Just a little essay I whipped up while trying to resist the urge to light everything on fire. I am almost thirty and I think I’m failing at adulthood. Also I am afraid- of everything. I get more time to write and suddenly the “publish” button becomes a creature of nightmares. Here is an analogy about writing, looked at through the lens of baking- two things I usually love but on occasion make me want to die. Or at least get melodramatic. Or get tequila even though I don’t drink, but sometimes I feel like iiiiit. More on that later.
Writing your first novel is sort of like baking a cake from scratch.
And you’ve never even set foot in the kitchen. You’ve seen it from a distance, possible touched things within, but the inner workings are as complicated as your friends home- brewed D&D/Dune crossover campaign that’s lasted five years.
So, you start with the idea- you know you want cake, but you aren’t even one hundred percent sure what sort of cake you want. This leads to research, books read, blogs scrutinized, Chuck Windig cornered, kidnapped, questioned, then Neuralized by Agent J and released, and three weeks of making a Pinterest board; slowly, you narrow it down. You eliminate the sort of cakes you don’t like, which, if you’re like me, is not many, and you are left a with a bunch you do. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that funfetti box mix and frosting combo though- that stuffs legit. Continue reading
Why does it feel as though the light is dimming, when it should have flared it’s brightest?
Why does it feel as though we’ve been betrayed? We step out into a world unchanged, and yet… I feel as though we’re on the edge of a precipice. The apathy of an older generation will kill us all, the apathy of our parents generation, their ignorance, their mistrust. They never used to have to care about what lay beyond the edge of their narrow sight, it seems they were raised on backyard baseball games and shooting tin cans, riding their ten-speed to a corner market that is kinder to them in their memories then it ever really was.
Like standing on the edge of forever, taking that deep breath before the plunge, I can see the worlds end, I can see the galaxies unfurling, feel them in my blood, the slow shift of dark matter, holding us together, tearing us apart. Every ounce of my being vibrating with potential, with lessons learned, absorbed, drawn in like a cloak around me.
Summer brings with it the weight of memory, no other season carries burdens such as these. A tumult of too long days and nights too hot for rest. This county is haunted by summer, in every dizzy drive through the blazing canyons, in the drowned bodies in the flooded rivers, athirst by autumn. In the siren song of fire trucks and patrol cars, and the dry dance of star thistle and burr.
Every heartbeat shakes my whole body, the veins breaking lose from this fragile cage of bone and flesh. I’m a vibrating cord, a whip snap, the crack of lightening, the flash, the promise of flame. I am disaster and the eye of the storm, sitting here with acid dripping from my fingertips. And no one knows, no one feels this, the shaking, the fire, the storm.
We’re driving down from the hills in the summer heat, the valley a green haze below us, the Sutter Buttes in the distance. My hand is resting on your arm, all angles and smooth skin sliding onto your wrist, my scars and your freckles. Our respective pedigrees, the gifts our families left for us, laid out on our flesh.
There’s a gay man singing through our stereo, I cry along, needing his rich wail to bring me down, hold me here, in this moment, with you. He sings of a Gay Messiah, and I feel the irony in my core, sending chills in the summer heat. How beautiful this world is, how far we’ve come, how much further we have to go.
I think about how timid I am with my words now, how the years have stemmed the flood yet made the waters no less fierce. My frustration leaves me tongue tied, there is so much I have to say, but I feel so small and irrelevant.
I’ve got a problem, and while it’s a common one, and even enjoyable, it is, nonetheless, a problem.
Too many people give and/or lend me books.
I’m sure you’ve been there, if you are one inclined to reading and writing, you often find yourself in conversation with others who enjoy those things as well. You get excited, exchanging genres, authors, and titles you found mutual enjoyment in. Loving to read is a wonderful gift, one that only those whose minds open up to a page of well written prose would understand.