tea-and-swashbuckling:

Oh look, I make pretty books.  Oh look, you can buy them here:

http://www.etsy.com/shop/teaandswashbuckling

They fly, these two boys, atop a glowing Brooklyn tenement skyline.  Leaping recklessly, over bricks and pipes and paraphernalia, around Mr. Goldfarb’s carrier pigeon coop (they coo horribly in fright), and from building to building like untethered marionettes. 

The pursued, Davey Masterman, is wearing an Indian headdress crafted from bits of string and scraps of cardboard he found behind Miller’s General.  In the dusk time light, his tow colored hair is alight like a faeu boulanger.   The cellulose feathers float like ramshackle streamers, weightless.  The pursuer, Bobby O’Malley, age 10, of apartment 12B, screams “BAMBAMBAMBAM” as he fires his formidable index finger and thumb gun.  But his imaginary bullets miss their target.  Davey looks back, laughing, “Boy, you’re a terrible shot!”  “Oh, you’re gonna get it now, savage!” threatens Bobby as he pushes off a small parapet, pouncing fiercely in the direction of his antagonist.  Davey dodges the attack by taking a sharp left in the direction of the neighboring building, the one that houses Mr. O’Malley’s pub.  He claps his cupped hand against open maws to make the hollow “awohwohwoh awohwohwoh” of comic books injuns.  In a show of contempt for gravity, Davey thrusts himself into the air, and lands atop the ledge of Mr. O’Malley’s building, practically three feet up and another two over from his origin.  His triumphant yip is met by the terrible thud of a human body against brick. 

A quantum of time and it is over.  Then there is silence that stretches on and on.  Then the sirens come and go, the voices of authoritative men, the wailing of Mrs. O’Malley, the chattering of concerned onlookers, the gossiping of vultures.  Davey stands perched on that ledge long after the sun has set, eyes clenched shut, his puerile headdress blowing in the wind absurdly. 

If I don’t open my eyes, he won’t be gone.  If I don’t open my eyes, he won’t be gone.  If I don’t open my eyes, he won’t be gone.  

(The writing on this blog belongs to me.  Please do not take it.  Please do tell me what you think.)

via stcroiss

Prior to assigning a lengthy writing project, a rather thoughtful professor I once had informed me of the etymology of the word essay:  it is rooted in the French verb essayer, which means to test, to try, to make an attempt.  So, with that definition in mind, an essay should be less about getting it right and more about going out into the void and taking a stab at an idea.  As someone who is seldom sure of anything, but grapples with everything, I find this definition comforting.  I try to hold it in my mind with each new writing project… which will inevitably fail at least on some level.  Alors, j’essaie.  And I will continue to try until I learn to fail better… to fail spectacularly!    

Here’s to trying and new beginnings, to imperfection and new blogs I will inevitably neglect.  Or maybe not that last bit.

This is so heartwarming.  Perhaps there is hope… even for me (us?).

Dear NaNoWriMo Author,

Is procrastination a problem for you? Really? You think you have a problem?

Here’s procrastination: The organizers of NaNoWriMo asked me three months ago to write this pep talk, and I’m only writing it now, after blowing three deadlines, after avoiding ten reminders. I was asked to write a pep talk for NaNoWriMo, and I’m actually writing it after the month started. So whatever procrastination problems you have, I probably have you beat. I’m the worst, and I’m getting worse every day.

It’s a very strange thing, because we all think writing should be fun. That is, when I was temping through most of my twenties, wondering what it would be like to write for a living, hoping for such a life, I thought it might be pretty sweet. I thought if I ever got to write for a living, I would feel pretty lucky, and that I would be so appreciative that I would bound out of bed every day and, like a goddamned adult, I would write as much as I could every day, and get work done in a reasonable amount of time. Again, like an adult.

Instead, I need, on average, 8 hours sitting on my writing couch to get one hour of work done. It’s a pathetic ratio. I stall, avoid, put off and generally act like someone’s making me do some terrible job I never wanted to do. I blow pretty much every deadline I’m given.

Just like I blew the one for NaNoWriMo.

But then, when things are late, and I’m feeling like an idiot, and I feel like I’m letting down someone (like the people at NaNoWriMo, and you), I finally dig in and get started. And then I write, and I write in a fury, and I even, sometimes, enjoy writing.

And that’s why I love NaNoWriMo. It gets you started. It gives you the impetus to finally start, and/or finally finish. Knowing there are thousands of others out there trying to do the same, who are using this ridiculous deadline as cattle-prod and shame deterrent, means goddamnit, you better do it now because you know how to write, and you have fingers, and you have this one life, and during this one life, you should put your words down, and make your voice heard, and then let others hear your voice. And the only way any of that’s going to happen is if you actually do it. People can’t read the thoughts in your head. They can only read the thoughts you put down, carefully and with great love, on the page. So you have to do it, goddamnit. You have to do it, and you can step back and be happy. You can step back and relax. You can step back and feel something like pride.

Then of course you’ll have to revise it ten or twenty times, but let’s not talk about that yet.

Write your goddamned book now. The world awaits.

D

via nevver