Approaching Fiction
Romantic poets, at least the good ones, all kicked it by age 30. He who did not? They wrote poems, before they died, about how his poems would have been better, had he too kicked it by age 30.
I have this thing. This mental thing. I compare myself to great artists and great minds. And people tell me this is unrealistic. The trouble, you see, is that I've never had it sufficiently proven to me that I'm not at least their equal.
Technical skills? I can replicate it if I can see it. If you give me time to fuck around a bit. I'll hand you a knock off of the utmost quality. "That's not really his?" Replicate. Represent. Present. Imagine. Portray. No problem.
Since I have the technical skills and the arrogance to believe that my inherent creativity is at the very least as firmly grounded and significant as any major artist...
I then start to feel creator's guilt that I'm not striving for as much fame as they have.
Do any of you ever feel this? Like you should be famous?
I should be William Blake already.
---
"So you want to die before you turn 30 so that you never know what it's like to know you've passed your prime?"
I sit curled up in a ball on somebody else's bed. I play with my bare toes. Red polish. I painted them while on the phone one day somewhat recently. They need to be repainted. A pedicure. It seems like a great idea. Maybe a chocolate-y brown next time. Maybe a moody gray blue. I like having pretty toenails. I hide them under dirty sneakers.
I don't meet her eyes very well. You see, she's laughing.
"Yes." I mutter.
She laughs harder.
A beautiful sarcastic blond walks in in light wash jeans (she's one of two people I know who can pull it off), a white blouse, a black fitted tux vest (my god, I want one) and heels. She dresses like this. In general. Stilettos and custom fits. They gang up on me.
Me in my torn jeans and punk t-shirt. My hacked off dyed-frequently hair, bobby pinned into physics-defying structures. We're not much alike, but I like her somehow anyway. But she's laughing at me, so that liking? It's on hiatus, a little, even though I'm laughing too.
She goes, "Of COURSE I understand. Six guys in the history of the pre-modern medicine world died young. All probability says you'll do the EXACT same thing. I mean, OBVIOUSLY."
I decide I'm going to quit venting my insecurities to people. They don't pity my mental issues. I chip at my nail polish. We go to dinner. I eat food that involves bell peppers, onions, broccoli, spinach, and artichokes. A guy who isn't even waiting on us hooks us up with free drinks. Blueberry infused. Fascinating. He asks what all we're chatting about.
"Death," I say. "Death, publishing, William Shakespeare, Blake, drowning, Grecian urns, and people who want you to fail."
He smiles. He's gorgeous. His skin is chocolate. His teeth shine in this don't-worry grin.
---
It's late and I'm quite alone. I can hear 3:10 to Yuma on the far side of a door and some loud Rilo Kiley. I just didn't feel like it, you know? Didn't want to sit with them and watch a movie that somebody else got paid to write.
And I'm pretty sure, though not positive, it has attributes of the bad list we compiled a few years ago.
Bad List:
gangs are bad
rape is bad
murder's bad
manslaughter's bad
crying is bad
depression is bad
stabbing is bad
gratuitous violence of any manner is bad
drugs are bad
betrayal is bad
When I'm in this kind of mood, I can't mentally handle bad things. So if I want a movie?
Last night I watched Legally Blonde 2. They had a Snap Cup. There were things called 'warm fuzzies.'
So I listen to pretty girl voice singing, sipping booze that tastes like candy, by myself in a low-light room. I don't like overhead lighting. There are four lights shining right now. Small lights. One has a hand-made shade. Green. It casts the most stunning moss colored glow.
I do a quick last minute revision. Just a formatting thing. Some spacing issues. I want it to read smooth. I want it to read fast. I don't want my formatting to muck up my readers. I promise myself something: never ask a reader to take more than five minutes at a time for my work. Okay, maybe ten. But I aim for short. Less than it takes to drink a hot cup of coffee. Less time than it takes to get your eyeliner right. I want writing that you can read while you're waiting for somebody to get out of the shower, in the instance they haven't invited you in with them.
So I edit my spacing. Just to make it easy. Paragraphs should never last too long. Joseph Conrad? Should have learned to hit enter once in a while.
I hit save.
I upload. I fill in the blanks.
I sip my candy booze. Almond and what, citrus?
Rilo Kiley croons, "I don't mind waiting if it takes a long, long time, and I don't mind wasting the best years of our lives..."
And I think, "I mind. I'm going to be dead by 30. I need to be Blake now."
I submit.
Now it's just waiting for a rejection letter.
I wonder if I'll tell my friends what happens next. Probably not. Rejection, like religion and politics, should be a private, quiet matter.
I have this thing. This mental thing. I compare myself to great artists and great minds. And people tell me this is unrealistic. The trouble, you see, is that I've never had it sufficiently proven to me that I'm not at least their equal.
Technical skills? I can replicate it if I can see it. If you give me time to fuck around a bit. I'll hand you a knock off of the utmost quality. "That's not really his?" Replicate. Represent. Present. Imagine. Portray. No problem.
Since I have the technical skills and the arrogance to believe that my inherent creativity is at the very least as firmly grounded and significant as any major artist...
I then start to feel creator's guilt that I'm not striving for as much fame as they have.
Do any of you ever feel this? Like you should be famous?
I should be William Blake already.
---
"So you want to die before you turn 30 so that you never know what it's like to know you've passed your prime?"
I sit curled up in a ball on somebody else's bed. I play with my bare toes. Red polish. I painted them while on the phone one day somewhat recently. They need to be repainted. A pedicure. It seems like a great idea. Maybe a chocolate-y brown next time. Maybe a moody gray blue. I like having pretty toenails. I hide them under dirty sneakers.
I don't meet her eyes very well. You see, she's laughing.
"Yes." I mutter.
She laughs harder.
A beautiful sarcastic blond walks in in light wash jeans (she's one of two people I know who can pull it off), a white blouse, a black fitted tux vest (my god, I want one) and heels. She dresses like this. In general. Stilettos and custom fits. They gang up on me.
Me in my torn jeans and punk t-shirt. My hacked off dyed-frequently hair, bobby pinned into physics-defying structures. We're not much alike, but I like her somehow anyway. But she's laughing at me, so that liking? It's on hiatus, a little, even though I'm laughing too.
She goes, "Of COURSE I understand. Six guys in the history of the pre-modern medicine world died young. All probability says you'll do the EXACT same thing. I mean, OBVIOUSLY."
I decide I'm going to quit venting my insecurities to people. They don't pity my mental issues. I chip at my nail polish. We go to dinner. I eat food that involves bell peppers, onions, broccoli, spinach, and artichokes. A guy who isn't even waiting on us hooks us up with free drinks. Blueberry infused. Fascinating. He asks what all we're chatting about.
"Death," I say. "Death, publishing, William Shakespeare, Blake, drowning, Grecian urns, and people who want you to fail."
He smiles. He's gorgeous. His skin is chocolate. His teeth shine in this don't-worry grin.
---
It's late and I'm quite alone. I can hear 3:10 to Yuma on the far side of a door and some loud Rilo Kiley. I just didn't feel like it, you know? Didn't want to sit with them and watch a movie that somebody else got paid to write.
And I'm pretty sure, though not positive, it has attributes of the bad list we compiled a few years ago.
Bad List:
gangs are bad
rape is bad
murder's bad
manslaughter's bad
crying is bad
depression is bad
stabbing is bad
gratuitous violence of any manner is bad
drugs are bad
betrayal is bad
When I'm in this kind of mood, I can't mentally handle bad things. So if I want a movie?
Last night I watched Legally Blonde 2. They had a Snap Cup. There were things called 'warm fuzzies.'
So I listen to pretty girl voice singing, sipping booze that tastes like candy, by myself in a low-light room. I don't like overhead lighting. There are four lights shining right now. Small lights. One has a hand-made shade. Green. It casts the most stunning moss colored glow.
I do a quick last minute revision. Just a formatting thing. Some spacing issues. I want it to read smooth. I want it to read fast. I don't want my formatting to muck up my readers. I promise myself something: never ask a reader to take more than five minutes at a time for my work. Okay, maybe ten. But I aim for short. Less than it takes to drink a hot cup of coffee. Less time than it takes to get your eyeliner right. I want writing that you can read while you're waiting for somebody to get out of the shower, in the instance they haven't invited you in with them.
So I edit my spacing. Just to make it easy. Paragraphs should never last too long. Joseph Conrad? Should have learned to hit enter once in a while.
I hit save.
I upload. I fill in the blanks.
I sip my candy booze. Almond and what, citrus?
Rilo Kiley croons, "I don't mind waiting if it takes a long, long time, and I don't mind wasting the best years of our lives..."
And I think, "I mind. I'm going to be dead by 30. I need to be Blake now."
I submit.
Now it's just waiting for a rejection letter.
I wonder if I'll tell my friends what happens next. Probably not. Rejection, like religion and politics, should be a private, quiet matter.