Soccarrates

584534_92268009Nobody here but us chickens.  (Turns out there’s no cleverness about chickens and clucking and digging about for kernels of corn that makes it worth trying to extend that metaphor.)

Being able to write this in an email box is great, but also awful because I definitely can’t curse a blue streak and I run the risk of just starting a new trend of just writing up my daily to do list and thinking that somehow is improving my writing skills.  I feel especially of late that certain terminology is just escaping me when I sit down to write, words I used to have at hand, used to be able to strike with with blinding speed.  Now the simpler word is chosen and we call the matter closed.  A good measure of the joy I find in writing is the precision of language.  The beauty, that’s a given, but narrowing down the descriptors, ably wending your way through the meaty, marshy melange of semiotics.  That’s this girl’s whole charm.
When your charms start to fail you, you start to pay attention.  (No clever asides, please.)
What will improve my writing skills is reading and I’m starting to have legitimate desire in that area now that my brain is not arriving at home so bruised and throbbing and punch-drunk.  It’s a bit more open to pulling open a book of British verse and reading this glorious Middle English sonnet and tracking some meaning there, or finding my well-thumbed copy of Bird by Bird and reading the parts about Cloud Boy and code sandwiches again. To do it without feeling guilty or distracted or as though there are places where my mental capacity would be better spent. Or Christopher Durang! I came across on Tumblr of all places, a tiny slice of Laughing Wild, and it brought back all sorts of memories from high school where I would read his plays in the library and think that it was incredibly amazing and weird and when Mr. Rochester told me I was amazing (and weird) for such obscure taste.  His writing, like John Irving’s, centered around the WORST THING EVER HAPPENING and people handling it. Or at least, that’s one angle I took from it.  That’s why the novel has this improbably large number of incredibly awful happenings, people live past those things somehow. The things I believe come from Irving and Durang and Kingsolver and Porter and Gilman and Kipling and such a panoply of poets, I shrink before their collective colossus. When I think about reading, I think about my own writing and who I really am and that the past eight years have been someone else directing this body.
And so I don’t leave anyone in suspense (I’m sure the tenterhooks are hung across the nation), I’ll answer the question.  Did I get up early and clean or did I sleep in? What happened in the dreamy noggin of your dear chronologist to chain her to her mattress?
On that front, nothing.  I got up.  Sort of. I didn’t throw myself into some sort of obsessive frenzy, slamming bleach bottles around and attempting to out, out any damn spots as the whole idea of this might imply.  Instead, I made my bed.  Made some coffee.  Got ready.  Threw some clothes into the wash for later. Picked up a bit, gathered up my trash.  Then, you know, hung out in bed, gazing at YouTube videos of the latest Johnny-come-lately and thinking a little bit about the story and areas where it feels frayed and I just don’t know how to get it from a to b without the answer being deus ex machina or just because, damnit…
And now, we see the impact of a midnight release on the whole works.

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