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?

From Ideas to Stories

Lately, I've been thinking a lot of ideas. A lot.

A few weeks ago, July 4th actually, I was with friends out in Chelsea, and jotted this down on my iPhone: "I like thinking many ideas, but I don't know that I'd put many of them into practice, or sincerely believe in those thoughts/ideas. I think of too many [ideas] to indiscriminately accept all of them [as Truth]."

So, I've had all these ideas, but I've yet to bring them to light. Mostly because I don't know how to bring them to light. My ideas are incomplete, and the only way to make them complete, or somewhere near completion, I would have to write them down, or speak them aloud. I hate doing that. I hate speaking before I'm really sure of what I mean; what I really believe.

Of what have I been thinking?

For starters, beginning sentences with prepositions is a great grammar-release!

Okay, okay, okay.

My thoughts have generally leaned towards the state of humanity.

"Oh, how perfectly vague."

"I know."

But if I become any more specific I promise you, I will go back to the state of humanity, which I am sure, as we all observe, is in a constant state of flux and discontent. Those who are content are so because they know what it is to be discontent.

Hello, Humanity. I'm glad to greet you like an old friend.

But since I don't want to overthink, or rethink, or drag on for too long, I've decided it best to illustrate any ideas or thoughts I have with stories. I don't know why it took me so long to acknowledge this. Every other author and writer has!

Whatever made me think I was better at writing essays than writing vignettes or extended metaphors?

Of all that I've thought this past month I am confident in that idea: that the best way to portray the 'state of humanity' is to illustrate it. To gather up its many images, smells, tastes, words, and feelings, not into some neat little box and leave it there, but for the neat little box to be opened!

Like Pandora's box! But without all the sickness and sin, and horrible things--they're already in the world. Ooh, we don't need more of that.

I know that we learn from our mistakes both in and out of our control, but that does not make me wish bad times upon even the worst of my enemies, and even then, I have no enemies. I live life as though all were friends: yes, it is denial, and yet confirmation that these friends, like my thoughts, though I entertain them, are no less real, or lost, or hungry, or wishful, than I am.

I may not re-open Pandora's Box, but I'll label it for you.