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If a tree falls in the forest ... should it be used to make the paper for my novel?

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I’ve been working on a novel for the past year and a half, a process which has made doing any kind of creative writing here in this space more and more difficult. I’ve kept up with my book-to-movie blog at Chapter1-Take1.com but that’s a very different kind of writing. When giving out factual information, I don’t require inspiration. 

Now I’ve finished the book and I’ve begun reaching out, searching for an agent. An easy sentence to write, a horrifying, intimidating, paralyzing process to undertake. The first chapter, one I was happy with before, now strikes me as sophomoric, tedious, garbage and any number of cliche criticisms. Is it? Or is that my fear talking? I don’t know. I’m in a place where I can’t imagine my novel is worth the paper it’s written on—about 1/3 of your typical paper-suitable tree. Which is why I still can’t find the energy to get back to memoir pieces. My writing brain needs a break. 

So in lieu of a writerly post, I’m posting photos instead. If you follow me on In…

I’ll drink to that

I’m sick to death of writing about myself. I’m sick to death of my writing. It’s one and the same. I cant write fiction. Ive tried. Its just another story about me, supposedly incognito as a brunette instead of a blonde—a bottle blonde, at that. 
Thats this weeks excuse for not carrying on with my story about Derek. But really, do you even know or care who Derek is? Some boyfriend I had when I was twenty? Or was it nineteen? Is there a point?
Right now Im feeling like Richard Harris singing McCarthurs Park —

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no
I usually relish disappearing into my girlish headspace, settling back into the mushy comfort of memory but Im feeling too old and too cranky to even try. The cosmetics company that lured me into thinking I could erase my sixty two years with their magic cream insists on charging me $85 for a product that left me precisely 62.9 years old and looking every month of it. My ears are plugged, my back hurts, and it feels like the bear from the Revenant is sitting on my stomach. 
 It could be worse, I could be feeling like Richard Harris in A Man Called Horsehanging from hooks piercing my nipples. 

Its not a complete wash out, I learned on twitter that today is #NationalMargaritaDay. Whats an old girl like me to do but drink to it? 

IF you are interested in a boy called Derek, there’s a half dozen pieces filed under the Men tab. 


Cheers!

Comments

  1. I enjoy your writing! I'm also right there with you about some of my endeavors and feeling despairing of myself and how old I look. Thanks for the honest company.

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