Tags: nanoedmo

kiss to forget

They'll never hurt you like I do

Editing this one scene, just this one, is proving to be impossible. I almost can't look at the page. I don't know why. It's not the first of its kind so far in the manuscript. What's stopping me?

I haven't listened to this song in...years.

I'll try again tomorrow. Maybe by hand. Or at a coffee shop. Or something. Anything.
straight hair tangled dreams

What dreams may come

I had one of those moments today - moments I think we all have from time to time - when I remembered a dream I had forgotten upon waking this morning. I didn't recall details: more just a moment, a feeling. I was looking out the window at work, watching the snow spinning down wildly, listening to a Placebo song saying something about shaking off this mortal coil when I remembered.

I dreamt that someone was dead. Someone I used to know (or thought I did) and that either I had just found out, or was remembering that I already knew. Had somehow forgotten this fact. Don't ask me how.

I know what it was. A few things, really, besides those rapidly and randomly firing neurons beneath the tethers of sleep. I had been talking to my mom, and the topic of her ex-fiance came up, the one who (loyal readers know) just passed away in September of a freak stroke at age 53. I'd been checking on his kids on Facebook, seeing how they were doing, snooping if you will. Sarah, his daughter, only a year younger than I, had posted a bunch of old photos of him, as well as shared a link to another's album of pictures from the memorial paddle out put on by some of his lifeguard and surfer friends. They smiled and laughed and cried and rode the waves and gave the shaka and held up pictures of him, for him. It is so strange, that he's gone. Unreal. Most of the time, I don't believe it.

But my dream wasn't about him. But someone else. Someone who, if he were dead, I would never know.

There's this sort of helpless rage when you find out someone you knew has died. Even if you didn't talk to them anymore (perhaps especially if you didn't), even if you were angry with them, you become angry. Furious. Confused. You deny it. You weep and yet, you don't believe it. I don't recall crying in this dream, but for that brief moment, I remember that anger--that rage. That bubble of disbelief. It was absurd. Someone who does not exist int he bubble of my life anymore - who doesn't touch my existence in any tangible way - can't be dead. It's selfish and self-centered. We are all the star of our own lives, a story our inner monologue narrates, a saga our daily life frames and contains. But it isn't true, and when something - someone - deviates, we are angry.

Think of your worst enemy. Your former best friend. Your first kiss. Your first date. Your first love. Your first tormenter, who tripped you in the hall or pulled your ponytail. If he/she/they died, and you somehow found out, how would you feel? And if you never found out, you could live in blissful denial - something like the feeling of immortality for all those that surround you. When our eyes close, the world around us... vanishes.

The writing continues, and so the dreams come. I can't fight them off, and I can't deny them. All I can do is put them in a box: the world of fiction, a world I create. A world that exists only in my imagination. A world that grows only as my fingers put it to the page. A word I can control, at least to a point. A world of escape. A world of absolution. A world of life and immortality, one that persists beyond the final page (still so far off, now).

A world of catharsis. Of memory.
dangerous coke addiction

To whet your appetite...

To keep me honest, here are the highlights of what I will make a post about later tonight:

-Thanksgiving break
-Adventures in fund-raising
-My (successful) first half-marathon
-Why I hate my job sometimes. (See also: news related to Tea Party donations)
-NaNoEdMo - successes and failures, and further plans as it continues on into December.
-How the fuck is it December already?

Stay tuned, kiddies, and get the popcorn ready.
together in paris

I slowly turned, and he smiled, drink in hand, and said, "Hello there, darling."

Why is it that you can see a face once - for a second, for a moment, for an evening (perhaps stretching into the yawning morning) - and not be able to call it up in your waking life? You remember colors, but not shapes. Shades and shadows, but not specifics. Not the specific tilt of a brow, the roundness of cheek, the arch of a nose.

But in sleep, your mind recalls it all. Those rapidly firing syanpses, the skeletons of years ago, come out to dance and play and you wake up wondering where you are, where you have been, where your mind has taken you. And with whom.

You see, I knew it would happen. It is how the mind works. I only spent about thirty minutes last night with my manuscript, and the edits of the fabulous soccer_rant_06. I dealt with practically only my narrator, and the doubting voices in her head. She hasn't even begun her own dance. I haven't introduced the first man (let alone the second, who doesn't enter until another thirty pages or so). But I saw him. I saw him like it was yesterday. In a world so nonsensical only in a dream could it be mistaken for reality (yes, I think by now, we've all seen the film), I was at dinner with friends, or perhaps I just bumped into them. I sat at a table alone and beside them, waiting for someone I was sure would never come. I believe I even said so to them. I don't know how much my dream self believed the words as I said it.

And then one friend gestured towards the other end of the restaurant, and I was suddenly standing, the length of the room looming, like a camera in rack focus. And there he stood. The man on the page. The man in life. But only in a dream.

The dream wound around events that occurred, events that never did. Events clearly pulled from a television show I had just watched (though instead of ending in humor, it ended in tears); the mind is a strange thing. When I awoke to the jarring noise of my alarm at 6 a.m. sharp (after which I hit the five-minute snooze three times, but finally pulled myself up at 6:12 and slipped into warm layers of running clothes for my three mile recovery run. Somehow) it floated all around me. Memories of things real, things imagined; things written, things remembered and forgotten. A face that I could not draw with my own hand even if I had the talent for that sort of art. A face I only see in dreams.

When Amy Tan came to McBride's class at the end of last semester, someone asked her if she ever worked on more than one project (of fiction). She said she had tried more than once, but could never manage. We write our obsessions, she said. We eat, breathe, sleep them. How can I go to bed with one, and wake up with another?

It was like a movie, really. I even had a soundtrack playing in my head. Though strangely, a different song played in my mind when I woke (I am listening to it now).

Last night, only managed to get through two or so pages. It's a long, slow process, especially at the beginning. I know I'll hit my stride, as I do running. It is probably why I love both with such fervor (and, at times, hate them). They are so similar. It's about pushing through the pain, and reveling in the joy. The freedom of movement. Of words. The power of language. The power of my fingers on the keybord, the pen across the page. My feet on the road, orthe trail. Both require concentration, dedication. Both require rest. Each night, I sleep eight hours (well, most nights) so I can get in my twenty or more miles a week. I have taken four or so months off from this story. And now I'm ready. Or hope I am.

But the dreams will come, I know. Just as they do for my protagonist. My writing obsesses me. These ideas obsess me. I am not my narrator, and yet she is an integral part of me. I did not create her. She made herself. And in some ways, she shaped me.

I only hope I can do her justice. Do justice to my characters. To their stories. I don't remember the quote, and can't find it at the moment, but I remember reading something about Hemingway a few years back. He said he used to write about people he knew and liked - about friends - but they were always upset or mad about how he wrote them. So, he said, he started writing about people he hates, and try to give them a fair shake.

So let's go darker. Let's try to find the farther reaches of my dreams. I will dream often. I will dream in color, in blackness. I will dream what I write, what I think, what I believe, what I would never write. I will dream memories. I will dream fantasies. I will dream of things that were; things I regret. Things that never were and never will be. Dream of secrets.

So let's begin.
head held high


Much to update about - coming soon:

-Brit, and how fabulous she is. Also the stage production of "Kite Runner."
-My mother
-My father, and how he won't tell me which of my uncles totally blew the surprise
-Running a five mile race in snow and mud
-Being too emotionally drained to function Monday morning.

But more importantly, and just for now, an announcement. For me, as I'm sure it is for others, this month is decidedly not National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. Perhaps because I don't have a New Idea at the moment, instead have been picking away at two separate ideas for several months each. But more pressingly this:

For me, this will be NaNoEdMo. National Novel Editing Month. And of course it will take much longer than that, given that my manuscript is 250+ pages, single-spaced, and has notes and colorful tabs and highlights everywhere. I put it in Kat's very capable hands early this summer and haven't looked at it since. And now, after a very long hiatus from this world, I am ready to dive back in.

Or I will, once this chaotic week dies down (tomorrow, book club. Wednesday, dinner out with work friends). But I will get a system and routine down and do this with disgusting efficiency.

Let the journey begin.