Art isn’t therapy. We’re not here to work out our personal problems, we’re here to take those problems and completely exploit them to hell with how much we hurt. Actually, the more you hurt, the better.
another excuse for the lack of original text posts on this blog.
to get anything done, a writer only needs two things: a voice, and a way to express it.
moleskine or MacBook, iPad or pen and paper, all the tools of the world are compatible with pages ready for that life-changing landing. they’re available to everyone, really — for anyone who wants to give it a try.
so really, the only thing necessary is a clear, distinct voice.
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I’m one of those girls who lose my voice easily, and often. after a night of screaming at a concert or a weekend of drinking too much, I’ll wake up the next morning sounding like a shadow of myself — raspy, sore, affected by the bad decisions made just hours ago. maybe it’s because I was having too much fun or because I was trying desperately to do so…either way, my pastime of having a good time always causes me to lose my voice.
I also often lose it after trying so desperately to be heard: after a day of back-to-back campus tours, after an argument with a loved one inevitably blows up. I’ll let anger and information reign in the heat of the moment, without considering the volume of my screams or the repercussions or my words. maybe it’s because I think I make so much sense at the time and that I need to be louder in order to be effective…either way, my addiction to acknowledgment also causes me to lose my voice.
maybe the two are one in the same, actually.
it takes a long time to find it again, to get it back. to figure out what I usually sound like and what I want others to hear when I do choose to use it. it’s hard to remember what I used to naturally sound like anymore. I lose it way too often and for way too long, and one day, I’m afraid I’ll lose it for good.
and soon — if all falls into place accordingly — i’ll find myself somewhere in which the noise never stops. from morning show tapings to subway trains, there’s rarely any room for peace, quiet or rehabilitation. and my biggest fear is that, while among all the voices of all the generations and all the hopeful dreamers who dropped everything to speak, I’ll not only try so damn hard to be heard, but I’ll go into it all without everything I’m supposed to say, and everything I’ve always wanted to say, in every way that I ever wanted to say it. I’ll be drowned out and swallowed whole because I never gave myself a fair shot at the damn thing. because I didn’t prepare, because I didn’t foresee, because I didn’t shut the eff up when I had the time and place and chance to hone the one thing I’m moving to pursue.
I’ve been so incredibly distracted, chasing handshakes and page views and nods of satisfaction, and escaping to safe havens of slot machines and cigarette smoke. this is not what I wanted to sound like. this is not what I wanted to be doing. something’s wrong and has to change, and I’m too damn lazy, busy and greedy to do it.
but mostly, I’m too afraid that once I do, I’ll come up empty anyway. that I won’t find the voice I’ve been constantly saving for later. and that I never really had it to begin with.
i can’t go out. *cough cough* i’m sick.
Calling in sick with a harsh case of sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia just might work: while eating, your blood vessels suddenly began constricting and dilating, overwhelming you with unbearable headaches that feel like they’ll never end. It’s not contagious, but it’s definitely painful, and you should probably stay home today. Just in case.
Chill out, people—it’s just a brain freeze, a term coined by 7-11 to explain the pain triggered by drinking a Slurpee too fast. Whenever a spoonful of ice cream, the top of a popsicle, or something else cold (and usually delicious) touches the roof of your mouth, your blood vessels initially contract to prevent loss of body heat and then quickly expand and rush to your brain in an effort to warm up your palate. However, this also sets off pain receptors in your face, so even though you feel like that heavy pounding is rooted in your forehead (which is also how your brain falsely processes it), it actually isn’t. And contrary to popular belief, holding your temples, trying to warm them up with your hands and screaming about it to your friends isn’t going to help that ice cream headache one bit.
If the natural reaction won’t cure the pain, then what will? Bringing back the heat: roll your tongue into a ball in the back of your mouth so that the bottom of your tongue is touching that palate, cup your mouth to warm the palate with your own breath or sip something that’s served at room temperature. Or simply wait it out—no matter how much pain you’re in, a brain freeze rarely ever lasts longer than a minute. And as deadly as it feels in the moment, no one has ever actually died from “frozen brain syndrome.”
Just don’t tell your boss that.
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mock editorial submitted as part of a recent job application. and no, the mean girls reference was not the title i actually used.
Influence isn’t just a matter of copying someone or learning his or her tricks. You get influenced by writers whose work gives you hints about your own abilities and inclinations. Being influenced is largely a process of self-discovery. What you have to do is put all your influences into the blender and arrive at your own style and vision. That’s the way it happens in music—you put a sitar in a rock song and you get a new sound. It’s hybridization again. Hybrid vigor. It operates in art, too. The idea that a writer is a born genius, endowed with blazing originality, is mostly a myth, I think. You have to work at your originality. You create it; it doesn’t create you.
sobriety requires cutting back and moving forward.
Amidst an unremarkable job hunt and a discouraging self-score on a GRE practice test, I searched for editorial encouragement in my past writings, my pieces submitted as final projects in college. The ones covered in positive comments from my professors and stamped with the first letter of the alphabet on the last page of the draft.
And either teachers are taught how to lie through their teeth or they’re just naturally the nicest people on the planet, because I just reread my final article for my media writing workshop—all twenty pages of it—and it’s a load of crap. My eyes hurt from reading over so many cliche phrases (and rolling in reaction to them too), my ears sting from listening to an all-too-familiar “holier-than-thou” tone, my jaw hurts from dropping every time I thought I knew how to properly use an em dash. I can’t believe I thought I was ready back then…and I can’t believe how far I haven’t come since I proudly turned in that paper.
The way I read Ernest Hemingway’s words “Write drunk; edit sober” is both literally and metaphorically: spill absolutely everything you have in you on the page as if you’re completely wasted in a bar and talking your friend’s ear off with deep-rooted confessions and threads of your imagination. Then, after stepping away from it with a good night’s rest, a nutritious meal and a strong swallow of electrolytes, come back and edit with fresh eyes, usually accompanied with a heart of regret from revealing so much and shoulders that feel lighter because, against your normal judgment and due to your inebriated state of mind, you did so.
And I feel as if I’ve been drunk for so many years now, telling everyone I know about how I want to be a writer and tell the stories of those who cannot share them themselves. But I haven’t even been able to tell mine properly; I know how to spot AP style mistakes and I can edit essays with ease, but it’s the actual act of coming back to a piece for a second that’s my trouble. The decision to reinvest time and effort into my own piece of unfinished work is the brick wall I could not—or cannot—break past.
Because to do so might take more work than I’m ready for, more time than I anticipated, more money than I’ll ever see in a lifetime, with no guarantee that the end result is worth national publication or any kind of paycheck. Is it worth it, then? Is it worth the endless loan payments and the possibility of joining the 99%?
I don’t know, I won’t know until it’s over if it was worth it, but it’s up to me to get there and make it so, instead of letting fear and laziness stop me from trying. Here’s to hoping that it all works out in the end, whether on a masthead, in a cubicle or in front of a classroom…as long as I’m not indefinitely on the fence.
And as for that article, it’s a load of crap because its ending is inauthentic, sloppily slapped together minutes before its deadline. I’ll write up the rest of it once I’m done playing out this plot line; I guess it isn’t over just yet.
And over the years I have done a good bit of very subjective, highly personalized travel writing because I became interested in what we do and where we go to give our lives meaning when we don’t or can’t find it at home, when life there becomes too staid and certain and we have to create challenges—even dilemmas—for ourselves because problems are interesting and important and life without them is neither. It is the reason that people join the circus, I think, drink too much, drive too fast, jump off things, jump into things, climb things, run away from home, and paddle into the wilderness. It is also the reason they tell stories.
complete dissatisfaction with this blog.
I’m sick of making excuses for why I’m not producing the kind of work that I want to be. and im trying not to say “should be” because the word “should” states disappointment as a given; I’m not so much disappointed at the work as I am in the fact that I’m not even putting in the effort to realize any type of potential anymore.
i always said I would once summer came: the school year was way too busy with press releases and essays to even try and truly CREATE anything; yet since the seasons have turned (almost twice now), I’ve turned over no new leaves of promise or productivity in this endless endeavor toward some supposedly greater mission of helping a readership reach their own enlightenment one day. graduating from a department where the writing talent consistently becomes dispersed into law schools, public relations and content creation and in a world where editors are too expensive and headlines are the only words read, what’s the point?! did every student become disillusioned of the solitary writer’s life — captured so well in fiction and (falsely) glorified on film — that they’re volunteering to sacrifice their childhood pipe dream for a steady paycheck? a half-hour commute? an italicized recommendation on LinkedIn?
maybe, maybe not. maybe it’s just me. I’m only 21; to think it was possible to suddenly reach the peak of my potential at such a young age is not only absolutely ridiculous, but a telling sign of my immaturity. and plus, if it really did happen, there’d be nothing left for the rest of this awesomely blurry decade. and THAT would be disappointing.
featured on this week's Monster 5!
How are candidates differentiating themselves these days? For some insight into a popular resume-writing strategy that’s gaining some attention, read Ashley Lee’s resume advice on Jobacle.com.
guest post written for Jobacle on behalf of BeKnown scored me a spot on this week’s Monster 5, a link roundup on Monster’s blog for job seekers and company recruiters. woohoo!
a creative writer typing from LA & SD.
