refinement. I knocked firmly but politely, and waited.
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Gabriel: extreme meh
I haven’t written anything today or yesterday. I tried but got nowhere. What’s more, I read over everything I have of Gabriel’s narrative and you know what? Meh. I like the quest for roses bit I posted earlier, but just about everything else doesn’t grab me when I read it. I know what I want to happen and basically what I want him to say, but I can’t seem to do it in a satisfying way. I think I need to work more on his voice. Because right now it’s just a pile of boring writing. Sigh…
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Tags: characters, fiction, glowbug, nablopomo09, writing
A Special Treat
Some of you know I’ve long been planning a novel called Anathema, and have put it on hold because I want to get some short stories under my belt. Well, in elementary/middle school I got my first idea for that novel. Back then it was called “outcast.” It’s not the same story it is now, but… it’s sort of like when you replace every part of your house–is it still the same house, or a new one?
Anyway, I was digging around on my hard drive and found the first chapter of that old “novel.” I checked the file properties and it was last modified in July of 2003. That would have been the summer after my freshman year of high school. Keep in mind that’s just the last time I opened it and did anything to it; its origins are much earlier than that.
So I decided to share my amusement with the anyone else who’s interested. If you ever wanted to know what I wrote like in middle school, here’s your chance. I added footnotes yesterday for your reference (amusement).
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Tags: fiction, novel, writing
Scraps #1
Some freewriting scraps from today and yesterday. They’re stupid. Don’t read them.
[fireflies] scrawled on a paper towel yesterday at a concert with Lauren
Today we learned about fireflies in class. You wouldn’t believe the name of our stupid textbook. “The Enjoyable Wildlife Explorer for Youths. First of all, I hate anyone who uses the word “youths”. You’ll never catch anyone in that age range using the term, which is a bad sign in itself. And why does this book even need that word, anyway? Like just because I’m young I want my own special version of everything, all dressed-up and dumbed down and–”enjoyable”? That’s how you know it isn’t. The author, Mortimer P. Something or other, probably never heard of the word fun, let alone had any.
Anyway the book said, “The primary purpose of the adult firefly is to find a mate with which to pass on its genetic material before dying. As the adult firefly only lives an average of fourteen days, this is a relatively small window of time, and approximately 40% of these fireflies die alone.”
This is depressing as hell for an article about insects in an “enjoyable wildlife guide.” But aside from that there is something else weird going on. The author ends the passage with those dark words “die alone.” As if after copulating fireflies settled down in their little firefly homes and started wholesome little nuclear families? Does mamma firefly hold daddy firefly’s hand (wing, leg, whatever) during his last buzzing moments as he slips quietly into death? Does a firefly even know what it means to be alone? Of course not. I think that stupid author was talking about himself. He’s so lonely it’s spilling out all over the pages of his enjoyable wildlife explorer for youths.
Sometimes I think about those fireflies flashing in the darkness, brighter, brighter, harder, weaker, dying, dead. What a life they had. Some good times, right? I wonder how many humans die like that without ever finding a mate. Probably a lot. Probably more than you’d think. Probably how I’ll die. Well, not if I have anything to say about it.
[faith and other junk] lounging on the back porch this afternoon
I have a certain reverence for open agnostiocism. I say open so as to distinguish it from closed. Open as in an open mind, an open door. As far as I’m concerned agnostics come in two very distinct categories, though because of certain similarities we call them by the same name. The two belief systems are cousins, but they are shall we say distant cousins, even enemies.
Now before comparing them, I would like to say one thing I really admire about all agnostics. They do not claim to have all the answers. Many do not claim to have any answers–which, while being very humble and Socratic, is not very helpful. Without knowing anything (that is, having answers) there is no way to know anything, and thus you are stuck in an infinite loop of necessary ignorance. Every philosophy 100 student knows that you cannot really prove anything or be sure of anything except for one’s own existence. If nothing else, I appreciate the agnostic’s keen awareness of this, and I often find my agnostic friends in a sense refreshing when compared to some of my Christian friends and family who insist on believing things without even questioning them, or what Sarte would call “bad faith.”
…You cannot go on doubting everything–even if you so in all of your philosophical arguments, such a belief cannot hold to your daily practice. For the time will come when you must make some decision and then you must put doubts aside and act. And you probbaly make a decision several times a minute…
…the open agnostic admits to not having all of the answers, or sufficient answers to call oneself a different label. They have questions (and don’t we all?) But the end goal of a question is of course, an answer. In this sense a question seeks its own death…
…A closed agnostic on the other hand exhibits a really irrational behavior–aversion to answers. When presented with an answer they treat it not just with a healthy measure of caution and skepticism, but with outright condescending disdain. It is as if they do not want answers at all, preferring instead only questions, unnaturally prolonged…
Selected crap from a mess of incoherent garbage, not yet any kind of argument. But I am in fact still writing every day (and you doubted me).
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Tags: writing
A heartfelt essay (Part I)
Now for something different, unrelated to the piece of fiction I’ve been working on all this time.
So, I set to answer the question of why am I Christian. If that bores you, then go ahead and skip to some of my more creative works instead. In any case it’s not for you, but for myself. It’s not that I have no idea, but the answer is a jumble of unarticulated things that have been floating in my head all my life.
Now, before I can answer, I must actually know. I must figure it out. The most obvious thing that scared me about this task is that it seemed horribly backward. If you decide to believe something, and then set out to justify those beliefs, you approach the whole thing with an unavoidable bias. If I chose to live in the mountains, and then set to convince myself why it was better than the ocean, I would be in trouble, and very likely to invent all kinds of nonsense to convince myself that I was already right. So the daunting question I am faced with is this: how does one who has believed something his entire life give reasons for it without it being the kind of hogwash I just described?
To address this concern for my reader but primarily for myself, I preface this by making one confession and one promise. My confession: I must start by admitting what I cannot do. I most certainly cannot pretend that this is something I (or anyone, I challenge) can address in a purely objective and scientific way as if I myself had no personal agenda or stake in the matter. I do have a stake, I do have an agenda; I am lost without it. I would not be talking about it otherwise. I confess to the unthinkable: I know my conclusion in advance before I really consider the evidence. In fact, I was spoonfed a conclusion as a toddler, and have spent my whole life considering the evidence, knowing all the while I would never change my mind. In that respect I am full of prejudice and bias which I cannot avoid. I do not think this renders what I have to say worthless, but my beliefs are not sterile mathematics, either, and I don’t think it would be fair to continue without making that clear.
I’ll try to explain why the preceding paragraph doesn’t invalidate everything afterwards. Imagine a man who has been happily married to his wife for ten years. Now, suddenly, he is asked to document exactly why he married her, why he remains faithful to her, and why he considers her the best thing that has ever happened to him. He might be almost surprised himself at how few solid, convincing facts come to mind right away, how circumstantial all the evidence is, how tainted and unbelievable all his measurements seem. There are hundreds of things he might say, but none of them, to the pure scientist, would be all that convincing. He might also exhibit a distinct one-sidedness. That is, he is not about to let anyone talk him out of what he already knows for certain, even if what he knows is more difficult to articulate than the cheap doubts and hard questions lobbed at him. My dilemma is sort of like that. My reasons for believing in and following God are many, but some may seem unconvincing, others are very hard to explain, and in any case my belief is something somehow more than the sum of its parts.
I again feel obligated to explain what I am not going to do. I am not going to try and form an argument to convince anyone who is not a Christian to become one. You will have to take my word that I only mean to explain myself; that is all. If anyone who reads this explanation feels him or herself nudged towards Christianity, so much the better. But this never was the purpose.
Now, the promise. Simply put, I promise to be honest with myself. I am not going to make anything up for the sake of my agenda. Rather, I am only going to try to process and explain things I have known for a long time, which I have not really gotten out or put together until now. To that end, I have made it a major goal of mine to steer clear of that bad brand of “faith” which is really intentional stupidity and doublethink. I promise not to say anything I don’t really believe, and I promise I have always tried very hard not to believe stupid things.
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Tags: apology, christianity, essay, faith, jesus
One
A somewhat presentable draft of chapter one, for which I think a better title may be, “Michael’s Many Loves.” Those of you who’ve been following have read most of this already, but now it’s all coming together.
CHAPTER ONE // “Michael’s Many Loves”
I have the habit of associating each season of the year with just one particular thing. Spring makes me think of puddle-jumping with my little sister. It was raining and we were outside on a crappy city street with dips and potholes full of water. There was only one umbrella between us, and we had to walk slowly to share. But she ran ahead of me and jumped in a big puddle, and turned around and asked me, “why do you have that umbrella, anyway?” I told her I didn’t want to have to change clothes and I didn’t want to catch cold, and she had better come back under the umbrella before she caught one herself. After a second I realized that her question really bothered me, and my answer was just an automatic defense. I ended up putting the umbrella down.
With fall, I think of this time I raked a huge pile of leaves, and then went inside and came back out later with my sister. It was a windy day, and the leaves were half-scattered already. “Did you jump in it?” She asked. I said no. “Well if it was just going to blow away anyway, you should have jumped in it.”
I remember the day my mother and I moved out of the house after the divorce. It was the first day of snow that winter, and the first day it was actually cold. Before that it was like fall couldn’t bring itself to leave. Its warm echoes had kept the snow and ice at bay, so that if I wanted to I could pretend it wasn’t December. And I did, until that day came and I couldn’t pretend anymore. The snow was the thick and fluffy kind, and the sky itself was white, like it was made of snow and bits of it were falling away. That day I remember my mother stepping out of the house in a wool coat with a box in her hand labeled “Michael’s stuffed animals” in black sharpie. There was a little tail from a stuffed cat or something hanging out of the top. I had her get rid of them years ago. She said she was taking them to the salvation army since I didn’t want them anymore. This was the first time I realized she had kept them. She just stood there on the porch, looking at the box self-consciously and then looking back at me without saying anything, like she felt guilty. The big chunky snowflakes were all in her hair. I was in the car trying to get the heat going.
Every year, the first time it snows, if not every time, I think about that image. Winter reminds me of being in a strange new apartment with my mom, trying to pretend it was a home. Winter always reminds me that nothing lasts.
Unlike the other seasons, summer makes me immediately think of a bunch of things instead of just one. Like most people do, I guess. Mosquitos, swimming, supersoakers, dandelions, firecrackers, watermelons, fireflies, and all the rest. But what I want to talk about is one girl who reminds me of those things at once–no, that’s not quite it. It’s more like all those things have always reminded me of her, only I didn’t know it until I met her. It’s like all those summer things were getting at something, trying to whisper some word to me, and when I met her I finally heard it. Her parents must have had some kind of gift for names because they named her “Summer.” That’s how I think of her, like an embodiment of the season. She was never really a part of my life, or at least I was never really a part of hers. And now that she’s not around it’s like all those summer things are memories of her, lingerings of a name gone from me.
Cold little ghosts of her warmth, the feeling I got just from looking at her…
You’ve heard it all before. Everyone knows a boy’s favorite pastime is staring at girls. Now, we’ve been known to walk into walls, crash into other cars, and fall into any number of small disasters while staring at girls. People say it’s because girls make you nervous and nervous makes you stupid, but that’s not it at all. I stare so absently because I lose all rememberance of my own presence. When I’m looking at a pretty girl, it’s hard enough to believe a creature like that can exist in the same world as me, let alone the same room. It seems like my head is empty because when I look at a pretty girl my brain’s got no room for anything else, even myself. Looking at a pretty girl is pretty much the only time I feel totally unselfish. Even actions and intentions, like chasing the girl–those all come later. When I first see her all I do, and all I want to do, is stare.
The only little piece of me that’s still conscious of myself is the part hoping she doesnt’t catch me looking at her. Not that I have anything to be a shamed of, but I’d have to suddenly tear away and not stare anymore. Probably one of the best things about having a girlfriend is that you can just look at her in person as much as you want.
I don’t know if girls think this way, but ask any guy–it’s surprising how one can get all these romantic feelings for a stranger. I’m not just talking noticing she’s pretty, or sexual thoughts; that’s different. I’m talking about looking at a stranger and wanting to buy her flowers, wanting to hear her secrets and comfort her when she cries. Wanting, in any way and for any reason, just to be a little closer to her.
It’s not just pretty girls you get weird feelings for, either. There could be a girl who isn’t pretty at all, ugly even, and then you’re talking to her and one day you just up and notice all the sudden that the way she eats or whatever is kind of cute. And it’s not even like you want to date her but for a second it’s like you can see why somebody would. Like if one of your friends said they liked her or something, you could understand.
Sometimes I’m in a restaurant and I realize that the woman coming to wait our table is beautiful. I mean, absolutely beautiful. It happens more often than I would think. And I am happy to tell her my order because it is an excuse to look dead at her. Not to check her out in a sexual way. I mean just look her dead in her eyes for a few seconds, like we know each other. Sometimes I ask her what sides come with my meal, or how good the tomato soup is, even though I already know. I will ask for ketchup when I don’t want any. And when she walks away after handing me the check, I watch her every step over to some new table. She never turns back to me; never does for even a second, and I am suddenly sad because I know we are not friends or lovers. I know that ten seconds after I walk out the door, no, before I even leave the building, she will forget me. But I won’t. I never forget.
There was this girl working in a bistro, she made my sandwich with her head down and did not look at me. It took her three whole minutes and we didn’t speak at all but when she gave me the sandwich our eyes met for a second and our fingers almost touched. Hardly a week goes by when I don’t think of that girl. I don’t mean I think about the what ifs and what it would be like to date or marry her, to have children with her and love her forever. I picture her soft features, her ivory skin and delicate hands. And that is all. Only for a moment now and again. It is meaningless and without passion or regret but I never forget.
That’s what it’s like for every man who encounters summer. Even if they don’t have the chance to fall in love with her, not a single man who crosses her path will forget the encounter. He cannot. And if he could, he wouldn’t want to. She becomes your fastasy girl. Whatever imaginary girl you thought up gets abolished. Replaced with her image and hers alone. And then even if you only saw her once for five seconds, you can’t forget her because forgetting would be somehow a notable loss, like forgetting a wonderful dream, no, your best dream, too soon after waking. In my opinion it’s important to remember beautiful things, because even if you can’t have them, keeping them close to your mind is the next best thing.
I’ve never had a dream girl. Not in the way most people mean. If you were to ask me what a perfect girl for me is like, I would just end up describing my last girlfriend, or the last girl I was into. Without meaning to, mind you. I would sit there thinking I was really coming up with some wonderous creature beyond imagination, and then somebody would say, “hey, sounds like your old Jessica.” And every time that happens for a moment I’ll get really depressed, saying, “I guess she was the one, and I lost her.” But I’ve probably thought that way about half a dozen girls. And you know why? Because they’re all different. You can’t really compare a girl to another girl. Even if it’s just one detail, any girl you meet will always have one thing about her that nobody else has. That’s why you never love two girls the same way. It’s impossible.
The differences are in the subtle things.
For instance, there was this girl I liked in middle school. She had kind of a pretty face, I guess, but mostly average looking. The type that doesn’t jump out at you right away. But what I noticed is, she had the cutest lips. I’ve never met a girl since with lips like that. I know what you’re thinking, it was middle school. But so what? A woman gets all her essential features at a pretty early age. Only shallow people who care only for the most obvious, vulgar observations, and the general shape of a woman’s body, would think that there is nothing in common between a woman when she is 30 and a girl when she is 12. Ask any man who has ever seen a picture of his wife from when she was a child. He will at first see a child, yes, but give him only another second and he shall ot once see those same dark eyes, the precise slant of the nose, the curve of the thin but pronounced smile–most of the same things he adores her for now. But it takes an eye for the subtle to appreciate such things.
I know what you’re thinking. Summer’s one of those girls everybody falls in love with. It’s really like that with girls. I mean with guys, to each her own. But with girls there’s always just one or two that every guy wants. It’s all too obvious that Summer is one of these girls, on account of I’m probably the hundredth guy to fall in love with her. I won’t deny it. No doubt there are a hundred guys out there talking about how wonderful her face is, her big lovely yeys, her perfect curves, her dainty hands and full lips. And like everybody else with a pulse I notice those things too. But they are not what intrigue me the most. You probably think there’s nothing subtle about a girl like Summer. But you’re wrong. She has little quirks that I make special note of. For one, her ears stick out just a little bit, so that when her straight, elegant hair is down they stick up from underneath, making little hills in the otherwise even surface of her hair. They move up just a tiny bit when she smiles or laughs, adding an innocent charm which is, as you’ve already heard I’m sure, pretty adorable. But it’s a quirk.
She has freckles, too. It doesn’t look like it at first, unless you’re the sort of person who goes looking for freckles. They’re small specs, as if refined more than most people’s freckles, and spread out evenly over her whole face and neck, like a bit of wheat flour mixed in with the white. She’s one of those girls who looks pretty much the same with or without makeup–that is, flawless looking. But on those days when she’s not wearing any, maybe because she was in a hurry or something, if you look closely you can see those little dots. And I love them.
Unlike most guys, I know her secret. She’s imperfect. I once noticed her walking down a set of stairs, and when she reached the bottom her last step was heavy and awkward, the way people do when they think there is one more or one less step than there is. I saw her with a cold once, and you wouldn’t know it since she never made a fuss, but she (ever so quietly and girl-like) had to wipe her runny nose with a kleenex. As far as the common cold knows, she’s just another girl. I once heard her misspeak. It biology class, she said hyperthermia when she meant hypothermia, the total opposite. So don’t let anybody tell you Summer is a perfect girl. She’s a human.
But, like all the rest, I am in love with her. Not in spite of her “flaws” (as if her flaws were even worth noticing) but because of them. If I met a girl who was perfect I wouldn’t even know what to do with her. I wouldn’t know how to chase her because I’d know that if I caught her, I wouldn’t know what to do next. There would be nothing I could give her which she doesn’t already deserve. There’s a reason people say somebody’s “out of their league.” The couples you see around, the best ones anyway, seem to balance one another out. Like there’s Mr. Socially-awkward and Mrs. No-good-with-money. Or something like that, where you know they’re better off for having one another around. But what do you give to someone who is perfect? What can you do?
And to tell you the truth that’s how I feel about Summer, too, even though like I said I know she’s not technically perfect. But she’s about as perfect as humans come. It paralyzes me. What could I say to a girl like that to make her want me? If I, in my mountain of inadequacies, laundry list of character flaws, can honestly say I consider Summer flawed because she has freckles and her ears stick out, or because she tripped on stairs once in her life or misspeaks once a year, I prove myself only to be an insane, unreasonable ass. And if Summer’s tiny marks of humanity are flaws, than I am an abhorrent monster, a deformed, evil beast, the scourge of the earth.
Sorry, I think I changed the subject on you several times, and I’m not event sure where that was going exactly. Back to the subject at hand. Summer was a transfer in my class, which of course disturbed everything–the beautiful “new girl” appearing out of nowhere, not only new but unquestionably prettier than all the other girls in our class, though she acted like she didn’t know it. Every guy had to have had that moment when he first encountered her–i mean really took notice. For me it was the day I caught her sleeping in history class. There’s just something about the sight of a girl sleeping, you know? It strikes a man a certain way. I was sitting in class right after lunch finishing an orange, and there she was two seats over, with her cheek against the desk. It was one of those rare moments when I could just look at a girl, and keep on looking at her, without getting caught. Her golden hair was curled all around her face, and the tiniest drop of saliva was formed in the corner of her cute little pink mouth. Nobody in his right mind can resist a sight cute as that.
After that I had her on the brain, and the next class we shared I made it a point to borrow her notes. Obviously, it was an excuse to talk to her. I got the nerve to walk up to her. This is a skill I’ve perfected by not thinking too much. If you don’t think, making your legs move in a certain direction is easy. I wasn’t completely sure what I was going to say when I was standing in front of her, even though I’d rehearsed it in my head a few times. “Hey, you’re Summer, right? Do you think I could borrow your notes?” It came out cleaner than I thought, and I was pleased with myself.
“Sure,” she answered, and handed me a red notebook and a glance from those quick, blue eyes. I was suddenly sorry I had asked two questions in such a way that they could be answered with a single, lonely word.
But something else happened. It was like I was telling you with that girl in the bistro when she handed me the sandwich, except this time as Summer released her hand, our fingers brushed each other, just the slightest bit, but it was unmistakable.
I could not tell from that accidental touch or that glance or that “sure” what she was thinking, or whether or not she wanted me to stick around and make conversation or leave content with what I asked for. I chose the latter. On the way home I wished I’d said more, but consoled myself with the realization that giving her notes back would give me another occasion to speak with her.
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Tags: characters, fiction, glowbug, nablopomo09, writing
Chapters. Eric.
I’ve come up with a (new) structure for the novella which seems like the most fitting. Hopefully, it should give me some focus. Here’s a tentative chapter list. I know basically what will happen in most of the chapters, and while I’ve written a lot of the material for them, none of them are complete. I suppose that’s one advantage of having so many narrators; I can write one when I get tired of the other.
One Michael Remembers Two Gabriel's Quest Three Eric and the Fireflies Four Hayden Quits Laughing Five A Practical Field Guide to Women Six Hayden and the Hole Seven Eric Dies Alone Eight Gabriel (erm.. something) Nine Michael Never Forgets
and now, an excerpt from chapter 3. Note: “Eric” is the real name of Frogleggs. I still want to use the name Frogleggs as his nickname, but like the other characters I feel he deserves a real name as he becomes more of a whole person.
I always heard all my life, everybody always told me that girls just want someone honest. Or that girls just want someone to really listen to them and hear them out. Just want someone who will just tell them how beautiful they are. Where are all these girls, who have such easy demands? I never met any in my whole life. That Knight in Shining Armor bull is a pack of lies. I’m going to tell you the truth because nobody else will, and I’m going to tell it to you straight. All women want is a boy who gives them butterflies. As for what gives girls butterflies, to hell if I know. I never gave anybody butterflies in my whole life, so I guess I’m not the butterfly-inducing type and I’m shit out of luck.
The biggest lie about women is that you can get one by having good character. It’s on TV and movies and in every single’s magazine. They say you can get a woman by being unconditionally trustworthy, by putting her needs above yours, by never lying, by being yourself, by displaying warm affection. This is a pack of lies. None of these things will ever get you a woman.
It’s propoganda the ladies spread around to get us to behave. Now, granted, it (might) help to at least not have any outright horrible characteristics. Or what I mean is try not to stand out too terribly much. The quickest and brightest girls will reject a man who is an obvious asshole even if she finds him attractive. Most will dump him eventually on account of his bad character. The slowest ones will marry him. But not a one of them will have any interest in even the kindest, most virtuous guy unless… well unless she just does. Women don’t care about character. They say they do, they think they do, but they don’t. If they did, we could get any woman just by reading our bibles and being gentlemen.
And yeah, we guys are the same way. If we don’t think a girl is pretty we’re not going to bother with her at all. But everyone knows that already; that’s why those poor girls are so obsessed with their looks. What men never suspect, us poor, ignorant, niave saps, is that women are just as shalow. Maybe even worse because they take the subjective line on everything.
I guess what I’m trying to say is character is important if you want to be a decent and upright, respectable man. If that’s your thing I say go for it and don’t let nobody stop you. But if you just want to win over a woman, don’t bother. It’s all luck of the draw. You win some, you lose some. Or that’s what they say. Me, I lose all of them. That’s why I don’t care about the knight in shining armor crap anymore. I tried it and it got me nowhere. They say nice guys finish last but that ain’t entirely true, because just being an asshole isn’t going to get you any women either. The truth is it doesn’t matter what you do. That’s the big joke. Like for example say a guy follows a girl around alot, keeping his distance, stealing glances and all that. If she thinks he’s attractive or charming-looking or whatever, she’ll be all “he’s just shy. isn’t that adorable?” Now if somebody else, take me for instance, if I give a girl a bit of covert attention she’ll be talking about how I’m a stalker. Whatever you do, trust me, a girl’s got her mind made up already before you do it. That’s why I just don’t care anymore.
There’s this girl named Summer, well you’ve already heard her so I won’t get into it. Suffice it to say she’s a hottie, and way out of my league, if you believe in leagues. Prom is coming up and I’ve seen everybody eyeing her for it, Michael as well as a lot of people you don’t know. By a lot I mean everybody. And most of them haven’t asked her because they’re afraid they’re not good enough and she’ll say no. Well you know what? Nobody’s good enough for a girl like that. Word is she’s a virgin. There’s no way of knowing, but I bet she is. A girl like that, a lot of guys are walking around telling their friends how they bagged her last weekend, but you can tell they’re all lying. The way she rejects even the most romantic, upright propositions smells of somebody who is saving herself. Wating for that Mr. Right to come along. And deep down I know I’m nobody’s Mr. Right. But you know what? I don’t care.
P.S. Anybody else read House of Leaves ? I borrowed it from my sister a few days ago, and I’m addicted.
Filed under: Productive | 3 Comments
Tags: characters, fiction, glowbug, nablopomo09, writing
Attempt #1: failure
This is what I meant to post yesterday. Internet was down. So I was trying to write that opening I was talking about, and ended up with this.
There are little shards in the winding of days and endless nooks of the world which are no secrets, but are too shy to make the acquaintence of just anyone. They skirt the mind without definite shape. Hang on the tongue without ever forming words.
I stopped right there because it already sucked. Way too pretentious, abstract, and weird. I think I’m trying too hard to be like Bradbury. Going about this the wrong way. But I’m not exactly sure what the right way is. I want it to be more tactile or sensual. But without being too fruity, if you know what I mean. You probably don’t, so here’s an example of a fruity opening.
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred against the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
-Oscar Wilde, “The Picture of Dorian Gray”
See? Fruity. Sometimes a hazard of writing about pretty things. I think I need something still sensual and still beautiful, but more earthy, if you know what I mean. I don’t even know what I mean, but I’m right.
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Tags: fiction, glowbug, nablopomo09, writing
The Elusive Perfect Opening
I could post any number of passages you haven’t read yet, but I’m not going to. Instead I will complain about a dilemma.
I don’t know how to write the beginning of this story. I need to write something beautiful, something that gives at least the faintest hint of whatever compels me to write this story in the first place. Though there are funny sections and dark sections, this story is at its heart (I hope) a thoughtful and sentimental exploration of my many mixed emotions about beauty and romance. How I open that story is to me a very personal and serious question.
Today I looked through my favorite books and read the beginnings of each, searching for the most beautiful one. There were strange beginnings, ones that generated intense curiosity, ones that made me laugh, ones that were tragic. At last I came back to the very first book I thought of, “Farewell Summer” by Ray Bradbury. Its opening has the perfection of the tone I want.
There are those days which seem a taking in of breath which, held, suspends the whole earth in its waiting. Some Summers refuse to end.
So along the road those flowers spread that, when touched, give down a shower of autumn rust. By every path it looks as if a ruined circus had passed and loosed a trail of ancient iron at every turning of a wheel. The rust was laid out everywhere, strewn under trees and by riverbanks and near the tracks themselves where once a locomotive had gone but went to more. So flowered flakes and railroad track together turned to moulderings upon the rim of autumn.
I want to write an opening passage that makes someone feel the way I feel when I read the passage above.
Filed under: Sappy | Leave a Comment
Tags: fiction, glowbug, nablopomo09, writing
about me
I'm a writing major finishing up college. This blog is to a progress journal of my current creative projects.
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