Suddenly, everything around me is changing.

I'm becoming more competent at everything: reading, writing, organizing my time, dealing with writer's block and just writing, writing, writing, reading, reading. I think it's a couple things: (1) I'm really homesick, (2) I visited two museums this weekend and (3) getting more fluent in my other languages is having an astounding impact on my English.

It all started with the Centre Pompidou. As a result of said museum, I finally started on 'Sleeping with Scarlett,' a short story about beauty (and, yes, Scarlett Johansson) and just aesthetics in general (I would love to show it to a philosophy prof sometime who won't judge me for the popular icon use--or perhaps I will and change their mind). I also worked a little bit on 'The Disease,' which is a reaction to a kind-of-well-known short story a friend sent me a while ago--it involves a lesbian and an oxygen tank, and talks about love. And music. I also began work on a serial novella, that I would like to submit through my friend's Oberlin publication, Spiral (I may have spoken about this in my last post...). This novella involves a bunch of crazy stuff, like fate, incest, reputation, curses, love...anything you'd expect from a genre-type story that I write, especially when it's semi-magical realism, in French-thought, Spanish-thought, and English-thought (it takes place in Paris, Montevideo, and a small town in Connecticut).

Today I did some work on some poetry (tried at a sonnet--it's been a while!), reread some old stuff, and worked on some nonfiction that's really hard to get through--I ended up crying a little bit because that's what happens when I face my honest feelings about things. I also printed out the botany story, finally, so I can rewrite it, and the rewriting's going very well. My narrator has a more distinct voice now, and now that I know more what it ends like, I'm adding in little things to the beginning that show that he knows how it's going to end, too (because it's written like a confession). Best of all, this week I had been thinking, and today I finally picked up Benedetti's La Tregua. Finally. I think reading Allende has made more comfortable with my Spanish, and finally, I see the blaze of Benedetti's writing, its sharp beauty, its disturbing sorrow. I'm going to apply to translate that book--if not also others--for an Honors project. He's not translated in English. And I know, I know, oh God, I know that he will be so beautiful in this language.

My goal in all this: Be respectable. Grow up as a writer. Honor literature and language, but most of all...the so many billion ways that humanity can experience itself--in other words, honor life. If I do that, even if I'm not famous, etc, then I will find my life worthwhile. Not just as a writer, but as myself.

PS- I really, really miss philosophy classes.

Paris!

Now that I'm in Paris, my mind has cleared for new types of writing. Turns out none of my Sept. 1 contest are actually viable (they all have word limits that I don't make in any of my current stories, or have changed their deadlines to later), so that's good because I don't have to stress out about them and can concentrate on my writing. I've made My Dearest Tomcat into a personal project (a way to practice writing that I won't try to publish), but I'm sure it will have its own effects on the rest of my writing. So, that one's easy to work on because I don't have any publishing deadlines. So, I'm working on the same old projects:

-Benedetti poetry translations
-botany story
-short stories in Los Angeles
-France short stories
-read La Tregua for Benedetti novel translation

I might add more on as the semester continues. It's a really great environment, because as France attracts many artists, people here are very artistic and thoughtful! Yay! I'm very excited about writing here.

Los Angeles, etc

I finished writing the Los Angeles story (yay!), and editing it, as well, so I'm going to be working on finishing up a couple more stories (Devil's Den, and another one I started about a man with an oxygen tank (it's from the point of view of a lesbian?)) I think after these two, I should try to put together a collection. I'm going to be writing a story about/in Prague (I'm there now), but we'll see if that goes into this collection or not. I guess it depends on how the short stories develop while I'm in Paris--if they're *all* Europe-oriented, I'll put the Prague story in there. If they're all Paris-oriented, however, I'll put the Prague story into the Los Angeles collection. I'll be working, in Paris, on My Dearest Tomcat (which I might change to Mon Chere Ohio?), and on the botany story. I'm going to go now, to do some handwritten work on one of the three stories I need to work on.

Oscar Wao, etc.

So, I just wrote a beautiful entry on Bertrand Russell (and also on Oscar Wao, which was not as kind), but I accidentally deleted it, and there was nothing I could do to get it back. So, that is kind of sad. But, anyway, I will summarize what I said, which was something like this:

On The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (by Junot Diaz): I didn't like it very much, mostly because the author was trying to do way too much. There were a lot of things he didn't know, and he tried to cover it up with different narratives, but that just ended up sounding kind of awkward. If you haven't read any bicultural stuff and want to get a start, or are interested in books related to the Dominican Republic, then I'd say read it. Otherwise, there are other books in the bicultural/hispanic vein that are far better, and more polished. However, it's a short read, and entertaining (especially at the beginning, where it's very fresh), so since it's summertime, I'll recommend it as a summer read. Most of the problems were structural, but I think topic was also a problem: Diaz was doing too many things, and with such a short book! It annoys me that he got so much credit from critics for talking about so much cultural stuff, when what would have probably helped the book so much would have had it be an important part of the book, as opposed to the entire point of writing it.

I'm also finishing up a volume of Bertrand Russell's essays, and those are fucking (s)excellent. He writes very beautifully, with wondrous and complex arguments, and yet with a prose-like style that retains the personality and rhythm of good prose, but is not lost within itself because it is held together by the strong structure of logic. (I'm not very good at being logical, but Russell's big into that.) Even though I'm not very interested in religion, he writes so well that his essays are worth reading in this book. The essays I've enjoyed the most are "Why I Am Not a Christian" (the very famous title essay), "What I Believe," "Nice People" (a hilarious sarcastic piece), and "Our Sexual Ethics." Even with the essays I didn't enjoy entirely, they all had little gems of beauty within them. He's also very idealistic--even more idealistic than I am! I guess, perhaps, that's why his writing is so beautiful, in the end. Even though he sees the murky mess of problems, he can still see the solution shining through behind them, and more importantly, a certainty that these solutions will eventually break through. So even in the dirtiest of problems, you can find little things that make the entire existence of humanity worthwhile. I should stop while I'm at it on Russell, except to say that, I totally understand now more than ever why so many girls were shagging him. (Plus he was all, women should have sex with whomever they want.)

Having read these two books has made me decide that I really should just cut out the substory from the botany book. I'm going to keep in the actual events from the substory (it's just a story fifteen years earlier, from when the husband and wife met), but they will be seen only from the husband's fifteen-years-later view. I was, as Diaz had done, trying too much, and it wasn't worth it, with the really amazing voice that the husband character has developed. He doesn't even yet have a name, and I am in love with him. Having read Woolf and Russell have done very good things for this book, so I should see who else they hung out with so I can get better at putting all of this together. I'll have to cut some chapters, unfortunately, so while three weeks ago I had five chapters, I'll now only have two. But I have less to write, as well, so that's good. Here's an excerpt:

She slowly lowered the book on the ground, got a hold of my hands, and returned the favor by slowly sliding her lips against my knuckles, palm, wrists, taking one hand and then the other, possessing my hands in hers greedily and lovingly, like fruit in sweltering summer. Yet the weather tonight was not unbearable; the breeze came in time by time to whisper along with my own words against her ears, fingers fumbling through her wild head of hair, pulling closer and closer our sutural substance: souls saved by touch and rhythmic breath.

See why I'm in love with my narrator?

K a Day- 5 Pages

The 5 pages for the botany story, unfortunately, isn't working. I'm going to try to make up for it while at work, for these days I messed up, but I'm going to start doing between K a Day (so 1000 words a day) TO five pages, with five pages as the goal per day (but not the minimum). I think I'll post a little something from the book:

“Okay,” I said, “Now that that’s settled, I should get back to my wife.” I began to pick up some bags.

“You aren’t going to brush your teeth?” she asked.

“I’m terribly prepared for this kidnapping,” I said. I turned around to tell her good night as I opened the door, but she had already fallen asleep, on top of all the covers her mother had warned her about. Her mother had probably warned her about people like me, too. But I think if her mother knew how I quietly watched over her young daughter tonight, small thing breathing softly into stained sheets, and if she knew that I saw this girl as my daughter too, as another responsibility and as a beautiful addition to this world, I do not think that she would see me as she had expected to. I think she would be happy that, although unceremoniously, her daughter and I had become acquainted.

Ah! Hahh..

So, turns out that the new substory didn't work at all with the botany story, so that's completely out of the picture. It made Daisy into a complete bitch, muddled up the story, made the botanist's wife act far more intelligent than she wants to (even though she's actually smart), all this stuff that just made the characters do things that I would never, ever want to happen. However, it makes for a good beginning for something, so I'll see if I can play around with it a little bit.

So, I am getting quite serious about writing every day while I am in Europe with the fam, so I was thinking I'd do it in France, too, although in the form of letters. I will be missing many people when I'm abroad, and I'm thinking that it will be a sort of part fiction/ part nonfiction thing. Because it will be in letter form, there won't necessarily be a straight narrative, but instead, little snatches and bits: I have promised myself that in each letter, there will be some sort of call back both to Paris and to whatever I'm missing from back home. Kind of like a metaphor of places, I will relate both of them to one another. Something like that.

I'm also considering, for my honors project (if it gets accepted...), to write a story about a gay couple in Uruguay, or something like that. It wouldn't be terribly political--gay marriage is legal in Uruguay, and people aren't very religious--so if anything, it would be just a cultural thing. It would also be modern-day, so there would be interesting to see what influence (and what not-influence) there is by the US within Uruguay. So, because of this, I really need to "get on it" with my writing. I'd really like to say that I've finished stuff, but for now all I've got to show is some short stories. I need to have a book written to show that I can do anything within a time constraint. So, I need to finish the botany story, or at least get 3/4 of the way through, this summer, and I seriously need to get to the Mario Benedetti translations.

So, here's what I have to do (writing-wise):

Summer:
- write 5 pages a day of the botany story (this will kill me, and will be flexible while traveling)
- every 2 days, a Benedetti translation
- 1 short story every week (or every 2, depending on inspiration)
- write-something-every-day while in Europe with the fam
- write a 'little something' everyday, more like a writing brainstorm than anything else
[I'll continue this for a while, and if I get into a good rhythm, I'll approach SOAP. All I have to do is convert into a screenplay, and it's so much like one already, that that shouldn't be so bad.]

Fall:
-every day, write a letter, while abroad (try to play around with language, bring in some French)
-edit 8 pages a day of the botany story
-make SOAP into a screenplay, 5 pages a day
-do/try out a long Benedetti translation (La Tregua, anyone?)
-1 short story every week (or every 2, depending on inspiration)
-convert stuff into manuscript format

Depending how all of this works out, we will see what happens in the upcoming future.

As for reading plans:
this week: finish Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, start and finish The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. Horwich isn't as necessary as before (because the substory didn't work for the botany), but if I want to make the substory a short story, I still may need to use it--so I will read it between breaks in reading Junot Diaz. I will be taking the bus to and from NYC this weekend, so I will have time to be reading.

next week: Must read Bertrand Russell. It's been too long and I love him. Also interested in looking at some Quine, because of stuff I like to do with language. So, we'll see about all that. Interesed in, fiction-wise, some Edith Wharton, Henry James... Because philosophy is heavy, I will allow myself to read something shorter by the fiction authors. Will be continuing the Horwich, most likely.

week after next: Should go back to reading a book from the botany list, most likely The Botanist and the Vintner (Christy Campbell). Will read whichever philosopher's left over from the last week, and will e-mail a few professors about stuff in the aesthetics-realm (since this will be a botany-focused week).

Ah!

Ah! I've an idea and I am quite happy about it. This is for the botany story--I was trying to figure out different ways I could tell the sub-story, which is supposed to tell the past of the husband and wife, but everything kept sounding too much like the present story. But, I made myself read Woolf's Orlando because I knew it would make a difference, and then I watched The Fall, which was recommended by Russ. Result? I have a beginning for the substory. Yay! This also means that it is likely that the story will go back to its old title. Instead of The Botanist's Daughter, it will be called something along the lines of, Stealing Daisies: One Of The Many Adventures Of Dr. Henry Pollan and His Wife/ Little Lady/ etc., which makes it much more appealing, I think, but also, much more appropriate for the ridiculous content of this book. So, here is the beginning of the sub-story:

He was a man made of stones and ash, but was given a heart of petals. She, on the other hand, no one knows how she came about, but many have said that one day she decided to exist, and then did so. This makes his question to her in 1986, 'Where did you come from?' much more relevant than he would have guessed at the time the question was asked. But I'm getting ahead of myself. On with the beginning.

Also, I e-mailed Prof M. Thomson-Jones to ask him for more readings on time, now that it seems that I'll be playing around with it for this part of the book. I'm a little behind on writing, but ahead on reading (I randomly read Jhumpa Lahiri's The Interpeter of Maladies last weekend), so I'll only be bringing two books and a magazine to the beach this weekend: Readers & Writers mag, Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, and Horwich's Assymetries in Time. I need to find a new fiction to read next week, but I'm thinking I'll read some Bertrand Russell because I want to bone him, and I also just finished reading one of his friends (Woolf), and because the way he thinks/writes will be very good for the botany story. Damned story. It's like singing opera: when it finally comes out it seems so effortless, but it's the hardest thing in the world.

The Naked Diner, etc.

So, I finished my short story called The Naked Diner! Thank God I got away from the sci-fi theme--it was headed in that direction, and that genre never works well for me because I'm not original enough. So, for this week, I have left (1) Benedetti translations, (2) finish reading Orlando by Woolf, (3) start screenplaying work on SOAP, and (4) work on some poems, if I can. Next week, botany story! (And continuing screenplaying work on SOAP.)

Here's a bit of The Naked Diner:

“Have you selected what you’d like yet, sir?” She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but it might just be because she’s nude. In fact, I’m sure that’s the reason, the mix of her brash nudity, showing all she’s got to give, and her polite stance, quiet voice, use of the word, ‘sir.’ I’ve never seen anything like that before. She’s the purest woman I’ve ever seen, because she’s got more to hide from me than any other woman. She gives herself last, her body first. And she’s blonde. I’ve always had a thing for blondes.

Well, I guess I'll get to the Benedetti later today. Right now I'm working on a short story called, 'The Naked Diner,' which is exactly what it means (although, with some sort of existentialist doubt, etc, black coffee, missing shoes..etc.). The Virginia Woolf is amazing, and will be a great thing to read for the botany story--so I'll have to get back to the botany story next week, as I imagine I'll be finished with Orlando by the end of this week. Work, as my boss is not here, is even less work than it even was. Which is why 'The Naked Diner' is coming along so smoothly, and why I might have a story and some translations done by the end of today.

Contests!

So, I sent out an excerpt from the botany book today, to Glimmer Train, which is a pretty presitigious literary magazine, but what I applied for specifically was 'The Fiction Open,' which actively looks for new writers as opposed to already-published ones. You can check it out at www.glimmertrain.org if you like, by becoming a member (which takes like, two seconds). What's great is that you can do it all via internet, and don't have to deal with annoying mail, SASE (self-addressed-stamped envelopes), manuscript formats, etc...Here's a little portion of what I sent--you can skip it if you want by just scrolling down the block-quote.

Before I could finish comprehending my thoughts on the playwright, Lilly opened my door, grabbed my hand, ran with me, and took my love in the middle of a golden field. It all seems very romantic, this much is true, but the romantic version doesn’t account for the scratches on my knees and dirt stains on Lilly’s dress, or for the kidnapped child sitting in my car, or for the fact that my wife and I were officially criminals. Quite articulate criminals, perhaps, but criminals nonetheless. All these worries disappear amidst an orgasm, but return when the rest of the world creeps back into your own.

Anyway, after that, I typed up a manuscript version of 'Red,' a short story I put together during January. Prof. Chaon had read that and loved it along with another story ('I'm Just Joking'). They're apparently both very Raymond Carver-y. I'm sending it out to the Writers' Forum Short Story Competition, hosted by Writers International Limited. (You can find them at www.writers-forum.org.) I'm very, very lucky that my parents support me on my decision not only to be a writer, but that they have always supported my decision to write. This makes it easier to have to pay entry fees, as long as postage fees are paid all the way to Dorset. I will also leave you a piece of 'Red,' and that will be the last for you. Au revoir.

When I touched the corners of her paper, I thought of the corners of her mouth. I could feel the heat of her thoughts as I traced the pen marks through the paper. But I didn’t unfold the thing.