things are a bit crazy. havnt posted in a while. I dont know why i apologize for it since no one ever reads this, but there it is.
welter. oh, god...WELTER. the magazine is taking over my free time, along with the new hbo series john adams. the series is amazing, and welter is only going to own my life for another week.
sadly, my blog ends here because i feel guilty using my spare time for something as frivolous as a blog when there is a deadline to be met.
i feel like im cheating on welter or something. i hope it doesnt find out.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
self-fulfilling prophecy
i am so sick of waiting on other people. my impatience on this particular occasion is brought to you by the Welter staff who are not doing what needs to be done so that my life is not miserable next week.
i have to fit a month's worth of work into one week, and i had no idea that that was the case until this weekend. press day is april23 and i have no cover art, no written work, much less author bios, order of appearance, or logo. now, if this was my magazine, and i could take care of all of that myself, it would be done by now. but no...i have to wait for a democratic decision on cover art that is apparently not even created yet. i also have to wait for 5 people to proof 43 stories, essays, and poems. they are supposed to have them to me by the 17, and as of yet, they havnt looked at them. i have to wait for someone to tell me that i can go ahead and create a logo, but that logo has to depend on the cover art that i dont have. how can i figure out how to incorporate the cover in the layout without first seeing the cover?
this impatience has extended to disliking people who do not immediately respond to text messages, phone calls that are not picked up on the first ring, being left waiting for a response on ichat, especially when the other person is the one who started the conversation, traffic, sitting in class and listening to a lecture when there are so many other things i would rather be doing with my time, havint to write papers instead of reading a book that i would love to read, slow windows computers in the computer lab at school, being in front of, behind, next to, or within a 50 mile radius of a cop while driving, email, having to be nice to people because they are in my class, when i would rather be in charge so that i can enforce the rules and deadlines in a way that ensures they will be done, not being in a position to step on toes when necessary, and having to move from my bed to my desk to connect my macbook to my external harddrive. thats it, for my birthday, i want some sort of wireless or bluetooth external!!!
i have to fit a month's worth of work into one week, and i had no idea that that was the case until this weekend. press day is april23 and i have no cover art, no written work, much less author bios, order of appearance, or logo. now, if this was my magazine, and i could take care of all of that myself, it would be done by now. but no...i have to wait for a democratic decision on cover art that is apparently not even created yet. i also have to wait for 5 people to proof 43 stories, essays, and poems. they are supposed to have them to me by the 17, and as of yet, they havnt looked at them. i have to wait for someone to tell me that i can go ahead and create a logo, but that logo has to depend on the cover art that i dont have. how can i figure out how to incorporate the cover in the layout without first seeing the cover?
this impatience has extended to disliking people who do not immediately respond to text messages, phone calls that are not picked up on the first ring, being left waiting for a response on ichat, especially when the other person is the one who started the conversation, traffic, sitting in class and listening to a lecture when there are so many other things i would rather be doing with my time, havint to write papers instead of reading a book that i would love to read, slow windows computers in the computer lab at school, being in front of, behind, next to, or within a 50 mile radius of a cop while driving, email, having to be nice to people because they are in my class, when i would rather be in charge so that i can enforce the rules and deadlines in a way that ensures they will be done, not being in a position to step on toes when necessary, and having to move from my bed to my desk to connect my macbook to my external harddrive. thats it, for my birthday, i want some sort of wireless or bluetooth external!!!
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
why do all of my feelings become clear after i leave?
i dont even know what to type. i had all kinds of good things planned for this blog: some social commentary, some discussion of what constitutes anger and what a quarterlife crisis really is.
but the sad truth is that i have an overpowering sense of rage that is pent up inside of me. there is no way to let it out. none. and i think that is what is wrong with everything in the world. we are so suppressed and restricted. we have to worry about hurting the feelings of people we love, and people we dont love, and we need to make sure we dont do anything that will ruin people's good opinion of us, or change anyone's perspective of us. destruction of property is illegal. detruction of people is immoral and illegal. trowing things is frowned upon, i havnt screamed...actually yelled or screamed and raised my voice since middle school. hitting a tennis ball isnt very satisfying if you arent good at it.
there is no outlet for the rage and pent up emotion i am struggling with.
we have reached victorian england again. we are quakers. we are fucking pilgrims who burn people at the stake for feeling.
and i hate it.
even the word hate has no meaning now. i hate many things: onions, ignorant people, religious pamphlets, crying, my job. but saying that i hate them does not express fully how i feel. nothing can.
feelings are static. they change, but they cannot effect change.
thats why some kid beat her teacher, and two kids beat each other with hockey sticks. thats why so many people are killed daily. because god, or whatever else is responsible for this shit hole decided to eff with us and give us these feelings, but no way to contain, control, or outlet them.
and i am sick of it. perhaps i should give up on worrying about what people think, and hurting feelings. maybe i should stop letting myself feel shitty. perhaps i should look to hurt people. then i would be normal in the eyes of society.
i wish my mouth could open as wide as anatomically possible, but i have a restricting divice psychologically. damn morals and caring.
but the sad truth is that i have an overpowering sense of rage that is pent up inside of me. there is no way to let it out. none. and i think that is what is wrong with everything in the world. we are so suppressed and restricted. we have to worry about hurting the feelings of people we love, and people we dont love, and we need to make sure we dont do anything that will ruin people's good opinion of us, or change anyone's perspective of us. destruction of property is illegal. detruction of people is immoral and illegal. trowing things is frowned upon, i havnt screamed...actually yelled or screamed and raised my voice since middle school. hitting a tennis ball isnt very satisfying if you arent good at it.
there is no outlet for the rage and pent up emotion i am struggling with.
we have reached victorian england again. we are quakers. we are fucking pilgrims who burn people at the stake for feeling.
and i hate it.
even the word hate has no meaning now. i hate many things: onions, ignorant people, religious pamphlets, crying, my job. but saying that i hate them does not express fully how i feel. nothing can.
feelings are static. they change, but they cannot effect change.
thats why some kid beat her teacher, and two kids beat each other with hockey sticks. thats why so many people are killed daily. because god, or whatever else is responsible for this shit hole decided to eff with us and give us these feelings, but no way to contain, control, or outlet them.
and i am sick of it. perhaps i should give up on worrying about what people think, and hurting feelings. maybe i should stop letting myself feel shitty. perhaps i should look to hurt people. then i would be normal in the eyes of society.
i wish my mouth could open as wide as anatomically possible, but i have a restricting divice psychologically. damn morals and caring.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
just because you cant see it...
i cant decide if it is because we, the people who write, are so caught up in our own lives, or if it has something to do with the irregular way life seems to happen lately, dotting time with strange instances and too much rape and pain for the world to breathe healthily again. i'm not certain if it is a trend, or a permanent ocurance, and i sure as hell cant figure out if it is happening all over the globe, or just in the tiny whore-house that is the charles royal building at my particular university.
but the truth, mapped out in so many fonts on too many pages to read in an hour, is that fiction has faded into a fifth genre. if the first is poetry, and the second is drama, and the third is fiction and the fourth is essay, then the fifth is that slurry line between fiction and essay, a fraction of writing, if you will, where the inexperienced writer writes about him or herself and tells a life story, plays with form, and labels it as fiction when it is actually memoir.
everything has become memoir. of all of the fiction submissions to the welter literary journal, only two are actually fiction and not memoir, one of which is mine.
where has fiction gone? has the imagination finally given in and admitted that it cant keep up with how screwed up life really is? or are all of the characters on vacation? living in a place where storys are written about fluffy kitty cats and unicorns? maybe theyre waiting like the romanticists did for the world to turn itself upright again and for the rain to stop falling up. gravity has to take over again and set things right.
in the mean time, do we let them go on thinking that memoir is fiction? perhaps they just dont see the difference, or cant believe what has happened to them. it must have happened to this character that has assigned itself a first person omniscient point of view with which to tell a true story in disguise as fiction.
at least there are submissions. amd im not complaining, im just happy to be around to see it happen. the genre that was not a genre 15 years ago, that is only now being accepted by the literary big wigs, is taking over like it owns the joint, building a work out room in the old nursery and tearing out the flower beds that old aunt eudora took so much pride in. It plans to open up some windows and air out the rooms, finally get rid of the smell of cigar smoke from grandpa earnest and uncle charles. but the carpet hasnt changed, and no one will ever knock down the giant oak in the front yard or dry up virginia's lake.
but the truth, mapped out in so many fonts on too many pages to read in an hour, is that fiction has faded into a fifth genre. if the first is poetry, and the second is drama, and the third is fiction and the fourth is essay, then the fifth is that slurry line between fiction and essay, a fraction of writing, if you will, where the inexperienced writer writes about him or herself and tells a life story, plays with form, and labels it as fiction when it is actually memoir.
everything has become memoir. of all of the fiction submissions to the welter literary journal, only two are actually fiction and not memoir, one of which is mine.
where has fiction gone? has the imagination finally given in and admitted that it cant keep up with how screwed up life really is? or are all of the characters on vacation? living in a place where storys are written about fluffy kitty cats and unicorns? maybe theyre waiting like the romanticists did for the world to turn itself upright again and for the rain to stop falling up. gravity has to take over again and set things right.
in the mean time, do we let them go on thinking that memoir is fiction? perhaps they just dont see the difference, or cant believe what has happened to them. it must have happened to this character that has assigned itself a first person omniscient point of view with which to tell a true story in disguise as fiction.
at least there are submissions. amd im not complaining, im just happy to be around to see it happen. the genre that was not a genre 15 years ago, that is only now being accepted by the literary big wigs, is taking over like it owns the joint, building a work out room in the old nursery and tearing out the flower beds that old aunt eudora took so much pride in. It plans to open up some windows and air out the rooms, finally get rid of the smell of cigar smoke from grandpa earnest and uncle charles. but the carpet hasnt changed, and no one will ever knock down the giant oak in the front yard or dry up virginia's lake.
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