Is Blogging Different?

Sorry about the abrupt cut-off last time.
It's not the easiest thing to talk about folks who I've hurt.

Here's something interesting, that I haven't really had to deal with too much yet, but then this week it was right up in my damn face.

Someone took (severe) issue with something I once wrote on here. It was anonymous in the strictest sense of the word, but I suppose with a little guesswork (and the actual desire, which I can't see any of you actually having), a person could figure out who the main players were.

Here's today's question: though a blogger blogging about her mundaniac life is perfectly within her rights to blow everything out there on motherfucking front street, is it still shitty? I mean, personal shit goes into short stories and essays of mine all the time. Is blogging different?

Soulless

I ripped this off from a site called Redbubble. Someone once told me that they should have known better than to date a writer, because "all writers have no souls." I've never forgotten that. This reminded me of that. I wish I could say I wrote it, but I didn't.

Never Date a Writer

Never date a writer because she’ll fictionalize everything. She’ll write about things you have done to her, or things you never did for her. She’ll write about how you never bought her flowers. Not once. She’ll say in well-constructed prose how the whole time you were together, she never came home from a long week to see a vase full of roses, or daises, or anything.

She’ll describe times you embarrassed her, like at a party. It was her party because she was leaving for three months, and all her friends were there to see her off. People bought her champagne, which was never chilled, but you drank it anyway and that was after you had had whiskey. She’ll talk about how you played strip poker with others. And she walked in to see your clothes bunched up on the floor, next to smashed cigarette butts. She’ll say how she had to cover you with a coat because all her friends laughed about it, and so did you. Then she’ll describe how later, when she didn’t want to leave you and she wanted to be held, she heard you vomit in the bathroom. She’ll say how she had to make sure you were still alive and how she saw your face pressed against the toilet and how your legs shook on the tile. And she said your name and asked if you were okay and you just stared at her through half opened eyelids and looked away. She’ll say she couldn’t make love to you and she had to stay up and make coffee, before you took her to the airport.

She’ll continue this emphasis on what you had done to her, by describing things she had found, but said nothing about. Like when she opened your wallet to slide twenty dollars inside, because you had bought her dinner. She’ll say how she sat on the hardwood floor where the heat couldn’t reach and she shivered. She’ll explain the condom she found, and how it was lubricated and had small writing on the package she couldn’t see because her eyes watered. She’ll talk about the note she found from a girl she didn’t know but you did because in the scribbled handwriting she could make out your name. You were asleep on the bed and she was on the floor. She’ll tell the reader how she held her legs and tapped her chin against her knee. And she decided that it’s not wrong for men to have friends, because all men have friends, so she closed the wallet and slept without a blanket on the floor.

She’ll later describe the moment in the bedroom when she sat at the foot of the bed and you kneeled in front of her. She’ll give you short choppy dialogue, so that you sound distant. She’ll tell the reader how you said it’s not that you didn’t love her but you couldn’t be with her and that it’s more your fault than hers, except she’ll tell it much more compellingly. She’ll describe how she choked on her tears and tried not to vomit right in front of you. And how she looked at the poster on the wall, the one she bought for you and how the different colors turned together when you spoke. She’ll say how the bed you had brought from your place felt like steel and she couldn’t move because her legs were welded there and she could only listen to you and watch the colors of the room turn gray.

And she’ll send you a manuscript and you’ll be on the couch where you both had sat and you’ll read every word. You’ll notice she didn’t tell things, like the time you had to see her because she had been sick with the flu and unable to get out of bed. And you ran from the campus to her apartment to make sure she was okay. You ran in the dark and there was so much snow that your legs began to freeze. And she won’t tell the reader how you didn’t have gloves or good shoes and you couldn’t see the patch of ice and you slipped. She won’t tell them you slipped. You twisted your ankle and your face landed in a snow bank. She won’t describe the taste in your mouth, how you pulled yourself up and limped up to her apartment. You used the key she’d just given you and she won’t say how nice it was being able to enter unannounced. And she won’t say how good it was to see her asleep and that you kissed her on the top of her head and then staggered home. She won’t move into your head and explain how much you really loved her. How you almost started to cry when you walked. You shook from the wind but felt safe because she was.

You’ll sit alone on that couch where you made love to her and you won’t move and the glass of whiskey on the table will not be touched. You won’t get up to turn up the lights and you won’t get up to use the restroom even though you have to. You’ll sit in the dim of your living room. And you will read.

What's "Not x365?"

I've had a few people recently ask me what Not x365 is. I'm not sure why people have been asking as of late...I've been doing it for months. Maybe more people read the blog, now?

Word.

Anyway, Not x365 is my version of The x365 project. It was started in 2006 by a dude named Dan Waber, the basic premise being that he would write about one person a day for 365 days in 40 words (because he was 40 years old at the time of the project). My friend Uncouth Heathen is the first person I saw do it, and I keep trolling her list to see if she's got me in there yet (she doesn't).

I, like many, was attracted to this idea, but I didn't like that I had to use a certain amount of words or that I had to do it every day. I also didn't like to use people's names. So I do the NOT x365 project, writing about whomever I want, whenever I want, in however many words I want. I never use people's names , but sometimes it's obvious.

I'll do one now...I haven't done one in a while. Heregoes:

#14: You're a hilarious friend of my sister's; you've become one of my friends as well. For some reason, I know the most embarrassing childhood story about you (it involves potato chips and underwear), but my favorite story is when I caught you wearing my skirt (that clearly my sister had lent you) walking down the main street of the town we grew up in, and when you saw me, you tried to hide. As if. Your wedding rocked! One of the best in recent memory, hands down.

Another in the Series

So since yesterday's theme proved to be a hit, I decided to post another two pieces of literature authored by kid-me.
Here's the first (and sorry, but no matter how many times I save them horizontally, they still post to this page vertically. Annoying. I don't want to re-scan them but I may have to).




So I'm pretty sure the drinks that "they" had were quite different than the variety that "we" partook in, but still I think it's interesting that I chose to take note of the drinking at all. Nowhere in this group of papers did I see anything about our actual trip to Canada.

Here's another.

Who played colorforms? Me and the baby? I had a friend that had a baby? I was taken to this person's house by someone other than my mother, who said that I had to be home for dinner? Why do the people in this illustration have creepy penciled-in eyes?

Thanks for reading, y'all.

More Me For You

Today's odd, and I'm having stream of consciousness thoughts. Sorry, fools, but that means you're going to have to deal with this in stream of consciousness form.

Last night I had a hurricane dream. I was in some city (I'm guessing NOLA), a giant hurricane was coming, and the people around me didn't want to leave the city. In the dream, I thought, "too bad this isn't just a dream. That'd be sweet." Normally when this happens, it's a sure-fire way to know that it is, in fact, just a dream. But when I woke up, I wasn't sure. And Boy was no great help at 3 in the morning, either. I woke him up to ask "is there a hurricane coming?" His sleepy response: "I don't think..." Please believe: when I fo-reals woke up this morning, the first thing I did was turn on the Weather Channel. I think NY is hurricane-free for the time being.

I'm going to write more here. Like, everyday-ish. I saw an old friend yesterday who advised me that the best way to get more traffic is to post a lot more.

I need to fix the job situation. I NEED to.

I'm getting my motherfucking permit this week. Again: NEED.

I saw another old friend yesterday, and we waxed nostalgic about (gasp!) high school. Specifically: the weird/rude nicknames everyone had for certain people behind their backs. I hate to say it, but this is a practice I've continued throughout my life (Bologna on the Floor, RoastBeef Mary, etc).

I am working on two projects right now. If I was a praying kind of gal, I'd pray that I keep the motivation for these two things going. If you're a praying kind of gal/not-gal, do it for me.

Cheers.

Statuses I've Thought About Using When Updating My FaceBook Page

Feel free to weigh in!

Monica...

• never knows how much to tip the pedicure lady.
• never knows what will make her happy.
• wishes she did.
• thinks The Dark Knight could have been a lot shorter.
• thoroughly enjoyed Heath Ledger's performance in said movie.
• is publicly sorry that she waited until the last minute to say she couldn't go to your party with you.
• means that sincerely.
• misses NOLA every day.
• has to deal with the fact that there's someone out there that she wants to speak to that won't speak to her.
• has not dealt well with that so far.
• has done wrong by RA.
• feels alternately wronged and loved by RG.
• would much rather be a cannibal than be Amish.
• is terrified by the fact that she has never experienced writers block to this degree.
• would like to reiterate that: really terrified.
• can feel alternately very close to or estranged from her friends, the same friends, all in one day.
• hates that.
• doesn't care if people say it's disappointing--she will never tire of wanting to meet Tommy Lee.
• also feels that way about Nikki Sixx, but has never heard that it was disappointing.
• is thrilled to pieces about the arrival of her new friend Little T, who gets more freakin' great all the time.
• thinks that if she has kids, she definitely wants them to play hockey.
• thinks that hockey cures (most of) what ails you.
• has learned that there are other things except...ahem...substances that can make her feel alive.
• would be lying if she said they didn't (used to) help.
• thinks that nothing feels better than laughing until it really hurts. Pains.
• has fallen a little more in love with FG this year.
• wants next year to fall into place a little more.
• is wondering why she needs to hide behind fake FB status postings to be "naked."
• needs recommendations for the next good book to read.
• really enjoyed Slow Man.
• wants you to submit to Fat & Happy!
• wishes she could decide.
• thanks you for reading.

Calling All Writers...

Hey Nekkid Readers,

I am starting a new literary journal with some friends called Fat and Happy. I know there are a lot of you writers out here - please submit your stories - and pass along to writer friends!

Here's the deal:

Fat and Happy is a fresh, new literary journal launching in Spring 2009. We are seeking to publish new voices and established writers. If you wrote a story, we want to read it.

We are currently looking for submissions for the first and second issues of Fat and Happy in the categories of literary fiction (up to 7000 words), narrative non-fiction (personal essay, 1500-2000 words), short fiction (3000 words or less) and art (must be black and white). We are not accepting any other types of non-fiction at this time.

Chosen entries will be published in Fat and Happy. There is no payment for publication, but authors will receive copies of the publication with their story in it.

Deadline for submissions is January 30th.

Submissions must be original works. Please email submissions to: fatandhappysubmissions@gmail.com.

Thanks. We can't wait to start reading.

Every Day, EmEffers.

So I decided to sign up for National Blog Posting Month, which starts in two days.

This means that if I do this correctly, I'm going to post every day during November.

Y'all are some lucky motherfuckers.

What an abysmal blogger am I!
I've been trying to write "for real," as of late, leaving not much time for this blogshit. Today, however, I feel like being naked in public, I suppose.

Lately I've been questioning the wisdom of living in NYC. I have had frequent jaunts to New Orleans this past year, and with every trip back, I miss it more. I know something has to push into gear this year. I don't know what, but I am taking next weekend to re-asses my life. Or maybe I'll just drink alone. This remains to be seen.

Just a minor crisis, nothing to be alarmed at.

I may be doing a reading next Saturday...y'know, if you're in the NYC area...

I'll come back later.

The Sun Never Shines on Orange Street (Yet Another in a Series of Plotless Anecdotes)

Again, many years ago, again, NOLA. I had just moved out of my apartment, and hadn't yet given much thought to what I'd do next, habitation-wise. I was squatting at N&C's apartment about twelve hours after they had moved out (of town). They still had a few days left on their lease and a mattress, so we all figured, no big deal, I'd stay until I couldn't. This rapidly changed when that very afternoon, a note had been left on the door while I was in the shower saying something to the effect of "please get your ass the fuck on out," to which I gladly complied.

My things were in storage, and as expensive as the storage place was getting, I figured I'd better find somewhere to live (other then friends' sofa's) or else I'd have to actually move into my storage locker. There was a place I'd heard about through work at the bar, but I'd never really taken it seriously. It was offered, and I think I pleasantly smiled or something.

The place was the former apartment of a woman that worked at the restaurant. At least I think she did. I knew she was a friend of Steve's, who definitely worked there, and I know sometimes she was in the kitchen, cooking things. Her name was Karen, but spelled really strangely. I think it had a "b" in it. She was vaguely spooky....long witchy hair, tall and lanky, she wore black jeans. I think Steve had to translate for her a lot, or translate her, actually, which was (again), strange, because she was born and raised in the USofA. She spoke in what sounded, to my admittedly-untrained ear, like tongues. This is what I knew of Karen with a B, except for the fact that she had an apartment that she had to evacuate by a certain day, at which time I was more than welcome to take it over.

I'd been hemming and hawing at first, due not only to Karen's weirdness, but also to the fact that she lived on Orange St. I didn't know precisely where her apartment was, but I'd driven through the area lots of times, and knew the street was reputedly sketchy. I was in beggy, not choosy mode at that point, however, so the next time I saw Karen I told her I'd be happy to move into her place.

Because most of my friends suck, no one wanted to help me move. As had happened more than once during this period of my life, my (silent) cry for help was answered by J.BoD, known as he was for grand (read: pointless) gestures (and horrible drug contacts). He came to pick me up from work one day, the cab of his truck full of ferns (I'd said I'd liked them once, but that's another story entirely), and drove me to my storage place. In front of my storage locker, a man I'd met once only as Nick the Stick waited with a paddy wagon already (somehow) filled with my stuff. Off we went.

I had the address in my pocket, but as we got closer to Orange Street, I started praying to anything holy that my key wouldn't work in the lock. Please believe: I have lived in shady areas of New Orleans before with no problem. I'd lived next to a crackhouse, and our neighbors were actually really sweet. I lived in an apartment on a street with truly nothing else on it, save for our little house; our landlord had seven fingers (total) and a dozen-plus cats. No shit. I was ok with shady. My friends and I were no strangers to unlit, crime-ridden streets. Orange Street was something else entirely, though. The street itself is surrounded on its four sides by projects, highway service road, nothing, and weeds. Anyone who's ever walked to the Quarter from "Corduroy Alley" (no, I'd never heard it called that, either--look it up), knows that there's a little area in between that you'd really rather not call home.

Once we let ourselves into the apartment, I realized that as bad as it seemed from outside, I would rather spend every single night on the front stoop than stay in there for another minute. Only the first front room could be used. There was a giant blue tarp covering the ceiling in the back room and the kitchen, I'm guessing to stop a leak (?). It was filthy, but filthy with dust that had clearly set up shop decades before. Under a tarped ceiling was a dead something being eaten by another now-dead something, which seemed to have died mid-mastication. Mmmm. I was scared to be alone for even a second, not because of what was outside, but what was inside.

I didn't lift a finger for the rest of the day, except to blow my nose mid-sobs. After I saw my things piled up ceiling-high in the front room, I made a soap-opera-like vow that I would never, ever, spend a single night there. Never, ever, in fact, set foot in there again. I may have said it out loud. I was dramatic like that at the time.

My things, however, were not as lucky as I was. While I spent the rest of the summer "housesitting" (couch surfing, again, but my friends were nice enough to pretend that I was providing this service as a favor while they were out of town...I rewarded each one with a fern), my belongings stewed away in the Orange Street apartment.

Eventually I moved into the paradise (comparatively), that was Constance Street. Still my favorite apartment, ever. MBG and I each had our own front door. We window decorated. Life was good for a very short period of time, until I ruined it by fraternizing with Satan's ice delivery guy. A story for another day.

We Swear, We Had No Idea...

I had no idea that there is a Chuck Klosterman "book" subtitled "85% of a true story." Or maybe I knew it in the back of my head, but I promise that's not where my blog title came from.

Reminds me of this:

New Yorkers (or maybe it was national, I don't know): do you remember, sometime in the early 80s, there was this Public Service Announcement about keeping prescription meds away from kids? Well, the pill puppets that starred in this PSA, in all their creepy, pastel-blue, falsettoed glory, had a little song. It went like this (at least, part of it did):

This is serious (serious)
We could make you delirious (delirious)
You should have a healthy fear of us
'Cause too much of us is dangerous.

Sound familiar? It's Dangerous by Busta Rhymes. I saw an interview with Busta (I call him Busta) a bunch of years back, when he was called out on it. And totally jovially and unapolagetically, my man just laughs and said that he must have heard it, but forgot, and then a zillion years later was writing Dangerous, and thought he came up with it himself. I don't totally buy it, but part of me sort of does, you know?

Kind of like the Klosterman thing.

I really, really enjoy italics, colons and semicolons.
Enjoy