Five Paragraphs

I always capitalize Writer’s Block. It’s just out of respect. You would think that the master craftsmen of the literary vernacular could have come up with something more suitable. Writer’s Block doesn’t even begin to cover it. Try Writer’s Nausea, or Writer’s Sense of Inevitable Doom. A block is the red wooden cube I selected to crown my Lego castle when I was nine. A block is an engorged mucus blob in your nasal passages. A block is mundane.

I can’t remember the point of entry. There was a before, and there was an after. In the before, I thought Writer’s Block was the dull sinewy ache I felt after practicing my cursive in second grade. Maybe Writer’s Block is like driving on US Route 684—you don’t remember how you got there, and you sure as hell don’t know how you’re going to exit to the left in the next 500 feet. Before, writing was just something I did. I wrote before I knew what writing was. One day, some day, I found out there were rules. I think it was the sandwich model, which later turned out to be the five paragraph essay. We were introduced to our new galactic overlord, the thesis statement. And then I guess it was over.

Wrapped up in this wet blanket was the idea that I was just doing it wrong. What I might have been doing wrong, I wasn’t entirely sure. My essays and papers and stories were met with good grades even after the birth of the five paragraph military dictatorship. Nevertheless, I was curious as to just what kind of alchemy was going on behind the closed screens of my classmates’ laptops. How many of them wrote an outline? Who knew their character arcs prior to the first draft? What is a character arc? Writing couldn’t just be watching my fingers play freestyle DDR for two to four hours as my paper appeared word by word in Times New Roman.

In order to accommodate longer written works, my writing style shifted in college. My paper ideas leaked all over my notebooks. It was a form of planning, and it was about as organized as my dorm room in the middle of move-in. The first paper forced its way out of me when, after several nights of panic and self-doubt, I threw down a few sentences as gingerly as if I were walking along a precipice. There it was, the thesis. The film Now, Voyager, which purports to reveal a more authentic woman in Charlotte Vale after her makeover, falls instead into regressive consumerist propaganda while reaffirming the aspirations of her male compatriot. The next paragraph was a bit more natural, and then it was like I had broken through a wall. I was writing about the ivory boxes Charlotte carved, and how they were manifestations of her authority and authenticity. I went into a writing trance, strung along by a growing euphoria I couldn’t begin to understand. The paper finished itself.

Writing has, since then, been one part blissful reward and three parts pure, unadulterated agony, each impossible to forsee. I am convinced that the ‘creative’ in creative writing is in fact a euphemism for the lengths I’ll go to make the words perform up to assignment standards. And I may be delusional—and I think you must be if you do this sort of thing for fun—but I’m not ready to give up. I don’t want to think about where I would reroute the buckets of energy I’m throwing at my Writer’s Block. Besides, Writer’s Block, once neglected, becomes lowercase writer’s block. And no one wants a neurosis with an inferiority complex.

The Flame

Being at home during the holidays is an exercise in futility. My days disappear in slipped stitches of late mornings and unscheduled afternoons. You know how you can never do anything after one PM on those days, and when you get up at eleven, it's already too late. I'm hardly lacking in things to do; on the contrary, I should be hard at work on a screenplay this very minute, or writing thank-you notes, or writing a condolence card for one of my favorite professors. Instead, I spend the morning reading, the afternoon lounging, and the evening watching movies. I drape myself over the day. In this way, I am always out of time. I am too busy to see friends, to work on the second issue of my film magazine, or to write angry letters to the editor about how much I hate Robert P. George.

I want to read each delectable book on my shelf at the same time, so I end up reading nothing but Jezebel and facebook. It's pathetic. My Danish teacher told me, "Americans just want everything at ONCE, don't you?" She's right. And by virtue of my desire to digest without chewing first, I end up learning nothing except how fast the holidays can go. If I am to keep my promise to myself and my readers--that is, my promise of WORKING to support basic human rights and progressive values--I really have to--

I was about to write "stop talking and DO something." But that's not entirely true. My talking by way of writing is meaningful in some respects. I hope that it has inspired someone out there to start talking, too.

Forgive the soapbox. I suspect I'll soon return to my standard writing voice, albeit with more of a conscious motive. Comments, as always, are welcome, along with suggestions.

Spark

Okay, I'm in a terrible mood right now. Know why? Because I keep reading things about my country that would just never fly in Denmark. Two women who are married in California have to suffer through a status shift every time they cross state lines. Denmark was the first nation to legalize gay marriage, in 1989. Then I read about some women bloggers chastising new mothers for not spending enough time with their children when they KNOW that the US doesn't mandate maternity leave, nevermind paid maternity leave. Denmark does.

The kicker was reading an old New York Times Magazine article on Robert P. George, "a Princeton University professor of jurisprudence and a Roman Catholic who is this country's most influential conservative Christian thinker", according to the magazine. He's the reason stem-cell research is still illegal. He's the reason my gay friends can't get married. I'm sure if it were 1864, he'd be against the black vote as well. FUCK that. I'm sorry. I'm just sickened more and more by the egregious civil rights abuses passed off as "moral codes" in this supposedly free country. Glenn Beck, Karl Rove, and Antonin Scalia, three of the world's most horrible human beings, are big fans of his.

I hate stupid conservatives. But I hate smart ones even more, because really, they should know better--and likely do, which infuriates me as I see them using their influence (with the help of buzzwords like "socialist", "traditional marriage" and "Un-American") to draw a fevered following. It's disgusting. It's immoral, and I won't stand for it any longer. Let's all do what we do best and channel our energies into action. If you write, write progressively. If you make art, paint progressively. Work loudly, or work quietly, but please please PLEASE work.

insert band here

Every time I think of a name for my band (read: me, five lines of lyrics, and garageband), it's already in use, according to google.

My first attempt was Runaway Suitcase, which I believed encapsulated both an escape from daily life and the contradictory desire to hold onto something familiar.

Then I found the page of a Christian Rock band--The Runaway Suitcases.

Skip ahead one month--today I was doing my homework/napping/listening to music (I am a serious multitasker) and I thought suddenly of the name Nonprophet

Of course it's already an atheist radio show, AND a band. So shit.

I'm still thinking, but if any suggestions come to me through teh interwebs, I would give you credit on the album or mention you in a song or something. Just keep in mind that probably no one will ever listen to it.

Oh, and the post title? That's taken, too.

Problem Solved

I just posted something. So there.

A Vague Apology

Here's a secret: I haven't posted anything on The Kitten Sandwich, my Danish blog.

That's not such a secret, I guess, if you've been checking it. But it's not for lack of trying. See, I'm limited by this things called "guidelines" and trying to find the right balance between deep and sad (and maybe a little depressing) and quirky and happy. In other words, I don't want to come off like I'm either on too much or too little Prozac.

The other thing is that I have to write, in great detail, about what I've been doing. I'm not so into that. As you know, I mainly write about stuff that's been on my mind/weird dreams I've had/brief anecdotes.

And the truth is, I'm kind of in hermit mode at the moment. I don't really want to leave my room, I'm slightly intimidated all the Danes in my kitchen (I never thought I'd write a sentence like that), and yeah, I'm a bit homesick. I blame it all on my comfortable bed, which I never want to leave.

Yesterday, I took a nap that turned into a three-hour energy gestation period that caused me to miss the boat trip and subsequent party that we new students were invited to.

BUT I DIDN'T DIE!!!!

I'm not a crazy person, I just remember what happened to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Grrrls and Guitars

Ever thought about starting a band? I'm pretty upset I didn't hear about Willie Mae Ladies' Rock Camp in Brooklyn until two weeks after it was over. I live, like, ten minutes from Brooklyn, and it was on a weekend. I totally could have made it.

But I didn't. And I still hear songs on my constant 8tracks.com stream (BitchTapes channel, sponsored by Bitch magazine, aka my dream job) and dream about forming my own little band with my own little friends and making my own little indie sounds.

Then I remember my innate instinct to throttle anyone who tries to collaborate on lyrics or melody. Maybe I'd better stick to myself. So a few weeks ago I birthed a band with the aid of pure narcissism. Isn't that so twee?

I can't tell you anything else about it for fear of copycats, but I will say that I've composed a melody and the words to exactly one verse. I've been at least a little productive, which is more than I can say for the freak nutjobs who mobbed Arlen Spector yesterday.

Seriously, though. Death Panels? Has anyone actually READ the Life Counseling Clause?

In other news, who noticed my new cornify button on the sidebar? Click it, I dare you.