Quarter-Life Crisis

The shitty thing about being an English major is I am constantly confronted by poets and writers and characters that have achieved more in their short, hedonistic lives than I
probably ever could in twice as many years. You know that dumb phrase "more in his little finger..."? It's like that. It feels horrible.

I realize it's a little outrageous to try to compare myself to such great people as Byron or Keats, but I'm mad right now. I mean, just look (to the left) at that suave, tuberculosis-suffering devil. He totally knows he's got it going on.

It feels so silly to sit in school learning about them rather than being out in the world, writing on napkins in dingy bars or traveling through South America while keeping a photo/doodle/poetry journal. I am literally staring out the window AT the glorious LA sun rather than running around in it and getting grass stains on my diary pages. That is the peak of privleged-suburban helplessness, I swear. It's like facing the fact that you will never amount to much of anything.

We talk constantly in class about the "script for happiness" that disillusioned writers spend so much time talking about. And we bring in examples from our own lives about how it's like we are all trying to attain the unattainable model of happiness and success. But I don't think for a second that any of us really lets it sink and settle in the dark places of our

hearts. I mean, I totally want to write or do something ground-breaking, life-changing, movie-making (see to the left (Ben Whishaw, you sexy sexy man)),* or limit-traversing instead of sitting inside discussing those that have already done so. At the same time, though, I can feel my own extremely disenchanting lack of talent or drive. I want it, yeah, but I can't even tell you convincingly if I have the ability to ever achieve it, let alone before I'm 21.

When I was about 12-14, I found this horrible Vampire Fiction book (pictured here)

about this girl who follows a dangerous-looking, shady man back to his mansion in the mountain. And the next thing she knows, HE'S A VAMPIRE (marginally better than Twilight, fer shoor). She then becomes his blood bank and house servant. Eventually she kills him because she's a vampire slayer. Anyway, the point of bringing up this badly written book is because the author, Amelia Atwater-Rhodes (also pictured somewhere below (doesn't she look just like Willow from BtvS?)),* apparently wrote her first novel at the age of 14. You know what I was doing when I was 14? I was reading Meg Cabot, mooning over fictional boys, and rocking Docs, Hot Topic witticism shirts, and glasses. I had no publishing aspirations. I was TYPICAL. Well, I was typical for my misfit-type. But I wanted to be wonderful. So, I sat down at my desk, with my legal pad and pencil. And I strained and strained and strained for a story idea. None came instantly to me so I decided I had no writing talent, and I went to go watch Inyuasha. How pathetic is that? What a sheer sign of my lack of drive, talent, and movie-worthy ability. Even at a young age I knew I was doomed for nothing but fashion awkwardness. Awesome

Well, I think about now I'm getting to stuck in my self-pity, so I will leave it here. My main point is that I need to write more. Now that I have a better grip on what I can say and how I say it (and I've also lost the Hot Topic shit), I think I'm more able to try to achieve something. It's all about the pursuit, right? I doubt I'll create anything publishable (we all know this blog is a wash), but I should probably try before I lose this animas. *sigh* I guess I should go try to actually write now. Woe is I, that I can sit around all day and TRY to write. Obvs I am Keats incarnate. And we have cures for TB now, so I'm not worried.

* I apologize for my use of double parentheses (it's usually because I just have so much to say (and I don't know how to grammatically do so))

Professing

I spoke to my poetry class professor today about my "strengths and weaknesses" when it comes to poetry writing. I still think this is a funny concept - breaking down poetry, which is essentially the cheesy art I do in my room, by myself, with the door locked, into a series of improvable situations. I mean, I know how to do that with dance, like if your arm is limp you straighten it, if you're not on beat you better get on beat fast, etc. Poetry always seemed, and still slightly seems, to be untouchable and basically dredged up subconscious thrown on a page. Am I completely wrong?

Hello, Again

it's been a long while since an update, and i wish i had a better excuse than having nothing to write. i've had loads to write, i guess, because i guess every writer has stuff they can talk about. i just never really think there's an audience for the things that go on in my mind or to me.

about 20 minutes ago i was reading a book of poetry (my index of slightly horrifying knowedge by paul guest, if you were interested) for my workshop. apparently english professors think that by reading poetry we can learn the theory behind poetry (and this honestly just sounds to me like a fifth year defense against the dark arts class with umbridge). they also believe, to my further surprise, that by mimicking poets we like we can develop our own voices and our own poetic styles - funny story, after sharing a poem in class (comic book genius, which i may post later) the professor asked what poets i was reading, i told him i didn't read poetry, i read comic books. whatever. anyway, what i wanted to get at, was during my reading i couldn't shake, kick, or impale the growing fear that this is all completely useless. i don't mean reading other poetry for the sake of learning poetry, i already have issue with that, but more like what makes a good poem? why is this classified as good poetry? i can see the writer using poetic devices like alliteration and anaphora because he's enjoying the flow of language but everything is bunched up and hogtied together in a somewhat awkward melée of diary-entry style poetry. i'm not sure i like it.

i think the main problem i have with it is that i'm supposed to hold it up as a model for publishable poetry but all i see is the poet doing the exact thing i do - haphazardly playing with poetic devices and pretty language without actually doing anything great with it. i maintain that in order to write a great poem, a writer has to, at once, embrace the poetic tradition she or he is emulating as well as rewrite it - there is no way to strike readers unless the words are unique and vital on their own and gift-wrapped in what's already been done to soften the blow. does that make any sense? it's 2:22 AM here and i will play the sleep deprivation card with this posting.

Franny Loves Zooey

I was never one of those kids who read Catcher in the Rye and immediately related to Holden. I pretended I was, though, because I loved the idea of afternoons at the Natural History Museum in New York and a red hunting hat. Also, it seemed edgy at the time. Nah. It was a while before I read Franny and Zooey, but it became a love that lasted through to now.

When I'm feeling particularly misanthropic, I imagine myself laying fully clothed in a bath, taking pathetic drags on a soggy cigarette, and staring upwards at an old New York apartment's bathroom ceiling. I can usually drown out the noise made by my floormates this way.

It's not even that I feel particularly connected to either one of the characters, but it's like I don't have to think anymore when I read and reread their dialogue; it all just seems like thoughts I had days ago but am only now remembering. So, when Salinger died, I wasn't sad or heartbroken or relieved or anything. It just sort of felt like the one person that understood the pain of being was finally gone and a part of history, where he belonged. I don't like it when people I admire are still alive, because it always feels like they're never actual people.