I’m going to start a lo-fi band and call it Lucite Bathtub.
Archive for the ‘I Hate Writing’ Category
A Tweet
September 18, 2013Quickie
September 2, 2013Dear WordPress,
I may have asked you this before, but for the love of all things holy PLEASE remove this quote from your trove of inspirational sayings for writers:
“Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.”
It is attributed to one Marsha Norman, who ought to be seriously rebuked for composing such hooey.
Xoxo,
ID
Possibly the Sweetest Passage in All of Literature
September 2, 2013The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow’s edge. They were falling from all the trees.
One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip.
“It isn’t the way it used to be,” said one leaf to the other.
“No, ” the other leaf answered. “So many of us have fallen off tonight we’re almost the only ones left on our branch.”
“You never know who’s going to go next,” said the first leaf. “Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who’s going to go next.”
“The sun seldom shines now,” sighed the second leaf, “and when it does, it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again.”
“Can it be true,” said the first leaf, “can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we’re gone and after them still others, and more and more?”
“It is really true,” whispered the second leaf. “We can’t even begin to imagine it, it’s beyond our powers.”
“It makes me very sad,” added the first leaf.
They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, “Why must we fall?…”
The second leaf asked, “What happens to us when we have fallen?”
“We sink down…”
“What is under us?”
The first leaf answered, “I don’t know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows.”
“The second leaf asked, “Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we’re down there?”
The first leaf answered, “Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it.”
They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, “Don’t worry so much about it, you’re trembling.”
“That’s nothing,” the second leaf answered, “I tremble at the least thing now. I don’t feel so sure of my hold as I used to.”
“Let’s not talk any more about such things,” said the first leaf.
The other replied, “No, we’ll let be. But––what else shall we talk about?” She was silent, but went on after a little while. “Which of us will go first?”
“There’s still plenty of time to worry about that,” the other leaf assured her. “Let’s remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we’d burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid nights…”
“Now the nights are dreadful,” the second leaf complained, “and there is no end to them.”
“We shouldn’t complain,” said the first leaf gently. “We’ve outlived many, many others.”
“Have I changed much?” asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly.
“Not in the least,” the first leaf assured her. “You only think so because I’ve got to be so yellow and ugly. But it’s different in your case.”
“You’re fooling me,” the second leaf said.
“No, really,” the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, “Believe me, you’re as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it’s hardly noticeable and it makes you handsomer, believe me.”
“Thanks,” whispered the second leaf, quite touched. “I don’t believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you’re so kind, you’ve always been so kind to me. I’m just beginning to understand how kind you are.”
“Hush,” said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more.
Then they were both silent. Hours passed.
A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the treetops.
“Ah, now,” said the second leaf, “I…” Then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.
Winter had come.
3DNC Gems
September 1, 2013Sometimes you say or think of pure gems while feeling tortured and frenzied by words.
“A grasshopper is to a martini what a strawberry Frappaccino is to an espresso.”
“Medicaid fraud! That is gold.”
Plus, for good measure, a limerick I found in an old notebook. I guess I wrote it? But it might have been a collaborative effort between me and my brother:
Katherine Heigl
Oh, you stocky wench
Can I suspend disbelief
When you play a doc?
Three Day Novel Begins Anew
August 31, 2013Another one! I’m far less prepared this time. Far more nervous. Wish me luck, everyone! Here are some things that are on my mind as I begin:
The Collyer Brothers
This quote, from E.L. Doctorow: Asked about his writing routine, Mr. Doctorow smiled slyly and said: “Here’s how it goes: I’m up at the stroke of 10 or 10:30. I have breakfast and read the papers, and then it’s lunchtime. Then maybe a little nap after lunch and out to the gym, and before I know it, it’s time to have a drink.”
Mid-life crises
The Florida Panhandle
Sunday Blues
August 19, 2013When you’re like me and suffer from SBD (Sunday Blues Syndrome) usually the only thing that can possibly help is poetry. For the past hour, I’ve been crying over THIS SHIT (OMG) but considering the whole Internet is fawning over this man, perhaps I ought to make people branch out a little. Below is my good friend (and sometimes-subject) Matthue Roth’s poem, “The Other Universe of Paris Hilton.” Cheer up, Charlie.
There’s an alternate universe
where Paris Hilton has her shit together
and I’m a drunken heiress.
I show up fashionably late
to her party, having already
knocked back a few
and knocked out her bartender.
The reason why escapes me
but it would have been a great story
if you were there.
And, in this case
“fashionably late” means 5 a.m.,
Too late for the last guests to appreciate me
but not too late
for them to catch shards of glass
from the falling crystal
I crash into
on their way out.
I’m shaking my head,
crying all over the ruins
of the party
tasting salty vodka tears.
“Dammit,” I sniffle
“it isn’t fair.
I fucked up again
kissed Prince’s girlfriend at the afterparty
had a drunken orgy
with Christina Ricci
and 2 former Spice Girls
traded one of my six Swiss
bank accounts for coke
and did it off the roof
of my Hum-V
clocking ninety
off the chest of this underage nymphet.”
Then I proceed to lurch
a souvenir of the evening
all over the Persian rug
that Paris worked
285 shifts at Wal-Mart
to pay for.
Luckily,
she doesn’t notice.
She’s by the medicine cabinet
with an ace bandage,
Neosporin,
and some orange juice.
“Don’t worry,”
she consoles me,
“in another world
you’re an Orthodox Jew.
You pray to G-d constantly
You never break anyone’s heart
Girls don’t only want you for your body
People call to confide in you
at six in the morning
and you never, ever
get laid.”
“So in this other universe,” I say,
“what are you?”
“Oh,” says Paris,
brushing away a tear,
“don’t concern yourself
with that.”
Introvert Support Group
August 6, 2013I’m starting a support group for struggling introverts. Every Tuesday night between 6-9, introverts must be at home, alone in their beds. Other than that, no demands will be placed on them. You’re welcome for giving you a surefire excuse to get out of that cocktail party.
I KNOW I KNOW
August 5, 2013I still owe you a post on Iceland. This is really embarrassing and terribly uncharacteristic of me. Usually my blog is the only aspect of my life I have together? In any case, that is coming asap, I promise, but in the interim, two quick thoughts:
1. Why hasn’t anyone teamed up with the MTA to create an app where you can scan your Metrocard and find out the balance?
2. Wouldn’t it have been great if this review (which I think about probably twice a week) had been boring?
Texts Between Unproductive Writers
July 29, 2013ID: Need. To work. Cannot.
NG: Oh tell me about it. I haven’t actually written any thing for a whole month. I have mounting fear… going to to look at it tomorrow (?!)
ID: I reworked one paragraph for two hours. I now know what it feels like to be a hamster.
NG: I reworked one chapter for one year. Ditto.
ID: I LOLed at that.
NG: (I have an amusing visual right now btw)
ID: Me on a hamster wheel?
NG: Nibbling a piece of cheese between your tiny paws, actually.
Dear Gary Shteyngart
July 26, 2013
Dear Gary Shteyngart,
So a while back I came across a quote from an interview you did with Modern Drunkard Magazine, and was quite pleased for two reasons. First, I had no idea there was a periodical for my kind of people, and now have added it to my daily blog breakfast, and two, you were hilarious. I think I printed the quote, which began with, “The literary community is not backing me up here,” once before on this blog (#embarrassing!) I know, I know: I have a BLOG, but I promise I’m trying to be brave, and not enable the “antiseptic” status quo. Speaking of literary fisticuffs, I recently saw Zoe Heller, who reviewed Vagina poorly (who didn’t?) at a book party where Naomi Wolf was, and was thisclose to cornering them and saying, “Hey, have you two met?” I mean, I can’t be THAT worried about my image as a writer, because I’m not even on Twitter for chrissake, which is why I have to resort to blogging a plea for you to booze with me.
So then, a few weeks ago, I read that CRAZY fucking article you wrote for The New Yorker about how you dated this girl who also had another boyfriend and you got wasted and pounded on her door to profess your love (kinda) and then she fucking KILLED somebody, and I thought to myself, “Huh. Gary Shteyngart sounds pretty fun.”
(At this point, my boyfriend interjects, “He’s going to think you want to fuck him! Remember that other dude… he totally thought you wanted to fuck him!” By “that other dude,” he’s referring to a famous and enormously talented writer who wrote a book about a big ocean that I won’t name but wasn’t the Pacific, and when I kindly reminded my boyfriend that if the writer had thought that, then he clearly didn’t like the looks of me because he never made a move, my boyfriend felt sorry for me. Win!)
So I’m thinking that although your Modern Drunkard interview states that you have an Asian girlfriend, maybe my neighborhood, which is your psychotic ex lived when you two were dating, might bring back some painful memories. Perhaps you would prefer the excellent looking Wrong Number Lounge in Dyker Heights, Brooklyn? I passed by it while on a trip around Mafia hangouts with a former boss (long story, will tell you over vodka shots) and have been thinking about it probably daily in the ensuing years.
Jack. Pot.
Another great drinking town we could journey to is Baltimore. My favorite bar in Baltimore is called the Midway Lounge and is smack dab in the middle of strip club row and is run by a guy who named Roy who pours drinks 3/4 liquor and 1/4 soda. “I’ve never lost a customer in 30 years,” he says. When I return, which I do about once a year or so, he says, “Little one!” It’s not too far from The Sidecar, a punk bar that has deafening music (I know you aren’t into that) but also a shot called the Dead Nazi, which I suspect might be mouthwash and bourbon.
Although it does seem that you have a penchant for foreign liquor, and I also enjoy traveling the world via alcohol, so perhaps we can locate a liquer called Black Death? I just returned from Iceland, where this is the de facto national drink. I had it once in college, after which I spent hours trying to master the clapping rhythms in “Sinnerman.” Speaking of fun facts, did you know that as recently as 1985, beer was banned in Iceland, but Black Death was a-okay? I’ve also had something called kava in Fiji, but that’s not really alcohol so much as dirt and a little bit of homemade LSD probably made from manta ray piss and coconut.
I’m going to admit upfront that I haven’t read a lot of stuff you’ve authored––just a few Shouts & Murmurs, something about American Airlines sucking, and, of course, the aforementioned pieces––but if we meet this way, then I can always learn about your oeuvre from the drunken horse’s mouth, so to speak, which is always ideal. I can picture you rolling around on the street in Brooklyn, passersby aghast at the bearded man stranded on his back like a cockroach screeching, “First read Super Sad… Super Sad, True Super… HAHAHAHA… SUPER LOVE STORY!”
Thirsty when you are,
ID
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