Wednesday, 02/16/05 - 5:08 pm.
For the first time in the year, I'm complaining about the weather. Yes, kids, it's THAT time of the year again, that lasts...well, most of the year. Hot, annoying, sweaty afternoons that knock you down to the floor and leave you there melting in agony, and force you to take naps that put you in a bitter mood.
Usually I'd make myself feel bad for taking a two-hour nap. But this time around I stuck to that old Lennon saying, time you enjoy wasting is not wasted. And slept some more. I'm going to blame my stillness on the creative process: I am trying to make a story for the contest; I am thinking.
And yes, it could be working. I went to bed at 2 am this morning, not because I was talking to Joe but because I found this idea I wanted to develop. It's the most I've written so far: two pages (meaning, the two sides of a sheet). But, say, what's the minimum lenght? twenty five pages.
I can't keep someone alive beyond one page, was my realization and my complaint last night. I kill everybody when I'm near the bottom of the page. Like, there was this writer with a fixation for spiders and the housekeeper had zero tolerance for them so she killed herself by putting her head in the oven. I liked the story, because it contained the word Argiope bruennichi, a type of spider. But I got to the bottom and the story died along with the lady. The writer just kept writing about atheist angels.
Ok, well, what does solidarity tell you?, Joe asked, after I'd vent my frustration, and after we'd had an argument about a freaky Paul McCartney picture in which HE DOESN'T HAVE A NOSE!!! (Joe tried to point it out with Paint, but there is no nose...and anyway, the guy is dead). Solidarity...I recalled the three axis -values- for the (TWENTYFIVE PAGES!) story: solidarity, friendship and tolerance.
Solidarity: euthanasia.
Friendship: collective suicides.
Tolerance: to spiders.
I'm not very creative, you see. And that's why I'm trying to enter the contest. I want to prove myself I deserve to be called a writer, and that I have enough mind to create something based on a prompt. Apparently, I can't, but I'm still not giving up, I still have a couple of weeks...and two, three right now, pages about a guy dying in an ambulance. I seem to have a facility for writing in first person. I am so goddamn egocentric.
I kind of write like John Lennon. I'm not witty, of course, but it's pretty much the same odd style. From 4th grade to junior high I wrote these bizarre, pseudofunny books, and years later I found out there was a writing Beatle. It kind of pissed me off his line, "they lived happily until they died", because I'd used it before, and now the world was going to think I got it from him. But that's nothing, really. If his books hadn't come along I'd have felt lonely in the world. Hey, he did it, I can do it, too (nevermind he IS a Beatle and I am not...and a dead Beatle at that). But I wish I could also write something serious. You know, for a change.
So, on happier subjects, who wants to hear about Joseph today? I do! I am in love with him....well, that's all. On the other hand, I already talked about Joe in this entry (oh, hey, I may love him a little, too), so let's just stay ankle-deep on this.
This morning I woke up to a scandal on national TV. My dad was a journalist -back in his day- and he has all these journalist friends, and they're always on the news. My parents were out for a walk at 7:30 am so I picked up the phone. *This certain, important man* has been fired arbitrarily, he was about to denounce what'd happened and the network cut him off. That's the tip of the iceberg, and I just realized I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say sometimes this country makes me want to kill myself.
See? I'm going to kill myself at the bottom of the page, too. Oh, but I won't, really. I have yet to write a story and bake a cake tomorrow.
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