Re- PART 1: Diary of an Angry Petunia
Quadpus
>
>
First things first -- please fix your newsreader so that your single quotes
come out like this:
'
Instead of this:
âاض
Cause I had to paste your story into Works and do a search-and-replace just
to be able to read it without distraction.
>Hello! I haven't posted or critiqued anything in the month since I
>rediscovered afo, I know, and because of that I feel rude about posting my
>stuff. A couple days after I last posted, I started working on my book of short
>stories. I started out with an outline of 12 stories I wanted to write within a
>month and a half, and the first month is already over. Believe it or not, I'm
>still on the first story.
Trust me, I'd be a lot more surprised if you managed to write twelve good
short stories in only six weeks. That's a very ambitious schedule.
>I digress again. I don't personally know any writers, except for my high
>school English teacher and I haven't spoken to him since July so I would feel
>weird asking him to crit my novel, yet I am absolutely dying for feedback.
I thought he was going to help you get...ah, never mind. Clean slate.
> One more thing and I'll shut up. This excerpt I am posting (which
>actually happened for real, by the way) doesn't go nearly in depth as I would
>like, and doesn't offer the character backgrounds I would like an evaluator
>to know beforehand. It really just doesn't tie in and get the message across,
>and there's a LOT I had to censor because it was too personal to post to a
>forum like this.
Well, that's a problem. You've got to work backgrounds and character
information into the main narrative -- nobody wants to read a bunch of
character sketches before the real story gets underway.
As for the self-censorship, well, if you're not comfortable posting it here,
how's it going to be when and if you get published? Who's the intended
audience, anyway? Strangers? Friends? Yourself? If you're not comfortable
with the revelations you have in the story, it may be a case where you have
too much personal-essay material and not enough fiction.
Anyway, let's see what you've got.
> My second day of as a receptionist did not go much like my first. There
>were times when the calls picked up, and times when the slackened. Marisa, the
>other receptionist, was working my shift with me. When she wasn't taking the
>Bimlar calls, she was reading her fashion magazines. From time to time I made
>casual remarks to her, about the song that was playing on the radio or how
>annoying it was being a receptionist because you had to take so many "gay"
>phone calls. I soon stopped because I began to sound pathetic after a while
>and it was quite obvious to me that Marisa would rather be talking to the other
>receptionist Shanna or our boss Natalie who, I suppose, are more skilled in the
>art of conversation than your Petunia.
day as a
when they slackened
What's a "gay" phone call?
This opening paragraph isn't much of a grabber. Readers aren't going to get
excited about the prospect of reading about somebody's boring dead-end job --
more likely than not they've got one of their own. Start off with a hook.
> "I gotta go work out this ass, whaddya say, girl," she said to Marisa.
> "Hey, no way. You're butt is so not big. Your ass is lookin sexy,
>Natty," said Marisa, dropping her Cosmo, enlivening at the sight of our master.
> I drew in a sharp intake of breath and averted my eyes back to the parking
>lot. Am I the only person alive who does not consider the human buttocks to be
>a sexual object?
Your butt
drew a sharp intake (in...intake is redundant)
> "Oh, okay, well. The reason I came out was to ask you girls if one of you
>would be interested in going fliering today? We need to do more advertising
>and fliering seems to be most effective. I'm surprised by how we aren't
>getting more calls for group interviews. There's no way this branch is going
>to beat Bimlar's summer goals if this drought keeps up."
What does Bimlar do, anyway?
> I was about to shoot my hand in the air to volunteer for fliering when my
>eyes spotted more red marks near Natalie's collar. Last night, I decided I
>would dismiss the bloody knives I had found in Natalieâاےs desk drawer the
>other day, reasoning that this Natalie Snoot was most likely some ex-farm girl
>who slaughtered her own fresh cow meat daily. But seeing these reddish brown
>stains again sent a minor paralysis to shock my system, and I was unable to
>beat Marisa's dub on the fliers.
What sort of red marks? Scratches? Bruises? Hickeys? If they were made by
knives, wouldn't they be easily identifiable as cuts?
> "Hey, me, dude!" she said, getting up and stretching her limbs. "I so need
>to work on my tan some more." She was a white girl as tan as a Jamaican.
>I'll never figure out this American obsession with tanning.
Is Petunia not American?
By the way -- ever seen how seriously some Europeans cultivate their tans?
> "So, you see any good movies lately?" I asked her. She seemed startled by
>my sudden rupture, but didn't look back towards me.
Rupture?
> "Um, not really." She yawned and began stretching out her legs. There was
>another patch of red on her back, which I glimpsed through the part between her
>Abercrombie sweatpants and tee-shirt. It struck me as almost funny that her
>she didn't find it necessary to be as entertaining in front of me than she
>was with Marisa.
funny that she
as entertaining in front of me as she was with
> There was a board hanging in front of me with the names and door numbers of
>the building's occupants. I scanned to the S section where I found Natalie
>Snoot listed to be on the fifth floor in room number 501.
Her last name is Snoot? That's kind of, I dunno, wacky.
> If I was to feel any glimmers of doubt, now was the time to feel them. But
>I felt nothing but a stead confidence well within me as I walked up the steps
>to her flat. I forwent the elevators for fear of failure when in motion.
steady confidence
I don't know what that last sentence is supposed to be about.
> I had walked into the apartment a few steps, towards a murky fish tank set
>up near the narrow kitchen when Natalie's singing ceased. A squeak of the
>faucet turning off. A whoosh of the shower curtain sliding across the rail. A
>wet foot was slapped upon the bathroom tile.
For consistency's sake, "a wet foot slapped..."
> I should have chose that opportune time to turn around and rush out the
>door, but it was as if I had been possessed that morning by an evil ghost
>searching for a new home to inhabit, controlling my movements. I have to pass
>a few cemeteries on my morning drive; perhaps an invisible hitchhiker had
>lurched onto my passenger seat when I had hit a red light, now indulging me in
>this harangue.
Indulging?
> About a minute later I heard the blow dryer turn off. Natalie walked into
>the room. She had dressed herself in the blue work out clothes she had this
>morning. She looked the same as she did before her shower, except those
>ridiculous eyebrows were washed off her face. After I emerge from the shower,
>I am unrecognizable due to my makeup free face.
makeup-free
It occurs to me that I still don't know why Petunia followed Natalie to her
apartment, what she hopes to accomplish here, or even how she really feels
about Natalie.
> "Well, there, Missy, who do you think you are?" she asked herself in the
>mirror, her head cocked at an odd angle. The green feathers fluttered on her
>head. Her voice had taken on a throaty, low intonation. I squeezed my eyes
>shut for a moment, overcome with the fact that I was getting away with watching
>this. Natalie was a career woman. She was in charge of the livelihoods of a
>brigade of knife salespeople, she was a professional. And now I discover,
>first hand, that she's just as pathetic as the rest of us. The losers.
Knife sales? Is that what Bimlar does?
> She had walked over to the waste basket and began emptying her bra's
>content's into it when there was a buzz on her intercom. "Ouchies!" she
>cried. She ran down the hallway to answer the buzzer. I hoped this didn't
>mean that Natalie was going to be soon rushing to her closet to get dressed.
>As a precaution, I quietly hid myself with a pile of shoes until not even a
>fraction of my flesh was showing.
bra's contents
How many shoes would it take to hide an entire person?
> Suddenly Natalie dashed back in the room. In her panic she did not do a
>very commendable job of wiping away her makeup. Two blue stamps still
>encircled her eyes and streams of mascara were cascading down her cheeks.
> She was pulling on a pair of khakis and a black sweater when a man walked
>into her room.
No need to make that last sentence a seperate paragraph. The man is Noah, right?
Just say "...when Noah walked into her room."
> But when I saw this boy it was as if my nothingness was pushed aside for
>the moment and I was entering into a realm where I was no longer the automaton
>accepting mediocre circumstances. I hit a definitive milestone in my timeline;
>on some mental calendar, I would mark seeing this boy as a major event.
Is he a man or a boy?
> I kept my eyes on him the entire ten minutes he sat in that room. He
>never stirred from that woman's bed where ten minutes before she had lain
>dressed like a deranged drag queen, giving her invisible germs a chance to
>crawl all over his pure delicate white body. For the past year (my boyfriend
>dumped me a year ago), whenever the pain and envy of seeing other couples
>together got to be too much for me, I'd slip into my secret fantasies. In
>those fantasies, I would always be courted by this boy who I thought never
>existed, who seemed to be a concoction of my imagination, a comfort tool. And
>now here he sat before me, the very reincarnation.
I think you mean "incarnation."
>I knew that once he walked out of this flat with Natalie, I would most likely
>never lay eyes on him again. He would run around in my head even more often
>than before, though. I would be tortured even in my fantasies because I would
>know that somewhere in Ohio once walked a boy that was the very concoction of
>perfection.
"Concoction of perfection" is a fine example of the overwordiness you need to
iron out of your prose. You can write. You've clearly got a head for pacing
and character and scene-setting and all that stuff that some people struggle
with for years and years. What you need to do now is learn how to edit yourself.
I mean, we're something around five thousand words into this story, and all
that's really developed is that Petunia has a crush on her workmate's friend.
Regarding the characters, Petunia is fairly well-defined -- a little too Holden
Caulfieldy for my tastes, but that's not your problem -- but Natalie is sort of
a one-dimensional skank. You seem to be doing everything you can to make her
seem utterly loathsome. Jury's still out on Noah, Marisa, etc. They don't get
much page time to reveal themselves in.
The prose quality is uneven, but usually good. Where it suffers is when you're
being too wordy, overdescriptive, using cutesy turns of phrase, and so on. In
time, hopefully, you'll get to where you can see yourself doing this and edit
accordingly. You want to keep things fresh, straightforward, and lively. Nobody
wants to see the author getting self-consciously clever.
The main thing, though, is to tell a good story and account for your main
character's motivation. Not explaining why Petunia snuck into Natalie's flat
was a problem. Not getting caught on a good plot hook after five thousand
words was a problem. Your reader's time is a precious, precious thing. Use it
wisely.
Need help getting over your writer's block? Try working on an assignment. Write
a story in 2,000 words or less that has a beginning (hook, set-up), a middle
(conflict, character development), and an ending (satisfying resolution).
Turning out colorful prose obviously isn't terribly difficult for you, so
working on the mechanics of plot is probably the best thing you can do for your
fiction-writing skills right now.
Angry Petunia 84
>come out like this:
>
>'
>
>Instead of this:
>
I had no idea they came out like that. I have aol, and when i read back over
it my quoatations were normal. i noticed that most other people that post here
don't have aol, so there's a probably some technical discrepancy. Hmph.
>I thought he was going to help you get...
He did help me, and he was the greatest teacher I've ever had or ever will
have. Do you know many students who keep in touch with their teachers two
months after they graduate? The thread has been lost, however. I'm horrible
at keeping in touch with people.
>Well, that's a problem. You've got to work backgrounds and character
>information into the main narrative -- nobody wants to read a bunch of
>character sketches before the real story gets underway.
Thats quite assumptive of you (I don't know if assumptive is a real word, but
whatever.) I mean you don't know how I've written the earlier stuff and your
saying I wrote it all in lump paragraphs or something. And there was a "real
story" going on before the closet scene. I'm well aware of the fact that good
fiction is all about revealing characters through their actions and the story
itself, and not simply telling it to the reader.
>As for the self-censorship, well, if you're not comfortable posting it here,
>how's it going to be when and if you get published? Who's the intended
>audience, anyway? Strangers? Friends? Yourself? If you're not comfortable
>with the revelations you have in the story, it may be a case where you have
>too much personal-essay material and not enough fiction.
>
Getting published is what I was put on this planet for, not getting critiqued
to within an inch of my life. Much like the character in the story would give
up anything for her boy, I would honesty give up anything to get published,
even my self respect. I once published a story in the paper about my mother,
and she didn't speak to me for about two months afterwards but i seriously
couldn't have cared less because it won first place. posting to afo isn't
"getting published." So the standards are very different, as you can see.
>What's a "gay" phone call?
you are obviously not too informed about teen slang. i live with three other
teens, and i have to hear about everything being "gay", from computers that
don't work to "gay" tv shows to "gay" people who are clearly hetero to "gay"
spaghetti.
>This opening paragraph isn't much of a grabber. Readers aren't going to get
>excited about the prospect of reading about somebody's boring dead-end job --
>more likely than not they've got one of their own. Start off with a hook.
this wasn't an opener--it was an excerpt
>What does Bimlar do, anyway?
>What sort of red marks? Scratches? Bruises? Hickeys? If they were made by
>knives, wouldn't they be easily identifiable as cuts?
excerpt of a novel. it was explained earlier
>By the way -- ever seen how seriously some Europeans cultivate their tans?
nope. but i have seen many girls my age go into tanning salones damn near
every other day. not i, of course.
>Her last name is Snoot? That's kind of, I dunno, wacky.
thanks.
>It occurs to me that I still don't know why Petunia followed Natalie to her
>apartment, what she hopes to accomplish here, or even how she really feels
>about Natalie.
.>Knife sales? Is that what Bimlar does?
now that i think about it, i really shouldn't have posted an excerpt. its just
too confusing for the reader. my bad
>How many shoes would it take to hide an entire person?
i couldn't sit and count them all, but it was 20 or over.
>Is he a man or a boy?
sometimes its hard to tell when they are in the 18-21 range. 21 and over for
me is a man, but when i saw saw i couldn't really tell..
>I think you mean "incarnation."
i guess i do
>Natalie is sort of
>a one-dimensional skank. You seem to be doing everything you can to make her
>seem utterly loathsome.
you should have worked in that office with me for the summer. i ran into her
at the mall the other day and i nearly pissed in my pants. she must be
hitler's grandchild or something. believe me, she was one helluva scary woman.
>Regarding the characters, Petunia is fairly well-defined -- a little too
>Holden
>Caulfieldy for my tastes
thanks for pointing that out, i'll definitely work on that do develop my own
character. all last year my english teacher would always yell at me for writing
too Kurt Vonnegut-ish, (although I tried not to write like him.) i'd throw up
my hands and yell back, "i can't help it!"
Thanks for your help!
Quadpus
wrote:
>
>you are obviously not too informed about teen slang. i live with three other
>teens, and i have to hear about everything being "gay", from computers that
>don't work to "gay" tv shows to "gay" people who are clearly hetero to "gay"
>spaghetti.
Yeah, I'm familiar with that use of the term. Don't put slang in quotes.
>now that i think about it, i really shouldn't have posted an excerpt. its just
>too confusing for the reader. my bad
If you'd just identified it as an excerpt ("this is chapter 4...") I
would've cut you some slack on these issues.
>you should have worked in that office with me for the summer. i ran into her
>at the mall the other day and i nearly pissed in my pants. she must be
>hitler's grandchild or something. believe me, she was one helluva scary woman.
Yes, and I've met people like that too, but remember that old chestnut
about how fiction has to be more believable than real life. You don't
want to look as if you're creating charicatures. Be subtle.
>thanks for pointing that out, i'll definitely work on that do develop my own
>character. all last year my english teacher would always yell at me for writing
>too Kurt Vonnegut-ish, (although I tried not to write like him.) i'd throw up
>my hands and yell back, "i can't help it!"
Well, like I said, that comment has more to do with my own personal
tastes, and isn't necessarily a problem with your writing.
>Thanks for your help!
Sure thing.
Angry Petunia 84
I will if I want to
>
>If you'd just identified it as an excerpt ("this is chapter 4...") I
>would've cut you some slack on these issues.
Either get your eyes checked or read closer. In part 1, I stated about three
of four times that this was an excerpt I was posting. I explained quite
clearly my post was part of a novel. Excerpt: part of a bigger piece of
fiction (<----not the dictionary definition.)
>You don't
>want to look as if you're creating charicatures. Be subtle.
Satire is all about creating caricatures, and in my writing I am always aiming
for some type of satire. Subtlety doesn't work for satire. If this were pure
fiction, I'd agree with you, but as the circumstances stand, I don't.
Quadpus
wrote:
>>
>> Don't put slang in quotes.
>
>I will if I want to
You posted here asking for comments on your story, and one of my
comments is "don't put slang in quotes." It looks weird. Okay?
Take it or leave it.
>Either get your eyes checked or read closer. In part 1, I stated about three
>of four times that this was an excerpt I was posting. I explained quite
>clearly my post was part of a novel. Excerpt: part of a bigger piece of
>fiction (<----not the dictionary definition.)
My apologies. I took "part 1," "part 2" at face value.
>Satire is all about creating caricatures, and in my writing I am always aiming
>for some type of satire. Subtlety doesn't work for satire. If this were pure
>fiction, I'd agree with you, but as the circumstances stand, I don't.
But the rest of the piece doesn't come off as satire. It seems
like a perfectly earnest teenage crush story.
Angry Petunia 84
>like a perfectly earnest teenage crush story.
As I stated five times before (i think this makes it the sixth): this is a
novel, and i am using satire to tell it. i have about 50,000 words down so
far, and of those 50,000, i posted about five thousand. there's no way you can
truly get a feel for a novel and what the novel is about from 5,000 words, and
i can tell that its no "teenage crush story", as you put it, but a satire.
perhaps you shouldn't make such bold assumptions judging simply from a fraction
of a story
>You posted here asking for comments on your story, and one of my
>comments is "don't put slang in quotes." It looks weird. Okay?
>Take it or leave it.
i did ask for comments, and i read yours, and decided not to take it, as i have
already informed you. quite simple arrangement.
Bart Hopson
says...
>
>
>i did ask for comments, and i read yours, and decided not to take it, as i have
>already informed you. quite simple arrangement.
Yes. It really is quite a simple arrangement, Petunia/Zelda, whatever. You
post your fiction, you get responses. You don't like the responses you get
because they aren't glowing, then smile and move on.
Incivillity is never warranted.
You want to act like some spoiled brat, then go on and do it. don't expect many
people to continue to read your 'work' though.
Quadpus' response was quite civil and helpful in my opinion. If you can't learn
to accept the generous help you get offered, here or elsewhere, you will remain
nothing but the child with untapped talent you present yourself to be with your
various interactions on this board.
I do hope you get over yourself soon and learn how to do something with the
talent in the rough I've seen evidenced in your various diary submissions.
At any rate, until that happens, you'll simply remain a child with an aptitude
for writing, but an attitude that wouldn't even work in high school basic
composition courses.
Once intellectual development surpasses emotional maturity its always a red boot
kinda ugly.
Best of luck to you.
Bart
Alaric McDermott
this is a novel, and i am using satire to tell it. i have about
50,000 words down so far, and of those 50,000, i posted about five
thousand. there's no way you can truly get a feel for a novel and
what the novel is about from 5,000 words, and i can tell that its no
"teenage crush story", as you put it, but a satire. perhaps you
shouldn't make such bold assumptions judging simply from a fraction of
a story
Perhaps you should learn what this group is about, Petunia. Why do you
post here at all? The last time you came on you categorically stated
you didn't want criticism (you wanted to display your "about to be
published" work - wasn't that supported by the professor you haven't
spoken to for six months?) Now you arrive asking for criticism and
comment. When you get it, you snap at the kind individual who took
time out of his day to try to help you.
You're an ignorant, mannerless selfish child.
angrype...@aol.com (Angry Petunia 84) wrote in message news:<20021001004251...@mb-fg.aol.com>...
Angry Petunia 84
My name is Isabelle.
>You
>post your fiction, you get responses. You don't like the responses you get
>because they aren't glowing, then smile and move on.
What makes you assume that I post looking for glowing reviews. Although I
don't personally know any writers, my long experience with writers on boards
like afo has taught me one thing: writers are a jealous lot. I am not in any
way implying that anyone is jealous of my stuff, but what i mean is that I have
often run across brilliant, undisputably amazing writing, and the general
response to it was, "eh, could've been better." i have come to the conclusion
that writers, in gerneral, would rather get their teeth pulled than praise
another writer. the only writer i've ever truly praised was my ex boyfriend,
and that was only because we were in a relationship or otherwise i would've
told him he should stop using so many commas even though commas don't matter
when you're that good. i'll admit that in normal situations, I would tell a
writer his/her writing sucks before i would praise it. its just how the devious
human mind works, and i'm willing to accept that. so in posting my stuff to
afo or any other writing site the last thing i am looking for is praise, and
was really just looking for nitpicky stuff that i wouldn't have seen myself.
many of the things quadpus pointed out i actually changed.
>
>Incivillity is never warranted.
who do u think u are telling me how to behave? i'll be incivil if i want to
be, and you can go kiss my ass if u don't like it, punk.
>You want to act like some spoiled brat, then go on and do it. don't expect
>many
>people to continue to read your 'work' though.
i am not a "spoiled brat", and dont quite understand what your problem with me
is. i can't really judge what your problem is over a computer screen, although
i think it probably has to do with the fact that i am a headstrong female, and
a lot of guys would rather diss me than treat me with respect. there's plenty
of male posters who post on this site who act like, as you put it, "spoiled
brats," but the fact that they are male seems to make others overlook it. just
my opinion.
>If you can't learn
>to accept the generous help you get offered, here or elsewhere, you will
>remain
>nothing but the child with untapped talent you present yourself to be with
>your
>various interactions on this board.
is that a fact? where did you get your philosophy degree from?
>At any rate, until that happens, you'll simply remain a child with an
>aptitude
>for writing, but an attitude that wouldn't even work in high school basic
>composition courses.
I was in honors english for four years of high school, and was the teacher's
pet straight through. explain that, einstein.
>Once intellectual development surpasses emotional maturity its always a red
>boot
>kinda ugly.
what are you basing this on? my cmopletely acceptable response to quad's post?
in my humble opinion, you're the one who's full of himself.
Angry Petunia 84
>Now you arrive asking for criticism and
>comment. When you get it, you snap at the kind individual who took
>time out of his day to try to help you.
"Snap at?" Hardly. I responded in kind to a kind gentleman.
>The last time you came on you categorically stated
>you didn't want criticism (you wanted to display your "about to be
>published" work - wasn't that supported by the professor you haven't
>spoken to for six months?)
He wasn't a professor, and i've been keeping contact with him through e mail
although its slackened so much (mostly just hi how are you) that we hardly have
contact any more. And its not going to be published for some time (9 months to
a year). maybe even longer, since my editor wants to change so much of it and
i've been having endless arguements with them about not changing more than
necessary, so they've sunk to the level of threatening me, the egotistical
assholes. i'd rather be broke and unpublished than published and unhappy. to
come this far and have everything screw up is not worth it.
>You're an ignorant, mannerless selfish child.
and you sound like a homo. honestly, you do.
R. Westermeyer
wrote:
>and you sound like a homo. honestly, you do.
Good God! I hope you're embarrassed for posting that, now that morning
has come.
The only reason you stuck around last time was because you were
getting rave reviews from one reader in particular. What bugs me about
you is that you don't really give much here. Have you EVER read anyone
else's work on this group?
And what you wrote about writers' attitudes about others' work is
utter bullshit. If you read other threads here, you'd know that about
AFO.
Stick around, whatever your name is. Take a break from posting your
material and read and critique. I don't think you really have a feel
for what this group is about.
--Bob
Dart...@webtv.net
It's actually even worse than that. I don't mind ignorant, mannerless,
selfish kids if they have talent. But I've yet to see any.
All I've seen are meandering, plotless, poorly written YA excerpts that
rely too much on run on sentences, adverbs, and cliches.
Everyone else on the group is hesitant to be so blunt because they
recognize that grandiose narcissism is actually a symptom of low self
esteem.
Instead of defending your prose, petunia, you should be rewriting.
Instead of pointing out reasons the critiques are invalid, you should be
thanking these people for reading first drafts of teenage ramblings that
wouldn't normally hold anyone's attention.
I won't stoop to name calling, because argumentum ad hominem is weak and
petty.
But your writing is seriously mediocre, and that's being kind.
Joe
Egad
them.
I feel myself to be too biased to review her stories appropriately would be
the PC way of stating that.
Either way, result is the same.
Petunia Gill 18
>has come.
not at all. i wrote that this morning, as a matter of fact, and the afternoon
has arrived and i am enjoying it quite pleasantly.
>The only reason you stuck around last time was because you were
>getting rave reviews from one reader in particular.
when did i ever "stick around?" i posted my stuff last summer, forgot about
it, and reposted about a month ago, and then left again. you call that
"sticking around?" i've gotten raves from many people, not just one, although i
can't keep track of them all because i post to so many different forums like
afo. i am not looking for any "rave reviews" either. having a bloated self
image never works for writer's, and i won't get into why i hold that opinion
b/c you narrowminded pricks wouldn't understand. as i explained earlier, in
posting i wasn't looking for any "raves," and i have no idea why you people
keep bringing that up. the only answer is that perhaps raves are all you have
on your own minds. my english teacher slobbered all over me for so long that
now i often cringe when people start going wacko over my writing. i was
posting for nitpicky crits, and i got them, and now you are all acting like a
bunch of homos. as in homosexuals.
>What bugs me about
>you is that you don't really give much here. Have you EVER read anyone
>else's work on this group?
i stated in my first post that i have read afo's stuff, but i simply don't like
giving people reviews
>And what you wrote about writers' attitudes about others' work is
>utter bullshit. If you read other threads here, you'd know that about
>AFO.
it was my opinion, not bullshit, and last time i checked in america opinions
are allowed to be expressed. grow up.
>Stick around, whatever your name is.
My name is Isabelle, in case your eyes skimmed over that info in an earlier
post.
Petunia Gill 18
>But your writing is seriously mediocre, and that's being kind.
>
>Joe
Do you have a fax machine? I will seriously and honestly try to send you a
copy of my contract with Random House. I'm not trying to prove a single thing
to you, but if you want it, i'll find a way to get it to you even though i've
never sent a fax before. i am compltely utterly broke right now, and my car is
in the shop, i am suffering from sleep deprivation, and i think it costs money
to send a fax (money i don't have), but i'll try.
>Everyone else on the group is hesitant to be so blunt because they
>recognize that grandiose narcissism is actually a symptom of low self
>esteem.
i've been hesitant to review any posts because what i've seen is 90 percent
trash that fails to hold my interest longer than the first paragraph. i have
yet to read one post that doesn't make me want to wrinkle my nose and wonder
what the hell the typer (not the writer, but the typer) was thinking. afo
seems to be a haven for mediocre crap, which doesn't surprise me since its an
amatuer writing site. I am not saying that because i have been recieving abuse
from my most recent post, but because its my honest opionion behind me not
reviewing anyone's stuff. its simply a matter of my taste, i suppose. i
idolize nabokov, orwell, salinger, vonnegut, joyce.....maybe this is why i
won't except trashy writing. i seem to have unusually high standards. i guess
afo and i see the world from two different viewpoints.
>Instead of defending your prose, petunia, you should be rewriting.
>Instead of pointing out reasons the critiques are invalid, you should be
>thanking these people for reading first drafts of teenage ramblings that
>wouldn't normally hold anyone's attention.
i never said anyone's post was invalid. i would never puke on someone's
opinions the way mine are getting puked on. its called having an open mind.
and it wasn't teen stuff i was writing. my characters were in their twentites.
>I won't stoop to name calling, because argumentum ad hominem is weak and
>petty.
pussy. can't call me a name, whatever.
Petunia Gill 18
>them.
>I feel myself to be too biased to review her stories appropriately would be
>the PC way of stating that.
>Either way, result is the same.
i;ve remember reading your stuff. no comment.
Petunia Gill 18
i posted this too fast and didn't check my post before i sent it. what i meant
to say here was that i've read your work, egad, and i didn't comment because it
was trash, plain and simple, and not just some of it. more like all of it.
this is why i hold back on reviewing amateur writing, because quite frankly
most of it makes me sick to my stomach and turns me off from writing. i have a
book contract (and since my editor is a fuckhead who knows what will become of
it) but the point is, i have/had a book contract with a prestigious publisher,
and can i remind you that i'm 18 years old? i've made contacts in publishing
and have learned a thing or two in the process, and i personally believe that
if 90 percent of the junk that is posted to afo ever lands on a real editor's
desk, that editor would send it to the trash bin one chapter into reading that
particular work. there, i said it. i didn't mean to get this petty but i was
forced into it. i think its awesome that so many middle aged mommies and
daddies are finding the time in their drab lives (what with their crappy jobs
and all) to sit down and find the time to write. the result of this, sadly, is
alt.fiction.org and the trash that gets spewed here. i'm sorry, but this is my
honest and true opinion, and i never wanted to voice it, but i did, so be it.
Anopheles
"Petunia Gill 18" wrote:
Yeah, right. If you can't turn out credible fiction when you're blood's up,
how can we believe the rest of your bullshit? More than likely you're a
corpulent middle-aged unmarried loser working as nightwatchman and bored out
of their shoe-sized IQ mind. Frankly. I don't give a shit if you are who you
say you are and have a ten book contract with Simon & Schuster with a movie
musical deal to follow. The end point is you're a rude arsehole with nothing
much to offer except boredom. Now either make a death pact with Big Boring
Daddy or piss off.
Alaric
"Angry Petunia 84" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021001112921...@mb-de.aol.com...
>
> and you sound like a homo. honestly, you do.
>
about me, Petunia. No, I'm not.But it isn't an insulting term, child.
Re your reply to Bart. This group is full of strong women. Aim to grow up
and emulate them. It's a good ambition.
Alaric
Not worth it, Bob.
You can't buy an upbringing.
"Petunia Gill 18" <petuni...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021001163738...@mb-bj.aol.com...
Alaric
> i'm sorry, but this is my
> honest and true opinion, and i never wanted to voice it, but i did, so be
it.
>
Angry Petunia 84
>Good advice.
>
>Not worth it, Bob.
>
>You can't buy an upbringing.
I totally agree with you, Alaric. The damage has been done inside my head long
long ago, and only large and painful doses of therapy will be able to fix it.
But if I did try and fix it, what would i have left to write about?????
Angry Petunia 84
>how can we believe the rest of your bullshit?
Fiction is a matter of opinion. I've read books that have recieved rave
reviews in all the papers, and then when I pick them up I want to throw the
novel out the window because I am totally sickened by the writing (see Ian
McEwan, Booker Prize winner.) You can't assume that what you don't like
everyone won't like. I'll withhold my comments on your writing, since I'm a
nice child who is not looking to pick fights. What good would my honesty do?
>More than likely you're a
>corpulent middle-aged unmarried loser working as nightwatchman and bored out
>of their shoe-sized IQ mind. Frankly.
You got me. Also, my name is Frank. You almost got it, except you said it
with an ly, and my name is not Frankly but Frank. In fact, me name is Frank
Isabelle Petunia, ha ha ha. You should consider a career as one of those
psychic hotline dudes. In fact, we should go into business together. I could
open up my phone sex company and offer a free trial of your psychic powers for
the inital sex call. Whaddya say, pup? We could score big on this, don't pass
it up.
>I don't give a shit if you are who you
>say you are and have a ten book contract with Simon & Schuster with a movie
>musical deal to follow.
I would never allow my writing to be turned into a movie. Never. Not as if it
would ever happen, but I simply wouldn't go there.
>The end point is you're a rude arsehole with nothing
>much to offer except boredom.
Like I said, I have much to offer you. I made a business deal with you, did I
not? And now you treat me so harshly when we could score millions together!
Why do you wish to dump bucketfulls of cold water on my head when all I am
doing is looking out for your financial well-being? Its obvious you have
psychic powers, and its obvious I got the skills in all matters concerning sex.
Just imagine: Petunia and Anopheles Sex/Psychic Hotline. I can see it now.
So just come home to Petunia so she can give you a big spanking for being so
naughty and then all will be forgiven and we can go into this wonderful
business venture together.
I'm going loony. Must get away from my blasted computer, fast.
Angry Petunia 84
WHOA WHOA WHOA, HOLD UP THE CHOO CHOO TRAIN!!!!
I SAID TITS!!! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? TWENTITIES? AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AFO
MEMBERS, COVER UP YOUR EYES BEFORE YOU VIEW THIS PORNOGRAPHIC ABOMINATION!!!!
PLEASE DON'T TELL MY MOMMY HOW MY MIND WANDERED INTO THE GUTTER THIS MOST
WRETCHED EVE!!!! WHYYYYYYYYYYY MEEEEEEEEE, I SHALL NOW HANG MY HEAD AND MOAN
FOR THIS MOST UNFORTUNATE FATE! OH, JESUS CHRIST IN HEAVEN, PLEASE DON'T SEND
ME TO HELL FOR UTTERING THIS MOST REVOLTING WORD! I DIDN'T MEAN IT! I BEG OF
YOUR MERCY, O SWEET LORD!!!!! OH WONDROUS JESUS, PLEASE DON'T TELL BUDDHA AND
CONFUSCIOUS AND THE 8 ARMED HINDU ELEPHANTS I UTTERED THIS PROFANITY, EITHER. I
WILL LICK THY TOES IF YOU SPARE ME! I'M JUST A PETUNIA FLOWER!!!!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
John Griffin
I'm guessing that you will accept a sincere answer to that question,
since you asked in this public place.
That fix would give you an opportunity for a sorely needed fresh
start. (Some successful writers might have been asocial, but it
isn't a requirement.) You're floundering, and your current baggage
is dragging you down. For instance, being only 12 years old would
not be a good "excuse" for the uppercase rage I saw a few minutes
ago. Go for every fix you can get, especially those you've been
offered here.
In case you're wondering, I'm not one of those who tried to help
you by commenting on your story. I was waiting for the installment
where I can get a feel for the characters and what they're up to.;
.
Angry Petunia 84
>not be a good "excuse" for the uppercase rage I saw a few minutes
>ago.
I'm not sure what you're implyig by this, if I'm 12 years old or what (i'm
not). and that post with all the uppercases was not rage at all. i am simply
frightened that my soul will be sent to hell since i uttered a profanity in
public. actually, it is extremely difficult for me to fly into rages, but if i
did, you would definitely know it, and that post was far far far from "rage."
i'm not very easily excited.
> Go for every fix you can get, especially those you've been
>offered here.
i didn't mean to imply that i'm some psycho with an abusive past, but the
shitheads on afo need not be informed of that. i'm quite normal, i assure you.
>In case you're wondering, I'm not one of those who tried to help
>you by commenting on your story. I was waiting for the installment
>where I can get a feel for the characters and what they're up to.;
for legal reasons i can't post anymore. what i posted was supposed to be part
of a published novel for my book contract, although my editor needs to
understand that i am the writer and will not change my prose just because they
don't like it, so i'm not sure what's going to become of it. it was a mistake
for me to post here in the first place, since i had to censor large sections
because they were so private that i didn't want just anyone to be reading
them. the result was that i posted part of a novel that had the essential
sections missing, and i couldn't really expect to get any real editorial
guidance from such a post. thats really what i was looking for since my own
editor has turned out to be quite the opposite of what an editor should be.
besides, i'm going to try to create a block on my computer barring me from
entering afo even if i want to . i have realized i am a writer who needs her
complete utter solitude from the masses, when they be internet massess or human
mases, to complete my work, and i am working under a deadline so getting caught
up in uselsss yet entertaining sites like afo can take up whole hours of my
time. i think i am going to take the plunge and call up my english teacher
again to get him to edit my entire novel, since he's really the only person i
personally know whose writing and opinions i respect.
Take care!
--Isabelle McGillis
Carl Edgar
>From: angrype...@aol.com (Angry Petunia 84)
>Date: 10/1/2002 11:15 AM Eastern Standard Time
>Message-id: <20021001111516...@mb-de.aol.com>
>
>>Yes. It really is quite a simple arrangement, Petunia/Zelda, whatever.
>
>My name is Isabelle.
>
>>You
>>post your fiction, you get responses. You don't like the responses you get
>>because they aren't glowing, then smile and move on.
>
>What makes you assume that I post looking for glowing reviews. Although I
>don't personally know any writers, my long experience with writers on boards
>like afo has taught me one thing: writers are a jealous lot. I am not in any
>way implying that anyone is jealous of my stuff, but what i mean is that I
>have
>often run across brilliant, undisputably amazing writing, and the general
>response to it was, "eh, could've been better." i have come to the
>conclusion
>that writers, in gerneral, would rather get their teeth pulled than praise
>another writer.
fiddlesticks
You're never alone with God and a bottle of Absolut
Petunia Gill 18
>fiddlesticks
La la la la!! i prefer the term hogwash rather than fiddlesticks, though.
i am so so mad right now. i am not leaving this stupid apartment for anything.
my roomates claim i owe them fifty bucks each and when they let me borrow it
they said i didn't have to pay them back, but now they're messing with me,
telling me i owe it to them. how the hell do i get money when i have none.
dumb bitches. won't even talk to me. i feel like banging my head against the
wall. when i moved out, my parents agrred to pay all my rent for me, but since
its three hundred a month, they won't give me spending money. fuck the world
is what i say.
Carl Edgar
>Date: 10/2/2002 11:30 PM Eastern Standard Time
>Message-id: <20021002233050...@mb-cm.aol.com>
stop whining
JUDGE JUDY
Carl Edgar
>Message-id: <20021001183559...@mb-mm.aol.com>
LOL - this is getting funny - I can use these rants as dialogue.
Have you told your editor he's a fuckhead - you owe it to him to contribute to
his personal growth.
carl
Angry Petunia 84
I wasn't whining. i'm facing a challenging dilemma
Angry Petunia 84
you have my permission
>Have you told your editor he's a fuckhead - you owe it to him to contribute
>to
>his personal growth.
we're hardly on speaking terms anymore. i called him a rat bastard once, after
he called me an adolesceent bitch. that exchange truly shocked me. i wouldn't
expect that kind of talk from a professional, but there it was.
Carl Edgar
>Message-id: <20021003080421...@mb-bj.aol.com>
maybe he made an exception
R. Westermeyer
wrote:
>
>i am so so mad right now. i am not leaving this stupid apartment for anything.
>my roomates claim i owe them fifty bucks each and when they let me borrow it
>they said i didn't have to pay them back, but now they're messing with me,
>telling me i owe it to them. how the hell do i get money when i have none.
>dumb bitches. won't even talk to me. i feel like banging my head against the
>wall. when i moved out, my parents agrred to pay all my rent for me, but since
>its three hundred a month, they won't give me spending money. fuck the world
>is what i say.
It's not uncommon for one to seek part time employment when going to
school. Serves a number of valuable functions you might consider,
though fucking the world is not one of them.
--R
Angry Petunia 84
>school. Serves a number of valuable functions you might consider,
>though fucking the world is not one of them.
I was working at a bookstore on the weekends but seeing all those books on the
shelves made me sick. I kept having the nagging thought in my head that my
book should be on those shelves, and why the hell wasn't i at home working on
it instead of wasting away in hard labor? it's actually an easy sacrifice to
make.
VVKS326
>the
>shelves made me sick. I kept having the nagging thought in my head that my
>book should be on those shelves, and why the hell wasn't i at home working on
>it instead of wasting away in hard labor? it's actually an easy sacrifice to
>make.
And which sacrifice would that be? The one where you sponge off your parents,
or the one where you sponge off your roommates?
You're kidding, right? You're testing out a character for a writing exercise
or an acting class or something? Because if you're not, I suspect you're due
for an abrupt and uncomfortable awakening.
Or, to put it in language you may better understand... spoiled brat much?
V
Roy Anderson
"Angry Petunia 84" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021003184343...@mb-ma.aol.com...
<biting toungue to the point of bleeding>
-Roy
Angry Petunia 84
>parents,
>or the one where you sponge off your roommates?
>You're kidding, right? You're testing out a character for a writing exercise
>or an acting class or something? Because if you're not, I suspect you're due
>for an abrupt and uncomfortable awakening.
>Or, to put it in language you may better understand... spoiled brat much?
>
>V
Dude, you are totally trippin. I am not sponging off anybody, and I’m
actually crying right now. I seriously am. I mean, there’s no tears and
I’m not exactly sobbing but I swear I feel like crying, and my insides feel
as if they’ve been torn apart with a shredder. It’s as if a black could
has settled over my head, seeping through to my skull and filtering through my
organs. It’s just a horrible feeling I’m experiencing, so much emotion
bottled in my head that I think steam is going to be shooting out of my ears in
two seconds, and I know more of this is going to be coming tomorrow. My throat
hurts from screaming at my dumb bitch roommates so much. I’m not actually in
school right now, but I’m taking one physics class to keep myself in shape
and I have a major test on Tuesday that I must start studying for right this
instant, but I can’t because I’m just too upset to do anything but sit
here, wallowing in my pity. The world is a horrible place sometimes. When I
wanted to move out of my house, my parents said they could only pay my rent up
to three hundred a month, and that they couldn’t give me any spending money,
and I was fine with the arrangement. But when I went apartment hunting, I
couldn’t see myself living in the apartments that were going for three
hundred a month. I was going to move in with my boyfriend, but we broke up in
the process and I decided I could live alone. But seeing those three hundred a
month apartments, I couldn’t imagine it. My friends Judy and Tonia were
moving out of home at the same time and we decided, hey, why not economize and
get an awesome apartment together instead of moving into separate shithole
flats. Everything was going grand when we all first moved in. I spent my days
working on my novel, my weekends working (but mostly reading) at my beloved
bookstore, and spending my nights with my beloved roommates. Then I decided
that my job was sponging too much of my time, so I quit, and at first the lack
of spending money didn’t bother me. I’m a procrastinator, and when I sit
down to do something I end up doing something totally different. Like I just
sat down two hours ago with a plan to study physics for six hours straight, and
then I headed for my computer to edit some more of my novel but then I went
online instead. My dumb bitch roommates are in the living room and they
won’t even talk to me and they’re my best friends but they have exiled me
until I repay them their stupid money. I’ve known them for years, and I’ve
always paid them back when I borrowed money off them and now this one time when
I can’t repay them they go psycho. It’s just a hundred dollars and I
needed it to pay my brother back because I took my brother’s money without
even asking him. When I was babysitting his son last week his wallet was on
the table and so I grabbed a couple of bank cards and withdrew a hundred bucks
out of his passbook. It doesn’t sound as bad as it does, so don’t think
too harshly of me for my actions, because I seriously needed those stupid
measly hundred dollars that very day. When I withdrew it, I swore that I’d
put it back in as soon as possible. When I explained my financial situation to
my parents about how I had to pay my brother’s account back before he
discovered my petty thievery, they laughed in my face and I angrily drove off
to this blasted apartment and talked to my roommates. They listened to me with
their characteristic sympathy and patted me on the back saying Oh don’t worry
dearest Bella, take the one hundred off of us and never mind about paying us
back. I’m no fool, I took the money, bowed deeply to both of my comrades,
made pathetic motions as if I were kissing their calloused feet and dashed back
to the bank. I thought the whole business was over until yesterday when they
decided to bitch at me for their money. Pay us back, Bella, they demanded.
How could they do that when they know full well that I quit my job and my
parents cut me off from their supply, and that I blew the four grand I had in
my account last summer on Paris? They know it all. They know Isabelle better
than she knows herself. I don’t know what to do right now. They told me
they want me to move in with my ex-boyfriend, who I dumped because he was a
jerk but he drops by damn near every day and asks me to move in with him. He
tells me he misses me and he’s lonely, and I feel so bad for him when he says
that, because I understand completely. But he said the same shit to me the
last two times we broke up, and I’m not falling for his tricks again. Like I
said, I’m no fool. My roommates and I just had this screaming fight in the
dining room. They’re telling me I better move my ass back in with my ex or,
to quote them, I’ll be sorry. I think they’re mad at me for something
else, because it’s not like them to get their panties in a bunch over a
hundred dollars. Money-hmph, what is it besides green scraps of paper passed
through so many hands? My one roommate, Judy, looked so ugly as she carried on
and on about how I never clean up around the house and-get this-she started
complaining about how I read all her fuckin magazines before she gets to. She
comes up to me, her hands on her wide chubby hips, her lank brown hair all
sweaty and sticking to her pimply face, and says to me, Isabelle, you cunt
(yes, I swear she called me a cunt, the most vulgar of words, in my opinion)
but she says, Bella, you cunt, you sit around on your ass all day on your
computer and wander around outside to sniff flowers and smoke cigarettes when
the radiation from your computer gets to be too much. She went on to tell me
that I read all her magazines, and that I leave them lying all over the
apartment with all the sample perfume pages already opened and sniffed to the
full extent. She also screamed about how I junk up the place with my candy
wrappers lying around all over. She was practically spitting in my face. Her
saliva was spraying all over me. A huge speck hit me in the eye and damn near
dislodged my contact. But that’s not what bugged me so much; it was her
endless tirade, as she stood there preaching to me like the brainless tub of
lard she is. I felt my blood boil into a fever, I swear. How dare this fat
hoe come up to my face and go insane about how I read her magazines before her
dainty fingers get to touch the holy pages. Of all the things to bitch at me
about, of all the things in this world that are so horrible and sad that it
hurts to think about them, this shallow bitch yells at me about magazines.
Well, okay, I said to her. I told her she was a fat hoochie, and she was lucky
I ever even talked to her in tenth grade when she first moved to Ohio because
she was so fuckin ugly and bawdy that most normal people ignored her fat ass,
but I only deigned to speak to her because she was dumb enough to do my math
homework for me every freakin day. I told her it’s well understood by the
general populace that I’ve never been normal enough to ignore social outcasts
like her, thus I gravitated to her like a moth to a flame. I told her she
fascinated me so much that I couldn’t stay away from her because she was a
wonderful study in a failed human being: the prototypical insecure, foulmouthed
skank straight from the trailer park. I calimed that I’ve been recording her
barbaric, ignoramus antics for years and plan to publish them in a scientific
journal once my experiment with her is complete. In reality, that’s not the
truth at all. Judy is a wonderful person despite the fact that she was raised
in a trailer; she has so many redeeming qualities that I overlooked the sordid
aspects most other people saw in her and recognized her for the true individual
she was. She has a really loud, intimidating laugh that I love. She is the
only white girl I know who seriously never desired to be blonde at some point
in her life, and she makes sure she never smells, unlike my other roommate,
Tonia. Tonia, now there’s a bitch I could on about for pages. I am still
reeling from the crap she screamed at me for today. She told me to stay away
from her precious shampoo, because she set up a camera in the bathroom and, to
quote her, I saw Bella using huge handfuls of my expensive salon shampoo AND
conditioner. Now, I wouldn’t lie in my private ramblings, for it would
defeat the purpose of them in the first place. I honestly declare that I’ve
never touched her shampoo. She uses Nexus, and I use Judy’s Biolage brand
because it smells ten times better and leaves my luscious locks silky smooth.
It never even occurred to me to even touch Tonia’s god-awful shampoo. Tonia
is way too stupid to even operate a toaster let alone a hidden camera, so I
knew she was lying through her rotting teeth even as she stood there explaining
to Judy about how I used up an entire bottle of her Nexus in two weeks flat.
Judy regarded her with this understanding, serious expression, nodding her head
about twenty times, her lips compressed into a thin line as if to say, Yes,
Tonia, I too fully understand that we are living with a shampoo stealing rat.
These girls are supposed to be my comrades, my sisters, and now out of the blue
they go ballistic over shampoo and magazines I’ve supposedly abused and the
random junk I am prone to scatter about the flat. Don’t they realize that we
are young and smart, and that sooner than we know it we’ll be old and
divorced and why bang your head against the wall about such nonsensical jargon
when we still have a few years left to our fleeting youth? They knew when they
moved in with me that I was messy, so they can stuff my trash up their assess
for all I care. But the sad thing is I do care, very much, about these girls
and if they like me. Despite everything I need them like I need oxygen. I feel
a pair of scissors chopping up my innards, and I need to open my blasted
physics book. How can I concentrate on those boring, useless physics figures
and numbers and theorems when all I feel like doing is quietly slipping into
the bathroom and then rushing out to the living room in a blaze of glory and
dumping a bucketful of toilet water on those two croaking toads. Nonentities,
more like it. If they died tomorrow no one would even notice except their
hillbilly mamas, yet they sit in that living room as if they’re queens
perched atop the almighty throne, ruling the fair land of this co-shared
apartment while I, the lowly servant named Bella, hides in her bedroom like a
beaten stray dog. Tonia, the slut extraordinaire, has apparently called her
boyfriend over and is laughing her head off like the hyena she is, just to show
me that even though she spent two straight hours screaming her head off at me
she can still have a grand evening. She’s constantly mentioning her
boyfriend, even to perfect strangers, because he’s a well-known dj on the
radio and I’m supposed to be insanely jealous or something. I just heard him
mention my name. I can’t understand how any girl could be attracted to a pig
like that. He’s so loud I could hear him from all the way down the hallway.
I ran into him at the record store the other day, and I tried to duck out of
the store before he noticed me but then he looked up into my face while he was
scratching his balls. He suddenly had this look on his face as if he had been
picking his nose or something. That made me really happy, of course, seeing
him so flustered, so I sauntered over to him and announced, Hey, Marko, having
fun scratching your big hairy balls? About twenty people turned to gawk at him,
because he actually kept his hand on his balls, as if in defiance. His face
turned red as a tomato and he laughed it off, but I knew he was seething
inside. Marko has an ego bigger than Judy’s thighs (that’s pretty big) and
I had just succeeded in impairing it with a major dent. I threw my head back
and laughed this really fake, grating, annoying laugh and then skipped outside.
I was just getting him back for the time he listened in on my phone
conversation with my mother, after which the bastard turned around and told
everyone every last embarrassing thing I was talking about. He even took some
notes while listening so that he wouldn’t forget. He practically had a whole
stand up routine about my mother and I, and of course the only one laughing was
Marko but plenty of people couldn’t get enough of the smarmy details
concerning my habits. So after the record store ordeal, I figured the score
was even enough, but now I guess he’s jabbering his itchy balls off about me
again about the glorious private conversation he overheard. It must have been
the highlight of his sorry life, so I probably shouldn’t begrudge him so
much. Believe me, I have my own stories about Marko that I could spread, tales
ten times more hair raising that the crap he spews about me, but I’m just not
the type of girl to go around wrecking people’s lives for no good reason save
for trivial revenge. I don’t know where to turn; what do you do when your
best friends turn out to be a couple of screwy, petty bitches screaming about
candy wrappers and magazines and money when its obvious they’re angry about
something else? I wish I never moved out of home. But then I would be talking
shit about my family. I’ll never win.
Angry Petunia 84
Try swallowing that blood in your mouth back into your body so you don't lose
too much more blood. I'm sure during all those times you were dropped of your
big cracked head as a baby you lost more than enough blood. Save all you can.
It seems to be affecting your intellect, or lack thereof. I suggest it
strongly. Quickly, swallow it in before it drools our of your mouth like so
much slime.
If anyone is serious about being a writer, I also strongly suggest working in a
bookstore for at least a month, simply for research if nothing else. i worked
at a major chain, and before working there i sort of had an attitude like Who
in this world still buys books? The answer: everybody. People will buy the
craziest stuff, and I definitely now know that even the crappiest books have a
chance of getting on the bestsellar lists because there's always going to be
ignorant suckers out there who'll buy them. Dealing with books so much, and
seeing all those rows and rows of authors on those shelves drove me nearly to
the brink of insanity, because I wanted my own niche, even if for a short
period.
Aris Merquoni
I shouldn't be doing this. It's validating your ego.
But damn, I'm glad I didn't turn out to be anything like you.
Decaying Atheist
> >And which sacrifice would that be? The one where you sponge off your
> >parents,
> >or the one where you sponge off your roommates?
> >You're kidding, right? You're testing out a character for a writing
exercise
> >or an acting class or something? Because if you're not, I suspect you're
due
> >for an abrupt and uncomfortable awakening.
> >Or, to put it in language you may better understand... spoiled brat
much?
> >
> >V
I snipped it but geez this was some of the best fiction I've read on the
group in the last two days.
I assure you if any of this is true that the majority of us probably don't
care to hear it. This isn't alt.petunia.rants,
but thanks for the decent read.
--
Decaying Atheist. He's the right man for the job.
Subscribe: shartiswrit...@yahoogroups.com
ICQ: 161624095
12:20:28 AM ---- Friday, October 04, 2002
Quote 21 of 109
"So tell me, just how long have you had this feeling that no one is watching
you?" (Christopher Locke: Entropy Gradient Reversals)
Quadpus
wrote:
>
>I snipped it but geez this was some of the best fiction I've read on the
>group in the last two days.
>
>I assure you if any of this is true that the majority of us probably don't
>care to hear it. This isn't alt.petunia.rants,
>but thanks for the decent read.
If it was fiction, it wasn't half bad. Needs paragraph breaks, though.
If it was true, well, Petunia-Bella-Zelda, you're not doing yourself
any favors by posting it on usenet where it shall remain archived
forevermore. Get a job and pay off your roommates. Your novel will
stay in your head until you have the time to write it. Don't stress
out. You're young. Get your shit together before the pressures
*really* start to mount up.
Roy Anderson
> at a major chain, and before working there i sort of had an attitude like
Who
> in this world still buys books?
Question:
Do you?
>The answer: everybody. People will buy the
> craziest stuff, and I definitely now know that even the crappiest books
Follow-Up Question:
How many of those crappy books did you pull down and actually read?
Angry Petunia 84
>group in the last two days.
>
Thanks, but I must correct you on one detail: this wasn't fiction at all. I
wrote it in about ten minutes when I was steaming mad and it just came pouring
out. I write best when I write about myself (I try not to be self-centered,
but hey . . .) The funny thing is people never seem to believe my life when I
write about it, and when I write fiction they think I'm writing about myself.
I wrote an entire diary last winter about this girl named Maria, (I posted an
excerpt here about a month ago) and I told it in the first person. It’s
about this extremely depressed, obsessive compulsive, paranoid
seventeen-year-old girl and she ends up committing suicide at the end. I was
quite proud of the finished work, because I worked on it for months and it was
my most sincere effort to date. Of course I rushed it to my English teacher and
when I handed it to him I told him I had just given birth to my first baby, a
girl named Maria. The next day, in school, he called me out of study hall to
talk to me. He was like, Isabelle, dear, if you are having problems and feel
the need to kill yourself, please talk to me about it or seek help in any way
you can, I had no idea you were suffering this much. He kept going on about how
the entire novel was filled with such deep, unwavering angst and loneliness,
and how it must mean that I’m filled with that same angst and loneliness, and
to him that meant I was this close having a total nervous breakdown. I was
truly mortified. I was so incredibly proud of myself for writing my very first
novel with such a consuming passion, and the person whose opinion I respected
the most responded by believing the entire thing was about me. I denied it,
repeatedly, because I wasn't Maria. I am far from Maria, but I understood her
so well and suffered a lot that she did, that maybe it came off like I was
talking about myself, but it was far from a memoir. Yet he didn’t seem to
believe me, and he suddenly adapted this horrible way of treating me with extra
care, as if I were some fragile piece of glass about two seconds away from
cracking completely. It was a huge contrast compared to earlier in the year
when we were such pals that we’d joke around and laugh with each other like
two crazy drunkards. He finally got over it, but I was definitely scarred by
the whole thing. For a month after he read Maria, I would duck out of the way
when I’d see him in the hallways, and during class I sat in the back row and
kept my head down and so that my hair would cover my face. I was honestly too
embarrassed to meet his eye. In the book, Maria dragged her feet through her
school’s halls, hating everyone and everything, and I figured when my English
teacher saw me dragging my own feet around he’d think I was thinking the same
things Maria was thinking. Does that make sense? It was just such a weird
feeling, as if he suddenly thought he had gotten into my head by reading my
book, and I wanted to tell him how wrong he was but I didn’t want to call
anymore attention to the matter. Anyway, since then, I learned one thing:
don't have your main characters in your stories resemble your own life too
closely. Since I was 17 and Maria was 17, and since we both were in high
school and lived in the suburbs, suddenly I was her. Very disturbing
experience; I really can jabber on about it for pages when I get started.
>I assure you if any of this is true that the majority of us probably don't
>care to hear it. This isn't alt.petunia.rants,
>but thanks for the decent read.
You’re welcome.
Angry Petunia 84
>Who
>> in this world still buys books?
>
>Question:
>Do you?
Well, heh. This is true trick question because I'm not sure how to respond. I
love books. I adore the decorative, glossy front covers, the smell of them when
I take a deep satisfying sniffs of the scented paper. (You can argue that books
aren’t scented, but I beg to differ.) For the past few years, I’ve been
surrounded with my books. However, nowadays, the only books I have lying around
are medical texts that I’m reading to prepare myself for the long med school
haul I have waiting for me in a few months. Sometimes I do sneak in a novel
here and there, though. When I moved into this apartment, I didn't take my
many bookcases with me because my two roommates vetoed the idea, so my precious
books are all at home. My roommates are two slobs who don't read books unless
absolutely forced to; they satiate themselves with so much of the crassness
known as pop culture. Because of this satiation, they believe they are
cultured enough to get by their empty days without literature, which to them
represents endless, lonely hours of sitting in solitude, no music, no radio, no
MTV. Plus, they told me I best keep my books at home because they didn't want
all of their cool friends they dragged home from the bars to see their
apartment walls lined with my bookshelves. So I had to leave my books at home,
but I do own tons of books. I think my book collection has surpassed the one
thousand mark, and that is (admittedly) quite impressive for a girl who only
began collecting books four years ago. And I actually only boughtabout ten of
those books; most of them I didn’t even pay for, because I needed to save my
money for weed. So how did I acquire these bountiful books? Well, I stole
them from bookstores. Not the bookstore I use to work at, for I'm cautious
about such things, but bookstores on the outskirts of my region. I did my
research and located all the bookstores within a driving distance from my
house. A couple of times, when seized with a thirst for new books, I've been
known to drive an hour and a half away to a new bookstore target. I have yet
to read all the books I’ve stolen. When I’d wake up on certain mornings
with a light bulb flashing in my head instructing me to steal more books, I’d
remind myself of the hundreds of unread books on my shelves. But it never
worked; the lure of thievery would overtake my sensibilities. I think part of
me stole books for the sheer thrill of it; locating a store, filling up my gas
tank, the thrill of peeking around for the security cameras, and finally going
for the literature loot. But damn, I had some mighty close calls at times when
I was a hair away from getting caught. I even had this purse about the size of
two pillowcases stitched together, and when I would go on one of my stealing
sprees, I’d tote it around as if it were some goddamn purse or something.
The thing that still seems funny to me is that I never got any weird looks from
the bookstore employees, despite my huge purse. They would treat me like any
other customer. I guess they don't get a lot of thieves in bookstores. I
remember reading in Francine Prose's awesome book "Blue Angel" a particular
scene where a character says, Oh, Angela (an eighteen year old) is stealing
books, there's no harm in that, I think it's great that kids want to steal
books. Most normal kids don’t even consider stealing books, much less
stealing books with the unrelenting determination with which I went about
stealing books. So the store employees just regarded me as some sweet young
girl out to waste a couple of her hours browsing at the old bookstore. I dress
like a punk extraordinaire, usually. I have purple and green streaks in my
hair, I have my nose pierced (in the septum, at times giving me the appearance
of a bull), I have a tattoo of my ex boyfriend Noah's name on my left arm, I've
been known to wear clothes made of nothing but hot pink plastic, I refuse to
wear jeans unless there are completely torn up and full of holes, and I seem to
have a perpetual sneer on my lovely face. Yet--get this--when I’d be seized
with the uncontrollable, maddening itch to steal books, I'd put on one of my
mom's wigs to convince the world I was nothing more than a timid, conservative,
future librarian rather than the secret anarchist I am. My mother had been
battling cancer for years and when she lost her hair from the chemotherapy, she
dealt it with by buying wigs galore. During my prep on those days which I had
designated as Steal Books Day, I’d go through her wig collection and clip on
the most boring wig there was. There was a certain brown wig which came up to
my chin. It had bangs and was of a lackluster hue so pitiful that I'd want to
wack it off my mother’s head when she’d put it on. She’d wear it all the
time, though; it soon became her favorite wig. She actually thought it made
her look happening, and so she bought it in about three different colors
although the brown was her favorite. I felt like burning all those stupid wigs
in the fireplace when she brought them home one evening after she first became
bald, but I held my tongue since she was practically on her deathbed. But when
I'd pilfer books, it was as if I was possessed or something, because I'd always
put on her favorite wig, the drab brown one, even though I hated it with such a
consuming passion. Then I'd strip off my punk attire and put on one of my
mother's old business suits; she had damn near fifty business suits left from
her pre-cancer days when she was still working at the law firm. Although she
was a top-notch lawyer, she had absolutely no fashion sense (unlike her
daughter), but she was loose with her money and bought clothes like most people
buy condoms. So I had a wide variety of suits to choose from. I'd pick suits
that had huge shoulder pads and were made of gray wool, and there was this one
particularly plain gray wool suit that I chose rather frequently. I figured
that store employees would never suspect someone so pathetic looking and
clueless to be so bold as to pilfer hundreds of dollars worth of books right
from under their noses. Then I'd scrounge off my layers of makeup, grab my
huge purse, drive to the boookstore, and ball my hands into two tiny fists so
that the employees wouldn’t be able to see my wicked black nail polish. In
the store, I’d go through my well-rehearsed routine. I’d always emerge
from the store successful with a pile of stolen books in my trunk as I would
head for home. Another hard day’s work accomplished. But sometimes I'd
resort to the shoplifter's typical folly: creating pointless small talk with an
employee to display my innocence. I’d pick the most authoritative employee,
the one who looked the most watchful and in charge, and I’d ask her to direct
me to the self-help book section. This was my method of creating the illusion
that not only was I dressed like a cleaning lady getting dolled up for her
bastard grandchild’s fourth wedding, but that I had such low self esteem that
I require self help books to trudge on with my pointless life. The employees
would sympathize with me when they’d discover my pathetic state, and then
leave me, the screwed up young nobody, alone to browse the aisles. Usually, I
wasn’t so desperate for conversation and drama and would skip it entirely.
After entering the bookstore, I’d head straight for the fiction section.
Once there, I’d consult my list of books that would look nice on my personal
bookcases. I would think of it as a simple transfer from one bookcase to
another. I’d locate my selected books and turn them around and around in my
hands as if I were some extremely conscientious buyer or something. I'd
pretend to be reading the back cover, the author bio, the inside flap, when in
reality I was just looking for those blasted censors. Sometimes, on hardcover
books, they are hidden on the inside cover, and you have to tear those suckers
off or you’re doomed for a jail cell. Once, when I was stealing Faulkner's
The Sound and the Fury, I missed tearing off the censor hidden on the inside
cover and the blasted detector when off when I was walking out of the store.
There were these dorky, greasy guys in their thirties working the counter who
looked as if they spent the bulk of their free time playing video games and
masturbating to Lara Croft. They were standing right next to the exit door,
and when the alarm went off, its loud ring reverberating throughout, my
panicked head screamed at me to run but my blood froze me to Popsicle position.
I was standing ram-rod straight, unmoving, dripping in perspiration as if I
were melting. I knew those loser employees would have loved to catch a
shoplifter. It would have made their freakin day. They probably thought if
they caught me and got the cops on my ass, that their ugly faces would be on
the cover of tomorrow’s newspaper claiming them to be heroes of the universe
or something. But that day when Faulkner got me in trouble for the very first
time in my book-stealing career, I froze. I didn’t know how to react,
exactly. Maybe if it was just one or two books I could’ve said they fell
inside my purse, but I had an entire fuckin bag of books on my shoulder. One of
the guys yelled to me, Hey, Miss, Stop right there, and Please drop your sack.
He was trying to control his voice as if he were some friendly guy just trying
to clear up a mistake with another dowdy customer, but he couldn't keep the
excitement out of his voice. He probably thought he was about to make
bookstore history. I glanced towards him for one brief second and saw him
heading for me. His shirt was stained with spaghetti and was so small that it
showed his hairy belly button, but what really got me was that he was carrying
a cordless phone. What the phone was for, I don’t know, but it scared me
something terrible. I dashed the hell out of there with my tail between my
fuckin legs. Let me tell you, it was as if my heart had just jumped straight
into my throat, because it wasn’t beating anymore. Sweating like rain
falling from the sky, I jumped into my mom's Mercedes like the getaway crook I
was and drove the hell out of there, nearly hitting a little girl in the
parking lot playing in a puddle of mud. I even passed the red light at the
exit of the parking lot, but luckily no cops were around. I kept thinking that
maybe they had gotten my license plate number, and the cops would be on my
doorstep. Or that the spaghetti-stained employee was prowling the streets for
me, and that maybe he was even following me, waiting till I turned into a
dead-end alley and then he would bully me out of my car. Then, when he’d
have me crouching in a corner up against a garbage can, he would probably vomit
all his spaghetti all over me to teach me a fuckin lesson I’d never forget.
I drove around town for about an hour, because I figured if he was following
me, he’d wait till he found out where I lived, and then he'd break into my
house in the middle of the night to steal his books back and strangle me to the
point of irredeemable suffocation. The thing that scares me now is that while
I was aimlessly driving around, I was screaming like a maniac. I couldn’t
stop. I wasn’t even screaming words; it was just one big loud, shattering
scream, and the only thing that would vary would be my pitch when I’d start
to run out of breath. Then, after the scream would die out, I’d take another
deep breath without thinking and scream the same god-awful scream. I had the
windows all rolled down, and when I stopped at a stop sign near my house, I was
still screaming my goddamn head off. There was this kooky old guy sitting atop
a lawn chair on the house to my right, about ten feet from my car. While I was
in mid scream, I turned my head and saw him staring at me with this stupid,
senile grin. He probably thought I was his soul buddy or something. He
probably had entire days when he did nothing but scream hysterically like I was
doing right then, but he probably did it for fun. I stopped screaming after
that and calmed myself down by buying myself a huge cookie and eating it so
fast that practically half of it smeared all over my face. Then I drove home
with my bag of books (it came to about eight hundred and fifty dollars worth,
if I can recall correctly). I carried my books up the stairs to my bedroom and
dumped them on my bed. I stood staring at them for a few seconds; I felt a bit
disoriented, but then, out of nowhere, I jumped into them. Literally. It was
as if I was swimming in a goddamn pool of novels. Unfortunately for me, my
mother was home. In my woebegone ignorance, I thought she was at another
doctor's appointment, but apparently she had returned earlier than I had
expected. She cleared her throat, loud enough for me to stop flapping my hands
and feet and open my eyes to see her standing at my bedroom door. How
embarrassing to have your mother seeing you on your king sized bed swimming in
a pile of books. I was still wearing her wig and her suit, and I didn't have
the usual layers of makeup on my face, so I must have been a wacky sight to
behold. During that period in my life, it was very uncommon to catch me
without my makeup on; I even wore it when I slept. I mean, during that era, my
boyfriend Noah and I fucked our brains out every freakin night, and afterwards
we’d fall asleep in each other’s arms. I was such a vain narcissist when I
was sixteen years old. I refused to wash the pore clogging makeup off my face
at night because I would rather be uncomfortable than have Noah catch me in the
morning without my makeup on. The thing that drove me nuts was that he thought
nothing of taking a piss in front of me and even sniffing his armpits while I,
on the other hand, was so polite and delicate that I’d rather risk skin
trouble than traumatize him with my makeup free face in the morning. Our
behavior definitely showed who cared about the relationship more: me. But
anyway, when my mom saw me lying in my bed, dressed in her old clothes, wearing
her favorite wig on top of a pile of brand new books, I knew I had quite some
explaining to do. I wasn’t exactly a fast talker when it came to my mom; I
couldn’t ever lie to her as easily as I lie to most other people. I was
sixteen when she first lost her hair from chemotherapy, and as she stood in
front of that day, she didn't even look like my mama anymore. She looked like
some fuckin alien, if you want to know god's honest truth. I stood up on top
of my pile of books with a huge stupid grin on my face and started flailing my
arms around like crazy, gesticulating as if it would somehow explain the
situation better. I began by saying, You see, Mother, The library is shutting
down and I was driving by when they were setting fire to their books in their
front yard and they donated all these books to me since I asked them. There
was a long period of silence, so I tacked on, And since I'm so rad! My mom was
no fool, just like her daughter ain't no fool. She walked over to the bed,
picked up a book (her fingers looked so fuckin skinny they looked more like
twigs). She said, Isabelle, but where are the library stickers? I stood there
looking at her like the moron I was for a few seconds before I could muster out
a reply. She looked so goddamn weak; she almost looked like a corpse. Looking
at her gave me a worse feeling than even when the detector went off in the
bookstore and the fat spaghetti guy started chasing me. Not only was she
skinnier than I'd ever seen her, but she was fucking bald. Shining bald; it
looked as if she shaved the remaining strands off her heads for the aesthetic
purposes of symmetry. But what really got me was that she had this incredibly
drained, defeated look in her eyes. She knew full well that I had stolen those
books. I was bragging to Noah a couple months earlier about how I had ripped
off the college bookstore, and my mother was in the next room listening to my
rants and she damn near slapped my face off for it after Noah left. Noah
treated me like I was his fuckin hero for stealing him his college books for
the year, and I was riding so high off that that my mother’s smack wasn’t
so bad. My mother was a strong woman and I expected at least that much from
her when I would screw up. But now, as she was standing in front of me with a
pile of stolen books separating us, she was anything but strong. She was
wearing sweat pants and a tee shirt, and where he skin wasn’t covered with
clothes, all you could see was pale, lucid skin and bones jabbing out all over.
My mother never had much style, like I mentioned earlier, but before her
cancer got really bad, she always kept herself looking smart, since she was
lawyer for a big company and all. But now she looked like some fucking
anorexic space creature, and she was asking me about those goddamn books as if
the library really had donated brand new, tip top books to a rad girl like me.
She was just playing up to my obvious lie. She probably was too tired to deal
with me anymore. Suddenly, right there, I stared crying my stupid head off,
really crying, with these loud hiccups and full body shudders. I asked her to
leave, and that I said I'd explain the books later, and then she slowly backed
out of the room and closed the door. I laid down on my pile of books and
totally ruined my stolen copy of Camus' The Stranger. I mean, my tears soaked
the pages and it got all wrinkly. I still have that copy of The Stranger, but
after my mother passed away I threw it up into the attic because whenever I
would see those wrinkles on the pages I’d want to start crying again. That
day my mother caught me swimming in my books, after she closed the door behind
her, I shoved the books under my bed and left them there. My mother passed
away about two months later, and I didn’t feel like putting those particular
stolen books on my bookshelves until about six months after her funeral. I
asked that she be buried in her favorite brown wig and her gray suit that I
wore I on most of my book stealing jaunts, and my dad agreed to the wig but not
the suit. I donated the suit to the Goodwill thrift store instead, and I went
searching for a while ago but I guess somebody already bought it because I
couldn’t find it. My dad remarried a year ago, and my stepmother Janice is
awesome. I even refer to her as my mother (albeit second mother). I was
extremely pissed at her for a really long time when I found out she threw out
all my mother’s clothes and wigs without even asking me. She kept some of
the newer stuff, and all the real jewelry. It drives me crazy when I see her
wearing it (especially when Janice slips my mother’s wedding ring on her
middle finger), but she has so many other qualities that make me overlook her
inherent tactlessness. For the remaining two months she was alive, my mother
never questioned me about the books she found me lying on top of that one
afternoon, when I was caught wearing her brown wig and her old clothes. That
day was the last time I ever stole books.
Angry Petunia 84
>How many of those crappy books did you pull down and actually read?
I have actually read quite a few books that, when I picked them up, I knew
exactly how crappy they were. I read the two Bridget Jones books and a slew of
other books Helen Fielding's non-genius spawned. One of those offsprings was
Sohie Kinsella's Shopaholic Takes Manhattan. Horrible book, but so shallow that
I realized two pages in that I wouldn't have to hem and haw over every word, so
I flew by, reading the entire turd in two days flat. I also read stuff by Aimee
Bender that was equally deplorable. Why did I read them? Answer: research
purposes. Although I am quite over my reading bad books phase, now. I think
its a phase writers should go through to teach themselves that no matter how
bad you think you are, there are always going to be published writers out there
who are ten times worse. Try it sometime.
Angry Petunia 84
>
>But damn, I'm glad I didn't turn out to be anything like you.
I don't think I am quite ready to come out of the oven at 18 years old and
announce to the world that I am *done.* I have years left before I can say
Hello, This is me, Isabelle, complete and *done.* I haven't turned out to be
anything yet; it's a process called personal growth and evolution that will
keep me changing my views and personalities well into my middle age. But maybe
you've decided to stick with your juvenile mindset for the rest of your sorry
life. Perhaps it's safe to say that you are, indeed, *done* and ready to go.
But I, on the other hand, am not.
nativelaw
> Thanks, but I must correct you on one detail: this wasn't fiction at all.
As nicely as I can think to say it, Isabelle, that's a damn shame. As a
piece of fiction, it has redeeming qualities. A passionate flow, some
quirky POV, and it is a tolerable piece (needing paragraphs) if we think
gee, amazing, isn't it, the solipsism and narcissism of youth (sort of the
way the movie Zoolander portrayed some of the folly of our times.) But you
still have the problem that overall the subject matter is of extremely
limited interest.
Now don't just get your back up and get angry about such statements. That
would be silly and awfully boring and Pavlovian from someone who calls
herself "Angry Petunia". I am trying to help instead of just ignoring your
ranting You have some talent but the only hope for you as a writer for
someone other than your own amusement, is to understand why my opinion and
some of the other things that have been said here might just be valid.
There's quite a big universe outside your room, you obviously know that,
right? And can you also appreciate that no one finds our lives as
interesting as we do, and it is extremely, extremely rare when any one of us
actually has an original thought? And to date, chances are great that you
have not? As something you "spewed out streaming mad" your tale comes out as
the whiny and uninteresting and also pretty uncharitable tale of an 18 year
old just graduated high school student with far too much time on her hands
and far too little responsibility and spending time blaming her parents,
roommates, boyfriends, etc. for the boringness of her life instead of doing
anything about it.
A writer can write about anything; a GOOD writer is MUCH more selective, and
won't subject his or her audience to every crazy thought that spews out of
his or her brain.
If you really love writing, you do have some talent (and don't fall all over
yourself that someone wants to publish your book, okay, because that doesn't
mean very much if no one wants to read it.) My suggestions would be 1) go
out and volunteer your time doing something good for your community or even
just one person in it.... 2) read, read, read. And TRY to understand why
some of the feedback and criticism you may have gotten here is valid and try
to imagine how your point of view is going to change as you get older... 18
was old, years ago, today's 18 year olds seem so young. Maybe I'm just old.
Oh, and there's always an element of people thinking that your books are
about you (there is the limit in our own imaginations.) But you might
consider that it is magnified in your case because you aren't giving people
a reason to think that you have the ability to get out of your own head.
Maybe you want to try writing from a perspective of a 50 year old high
school English professor; or a 40 year old professional female, or a REALLY
young child; or how about from the perspective of one of your fat or whoring
roommates that you write so unkindly about for our or your own amusement?
READ more. If you haven't read William Faulkner you might try reading The
Sound And the Fury, and his short stories are also wonderful (A Rose for
Emily, Dry September, etc.) Also, Joseph Conrad's works; Melville (Moby
Dick, Billy Budd, Bartleby the Scrivener); Virginia Woolf; how about Like
Water for Chocolate, by Esquivel, even (her later stuff stinks.)
Shakespeare? Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy or Penelope
Fitzgerald, the Gate of Angels or Memento Mori by -- I forget her name now
but if you look her up on the internet you'll find it. How about Marquez,
One Hundred Years of Solitude? There are so many Russian writers who are
wonderful, you can't ignore Chekhov he's the best for short stories, Nabakov
is great too but there's more to him than Lolita. How about Gogol's "The
Overcoat"? Eudora Welty? How about Alice Munro -- her short stories are
wonderful. John Cheever? Milan Kundera, the Unbearable Lightness of Being,
or stories like The Hitchhiking Game? There are also some wonderful
criticisms on writing, by established writers such as Henry James, Chekhov,
Nabakov, etc. And try reading some comedy stuff too like Bill Bryson for
variety.
If you have already read all of this, go back and read it AGAIN! I have a
huge library and have read most of the books in it at least twice.
> out. I write best when I write about myself (I try not to be
self-centered,
> but hey . . .)
Just try harder, okay? You'll get there. I suspect you're pretty tough
underneath all that whining. But we've all been there and we've all
whined -- heck when I was in my first year of college one of my roommates
called me "Angrea" I used to fly off the handle about so much.
Good luck to you.
Andrea
Angry Petunia 84
>Sound And the Fury, and his short stories are also wonderful (A Rose for
>Emily, Dry September, etc.
Rose for Emily was the shit, but I haven’t been able to get more into
Faulkner too much although I have a few of his books on my shelf.
> Virginia Woolf;
Virgina Woolf was the ancient Sylvia Plath. Very tragic. I read Mrs. Dalloway
and tried reading To the Lighthouse. I loved how in Mrs. Dalloway she took
poetic justice by the reigns and wrote an entire novel about a single day in a
woman’s life; the ending was incredibly powerful for me. Have you read
Michael Cunningham’s marvelous 1999 Pulitzer winner The Hours? I loved it.
It’s a haunting, poignant portrayal of Woolf’s life.
>how about Shakespeare?
It’s funny that you mention Shakespeare. I have a huge leather bound volume
of Shakespeare’s complete works which I keep on the table right next to my
bed. It’s a beautiful volume; gold edged pages, lovely script. I stole it a
couple years ago from a bookstore, but if I paid for it, it would have came out
to one hundred and ten dollars. I haven’t read anything in it except a few
sonnets, but it’s a nice thing to keep around. But I did watch the entire
movie Hamlet with Mel Gibson. He deserved an Oscar for that performance, but
he probably didn’t get it. (Have you ever read a poem of Shakespeares that
starts off….oh, I can’t think of it now. But it’s my all time favorite
poem.) Anyway, a couple days ago I had a dream about my ex and I getting back
together, but the first time we go out, he suddenly grabs my beautiful,
treasured volume of Shakespeare’s complete works and tears it to shreds
before my eyes. I have no idea why I was carrying it around in the dream. Then
I grab the torn book from him and frame the torn pages and hang them up all
over my apartment. In my dream, for some reason, I was completely devastated
by the ordeal.
Ok, I just grabbed my volume of Shakespeare and since I'm high on him right now
I’m going to type up that poem of his that drove me insane when I first read
it.
Fear No More by William Shakespeare
Fear no more the heat o the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldy task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great;
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak..
The scepter, learning, physic must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightening flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lover’s young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
It hits me like a hammer on my fucking head every time I read it. Certainly
puts things in perspective.
>There are so many Russian writers who are
>wonderful, you can't ignore Chekhov he's the best for short stories, Nabakov
>is great too but there's more to him than Lolita. How about Gogol's "The
>Overcoat"?
Last winter I went on a mad spree of reading the Russian writers. Have you
ever read Notes From Underground by Dostoevsky? I read Dostoevsky’s Crime
and Punishment, The Idiot, and Brothers Karamazov, and while I adored his
anti-hero characters, Notes from Underground remains, in my opinion, his
greatest novella. Around the same time last winter, I also read a huge volume
of Chekhov’s short stories. I know I told you to read Notes From
Underground, but you absolutely MUST read Chekhov’s magnificent short story
which he titled A Boring Story, which is a tale about a dying professor in
1800’s Russia. I’ve read it three times and its still my all time favorite
short story, and believe me, I’ve read more than my share of short stories.
It’s only thirty pages long, so it won’t even take up too much of your
time. And you mentioned Nikolai Gogol-I damn near choked from laughing so hard
when I read his Diary of a Madman. He was a comedic genius. The Overcoat, The
Nose, The Carriage were all hilarious stories, too. I couldn’t get too into
his one story called Taras Bulba, though, although it was supposed to be his
masterpiece. Have you read any Ivan Turgenev or Tolstoy? Don’t do anything
stupid like sit down and try to read War and Peace like I did two summers ago,
because there is no way in hell that you’ll finish. But Anna Karenina is
actually pretty good when you get past the slow pacing. I wish I could have
read all those Russian books in actual Russian instead of translations. I even
dated a Russian boy during that time when I was so into the Russian writers
because I wanted to live every available aspect of Russia. I am fluent in
English, French, and Hindi, but if I ever get the opportunity to learn a fourth
language, Russian would be it.
You know, I just grabbed by copy of Chekhov's short stories, and I was flipping
through it and came across this wonderful paprgraph that I highlighted from A
Boring Story. I can't help myself, I must type it up here:
"His future i can picture clearly. In his lifetime he will prepare several
hundred slides of extraordinary neatness, write a lot of dry but quite decent
papers, make a dozen or so quite conscientious translations, but he won't set
the world on fire. To set the world on fire, you need fantasy, inventivemess,
intuition, and Pyotr Ignatievich has nothing of the sort. To put it briefly,
in science he was not a master, but a servant." --from A Boring Story
"Destroy my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better and I will
follow you. You may say I'm not worth bothering with; in that case, I can say
exactly the same to you. And if you don't deign to give me your attention, I
will not bow before you. I have my underground." --Fyodor Dostoevsky in Notes
From Underground
> How about Alice Munro -- her short stories are
>wonderful. John Cheever? Milan Kundera, the Unbearable Lightness of Being,
>or stories like The Hitchhiking Game? There are also some wonderful
>criticisms on writing, by established writers such as Henry James, Chekhov,
>Nabakov, etc.
Nabokov was, undeniably, THE MAN. I recently discovered that English wasn’t
even Nabokov’s first language, but what he did with the English language in
telling Lolita was un-fucking-believable. The clever way he got the reader to
feel sympathy for Humbert Humbert even though he was a child rapist. And who
could forget how he introduced all the goriness of American kitsch in the form
of Lolita’s mother? That book is up there on my list of favorites. I tried
reading Pale Fire but was turned off by the prose. Yes, I’ve read Milan
Kundera’s Unbearble Lightness novel which seems to have a cult following; I
liked it, but it doesn’t come close to Nabokov. I was really embarrassed when
my English teacher caught me reading Lolita during his lecture on Huxley; I was
so absorbed in Nabakov’s novel that he had to call my name about five times
before I finally realized he was calling on me. He made a big deal about my
novel of choice. He began calling me Lolita for a long, long time after that
incident, and my face would turn red from embarrassment when he would say it,
but I was oddly flattered, too. Luckily, the other kids in the class were too
ignorant to understand what my new nickname meant, if you know what I mean. It
was our little secret ;)
Angry Petunia 84
>piece of fiction, it has redeeming qualities. A passionate flow, some
>quirky POV, and it is a tolerable piece (needing paragraphs) if we think
>gee, amazing, isn't it, the solipsism and narcissism of youth
Maybe it was a fiction. But maybe it’s not; maybe I really am a girl named
Isabelle living with two roommates. Maybe I’m not. But then maybe I am.
Funny thing about the Internet is that you can never know for sure, can you?
Maybe I’m just an orangutan blessed with an unusually keen vocabulary, typing
away as I sit perched atop a tree in some African rainforest. You can never
know for sure.
> (sort of the
>way the movie Zoolander portrayed some of the folly of our times.)
It’s very strange that you mention this movie, because I saw it last
Thursday, and it was one of the worst movies I’ve seen all year. The only
thing that movie portrayed was the sad lengths Hollywood can go to just so they
can make a quick buck off the suckers who'd actually go and pay to see a piece
of trash like Zoolander. Please tell me you thought the same of that deplorable
movie.
>But you
>still have the problem that overall the subject matter is of extremely
>limited interest.
>
>Now don't just get your back up and get angry about such statements. That
>would be silly and awfully boring and Pavlovian from someone who
>calls
>herself "Angry Petunia". I am trying to help instead of just ignoring your
>ranting
It doesn’t bother me in the least if my subject matter it too narrow, or that
it’s all about myself. I remember when I was working in the bookstore, and I
had to shelve David Sedaris’ novels in the literature section. I was
thinking, huh? A contemporary writer gets to be shelved next to Moby Dick and
Poe and Leaves of Grass? What’s up with that? I’m still trying to figure
that out. But I read one of Sedaris’ novels, *Naked*, which was a collection
of his personal essays written completely about his own life. Not only was he
totally self-centered, but it was also the funniest book I read since John
Kennedy Toole’s hilarious Pulitzer winner *Confederacy of Dunces.* His novel
Naked was a bestseller, and I loved it. I think it’s all a matter of how the
writer tells the story, and if there is passion and truth and honesty coming
from the writer, then the reader is more than interested. I remember when my
ex told me that I simply had to read Barbara Kingsolver’s magnificent
*Poisonwood Bible,* and before I opened it I asked him what is was about. He
told me it was about the political climate in Africa half a century ago, and
how it tears apart an American family. I was thinking, ew, there’s no way
I’m going to read a book about freakin 1950’s Africa. But Barbara
Kingsolver told in such a way that I was hooked one chapter into the novel. If
we went by your theory that readers don’t care to read about narrow topics,
or topics that they can’t relate to, you’re dead wrong. David Sedaris is a
gay man in his thirties with whom I share hardly any traits save for the fact
we’re both human, but when I put down Naked I was very glad that I picked it
up in the first place, and same goes for the Poisonwood Bible. I wasn't
interested in Sedaris or Posionwood Bible's synopsis, but I would have missed
out on a great experience in literature if I passed on them because they didn't
fit my image of what I should be reading.
>You have some talent but the only hope for you as a writer for
>someone other than your own amusement, is to understand why my opinion and
>some of the other things that have been said here might just be valid.
Actually, I think I am extremely talented as a writer. Now, before you want to
start throwing rotten eggs at me, I want you to stop and consider a few things
I have to say about that statement. Why do you write? Because you think
you’re bad at it? I think that most people come to afo because they are
interested in writing, in varying degrees. Some are hobby writers, and other
people are writing for a shot at publication. But the point is, you don’t go
and do something like write unless you think you’re good at it. Every single
person who has ever posted a single piece of fiction to this board thinks that
they are talented in writing to some degree, or they would have never sat down
to write in the first place. I mean, if you think you’re beautiful, you
become a model. If you think you are athletic, you play sports. If you think
you are talented in telling a good story, you write. Don’t give me some shit
about how I am being conceited in openly admitting that I think I’m talented.
Don’t give me that shit. Because there is not a single person who posts
fiction to this board who doesn’t think he or she is talented, to some
degree.
And about your comment that, to quote you, that I do have *some* talent. I
can’t truly accept anyone afo member’s opinion on the matter of whether I
have talent or not. I haven’t posted anything to afo that I have put my
honest sweat and blood into, because I’m weird about letting strangers see my
soul for what it really is. My original post in this thread stated that I had
to heavily censor my own post because it was too personal, and I’m sorry I
posted it in the first place, because after all the heavy censoring I had to
do, all the spunk was lost from my characters. My writing is more character
driven that plot driven. So for you, or anyone else on this board, to tell me
my writing is wonderful or that it sucks, I have to overlook those opinions,
because you haven’t judged me by what I am really capable of writing. I
refuse to let the hordes get a peck at my uncensored writing that I feel is
worth something; to show my finished work to just anyone would be like me
spreading my legs open to reveal my privates to the world. The only people who
I have let see my uncensored writings are my ex boyfriend Noah and my English
teacher, because they were the only two people in my life whose opinions I
would respect because they would know where I was coming from. And I knew they
would offer me criticism the way I want it: no criticism at all. I admit that
I can’t handle criticism. When I pour my guts out in my writing only to have
someone tell me I should change it, it drives me crazy. I think that’s why I
went nuts when my editor wanted me to change so much of my novel. There’s
only so many things in this world that I hold sacred, and my writing is one of
them, so I wouldn’t ever post it to an internet board full of strangers or
throw it out to just anyone. In fact, early on I had told my publisher that if
I did get to the point of publication, I would want to publish under an alias,
because to see my name on a novel that holds my honest effort, my guts, my
tears, my everything, would be too much for me to handle. That's just how I
feel.
>There's quite a big universe outside your room, you obviously know that,
>right? And can you also appreciate that no one finds our lives as
>interesting as we do, and it is extremely, extremely rare when any one of us
>actually has an original thought?
>And to date, chances are great that you
>have not? As something you "spewed out streaming mad" your tale comes out as
>the whiny and uninteresting and also pretty uncharitable tale of an 18 year
>old just graduated high school
>student with far too much time on her hands
>and far too little responsibility and spending time blaming her parents,
>roommates, boyfriends, etc. for the boringness of her life instead of doing
>anything about it.
First off: I would radically change my life if I was given the chance, but then
again, who wouldn't? I am not bored, and I am certainly not blaimg anyone for
my nonexistent boredom. When I sit down to write my self-centered diary
excerpts, I don’t really even plan it. It just comes pouring out of me.
Literally. While writing them, I don’t give a second thought to if the
reader would find it interesting or if I’m following the guidelines of what
*good* writing should be. In fact, when I wrote about my roommates and my
money trouble, it poured out in ten minutes flat as a result of an afo poster
calling me a spoiled brat. I started to reply to that comment, and before I
knew it, I had exploded with words. Last night, when some poster asked me if I
bought books, I started replying, but then I started thinking about my mother,
and a half hour later I had this entire story about my old days of crime and my
mother’s battle with cancer. I can’t time my feelings; they explode out of
me. In my real life, I’ve been known to be extremely temperamental. I could
be sulking one minute, and ten minutes later I’m higher than a kite. It’s
the same situation when the itch comes over my to write my little diary
entries. If I’m sitting near my computer, and I feel the volcano stirring
within me, I write. Simple as that. The best part is I feel about a million
times better after I get it all out, and so I don’t give a rat’s ass if
anyone thinks I’m boring in my diary entries. Because that’s totally not
what it’s about.
>A writer can write about anything; a GOOD writer is MUCH more selective, and
>won't subject his or her audience to every crazy thought that spews out of
>his or her brain.
I agree. But fans of Kerouac wouldn’t. I remember reading in a bio of his
that he felt writers should write words as soon as they pop into their heads. I
know he wrote one of his more famous books in about eleven days and didn’t
even go back to edit it; I think it was Dharma Bums, but I’m not sure. I’m
not a Jack Kerouac fan. The Beats were a bunch of stupid bastards.
>My suggestions would be 1) go
>out and volunteer your time doing something good for your community or even
>just one person in it....
LOL!!!! That’s a good one. While I'm at it, why don't I also donate my
entire wardrobe to the homeless shelter? Hell, why don't I let homeless people
come and live with me until they find their own place? I'm sure my dumb bitch
roomates would go for it, LOL!!!!!
> 2) read, read, read. And TRY to understand why
>some of the feedback and criticism you may have gotten here is valid
I explained earlier why I can’t really take the criticisms I’ve gotten here
to heart. When I originally posted, I asked for nitpicky stuff to be pointed
out, but I can’t accept anyone’s criticism beyond that. I mean, how can I
believe an afo member’s opinion on my work when they haven’t even read it
the way it’s meant to be read, when my original post was so censored that the
spice was completely gone? That's trippin, dude, flat out trippin.
Carl Edgar
>Message-id: <20021005035648...@mb-fk.aol.com>
you need to get into a conference about young feelings where you can indulge
and rant to your heart's content.
This is not a put down--you may be real in which case I certainly would not
wish to offend you
John Griffin
> [ more of the same ]
The tragedy of unrequited narcissism...how sad. Stop pouring
out all that self-applause and work on giving yourself some
reasons for it. Having done that, you'll be ready for some
preliminary socialization. Prepare yourself for that stage
by admitting that those who've already experienced positive
personal interactions can offer you valuable advice.
If that's out of the question, at least do something about
the logorrhea.
Isabelle McGillis
>and rant to your heart's content.
>This is not a put down--you may be real >in which case I certainly would not
>wish to offend you
Hey baby, what you talkin bout! I am real! You think I'm made of plastic?
Well, I am sort of made of plastic, but just my nose. I had to get my bump
fixed from the time my roommate Judy broke it when she punched me in the face.
Horrible night, that was. I'll tell you about it sometime.
I've had some mighty bad bumps in my life. My life has not been so joyous as
of late. My stomach is aching like crazy. Yes, it is that time of the month.
I have a very low tolerance for pain, and I might as well mention, for alcohol.
I suppose I am a girl inclined to perform at her peak when I do not have
negative influences acting upon my nervous system and internals. Especially, my
poor stomach! I've taken six Tylenol tablets to suppress the pain, and six is
the designated limit that the bottle advises one to consume. But I think I may
have to bend the rules a bit and pop in another pair. While I'm in the kitchen
I might as well re-fill my thermal pillow with more hot water, which I then
like to lay over my belly and close my eyes and fantasize about the moment when
I can again face this wicked world, minus the cramps crippling my energetic
style. I am now an invalid, akin to those one sees strapped to beds one sees
in areas of hospitalization and insanity wards. I claim my invalidity due to
the fact that I believe I am indisposed to do anything during these days of the
month. These days capture me in their talons, grip me, and refuse to let me go
until the internal process has completed itself and I can once again forgo the
aches and pains and trivialities that comprise my genetic makeup. To be a
woman is grand, Carl. I believe it to be so for I am on the cusp of my very own
womanhood. To be 18 like I am 18--ah, wondrous feeling! Like teetering off
the rim of some ledge, to be tipped into my glorious twenties as the birthdays
inevitably will force me to do. To be in your twenties is to test out your
adulthood for the first time, to move in with two dumb bitch roommates who
locked you out of your apartment for two hours because you threw a baseball
into Tonia's fish tank for the sake of dear sweet vengeance! Yet alas, I don't
claim to be an adult yet, since the ending of my age still ends with the blimey
word "teen." The day shall soon arrive, though; till then, I am but still thy
humble bastard child Angry Petunia. The rage continues to well within me, and
my head is screwed on tight so onlookers can see not the red fumes that
threaten to leak from my many mucous membranes (although my ex-boyfriend, Noah,
tells me at night he has witnessed the spectacle of my red fumes leaking from
my ears in furious gusts--I told him to capture the camera moment should it
reoccur, wise guy.) Now I am off to find my lipstick. I recently purchased a
twenty dollar tube of lipstick, of such odor and color as to excite me to the
point of combustion. I smeared the lipstick on my big rubbery lips yesterday,
my mouth puckered and sexy looking, and slipped it into my purse should I need
to refresh my rubbery lip look later in the evening (as I always must do.) But
I forgot all about my lipstick refreshing plan as the evening wore on, because
there were matters far more important and entertaining that took up my mind's
space, and no space was left for musing on lipstick. This morning, I began to
pretty myself up to go meet my ex-boyfriend, Noah, for our Monday afternoon
walk through The Park and our quintessential hour long cup of tea. Yet I soon
faced a crippling dilemma. I madly went through my vanity tray and purses--only
to find absolutely no lipstick at my fingertips! Well, my ex-boyfriend rang my
apartment bell, and what was I to do but hurry and answer wearing my old yucky
natural looking pink lipstick? I am but a girl of so many resources! I was in
a dreary mood the entire time we strolled through the lovely park this brisk
October afternoon. When Noah tried to grab my hand, I gritted my pearly teeth
and threatened him with such unutterable profanity that I dare not relay it
here, where the weak stomached reader may faint from shock. When my beloved
ex-boyfriend Noah made attempts to feel me up behind the bushes, I licked him
right on his eyeball, blinding him for a wondrous moment as I was given a time
interval to dash away like the mad hopping rabbit I am. Noah likes to get
freaky in public; it’s his personal fetish, while mine is handcuffs and
ropes. There was an old feeble couple sitting on a nearby bench for whom he
wanted to produce a public display of affection starring your humble narrator
and her mondo big titties. Normally, I would have excited those old feeble
bastards with a lively sex romp in the bushes with my Noah, but I was simply
not in any conceivable mood to get it on while wearing such a wretched lip
color. My lipstick was making me feel dowdy. I felt that I would fit better
in the picture by joining the old couple on the bench to discuss politics
rather than engage in hump-hump public teen sex in the bushes. I explained
that to my ex-boyfriend but he kept complaining of his flaming desire for me.
I pouted and refused to speak of anything but my socks for the remainder of our
afternoon stroll through The Park. But I soon became antsy from our mindless
discussion concerning my socks; this antsiness carried over to the second
portion of our afternoon together. I taunted him like the evil seductress I am
during our quintessential hour long cup of tea. How? Well, I sat opposite
Noah and spread my legs wide while innocently slurping my tea with my twig-like
pinky in the air. I was wearing my skirt hailing from my old Catholic
elementary school days. This is a skirt which I have outgrown to such an
extent that, while wearing it, a sliver of my large rumpus shows when I bend
over. Noah nearly sputtered out his quintessential cup of tea when his horndog
eyes traveled to the opening in my skirt. He saw I was wearing absolutely no
undergarments, not even my usual thong. I relished his reaction, but I had
disciplined him so harshly during our stroll through The Park that he made no
further attempts to engage me in passionate intercourse, despite the fact that
I was glistening with ravenous desire for him. Yet my discourse veers off
track; I was suppose to tell you of my lipstick woe.
I believe my roommate Tonia has stolen my lipstick, committing the villainous
deed while I was off on my daily six mile run. I have to jog six miles daily
with my doggie named La-koo-ka-ra-cha or else he gets quite savage. I believe
Tonia has pilfered my lipstick because she has always been envious of my full
pucker. She has thin, bloodless lips the width and length of my pinky toe.
But I don't wish to press her about the matter, because she sobbed for many
laborious hours this October eve after she discovered her beloved fishies dead
and crushed on our apartment floor. Noah helped me stomp on them all after I
smashed the fish tank with his baseball. He keeps a baseball in his underpants
at all times. (Don’t ask me why the moron does such a thing. He’s my ex,
not my current man, and you can now clearly see why your narrator fled from
dating someone who carries a baseball in his underpants.) My high heel shoes
have fish guts splattered all over them--ah, Lord Almighty in the sky, why did
you deliver such horror to my Gucci heels! Yet I shan't complain with such
copious venom concerning my ruined Gucci shoes, because it was swell revenge to
murder those fishies. Such jolly good fun it was. Next time Tonia may think
twice before she steals my lipstick. But now I must go through the tiresome
task of scrounging up another twenty dollars and again buying a new tube of
lipstick. All while suffering this wretched tummy ache which began after my
quintessential hour long cup of tea with Noah. I was able to display my
unsheathed privates to him during our tea because I had not yet began my
monthly flow. But where will I get the green paper money to purchase my sorely
missed ruby red lip color? I think I may slip into Noah's house tonight and
steal some money from his bureau drawer; I saw a whole stack of cash in there
before we set off for our stroll through The Park. Yesterday, I had asked him
for some money so that I could buy a new leash for my doggie La-koo-ka-ra-cha,
because the naughty La-koo-ka-ra-cha gnawed the old leash to smithereens. But
Noah told me he didn't have the money when I asked him for it. Noah claims he
made this sudden cash from selling pot to a surprise customer, but that's a
lie. We smoked all his pot two days ago and I knew he was fresh out. I know he
made the sudden surplus of money by pimpin out his younger sister, Shelley.
Shelley is the quintessential thirteen-year-old whore. I adore her. She
idolizes thy humble Angry Petunia so much that she has been kind enough to send
me a box of roses today when she found out I was forced to stand in the cold
for two hours straight because of Tonia's hissy fit. Oh, I long for these
troublesome days to pass on into oblivion so that I can again resettle into my
perpetually cumbersome state.
Cheers!
Isabelle
Isabelle McGillis
>out all that self-applause and work on giving yourself some
>reasons for it
Dearest baby boy, you are a toad. During the wee hours of the Sunday morn I
wrote two entire posts applauding other writers. Did you even read those two
posts before you retaliate against my words by telling me I applaud myself?
No, I don’t do any such thing. If I did I’d admit it, but as the
circumstances hold, I don’t applaud myself. I applaud myself only in front
of my ex-boyfriend Noah, because his genius intimidates me. He’s a better
writer than I’ll ever be. When I read his work I believe there is a God,
because only God could have created a mind like Noah's. So many people applaud
him all the time, so I try to think of reasons for him to applaud me. My
experiences with him have shied me away from the very notion of applauding
myself. With all other people, I never applaud myself, because no one comes
close to intimidating my intellect the way my ex-boyfriend does. I'm not
saying I'm especially intelligent, but I have no qualms with my brains (except
when dealing with my calculus-based physics class.) Sometimes I applaud myself
in front of my roommates Tonia and Judy, but that’s only because they are
stupid enough to think I’m serious when I do it. They have no jiveness to
speak of. You can’t even kid around with girls like that because they’ll
think you’re serious when you hurl nonsensical insults at them like so many
thorns and rocks. They think you’re even more serious when you self-applaud
yourself. I can’t believe you have accused me of this most heinous act of
self-applauding, Mr. Hillbilly. You must not be a reader.
I have a theory that readers are more objective and sensible and inclined to
have an all-around more philosophic worldview, as opposed to the average human
who bumrushes through their days. Readers have the advantage of having read
writers who dissect the actions of human beings through their characters and
strategic plotting. Thus, readers, when faced with trauma in their own lives,
can look back on the books they've read and reassure themselves by the thought
that others have been in their awkward positions as well. Of course, it all
depends on the author, too. Someone who is a Danielle Steele fan is going to
have a much different worldview than someone who is, say, an Anthony Burgess or
Ayn Rand fan. (Burgess' *Clockwork Orange* is my second favorite novel of all
time). Personally I consider myself to be of the latter. I opt for Rand and
Burgess and Orwell over Danielle Steele and Oprah's Book-of-the-Month authors.
I choose intellectualism over foolishness. However, I often opt for
foolishness in other areas of my life. For example, today I foolishly threw my
empty water bottles out of my car window as I zoomed by the local day care
center, littering their picturesque landscaping of bright yellow plastic
flowers and unnaturally green lawns with my meager offering of plastic bottles.
I admit, quite foolish; however, keep in mind that I had a copy of Ayn Rand's
*Atlas Shrugged* on my passenger seat. I suppose this means I have balanced
out my foolishness with intellectualism. I advise thee readers to adapt a
similar worldview towards your lives; do something bad, but then do something
good. Divide it, and you get zero, so it all balances out! Try it sometime.
It's a grand way to avoid the fiery pits of hell. When I die and God evaluates
my earthly performance, he will see all the many times I adapted this dividing
method towards my life. He will bring his mighty paw to my shoulder, pat me
delicately, and wave me into the eternal life of angels adorned with paper thin
wings of such glorious beauty that mine eyes will sting with rapture each time
I will gaze upon them. All because I beat the earthly system which revolves
around unmerciful punishment for sins. Divide, readers, divide your actions.
Good action divided by bad action equals zero. Follow this marvelous
Isabelle-guaranteed plan, and you shall conquer, like I! And now off to study
physics! Test tomorrow! Pray for my doomed soul!
XOXO,
Isabelle
Fraser
I, for one, am glad to see that you've overcome your fear of disclosing
personal information through your writing.
Thank you for sharing.
Fraser
"Isabelle McGillis" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021007214745...@mb-bk.aol.com...
Isabelle McGillis
>personal information through your writing.
Ok, whoa. You have completely twisted my words around. Hold up. When I said
I censor my posts, I said I censored them because they were too personal. What
I meant by this was that my self-censored words are too painful and close to
home to reveal to just anyone. The stuff I am posting to afo is stuff I tell
everyone. I was in New York two weeks ago to meet my future college roommate.
Next semester I'm starting at Columbia, and on the taxi ride to the campus to
meet her, I began telling the cab driver all about my very personal hygiene
problems. It was only supposed to be a ten minute drive, but we sat and
chatted about my hygiene issues for an hour. He was such a nice guy. His
turban was sort of stanky, though. I tell everyone about that kind of crap,
about my hygience issues and whatnot. I mean, it's personal stuff, but it's
not anything painful or especially revealing. In these posts, I'm just writing
about my relationships with my friends (or lack thereof) and such. It is
actually a great way to get a load off my chest. But it is not what I meant by
the word PERSONAL. When I said I censor my personal writing, I meant I censor
the writing that actually means something to me because I would feel publically
raped if a whole bunch of perfect strangers read them. I hope that makes
sense.
XOXO,
Isabelle
Opus
> about my hygience issues and whatnot. I mean, it's personal stuff, but it's
> not anything painful
>
> In these posts, I'm just writing
> about my relationships with my friends (or lack thereof) and such. It is
> actually a great way to get a load off my chest.
>
And a crappy way to gain respect as a writer here on AFO. Either put an
OT in your subject headers so if those who pay for their internet time
wish to, they can filter it out, or take it outside. AFO isn't the
place for this kind of ranting, no matter how well-meaning you may
intend it.
This was actually irritating enough to bring me out of lurking.
Flame away, baby.
Opus
John Griffin
> >Stop pouring
> >out all that self-applause and work on giving yourself some
> >reasons for it
>
> Dearest baby boy, you are a toad. During the wee hours of the Sunday morn
I
> wrote two entire posts applauding other writers. Did you even read those
two
> posts before you retaliate against my words by telling me I applaud
myself?
Clue: You can applaud more than one person per day.
> [ another ovation ]
I bet your alienated Noah would have been proud of that flood
of hysterical self-dramatization and empty chattering. However,
I'm not convinced that you know anything about him, since you've
shown no evidence of having an input mode. croak.
Desdemona Bankhead
>OT in your subject headers so if those who pay for their internet time
>wish to, they can filter it out, or take
>it outside. AFO isn't the
>place for this kind of ranting, no matter how well-meaning you may
>intend it.
>This was actually irritating enough to bring me out of lurking.
>Flame away, baby.
>Opus
What if my posts are actually all fiction, Opus? Then I have every right to
post them to this board, since last time I checked, afro was a fiction board.
If you don’t mind, I’d like to call afo afro from now behind because afro
is much more harmonious than afo. I’m sure you all agree. My posts to this
afro site aren’t all fiction, but I can claim they are, and thus I am
justified in posting them here. Besides, what’s this about how I want respect
on afro? Fuck respect. Give me respect when I’m old, boring and conformed
just like you. I don’t want any fucking respect. And if you really can’t
stand me, fret not, because I think my access to the internet is going to soon
be terminated, and without an account, I can’t very well post to afro any
longer. I spoke to my parents about the one hundred dollars I owe my roommates,
and how if I don’t pay Tonia and Judy back they might kick me out of the
apartment. The minute I finished the sentence, “I might get kicked out my
apartment,” my parents freaked. They know that if Tonia and Judy kick me out
I’ll either have to move back home or with my ex-boyfriend, Noah. They loathe
Noah, but they loathe me as well, for obvious reasons. My parents sure as hell
don’t want me hanging out at the out McGillis household. They gave me the one
hundred dollars to pay back my roommates, probably thinking that their
generosity would calm the troubled waters. However, my parents were
(understandably) a bit peeved at me for taking more of their money. My
apartment is awesome; we each have to pay three hundred a month, so the rent is
nine hundred dollars a month. But let me tell you something; this place rocks.
My parents pay my three hundred a month, but along with that, they have to pay
my bills, too. My parents have to pay for my household bill, cell phone bill,
my psychiatrist bills, my car insurance, my car payments, my weekly manicure
and pedicure, my America Online bill, etc. During our discussion yesterday they
told me they were fed up with me blowing so much of their money, and I agreed
to their demand that I give up something. I can’t give up my car, and I have
to pay my household bill, and I can’t give up my visits to my psychiatrist,
and after I went down the list of my bills, I came to this conclusion. I
don’t exactly need my cell phone, and I don’t exactly need the internet. I
have to give up one of those things, and I am leaning more towards giving up
the internet. I have to let my parents know in a couple days about my momentous
decision. This is truly a blessing in disguise. Speaking seriously, I will not
feel like a complete human being until finish my novel. To feel at peace with
myself I need to experience holding a finished manuscript in my hands with my
name of the cover. The internet takes up so much of my time, what with my
cherished email loop. When Noah and I aren’t speaking, we communicate through
email, and sometimes I write ten page letters to him over the internet. What I
should be doing is ignoring that son of a bitch, but once I get going on those
emails, I can’t stop. I need to focus on my writing, but when I sit at my
computer and I don’t especially feel like working on my book, I go online.
It’s horrible. I admit I have no self control. I ate six cupcakes last
Saturday night because Tonia and Jud wouldn't take me clubbing with them. My
poor attention span drives me into a veritable rage sometimes. I always think
it’s hilarious when writers complain about how they can’t get published. If
the book were any good, a decent publishing house would probably publish it.
The sad thing is, most unpublished books suck. If everyone ignores your book,
well, it means the book sucks. There’s a gritty community of unpublished
writers in my town that I sometimes hook up with. They get together in some
slum and sit around, reading their stuff out loud while everyone sits around
the reader in a circle. The listeners have to close their eyes while the author
is reading so that they get the “full effect” of the message minus visual
distractions. Afterwards, the listeners critique the writer for about a half
hour, mostly just hurling insults. They accomplish nothing except ego smashing.
I read my stuff to them once, after I finished my first novel Diary of Maria.
They all but massacred me, and that’s only because I spent months gleefully
massacring the other writers. Now those other writers were the ones who were
supposed to be critiquing me, so it was payback time. Stupid losers. I hate
desperate writers. And it’s such a joke, how they moan about this and that
and agents and queries and editors and other difficulties in the publishing
business. I can’t bring myself to tell them the truth, and I have to walk out
of the room before I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.
Someone really should tell them they’re destined for obscurity. But what was
I saying, anyway? Oh, right. I need to concentrate on my book, and the internet
is a huge distraction impeding my work to flourish. At Columbia, where I’m
going to be starting next semester, I hear my course load is going to be
grueling after the first year. I won’t have any time to work on my book and
pester agents anymore once the schoolwork starts piling up. My old agent dumped
me after I sent him a dead rat through the mail, the bastard. I hooked up with
that agent through my English teacher, and now I have to hunt for an agent on
my own because my old English teacher says he won’t have me sully up his name
in the literary community with my childish antics. I told him I understand.
This really is my last year, and if I don’t push myself now, I won't have the
opportunity to finish my two books. One is a novel and the other is a
collection of short stories. I have nightmares about them both, although I am a
little calmer now because my old English teacher is editing all my work for me,
and some of the burden is off me. Ambition can be a horrible, crippling trait
to be saddled with. All I want to do is be a gypsy belly dancer, like my mother
used to be. Its such a hard field to break into, the gypsy field.
Speaking of gypsies. I was at the DMV not too long ago, and I noticed an
elderly, slightly pudgy woman gazing at me with a somewhat strained look in her
eye, as if trying to see clearly through a blur of fog. She had tufts of
closely cropped blonde hair streaked with gray, cheap plastic frames perched on
the edge of her upturned nose, and three large sloppy lumps on her torso when
there only should have been two (if you can picture the region.) I live in an
area where crime rides high and bright, even on a Sunday afternoon in a public
area, so I gave the woman no notice, and even shot her a nasty look or two. (it
was my classic "look" with my nose slightly scrunched up, my impeccably tweezed
eyebrows arched as a tiger's back before pouncing, my lips pursed as if I woke
up that day sucking a lemon with two colors in my head. An absolutely menacing
look which I've perfected; the classic teen sneer.) When the DMV employee
called my name, Desdemona Bankhead, to step up to the desk, I cringed. I hate
it when my name gets announced because everyone in the entire room turns to
stare, and I have to look around and give everyone a pissed off look as if to
say, What, You never hear of a chick named Desdemona before? As I was about to
glare at the crowd, I noticed the old pudgy woman with the cheap plastic
frames. Her face had lit up. She began to follow me to the desk. I sighed,
quite audibly, and stomped up to the desk to show my dismay at this rude broad.
I ignored her, hoping her odor of cheap perfume would soon drift away and cease
its assault on my nasal passage, but I felt a tap on my shoulder. I flinched,
as if I had just been poked with a long needle. I squared my shoulders, bunched
my hands into two tight fists, and wheeled around. I was having a rough day and
would have been more than happy to knock her lights out. I'm a product of a
interracial relationship; my mother was Asian and my father is white, but I
guess I inherited more genes from my father because I look more white than I do
Indian. The cops around this area are very understanding about fights that
break out, especially fights involving young white girls; they dismiss such
squabbles as mere self-defense. But I was not confronted by the purse snatching
mugger I expected. The lighting in the sitting room was such that I wasn't able
to fully assess her features, but standing there in line, I realized I was not
dealing with a criminal. Rather, the old woman was a charming, bubbly lady with
bright pink cheeks and laugh lines all over her withered face. She squealed my
name in a timbre of pure delight. I cautiously backed up one step; I've had a
stalker before, and I am cynical enough to believe I'll have many more in my
future. But before I could raise my arm in the air and bring down my heavy
purse with a deafening whack on her shiny forehead, she came out with, Hello, I
was your kindergarten teacher! thirteen years ago in Paris! what was it, 1989?!
Suddenly, in this purported mugger's face, I recognized a semblance of the
woman I idolized in my fifth and sixth years during my laudable Parisian
childhood. Today she is a bit more plump, her skin has lost much of the
beautiful tautness it once had, and a quick, brief glance revealed no ring on
her wedding finger although I remember she went by the title Mrs. when I was
her tiny student. I small-talked it with her for a while; but what more than
small talk could I possibly muster myself to say? My day was not exemplary; I
desperately needed a massage because my muscles were all pent up from sleeping
outside my apartment, on the hallway floor because my dumb bitch roommates had
locked me out again. What could you say to a woman who knew you for the child
you were when you were five? She had obviously loved her job, although she was
now retired; she remembers her students 13 years after they leave her brightly
adorned classroom, and I have a feeling I'm not the only unsuspecting adult
she's surprised like this. But really, what was there to say? She looked at me
as if she expected some revelation, for me to tell her that because of her I am
a better, more evolved person than the average schmo. But alas, no, it’s just
not true. This poor misguided woman remembered me for the innocent, optimistic
child I once was on another continent, in a time when puberty had yet to ravage
my sensibilities, when rejection from peers and boys like Judy, Tonia and Noah
still did not have the chance to harden my inner core. She wanted me to be just
like the three and a half foot tall kindergartener I was, who had no fears
about her future and no regrets about her past. What did this beaming woman
expect me to say to her today, as I stood before her as an 18 year old, jaded
and enraged at the many injustices I've suffered? Perhaps she was waiting for
me to tell her "Thanks for the box of crayons," Or maybe "I loved that one
gingerbread man story you read to us." Or perhaps "Do you still have the doll
corner set up by the window?" She just stood there, beneath the blinding
fluorescent lights, beaming at me, asking me questions, telling me to tell her
about myself, when what was there to tell? I answered her questions for a
couple minutes, because she had a distinct, pure French accent, just like I
used to have. I just wanted to listen to her for a spell; her voice soothed me.
Her accent rendered feelings of melancholia, because to me French accents
represent my remembrances from yesteryear. Yet I soon pinched myself and
stopped answering her mindless questions, because there was clearly nothing to
tell. Nothing that this woman wants to hear, anyway. I gave her a curt, quick
goodbye, and retreated from her figure as a clouded, puzzled expression
overtook her face. Before I stepped out of the DMV I glanced behind my shoulder
and saw her staring at my retreating figure as a bustle of people moved about
her. An angry bearded man violently shoved her, since she was holding up the
line, but even as she bumped into a potted plastic plant, her gaze never left
me. Sometimes I wonder what brought her over to America from Paris, but the
truth is, I really don't care.
Love,
Desdemona
Desdemona Bankhead
>of hysterical self-dramatization and empty chattering. However,
>I'm not convinced that you know anything about him, since you've
>shown no evidence of having an input mode.
What the hell are you talking about? What the hell is an input mode? I
seriously want to know, because I haven't a clue as to what you are speaking
of. I met my ex-boyfriend Noah the summer I was sixteen years old. I was
working as a receptionist, and I followed my boss home from work one day and
hid in her closet, and he came stumbling into the room while my boss was
singing to herself in the mirror. He was engaged to my boss at the time, and he
would always stop by the office. Since my duties as a receptionist were rather
vague, I mostly just sat around for eight hours and answered about three phone
calls. When Noah would wander in, I would perk up and rant and rant. I can talk
for hours as long as I have an audience, but the trouble is, most people tell
me to shut the hell up five minutes into my monologue. I was truly thrilled
when I met Noah, because he listened to every last word I had to say, and when
I'd finish, he would begin ranting. It was so entertaining and fulfilling to
finally meet someone who knew where I was coming from. One of the first things
he said to me when he began dating was that he had never met anyone like me,
because I was the only person that would listen to him. I understood
completely. He can rant longer and better than I ever can. I was so struck by
Noah because up until that point, I had never met anyone who was superior to me
in every last thing I thought I had some talent in. He could rant better than
me, I soon discovered he could write better than me, and he was also the most
gorgeous human being I've ever laid eyes upon. I know it's a cliché to say, Oh,
I fell in love with so-and-so the moment I laid eyes upon them. But I
seriously fell in love with Noah the moment I saw him, when I was hiding in my
boss Natalie's closet. I still love him, but he's such a jerk that I had to
dump him. There have been some people who have come into the picture after Noah
and I broke up, but it's so hard hooking up with other boys now because I
compare them all to Noah. The thing that hurts me so much is that I don't even
think he ever loved me, despite all the time he invested in me and all the
wonderful moments we had. We're still friends, sort of, but not right now
because I am mad at him for what he did to me last night. I think during our
entire formal courtship, Noah was just chasing pussy. I told him that, he
denied it, but he's a lying son of a bitch so I don't quite believe him
anymore. People always want to chase my pussy and it sickens me. But I put up
with it from Noah because I could talk to him so easily, and because he was so
gorgeous. He still is, I mean it. I have a weakness for flawless human beings.
Noah is fucking Adonis himself. My original post explained all about the day I
first met Noah. By the way, as long as I'm on this topic, I'd like to say
something to R. Westermeyer. You're cute. I stumbled upon the afo bio page and
I discovered you. I think you're cute. You don't look forty years old at all.
I hate to say you're not nearly as cute as Noah, but you're still cute. I wish
I could put up my own picture and bio on that page. I'd ask that my pic be
placed right next to Robert Westermeyer's. You're cute, in a nerdy way. I got a
digital camera for my computer a while ago and I might as well put it to use.
Is there any way I can put my own bio/pic on that page?
By the way, you may notice that I'm using my real name to post on afo now. I
was born Desdemona Isabelle Bankhead, in Paris during the year 1984. My parents
never married, but I always went by my father's last name, McGillis, so that
people wouldn't think I was a bastard. My birth certificate states my name to
be Desdemona Isabelle Bankhead. I put up with so much crap from other kids in
high school, and I can only imagine that it would have been ten times worse if
I had gone by my real name, Desdemona Bankhead. It's is truly an issue of
identity crisis. It's an issue which has driven me insane, so I have finally
decided that for the rest of my life, I am going to go by my legal name,
Desdemona Bankhead. I am well aware that it's a name which will incite many
amused expressions and comments, but I must be true to myself.
You may be asking yourself what possessed my mother to name me Desdemona. I
often wonder the same thing but I can't be angry at my mother for it. My mother
faced a horrible childhood and escaped it by marrying my father, who ignored
her after she ballooned up with his first child. She was driven into alcoholism
and extramarital affairs, and my father ignored all her bad behavior, because
he never cared about her. My father has an IQ of 150, he's an atheist and very
opinionated, and he ignores people who he thinks are below him. He always
thought my mother was below him, but my father is also plagued with a strong
sense of family, so once my mother began having his children, he knew he was
stuck with her. Sometimes I wonder what even brought my parents together. My
father was born in France, and my mother was born in India. My mother's mother
died while giving birth to her, and my mother's father was a nomad who dragged
my mother around from one filthy Indian city to another preaching the evils of
Hinduism. My poor mother never really had a home, and lived like a bum for
eighteen years. She was in charge of making sure my grandfather's props were
all safe and in well order for his daily performances protesting Hinduism.
What's funny is that India is country in which Hinduism is the predominate
religion, so I just don't understand why my grandfather thought he could have
changed the world. My mother never understood either, but she obediently
followed my grandfather around from to town for eighteen years. She received no
education, and her worst battles had to deal with fending off lice. It must
have been hard to keep critters out of her hair, since she slept on grass and
dirt every night. I have a few pictures of her from her childhood, and in every
single picture she is thin as a twig. She was beautiful, but she was a skinny,
malnourished, sad little Indian girl. My mother was a dreamer, so I can only
imagine how she must have fantasized every night about leaving that
overpopulated, heinous country and settle elsewhere.
In 1975, my grandfather had traveled all over north India, and decided to
take his one man show to the south. They hitchhiked, jumped trainis, walked,
rode bikes, hired cabs; anything to travel from town to town. The night they
reached Bombay, my mother fell exhausted outside an abandoned hut and laid her
head on the ground. My grandfather refused to allow my mother to sleep in the
same room as him, because he didn't trust himself. As she lay on the ground,
staring up at the sparkling Indian sky, a white hippie tourist from France
stumbled over her. He apologized profusely, and my mother blushed and blushed
until she realized he spoke Hindi. He enchanted my mother; they stayed up all
night, talking about France and Paris. My mother was mesmerized by his
fascinating descriptions of his homeland. She was going to ask if she could
accompany him on his travels about India, and that perhaps she could even run
away with him to France when his time in India was up. But in the morning,
before she could present her proposal to the mysterious stranger, my
grandfather dashed out of the straw hut clutching his cane. Screaming a
profusion of vulgarity, he chased the frightened white hippie man away from his
daughter. But as my mother sat there on the grass watching her father dash down
the road waving his cane, she was a changed woman. Up until that point, she had
led an empty life of following her crazy father around, truly believing that it
was her fate to be tortured. But that conversation with the Frenchman opened
new doors for her; she realized that beyond India's oceans were vast lands of
wealth and culture and happiness.
My mother became itching mad to set off for Paris. During her father's
nightly anti-Hinduism performances, as he would light himself on fire and
screech and moan about the injustices of Hinduism, she would gaze off into the
distance, wondering what treasures lay in that fabled land the man spoke of.
But she was only 18 years old, she hadn't a single cent to her name, and
although she was ignorant, she knew she needed a small fortune to book a flight
to Paris. I have creative genes in my background, because my mother came up
with quite a brilliant, creative plan that would provide the means for her to
escape to France. She became a belly dancer, which is a centuries old tradition
in India. During the dark, lonely nights, as her father would settle himself in
abandoned huts, leaving my mother to sleep outside, she would quietly sneak off
to nearby strip joints and whore houses. She built a name for herself, and was
known as the Gypsy Guru for her hip swiveling abilities. She would return in
the morning while her father was still sleeping, her bra bursting with money
from her admirers.
By her nineteenth birthday, she had earned enough money from her belly
dancing to make plans for her journey. She approached an distinguished looking
elderly man on the street and asked him how one goes about booking airplane
flights to Paris, and he helped her with the details of her escape. He let her
borrow a suitcase, which she stuffed with her saris and her many harmonicas,
since she had grown quite found of the harmonica. She used harmonicas during
her notorious belly dancing performances. Her father knew nothing of her plan,
and one night while he was giving his anti Hinduism performance in Punjab,
India, she backed away from the crowd, slipped into the forest, ran into town
and hailed a cab to the airport. Up until that point, she had not spent a
single day without her father, and she was afraid to face her new life solo.
But the arrangements were made. She would never again see her crazy nomad
father.
In April of 1976, my mother landed in Paris' famed Charles de Gaulle
International Airport. She was ecstatic, and soon lost herself in the throng of
tourists and Parisians wandering the streets. She was unable to wipe the red
bindi dot off her forehead and trade in her saris for Western attire, because
she was reluctant to abandon her culture completely. But she fell in love with
Paris. She had never seen so many lights, so many white people, so much wealth
and intricate architecture. Up until that point, she had only seen a handful of
films, and suddenly she found herself in what looked to be the midst of a
veritable movie set.
Her first month in Paris, my mother was homeless. Yet she was
possessed a true pioneer spirit; she couldn't have cared less. She was homeless
her entire life in the savage jungle known as India, so what was being homeless
in Paris to her? She got by. She hooked up with a group of other homeless
people, and they somehow managed by pooling together their resources.
My father spotted my mother sitting on a bench outside the Louvre in the
December of 1977. It was a chilly night, yet my mother sat on the bench wearing
nothing but a thin cotton sari and a pair of flip-flops a beggar had given her
in India. She was paging through a fashion magazine she had found in a garbage
can. I often wonder what would have become of my mother if my father hadn't
spotted her on that night. I suppose she would have soon been raped and
murdered by a fellow homeless person. Or maybe some other white Frenchman would
have picked her up. My mother was a strikingly beautiful, statuesque Indian
woman. She had high cheekbones and wide, guileless hazel eyes. Despite the fact
that it was almost always dirty, her jet-black hair was thick and untamed.
Walking down the street, she was used to having people stop and stare at her.
But she looked so foreign and strange, what with her saris and the red dot on
her forehead, that most men were frightened off from approaching her. She was
an ignorant Indian village girl and had no idea how to approach the opposite
sex, so she let the entire matter slip into oblivion.
My father had gall. That snowy night in December, he walked up to my
mother, her profile illuminated by the streetlights, and held out his coat to
the painfully thin Indian woman. My mother was used to accepting charity, and
quickly bundled up in his coat. He took her by the elbow and began to speak to
her in Punjabi, which is a language spoken in northern India, but my mother
shook her head and introduced herself in Hindi. She was shocked that my father,
a dignified white Frenchman, knew how to speak Punjabi, which is very similar
to the Hindi language. She didn't know where he was taking her, or why he
approached her, but my mother followed him. She told him all about how she ran
away from her father in India, and how that conversation with the hippie
stranger had changed her life, and how she had become a successful belly dancer
only to move to Paris and become homeless. My father took her to a hotel. He
was seventeen years her senior.
They fell in love, my mother and father. My mother lost her virginity the
same night she met him. She soon moved in with him and they had a few happy
months living together in Paris. But anyone could see it was a mismatch; it was
doomed from the start. My dad was born and raised in Paris into a rich family.
He had received the best education, and also had the added advantage of having
an IQ of 150, but he lacked the important ingredient of simple common sense
which marks the superior mind. What was he to do with an ignorant, mannerless
ex-belly dancer? He taught my mother proper French etiquette and introduced her
to the cultural elite of the bustling town. My mother usually made a fool of
herself when he would take his new Indian girlfriend to the happening parties.
She would either laugh or talk too loud, or she wouldn't speak at all. She
would always be wearing some ridiculous sari and too much gaudy gold jewelry.
To put it briefly, she was an embarrassment.
Yet my father put up with her, perhaps because exotic women had
always fascinated him. But after a few months, he had enough of my mother and
her exoticness. My mother, however, was still deeply in love with my father. He
reminded her of the strange hippie man who had stumbled over her dormant body a
few years back in Bombay. One balmy spring night, my mother paced about the
house all day, waiting for my father to return home. She had some exciting news
to share with him. The moment he stepped into the house, she ran up to him, but
my father silenced her with the somber look on his face
He took her for a walk, and he intentionally led her back to the very
same bench outside the Louvre where he first spotted the Indian beauty. He
handed my mother a briefcase full of money and asked her that she leave him at
once. He told her to take the money and vanish from his sight for the rest of
time. My mother was hurt. She began sobbing, loudly, and wouldn't stop. My
father, always concerned about his image, was about to cover up her mouth and
trip her into a fountain or down the stairs so that he could run back to his
comfortable house without having to make a scene with this slut. But suddenly,
in the midst of her sobs, my mom told him her big news. She was pregnant. With
me.
My father, in spite of his occasional brutish tendencies, is a decent
man. He agreed to allow my mother to remain with him and raise the child. My
mother complied, and I have no clue where I would be right now, or how I would
have ended up if my father dumped my mother for good that very day. She
probably would have given me up for adoption. But sometimes I wish my mother
had the brains to leave him as soon as my father handed her the briefcase full
of francs, because from that moment on, he made my mother's life a living hell.
I think he blamed her for the disgraceful stigma his family placed upon him.
Remember that he was a white man from a noble family, and they thought it to be
simply shocking that their promising young gentleman had impregnated a foreign
Indian girl who was young enough to be his own offspring.
In a sense, my mother's life ended the moment my father found out I
was going to be born. He made her life so miserable, and she was so ignorant
and innocent that she was unable to defend herself. He ignored her, and he
refused to take her out anymore. He wouldn't speak to her sometimes for weeks
on end, and he wouldn't allow her to leave the house. At that point, my mother
had become quite skilled in speaking French, enough to hold a conversation. She
finally learned that in order to be accepted in civilization, she couldn't wear
her beloved saris, and she bought an entire new, fashionable wardrobe. My
father noticed that men began flirting with my mother, and that my mother was
becoming skilled in flirting back, so sometimes when he'd go off to work, he'd
lock her in small, cramped rooms for the entire day. She longed to attend the
elite parties my father would go to every weekend, but my father refused to
take her anywhere. After my mother's makeover, a few noted fashion designers
had approached her and asked if she cared to do some runway modeling for them.
My mother would have loved to become a model, but of course my father forbade
it. I don't understand how my father could have hated my mother so much, and
how he could have ignored her the way he did. If he hated her the way he
claimed to, why was he so jealous that he would go to such drastic lengths to
keep her beauty away from the eyes of other people? But then again, I never
quite understood my father and his motives.
My mother was devastated. She had originally left India with hopes to
pursue a new, promising life in Paris. Things had been going wonderful; she had
met a wealthy white man, she was living in a big house, but now she found
herself completely alone for the first time in her life. In her childhood, she
had my crazy nomad grandfather. In her early days in Paris, she had her gang of
homeless people, and then she fell in love with my father. Now my father
ignored her, but she had become so dependent on him that she couldn't leave.
She finally found out what it meant to be lonely and cornered. She even asked
my father a few times if she could go back to India, alone, but he refused to
give her permission. She no longer had enough spontaneity and adventure in her
to muster up the courage to become a belly dancer or some such nonsense to earn
her own plane fare. She was a changed woman, but not changed in a good way, the
way the hippie man's conversation had changed her.
As she entered the seventh month of her pregnancy, my father loosened
his hold on her. He no longer seemed to care what became of his Indian
girlfriend, the future mother to his child. I suppose she could have tagged
along with him to his neverending parties with the hip crowd, but my mother had
sunk into a severe depression and no longer cared for glitz and galas. Instead,
she began haunting the sleaziest bars imaginable every night. She was pregnant,
and knew enough to stay off the booze, but as she toted me around in her belly,
she became very well acquainted with the scum and filth of the Parisian
underground.
I was born on April 2, 1984, about nine hours after April Fools' Day. My
father was not present for my birth. I recently asked him why he wasn't the one
who drive my mother to the hospital when her water broke, and he told me
doesn't remember and more importantly, doesn't care. But my father did happen
to notice in the seventh month of her pregnancy how despondent my mother had
become. He couldn't help thinking of how lively and exuberant she was when she
first moved to Paris from India, and I think the scumbag had enough of a
conscience to scold himself for wrecking the ignorant Indian girl's life. If
only he never saw her sitting on that bench.
In her seventh month, my father hired a nanny to look after me, and it
was the nanny who drove my mother to the hospital for the occasion of my birth.
I popped out of her womb as a healthy, screaming baby, but my mother hardly
noticed my gender, much less the fact she was now a mother. When the nurse
asked my mother if she wanted to hold her new baby, she shook her head and
faced the wall. When the nurse asked what my mother wanted to name me, she
shrugged. She couldn't have cared less. She just wanted to get back to her bars
and her liquor, which she could now drink without the burden of a fetus
preventing her from getting plastered. The nanny, who was standing at my
mother's bedside, holding me in her arms, was a lover of Shakespeare. Her
favorite work was Othello. The nanny suggested to my mother that I be named
Desdemona Isabelle Bankhead. If there was a God, he would have struck that
nanny down with a thunderbolt as soon as the preposterous name escaped her
lips. She probably just wanted to get away with naming the only child on earth
Desdemona when she had the chance, because she saw my mother was too listless
to protest. My mother had originally wanted to name me after an Inidan actress
or a Hindu goddess, but she settled for the nanny's suggestion. Thus I became
Desdemona Bankhead.
The first ten years of my life in Paris were wonderful, despite the fact
that I was raised almost entirely by a nanny. My mom all but disappeared.
Sometimes, my father would drag me out of bed at ten at night and tell me to
get dressed, that we had to go find mommy at the bar. He never totally gave up
my mom, and he would lie awake at night wondering if she was okay. Don't ask me
why. My father refused to step inside bars because he was afraid that one of
his colleagues would see him. Instead, he dragged me around the streets and
told me to go into the bars to search for my mother. Sometimes we'd have to hit
about ten bars before I'd find her slumped on the floor in a drunken stupor,
usually half naked. I remember once, when I was about eight years old on a
freezing winter night my dad sent me into this one bar to look for my wasted
Indian mother. I walked in and saw a crowd of people around the center table,
hooting and hollering. I edged my way into the crowd and found my mother on top
of the table making love to a one legged hobo in front of an audience of about
twenty drunkards. My mother looked right into my eyes, smiled and waved. I
screamed and ran back to my father, traumatized. I reported my findings to my
him, expecting him to march into that shithole and tear off the hobo's other
leg. But he just sighed, looked down at the ground and we began walking home
without my mother. I have no idea why he put up with her.
When I was ten years old, my dad was offered a job in America which he
couldn't pass up. We began packing our bags. Even as a ten year old I
understood that their relationship was on the rocks, and I kept thinking that
he was going to leave my mother behind. But he said he made a commitment and
that he would have to take her with us. I never really had much of a
relationship with my birth mother, and I actually even told my dad that she
would be happier if we left her in Paris. What hurt me was that she didn't even
want to go. She screamed and cried for days when my dad announced we would be
moving to America, and my nanny had her pack her clothes for her.
It turns out it was all a wasted effort. My mother committed suicide
six days before we were supposed to move to Ohio. There were only ten people at
her funeral: me, my father, my nanny, and about seven of her sleazy friends. I
wasn't particularly scarred by her death, because she was hardly ever around,
and when she was she'd tell me I was a nuisance and that I ruined her life. In
reality, the white hippie man ruined her life that night she met him when she
was 18 years old, in Bombay. If he never told her about Paris, she would have
happily stayed in India assisting her crazy nomad of a father in his anti
Hinduist performances. She would have never met my conniving white father, she
would have never become impregnated with me, she would have never become
depressed enough to become an alcoholic.
My father and I still moved to America on our scheduled date. We both
knew it was for the best that my mother's sorry life had finally come to an
end. I had more trouble leaving my nanny behind than I had leaving her grave
behind. In America, my father met a white woman, a lawyer named Shirley, who he
married within a month after meeting her. I was 16 when Shirley passed away
from cancer; it was a devastating event, and I visit her grave regularly. This
past summer, my ex-boyfriend Noah and I went to France and Italy for a month.
One morning, while Noah was still sleeping, I stopped by my birth mother's
grave, even though I promised Noah I wouldn't. When I reached her tombstone, I
felt absolutely nothing and had my doggie La-koo-ka-ra-cha take a dump on it
before I walked away.
Well, there you have it. I have no idea what possessed me to dredge up
all my personal junk out of nowhere. The tale of my putrid origins.
Sincerely,
Desdemona
John Griffin
"Desdemona Bankhead" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote
> >I bet your alienated Noah would have been proud of that flood
> >of hysterical self-dramatization and empty chattering. However,
> >I'm not convinced that you know anything about him, since you've
> >shown no evidence of having an input mode.
>
>
> What the hell are you talking about? What the hell is an input mode? I
> seriously want to know, because I haven't a clue as to what you are
speaking
> of.
I believe you. Just think of it as the basic circuit in a learning mode.
It enables the visual mode and the aural mode and inhibits the
jabbering mode.
> [ snip ]
That could have used some dialog and lots more paragraph breaks.
I believe that you talk in long paragraphs, too. Sorry I didn't have time
to listen to the whole thing. By coincidence, I only read down to the
part where you mentioned that everyone always tells you to shut up.
I did scan the rest of it, but the results were negative. I didn't spot
any spelling errors or typos. Connecting series of comments by
placing so many in a paragraph did have one benefit. When you
write that many comments, they should be connected by something.
> Well, there you have it. I have no idea what possessed me to dredge
up
> all my personal junk out of nowhere.
I mentioned it yesterday.
Allegory60
Amen.
Hank
Mare
>and you sound like a homo. honestly, you do.
>
It seems to me, of course I may be wrong, that your posts are those of an
adolescent boy. A boy who is very lonely, as are many at that age, with an
extreme desire for acceptance into a group. This along with indications of
underlying homo-erotic feelings towards other boys, of which you may or may not
be aware, are also apparent.
Allegory60
>adolescent boy. A boy who is very lonely, as are many at that age, with an
>extreme desire for acceptance into a group. This along with indications of
>underlying homo-erotic feelings towards other boys, of which you may or may
>not
>be aware, are also apparent.
Insightful. What a grand joke if Petunia is really Daddy?
Hank
Desdemona Bankhead
>adolescent boy. A boy who is very lonely, as are many at that age, with an
>extreme desire for acceptance into a group. This along with indications of
>underlying homo-erotic feelings towards other boys, of which you may or may
>not
>be aware, are also apparent.
You want to come down to Ohio so I can beat you to a bloody pulp, you
stupid two-cent whore? Why don’t you waddle your big ugly self down here and
call me a fag to my face so that I can knock some sense into your empty head?
By the time I’m through with you, you won’t even have a face anymore;
rather, your visage will be a mere red oval pool of gore. While I’m at it,
why don’t I yank off your shriveled little dick and stuff it down your
throat? Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me a homo? My younger
brother is a homo, and I keep limited contact with him due to his manner of
living. He’s one of the reasons I moved out of home to live with Tonia and
Judy.
By the way, regarding your comment about how I want to get accepted by
a group of people. I’m seriously not the type of girl who likes getting
accepted by groups. I would much rather be in the minority. Since I am half
white, half Indian, I am quite familiar with being treated with prejudice and
hatred simply for existing and being myself. I don’t expect it to be any
different over the net. If I were a conformist, like you, perhaps I would find
joy in being accepted from a bunch of narrow-minded fascists. The day a group
of thirty or more people collectively welcomes me in their arms is the day
I’ll move to some remote area of the world and refuse to lay eyes on another
human for the rest of eternity. I advise you to read *Brave New World* by
Aldous Huxley; he explains it better. I happen to value my independence and
freedom more than I value getting my ass kissed from groups of common people. I
loathe collectivist thought more than I loathe homosexuals.
By the way, I just stopped by the archive section under the A
category to make sure than none of my stuff was archived, and I happened to
click on this story called Olly , the author being Addy. It was fucking
brilliant. Where is that chick? That's the only tolerable piece of fiction I've
read on afo.
Love,
Desdemona
Desdemona Bankhead
>
>Hank
Ah, shuddup, you filthy itchy monkey. I woke up at eleven this morning, all
eager to sign online and share my experience last night with Noah during our
quintessential nightime stroll through The Park. I read my messages and I
recieve the usual harrassment. Fuck this. I'm not taking this anymore. I spoke
to my dad yesterday and he agreed to let my keep my internet access, but even
though I'll still have an account, I sure as hell won't be posting to afo any
longer. I wasted enough time here as it is. Screw this board.
Love,
Desdemona
Decaying Atheist
"Desdemona Bankhead" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021011114429...@mb-bh.aol.com...
See you tomorrow.
--
Decaying Atheist. He's the right man for the job.
Subscribe: shartiswrit...@yahoogroups.com
ICQ: 161624095
1:04:56 PM ---- Friday, October 11, 2002
Quote 65 of 109
If you knew *anything* Derrick, you'd know that both my "arrogance"
AND my "claims to fame" *are* in and of themselves, wit.
-Wojo
Allegory60
>you
>stupid two-cent whore? Why don’t you waddle your big ugly self down here and
>call me a fag to my face so that I can knock some sense into your empty head?
>By the time I’m through with you, you won’t even have a face
Insert "Arkansas" for Ohio and who do we have?
Desdemona Bankhead
I don't know what the hell you're talking about, because I haven't been reading
any other posts besides the ones under this thread. If you don't think I'm
Desdemona Bankhead/Angry Petunia from Ohio, I think you can look it under under
my IPO address. I don't know if it's called IPO, or IPU, or whatever the hell
it is. But I remember someone on afo a while ago telling me he could look up my
state by checking my america online screename's address, and whoever that was,
please step forward and inform this allegory clown that my address indeed
states that I'm from Ohio. It's solid proof that I'm not from Arkansas, so you
can shut the fuck up right now.
Love,
Desdemona
Desdemona Bankhead
>See you tomorrow.
This is so infuriating it's making me sick. I'm downloading Madonna's new song
off the net, and I just sat at my computer to check to make sure that it's
going through since I've been having trouble downloading my tunes lately. I
just ate a couple cupcakes, too, in case you were wondering what I ate today. I
stole them from Tonia's junk food stash, but don't tell her that, or she won't
engage in lesbian foreplay with me any longer. Anyway, after I made sure my
tunes were going down smooth, I stopped by the afro writing board to check that
no one has responded to my messages, and I am sorely troubled to see that a
couple muckheaps of the new age named Decaying Atheist and Allegory have
deigned to respond to me. I'm telling you brainless asswipes: stop responding
to this thread so that I can get on with my life and try and salvage my novel.
I won't leave until you homosexual hula dancers stop responding to me, because
I need to get the last word in. In this case, I need to get in the last post.
It has to do with closure. I will leave once you all shut the hell up. I need
closure and I won't have it until you leave me be, and I need all my time to
finish editing my short story collection. It's due to my publisher by December
18, and I feel like vomiting when I think of how far behind I am. It makes me
want to cry. There's always some distraction; either I'll go online to check my
always full email box, or I'll come across a book I simply must drop everything
for to read, or my brawls with my friends will impede me. I stopped by my old
house today to say hello to my dad, since he's suffering from a brain tumor,
and I wandered to my bookshelves and I picked up Francine Prose's novel Blue
Angel. I decided I needed to re-read it for inspiration.
I really do need inspiration after what happened to me yesterday. Yesterday
morning, I woke up in my snug bed, my dreams still lingering in my head. I
pulled off my eye mask, which shields off the sun. Usually, after I first wake
up, I lie around and mull over my schedule for the day. After about an hour of
mulling, I get out of bed and shower then head into the other quarters of the
house, to see what Tonia and Judy, my roommates, are up to. They usually have
to go to either go to work or attend school, so I follow them around and help
them get ready and kiss them goodbye as they set off for their days. I stand by
the door and watch them retreat to their respective cars, waving my
handkerchief after them, tears streaming down my face. I miss them so when they
leave me alone.
But yesterday morning, I couldn't follow this routine. My eyes parted rather
early, for I forgot to put on my silk eye mask on the night before. The second
my conscious became alert, a smell assailed my nostrils. It was about ten in
the morning, and I knew something was horribly wrong because normally I awake
at eleven thirty or noon, since I stay up till around 3 am. The smell overtook
me. It seemed to have seeped into the very air I was breathing. It was a fishy,
putrid smell. It reminded me of moldy tuna. What could it be, I wondered as I
sat up in bed, rubbing my crusty eyes. I yawned and stretched my legs, which
were curled beneath me. I reasoned that Tonia or Judy had probably just set my
doggie La-koo-ka-ra-cha's daily snack of tuna in my bedroom, since they were
sort of mad at me from the night before and such an act would in keeping with
their juvenile notions of vengeance.
As I lay in bed yesterday, stretching my long legs before me, I suddenly felt
a wetness between my legs. I reached down into my sweatpants and explored the
region with my probing fingers. It was wet, all right. I brought my hand out of
my pants and looked down. It was covered in blood. But how could this be?
Yesterday afternoon, I checked the households supply of sanitary pads, and I
found only two remaining in the stash. I decided I would use one that day, and
save the other one for tomorrow. I read somewhere that you should change your
pad every four hours or else the bacteria can eat away at your coochie, but I
was willing to take my chances. I am a true pioneer.
I got up and nearly tripped over a pile of stuffed animals that was lying at
the foot of my bed. I walked over to my full-length mirror in the corner of my
bedroom, slowly because there was this gross squishy sound coming from between
my legs. When I had reached my destination, I dropped my pants and was
horrified to see that someone had stolen my sanitary pad during the night.
There was a note taped my coochie, in Judy's loopy scrawl which said, quite
simply, Miss me? Yes, I felt like screaming. I certainly do miss my pad.
Because I honestly did miss it. Judy's little prank on me was more devastating
than she realized. I glanced over at my bed; my Gucci sheets were irredeemably
soiled. A big red circle of blood stained the area I was lying atop of. I felt
as if a thunderstorm of blood-rain had blown into my bedroom overnight. My
fingers were coated in blood, blood was running down my legs. The odor of it
stank up the whole room, because menstrual blood is of a different variety than
normal blood, since it is leaked from a rather stanky passage. I was
dumbfounded. I was about to pick up the phone to call my brother and ask him
what I should do, but suddenly my bedroom door flung open. Tonia and Judy
stepped inside, uninvited.
They had picked my bedroom locks. When you live in a zoo like my flat, you
learn that you must lock your door during the night, for when you lay dormant
in your milieu you are especially susceptible to all sorts of ill-intentioned
pranks. When I moved in here, I had my ex-boyfriend, Noah, install two extra
locks on my bedroom doors to keep those villains Tonia and Judy at bay. But
they apparently fancy themselves to be clever, for they found a clever way to
overcome my strategic method to secure my safety. They were laughing like a
couple of hyenas, staring at me with my pants down tat my ankles. Tonia pointed
to my expensive Gucci sheets, her shoulders heaving in a silent burst of
explosive laughter. Judy was holding her big jelly belly to keep it from
causing a minor earthquake, for her hysterics were such that they seemed to
cause her a full body orgasm.
You stupid hoochie mamas, I said to them in an eerily quiet voice. Tears were
beginning to stream down my face; I couldn't believe they had stolen my bloody,
beloved sanitary pad in the middle of the night. The night before, I was
wondering why they kept pouring glass after glass of wine for me. They had
probably slipped a drug into my drink to make sure that I would sleep straight
through their thievery. I felt like grabbing my sheets and tackling them so
that I could wrap their heads around the big red circle of blood. I wanted them
to sniff my discharge, the aroma pervading the room like so much poison. Yet
before I could proceed, I was overcome with a Zen like calm. What would my
display of anger prove? In stealing my pad, they were simply asking to get a
rise out of me. They wanted me to deliver them an enraged show, complete with
me hurling every insult I have stored in my brainless head, with me stomping
around like an elephant with its trunk cut off.
I glanced down and saw that my blood was dripping onto the beige carpet. I
knew I would be the one who'd have to scrub it out, later. I refuse to pay my
share to the cleaning man Tonia hired, since he's gay. At first, Tonia and Judy
had persuaded him to clean my bedroom even though I refused to pay him. But
after I called him a cock sucking homo, the cleaning man had decided that
henceforth he would clean our entire apartment except for my bedroom. I was
fine with that arrangement, because I love to sit in my junky bedroom. I don't
mind the mess. It is the only room in which I can store my treasures/junk
without the burden of having others tell me to pick up after myself. I don't
want that homo cleaning man touching my junk as it is.
I kicked off my pants which were bunched around my ankles. I walked out of the
room, still pantless. As I passed Judy and Tonia, I pulled off my sweatshirt
for the sake of dramatic effect. I wasn't wearing a bra or an undershirt. I
heard them gasp behind me; I was completely naked. En route to the bathroom, I
could feel their shocked eyes following my bare back. My action had ceased
their cruel laughter at once. Just before I was about to turn into the
bathroom, I wheeled around in the hallway and faced them. I felt my large
breasts sway to and fro like two large overdeveloped eggs about to burst. At
least they weren't leaking milk or yolk, though.
You two conniving buffoons, I hissed, I'll get you for this. I walked into the
bathroom and reached for the shelf on which we keep the sanitary pads. They
were none. Uh-oh, I thought.
I walked back to my roommates in the hallway and asked them where the last pad
was. Tonia yawned and shrugged; Judy pretended as if she didn't hear me. They
knew I was saving it, because I announced it, quite loudly, the day before. I
stuck my nose in the air, about to deliver to deliver a whoop ass speech to set
these two hooligans straight, but they had apparently lost interest in me. They
began wandering towards the living room to grab their purses and car keys so
that they could head off for school. I kept following them, a long trail of
blood following me. I began to grow quite panicked when I realized I was
leaving a trail of discharge; I knew I would have to spend many drab, laborious
hours scrubbing the carpet after those two ill-educated sluts left for the day.
I began wringing my hands. My breathing grew harsh and jagged; my voice took on
a squeaky timbre. Please give me the last pad, I pleaded. I choked out a couple
of theatrical sobs, placing my head in my palms, my shoulders quaking. My
antics grabbed Judy's attention, but Tonia had already departed the flat. The
door shut behind her in a deafening slam.
You want your pad, baby girl? Judy asked me. Judy is a buxom, pimply, fat
young lady with lewd manners and habits. While Tonia was raised on Park Avenue,
Judy is a whore monger straight from the trailor park. I deplore her, but she
gives me massages every other day, and I love her for that, since my overworked
body simply demands daily massages. Yes, Judy, I need the pad, I told her. I
pressed my legs together and began hopping around to keep as much blood on my
skin as possible. When I stood straight, the blood dripped right onto the
carpet instead of trailing down my legs.
Here's your pad, you stupid anorexic bitch, Judy said. I looked up at her, my
eyes red from my crying. I held out my hand, expecting to be handed a nicely
wrapped, clean pad, but I let it drop to my side when I realized no pad would
be forthcoming. Judy grinned at me, displaying her rotting innards. Her
eyebrows rose till they practically met her hairline. She set down her purse
and her can of iced tea on the table, and then daintily lifted up her skirt
until a pair of torn cotton panties were in plain view. With her pinky finger,
she brought down her panties to her knees and showed me the pad stuck to the
crotch. It was stained a vivid yellow. The lewd bitch had taken her morning
piss on my sanitary pad. She wasn't even on her period. The last pad in the
house. I wanted to charge her till we both dropped to the floor so that I could
tickle her armpits until she would faint from my tickling villainy. But oddly
enough, I was again overcome with the same eerie calm which assailed me in my
bedroom.
Where is my other pad, the one I was wearing during the night, I asked her,
pressing my thighs together and cupping my breasts to hide my shame from the
obese pig standing before me. I am not below wearing used pads. I wanted my
old one, the one coated with layers and layers of my discharge; it was better
than nothing.
Tonia is wearing it, Judy responded.
But how could that be, that pad is stained with mine own blood of
glorious crimson hue! I exclaimed, my hands flying to my forehead. I glared at
her as she pulled her panties back up around her waist and smoothed her skirt
over her dimpled ass.
Yes, but Tonia needed a pad, for she started her monthy flow precisely
at the stroke of midnight as we swiped your pad, as you lay in drunken slumber
wrought by cheap wine as you lay upon your feathered bed, Judy said.
I dropped to my knobby knees, stunned, clawing at my knotted hair. They
both knew I didn't have any money to buy more pads, since I used up my
allowance yesterday to buy an abundance of bubble gum. I couldn't even watch
Judy walk out of the apartment. I was going to trip her as she passed me, but I
was too overcome with emotion. How could my roommates steal both of my pads
when they knew it was my time on the rag? How could this be? Did I not serve my
fellow neighbor and man like the charming Catholic I am? Do I not always
remember to bless strangers after they sneeze in my presence? How could I end
up with no pad? I lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling for about an hour
with a blank, dead expression, the apartment deserted save for my tormented
soul. I pondered the numerous injustices I am forced to suffer on a daily
basis.
My ex-boyfriend, Noah, came over around one in the afternoon and found
me lying in my gore. He helped me up, but I was too shaken to respond to his
enquiries about what had happened to leave me in such a horrific state. I was
unable to communicate in proper English; I reverted to babbling French, my
first language. Unfortunately, Noah's knowledge of the French vernacular
extends only to the poorly taught introductory course he took in public high
school. He picked me up and carried me to the bathroom, gently placing me in
the claw-footed tub. With his fingers caressing my flesh, he cleansed the dried
blood off my legs, hips, stomach, face and breasts. Yes, it was all over me. I
have a tic, which makes me touch myself all over, and as I lay in my blood
during the hapless time period following Judy's departure, I had unknowingly
run my bloody hands all over my body.
I remember that Noah kept asking if my old stalker had reentered my
life. He asked me why my cunt kept pouring out blood. Did the stalker slice
your coochie, Noah kept asking. Last week I told Noah I was pregnant, and that
I wouldn't need pads any longer. I make Noah buy my sanitary pads for me, since
I like to think of him as my slave, and since I usually don't have the money to
buy simple products like pads. I have a tendency to spend my allowance the same
day I recieve it, usually on bubble gum. Since I thought I was pregnant last
week, I told him he didn't have to buy me any more pads for a while, but I was
mistaken. It turns out I wasn't pregnant because I began my monthly curse. He
was probably wondering where all this blood had come from, so I calmly
explained that Judy and Tonia had torn my fetus from my womb early that morning
with a wire coat hanger, and shortly thereafter, I began my period. I broke
down in a fresh wave of tears as I told him my tale. My tears mixed in with the
red bath water. I watched them drop, one by one, into my lap.
I glanced into Noah's face as I finished my last sentence about how Judy
kicked me on my delicate collarbone as she pranced out of the apartment that
morning. She didn't really, but I decided I needed to add some drama to my
tale. Noah's face had hardened; he was staring at the bathroom's tiled walls
with an expression of pure rage. I was delighted that my tale had caused him to
well with such emotion, even though my tale was sprinkled with a profusion of
sheer lies. I love fucking with his head. I had added so many embellishments to
my story that it was hardly what had really happened to me, but Noah didn't
need to know that. I love it when he gets protective of me. I think he was
mostly angry about how Judy and Tonia supposedly performed a forced abortion on
me. That baby was supposedly Noah's, and he was looking forward to fathering my
imaginary child. I should have waited to tell him I was pregnant until I was
completely sure, but what's done is done.
He lifted me out of the bathwater and wrapped me up in a pink towel lying at
his feet. It was Tonia's towel, the one she probably uses to wipe her bony ass
with, but he was so hard with anger than I didn't want to correct his mistake.
Sometimes he snaps on me when he's angry with someone else; you can't disturb
him when he's like that. He carried me over to my bedroom and stopped dead
still when he saw my bloody sheets. He placed me on my pile of stuffed animals,
changed my sheets, and then gently laid me upon my bed. I whispered that it was
our baby's blood on those sheets, and he had to turn away for a moment to
compose himself. I dared not speak another word; Noah's temper rarely flares
up, but when it does, he gets quite raging hot. He told me to wait here while
he went to go have a little chat with my roommates. I told him Ok, But be nice
to Judy and Tonia, For they are ignorant girls who know not what they do. He
wouldn't respond.
My doggie La-koo-ka-ra-cha wandered into the room as I was pleading
with Noah not to hurt Judy and Tonia. Suddenly, in the midst of my ranting,
Noah scooped La-koo-ka-ra-cha into his arms and reached into his pocket.
Speechless, I watched him slip my doggie some LSD. We gave my doggie LSD last
Fourth of July to see what his reaction would be, and my doggie had gone on a
wild rampage within minutes. We reasoned that it was purely for the sake of
scientific experimentation. It was a great show until La-koo-ka-ra-cha became
rather homicidal. We had to lock him in a cage for a while until he calmed
down, and he nearly broke down the cage.
As Noah walked out of my apartment holding my dog, I called after him,
Dearest, Please don't unleash the rabid La-koo-ka-ra-cha upon my roommates!
He called back, Fret not, Angel. The door shut behind him. I haven't seen my
roommates or Noah since. I hope he hasn't purchased a tombstone for our
imaginary fetus; how the hell am I supposed to come up with an aborted fetus to
bury? I guess I'll have to deal with that dilemma when it arrives. One problem
at a time, Desdemona.
After Noah left, I slipped into a deep, luxurious nap wherein I
dreamed of red Popsicles, red roses, red tomatoes, red hearts, red blood. All
things red. When I awoke at seven in the evening, I looked down and saw my legs
and sheets once again covered in red. I sighed. I was going to have to find a
pad, somehow, since I was going to be on my period for two more days, and I
needed to stop the flow before I coated the entire flat with my womanly
discharge. I pulled on a pair of my bright blue hot pants and stuffed half a
roll of paper towels in my panties. I spotted my deceased mother's old
belly-dancing chain lying in the corner; I picked it up and clasped it around
my waist. I decided to go out and rake the town for a sanitary pad, because I
couldn't keep living like this. I desperately needed one.
It was a chilly October night. Dusk was beginning to fall. As I
stepped onto the pavement outside of my building, I heard a doggie yodel far
off in the distance--was it La-koo-ka-ra-cha unleashing his drug induced fury?
I couldn't deliberate too much on the matter, because I was freezing cold and
couldn't think properly. I hadn't put a shirt on before I left, and since I was
sleeping all day, my hair hadn't dried properly from the bath the childless
Noah had given me. I was wandering around my suburban town wearing nothing but
six inch heels and hot pants. Why? Well, I wanted to roam free and unrestricted
by bras and blouses; whenever I put on my mother's old belly-dancing chain, I'm
possessed with a free, wild spirit. I no longer have any respect for basic
rules and regulation.
I wandered the streets for about a half hour, hiding behind trees and mailboxes
when pedestrians would come my way. I was pretending to be a gypsy
belly-dancing spy.
In ten minutes I reached my destination. I was standing in front of my
old English teacher's house. I knocked on his door, popping my sugary bubble
gum in loud obnoxious pops. His wife, Mrs. Hemhaw, answered my ringing. Her
hands flew to her face and she plum fainted the moment she saw me standing
there, topless. Giggling, I stepped over her body and entered the house.
Mr, Hemhaw! I called. I entered the kitchen, the family room,
fingerinig the random knickknacks, unmindful of the fact that I was spreading
the grime from my fingers onto the Hemhaw household's belongings. I wandered
towards the darkened living room. Mr. Hemhaw was napping on the red plaid
couch, an open book on his chest. I smiled; he looked like a veritable angel. I
walked over to vile couch and decided to straddle him; that sure as hell woke
him up. He bolted upright and tried to shove me off. He thought I was his wife,
looking for sex he apparently couldn't provide.
Ah, me, Martha, he kept hollering, You know I'm impotent, Why do you
torture me by always trying to hump me like the horny teenager I once was! I
kept trying to hush him, placing my hand over his mouth, lest Martha awake from
her faint and shove me back to my lonely apartment. I know she'd do it, too.
She doesn't like me.
Mr. Hemhaw, I cried, It's me, Desdemona! I reached for the lamp and
switched it on, still straddling him. He gasped as his face was momentarily
buried in my bare breasts.
He was delighted that I dropped by for a visit, ignoring the fact that
I was his old high school scholar and that I was mostly naked. He didn't even
ask me to stop straddling him, but he had to make sure that his wife was still
fainted and unconscious. We sat and chatted for a while. I asked he knew of any
pads or tampons lying about the house that I could possibly borrow and return
at a later date. He shrugged, quite oblivious to my dilemma, so I got up and
searched the master bathroom until I discovered an exemplary tampon wedged
beneath a toilet plunger. I shoved it inside myself and returned to Mr.
Hemhaw's living room, but I didn't want to straddle and chat any longer. I was
too energized by the fact that I had found a tampon to halt the evil red flow
ruining my life; I was in no concievable mood straddle his chicken legs.
Instead, I decided to give him a belly dancing performance to celebrate my
victory.
I hopped on the table and asked him to put some Elvis on the record
player. He was only too happy to watch me swivel my hips and scratch up his
living room table with my frantic moves. My boobies were dodging about all over
like two loose volleyballs trying to be volleyed free from my skin. He even got
up to boogie with me for a spell, and slipped a one dollar bill into my hot
pants. I called him a big spender in my most taunting tone of voice. He blushed
like crazy and resettled onto his vile sofa and refrained from committing
further acts of foolishness in my presence. My mother used to be a belly dancer
back in India; I inherited my moves from her, undoubtedly.
I'm not sure what was in the drug Tonia and Judy slipped me the night
before, but as Mr. Hemhaw sat before me, clapping his hands to the beat my
dancing, I began feeling very woozy fifteen minutes into my performance. I'm a
gypsy who can shake it for an hour without being taken over by fatigue, so I
wondered what was up, but my woozy state didn't last long. I remembered falling
off the table and landing in a heap on the floor before my world went dark.
I awoke lying in the same position approximately an hour later, right
next to my old English teacher's feet. Mr. Hemhaw was no longer clapping like a
maniac. As I stared up at the ceiling, a miasma of colors whirled above me. I
hadn't taken any raver drugs, so I was at a loss as to how to explain this
strange phenomenon. But it was also wonderful; streaks of pink and purple and
green zig zagged about, leaving sparkling stars in their wake. I grasped for
something to help me up; my hand knocked over a bottle of clear nail polish on
the table. I seemed to re-call, while I lay slumped on the floor, a dream
involving me painting Mr. Hemhaw's toenails. Was I really painting them? I was
so disoriented that I wasn't able to discern reality from dreaming, but Mr.
Hemhaw did have a layer of clear nail polish over his horny toenails.
I picked up the polish and resumed painting his toes to establish my
connection with the waking, real world. I wanted to do something definite,
undisputable, and painting his toenails seemed to be the answer.
I wanted my Noah. I was so scared.
On my fifth layer, I heard a delicate, dainty snore. Mr. Hemhaw was
fast asleep. I replaced the cap on the nail polish jar, shoved it in my pocket,
and re-attached the belly chain to my waist. I decided to slip out the front
door, because I figured his wife Martha was probably still lying slumped in a
veritable faint by the back door. Just as I was about to step onto the
pavement, I turned around and dashed back to Mr. Hemhaw's snoring figure. I
leaned down and kissed him on his lips. He tasted like vodka. My drunken prince
didn't morph into a frog, though.
As I walked down the driveway into the chilly October night, the colors began
swirling all around me again. I held my arms out to steady myself, because the
combined effect of wearing six-inch stripper shoes and seeing bright vivid
rainbows swirl about rendered me incredibly dizzy. The colors began to meld
into little devils that would fly straight towards my eyes, threatening to
blind me with their pitchforks, but just before they'd reach my pupils, they'd
disappear in a puff of gray powder. Any decent psychiatrist would have told you
I was hallucinating, and that I should have sought help fast.
But I was too tired to deal with the nonsense in my life any longer. I almost
wanted those devils to blind me. In fact, I wanted to go up into a puff of
smoke right then, my entire body and soul included. Besides, the only people
that would notice by absence would be Noah and Judy and Tonia and Mr. Hemhaw
and maybe my parents. They were, undeniably, the people that have formed my
life. The irony of it was that right then, for some reason, I detested all
those people with such a consuming hatred that I never wanted to see any of
them ever again. I wanted nothing to do with anything anymore.
I laid down on my English teacher's lawn and closed my eyes, a headache
thudding within my skull. The cold dewy grass tickled my nipples so that a
strange smile began playing at my lips. I intentionally pressed grazed the tips
of my breasts on the grass to entice myself. At that moment, although I was
feeling achingly sad, I was no longer fretting for my sanity, although I knew
full well that I was seeing devils that were figments of my psyche's
derangement.
Even though I knew I was losing my marbles, I began to feel incredibly blessed
to be alive at that particular moment, in that particular city, with my
particular roommates. If a fairy had come down to me at that instant, I would
have asked her that she grant me this one wish: that I remain eighteen years
old even as my remaining years pass me by. As I lay in the dewy grass, an ant
starting his journey up my thigh, I was seized with a horrible thought. I knew
I would wake up one morning, very soon, and find myself to have morphed into a
frumpy, crabby forty five year old who would never roam around naked to belly
dance for her old anguished English teacher or have her sanitary pad snatched
from her in the middle of the night by her crude roommates. Nobody would ever
do something like that to a crabby forty five year old. If you think people
ignore you now and only pay attention to you to make your life a living hell,
Desdemona, wait till you're forty-five. Judy and Tonia and Noah and Mr. Hemhaw
probably won't even be in my life anymore when I'm forty-five; we'll all have
parted ways. The thought sobered me. It knocked the smile off my face and I
even stopped hallucinating. I got up and walked to my empty apartment, my head
hanging low.
Love,
Desdemona
Decaying Atheist
> >
> >See you tomorrow.
> Love,
> Desdemona
Welcome back, I snipped without reading. I just wanted to thank you for
winning me tweleve bucks on a nice bet.
Let's see if I can triple that.
--
Decaying Atheist. He's the right man for the job.
Subscribe: shartiswrit...@yahoogroups.com
ICQ: 161624095
7:26:03 PM ---- Friday, October 11, 2002
Quote 10 of 109
"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV
will be fought with sticks and stones."
-- Albert Einstein
Fraser
The day a group
> of thirty or more people collectively welcomes me in their arms is the day
> I'll move to some remote area of the world and refuse to lay eyes on
another
> human for the rest of eternity.
Count me in. Need another 29 volunteers.
Fraser
Anopheles
It's inhuman to deny the rest, Fraser. I have the whole of Australia
clamouring on board as we speak. Now, if we can just get the to pay a buck
each, we could buy the girl a diaper for her mouth. (These big ones are
expensive)
Anopheles
John Griffin
> "Desdemona Bankhead" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote
>
> > of thirty or more people collectively welcomes me in their arms is the day
> > I'll move to some remote area of the world and refuse to lay eyes on
> another
> > human for the rest of eternity.
>
> Count me in. Need another 29 volunteers.
>
> Fraser
That was funny. I wish I had said that. Twenty-eight to go.
Desdemona Bankhead
>It's inhuman to deny the rest, Fraser. I have the whole of Australia
>clamouring on board as we speak. Now, if we can just get the to pay a buck
>each, we could buy the girl a diaper for her mouth.
Hey Australia boy, why don't you go stick your ugly face in a kangaroo's pouch?
Or maybe you outghta go play boomerang with a bunch of koala bears. Do you ever
drink Foster's beer? I love those commercials--"Fostah's, Austraalian foe
beeyah."
I am very disapoointed in this site. A few months back when I first
got my book deal, I decided I needed to expand my story topics, and I've always
been interested in the Holocaust. I tried writing a short story told from the
viewpoint of a concentration camp survivor, but I kept struggling because I
thought my historical info was wrong, so I'd go back to look it up again and by
the time I got back to the story I lost interest. That had been going on for a
while, but yesterday I spent twelve hours on that piece and I nailed it. It was
supposed to be a short story and it ended up 9000 words long, so I guess I'm
going to be doing quite a lot of editing. You know when you just totally nail a
story, and you know it's good without even getting anybody's opinion on it? I
love that feeling. I haven't felt that way about a lot of my stuff lately, but
I really felt as if I nailed this piece and even though I haven't slept a wink
all night I'm so incredibly happy and high right now. I used to be a gymnast,
and whenever I was doing my jumps and flips, one of my biggest concerns was the
landing--can I nail it? I take that same mindset to my writing. I'm going to
send out this story to my editor tomarrow, since I spoke to him last night and
apologized for my recent nasty behavior, and told him to edit away on all my
writing. But before sending it I wanted to post it to a bunch of writer's sites
to see if I was crazy for thinking it was good. But now when I once again
recieve this harrassment on afo, fuck it. You're a bunch of stupid ass
motherfuckers and I'm just not amused anymore. I keep telling myself that if
I'm going to meet my deadline for my publisher, December 18, I'm going to have
to keep my distance from the many fuckheads of the world. It's so hard for me
to keep my distance, because dealing with such fuckheads provides me with raw
material for my work. The only reason I stuck around so long is because I love
pushing buttons and I defintely pushed a lot here. But by now I'm quite fed up
with this afo bullshit.
It's been nice knowin ya'll.
--Desdemona
John P David
Not me, Angry Petunia--or not like that, anyway. Because if you are really,
truly a girl (which, sadly, I am finding more and more improbable) you can
be *My Girl* for life, you sweet thing, if only you will keep up the good
work of trying to make men of these monkeys -- a thing, I'll grant, which
promises to be even more improbable, I'm afraid, than your proposed gender,
my dear.
But one can continue to hope, and fantasy is the name of the game here
anyway.
|
| Love,
| Desdemona
PS. The true test of ultimate narcissism, egotism and a complete lack of
enlightenment is when people are actually able to feel themselves insulted,
like *en masse* as a crowd or a so-called "group". Imagine having such a
rotund consciousness of oneself as that! You go walking around saying, "I
am an insulted group."
LOL!
Can anything be more hilarious?
--
JPDavid jpd...@hotmail.com
John's Joint:: http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
"It takes a long evolutionary process to arrive at objectivity, that is, to
acquire the faculty to see the world, nature, and other persons and oneself
as they are, and not distorted by desires and fears. The more man develops
this objectivity, the more he is in touch with reality, the more he matures,
the better can he be to create a human world in which he is at home." --
Erich Fromm in *The Sane Society*
"And it don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing." -- Irving Mills,
Duke Ellington.
Desdemona Bankhead
>enlightenment is when people are actually able to feel themselves insulted,
>like *en masse* as a crowd or a so-called "group". Imagine having such a
>rotund consciousness of oneself as that! You go walking around saying, "I
>am an insulted group."
>
>LOL!
They find comfort in numbers. To stand as a single digit is unfathomable for
some people.
>you can
>be *My Girl* for life, you sweet thing,
sweet like salt! :)
> if only you will keep up the good
>work of trying to make men of these monkeys -- a thing, I'll grant, which
>promises to be even more improbable, I'm afraid, than your proposed gender,
>my dear.
>But one can continue to hope, and fantasy is the name of the game here
>anyway.
I was born in Paris. My father was a wealthy white man. My mother was a poor
Asian who fled India when she was nineteen. I was raised mostly by a young
nanny because my mother was an alcoholic. After my mother’s death, my father
and I moved to America. I explained my roots in a previous post; I know it
wasn’t particularly eloquent. It was a solemn topic and I should have taken
my time in telling it instead of just spewing it out in fifteen minutes. My
nanny never scolded me the way a normal mother would have. I lived a very free
childhood, I received no discipline, and as a result of that I grew up to be a
rather lewd woman. Nobody ever drew boundary lines for me. But the bottom line,
Daddy J, is that I swear that I’m female, despite the fact I sometimes talk
like a guy.
Do you want to know what I titled my collection of eleven short stories?
It’s called Devotchka. Devotchka is the Russian word for "girl", and I loved
the sound of the word when I read it in Burgess’ magnificent Clockwork
Orange. I’ve written four novels and forty seven short stories, and out of
all those characters, I’ve only had two male narrators. I’ve written almost
everything in the first person told from a female’s perspective. There’s an
old rule for fiction that goes "Write what you know." I’ve followed that
piece of advice very closely. I write about females, from a female perspective,
because I’m a female. The fucked up female mind is my obsession. If I lived a
few decades back I would have been a feminist. I have asked for some space on
the afo bio site to post a photo, thus verifying my gender. But I suppose
that’s useless now since I've been branded and labeled as a veritable male
when that is simply not true, and because I'm considering canceling my internet
account. My ex-boyfriend, Noah, who I’ve been sleeping with since I was
sixteen years old makes my life a living hell. My roommates Tonia and Judy who
are supposed to be my best friends make my life a living hell. People on the
net torment me just like people in my real life; my email box is flooded with
hate mail every day. I need to put an end to it somewhere.
By the way, Daddy J, I was wondering if you could offer me one final
opinion on two of the stories that I am supposed to publish in my Devotchka
book. Last summer, after you heavily praised two of my pieces called Diary of
Maria and A Summer Afternoon, I decided to include both of those pieces in the
short story collection that I may/may not publish. Everything happened so fast,
and when you get a book deal when you’re seventeen, you don’t know what the
hell is going on. I didn’t know how to deal with editors and agents, so I
think I may have blew it, but I really don’t care. I was unable to comprehend
the simple fact that an editor’s job is just that: to edit. My editor had me
change Maria to a black girl named Raven Joy and I had to make Zelda a bulimic.
My editor said they needed more character. Anyway, I’m going to post them
following this post and I am curious to know if you still think Maria's spirit
shows through, (if you think my characters are better now or if they were
better before the changes I had to make). I can’t post the full uncensored
versions, because my book deal still may go through. But if you have the time
I’d appreciate the feedback. Thanks.
Love,
Desdemona
Desdemona Bankhead
through so much, but here it is.)
Diary of Raven Joy
Today, as I pulled my car out of the school parking lot, I felt as if an
era of my life had come to an end. It was the last day of school for the
seniors. The rest of us lowly underclassman get to experience the painful
drudgery of finals, but the seniors, seeing how they sweated out twelve or more
years of their young lives for the benefit of public education, are granted
certain privileges. Such as being dismissed from school a couple weeks early.
Oh, hell. What do I care about the schedules of the seniors, about where
they will go and who they will become after leaving the nest of high school?
I’m a junior, soon to be a senior--next year. What do I care?
I cared because I was convinced my kingdom come was the kid in my ceramics
class. Oddly enough, I didn’t notice him the first four months of school. The
first semester, I was going through extensive therapy and was absent for at
least two days out of the five day week, and the days I’d be in school, I
would be too fucked up on prescription drugs to really notice anything. A
couple weeks before winter break, when the novelty of drugs wore off and they
become more of a pain than a psychological remedy, I noticed Sid’s
irresistible skeleton frame. And the way he had his blond hair buzzed in a crew
that was near militaristic. Sometimes, out of fear, I would go for days without
really taking a good look at him. When I got the rare urge to be audacious with
coy, unnoticeable stare-flirting, I glanced into his face when he was looking
the other way. The last time I had seen such sculpted and perfectly melded
cheekbones was during my oriental kick, when I would pour over photos of
foreign faces because I found their intricate facial curvatures so fascinating
to draw. White people just didn’t have cheekbones like that, but here was
this boy. So gaunt and tall, with a slight rebel slouch in his gait that made
me want to love him all the more.
I was hesitant to look right into his face for fear he would notice my
adoration and think me a fool for it. I reasoned that like most sheltered,
suburban white boys, he wouldn’t want anything to do with a black girl like
me. So I took to staring at his back as I secretly trailed him in the hallways,
keeping a few unimportant stragglers between us for safety in case he should
suddenly turn my way and see my black face and two white eyeballs looking right
back at him. I get so nervous when my hormones rev up a new obsession for a
boy, so I do everything within my power to withhold the fact that I like him. I
think I am too insignificant to have my affections reciprocated. I know it’s
not true; I know I’m just as much human being as those cheerleaders who
travel in packs, who lean up against their lockers between bells to giggle and
share their snippets of juicy gossip, preening themselves for their frequent,
coquettish encounters with their popular male counterparts. I knew if I really
wanted to, I could be like that.
I tried and failed. During the tumultuous years of junior high, I was never
able to play the game of teenage hierarchy. By my junior year, I had learned to
ditch teen social castes altogether. If I cared to take note of the way things
stood, I would be on the bottom rung of the social ladder right beside the
untouchable cripples and the mentally retarded. I haven’t been to a single
high school dance yet, because if I showed up to one I could clearly picture
myself standing off the edge of the dorky crowd, trying to look as if I fit in
with them, although the dorky crowd doesn’t even know my name. I’d be one
of the wallflowers standing off to the side, staring at my peers with my beady
white eyes, my dark skin blending into the gymnasium walls. I suppose I could
strike up a conversation with a fellow wallflower, but after I make a couple
silly comments about the decorations or the music, what else would I have to
comment on? My arsenal of witticisms is only so large. I haven’t attended a
single homecoming dance for that reason of insecurity, and I can foresee myself
sitting home alone on prom night while my peers are out celebrating their
youth, their freedom, their happiness, their hormones. I suppose girls like
myself are supposed to suppress such features, as if I don’t come equipped
with such assets, and thus I reason that I’m simply not programmed to attend
parties or dances. Although I must admit, it is very easy to get caught up in
the excitement and flow of everyone getting all hyped up about those kinds of
things. I hardly ever stall in the middle of the hallway when there is class to
attend surrounded by people laughing and joking and exchanging numbers. I never
kiss up to teachers, I never talk stupid for the sake of getting others to like
me.
You’d think I’d be regarded as the ultimate independent high school
icon, but it never worked out that way. I’m beautiful. That’s wonderful for
me, I guess, but it makes people nervous around you, as if they have some
standard of yours to meet, as if my beauty is a mark of my high breeding and
aristocracy. That’s a laugh. After I blossomed and became beautiful, I
noticed how everyone watched their words and actions around me and then I drew
further into myself because it made me feel like an outcast. So that’s how I
came to be a complete contradiction; I was beautiful and young yet never had a
serious boyfriend because I was forced into a shyness that kept me from
speaking. I was an independent thinker and did not garner the usual cult
following of fans because my appearance was intimidating to the average human.
I think being so deprived of love and friends throughout the pivotal,
developmental years of my life left an inerasable mark on me, a deep pit wedged
inside myself devoid of youthful memories and triumphs. I was never able to
test my parents with stretching out my curfew because I never had anywhere to
go. I never had the chance to have slumber parties and go crazy with other
girls about silly prissy cute things because I was never able to open myself up
enough to really befriend anybody. The thing is, I wasn’t a born loner. How
can I be a loner when I am consistently plagued with the thought that I need to
gain comrades and find my niche in the quintessential clique? I’ve always
liked people and I love examining them, listening to them, being caught up in
their anxieties and joys and fears. Yet I had erected a boulder between myself
and normal civilized people because I had morphed into an ice queen. There’s
only so many years of rejection and isolation a human can take before something
inside you clicks off, and you freeze over. Despite the fact that an essential
part of you is frozen, your mind taunts you, since you still have to face
society, and in society you are confronted by people who still function like
normal human beings. People who have not been clicked off. As a result of my
self-imposed isolation, my imagination now tends to play out extremely bizarre
scenarios, and my crushes on boys turn into infatuations because I have nothing
else to dream on. I am so starved for real contact that I am forced to exist in
my own self-created, surreal fantasy world.
I guess I’m telling you all personal information about myself because
it’ll better explain my tender heart after Sid vanished from the corridors of
my high school along with the rest of the senior class. What makes all of my
crushes pathetic is that I never even know the boys, other than their
appearances and names, but in my head I court them around as if we are in the
midst of a torrid romantic affair. I inflate my desires for these strangers
simply because I am needy, for something, for anything to fill the void, even
the lies I feed myself about my nonexistent relationships.
I didn’t really know Sid, not in a way that would warrant my strong
emotions for him. There were only a handful of characteristics that would
identify him to me, such as his booming voice and that particular jaunt to his
walk. I didn’t even know his likes and dislikes, although I had a strong
suspicion that he liked my chest because during our ceramics class, as I would
be bending over a table to reach for art supplies, his eyes would dart over to
my bulging cleavage. My lack of intimate connection with him didn’t stop me
from thinking of him at night while making out with my pillow, wishing on every
star in existence that it be a real human (preferably named Sid.) Not knowing
Sid didn’t stop me from working out the details of our future wedding after I
crawled in bed and shut my bedroom door, shutting out the world. I would
fantasize about how it was only a matter of time before he would strike up a
conversation with me during our ceramics class, and from that point on Raven
Joy the Ice Queen would be history. If only that would happen, if only he’d
talk to me, then I wouldn’t have to go around dreaming of people and
situations to suddenly drift along and wrench me out of my melancholy. On top
of being a black girl in a white town, I was in love with the idea of being in
love, and sometimes that fact would hit me cold and make me feel all the more
sorry for myself.
Such rationalization was not enough to halt my desires. I wanted Sid, and
what drove me crazy was that I knew he wanted me, too. The vibes he emanated
confirmed the fact. But I knew most boys wanted me but couldn’t approach me
because I was too flashy and sophisticated for the immature adolescent minds.
To many boys, including Sid, I represented a lifestyle which was nothing like
the typical high school student’s. I was the girl who wore too much makeup,
who thought she was too good to talk to the other kids, who dressed like a
stripper, who always seemed so intense and nervous. People in general have
trouble approaching such a girl unless they are gifted with an unusual amount
confidence. High school boys can’t approach such a girl, period.
I woke up every morning looking forward to my first period, ceramics, where
the greatest thrill of my school day awaited me. I would sit a few desks behind
Sid and shoot occasional glances at his back, which would always be hunched
over his little sculptures of turtles. He was a turtle fanatic. He would be
tardy at least twice a week, always giving our teacher some crap about how his
alarm clock didn’t go off. I would feel indignant, betrayed when I would rush
to class every morning and occasionally find his seat empty. I would bow my
head, grit my teeth; how dare he not show up! I’d admonish myself for living
vicariously through this boy who hardly deigned to treat me with the proper
respect a secret admirer deserved. But when he’d saunter in twenty minutes
after the bell, all my past fantasies would resurface and I’d be in
something like a bliss, but beneath it all rumbled angry gray clouds. How many
times had I immersed myself in crushes with boys, only to have absolutely zilch
come of it? Too many. But beneath this reality still bubbled some scant hope.
That hope was obliterated today, Sid’s last day. The bell signaling the
end of ceramics class sent us filing out of the room. Sid was walking a few
paces behind me. I was walking slow and sedate, wishing to make that boy come
walk next to me and just say something, oh just say anything to me. I walked
all the way down to my math class, his presence omnipotent. Just before I
reached my math door, he walked next to me. He hadn’t ever done that before;
he walked right by my side, so close that his elbow grazed my hip. When he
passed on I felt different, as if some unspoken symbol had just been exchanged.
But when I entered my math classroom and sat in my same old math seat I
knew nothing had changed. I was still Raven Joy, beautiful, black and ignored.
As my math teacher walked up to the front of the room with chalk in hand and
droned about the final, I knew any possible chance of having a relationship
with Sid had passed, and I let it slip. In his peculiar way, he had given me a
chance to snag him and I failed to take advantage of it. Oddly, I only felt a
momentary pang of suicidal defeat before a familiar numbness eased the burden
of feeling. The squint in my eyes smoothed out and they again took on their
usual blank expression. I began a subconscious mantra in my head begging me to
forget Sid even though my heart still knew and loved the notion of him.
I drove home that day feeling as if I had left something behind. I don’t
know what, exactly, but I wanted to turn around and speed back to my school so
I could search my locker and my classrooms and retrace my steps in the hallways
to find that something I had left behind. But I didn’t; it seems to me that
sometimes when you’re on a certain path you have to stick to it no matter how
much you want to turn around. This strain was pulling on my limbs and I felt
like crying but I felt as if my body was incapable of supplying the necessary
water to produce tears. I pulled my Camaro into the carport and killed the
engine. With stilted movements, I climbed out of the driver’s seat clutching
my backpack and the pumps I had kicked off (driving in heels will always
whittle away the essential spike.) I walked inside, anticipation mounting. Here
comes one of my favorite parts of the day.
I dropped my junk in the corner of the dining room like I always did. The
house was empty; my mother doesn’t get off work till four thirty and my
brother Jarrod was probably off lying in a pile of his own vomit. For a few
moments I felt like a princess entering her castle after years of exile. The
house: I had it all to myself, at my disposal, the setting so quiet and serene.
The only sounds I heard were the squawks of the parrot we keep next to the
laundry room and the timid roar of some distant lawn mower. It was sort of
ironic, how I had gone about my day being angry at the common stupidity of the
fellow human race, but now that I was alone I felt desolate and cornered into
my own lonely, pathetic world, but if you put me back in living breathing
society I’d go back to hating it. It’s weird, how fickle I am.
I walked up the winding staircase and went straight into my bedroom. The
house being deserted, I didn’t need to lock it but I still did--I guess it
just makes me feel better. I even locked it, and the sound of the lock turning
was unpleasant right after it followed the characteristic squeak of the unoiled
hinges on the frame. Who cares enough about my door to oil it, anyway, if oil
is what it needs to make the annoying noise go away? I certainly don’t care.
I turned to the mirror. My makeup help up well today, I reflected. But the
shadows on my face prohibited me from really observing. I climbed my unmade bed
and opened the slats of the blinds till a suitable amount of sunlight filtered
through. I quickly returned to the mirror and I was once again struck by the
how exquisite the face I painted on was. The old urge of taking pride in my
looks swelled inside me, but somehow now that I knew that good looks didn’t
guarantee promiscuous fucking with hot boys and never-ending wild parties, my
pride was hindered. After I first blossomed, I would stare at my face convinced
that my life would now really begin. A year had gone by and nothing happened
saved for gaining knowledge I would have rather done without. I now knew that
pretty faces meant nothing unless there was vitality to back it up. The eyes
that stared back at me, lined with brown pencil in utter precision, looked
drawn out and sad, tired. But then they looked over the rest of me, and it made
the tiredness seem okay. At least I had the body, and the clothes, and long
shiny hair, if not the vitality, if nothing else.
I went to the closet and began to assemble the outfit I would wear to
school the next day. When I get home from school, the first thing I do is
select the garments I will wear the following day, jewelry and all, even the
hairstyle. Call it daily re-invention. After deciding on the carefully selected
garments, I put the whole ensemble on and stand in front of the mirror again.
This time, I inspect myself from all angles, verifying that the outfit
compliments my body in various poses. I whirl around, making sure there’s no
torn cloth or stains, making sure that everything is color coordinated and that
the ensemble provides viewers with visual excitement. Going through this odd
ritual comforts me, for having seeable proof of how superior my overall
demeanor is somehow uplifts me, in a shallow, fleeting way. I am aware that not
many people come home from a long day only to shut their bedroom doors closed
and re-dress in the full armor of the next day’s slutty outfit, all while
internally boasting to yourself about how good you look. But why did I love it
so much? It seemed to make me feel more grounded, I guess, to scrutinize myself
and be assured that I was indeed physically, if not socially, perfect.
Today, I decided on fishnets, a red skirt and a silver top. After
delivering that pitiful one woman performance to an audience of zero in my
bedroom, I headed for the shower. The warm water rushing down my ebony skin
seemed to be washing the old me away. The old me was the in school girl, the
quiet black girl who clicked around the hallways staring straight ahead. Never
with a posse, always alone, I was the best dressed, prettiest girl in school,
who only had a few acquaintances and had never been kissed, even though I’m
seventeen and supremely fertile ground. I felt the caked on makeup and the
assortment of hair products rinse off, revealing my uneven skin tone and nappy
black hair. After I stepped out of the shower, my metamorphosis was complete.
No more twirling in front of the mirror for me, because now I was ugly and
plain, I looked how I felt inside, and a calm surrenders goes flows through me.
Stepping out of the shower with my hair dripping flat and my face unpainted and
my body naked, exposing the pad of belly hair I’ve grown (against my wishes)
is like finally being granted a reprieve from the phoniness and chaos society
has forced me to become. Stepping out of the shower means I’m ugly again,
I’m my soul again, and no one ever comes to my house to judge me or see me
drawing in darkened closets. In school, they watch me and must think how such a
pretty little thing with such a diva face must lead a glamorous life after
school. I play out the role because it was given to me. But now I’m home and
after the shower there is nothing glam about me and I can (thankfully) rest
easy. Yet it’s hard to rest easy when you are young and full of energy and
want to have good times, yet your personality prohibits you from making these
delusions discernible.
I pull on some old sweats. My mother calls my from downstairs, she’s
arrived home from work. She always makes me tea and something to eat with it
and I always go down to eat it, sitting in front of the TV. I watch my usual
shows; sometimes it scares me how I feel more close to celebrities and other
public figures than I do to real people. I drink the tea and choke down the dry
buttered toast my mother makes. She hands it to me as if she’s doing me a
favor. Around five thirty, my mother stands behind me, holding her exercise
videotape, asking if I’d leave so that she can go on with her routine. I
oblige, of course, although I would rather sit and stare at the images flashing
by than tend to my homework or work on my drawing techniques. But I don’t
like to rouse conflict. I don’t like yelling and fighting for myself because
the sound of my unused voice nauseates me, and what nauseates me further is
actually being a part of the living breathing world. I am terrified by the idea
of talking to other living breathing people and acting as if I didn’t base
everything on looks, as if I never use a dildo while pouring over pornography,
as if I never smacked my mother when I was twelve years old, as if I’m not
the vile creep I am. I know some people can have a past full of horror and
mayhem and still behave like a well-adjusted citizens, but I’m not one of
those people. I am powerless to keep my personal demons at bay. They have taken
over my mind, and I guess that is why I have become this stony silent Ice
Queen, but at least I am not a fake. At least I don’t think one thing and
then do another. It might make me lonely, and it might cause me pain, but at
least I am not some shit eating robot willing to do and say anything just to be
accepted by a bunch of other shit eaters. As much as I want to go to their shit
eating parties, and as much as I want to be listed in the Shit Eating phone
book, the bottom line is that I will never be another shit eater and that is
where I reap my success.
I arise from the couch and allow my mother to pop in her exercise tape; how
amusing it is to see that woman chase after eternal youth, as if the magic
secret lies in firm thighs and a flat stomach. I hug my blanket around me
tighter and begin walking towards the stairs, to my bedroom. It’s funny how I
began dragging this pink flowered blanket all around the house, hugging it
close, all during the winter months as if I would freeze to death if I
didn’t. Now that better weather has rolled around, I still carry that damn
blanket around, as if the very air I’m breathing is seeping with poison and
my only guard is the shield of my blanket.
As I begin my ascent up the stairs, I am suddenly seized with an
overpowering fatigue. My house is well-lighted, skylights galore, and the sun
seems to shine down with especial hardness on it, as if we have a transparent
roof that lets all shine filter through. This constant heat and light can make
standing in the open areas of my house feel sort of like an assault. I was wide
awake five minutes ago, but now my eyelids were droopy and I felt that if I
stood out there in the open like that, standing in the sunlight with a foggy
head and beating heart for one more minute, I’d dead faint. Or I’d become
even more morally bankrupt and sad from going through yet another hellish
passage in time. What hurts me is that the bulk of my life seems to be just
that: a series of hellish passages edging me further and further towards
oblivion.
What could I do? I did what there was to do. I climbed the winding
staircase, dragging the old blanket behind me, and went up to my room. I shut
the door again and heard that creakiness from the hinges but thought nothing of
it. Who cares? Who really fucking cares about anything creaky? I climbed into
bed and piled a couple more blankets on top of me.
That familiar isolation and warmth set in like it always did. I covered my
face with my hands and let my limbs go slack. I didn’t have to support my
body anymore; the bed the did it for me. For that I was grateful. Then, as my
bodily tensions oozed away into the darkened room, I was faced with the problem
of my mind. What should I think? A panic flickered inside, but I told it to
hush. I started thinking about sex, of how I probably would have popped my
cherry by now if only my parents had raised me different and molded me into a
more outgoing person who wouldn’t be afraid to talk. I thought of Sid,
another unattainable illusion. I feel a little moisture build up. I
contemplated getting out the dildo, but I didn’t feel like cleaning it up and
searching for batteries and getting out the porno, so I just laid there. I
thought of Sid and I going through our lives together, and how everyone would
be so jealous of the former Ice Queen. But you can only fantasize so much
before your brain starts going in circles, maddened by your desire. At that
point I try to shut everything down for the day.
What was there left to think? I had thought of it all, of every last thing
I cared to think of. I had reverted to the womb. I was buried in warm darkness,
no past behind me, only an uncertain future wherein I will be confronted with
an overwhelming light.
Opus
>
> People on the
> net torment me just like people in my real life; my email box is flooded with
> hate mail every day. I need to put an end to it somewhere.
>
My god, she doesn't see the irony.
Opus
Real Gone Daddy
| >PS. The true test of ultimate narcissism, egotism and a complete
lack of
| >enlightenment is when people are actually able to feel themselves
insulted,
| >like *en masse* as a crowd or a so-called "group". Imagine having
such a
| >rotund consciousness of oneself as that! You go walking around
saying, "I
| >am an insulted group."
| >
| >LOL!
|
| They find comfort in numbers. To stand as a single digit is
unfathomable for
| some people.
Yup. Check out my little story, *Ms Goody Two Shoes* for just about
all I have to say on that subject. ;-)
|
| >you can
| >be *My Girl* for life, you sweet thing,
|
| sweet like salt! :)
If that salt is from tears, lil' darlin', honey is not sweeter.
|
| > if only you will keep up the good
| >work of trying to make men of these monkeys -- a thing, I'll grant,
which
| >promises to be even more improbable, I'm afraid, than your proposed
gender,
| >my dear.
| >But one can continue to hope, and fantasy is the name of the game
here
| >anyway.
|
| I was born in Paris. My father was a wealthy white man. My mother
was a poor
| Asian who fled India when she was nineteen.
My goodness. There is a bio to rival the *Seven Storey Mountain* of
Thomas Merton, who, by the way, because of his style, I used to
suspect was a ghost writer for J.D. Salinger. I really did.. And
listen: if you can read, sort of selectively, so that the parts which
contain his highly mystical Catholic homiletics won't turn you off,
you, and most especially *you* will find a great deal of pleasure from
his style. You will love it, in fact, since he fully shares your most
refreshingly uncommon world view.
Okay. If you will go out right now and rent a copy of *Mermaids* with
Wynona Ryder, from the novel by Patty Dann, you, and I mean *you* most
especially will love it to pieces. And then you will be able to love
reading Thomas Merton. And what is Thomas Merton, but the explanation
of everything you can't yet quite get in *Franny & Zooey* and
*Seymour, An Introduction*.
Now, please do as Daddy tells you and just *be* my lil' darlin' in
that way. ;-)
| I was raised mostly by a young
| nanny because my mother was an alcoholic. After my mother’s death,
my father
| and I moved to America. I explained my roots in a previous post; I
know it
| wasn’t particularly eloquent. It was a solemn topic and I should
have taken
| my time in telling it instead of just spewing it out in fifteen
minutes. My
| nanny never scolded me the way a normal mother would have. I lived a
very free
| childhood, I received no discipline, and as a result of that I grew
up to be a
| rather lewd woman. Nobody ever drew boundary lines for me. But the
bottom line,
| Daddy J, is that I swear that I’m female, despite the fact I
sometimes talk
| like a guy.
Oh dear, I have left entirely the wrong impression on you, for that
was not how I meant my comments to be taken. Quite to the contrary,
it has been my impression that your persona as a female is entirely
too marvelously bawdy, and way too good to be true! No, I don't mean
that it strikes me as a masculine style. Rather, it's that the woman
and girl in you is more woman and more girl than even a man's
fantasies would dare consider possible.
| Do you want to know what I titled my collection of eleven short
stories?
Yes. Anything about you, is fascinating and fun to know about.
| It’s called Devotchka.
That's wonderful.
| Devotchka is the Russian word for "girl", and I loved
| the sound of the word when I read it in Burgess’ magnificent
Clockwork
| Orange. I’ve written four novels and forty seven short stories . . .
Great Ceasar's Ghost, Miss Lane! I begin to suspect that you are, in
fact, Super Girl?
| and out of
| all those characters, I’ve only had two male narrators. I’ve written
almost
| everything in the first person told from a female’s perspective.
Yes, and that is your metier. It's the most honest. For now, nothing
else works as well for you and your editor is guilty of trying to
change a silk purse to a sow's ear. What captured her interest in the
first place?
ANSWER: The real you. Not this fiction of you that she's been trying
to create. That won't work. You must finally tell her so. It was
certainly not my intention in advising you to find a publisher, that
once they had seen what I saw in you, that they should alter what was
at once and at first so endearing and spontaneous, and ruin it by
making into something entirely other? Do please print this and show
it to them, and tell them that they have violated my trust to be
molesting you in their rough hands like this!
| There’s an
| old rule for fiction that goes "Write what you know." I’ve followed
that
| piece of advice very closely.
Until you let that editor confuse that conviction. Every writer must
beware of that impulse from editors. Read the letters of F. Scott
Fitzgerald. See how Salinger put his foot down with them right from
the beginning. That does not mean to go to the extreme of Ayn Rand so
that they can't do their job as editor, so far as cutting the fat,
doing grammar fixes, etc. But when they overstep that editorial line
to start interfering with style, and your authorial choices of person,
character and plot then they are trying to rip off your hat, a hat
they cannot wear, or they'd be the ones who were writing and being
edited not the other way 'round: they are making demands and offering
advice about things that only the author is qualified and authorized
to decide. It's just that natural, ugly human impulse toward
dominance which is always there and must always be held in check by
your own sense of integrity. Every author must do it, must keep that
line between author and editor drawn.
| I write about females, from a female perspective,
| because I’m a female. The fucked up female mind is my obsession.
Mine too. That's why I love your stories and your style, but only
when it *is* your style, not that editor's of yours.
| If I lived a
| few decades back I would have been a feminist.
Oh, gods forefend. How very unlike you that would be--that is unless
you are talking about that bawdy school of feminism founded by such
lights as Germaine Greer and Camille Paglia, of course. Not the male
bashing, teeth gnashing Gloria Allred, Steinem-Dworkin-Pollitt school
one would hope.
| I have asked for some space on
| the afo bio site to post a photo, thus verifying my gender.
Asked? Why should anyone ask for something that is owing to anyone
who participates here. Don't ask. Tell 'em. They better let you
post it, or have a cyber-war on their hands that'll make the last one
look like a game of Chinese Cyber-Checkers. Meanwhile you can email
it to me and I'll make you poster girl at my site.
| But I suppose
| that’s useless now since I've been branded and labeled as a
veritable male
| when that is simply not true, and because I'm considering canceling
my internet
| account.
No. Don't.
| My ex-boyfriend, Noah, who I’ve been sleeping with since I was
| sixteen years old makes my life a living hell.
There's a story. Write it.
| My roommates Tonia and Judy who
| are supposed to be my best friends make my life a living hell.
Was that a true event about the "missing pad"? It couldn't be. Could
it? I mean, it was too much to believe, and that's where I stopped
reading. If it was an actual event, then you must remember to keep a
reader's incredulity in mind as you write, and keep insisting upon the
truth of it as you go, even if you have to create a character out of
whole cloth to be absolutely shocked over it. You need more dialog.
Create a pal that you meet for coffee and go for walks in the partk
with, to break the flow of narrative once in a while. Dialog is great
fun, soon as you break through the lazy habit of not wanting to deal
with all the punctuation. Every writer must push herself beyond that
barrier so that it just gets automatic, reaching for those quotation
marks.
| People on the
| net torment me just like people in my real life; my email box is
flooded with
| hate mail every day. I need to put an end to it somewhere.
While I am hardly the poster boy for knowing best how to deal with it,
as you well know, we share a common challenge in that. The main thing
to perceive is that when we allow ourselves to be dragged down by the
pettiness of others, there is no greater sin that we can commit
against ourselves than that, because it makes us just as petty--it's
_de riguer_ ma petite. I guess the best thing to remember, and
always keep in mind is that the time you spend replying to that
clueless razzing is better spent by injecting what you would have to
say, fruitlessly in reply to those stone-walled egos of anonymous
narcissists, rather into the mouths of your characters where it can
really do some good. All that stands to bring those people against
you are the very differences which it is your job as an author to
describe in a way that sets it all out with the authority of plot,
character and a publisher behind it, so that if you are right and they
are wrong, then you can make that clear as hell's bells in the biggest
way possible to the tune of a few million copies of your reply to the
bastards on the mass market. That's the way to get your last word in
on the subject. It is the only way that can possibly pay. If you are
right and they are wrong, then they have that shame coming to them,
big tiime. See that they get it.
| By the way, Daddy J, I was wondering if you could offer me one
final
| opinion on two of the stories that I am supposed to publish in my
Devotchka
| book. Last summer, after you heavily praised two of my pieces called
Diary of
| Maria and A Summer Afternoon, I decided to include both of those
pieces in the
| short story collection that I may/may not publish. Everything
happened so fast,
| and when you get a book deal when you’re seventeen, you don’t know
what the
| hell is going on. I didn’t know how to deal with editors and agents,
so I
| think I may have blew it, but I really don’t care. I was unable to
comprehend
| the simple fact that an editor’s job is just that: to edit. My
editor had me
| change Maria to a black girl named Raven Joy and I had to make Zelda
a bulimic.
Infuriating! I did try to tell you, though, but when you said you
didn't want to rock the boat, wrongly, I let it stand at that. It's
as much my fault as yours. Now, do what must be done to make it right!
Put your little foot, and put it DOWN.
| My editor said they needed more character. Anyway, I’m going to post
them
| following this post and I am curious to know if you still think
Maria's spirit
| shows through, (if you think my characters are better now or if they
were
| better before the changes I had to make).
I can tell you now. They were better before. I saw one of your
revisions done on that editor's advice, and it was a disaster. Your
style depends on the sort of uninterrupted stream of consciousness you
put into it, and it can't be corsetted in a lot of artificially
imposed strictures. That's what they liked when they first saw it,
that's what they bought, that's what they're going to get and nothing
else; now tell 'em to cough up the dough for your advance, and get on
with the show.
Go back to all the old original text and trash anything that was
changed on that advice. Start over again with this . . .
| I was born in Paris. My father was a wealthy white man. My mother
was a poor
| Asian who fled India when she was nineteen.| I was raised mostly by
a young
| nanny because my mother was an alcoholic. After my mother’s death,
my father
| and I moved to America. I explained my roots in a previous post; I
know it
| wasn’t particularly eloquent. It was a solemn topic and I should
have taken
| my time in telling it instead of just spewing it out in fifteen
minutes. My
| nanny never scolded me the way a normal mother would have. I lived a
very free
| childhood, I received no discipline, and as a result of that I grew
up to be a
| rather lewd woman. Nobody ever drew boundary lines for me. But the
bottom line,
| Daddy J, is that I swear that I’m female, despite the fact I
sometimes talk
| like a guy.
Call it, "Letters to Daddy."
| I can’t post the full uncensored
| versions, because my book deal still may go through. But if you have
the time
| I’d appreciate the feedback. Thanks.
Email me if you like, and we'll talk some more.
|
| Love,
| Desdemona
Love and big wet cheek kisses,
JP
Desdemona Bankhead
You want a broken nose?
Love,
Desdemona
Wind River
and add to its length. :)
R. Westermeyer
(Real Gone Daddy) wrote:
| If I lived a
| few decades back I would have been a feminist.
>Oh, gods forefend. How very unlike you that would be--that is unless
>you are talking about that bawdy school of feminism founded by such
l>ights as Germaine Greer and Camille Paglia, of course. Not the male
>bashing, teeth gnashing Gloria Allred, Steinem-Dworkin-Pollitt school
>one would hope.
| I have asked for some space on
| the afo bio site to post a photo, thus verifying my gender.
>Asked? Why should anyone ask for something that is owing to anyone
>who participates here. Don't ask. Tell 'em. They better let you
>post it, or have a cyber-war on their hands that'll make the last one
>look like a game of Chinese Cyber-Checkers. Meanwhile you can email
>it to me and I'll make you poster girl at my site.
I sincerely doubt that if space on AFO's bio page was requested, that
it would be denied.
to be frank, if I was in charge of the page, I wouldn't refuse, but
I'd sure want to. This is a give and take fiction forum, and all I've
seen from this person is take. It's all take. Every bit of it.
Not one critique of another's work as far as I've seen. Nothing but
self-focused diatribes and lengthy disclosures fed to his/her (who
gives a shit?) self-absorbed posts. By the way, I've not read an
entire one yet, but enough to feel confident in my view.
--Bob
Desdemona Bankhead
>all I have to say on that subject.
I can totally relate to your narrator's views on music in Goody Two Shoes. Are
you a Beatles fan? I'm the biggest Beatles maniac there ever was, even though
by now their name is seen as more of a product than a band. I've been playing
piano since I was eleven, and mostly listen to classical although I am
occasionally guilty of rocking out to the mainstream (I confess to having a
weakness for Madonna and Radiohead.) I started on the piano because my father's
new wife gave lessons on the side, and she sort of forced me into it. I would
hide every Tuesday and Thursday night when it was time for my weekly piano
torture. But now I am incredibly grateful to her for forcing me to learn what
real music is. Sometimes, for fun, I'll turn on the top 40 station just to
gross myself out. It drives me crazy how the youth of today hand over their
money to record companies who make millionaires out of a bunch of talentless
bastards, who only make it because they are easy to market. I could relate a
lot to your narrator; I was the weirdo in my senior class, but not exactly the
punching bag your the narrator in your story was. Shit, if anyone dared lay a
finger on me I would go insane, but people did plenty of things behind my back.
Thanks to my big mouth I was usually able to talk my way out of most scrapes.
The principal of my high school, who was a great guy, ended up letting me park
my car in the teacher's parking lot because it kept getting vandalized in the
student lot. Those were the days.
>Thomas Merton, who, by the way, because of his style, I used to
>suspect was a ghost writer for J.D. Salinger.
>Call it, "Letters to Daddy."
But Salinger only has four published books, and he's so neurotic and private
that I couldn't imagine him having two personas, one being a tormented recluse,
the other being a charismatic Thomas Merton. Did you hear about the collection
of letters written to JD Salinger that was published last spring? Out of
curiosity, I read it. It was on my bookshelf until my ex-boyfriend Noah tore it
to shreds when I told him JD Salinger was a better writer than him. It's
hilarious when people tell me I have a big ego, because I tell them to go talk
to my ex. Anyway, that book was an eye opener. Salinger hasn't published a
thing since who the hell knows when. I think it was in the late 1950's. He only
has four skinny books to his name but those "Letters to JD Salinger" made him
out to be a god. People worship than man despite the fact he's a noted
asshole/recluse. I can't figure it out.
>ANSWER: The real you. Not this fiction of you that she's been trying
>to create. That won't work. You must finally tell her so. It was
>certainly not my intention in advising you to find a publisher, that
>once they had seen what I saw in you, that they should alter what was
>at once and at first so endearing and spontaneous, and ruin it by
>making into something entirely other? Do please print this and show
>it to them, and tell them that they have violated my trust to be
>molesting you in their rough hands like this!
One of the biggest humps I had to get over in my writing was staying true to
the character's voice. There was a time, early on, when I used to flip through
thesauruses and pick out the most fascinating, intelligent sounding words. NO
No triple no! Writers must stay true to their characters, their dialects, and
their character's culture, or the story deflates. I tried explaining this to my
editor, and he continues to be dick. At this point I don't care if my novel
goes through. I'm only 18 and have my whole life ahead of me to try and get
published. I never even chased after it with much gusto. My old English teacher
sent a novel I wrote to his agent, without my knowing. I get a phone call from
the agent who asks if he can shop it around, and it lands on the desk of an
editorial assistant at Random House, who fell in love with it, but the
assistant's boss hated it. For some unknown, inexplicable reason, the assistant
kept shoving it at her higher. By October I end up with a crummy deal and a
crummy advance but I had to slap myself across the face ten times when I got
that phone call from the editor. No fucking kidding. My joy has long since
evaporated, but as long as I keep my connection with the few ties I made in
publishing, maybe I can try again later.
>Was that a true event about the "missing pad"? It couldn't be. Could
>it? I mean, it was too much to believe, and that's where I stopped
>reading. If it was an actual event, then you must remember to keep a
>reader's incredulity in mind as you write, and keep insisting upon the
>truth of it as you go, even if you have to create a character out of
>whole cloth to be absolutely shocked over it.
It did happen, but not quite the way I told it. Again, I should have taken my
time in telling it instead of blabbering it out with a bunch of exaggerations,
without even going back to read it over before I sent it. I didn't think anyone
would actually read it. That was a great day, the day my pad was stolen. I
mean, it was bad because of what happened, but it was great because it gave me
wonderful story material. I have to sit down and write about while its still
fresh in mind.
>Every writer must push herself beyond that
>barrier so that it just gets automatic, reaching for those quotation
>marks.
I usually do use quote marks, but I've always hated 'em. They annoy the hell
out of me. have you ever read any of Jose Saragamo's books? He was a recent
Nobel Prize winner, and I don't think he used quotes in a single novel. I read
his one book, "Blindness," and while I wasn't too impressed with the novel
itself I loved how he didn't use quotes and still created dialogue.
>clear as hell's bells in the biggest
>way possible to the tune of a few million copies of your reply to the
>bastards on the mass market. That's the way to get your last word in
>on the subject. It is the only way that can possibly pay. If you are
>right and they are wrong, then they have that shame coming to them,
>big tiime. See that they get it.
I can dig that. I tear people apart in my writing, mostly Noah, my roommates
Tonia and Judy, my dead mother and my sister. It gives me unparalleled
pleasure. Have you ever read that lovely poem by the fabulous TS Eliot called
"J. Alfred Prufrock"? A few months ago, I wrote this satirical poem following
the style of Eliot's Prufrock poem, except I wrote it about Judy and her life,
making her to be a modern angst-ridden J Alfred. It was pretty nasty, the
things I wrote, mostly about her trailer park life, but I was very proud of the
finished piece. Judy ended up punching me in the face for it when Noah showed
it to her. But the funny thing is, it was worth it.
>I can tell you now. They were better before. I saw one of your
>revisions done on that editor's advice, and it was a disaster. Your
>style depends on the sort of uninterrupted stream of
>consciousness you
>put into it, and it can't be corseted in a lot of artificially
>imposed strictures.
That's how I felt about it; all the stuff I said about being true to the
character. I have to go into the city for a couple days, because I'm starting
at Columbia next semester and I need to go register for my classes. We have to
drive down there, my sister and I, because she goes to NYU and she drove into
Ohio for a few days, and now that she's going back to school, my parents are
making me take the eight hour drive with her instead of letting my fly. I
bought a new bottle of Tylenol for all the headaches I'm going to be getting in
the car. She drives me crazy mad. I'm going to try and arrange to meet with my
editor as long as I'm down in the city and try to talk some sense into him
about his editing methods. If you have the time, can you give me your opinion
on A Summer Afternoon, revised? It's supposed to go in my Devotchka book, and I
posted an early version of that story to afro about a year ago. Since then, my
editor has asked me to change Zelda into a bulimic, and I agreed because I
thought the story needed more action. But I'd love a final opinion on the
matter from you, because I think I sort of made an unbelievable character. I
mean she's sort of pathetic, and the reader wants to hate her because she keeps
talking all this angst and you want to tell her to shut up and take some
Prozac. That's what my sister told me, anyway, and despite the fact that my
sister is a hoochie, she's pretty smart. Smarter than me, anyway. Its a long
story, about 5,000 words, but I'll post it following this post. I won't be home
for a few days because I have to leave town, but I'd love to hear your thoughts
on Zelda Van Peebles during her Summer Afternoon, if you have the time. Thanks.
Love,
Desdemona
Desdemona Bankhead
I was heading down to the kitchen for the wooden spatula, because I needed
something to help me vomit the four chocolate doughnuts I had just wolfed down
in the basement. Usually the long handle of a spatula gets the job done. Two
months ago I decided I could stand to drop fifteen pounds, but I was
dissatisfied with the slow results I got by working out. Jogging five miles a
day helps only if you stay off the junk food, but that was something I simply
couldn’t do. I decided to get the best of both worlds by eating and puking it
up right after.
When I got to the kitchen, I saw that my mother was standing at the oak
kitchen table, shuffling through the day's mail. She doesn’t know about how
I’ve been secretly eating and vomiting, although lately she’s been
commenting on my slimming figure. I didn’t want to raise any suspicions by
grabbing the spatula right in front of her. I paused at the doorway, wondering
if I should turn around and come back when the kitchen was empty, but who knew
when my mother would vacate? What if I digest the doughnuts before I can grab
the spatula? My eyes searched out the scene; there were some steaming pots on
the stove, so that meant my mother had already started dinner and she would be
staying for a spell. On the counter to my left, the small TV was tuned into the
local news.
My mother was busy reading the names on the envelopes, holding them right
in front of her face and squinting. She has a severe cataract problem,
amplified when she’s not wearing her glasses. I figured I could probably grab
the spatula and stuff it down my jeans really fast while her attention was
still caught up with the mail. I strolled into the kitchen, trying to display
my casual disposition on this summer afternoon by humming a spontaneous
limerick. I’m pretty good at coming up with catchy tunes on the spot. I try
to be modest about it, but I’m the first chair flutist in the Pittsburgh
Youth Orchestra. The big accomplishment of my life.
As I passed my mother, I caught sight of a couple big, white envelopes pass
through her hands, bearing my name, Zelda van Peebles, on the front in small
type. For a couple weeks now, I have been receiving college brochures, as I
had ordered them not too long ago after I panicked about which college I
would-or could-attend in the nearing future.
''These are for you,'' Mother said, turning and handing me the envelopes
just as I thought I was about to reach my destination unnoticed. I gasped and
jumped about a mile, as if she had just thrust a knife at me. Apparently she
wasn’t as out of it as I thought she was. I just wanted to get that damn
spatula so that I could flee back to the basement to rid my poor stomach of
those poisonous doughnuts.
"Thanks. I just wanted to check the time on the kitchen clock, since the
digital one in the basement went dead yesterday," I said, taking them from her.
She was looking at me a bit oddly; I suppose I was talking a trifle too fast. I
returned her gaze for a moment and nodded, trying to relay that she had simply
taken me by surprise and that I had no other reason to be jumpy.
"Why don’t you stay and eat dinner now? It’s so hard getting you to
come out of that basement once you lock yourself down there."
I sighed, because I knew I would, even though I was supposedly on a strict
diet. My lack of discipline is the bane of my existence. I suppose I could eat
dinner really fast and then vomit right after. I’d probably have to wait a
few minutes before I could snatch that spatula, anyway. I sat down in my usual
place at the table, alone, because our family has never been one to eat
together. It’s sad, in a way.
I glanced at the seals on the envelopes. There were some from in-state
colleges that had substantial repute, and those were the ones I was
considering. Then there were some I had gotten from Ivy League places, just to
see what they were like although I knew I didn't have a chance in hell of
getting accepted to any of those better colleges, and so I wasn't even going to
try.
In a couple minutes my mother had set down a plate on my placemat. I
started in on the mashed potatoes coated with brown gravy, the steam vapors
hovering towards my face. I've always been fond of mashed potatoes, because
they never taste too fancy, just good enough with the gravy covering it, and
easy to swallow. Being a picky eater since birth, my mother has noticed my
penchant for mashed potatoes and makes them for me consistently. As an added
bonus, experience has taught me that mashed potatoes are particularly easy to
vomit. After shoveling in a few bites, I opened one of the four envelopes. I
didn’t have to focus the whole of my attention on the brochures, because they
all basically boasted of the same hilly campuses and enthusiastic stats. I
scanned the cover of Duke University’s booklet for a few seconds before
setting it aside. I noted to myself to remember to take them upstairs to my
bedroom where I was keeping a growing pile of college applications and
brochures in my nightstand drawer. I probably won’t even open half of them.
"Zelda." My mother suddenly spoke from her stance in front of the stove. I
looked over at her stirring some stew in a big black pot; she was using the
wooden spatula. Sometimes it takes her a few seconds to collect her
scatterbrain thoughts. It can get annoying sometimes, but today it didn’t
bother me. Being down in the basement for so long, I was needy for human
contact and felt a momentary twinge of happiness at being spoken to. I get so
damn lonely sometimes that any voice speaking to me at all seems slightly holy,
reaffirming my suspicions that I'm an actually person and not just a hologram.
For me, that familiar feeling of desolated, abandoned loneliness is the
absolute worst feeling I can ever get, because it almost feels like a prelude
to suicide. It happens quite often.
But then I wished my mother hadn't spoken at all, when I realized what was
coming. She opted to use her perky, alert voice instead of the habitually
drowsy one she usually employs. It made her seem a bit more intelligent, but
the perky inflection always indicated that she was preparing to preach her
crappy, clichéd wisdom, which I could have gotten just as easily from some
quote of the day calendar. Or, if she wasn't in the mood to enlighten me with
her wisdom, the perky voice signaled that she was preparing to engage in a
conversation that would bespeak little interest to me. Animated conversations
centering on her new house plant purchase or the erratic weather or her new
clothes, which she snags off the discount rack during the Kaufmann's holiday
sales. Out of politeness, I usually feign interest, so as not to burst her
bubble. There's really no need for me to be a snob in the face of her mindless
rambling. If I think about it, all my mother really has in way of comfort are
her doomed house plants which she faithfully waters every afternoon and her
discount clothes and her absurd, revolting recipes she copies from the other
tame, domestic women at work. Sometimes you just have to tolerate ignorant
people with their boring stories and conversations. They really don’t know
any better.
''What?'' I finally ask her, prodding her on. I could picture the oily
wheels in her head turning at about one mile per hour. This is no Einstein
we’re dealing with.
''You have all these catalogues, but what are you going to do with them?
When are you going to start applying for colleges?''
I wondered why she was so interested all of a sudden. ''I have to re-take
my ACT's and SAT's this October, remember? Because I was less than pleased with
my scores the last time. And then after the results come in this November, I
can begin applying.''
''Oh. Because I was talking to your grandmother and she told me Tabby just
got accepted in the same medical program Sonia is going to.'' She turned
towards me, the wooden spatula flying in the air so fast that a dab of tomato
sauce landed right between her brows. She didn’t wipe it off; her nervous
system is probably too stupid to interpret sensations softer than needles
digging into her flesh. She licked the spatula and dropped it into the sink. I
could feel my digestive tubes desecrating the four doughnuts beyond redemption.
Perhaps after I was done eating I could pretend as if I were washing the
dishes, giving me a suitable time interval to shove the spatula up the sleeve
of my shirt.
''You should try and apply where they're going,'' my mother was saying.
''Do you want me to find out how they got accepted from their parents or
anything?'' Sonia and Tabby are my two cousins, both of whom I detest
venomously. Sonia just graduated this year and Tabby is going to be a senior in
the fall, like me.
God, how I loathe these moments. By comparing me to her precious idols
Sonia and Tabby, she was practically saying that if I didn't get into med
school right after high school, as they've managed to do, I would be a total
failure. My mother leaned against the island and folded her arms across her
chest. She regarded me with an innocent, perplexed squint in her eyes, when I
knew she was mentally debating if I could get into a med school and thus
reassure her that raising me for the past two decades hadn't been a waste of
her time and stress. However, I knew my test taking abilities were rather
average. I’m incapable of scoring the standard med program entrance on the
ACT's and SAT's, so I knew I would not be able to get into med school right
after high school graduation. Of course, I could still become a doctor by
earning a Bachelor of Science degree and then applying for med school. I'm sure
many doctors gained their titles by going this route. But to my mother it was
med school immediately after high school or nothing. After all, Sonia and Tabby
were going in med school, weren't they?
''I don't think I can get into the school they're going to,'' I said,
trying keeping my voice steady. I attempted to explain it all to her, reciting
the stats I looked up over the net about how most doctors go through the
standard eight year program I was going to go after. I gazed down into my food,
knowing my words were having little to no impact on my mother. I had already
eaten all the mashed potatoes, and since I wasn’t even hungry in the first
place, the thought of eating the meat loaf was nauseating. Don’t ask me why I
eat when I’m not even hungry.
As I finished talking, a faint breeze drifted in through the open sliding
door that led out onto the deck. The golden sunlight was filtering through,
illuminating my profile in warm shades through the shafts of floating dust.
My mother blithered on, her blitherings emphasized with phrases like
''Tabby did this . . .'' or ''Grandma said Tabby's parents are going to throw
her a big party because of her acceptance into med school. We have to go,
Zelda, don't try and tell me no . . .'' The blithering competed for my
attention along with the neighborhood sounds of my street, Canterbury Drive,
and the monotonous din of the TV.
I chose the neighborhood, tuning out the superfluous crap. I could hear the
neighborhood kids yelling happily outside, probably swinging on the swing set
that's been set up there for the past three years. Oddly enough, the kids never
tire of swinging on it, even though they've been using it for three years.
Never tire of running up and sliding down the swirly red slide, never tire of
roughing the monkey bars with their legs and sneakers dangling, the older ones
successfully reaching the other side while the younger kids collapse onto the
dirt beneath the bars mid-way. In the big yellow house directly next to ours
lives this sprawling family with about ten little kids. I've never spoken to
any of them, even though they moved in three years ago. (I don't leave the
house much for neighborly chats). Yet I can correctly assume that their parents
must enjoy rearing children, since they are all home-schooled. When I think
back on memories of recent summers, I involuntarily hear their joyful shouts,
because they play outside all the time. Hide and seek, tag, follow-the-leader.
Never tire of it, either.
I suppose I do have an unusual interest in them, but it's not anything
perverted. I have an infinite wonder at children's exuberance. And, I guess I'm
jealous of the kids next door. Being a mature seventeen years old often
mistaken for a twenty-something, I'm obviously too old to really want to play
with other kids. It's not like I want to run out and push them on the swings.
It's just that seeing those kids reminds me of how they still have so much
ahead of them, and reflecting on that makes me realize I've already surpassed
the first blossom of my own youth. Hearing the way my neighbors talk and laugh
so free and blithe, I know they haven't been corrupted with the usual petty
concerns that befall most of my peers, pettiness which has flattened the
childish lilt to their maturing voices. My jealousy of them also stems from the
fact that I've only had Bernice as a sister, and we've never exactly been
chummy. Yet here are these kids, so many siblings and they all get along so
well. They've never had to go through the misery of getting accepted from other
kids in school like I had to, since they're home-schooled and the usual aches
of school have never victimized them. I hardly ever even had anyone to play
with, as a child. And now I have to hear these happy kids growing up, loved and
careless, just outside of my house all the time. They're parents probably
wouldn't pressure them to become doctors, or something great. Hell, they have
each other. They will always have each other. Unlike me, they have their
delighted cries of childhood and their swing set and their private jokes. When
they get to be my age, they'll have their photographs to look back on, photos
of themselves as gangly, noisy, happy children, beaming into cameras held by
proud parents.
''Well, even if you don't think you can get accepted, you should still try,
Zelda. Instead of reading all those useless novels down in that basement, you
need to study. That’s key. You just have to study and I just know you’ll
get a thirty on your ACT’s,'' my mother said. With an effort, I stopped
listening to the kids and looked up at her. Her lackluster, disheveled hair was
arranged in a loose bun, the flyaway strands sticking to the sweat on her
forehead. I dropped my fork onto my plate, the clatter reverberating throughout
the kitchen. I felt my body temperature rising. I picked up my plate and walked
over to the sink. It was full of dirty dishes, and my coveted spatula lay on
top of the heap like a shimmering jewel in the midst of a junkyard. My fingers
were shaking as I tested the water temperature; I tried my best to compose
myself before I spoke.
''All right, I know. Of course I'll try to score high points. That’s what
it’s all about, getting those points,'' I said, attempting to further explain
my plans. ''But if I don't get into Tabby's med program, I can still get
accepted to a decent college, and go there for four years, taking pre-med
classes . . .'' I trailed off as I picked up the wooden spatula. I had it in my
hands, but I couldn’t very well dash to the basement with it while my mother
stood behind me, watching me like a hawk.
''Yes, but your grades are as good as Tabby's. You should be able to get
in. Like I said, you need to just stop reading all those novels and get
yourself enrolled into some test prep courses. And when you’re not in school
or at work or at your prep classes, study every spare minute. Forget all the
fiction; that’s not real. Those novels won’t give you anything in the long
run. Just study and study some more. That’s key,'' she said, her voice
registering grave authority and aplomb. Basically, she was asking me to give up
my one love to study science.
I put my plate on the counter and stared out the window above the sink.
Like a back up chorus to my mother’s rambling, I heard the some of the
neighbor kids carrying on a game of hide and seek. The seeker was crouched by
the bushes on the edge of our lawn, counting out loud with his eyes covered. He
was peeking a little through his grubby fingers. What I would give to be ten
years old again.
I drew a sharp intake of breath. It's not my aim to disappoint my mother,
and what else would I do with myself in the coming years if not go to college?
My sister Bernice ended up not even going to college. She's working full time
in some department store at the mall and my mother probably just wants one of
her daughters to become something. I suppose it's only human nature to want
your offspring to secure real jobs and prestige as adults. My mother was raised
in a poor family in the ghetto. She was only able to complete two years of
community college after getting passing her high school equivalency test. I
can’t really blame her for being so ignorant and for having a one track mind
focused completely on money; like I said, sometimes you just have to accept
certain people as they are. But then why was I suddenly yelling?
My mother was still leaning against the kitchen island in the same
dictatorial pose. I threw my plate of meat loaf into the sink so hard that it
completely shattered. I wheeled around and watched her expression shift from
pensive to bewildered as I carried on.
'' . . . I don't really care what you think, okay? You can stuff your
suggestions back up your asshole for all I care. Who really gives a good
goddamn if Sonia and Tabby are getting in some med school? Who gives a flying
fuck if after college they can go work at some hospital and make all this money
so they're pigheaded parents can be all cocky and brag about them to envious
losers like yourself because they know it'll hurt you? Don’t you realize how
transparent you are, that the opinions of pigheaded creeps actually matter to
you? Why do you always tell me to act and think and talk according to your
twisted notions of how an ideal seventeen year old should behave? You think
I’m some fucking joke, that we’re in some fucking sitcom and I’m your
obedient sitcom daughter, do you?" I was spraying saliva all over. I could feel
my face twist up. I probably looked as ugly as my mother was inside. I
couldn’t stop though; each word I was screamed was like upchucking another
doughnut, so sweet to swallow and even sweeter to vomit. "Why don't you just
leave me the fuck alone, you stupid dimwitted bitch?! You’re too fucking
stupid to even wipe off that goddamn tomato sauce off your stupid face! Who the
hell do you think you are trying to tell me how to live my pointless life when
I’m having trouble with just staying alive, and here you are telling me how
to live it as if you’re my fucking messiah! Just because you were too stupid
to be a doctor doesn't mean you have to keep . . . keep hounding me to be one.
So fuck off. '' I was almost crying now and I knew that my mother was only
trying to help me but I couldn't stop. I was almost crying and I didn't want
her to see me. I turned back to the sink a squeezed about half a pint of
dishwashing liquid on the sponge.
It was all almost too much to handle. My mother's floundering hopes for me
as she stood there in her discount clothes cooking for my drunkard father, who
never eats what she makes anyway. My mother standing there, me standing here,
and those kids outside. I was just sick of it all. And me with nothing to do
after I leave the kitchen save for trying to wrench my half digested food out
of my stomach with a splintery spatula. Afterwards I’d read a book, maybe,
enclosed in the walls of my house.
I reached under the shards of cracked porcelain in the sink until I had
grasped something solid. As I swiped the sponge over a teacup, I was this close
to completely breaking down. All I wanted to do at that moment was collapse on
the linoleum and lean my head against the cupboard and just cry my fool head
off. If I stayed in there much longer I knew I’d do it, too. I didn’t want
to give my mother the satisfaction of knowing she had forced me to humiliate
myself, so I decided to depart the kitchen. But I couldn’t leave without
sneaking off with that spatula. I had rinsed the tomato sauce off it and was
wiping it down with a paper towel when Bernice walked in from the study.
I felt her tap me on my left shoulder. I knew she was going to was going to
make some comment on my enraged monologue, so I kept my back to her even though
she kept tapping me. I held the dry spatula in my hand, picturing the long
wooden handle going down my throat. I had to get down to the basement and puke
up those doughnuts and mashed potatoes before they digested, but I was seized
with a sudden bought of what I like to think of as performance anxiety. It
usually passes after I get a chance to calm my nerves. Bernice continued poking
me like the moron she was until I finally turned around.
"What the hell was you yellin about? I couldn’t even hear myself think
with all your hootin and hollerin," she said, obviously peeved by my outburst.
I didn’t answer her; sometimes I like to treat certain people as if they have
to earn the right to hear my voice. Her dull features were vexed, and the
second I looked into her eyes she turned her head and began walking away.
Bernice deplores interruptions while she's tending to her artistry,
thoughtfully sitting in front of the computer screen's glow. Her short, frayed
brown hair, victim to a bad perm job, responded to the weather's humidity by
frizzing at all angles and poofing like a synthetic clown wig from her scalp.
Since she was still clothed in her ratty pajamas embroidered with pigs and
elephants, the ones she sleeps in every night, I could tell she called in sick
to work again. Her ruddy complexion and the robustness of her chubby limbs
exemplified that she was not the least bit indisposed to sickness. She most
likely called in sick to withdraw, at least for today, from the menial tasks of
her laborious, drab job so she could stay home and work on her book of poetry.
It's truly pathetic to see this frumpy girl devote all her time, even ditch
work, to perfect her deplorable batch of poetry, which she seriously intends to
publish somehow. Bernice probably considers herself to be a genius poet,
tragically stuck in a dead end job, no place for a burgeoning poet to flourish.
She figures she'll break free by publishing her verses on boys, life, family,
music and the rest of it, an act which will garner her immediate acclaim.
Pardon me while I roar with silent laughter at the unfathomable notion of her
becoming some modern-day Sylvia Plath.
Why do people always try to make a splash that will assure them that their
existence will have a lasting impact on the fellow human race? Why, when they
realize they are destined for mediocrity, do they immerse themselves in a
feeble endeavor to achieve greatness? Greatness which will replace their old,
commonplace personages with adulation and eternal honor. Always trying to get a
pat on the back, always trying to make money. Even my sister was trying. And
here's my mother telling me how I should be just like my popular,
well-adjusted, snobby cousins who are getting into med school. If you think
about all that junk, it can really get to you. I mean, thinking about how the
world operates can get pretty damn depressing if you're like me, if you're just
some seventeen year old with no real friends and no boyfriend and no solid
money in the bank, wanting an everlasting summer and loyal friends more than
public recognition of talent and expensive trips to the tropics.
I watched Bernice walk over to the fruit bowl and unpeel a banana. My
mother was watching some story on the news with an intense concentration,
although I knew she was trying to keep herself together after all the shit I
had just spewed to her. I held the spatula in my hand and wondered if anyone
would notice me stuffing it into the pocket of my cargo jeans. Just before I
was about to do it, I noticed Bernice looking in my direction with a queer
expression on her face. She was probably studying me so she could include an
accurate portrayal of the neurotic Zelda van Peebles in one of her many poems
about her dysfunctional family.
She looked away when I returned her gaze, but I kept watching her. I got a
fine view of mashed banana getting devoured by her sharp, yellow teeth. Why
can't she close her damn mouth when she's eating? People disgust me sometimes,
they really do. Especially her. I mean, poets are supposed to be all sensitive
and insightful to life, and here she is acting and looking like a hick. But
that’s not what bothers me about her; what drives me crazy about Bernice is
her attitude. She acts so superior all the time, radiating this perpetual
boredom, as if whomever she is talking to is a great bore and she simply can't
wait to go on to her next urgent activity after she's through with you. The
irony of it was she was just some worthless bag of flesh contributing nothing
of importance to society, wearing pajamas embroidered with pigs and elephants.
Bernice toddled back to the study to unleash her inner genius onto the
computer screen. I glanced over at my mother. She had turned back around to the
kitchen counter, chopping up vegetables with her long silver knife while
shooting glances at the small TV, as if my outburst had no on her effect
whatsoever. But I could tell by the tensed blades of her shoulders that she was
baffled by my sudden burst of emotion. Mom, I exploded because I feel like I
have to become something great, go to school for years and years and study and
study to become a doctor and if I don't I'll be some terrific failure. I feel
like I'm headed for some terrible, horrible rut, headed for a life just like
yours and you reinforce my fears by telling me all the ambitious things Tabby
and Sonia are up to. I compare myself enough to other people, so I don’t need
you doing it for me.
When I was sure Mother couldn't see me in her peripheral vision, I quickly
wiped away the tears that were threatening to spill onto my cheeks. My hands
were still shaking a little as I sunk the pads of my fingers into my eyes,
momentarily blinded by a light show of red and black flashes. I slipped the
spatula into the pocket of my cargo jeans and headed for the basement. I could
still hear those kids outside, enjoying the balmy spring air. Having never
exchanged a word with any of them, I could still tell you all of their names,
for I've developed an ear for eavesdropping. From the sound of it, they were
playing volleyball now. You should have heard them laughing and yelling,
keeping score as if it were an extremely vital issue. For some reason, it all
made me want to cry some more. That's been happening so much, lately. I'm
turning into a blubbering mess of tears and quivering lips.
Sometimes I really want to ask my parents if we can move to some other
street, to a house flanked by old people on both sides who emerge only for
Bingo night. But a sixth sense told me that if I did move to a quiet residence
where the only disturbances would be the airplanes and birds overhead, I'd
crave the zealous, spirited noise of children. That jaunty, particular noise,
still unburdened by sex and social acceptance. You never heard that type of
open communication and ease, respect and natural camaraderie for the fellow
being in my house. Silence and brief outbursts of pointless conversing reigned
in my house.
When I reached the top step leading down to the basement, I couldn’t help
but glance over my shoulder at the kitchen window to get a final glimpse of the
kids outside. Sometimes I try to think back to when I was a kid, and I can
hardly ever conjure up memories that could compare to the kids' next door. The
skinny girl with the freckles and the ash blonde hair (was she Lilly or
Amanda?) was about to serve. Her arm was drawn back, her attention focused on
preparing to strike the white volleyball. Sandra, the freckled redhead, was
turning cartwheels next to the swing set, trying to teach a solemn
five-year-old spectator how to execute the air twirl in learned precision. I
don't think I ever played volleyball like that when I was a kid. What I can
recall was always being anxious when I ventured out with the neighborhood
children. About what to say and what to wear, even though I was only a kid and
should have naturally limited my thoughts to the trivial. But I couldn't, I
never could.
When I got down to the basement, I locked the door behind me. I pulled out
the spatula and walked over to the corner where I kept a couple old buckets. I
felt the wooden handle scrape my throat. I had to pull it out a few times when
the gagging got to be too much. My stomach lurched and lurched until I vomited
about half the food I had eaten that day. Finally I just couldn’t wrench out
anymore. I dropped the spatula on the floor and leaned my head against the
cinder block wall. The combined musty smell of the basement along with two
bucketfuls of vomit was nauseating; I made a note to myself to perhaps dispose
of the buckets later that night.
****continued in next post*****
Desdemona Bankhead
I didn’t want to be sitting here. More than anything I wanted to go upstairs
to the kitchen and chat with my mother for a while. I felt so renounced from
human contact. Fifteen minutes later, after I regained my strength, I did
venture back upstairs but I hesitated at the entrance. Her back was still
facing me. I almost did go in there to talk to her, but I couldn’t seem to
think of anything to say. What could I talk to this woman about? I suppose I
could tell her about the blood I had been coughing up lately, because she used
to be a nurse’s assistant. I began coughing up all this blood one morning out
of nowhere, and I hadn’t even started my self-induced vomiting yet and it
scared the shit out of me. I saw a movie once where this girl practically
withered from what the actors kept calling ''gangrene,'' and she coughed up a
lot of blood. The very word scared me. Or, to curb away from that morbid,
disheartening line of thought, I could compliment her on the hideous new
flower-printed suit she had on, undoubtedly from the sale rack. However, it was
just too much trouble to make her understand where I was coming from, and I
wasn't too eager to give her a chance to relapse into one of her advice-giving
moods again, so I decided to forget about it.
Desdemona Bankhead
> I sincerely doubt that if space on AFO's bio page was requested, that
>it would be denied.
i don't even know who the hell is in charge of this afro board. i mentioned in
my ramblings that i'd like to post my photo and no one has contacted me, and i
don't know who exactly to ask about the matter. i don't know if i'm supposed to
contact that homo alaric or what, but he's probably too busy sucking cock to
read my rants. i don't even know if he's the one in charge so i don't want to
contact the fagboy unless i know for sure. its as if this place is run by a
ghost or something.
>to be frank, if I was in charge of the page, I wouldn't refuse, but
>I'd sure want to. This is a give and take fiction forum, and all I've
>seen from this person is take. It's all take. Every bit of it.
>Not one critique of another's work as far as I've seen. Nothing but
>self-focused diatribes and lengthy disclosures fed to his/her (who
>gives a shit?) self-absorbed posts. By the way, I've not read an
>entire one yet, but enough to feel confident in my view.
how could you be so cruel to me when i complimented you on your nerdy
handsomeness a few days ago? i told you that you were cute and now you thank me
with this jargon. are you married? we should hook up.
Hugs and Kisses,
Desdemona
Desdemona Bankhead
I'm so honored! Thank you so much, afro!!!!! I'll be signing autographs
later!!!!
Love,
Desdemona
R. Westermeyer
Bankhead) wrote:
I haven't had as much access to the internet of late. I didn't know
you complimented me on nerdy handsomeness a few days ago (are you sure
it wasn't someone else you were complimenting?).
My point--and I"m sorry if it came across as cruel--is that it would
be nice to see you participate more in this group. YOu clearly spend a
great deal of time within your own threads. I would imagine you have
much more to offer than these "rants" as yu call them. Branch out.
If you want readers and mature discussion about writing, you need to
step outside threads like this and become part of all that this group
has to offer.
HOpe that makes sense.
--Bob
By the way, how can you justify posting something like that about
Alaric and complaining about being mistreated?
>Hugs and Kisses,
>Desdemona
Real Gone Daddy
| >Yup. Check out my little story, *Ms Goody Two Shoes* for just
about
| >all I have to say on that subject.
|
| I can totally relate to your narrator's views on music in Goody Two
Shoes. Are
| you a Beatles fan?
When you're talking "fan", you're asking about the music that reduces
a person to the condition of a 13 year old chick going ape in the
balcony of the Ed Sullivan theatre? Right. So . . . no, I was never
like that about the Beatles. I didn't always appreciate the Beatles,
not at first, because back in 1964 you really had to hate 'em if John
and Paul, George and Ringo were all your girl-friend could think and
talk about in the back seat of that car, so I became a "fan" of the
Rolling Stones, instead.
Then, let's see . . .Along about the time they came out with Rubber
Soul, and Revolver, I started to appreciate them, even though in a
lot of ways, their very best song-writing days were over--I mean in
the truly classic sense of good ol' solid Rock n' Roll like *Love Me
Do*, *I Want to Hold Your Hand*, *Do You Want to Know a Secret
(Doo-Wah-Doo)* and *Ticket to Ride*. You see how petty envy added to
purist anti-pop conceit can utterly cloud your mind and senses until
you don't know anything! I thought that music sucked. I was
listening to James Brown and Junior Walker any kind of R&B and Blues
instead. Then San Francisco happened and with that I was permitted to
discover the Beatles. I still can't stand *Sgt. Pepper*, but I really
love *Abbey Road*.
But, as to being truly a *fan* of something that really makes me go
totally ape in the aisles of the Paramount doing the jitterbug while
the Benny Goodman band is rising beneath the proscenium? Okay, here's
a list of the stuff of which I am totally a *fan*:
1. Anton Karaus -- The zither player who does the music track for
*The Third Man*.
2. Allison Krauss -- Violinist for Union Station
3. Danny Gatton -- Greatest Rock-a-Billy Guitarist in the history of
the world who blew his brains out over a bad romance five years ago.
3. Duke Ellington -- His performance at the 1956 Newport Jazz
Festival.
4. David Helfgott -- RCA Victor CD in which he totally but
beautifully screws up the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto.
5. Lotte Lenya -- As she "conducts" the Berlin Radio Orchestra in
full orchestration of the score from her late husband, Kurt Weil's
*Three Penny Opera*.
6. Louis Armstrong -- Whenever he played *Honeysuckle Rose*.
7. Pig Pen -- When he was still alive with the Dead singing "Turn on
Your Lovelight".
8. The Chordettes -- *Mr. Sandman*
9. The Supremes -- *Baby Love*
10. Beach Boys -- *Help Me, Rhonda*
11. Helen Forrest -- singing the arrangement written for Billy Holiday
of *Moonray* for the Artie Shaw Chamber Ensemble.
12. Helen Forrest -- singing *Don't Fall Asleep*.
13. Sinatra -- *Come Fly With Me* and with Tommy Dorsey, *How Do You
Do--Without Me?"
14. Louis Prima & Keely Smith -- Anything they ever did.
| I'm the biggest Beatles maniac there ever was, even though
| by now their name is seen as more of a product than a band. I've
been playing
| piano since I was eleven, and mostly listen to classical although I
am
| occasionally guilty of rocking out to the mainstream (I confess to
having a
| weakness for Madonna and Radiohead.)
Madonna is hip.
| I started on the piano because my father's
| new wife gave lessons on the side, and she sort of forced me into
it. I would
| hide every Tuesday and Thursday night when it was time for my weekly
piano
| torture. But now I am incredibly grateful to her for forcing me to
learn what
| real music is. Sometimes, for fun, I'll turn on the top 40 station
just to
| gross myself out. It drives me crazy how the youth of today hand
over their
| money to record companies who make millionaires out of a bunch of
talentless
| bastards, who only make it because they are easy to market. I could
relate a
| lot to your narrator; I was the weirdo in my senior class, but not
exactly the
| punching bag your the narrator in your story was.
The world, as seen through the eyes of a human punching bag is a very
necessary vision. I would not have had the balls to write it, were it
not for my recent discovery of "Anthony Quaarles" in Huxley's *Point
Counter Point*.
| Shit, if anyone dared lay a
| finger on me I would go insane, but people did plenty of things
behind my back.
It's the same thing, my dear.
| Thanks to my big mouth I was usually able to talk my way out of most
scrapes.
| The principal of my high school, who was a great guy, ended up
letting me park
| my car in the teacher's parking lot because it kept getting
vandalized in the
| student lot. Those were the days.
|
| >Thomas Merton, who, by the way, because of his style, I used to
| >suspect was a ghost writer for J.D. Salinger.
| >Call it, "Letters to Daddy."
On second thought, that would have to be some very *special* kind of
Daddy, considering the material; the kind of daddy in the Duke
Ellington song, "My Heart Belongs to . . ."
|
| But Salinger only has four published books, and he's so neurotic and
private
| that I couldn't imagine him having two personas, one being a
tormented recluse,
| the other being a charismatic Thomas Merton.
It's a very esoteric matter, my child. Much too difficult to make
explicit in a few words. You would have to read that dear saint's
biography. Once you have, you'll find it nearly impossible to
distinguish his voice from that of Buddy Glass in *Seymour, an
Introduction.*
By the way: If you haven't yet rented *Mermaids*, okay, then why are
you even talking to me? When somebody gives you a present you should
never say, "Yeah, okay, I'll open it later." Girls who do stuff like
that totally deserve to have their pads ripped off in the moonlight by
their room-mates sneaking around on tiptoes in the middle of the
night.
| Did you hear about the collection
| of letters written to JD Salinger that was published last spring?
Not till just now.
| Out of
| curiosity, I read it. It was on my bookshelf until my ex-boyfriend
Noah tore it
| to shreds when I told him JD Salinger was a better writer than him.
How very mature of him.
| It's
| hilarious when people tell me I have a big ego, because I tell them
to go talk
| to my ex. Anyway, that book was an eye opener. Salinger hasn't
published a
| thing since who the hell knows when.
That's because Thomas Merton's been dead since 1965. ;-)
Never mind that. Just forgive my so very bizarre delusional
obsession--it should go away before too much longer. Salinger and
Merton both attended Columbia at the same time, and they both
certainly took courses from *Story* magazine editior, Whit Burnett.
Merton was editor of the *Jester* at the time.
| I think it was in the late 1950's.
His last published work, the atrocious *Hapworth* was published in the
New Yorker, April of 1968. It was written *in* the offices of the New
Yorker on their typewriter, strictly in fulfillment of a contract, to
meet a deadline. Oddly, it is nearly entirely lacking in anything
even vaguely resembling the Salinger style, and it is the only thing
published under his name that anyone actually *saw* him, personally,
working on, and oddly, his only work that is almost universally
condemned by fans and critics, alike.
| He only
| has four skinny books to his name but those "Letters to JD Salinger"
made him
| out to be a god. People worship than man despite the fact he's a
noted
| asshole/recluse. I can't figure it out.
Oh? Like *you* and I are never, like, "asshole/recluses"? Whose
business is that? And whose poisonous opinions are you letting seep
into your fertile little mind such as to be speaking after such a
manner about your chief mentor?
You had better go out and rent *Mermaids* RIGHT NOW, in order that you
may immediately regain that preciously individual, nonconformist soul
of yours.
|I tried explaining this to my
| editor, and he continues to be dick. At this point I don't care if
my novel
| goes through.
Oh, yes you do. Who do you think you're snowing? That's the way the
Sheffield High Public Punching Bag talks. You are shrinking from the
fight.
| I'm only 18 and have my whole life ahead of me to try and get . . .
Oh yeah, sure, sure . . . That's just a lot of . . . of . . .
pussy-feathers.
| published. I never even chased after it with much gusto. My old
English teacher
| sent a novel I wrote to his agent, without my knowing. I get a phone
call from
| the agent who asks if he can shop it around, and it lands on the
desk of an
| editorial assistant at Random House, who fell in love with it, but
the
| assistant's boss hated it.
Salinger had the same problem at Harcourt, Brace & World with Catcher
in the Rye. The publisher wanted him to alter the character of Holden
or . . . . Salinger whipped the manscript right back off the desk,
took it over and sold it to Little, Brown. That should have turned
out to be unnecessary, had his agent the moxy to set that publisher
right about one thing: it's not his business to *like* the books he
prints, but to like the money he makes by it. The fact is that *this*
person standing in front of him is the proof that there is a market
for the book, in the hands of others like that guy who will like it.
What the hell kind of a book does a damn publisher like to read?
Answer: hardly any as most of them don't read, don't even like to
read, and that's usually why they hate the books that an editorial
assistant shows them. The books they like are the sure things that
will be guarenteed to sell, like, "Windows XP for Dummies" or the next
Stephen King thriller. You need an agent who isn't afraid to lay it
on the line with those fat cats and force them to be honest about
themselves. The bastards are businessmen who hate books, but love the
money they make. One look at the Best Seller list and the racks at
Barnes and Noble will tell you that. Junk. Miles and miles of junk
that publishers "like".
I dare you to print that comment and show it to your editor. I double
dare you. ;-)
Ya see, m'darlin', this whole thing is not about money, it's about
truth. If you have to sell your soul to sell a book, that book won't
be worth the paper it's printed on. If you can't be up-front and real
with the people you do business with, if you can't totally be
yourself, in complete absence of fear, as you tremble at the foot of
what your fear tells you is social convention, the whole thing is
still-born from the start. What person on earth is looking to do
business with a phoney and a woosie and a doormat? Nobody. But the
paradox is that they will try to make of you their doormat, because
that's just human nature. It's also human nature to resent it, but
it's more than human nature to surmount and overcome it, by putting
*your* foot down. That's what separates the typists from the authors,
the published from the perished. You got to have the moxy to lay it
on the line when it comes to your personal professional standards. You
and only you are the proprietor of your craft and nobody but you calls
the shots as to the form and character of what that craft is. You
will know when their help is needed and when it's not help at all but
an imposition. You will know when the editor is right and when that
editor is one too many cooks spoiling the soup. You know which
criticism is constructive and which is destructive. You *know* that.
Don't let anyone shake that knowledge, ever.
| For some unknown, inexplicable reason, the assistant
| kept shoving it at her higher. By October I end up with a crummy
deal and a
| crummy advance but I had to slap myself across the face ten times
when I got
| that phone call from the editor. No fucking kidding. My joy has long
since
| evaporated, but as long as I keep my connection with the few ties I
made in
| publishing, maybe I can try again later.
Since you got your advance, you owe them a manuscript--you *don't*
default on that. But you hand them the manuscript *you* want to
publish. You've already got them over the barrel on that, since you
have the advance. You've already won. So what the hell's the
problem? Stop being the Publisher's Punching Bag. Knock him out with
the best you can deliver.
<As to the "missing pad">
| It did happen, but not quite the way I told it.
Omigod. Then all that remains is to make your reader believe it. You
already have the best advice I can give--an incredulous sidekick to
tell the story to *in dialog*.
| I usually do use quote marks, but I've always hated 'em. They annoy
the hell
| out of me.
Aw, quit it. Don't try to snow me--and yourself. Been there, said
and done that. Got over it, learned how to type. Come on. Let's just
move along here . . .
<Snipping excuses in the form of precedents, for not taking the muscle
to move your little finger over one-half inch at the beginning and end
of a sentence or two.>
| have you ever read any of Jose Saragamo's books?
I will never read the book of a person who is too much of a blob to
type a quotation mark.
| He was a recent
| Nobel Prize winner . . .
Means very little anymore. So is Yassar Arafat.
|
| I can dig that. I tear people apart in my writing, mostly Noah, my
roommates
| Tonia and Judy, my dead mother and my sister. It gives me
unparalleled
| pleasure. Have you ever read that lovely poem by the fabulous TS
Eliot called
| "J. Alfred Prufrock"?
LOL. As you'll see, after your first semester in Freshman English, it
is impossible not to read the *Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock*. And
despite that, yes, it is perhaps, in my view, one of the finest poems
written in the English language, along with his *Wasteland*. The poor
fellow was married to a total harlot, don't you know? Drove him crazy
because she was always off in some corner getting schtupped by the
likes of . . . Bertrand Russell? Can you imagine a worst way to get
cuckolded--or, for that matter, schtupped? Bertrand Russell? Migod
but she was a gloriously beautiful chunk of whore's flesh, that
sneaking slut, which of course made it all the more a terror for him,
but all the better for the progress of English Poetry. Joyce's Nora
(Molly) was a saint by comparison.
| A few months ago, I wrote this satirical poem following
| the style of Eliot's Prufrock poem, except I wrote it about Judy and
her life,
| making her to be a modern angst-ridden J Alfred. It was pretty
nasty, the
| things I wrote, mostly about her trailer park life, but I was very
proud of the
| finished piece. Judy ended up punching me in the face for it when
Noah showed
| it to her. But the funny thing is, it was worth it.
Send it to the New Yorker. Perhaps you'll be the next Dotty Parker?
Do you still have it?
|
| That's how I felt about it; all the stuff I said about being true to
the
| character. I have to go into the city for a couple days, because I'm
starting
| at Columbia next semester and I need to go register for my classes.
We have to
| drive down there, my sister and I, because she goes to NYU and she
drove into
| Ohio for a few days, and now that she's going back to school, my
parents are
| making me take the eight hour drive with her instead of letting my
fly. I
| bought a new bottle of Tylenol for all the headaches I'm going to be
getting in
| the car. She drives me crazy mad. I'm going to try and arrange to
meet with my
| editor as long as I'm down in the city and try to talk some sense
into him
| about his editing methods. If you have the time, can you give me
your opinion
| on A Summer Afternoon, revised?
Tit for tat, Darlin'. Print, and show your editor the latest edition
of "Ms Goody Two-Shoes", which revision I will be posting as a reply
to the thread tonight, and I'll give it my most undivided attention.
Nothing worth anything comes for free in this world, Baby. I have
already downloaded, for comparison, the first version of "A Summer
Afternoon", the one I very much liked, which you posted here . . .
Date: 29 Aug 2002 00:42:43 GMT
| It's supposed to go in my Devotchka book, and I
| posted an early version of that story to afro about a year ago.
Since then, my
| editor has asked me to change Zelda into a bulimic . . .
That is the most utterly ridiculous, absolutely inane thing I've heard
since somebody sneaked in to steal Desdemona Bankhead's Maxi-Pad.
Oh, by the way: I love Tallulah Bankhead, the most. If you have yet
to do a web-search on her, you just must do that. I used to have a
quote from her for my sig file. What a dame, what a feminine glory
she was, that one; my oh my, oh my.
|
| Love,
| Desdemona
Looooooove,
Love is Strange . . .
--Mickey & Sylvia
--
JPDavid jpd...@hotmail.com
John's Joint:: http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
"It takes a long evolutionary process to arrive at objectivity, that
is, to acquire the faculty to see the world, nature, and other persons
and oneself as they are, and not distorted by desires and fears. The
more man develops this objectivity, the more he is in touch with
Desdemona Bankhead
>of "Ms Goody Two-Shoes", which revision I will be posting as a reply
>to the thread tonight, and I'll give it my most undivided attention.
>Nothing worth anything comes for free in this world, Baby. I have
>already downloaded, for comparison, the first version of "A Summer
>Afternoon", the one I very much liked, which you posted here . . .
>Merton both attended Columbia at the same time, and they both
>certainly took courses from *Story* magazine editior, Whit Burnett.
>Merton was editor of the *Jester* at the time.
>business is that? And whose poisonous opinions are you letting seep
>into your fertile little mind such as to be speaking after such a
>manner about your chief mentor?
>in the Rye. The publisher wanted him to alter the character of Holden
>or . . . . Salinger whipped the manscript right back off the desk,
>took it over and sold it to Little, Brown.
It's a good thing I turned on my computer before I left. Ok, here's what's
happening. It's around one right now, and my sister and I are leaving for New
York around three thirty. I'm going to be there three days; the first day I
have to go to Columbia to register for my classes, the second day I'm doing
nothing, and the third day I’m meeting with my editor. I don't see your
revised copy of Goody Two Shoes up right now, but if you put it up in a day or
two, I'll stop by a library in New York to go online and look for it. I’ll
print it out and try to show it to my editor. But listen: I can't promise you a
single thing, because I don't exactly stand on good terms with my editor.
Salinger worked on Catcher in the Rye for seven years before he went after
publication; he felt confident about Holden, and he good reason to be, since he
had just created one of literature's most endearing characters. As you well
know, I'm no Salinger, and I don't have nearly enough confidence in myself to
"whip the manuscript" off the desk and march off to Vintage or Bantam, because
as I well know, they’d slam their door right in my face. I don't feel that
strongly about any of my characters, except what was supposed to be the closing
piece in my book. It was called Portia Marr. I modeled her after my own life; I
even named her after a character in Shakespeare, just like my nanny named me
after Desdemona in Othello. Portia was the only character I didn't want anyone
to mess with, and my editor wouldn't listen, so I sort of threw a fit right in
his office. I'm not proud of it, and I know there's better ways of handling
those kinds of situations. But I was going through a very tough time, and I was
only 17, and I’ve been given the misfortunate trait of having a raging hot
temper. I can't control it sometimes; it literally takes over. It's like I step
out of body and watch myself morph into this monster. So my editor told me he'd
give me twenty minutes, and if he doesn't kick me out I'll try to show him
Goody Two Shoes. I have to add once more, though: I can't promise you anything.
It's funny how you mention that Salinger went to Columbia, and that he's my
mentor. I got into a school that was slightly better than Columbia, and it was
closer to home, and my parents pressured me to go there but I kept saying I
wanted to be in New York so that I could hang with the other bum writers that
roam the city. That was bullshit. I hate hanging with writers, and I don’t
especially want to leave Noah and move to New York. I know I said Noah makes my
life a living hell, but there’s no other person in this world who fuels me
more to write. It’s so infuriating. The real reason I wanted to go to
Columbia was because Salinger went there. I know that's a ridiculous reason to
pick a college. It’s just that I worship Salinger; of all the writers to
idolize, I have to fall for him. I've always had bad taste in men (just
kidding.) I really didn't mean to call him an asshole. What I meant was that
part of the reason I love him is because he's an asshole. He had a chance to go
down in the history books as one of the greatest writers of our time, but he
chose to become a recluse. JD Salinger as a person fascinates me as much as his
writing does.
>Okay, here's
>a list of the stuff of which I am totally a *fan*:
But you didn't mention Bob Dylan! I noticed one of your screenames with the
Dylan song "Nobody Feels Any Pain." Surely that had to taken from Dylan, right?
I love that song. It's one of my favorite Dylan songs, along with Baby Blue and
Lay Lady Lay. It's amazing how he can completely change the texture and sound
of his voice from song to song.
>By the way: If you haven't yet rented *Mermaids*, okay, then why are
>you even talking to me?
I promise to go rent it once I get back into town. I have to go return Vanilla
Sky to Blockbuster (ouch, a week overdue) so I'll pick up Mermaids then. Have
you ever seen Vanilla Sky? Wonderful movie.
>One look at the Best Seller list and the racks at
>Barnes and Noble will tell you that. Junk. Miles and miles of junk
>that publishers "like".
I agree, but there have been a few bestsellers that I absolutely loved. Have
you ever read Frank McCourt's memoirs?
>Omigod. Then all that remains is to make your reader believe it. You
>already have the best advice I can give--an incredulous sidekick to
>tell the story to *in dialog*.
I can't wait to start working on it.
>
>| He was a recent
>| Nobel Prize winner . . .
>
>Means very little anymore. So is Yassar Arafat.
WHAT???? Here I am sitting in my little corner of suburbia thinking that at
least there is one literature award that still stands for something, the Nobel
Prize, but I guess I was wrong. After a few good years, my faith in the
Pulitzer was sorely shaken after Richard Russo's contemptible "Empire Falls"
won this past spring.
>Migod
>but she was a gloriously beautiful chunk of whore's flesh
lol. Nice line.
>Oh, by the way: I love Tallulah Bankhead, the most. If you have yet
>to do a web-search on her, you just must do that. I used to have a
>quote from her for my sig file. What a dame, what a feminine glory
>she was, that one; my oh my, oh my.
I was born into the name Bankhead. It was my mother's name, and I went by my
father's last name for a few years but I switched back to Bankhead because it
felt like I was living a lie. I've heard of Tallulah, but all I know about her
is that she was an acid-tongued actress from the 1930's.
Looking forward to the revised Goody Two Shoes!
Love,
Desdemona
Real Gone Daddy
|
| It's a good thing I turned on my computer before I left. Ok, here's
what's
| happening. It's around one right now, and my sister and I are
leaving for New
| York around three thirty. I'm going to be there three days; the
first day I
Really love that you're going there. Salinger only went to night
classes at Columbia after he threw in the towel at NYU.
| the second day I'm doing
| nothing, and the third day I'm meeting with my editor. I don't see
your
| revised copy of Goody Two Shoes up right now, but if you put it up
in a day or
| two, I'll stop by a library in New York to go online and look for
it.
Jeez. Okay, let's see . . . the *second revision* I just posted is
better than the first but it's still got one paragraph that really
bugs me because it shamelessly copies Salinger's style. I mean the
last couple of sentences in this one . . .
--
Anyway, as you can see, Sarah and Tommy, Charlotte and me are one of
those crowds of kids that just don't exactly "fit in", as they
say--not that we would ever want to--are you kidding? No way. Fit in
to what? Fit in to a totally ridiculous looking pair of pants covered
by pockets all down the legs that are so oversized and floppy that the
cuffs are always dragging on the sidewalk under your stupid, smelly
plastic shoes? You won't catch me dead "fitting in" to anything like
that. I mean, any dope can see that nobody can fit in to clothes that
don't even *fit*! That was a joke ol' Charlotte made one day when we
were standing around on campus out in front of the school laughing to
see those clowns with their pants falling down, going along the walk
on their way up the stairs to good ol' Sheffield High. Oh, and you
should see Charlotte's take on those phonies with their hip-hop and
Gangsta slang. You'd die if you saw it. You really would.
--
So that phrase, ". . . ol' Charlotte" is now to be replaced with
"Charlotte".
And the word "phonies" has been replaced with "chameleons".
And, "You'd die if you saw it. You really would."
That is a horrible example of being a literary chameleon, if ever
there was one. It will be replaced as follows . . .
"You'd pee your pants, if you saw it, take me at my word."
| I'll
| print it out and try to show it to my editor.
Jeez. How pleased can a person be, other than me, right now?
| But listen: I can't promise you a
| single thing . . .
Of course not. How could you? It's all up to them, so what more
could I ask of you? Nothing, except maybe that you believe me
thoroughly and completely that the First Version of "A Summer
Afternoon" is the best by far, hands down, without a shade of doubt or
question, the best.
Oh, okay, one more thing: I'm posting a further revision with the
above offending paragraph corrected under the same Goody Two-Shoes
Thread. It will be headed by, "Third Revision", so that's the one
that is most truly dedicated to Miss Petunia Gill.
| because I don't exactly stand on good terms with my editor.
| Salinger worked on Catcher in the Rye for seven years before he went
after
| publication; he felt confident about Holden, and he good reason to
be, since he
| had just created one of literature's most endearing characters. As
you well
| know, I'm no Salinger, and I don't have nearly enough confidence in
myself to
| "whip the manuscript" off the desk and march off to Vintage or
Bantam, because
| as I well know, they'd slam their door right in my face.
Then what you need is an agent who knows how to move with great aplomb
through the increments of that sort of thing. Before you whip the
manuscript off the desk, you imply that such a thing might be your
next move. Then if you must, you whip if off, but take a long time to
walk toward the door. You know, there's a lot of subtle, like I say,
"increments" to that sort of thing that agents know all about.
| I don't feel that
| strongly about any of my characters, except what was supposed to be
the closing
| piece in my book. It was called Portia Marr. I modeled her after my
own life; I
| even named her after a character in Shakespeare, just like my nanny
named me
| after Desdemona in Othello. Portia was the only character I didn't
want anyone
| to mess with, and my editor wouldn't listen, so I sort of threw a
fit right in
| his office. I'm not proud of it, and I know there's better ways of
handling
| those kinds of situations.
Yes. You can be tough and still keep your cool. You've seen Paul
Newman in the *Hustler*? How he moved from being a highly talented
loser, to becoming a winner, entirely because he learned to keep his
cool without losing a bit of his determination. It's an art, that we
all study for the rest of our lives. One learns that to keep your
sense of humor is key. You can be tough as nails without getting mad.
That's the trick of it, right there. You stay tough but keep
smiling.
But I was going through a very tough time, and I was
| only 17, and I've been given the misfortunate trait of having a
raging hot
| temper. I can't control it sometimes; it literally takes over. It's
like I step
| out of body and watch myself morph into this monster. So my editor
told me he'd
| give me twenty minutes, and if he doesn't kick me out I'll try to
show him
| Goody Two Shoes.
Okay, but first show him your first version of "A Summer Afternoon".
That's the piece that moved me to advise you to get with an agent or
publisher. That's the piece that put you in his office in the first
place. That means it's good, and needs only the grammatical expertise
of an editor who can straighten up the structure without interfering
with anything else. You need only ask him why in the world he would
think of changing something he liked? For what? To a purpose of
suiting whom? Answer: it will suit no one, because the initial
authenticity and zest is gone, it's a deflated balloon.
These things are easy to say with a smile. You need not threaten to
take the manuscript away. That is a loser's ploy. You simply say to
a person that you're not going to run any snow-jobs on them, and
you're going to say exactly what you want to present to the public as
your work. You are not there to present somebody elses idea of what
you have to say--why in the world would you want to do that? If you
can't write what you want to say, in just the terms that you want to
say, then you'll get a job as this guy's secretary, not one of his
authors.
Say that, Doll, with the drollest possible Talluluah Bankhead smirk
you can manage. It's takes style, darling, and you've got it, so use
it. Nothing matters except that you should be the person who is in
control of what you present to the world or it is not you, and all the
fun is out of it. That is not what it's about. People don't become
writers to be sucking up to the opinions and attitudes of others. You
become a writer to put your opinions and attitudes out there--anything
else is purely ridiculous to consider.
| I have to add once more, though: I can't promise you anything.
And again, how could you? Just promise yourself to be your own best,
most lovable self, by Keeping All Your Kings In The Back Row..
Love,
JP
Alaric
> This is so infuriating it's making me sick.
I missed all this. I've never seen anybody leave and return so often. Is it
something they didn't say? Or are you working on the Drac thing?
> I need all my time to finish editing my short story collection. It's due
to my publisher by December 18, and I feel like vomiting when I think of how
far behind I am.
Uh-huh.
> I dropped to my knobby knees, stunned, clawing at my knotted hair.
Writing tip. Cut down on them qualifiers.
Alaric
news:e156f08c.02101...@posting.google.com...
> Yes, and that is your metier. It's the most honest. For now, nothing
else works as well for you and your editor is guilty of trying to change a
silk purse to a sow's ear. What captured her interest in the first place?
The mirror, crack'd.
> They better let you post it, or have a cyber-war on their hands that'll
make the last one look like a game of Chinese Cyber-Checkers.
On the ground that they make so much use of it, these folks seem to have
real difficulty in grasping unmoderated. Who the fuck's stopping you? Send
the photo of whoever it is. But if you won't get off your ass to find out
how to do it, don't expect the others you spend all your time insulting to
get off theirs and give you the Janet and John guide.
Alaric
> I don't even know who the hell is in charge of this afro board.
No-one, son. That's the whole point. It's unmoderated. That's why you get to
abuse it so much.
I mentioned in my ramblings that i'd like to post my photo and no one has
contacted me.
Except for me and your alter ego, no-one reads them. Be pro-active, sonny.
Read, like everyone else has to. The FAQ tells you how to post a biography
and a photo. Ask your mom to find it for you when she's finished wiping your
bottom.
> I don't know if i'm supposed to contact that homo alaric or what,
Please don't.
> But he's probably too busy sucking cock to read my rants.
Can't say the other side of the street appeals to me, but your obsession
with it clearly proves you're a boy who's fascinated by the idea.
Alaric
"R. Westermeyer" <wst...@cts.com> wrote in message
news:3dac5280...@nntp.cts.com...
> By the way, how can you justify posting something like that about Alaric
and complaining about being mistreated?
The Who dedicated a song to him, Bob:-
"One little girl was called Felicity.
Another little girl was Jane Marie.
Another little girl was Sally Joy.
The other one was me, and I'm a boy.
I'm a boy, I'm a boy, but my mama won't admit it.
I'm a boy, I'm a boy, but if I say I am I get it."
Alaric
contributes these monologues. So. No improvement to this piece since the
last time it was posted. Self-obsessed, tedious monologue.IMHO.
"Desdemona Bankhead" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021015183118...@mb-fa.aol.com...
Alaric
era of my life had come to an end. It was the last day of school for the
seniors. The rest of us lowly underclassman get to experience the painful
drudgery of finals, but the seniors, seeing how they sweated out twelve or
more years of their young lives for the benefit of public education, are
granted certain privileges. Such as being dismissed from school a couple
weeks early.
I've seen this before. It hasn't improved. Still no story.
> What hurts me is that the bulk of my life seems to be just that: a series
of hellish passages edging me further and further towards oblivion.
Only this sort of thing. Unskilled teeniebopper Cohen.
"Desdemona Bankhead" <angrype...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20021013222806...@mb-mm.aol.com...
Alaric
"John Griffin" <TheOneTru...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:c4550245.0210...@posting.google.com...
Carl Edgar
>From: angrype...@aol.com (Desdemona Bankhead)
>Date: 10/11/2002 11:44 AM Eastern Standard Time
>Message-id: <20021011114429...@mb-bh.aol.com>
>
>>Amen.
>>
>>Hank
>
>Ah, shuddup, you filthy itchy monkey. I woke up at eleven this morning, all
>eager to sign online and share my experience last night with Noah during our
>quintessential nightime stroll through The Park. I read my messages and I
>recieve the usual harrassment. Fuck this. I'm not taking this anymore. I
>spoke
>to my dad yesterday and he agreed to let my keep my internet access, but even
>though I'll still have an account, I sure as hell won't be posting to afo any
>longer. I wasted enough time here as it is. Screw this board.
>
>Desdemona
You are one crazy fuck - I really love your writing even though you
whine--underneath all your shit there is a certain choacy and some cunning
turns of phrase
I can't figure whether you're the biggest con artist since Bungalow Bill, an
escaped felon or the reincarnation of Franny Farmer.
If you would simply cut and paste every post you make and perhaps many posts
made to you under the title
THE ANGRY PETUNIA DIARIES
maybe youd at least be able to transmute your ramblings into a kind of Twisted
Sister underground Harry Potter.
Or am I rambling
carl
You're never alone with God and a bottle of Absolut