The first thing that I’d like to do? Is to chug it it when it comes to working tonight instead of sipping it politely over the course of nine hours. Too bad I can’t.

So I found out some devastating news this morning. Part of me is wondering how I’m managing not to simply freak the dickens out, but I’m kind of sick and tired so it might just be taking its sweet time sinking into my processing cortex. But, here it is: The UC lady told me today, for the first time, mind you, that the only way I can test out of my prerequisite French classes? Would be to go back in time and take the equivalency test before I started taking my current French class. Groan.

I do have a little hope though. I’m pulling a “When Bank’s Compete, You Win” type scam, or at least trying awfully hard to. I emailed Kent State and asked them if I could test out of my French classes with their equivalency. Of course, it will probably be about mid-January of 2011 before I hear back from anyone, but ya gots to do whats ya gots to do, eh?

Sigh.

The encouraging thing about life of late though is two fold. First, I’ve worked a little on my story for Writer’s Group and it is sucking much less than I thought it might be at this current state of development. And, second, I’ve found a really good friend in James Scott.

Maybe it’s the name, and all us Scotts are bound to stick together. Incidentally and on totally unrelated tangent I looked up my name on BabyNames.com and found out that apparently I’m a Pure Sea Of Bitterness Of Scottish Descent. Not completely encouraging. But back to James. It’s nice to have someone you can call up in the middle of the night because your jerkwad sister and brother are weenies and “have to sleep” because they “have work in the morning” and say, “Hey! This is what I heard on Christian Talk Radio tonight. Whattaya think?”, and have the person not only not say, “You?! Listen to Christian Talk Radio?! EWWW!” , but even be able to have an insightful discussion about it with. It’s even better probably when that person can quote almost verbatim the prologue to The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, which of course he can. All in all, a specimen that I wasn’t expecting but that I appreciate nonetheless.

I can’t wait to get some more work done on my writing piece. I think that I’m usually alright when it comes to pacing, and I think I might even be slightly better than alright when it comes to character development. There’s probably more insight given to the internal lives of people in my stories than most readers even have about themselves. It’s the plot lines that I really bomb on. There’s usually just not enough going on. Not that a story has to be full of explosions or Nazis and vampires running around everywhere, but it’s unrealistic that this is all there is to someone’s life. No one sits around reflecting constantly probably unless they’re living alone in the woods  or are terminally depressed. But with a little ridicule and assistance from my Writer’s Group compatriots, I think I just might be able to pull this one out of the toilet.

Also, I’ve found out that, surprisingly enough, part of what I love about writing is the actual doing of it. I love looking at the screen while my fingers race around and watching my ideas trickle themselves out, line after line. Part of me even loves writing emails for this reason. I know, I’m a freak. And, I probably should have been a piano player.

There’ s nothing noble in

Being corpulent and spent.

Looking like a moody marshmallow or maybe

A sad sack of potatoes,

Who really cares?

You’re too broad to be narrow like this.

But despair looks lovely

On the slender and the slim

Who sit with bony knees uplifting bony elbows

With a board flat abdomen that curves,

The head in the hands is only the point that comes at the bottom

Of the body’s question mark.

And the question is:

What’s the point?

]]> http://ubermarianne.com/2009/04/16/sad-sack/feed/ 3 http://ubermarianne.com/2009/04/11/wiki-wiki-word/ http://ubermarianne.com/2009/04/11/wiki-wiki-word/#comments Sat, 11 Apr 2009 17:12:12 +0000 Marianne http://ubermarianne.com/?p=462

So, guess what? Delightfully  I got my french textbook finally. The joy of this most recent conquest almost caused me to pirouette as I bent down and picked it up from my doorstep. Giggling, I peeled back the tape on the package and looked inside. I drew out the mass of pages and opened it to the number for my assigned homework, and-

And-?

Crap! I ordered the wrong addition.

Yes, I can use it for studying for my proficiency test but as far as keeping up with the class, doing my homework, and not looking like a pothead in front of my professer? Not so much. But the correct book is on it’s way and hopefully will pull my fat out of the fryer at just the last moment. Crossing my fingers.

I also got a call this week about working the full time counselor job at the WalkIn office of the place where I pick up shifts at the shelter. The only problem is that I thought I’d missed the boat so I didn’t work around the idea of a nine to five when planning my summer classes. Mrrrgh. But it’s just one more chance for me to try and pull a rabbit out of my hat, or, if you will, a miracle out of thin air.

In other news, I’m working on my new piece for Writer’s Group. I can’t entirely say that it’s one that I truly love and that others will find it life changing. But it’s a process and till I think of something that will fit in the catagories I just mentioned, it will just have to do. I think that it’s valuable to take it and revise and edit and work and work and make it great. And I figure that once I can do that with something kind of mediocre, I should have no trouble with the fantabulous novel that I’m going to light the world on fire with. We’ll see if my suppositions are correct.

I really, truly, deeply want to be a good writer. And all allusions to Savage Garden aside, I believe that if I work enough I can do it. And I want to praise God with my work. I want to write what he would have me to. I’m just still trying to figure out exactly what that is. My sister says that to write good Christian fiction, there’s something of a light hand that has to be applied. I agree. I just can’t do it yet.

Wish me luck! . . . and, buy my book when it comes out.

I should turn my TV off. I’m supposed to be writing.

But before I do, can I just say that I hate those Above The Influence commercials? They’re about as bad a those anti-smoking public dramas with wind up baby dolls and people trying to mail cigarettes. There’s so much information out there about why smoking whatever it is is a horrible plan with devastating consequences that if someone has already decided to do it, I don’t see how a commercial is going to make much difference. It isn’t as if someone shows up in an NA meeting and says, Yeah, I thought my life was great, but then I saw this PSA about a little boy wearing a million T-shirts and it made me ask myself, could THAT be ME?

Really? When you’re under the influence of drugs you act like a jerk? Didn’t your girlfriend just tell you that yesterday? Really? Blowing smoke in babies’ faces is bad for them? And you’re telling me that the tobacco industry KNEW this the whole time?! Wow. So did everyone.

I know I sound con- and pre-tentious. Maybe I’m just bitter these days. But these messages seem so obvious and therefore a waste of time. A way for people to feel like Something Is Being Done when really nothing is being done at all. I hate the model of, What should we do about this huge problem? We could either become responsible fellow people and talk with specific at risk individuals that we personally know and partner with them and assist them lovingly and thereby reach fewer people perhaps but deeply, or we could make a silly commercial and reach everyone without even scratching their surface. I think we have a winner!

Sigh.

I’m being complainxious. Sorry.

There’s a manic spirit of summer drifting in and making everyone wanting to Do Something, and I’ve decided not to fight the current this year. I will Do Something too. In fact, I’ve already got a head start, as I’m doing my laundry today. But maybe that isn’t enough. Yes, I’m almost certain of it.

Talking with my brother over the last couple of weeks has given me the inspiration and even the method of my new madness. He has a friend who did something called “NaNoWriMo” last year. And what might this wonderful anacronym refer to? Only National Novel Writing Month!!! Basically the idea is to crank out a 50K word novel within thirty days, aka the month of November. But check it, readers. For those insane enough that one month of sleepless nights spent beating their heads against the typewriter, begging, begging, begging for something, anything to occur to them, still leaves them with the shakes? There is apparently a secondary iditarod of fiction, namely JulNoWriMo (Psst! It takes place in July).

And I? Am! SO! DOWN! (memo to me: work on puctuation.)

If I can pull it off, it will be wonderful. Not that I’m expecting to be published by the end of the year with this or anything. That’s still a long way off probably. The Trick is though, I think, to write and write and pour your soul out onto a page again and again till you can string together about two hundred and fifty of them. Edit it to death. Take out that goopy sidenote about how snow reminds you of the cotton beards little kids make for Santa Claus and how it comforts your heart. Hand paint a cover and have it bound. Then? Throw it away. Do this about eleven times and your next book might just be alright.

At this rate, after about six years of Jul-and NaNoWriMos I should be a decent writer. Take that, mid-thirties!

Anyone want to jump on the band wagon with me????

So I’m off Simon and on to modern classic literature. My sister was kind enough to accompany me to the Half Price Book Store this afternoon and help me peruse the A-D aisle for a sampling of Adams, Balzac, Collins, and DeLillo, to name a few. I even procured a copy of A Clockwork Orange, which I’m already almost certain I’m going to hate.

It may seem like a “nuveau riche” thing to do (“Give me one art, please!”)  but I want to have my very own custom made party tray of great authors of the past two hundred years or so. Not because they’re interesting. Not because I like them. But because I don’t know if they’re interesting or if I like them. I find it amazing that someone can write an entire book simply critiquing the characters, plot, and writing style of someone else’s novel. I want to bite into a beefy, substantial novel like that.

If you know me, you’ll know that my livres d’amour are usually either feminist diatribes, cross cultural expositions, or moving coming of age tales. I love Margaret Atwood and Alice Walker. I see a copy of Sula or HerLand and my eyes tear up. When I read the Yellow Wallpaper, I literally giggled with glee at the end. I know, I know, it’s pathetic. But that’s what my natural frequency is tuned to. But this new venture is a study, like my own personal seminar. I want to be a good writer. I want to understand the intricacies of the novel. I want to learn.

And that’s something that probably invariably happens. The schoolgirl turns into the scholar. The child longs for excitement, the adult values the steadiness of discipline. And discipline is a very good thing. Discipline itself still pretty exciting for me though, I must admit, since I haven’t been at it that long. But I imagine it is here to stay: that recognition that I don’t do what is fleetingly pleasant but what continually draws me closer to becoming the woman I want to be.

Can you believe I got all that from a trip to the bookstore???