Things I've Done: January

I meant to do this on February 1st, but I couldn't squeeze it into my busy YouTube-watching writing schedule. I'd like to make a habit of listing my menial monthly accomplishments not only to shore up my self-esteem, but also for posterity (but mostly for the self-esteem). Here's a list of things I did in Janurary.

• Finished editing my sci-fi novel.
• Began an outline for a new sci-fi/horror novel.
• Constructed the most beautiful spreadsheet in history to keep up with the ever-growing list of literary magazines that might publish my short fiction/poems. Seriously, it's a work of art. Mr. Excel would weep proud tears of honor if he saw it.
• Quit smoking.
• Started smoking.
• Quit smoking.
• Raided my grandma's vintage pattern collection. My dream of dressing like Joan from Mad Men inches toward reality.
• Realized that I am not a size 8 by 1963 measurements.
• Fashioned a mostly functional skirt, hemmed the sleeves of a cute jacket, and cut out the pieces for another skirt. My dream of sewing all my own clothes inches toward reality.
• Convinced my mother to look for travel nursing jobs in California (finally, finally, finally!). 

Pens Pinned Together

Pens pinned together erupt fountains of a similar tale.
Inky parallel paths swirl and waver outside the papered lines.
The beginning is a universal point shared by all.
But their trails highlight tales stained by distinction.

If I Do Not Follow

Forgive me if I do not follow
Your journey in real time.
It is not a slight,
But a selfish endeavor
To retain my voice.
Your originality frightens me.
The modest consolation
I offer you
Reveals the compulsion
To fail myself.
My beer-stained travels
End in your grotto.
I stalk and spy,
Dining on the letters
And colors in your conscience.
Indulge my anonyminity,
For I observe and listen
In my invisibility cloak
To maintain your greatness.

Yellow is the Color of Gold

In my high school days, I wanted to be a journalist.  That was ten years ago, before the Internet became the most reliable source for breaking news. The 24-hour news networks already overpowered written print, but Twitter and the endless bombardment of real-time updates were in their infancy. Still, I saw a noble aspect of being the person who delivered accurate, well-researched stories on current events.  I entertained fantasies that I might be the next Bernstein or Murrow, extracting well-constructed truths to inform and provoke the thoughts of the public. The Internet largely killed that dream as the journalism world turn its back solid stories to focus on tabloid-shaming scoops and privacy-invading details.

Yesterday, a friend and I attended the 11am showing of The Hobbit. At ten, we stopped at a McDonald's for breakfast. The flat screen televisions inside were tuned to CNN, and the network's in-depth coverage of the Newton, Connecticut school shooting was in full swing. The ticker offered few details about the number of victims, but journalists were stationed at the school, killing time until the police offered more information.

After the film, we stopped at an IHOP for lunch. I was beyond surprised to find a flat screen television in the bathroom, also tuned to CNN. While my friend and I visited Middle Earth, details of the shooting infiltrated the public. The death count was up to twenty-six, but the identity of the killer had not been announced.

Blank Pages in my Bathrobe

I am lost without my looming, wordy novel to keep me company. For the past three months, I sat for hours each day, talking with my characters, preferring the world they inhabited to my own. I created obstacles for them and myself. I transcribed their feelings and followed them on their journeys until, together, we approached the end. They carried on, dancing their way through their imaginary lives, and I stepped back. The lights faded out on the scene, and I faded with them.

Now I am my novel's disgruntled ex-lover, who feels that we broke things off long before our relationship ran its course. I sit around in my bathrobe, thinking about my novel, too depressed to get dressed because what's the point of the world anymore? How can I go on without a never-ending project to tinker with and perfect, picking at the novel's shortcomings and insecurities until our once-happy relationship is reduced to arguments and bouts of self-loathing?