"They should make a board game based on Suffolk's roadways and parking system" - A Facebook friend's status update. Suffolk is the county I lived in on LI.
"How is an ankle unlike a consequence?" - One of the random questions generated on the Blogger profile.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Week One - Junkyard Inventory Three
I'm sort of obsessed with tea, so the store Teavana is practically the epitome of physical and mental comfort for me. After class on Thursday, when we talked about the way the perfumes were described, I started thinking firstly about how Cafe Intermezzo describes their coffee and teas and then about Teavana's descriptions. I was a little disappointed when I went on their website, because some of it was fairly cliched, but a few phrases seemed almost worthwhile. Clearly not as awesome as the ones from class, but maybe I'll make it a project to write these in that style on here in a few weeks?
Swiss Vervaine Melange Herbal Tea
Sip and slip away into a calming comfort, as this soothing medley relaxes the mind and body. Peaceful vervaine hums softly as blossoms of mallow & sunflower whisper assuring notes of flowery fineness. Sweet carrot, orange peel and ginger add additional contentment as pillowy peppermint grants a refreshing serenity.
-I'm not so sure I know what "pillowy peppermint" tastes like but it's an alluring phrase either way.
-I'm not so sure I know what "pillowy peppermint" tastes like but it's an alluring phrase either way.
Scarlet Cloud White Tea
Float on a downy white paradise of tea buds amidst a heavenly double-berry cloud of raspberries and blackberries. Sweet peaches and a hint of tingly mint relax and refresh with each sip of this rare white Mao Feng tea's dreamy journey.
Week One - Response to MacKenzie's Improv 1 Week 1
Something is up with my Blogger account and it won't let me post comments right now. As soon as I figure out how to remedy that, I'll post my comments on the appropriate blogs. For now, however, this is my response to MacKenzie's Improv 1 Week 1, which also reference's LaRue's comment to it:
As I said in class, the original piece--while I can respect it’s sounds and technique--is not one of my favorites. It’s not the subject matter or the talent, it’s just prose poetry in general--I don’t understand their function. Despite that, Davis’s manipulation of sound is pretty fantastic and I think you’ve done an admirable job of mimicking that. I don’t think it’s necessarily a problem that you stuck closely to her original format because this is a initial piece and, if you decided to do more with it, you could obviously break free of her form whenever you choose to. You didn’t stay so close that it’s a rip off because you have really magnificent lines in there: “all running up on each other unsexy,” “but that's only if you're reading it in its elvish form,” “janky syllable clack.”
As far as the ending goes, I think LaRue's comment that it works "too" well is a fairly decent diagnosis (too strong a word? Hmm.). I love it, but I think I love it because it’s so much more compact than the ending of Davis’s, which I’m not especially fond of because I feel like it’s fairly abrupt. However, maybe that abruptness is necessary in a poem (it hurts me to use that term for this kind of writing!) like this because it mimics the ongoing, ever-evolving nature of the phrase you’re manipulating? Does that make sense?
As far as small, nitpicky details:
“Financial accounting has the kind of letters a hoarder would keep, all running up on each other unsexy and angry” --That’s so great, a really apt description. “Unsexy” is so perfect and unexpected and it really works well for me because I think that sound of the word “unsexy” is as bulky as “financial accounting.” But, because I love unsexy so much, “angry” falls a bit short for me.
In the phonetic representation of “financial accounting,” would you prefer it very formal, or more conversational? I think the first word (Fy-nan-chull) is spot-on for conversation, but do you realistically pronounce accounting “ack-kown-teeng”? Maybe more Uh-kown-ting? Granted, your transcription of it LOOKS better, but isn’t a poem such as this all about sound?
As I said in class, the original piece--while I can respect it’s sounds and technique--is not one of my favorites. It’s not the subject matter or the talent, it’s just prose poetry in general--I don’t understand their function. Despite that, Davis’s manipulation of sound is pretty fantastic and I think you’ve done an admirable job of mimicking that. I don’t think it’s necessarily a problem that you stuck closely to her original format because this is a initial piece and, if you decided to do more with it, you could obviously break free of her form whenever you choose to. You didn’t stay so close that it’s a rip off because you have really magnificent lines in there: “all running up on each other unsexy,” “but that's only if you're reading it in its elvish form,” “janky syllable clack.”
As far as the ending goes, I think LaRue's comment that it works "too" well is a fairly decent diagnosis (too strong a word? Hmm.). I love it, but I think I love it because it’s so much more compact than the ending of Davis’s, which I’m not especially fond of because I feel like it’s fairly abrupt. However, maybe that abruptness is necessary in a poem (it hurts me to use that term for this kind of writing!) like this because it mimics the ongoing, ever-evolving nature of the phrase you’re manipulating? Does that make sense?
As far as small, nitpicky details:
“Financial accounting has the kind of letters a hoarder would keep, all running up on each other unsexy and angry” --That’s so great, a really apt description. “Unsexy” is so perfect and unexpected and it really works well for me because I think that sound of the word “unsexy” is as bulky as “financial accounting.” But, because I love unsexy so much, “angry” falls a bit short for me.
In the phonetic representation of “financial accounting,” would you prefer it very formal, or more conversational? I think the first word (Fy-nan-chull) is spot-on for conversation, but do you realistically pronounce accounting “ack-kown-teeng”? Maybe more Uh-kown-ting? Granted, your transcription of it LOOKS better, but isn’t a poem such as this all about sound?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Week One - Junkyard Inventory Two
This certainly isn't "charged" language, but you have to wonder sometimes at the bits of conversation overheard on campus. I mean, who wouldn't wanna read a poem about defunct hippies?
"I don't mind, like, real hippies. Ones that, like, walk and talk and stuff" -- A guy in my German class. Unfortunately, class began so I was unable to question his motivation for this statement.
"I don't mind, like, real hippies. Ones that, like, walk and talk and stuff" -- A guy in my German class. Unfortunately, class began so I was unable to question his motivation for this statement.
Week One - Junkyard Inventory One
"Mountains of Christmas" - I don't necessarily enjoy this, but it's a...unique... name of a font on Blogger.
"Instruct them with all severity and import to never question for themeselves--but to seek answers only in one--just one--particular set of semi-literate bronze age folk tales."
-An explanation of how to raise non-Athiest children.
"Instruct them with all severity and import to never question for themeselves--but to seek answers only in one--just one--particular set of semi-literate bronze age folk tales."
-An explanation of how to raise non-Athiest children.
Week One - Sign Inventory - "Someone Is Beating a Woman"
Someone Is Beating a Woman
Someone is beating a woman.
In the car that is dark and hot
Only the whites of her eyes shine.
Her legs thrash against the roof
Like berserk searchlight beams.
Someone is beating a woman.
This is the way slaves are beaten.
Frantic, she wrenches open the door
and plunges out--onto the road.
Brakes scream.
Someone runs up to her,
Strikes her and drags her, face down,
In the grash lashing with nettles.
Scum, how meticulously he beats her,
Stilygaga, bastard, big hero,
His smart flatiron-pointed show
Stabbing into her ribs.
Such are the pleasures of enemy soldiers
And the brute refinements of peasants.
Trampling underfoot the moonlit grass,
Someone is beating a woman.
Someone is beating a woman.
Century on century, no end to this.
It's the young that are beaten. Somberly
Our wedding bells start up the alarm.
Someone is beating a woman.
What about the flaming weals
In the braziers of their cheeks?
That's life, you say. Are you telling me?
Someone is beating a woman.
But her light is unfaltering
World-without-ending.
There are no religions,
no revelations,
There are women.
Lying there pale as water
Her eyes tear-closed and still,
She doesn't belong to him
Any more than a meadow deep in a wood.
And the stars? Rattling in the sky
Like raindrops against black glass,
Plunging down,
they cool
Her grief-fevered forehead.
-Andrea Voznesensky, translated from Russian by Jean Garrigue.
Sign inventory:
- The "someone" -- why vague, why continously vague ("someone" runs up to her), why attribute a distinct, particular event to an unnamed aggressor?
-Not that this is a legitimate connection for analysis but, it was, for me, reminiscent of E. E. Cummings "anyone lived in a pretty how town."
- An obvious shift: the breakdown of structure as the peom progresses. Specifically, as the woman becomes "unfaltering" and "her grief-fevered forehead" is cooled, the strict four-stanza structure mutates, allowing for breaks, line shifts, and more jarring enjambment.
- The inclusion of a "you" in the seventh stanza.
- Likewise, the "our" in the sixth stanza.
-Perhaps combined with the unexpected reference to a wedding/wedding bells.
-The blatant judgement from the speaker in the fourth stanza--his inventory of derogatory 'nicknames' for "Someone."
-In fact, there being at least three people present in this poem: the abuser, the woman, and the observing speaker (whether physically there or not).
- The "grass lashing with nettles," the "moonlit grass," "pale as water," "a meadow deep in a wood," "and the stars? Rattling in the sky/ Like raindrops against black glass." -- A series of allusions to nature, picking up in pace near the end of the peice.
Someone is beating a woman.
In the car that is dark and hot
Only the whites of her eyes shine.
Her legs thrash against the roof
Like berserk searchlight beams.
Someone is beating a woman.
This is the way slaves are beaten.
Frantic, she wrenches open the door
and plunges out--onto the road.
Brakes scream.
Someone runs up to her,
Strikes her and drags her, face down,
In the grash lashing with nettles.
Scum, how meticulously he beats her,
Stilygaga, bastard, big hero,
His smart flatiron-pointed show
Stabbing into her ribs.
Such are the pleasures of enemy soldiers
And the brute refinements of peasants.
Trampling underfoot the moonlit grass,
Someone is beating a woman.
Someone is beating a woman.
Century on century, no end to this.
It's the young that are beaten. Somberly
Our wedding bells start up the alarm.
Someone is beating a woman.
What about the flaming weals
In the braziers of their cheeks?
That's life, you say. Are you telling me?
Someone is beating a woman.
But her light is unfaltering
World-without-ending.
There are no religions,
no revelations,
There are women.
Lying there pale as water
Her eyes tear-closed and still,
She doesn't belong to him
Any more than a meadow deep in a wood.
And the stars? Rattling in the sky
Like raindrops against black glass,
Plunging down,
they cool
Her grief-fevered forehead.
-Andrea Voznesensky, translated from Russian by Jean Garrigue.
Sign inventory:
- The "someone" -- why vague, why continously vague ("someone" runs up to her), why attribute a distinct, particular event to an unnamed aggressor?
-Not that this is a legitimate connection for analysis but, it was, for me, reminiscent of E. E. Cummings "anyone lived in a pretty how town."
- An obvious shift: the breakdown of structure as the peom progresses. Specifically, as the woman becomes "unfaltering" and "her grief-fevered forehead" is cooled, the strict four-stanza structure mutates, allowing for breaks, line shifts, and more jarring enjambment.
- The inclusion of a "you" in the seventh stanza.
- Likewise, the "our" in the sixth stanza.
-Perhaps combined with the unexpected reference to a wedding/wedding bells.
-The blatant judgement from the speaker in the fourth stanza--his inventory of derogatory 'nicknames' for "Someone."
-In fact, there being at least three people present in this poem: the abuser, the woman, and the observing speaker (whether physically there or not).
- The "grass lashing with nettles," the "moonlit grass," "pale as water," "a meadow deep in a wood," "and the stars? Rattling in the sky/ Like raindrops against black glass." -- A series of allusions to nature, picking up in pace near the end of the peice.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Intro Poems
I lost a decent amount of writing to a computer crash a few months ago, but here's a few I was able to pull from old hardcopies of 3200 work:
______
Providing for Each Other
It's when my dad sighs,
"Ah, shit," as he settles in to the couch,
that I realize we all feel the same way.
It's the look of bewilderment on my grandmother's
face, and a sort of fluttering of
hands over surfaces, like she's unsure of what
they're for anymore.
It's how my uncle walks
in to the room and when we make eye contact
he raises his eyebrows as if to say,
Oh, you too?
It's how her best friend rushes past
tear-streaked, but slows
when she sees my red eyes.
And we collide.
It's when my cousin calls
and I answer the phone to hear
her sobbing punctuate my own.
It's when I seek out my mom
and find her pondering the blank air in front
of her, as though something about it has suddenly
become her mission.
And it's when my little brother says,
to anyone who will listen,
"I'm sad," that I know
there is no other way to explain it.
We all feel the same way.
______
A failed attempt at form poetry...:
Death and All Else Erupts as Flowers
There are days I open the door to find, sitting on my welcome mat, flowers.
Usually this gift consists of a modest bouquet—an eruption
of baby’s breath, white chrysanthemums, yellow roses. I never have to read
the card because, hopefully, only one person will have a natural
reason to send such an apology. The contrast
of the white and yellow is beautiful. I hope they won’t die.
It’s a pleasant achievement, this acquirement of flowers when no one has died—
an accomplishment to receive, upon accomplishment, a collection of flowers.
I grin when the stems stab my fingers; grin at the stark contrast
of receiving them now, upon the winning of a race or the winning of a baby, erupt
in grateful gibberish. I find it, upon these occasions, only natural
to feel embarrassment’s chiding prick tinge my skin an ugly red.
It’s not planning the service that gives me a swift kick—never reading
the obituary, or boxing belongings, but the receiving of flowers. It says, “Someone has died.
And I know there exists a correct and natural
expectation that I send some gift, and so I send these flowers.”
Flowers that will gasp their own last breath in days and erupt
inwardly, suck selfishly at the little bit of life left surrounding them, like a sick and unexpected contest.
I love that on those special days there is no contrast
between myself and every other girl in the world. That I receive red
roses, a box of candy, a dinner. This sudden eruption
of overbearing love, of promises that this love will never die,
promises that come wrapped in foil or decorated with white flowers
make me feel that this receiving of a weed is natural.
Everyone tells me that this is a natural
part of the grieving process, this overabundance. They give no contrasting
reviews of the situation. Everyone says, “Just say thank you” while you grasp the flowers—
the sixteenth handful you’ve received in twelve days and now my house is an overflow of red
and yellow and white. I want to tell them, “Someone died—
and nothing will help. Please save my home from this floral-smelling eruption.”
It is when I pant and groan and shove all at once that I feel, at last, an eruption
of skin and bone and slime maneuver its way out in a natural
staging of life at its peak. I survived, and it survived, and at this moment, neither of us have died.
It’s when they place that unfolded mass of cells in to my arms—I notice the contrast
of her untouched, pale skin against my own enflamed red—
it’s when they settle her in to that crook that I realize: For this, I have received flowers.
______
On That Day, You Loved It
Wearing your bracelet—that
one you bought in Turkey—
I can feel like you’re
still here. I found it in
a clump of dust behind
your dresser, when cleaning
out your apartment. You
fought with fervor. You
haggled for this trinket.
It made no sound when I
scooped it into my palm;
the topaz and aqua
beads reflected no light.
But you’d said that day you
loved it. So I use it.
And the hat! The hat—the
one you wore that flew off
with each change in the breeze—
it was stuffed in a drawer
in your closet. Now the
brim is bent beyond help,
the shape sadly deformed,
and the twine that held the
shells to it is missing.
I needed to save that
hat from Goodwill because you
said that day you loved it.
And now I wear that hat
and that bracelet when I
sit in my room, alone.
The hat doesn’t quite fit,
you know, and the bracelet
gets caught on things sometimes.
But I hold these breaking
pieces clutched to my body
so I can feel like I’m not
losing myself to your
absence. Because you said,
on that day, you loved it.
______
Cosmo Girl
The bright purple cover stands out, with its pink
(coral, page 21 insistently corrects) headlines that recite
promises. Promises to make you:
A Better Kisser, A More Independent Woman. Trendy. Thin. Trite.
537* Ways to Shine for the Holidays! it says.
A star marks the word. Like an asterisk, it purrs:
I'm lying. No amount of examples will make you--
Pretty, perfect, desirable. Insert any fabulous adjective here. It lures
you in, but that's okay!
Because the eight-pointed spot of light shines blue;
It stands out on the page. It
can say whatever it wants to.
I turn the page. Paris Hilton greets me with that
come-hither glare in her eyes, the kind that no
amount of facial distortions will replicate on me.
I convince myself it's the lighting. It's all a show.
Words like: natural, honest, and real are
juxtaposed with ethereal, diets, and twenty-eight versions of hot.
I skip ahead and, so distracted by the smokey eyes, full lips,
and transparent waists, can't stand to gaze at the lot
of perfection they've gathered in their "real life" section.
And so I shy away from it, shoving the magazine to the side
before I read the article that says, "I fell apart when the cameras stopped rolling."
Yeah, how could you not?
But I feel no sympathy for those real girls.
______
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing
Found: In Writing Self-Help Books
When finished reading this, you will have an in-depth knowledge of:
Theme and Characters and Plot
and Your Own Identity.
To be a writer one must:
Name oneself a writer, then write (and keep writing).
Ne’er employ “one” to elucidate thyself.
Sentence construction and grammar…have an elementary grasp of;
Write stuff.
To be a writer one’s theme must be:
Political, Religious, Cultural. Or Universal.
Man against Man; Man against himself; Man against society; Man against nature; Man
against God; Man against Death; Man against…
Or all about sex (except when it’s about sex).
While constructing characters one must remember:
To introduce the character in a way that makes your reader feel or experience
something.
To have a protagonist, an antagonist, a conscience, an emotionalist, a realist,
a dentist, a temptress, sumptuousness (you get the gist).
If it’s a Christ character, include: crucified, of course, preferably wounded by the hands, the feet, the side, the head. Portrayed with arms outstretched and good with: children, loaves, fish, aphorisms and parables, water, wine, carpentry, rising on the third day, being last seen in the company of thieves, walking on water. And rather enjoys donkeys as a preferred method of transportation.
If it’s a woman, include: one part strong-willed attitude, one part vulnerability, a hefty handful of dedication to her career (for an artistic woman, substitute with a pinch of misunderstood existentialism and unrepresented talent). Stir in a sturdy spoonful of issues with her mother. Bake at 350 degrees so she always looks great in a skirt.
If it’s a man, include: A defined chest. Pants.
While formulating plot one must:
Trudge through exposition, utilize tension, practice revision, perfect one of two riveting
resolutions: Protagonist wins. Or Protagonist loses (in:
Man against Man, Man against himself, Man against society…)
Obtain a beginning, a middle, an end. Toss some fancy stuff in between.
To be a writer, one must:
Experience the world. You only include what you know.
Find a secluded spot and write.
Get published.
Never be read by anyone else.
Type on a computer, or a type writer; write on paper, your hand, a napkin.
Write in the dirt, with a stick.
Desire to explore the following question:
Was Bartleby right to prefer not to?
______
Providing for Each Other
It's when my dad sighs,
"Ah, shit," as he settles in to the couch,
that I realize we all feel the same way.
It's the look of bewilderment on my grandmother's
face, and a sort of fluttering of
hands over surfaces, like she's unsure of what
they're for anymore.
It's how my uncle walks
in to the room and when we make eye contact
he raises his eyebrows as if to say,
Oh, you too?
It's how her best friend rushes past
tear-streaked, but slows
when she sees my red eyes.
And we collide.
It's when my cousin calls
and I answer the phone to hear
her sobbing punctuate my own.
It's when I seek out my mom
and find her pondering the blank air in front
of her, as though something about it has suddenly
become her mission.
And it's when my little brother says,
to anyone who will listen,
"I'm sad," that I know
there is no other way to explain it.
We all feel the same way.
______
A failed attempt at form poetry...:
Death and All Else Erupts as Flowers
There are days I open the door to find, sitting on my welcome mat, flowers.
Usually this gift consists of a modest bouquet—an eruption
of baby’s breath, white chrysanthemums, yellow roses. I never have to read
the card because, hopefully, only one person will have a natural
reason to send such an apology. The contrast
of the white and yellow is beautiful. I hope they won’t die.
It’s a pleasant achievement, this acquirement of flowers when no one has died—
an accomplishment to receive, upon accomplishment, a collection of flowers.
I grin when the stems stab my fingers; grin at the stark contrast
of receiving them now, upon the winning of a race or the winning of a baby, erupt
in grateful gibberish. I find it, upon these occasions, only natural
to feel embarrassment’s chiding prick tinge my skin an ugly red.
It’s not planning the service that gives me a swift kick—never reading
the obituary, or boxing belongings, but the receiving of flowers. It says, “Someone has died.
And I know there exists a correct and natural
expectation that I send some gift, and so I send these flowers.”
Flowers that will gasp their own last breath in days and erupt
inwardly, suck selfishly at the little bit of life left surrounding them, like a sick and unexpected contest.
I love that on those special days there is no contrast
between myself and every other girl in the world. That I receive red
roses, a box of candy, a dinner. This sudden eruption
of overbearing love, of promises that this love will never die,
promises that come wrapped in foil or decorated with white flowers
make me feel that this receiving of a weed is natural.
Everyone tells me that this is a natural
part of the grieving process, this overabundance. They give no contrasting
reviews of the situation. Everyone says, “Just say thank you” while you grasp the flowers—
the sixteenth handful you’ve received in twelve days and now my house is an overflow of red
and yellow and white. I want to tell them, “Someone died—
and nothing will help. Please save my home from this floral-smelling eruption.”
It is when I pant and groan and shove all at once that I feel, at last, an eruption
of skin and bone and slime maneuver its way out in a natural
staging of life at its peak. I survived, and it survived, and at this moment, neither of us have died.
It’s when they place that unfolded mass of cells in to my arms—I notice the contrast
of her untouched, pale skin against my own enflamed red—
it’s when they settle her in to that crook that I realize: For this, I have received flowers.
______
On That Day, You Loved It
Wearing your bracelet—that
one you bought in Turkey—
I can feel like you’re
still here. I found it in
a clump of dust behind
your dresser, when cleaning
out your apartment. You
fought with fervor. You
haggled for this trinket.
It made no sound when I
scooped it into my palm;
the topaz and aqua
beads reflected no light.
But you’d said that day you
loved it. So I use it.
And the hat! The hat—the
one you wore that flew off
with each change in the breeze—
it was stuffed in a drawer
in your closet. Now the
brim is bent beyond help,
the shape sadly deformed,
and the twine that held the
shells to it is missing.
I needed to save that
hat from Goodwill because you
said that day you loved it.
And now I wear that hat
and that bracelet when I
sit in my room, alone.
The hat doesn’t quite fit,
you know, and the bracelet
gets caught on things sometimes.
But I hold these breaking
pieces clutched to my body
so I can feel like I’m not
losing myself to your
absence. Because you said,
on that day, you loved it.
______
Cosmo Girl
The bright purple cover stands out, with its pink
(coral, page 21 insistently corrects) headlines that recite
promises. Promises to make you:
A Better Kisser, A More Independent Woman. Trendy. Thin. Trite.
537* Ways to Shine for the Holidays! it says.
A star marks the word. Like an asterisk, it purrs:
I'm lying. No amount of examples will make you--
Pretty, perfect, desirable. Insert any fabulous adjective here. It lures
you in, but that's okay!
Because the eight-pointed spot of light shines blue;
It stands out on the page. It
can say whatever it wants to.
I turn the page. Paris Hilton greets me with that
come-hither glare in her eyes, the kind that no
amount of facial distortions will replicate on me.
I convince myself it's the lighting. It's all a show.
Words like: natural, honest, and real are
juxtaposed with ethereal, diets, and twenty-eight versions of hot.
I skip ahead and, so distracted by the smokey eyes, full lips,
and transparent waists, can't stand to gaze at the lot
of perfection they've gathered in their "real life" section.
And so I shy away from it, shoving the magazine to the side
before I read the article that says, "I fell apart when the cameras stopped rolling."
Yeah, how could you not?
But I feel no sympathy for those real girls.
______
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing
Found: In Writing Self-Help Books
When finished reading this, you will have an in-depth knowledge of:
Theme and Characters and Plot
and Your Own Identity.
To be a writer one must:
Name oneself a writer, then write (and keep writing).
Ne’er employ “one” to elucidate thyself.
Sentence construction and grammar…have an elementary grasp of;
Write stuff.
To be a writer one’s theme must be:
Political, Religious, Cultural. Or Universal.
Man against Man; Man against himself; Man against society; Man against nature; Man
against God; Man against Death; Man against…
Or all about sex (except when it’s about sex).
While constructing characters one must remember:
To introduce the character in a way that makes your reader feel or experience
something.
To have a protagonist, an antagonist, a conscience, an emotionalist, a realist,
a dentist, a temptress, sumptuousness (you get the gist).
If it’s a Christ character, include: crucified, of course, preferably wounded by the hands, the feet, the side, the head. Portrayed with arms outstretched and good with: children, loaves, fish, aphorisms and parables, water, wine, carpentry, rising on the third day, being last seen in the company of thieves, walking on water. And rather enjoys donkeys as a preferred method of transportation.
If it’s a woman, include: one part strong-willed attitude, one part vulnerability, a hefty handful of dedication to her career (for an artistic woman, substitute with a pinch of misunderstood existentialism and unrepresented talent). Stir in a sturdy spoonful of issues with her mother. Bake at 350 degrees so she always looks great in a skirt.
If it’s a man, include: A defined chest. Pants.
While formulating plot one must:
Trudge through exposition, utilize tension, practice revision, perfect one of two riveting
resolutions: Protagonist wins. Or Protagonist loses (in:
Man against Man, Man against himself, Man against society…)
Obtain a beginning, a middle, an end. Toss some fancy stuff in between.
To be a writer, one must:
Experience the world. You only include what you know.
Find a secluded spot and write.
Get published.
Never be read by anyone else.
Type on a computer, or a type writer; write on paper, your hand, a napkin.
Write in the dirt, with a stick.
Desire to explore the following question:
Was Bartleby right to prefer not to?
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