Thank goodness for Livejournal
I realized tonight that I somehow failed to save the draft I posted of my piece....thank god I'm such a big dork and posted it to lj or I would have lost all my revisions and about 4 pages of material.
Thank you all so much for your feedback. You're awesome.
What do you think of the title "Fear of Flying"? I sprinkled in some Italian/English translations in random phrases. It may be a little gimmicky, but I think it just might work.
I also reworked the ending slightly. Tell me your thoughts.
Ricordare-to remember. I remember sitting at an outdoor table at a small café outside of what was once Dante Alighieri’s house in May, writing in my notebook. I studied my surroundings carefully, recording the details on paper. I was listening to jazz music and drinking a cappuccino, the foam clinging to the sides of the empty cup in abstract patterns. It began to rain a fine mist, tourists scampering by under umbrellas, ducking for the closest bus or overhang. I kept writing, watching everyone scatter like ants. I mused about my time in Florence drawing to a close, how the half-light of the summer storm made everything seem unreal-the dirty cobblestone streets, the pungent ancient smells of the city, the terracotta rooftops and Vespas whizzing by.
Panic still distorts my nights, creeps up like a dull knife blade as I’m waiting for the T or drinking beer with friends. It’s the white noise that hums beneath the surface of everything. I’ve grown accustomed to it. I had just two weeks left until I went home when I wrote, “The wind and white-gray gloom give everything an unreal quality-like the wind is going to soon blow everything away like dry crackling dead leaves of autumn…will it all just melt away like a memory?” And maybe it would have, if I hadn’t been writing that day. I’m glad that I still have the memory of pure terror, of bottomless fear, of that hope for something miraculous to happen.
Also, Microsoft Word sucks and completely messed up the entire format and won't let me have the breaks I need. So the piece is entirely fucked up. I'm going to try to correct it at the comp. lab tomorrow but I don't think it will help. Argh.
I had ample time to do better work on this today so I really have no right to complain, but I felt entitled to be lazy and mopy because a) it's Valentine's Day, the suckiest holiday of all time, b) Boston is a snowy/icy nightmare, and c) there was a marathon of Project Runway Season 1 on Bravo and I could.not. turn it off. So I sat on the couch for about 10 hours. No lie. I even ordered in Chinese food for my roommate and I. Happy Valentine's Day! wooo.
Can it be summer now?
Thank you all so much for your feedback. You're awesome.
What do you think of the title "Fear of Flying"? I sprinkled in some Italian/English translations in random phrases. It may be a little gimmicky, but I think it just might work.
I also reworked the ending slightly. Tell me your thoughts.
Ricordare-to remember. I remember sitting at an outdoor table at a small café outside of what was once Dante Alighieri’s house in May, writing in my notebook. I studied my surroundings carefully, recording the details on paper. I was listening to jazz music and drinking a cappuccino, the foam clinging to the sides of the empty cup in abstract patterns. It began to rain a fine mist, tourists scampering by under umbrellas, ducking for the closest bus or overhang. I kept writing, watching everyone scatter like ants. I mused about my time in Florence drawing to a close, how the half-light of the summer storm made everything seem unreal-the dirty cobblestone streets, the pungent ancient smells of the city, the terracotta rooftops and Vespas whizzing by.
Panic still distorts my nights, creeps up like a dull knife blade as I’m waiting for the T or drinking beer with friends. It’s the white noise that hums beneath the surface of everything. I’ve grown accustomed to it. I had just two weeks left until I went home when I wrote, “The wind and white-gray gloom give everything an unreal quality-like the wind is going to soon blow everything away like dry crackling dead leaves of autumn…will it all just melt away like a memory?” And maybe it would have, if I hadn’t been writing that day. I’m glad that I still have the memory of pure terror, of bottomless fear, of that hope for something miraculous to happen.
Also, Microsoft Word sucks and completely messed up the entire format and won't let me have the breaks I need. So the piece is entirely fucked up. I'm going to try to correct it at the comp. lab tomorrow but I don't think it will help. Argh.
I had ample time to do better work on this today so I really have no right to complain, but I felt entitled to be lazy and mopy because a) it's Valentine's Day, the suckiest holiday of all time, b) Boston is a snowy/icy nightmare, and c) there was a marathon of Project Runway Season 1 on Bravo and I could.not. turn it off. So I sat on the couch for about 10 hours. No lie. I even ordered in Chinese food for my roommate and I. Happy Valentine's Day! wooo.
Can it be summer now?