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dumblemopI mowed the lawn today. It took me one full rendition of Wicked and then another run through up to "Dancing Through Life." I'm not really sure how much time that is in hours because I wasn't really paying attention. Then I took a shower. Now I'm taking refuge from the heat in the family room. Eventually I'll have to go back to organising my room when my parents remember that I exist.
I'm not sure whether I got a sunburn on my face or not. Maybe not, maybe a little one. I'm reheating my sesame chicken from last night for lunch. Late, because I woke up at 11:30.
It's nice to have stories. Liz is always like "so what are you up to?" and I'm always like "nothing much." I just always have this feeling that other people's stories are more interesting than mine, so I hardly ever share any. That and most people like telling their own stories better than hearing other people's, so I listen. And I like listening, it's not a role that I resent, but after awhile it gets on people's nerves to be around someone so attentive and silent.
My mom is in love with this story I wrote when--judging by the other contents of the notebook and my handwriting--I was in sixth grade. It started out as "The Red Dragon" and was later changed to "The 999 Steps of the Queen's Palace" or something like that. I deleted the latest computer copy of it at the behest of Lindsay so it seems like the only copy that remains is the "original manuscript" which I found in the basement last week, because any other copies of it would have been on the computer that had its harddrive accidentally wiped. BUT, I found some floppies in the basement when I was going through my school stuff that are labeled with stories I was working on around the same time, and "999 Steps" is one of them, but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet.
Anyway, she thinks it's the best story evar and it would make a wonderful children's book and that I should get it published with illustrations, and so on. And she's been of this opinion since I wrote it. I don't really know what to make of that--or of the story anymore. I remember writing it--in the middle of the night after rereading my lovely dragon book--I remember editing it at various later points--I wanted to submit it to Yahara River in seventh grade but it was just over two pages double-spaced so I had to write and submit "Fizzy Cheese and Clocks" instead *liberal eyeroll*--but it doesn't really seem mine anymore.
None of my writing feels mine. As soon as I'm done writing it it's...not a part of me anymore, somehow. And that seems obvious but it's like...I feel like all writing should have some kind of umbilical cord back to its creator. And mine doesn't. And it's nothing to do with voice (which is what my dad obsesses over about my writing), it's something different that I can't quite quantify. I know whether writing is mine or not because I wrote it--but that's different too, somehow.
With the notebook containing the red dragon story, I also found the other notebook that looks just like it but it's college-ruled instead of wide-ruled and it's missing its cover. This second notebook--which is actualy the first--was the one I used at Mararet's Young Writers Workshop at Borders in Madison all those years. So there are such gems as "Sitting with my back to a chainlink fence somewhere in the middle of summer" and "Alyssa's Garden" and "One Lone Pea." Some of it is actually pretty good, I think, especially at that age. Some of them suck so hard I just laugh for writing them. Some of them aren't that great but I'm still fond of them for various reasons. I think I'll post some of the better and worse ones for contrast later on.
I got my period on Friday, which sucked. I was standing in the dining hall watching my kids and went "ah, shit, there it is." And of course I didn't have anything with me because I don't keep track of when I'm supposed to get it, partly because I'm lazy, partly because a week of thinking about it is enough per month, and partly because I don't always get it anyway--it's all in my suitcase, which is in the trunk of Trinity's car. So while Rob would probably have just bemoaned my fate and made do with toilet paper until I could find a convenient excuse for sneaking something out of my bag. But since I was still being Toad, I found Trouble in Pax Tu and marched right up to him with a "(1) It's that time of the month again, (2) I don't have anything with me because I don't keep track, it's all in my bag, (3) so do you have anything that I could use." So I get stuff, he lets me use the Pax Tu bathroom so I don't have to use the latrines, and we have a little "this shouldn't be happening to me--sucks, huh?" bonding moment because he got his too--on his birthday no less.
So a lesson to remember: when I really need something, the silent-reluctant-observer approach just gets me misery, while the forthright-take-charge-screw-society approach gets me what I need and even a little extra.
Oh. My. God. Nickel Creek playing "Toxic" in concert.
I think that's it for now because FARSCAPE is on. I may say more later, or I may be working on my room the whole time.
I'm not sure whether I got a sunburn on my face or not. Maybe not, maybe a little one. I'm reheating my sesame chicken from last night for lunch. Late, because I woke up at 11:30.
It's nice to have stories. Liz is always like "so what are you up to?" and I'm always like "nothing much." I just always have this feeling that other people's stories are more interesting than mine, so I hardly ever share any. That and most people like telling their own stories better than hearing other people's, so I listen. And I like listening, it's not a role that I resent, but after awhile it gets on people's nerves to be around someone so attentive and silent.
My mom is in love with this story I wrote when--judging by the other contents of the notebook and my handwriting--I was in sixth grade. It started out as "The Red Dragon" and was later changed to "The 999 Steps of the Queen's Palace" or something like that. I deleted the latest computer copy of it at the behest of Lindsay so it seems like the only copy that remains is the "original manuscript" which I found in the basement last week, because any other copies of it would have been on the computer that had its harddrive accidentally wiped. BUT, I found some floppies in the basement when I was going through my school stuff that are labeled with stories I was working on around the same time, and "999 Steps" is one of them, but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet.
Anyway, she thinks it's the best story evar and it would make a wonderful children's book and that I should get it published with illustrations, and so on. And she's been of this opinion since I wrote it. I don't really know what to make of that--or of the story anymore. I remember writing it--in the middle of the night after rereading my lovely dragon book--I remember editing it at various later points--I wanted to submit it to Yahara River in seventh grade but it was just over two pages double-spaced so I had to write and submit "Fizzy Cheese and Clocks" instead *liberal eyeroll*--but it doesn't really seem mine anymore.
None of my writing feels mine. As soon as I'm done writing it it's...not a part of me anymore, somehow. And that seems obvious but it's like...I feel like all writing should have some kind of umbilical cord back to its creator. And mine doesn't. And it's nothing to do with voice (which is what my dad obsesses over about my writing), it's something different that I can't quite quantify. I know whether writing is mine or not because I wrote it--but that's different too, somehow.
With the notebook containing the red dragon story, I also found the other notebook that looks just like it but it's college-ruled instead of wide-ruled and it's missing its cover. This second notebook--which is actualy the first--was the one I used at Mararet's Young Writers Workshop at Borders in Madison all those years. So there are such gems as "Sitting with my back to a chainlink fence somewhere in the middle of summer" and "Alyssa's Garden" and "One Lone Pea." Some of it is actually pretty good, I think, especially at that age. Some of them suck so hard I just laugh for writing them. Some of them aren't that great but I'm still fond of them for various reasons. I think I'll post some of the better and worse ones for contrast later on.
I got my period on Friday, which sucked. I was standing in the dining hall watching my kids and went "ah, shit, there it is." And of course I didn't have anything with me because I don't keep track of when I'm supposed to get it, partly because I'm lazy, partly because a week of thinking about it is enough per month, and partly because I don't always get it anyway--it's all in my suitcase, which is in the trunk of Trinity's car. So while Rob would probably have just bemoaned my fate and made do with toilet paper until I could find a convenient excuse for sneaking something out of my bag. But since I was still being Toad, I found Trouble in Pax Tu and marched right up to him with a "(1) It's that time of the month again, (2) I don't have anything with me because I don't keep track, it's all in my bag, (3) so do you have anything that I could use." So I get stuff, he lets me use the Pax Tu bathroom so I don't have to use the latrines, and we have a little "this shouldn't be happening to me--sucks, huh?" bonding moment because he got his too--on his birthday no less.
So a lesson to remember: when I really need something, the silent-reluctant-observer approach just gets me misery, while the forthright-take-charge-screw-society approach gets me what I need and even a little extra.
Oh. My. God. Nickel Creek playing "Toxic" in concert.
I think that's it for now because FARSCAPE is on. I may say more later, or I may be working on my room the whole time.
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-03 02:36 am (UTC)