Everything Matters...in my writing, I mean.

First things first: Yesterday, I was suddenly in China Town, which, I suppose, shouldn't be all that surprising- I only live fifteen-to-twenty minutes out of the city, but I just thought I was going to walk with my grandparents around the local mall. Nope. They have to go to China Town. Then Brooklyn to drop off their friend. Of course I chauffeured! I can drive through and in the city, but I don't enjoy it. I- I greatly dislike driving through the city. I can't stand it, but I had to do it.

I bought my grandpa some bubble tea-creamy taro :D He was pretty pleased, to say the least.




Yesterday, when I got home from work I wrestled into my pajamas and plopped onto the couch with my mom who was watching television. PBS, actually, a show called 'Making Things-'; this episode was called 'Making Things Faster'. Yay. I was totally geeking-out the entire time, so much so, I wonder why I don't watch this channel more often. Well, anyway, I'm watching this and secretly hoping they'll talk about teleportation, but they never even touched upon it; now, though, I have a new-found respect for delivery persons: travelling salesman problem? Oh, my gosh. Who knew?! I will never again complain if I get a late package- I am more appreciative of your efforts.

Anyway, all that to say this: I've been working on a story pretty consistently for the past six months, and it's pretty exciting (not roller coaster exciting...well, sometimes it's roller coaster exciting) because this story is getting somewhere- it keeps evolving like a real story should.

And as real stories are written, advice is given. Some advice is good. Other advice is horrid. Of all the advice given to me, one is most given: write what you know.

Yay.

Great.

Good idea, good start.

But I only know so much. After a while I have to do research or, well, give up the writing project entirely.

But for this story I've found that everything I do or encounter becomes a part of my research for this story: my spontaneous trip to China Town, and watching PBS' NOVA.

At this point, I can't tell if this is so because either I'm so obsessed with my story that everything relates to it, or that research for writing really does fully inhabit the writer when he or she is, if you will allow, 'in the zone'.

Is that how great writing happens? Everything just becomes a part of the story? Cool.

I hope that if you are a writer, or even if you are not, everything you do and encounter will inspire you. Are not some of the greatest inventions inspired by accidents or by something that had seemed completely irrelevant?

Hollaback.

My Greatest Fear

I am writing a story, and so far, I am loving it. I have all these ideas and they're all meshing together so wonderfully, it's like someone's writing through me! I've had this sensation before, but never for an extended period of time--no, it's not this constant high (I'm not under the influence, not illegally, at least), and it's also not made me ignore all of my other responsibilities. I am thoroughly enjoying this story and I can't wait until I'm done with it...although that may not be for another year or so.

Now, while I enjoy writing this story (it's fantasy/science fiction, by the way), and though I want to finish it...what do I do with it after I'm done?

"You publish it! Online! With a major publishing company! Or an independent publishing company!"

"Well, yeah, but...what if they hate it?"

"Who cares?! This is your work! Let your story shine!"

"No, no, no, I don't think you understand. I care a great deal if people enjoy my work. It's- it's my work. What if people don't like it? What if it just collects dust on the shelf? What if it ends up like-?"

"Like what?"

"What if it ends up like that one book?"

"What book?"

"Exactly!"

"You're being ridiculous."

"I know, it's just...I want people to like my work."

"And they will."

"How do you know? Who's they? Why do we keep talking about them? They don't really matter but they do! I mean, I envy a posthumous sort of fame but, that's my mind. Would my heart be able to work through a posthumous fame? Could I be an Emily Dickinson or a Vincent van Gogh?"

"But you're not either of them so it doesn't matter."

"You're right. You're right."

"Didn't van Gogh consider a posthumous fame? Didn't he write that down in a journal?"

"Yes! But not because he actually wanted it! He just wanted the stars and breezes. Oh, I can never be as good as him. He wanted fame neither before nor after death! What a selfless human being. How dare I want posthumous fame."

"...are you going to have your story published or not?"

Working in a book store I lay my hands on a lot of stories that won't ever be read, or, at least, read and recommended for future generations. I cannot tell you how many times I've accidentally seen my name written on the byline and shivered. What if my story is overlooked, overwrought with well-meaning but pointed criticism? Such as:  "Miss. Triunfo, though attempting to write a fantasy novel after the fashion of Tolkien, Le Guin, and Gaiman, has, instead, single-handedly murdered, with her trite tale, the very Respect the fantasy genre has had to build over decades. Any who wish to seek out fantasy literature as a prescription for under active bowel movements should read Triunfo's work, unless her work caused your under active bowel movements."

And I would say, "Is this the part where I wear white for the rest of my life? How about cutting off my ear?"

But this is just a dramatization. It is, right?

my stranger.

i have dreamt of many faces,
but yours isn't among them.
so many strangers.
where are my friends?
i never know what to do with strangers.
they are so distant
but have no problem bumping into me,
accidentally holding my hand
or stepping on my toes,
sincerely apologizing, but quickly forgetting their misdeed,
paying attention to another stranger--
their friend, not me--
i'm no friend of theirs.

i have dreamt of many faces,
but yours isn't among them.
is that my fault?
do i only pretend to know you?
oh, but you're not a stranger!
does that make you my friend?

your acquaintanceship hurts.

i much prefer your strangeness:
to feel free to wonder about your life,
imagine what your struggles might be
never to worry that i might be one of them;
to sincerely apologize for stepping on your toe but quickly to forget my misdeed.

feigning distance hurts much more than actual distance.

i have no reason to reach out to strangers--
i wish i didn't want to reach out to you.

my stranger?
my friend?
acquaintance.

i have dreamt of many faces,
but yours isn't among them.

you must be standing behind me, then,
waiting to surprise me.

i'll practice my 'surprise' reaction for you.