iTunes is defunct.
I made the point to come to the basement to post this entry, and I started thinking: Should my entries be worth something? I'm beginning to wonder if I should post only when my entries are worthy of posting. I guess that really doesn't make any sense. It made me wonder, am I ever really saying anything worth writing? I've recently become more serious about writing and I thought maybe I should consider a filter in posting entries. Wait until I have something meaningful to say...
As Karen from "Will and Grace" says: But then I thought, no.
So here I am.
I did a character exercise for "Drinks for Two," trying to get more of a grasp of Taylor, since he's far more complex (and it was easier because I feel like I know him more than Brendon), and I read it to my workshop class, which I previously thought was going to be a disaster and that my work was going to be torn to shreds and I was going to come home and give up on writing all together. Wow. I need to breathe after that long-ass run-on.
[bear with me, I just took 2 tylenol PM. this should be interesting.]
I'm feeling a bit more confident about my writing. Up until last week I had the unbearable feeling that it was mediocre. Then last night, one of the older guys, who must be in his sixties, and I believe, has something published (but who doesn't, these days, besides me?) said something that made me feel a lot better. In my rough, nearly one-shot draft of this character exercise, he commented on my word usage. He said that a lot of people in our class should read my 'story' and take note of my strong verbs and nouns, that they could learn a lot by reading my writing. Mostly everyone responded postively to it. I mean, I did tell them, before I read it aloud, that it was a character sketch, and that I realized the characterization was over-the-top and that I planned to chop it down a little [here i go with the run-ons again] but it made me wonder how they would've reacted if I hadn't told them it was an exercise. Would they have responded as well? I can't really remember a single negative thing that was said, objectively, at least, about the actual writing. A lot of it had to do with a discussion about Taylor and about why he was the way he was....but I don't view that as negative feedback. Most of the respondants knew that they were missing a big chunk of the story and they talked about how much they DISLIKED Taylor, but were engaged in his character, which I loved.
Last week, I was seriously considering giving up on writing. That I really wasn't any good. That I had been kidding myself my entire life. But this experience, and some comments made by my Honors Fiction professor have reinforced my confidence. The last thing I want is for people to lead me on and tell me what I want to hear. That I'm, at the very least, a fairly decent writer. That I can go somewhere with it outside of my 'writing' folder on my laptop...I want the honest-to-god-truth. I want the brutal honesty. I want someone to pop my bubble. So go ahead, leave a comment and tell me what you REALLY think. I don't want anything sugar coated anymore. I don't have time for that. I'm moving on to my BA program and then plan to go on to get an MFA, so if I need to stop and reconsider my career, the time is now. So please be honest. If any of you have ANYTHING to say about my writing and my potential, please tell me. Now is the time, when I'm asking for it. I know I have the potential to be an editor, but my dream is to write. If I can make it that way first, I will. Nearly my entire life has been devoted to stories, and I don't plan to stop. I just need to know how far to pursue it. I'm afraid I'm like one of those idiots [whoa the PM is kicking in, bear with me, still, please] on American Idol who has totally lied to themselves and are completely convinced that they can sing. But when you get right down to it, they really suck. Or they're just average. That they're not special. That they need to consider a career in computer programming or go work for the local library.
I plan to submit some pieces for publishing this summer, so if you have any reasons why I shouldn't, please tell me now.
Jenny huffed and tapped a syncopated beat, her blood-red fingernails clicking on the marble tile. “Seriously, Taylor. I’m tired of it.”
“Tired of what?” Taylor answered absentmindedly. He stood at the fridge, searching for something to bite into. No apples?
She slammed her delicate fist on the counter, her eyes slammed shut in a wince. “Fuck, Taylor! Are you even listening? I asked you where you were last night. Remember? You stumbled into bed at four?”
Taylor rummaged through the fruit bin, shoving oranges aside and settling on a banana. “Yeah. And?” He peeled back the yellow skin, thinking of the blonde bombshell’s skin-tight dress from the night before.
“I don’t know why I bother. You work all day. You go out every night, sometimes not coming home until well into the morning. You smell like cheap perfume and sex. What am I supposed to think?”
He bit off a large chunk of the banana, the mushy goodness flopping from cheek to cheek. “So, why bother?” Leaning on the counter opposite his wife, he stared at his banana, now half gone.
She gaped at him, entranced in the fruit before him. Her mouth hung loose, the tapping of her fingernails a long-lost memory. Her eyes glazed over as something seemed to slap her in the face. After a minute or two of silence, she finally shuddered and her eyes focused. “Fine. I guess I won’t bother anymore.” She turned without another word and stormed from the room.
Taylor listened to her footsteps pounding up the stairs, as he swallowed the last bite and threw the peel into the garbage. Turning to the sink, he washed his hands of the sticky residue. He pulled out his cell phone-four text messages and three missed calls. The names--Becky, Jackie, and Cindy--he did not recognize. It was eight o’clock. He still had time to catch the last part of karaoke night at his favorite spot. He’d been going every Friday for the last two years, finding exquisite entertainment in drunk, beautiful women thinking they’re the next American Idol. He wasn’t about to miss it because of this. After all, what more was there to talk about?
Apparently, she wasn’t happy? So what? They never were. He’d tried the attentive thing with his first wife. Tried lying to her, insisting that he wasn’t sleeping with other women. She believed him for a while. They never fought; she simply told herself he was out working late. After all, corporate law wasn’t a walk in the park. Well, it was for Taylor, but he had to make it look like it was difficult. That was his way. He had to pretend to struggle, otherwise, nobody would take him seriously. Especially his first wife. She supported him in a way that his parents never did--she agreed that his job was a struggle and stood behind him as she should. Taylor had never been one for relationships, but it reflected poorly at work, being without a wife. So he married her, as a career move. Did he love her? Maybe. He hadn’t thought about it. She was simply there for convenience. Someone to cook his meals, pick up his dry-cleaning, and keep his house in order. It turned out the convenience of a wife was more of an inconvenience than anything else. He had to resort to sexual escapades in strange places. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy sex in a bathroom. Or in an elevator. Or in the rectory of his biggest client’s funeral. With his son. Yes, he definitely enjoyed it. It was the inconvenience of having to keep it quiet. He believed sexuality was something to celebrate. Why couldn’t people loosen up? Anytime he discussed his jaunts with another person, like that time in the bar on 57th Street with that shabby stranger, they reacted with surprise and almost disgust.
He thought of that shabby stranger; the interaction had astounded him. The man responded with a strange curiosity like he had never encountered. Yeah, the man--what was his name? Brandon? No, that wasn’t it. Brian? Nope. Brendon! Yes, Brendon.--Brendon seemed oddly attractive to Taylor. Usually, his romps occurred with well-dressed, sophisticated people. People with high stature and a lot of money. These were the things that were attractive to him. But Brendon…Brendon was different. He was adorably shy and not well kept, but Taylor had seen something in his eyes. Something different. A twinkle of understanding. Was that it? Or maybe a flash of something he couldn’t put his finger on…admiration? Every single person he had encountered, when discussing his sexcapades, had looked down upon him, but this man seemed to admire him. Maybe that’s why he had lured Brendon into the bathroom with him. He never shared the control with anyone. If he was going to fuck someone, he was going to be completely in control and alone. Sure, he had had threesomes and multiple orgies, but he had never allowed someone to influence him like Brendon had. He had allowed Brendon to affect him in a way that nobody had before. It was true that Brendon hadn’t been inside of him--nobody had, for that matter--but it seemed to Taylor that he had been, in a strange way.
The thought of it made Taylor queasy. His stomach turned, not in nausea, but it ached. A burning rose to his throat, not as bile, but as a cry…a moan. He felt his hands begin to tremble a little; he stared down at them, shaking slightly as they rested on the marble countertop. Shaking his head, he tried desperately to remember what he had been thinking about before. He stood for a moment, staring at the mahogany cabinets, his head tilted slightly to the right.
Ah yes, his ex-wife. She had been sweet. She kissed him every day when he came home, regardless of the hour. Maybe that’s why he left her. Because she was too submissive. Too understanding. And too forgiving. Taylor’s life was built around overcoming challenges. That’s why he had always gone for the most attractive people, with the strongest Type A personalities. Because it was a challenge. She had accepted his explanations without a second thought, it seemed, and he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t place the feeling it gave him, but if he had to guess, it would fall somewhere along the lines of guilt. Her empathetic, floor-mat attitude had made him feel almost sorry for dragging her along. He knew that her discovery of his extracurricular activities would’ve broken her down. That made him scared to explore his free sexuality. The same way Brendon had made him scared.
He had feared Brendon, much like his ex-wife. How would’ve Brendon reacted if he had known Taylor was married? Sure, the sexual ambiguity and promiscuity had attracted Brendon to him, but what about…what’s the word…infidelity? Something told him that Brendon wouldn’t have admired him for that. Another turn of his stomach, and he shook the feeling quickly from his body. He knew Brendon was a decent guy, he could tell from the moment he laid eyes on him. Taylor could see that something in Brendon’s life had made him angry, bitter, and scared of himself. It wasn’t inherent. Something had made him that way, and seeing the look in his eyes in the bathroom had proved this theory. The way Brendon reacted to him in the bathroom, the way he completely ignored the women writhing not a foot in front of him, the way Brendon had kissed him…there was an innocence to him that Taylor had never encountered. And Taylor felt a little guilty, because he was fearful that he had raped Brendon of that innocence.
He stared up at the track lighting along the cabinets and wondered where Brendon was now. It had been obvious that Brendon wasn’t like him. Brendon was a single-sex admirer, but something had been holding him back from exploring that. Whether it be his past or his so-called “morality,” Taylor wasn’t sure, but he knew that Brendon’s experience with Taylor had been his first. The way Brendon hesitated was not in a prude/cautious sort of way, it was a genuine fear. Fear of what? Falling off the deep end? Finally allowing himself to indulge in something he had yearned for his entire life?
Realizing that made Taylor fearful. Afraid that he had not done the right thing. It’s true, Brendon had never called him after they left the bar and gone their separate ways. But something about the way Brendon looked at him, when they stood outside the door to the bar, made Taylor shudder with feeling. Fear? Worry? Apprehension? Taylor knew these words, and had heard his wife and his ex-wife use them, but he didn’t know what they meant. He hardly ever recognized any “emotions” he had felt, well, at least up until his ex-wife. But the feelings that arose in his throat because of her were not felt towards her. They were in protection of himself. He didn’t worry about her. He worried about himself and getting caught. With Brendon it was different. He thought about Brendon more often than he’d like to, and wondered what it meant. His ex-wife was doing fine, he knew that. They’d kept in touch, mostly for her benefit. She’d made off with quite a chunk of his income (not that it had made a dent in his wallet), had bought herself a house in Malibu and practically retired. He knew she was now happily married with children. That was fine with him.
But when his thoughts wandered to Brendon, he felt something different. Did Brendon ever think of him? It’s true, their encounter was tame, but to Taylor it felt like something completely new. Did Brendon realize this? Taylor had never worried about anyone but himself in his entire life, he knew this and quite enjoyed being free of worry for others--he believed it was the best preventative care for ulcers--for a reason that was inexplicable, he worried about Brendon. Worried about how their encounter had affected him, how he was doing now, and what he had planned for the future.
Breaking glass from the floor above broke his reflection, and he heard his wife pounding down the stairs, no doubt to continue her witch-hunt. “Taylor!” She shouted, her shrill voice deflecting off the three-foot barrier he kept around himself at all times.
“Yes, dear?” He replied calmly, sliding to the liquor cabinet and pouring himself a glass of Johnny Walker Scotch.
She thudded back into the kitchen with a large duffel bag over her shoulder. “I’m going to my sister’s.” She stood in the doorway with her hand on her hip.
“Okay. Have fun. Tell Louise I said hello.”
She grunted. “My sister’s name is Lisa. You’d think after three fucking years of marriage you’d remember her name!”
Taylor smirked. “You’d think after three fucking years of marriage you wouldn’t expect me to.” He raised his glass towards her in a silent toast, sipping the fine scotch with finesse.
“Whatever. I’m leaving.” She stomped down the hallway and out the door, slamming it so hard the chandelier clinked in response.
“Adios,” Taylor murmured to the empty house. He looked at the clock. Karaoke hour was over. Just as well, he thought. He didn’t feel like going out anymore. Walking into the living room, he purchased a pay-per-view adult film and reclined in his favorite leather chair. He sat sipping his scotch, watching the women undress each other, kissing with unguarded passion. Brendon flooded to his mind, blindsiding him once again. He pulled the glass to his mouth, fruitlessly. It was empty of all but a sip. Pausing the movie, he swung out of the chair and back into the kitchen. If the night was going to continue as it had been, he was going to need the bottle.