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Monthly Archives: July 2012

Day 9: Are You Creative and/or Morose? If So, I Need Your Help!

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Day 9:  Are You Creative and/or Morose?  If So, I Need Your Help!

TODAY’S STATS

# of pages written: 5.5 (so far)

# of times I’ve checked email/facebook: 3

# of days left to write 1st draft: 152

Thus far I have only posted non-fiction on this blog, perhaps making everyone (including myself) wonder if indeed I am a fiction writer. Well, here is some fiction, although I am posting it not as proof, but because I am in need of help.

I’m very good at starting stories. In fact, my brilliant and beautiful mentor, Amanda Boyden, author of Pretty Little Dirty and Babylon Rolling, once told me, “Eva, your beginnings are awesome. But your endings need work.” It’s true. Often, my endings are nonexistent.

The other day I went to the beach and sat there for a long time, staring at the ocean and sifting sand through my fingers. Then I wrote home and wrote part of a macabre story. As usual, I really like the way it begins, but I can’t figure out what should actually happen. You know, that thing called plot. I’ve tried several different options, but nothing seems to work, and I don’t know how it will end, except most likely someone will die.

So, here’s a fun assignment for you! Read this, and tell me what YOU think should happen! If I like you’re idea, I will use it and credit you as a co-author. I’m also hoping to get the very talented friend who did the illustration for today and Day 6 to illustrate this story. Added fun! So, without further ado, I give you….Untitled:

Illustration by a talented friend.

Bianca sat on the beach, sucking on a piece of rock-hard taffy and squinting into the orange sun as it sank into the sea. Her mother had gone off again with the lobster man, and there was no telling when she might be back, or if she would be back at all.

The wind kicked up, blowing sand onto Bianca’s lemon-flavored taffy. The girl stuffed it into her mouth and heard the unpleasant crunching inside her molars as she chewed. The sunlight formed a shining gold highway on the ocean, and the clouds along the horizon had turned pink, like the secret insides of a conch shell. Behind her the sea grasses rustled on the dunes, and above her head seagulls screamed as they fought against the wind.

Just then, Bianca noticed a small head bobbing in the blue water. Wondering if it was a baby drowning, she stood and brushed the sand from her black dress, her jaw still working the taffy. She couldn’t swim, and she was alone on the beach, so if a baby was drowning, there wasn’t much she could do. She watched the object float above the water. A baby head would have sunk by now, she thought. A moment later a curling wave tossed the head towards shore, and it washed up with the foam onto the sand.

Bianca ran down the beach to retrieve the head before it was snatched back by the sea. She picked it up, drying it on the front of her dress and brushing away the sand. It was the head of a doll, and quite a nice doll, too, despite being waterlogged and faded from the sun. It had large, green glass eyes with lids that opened and closed, and a fringe of real-looking eyelashes, although the lower lashes were painted on. The doll’s face was bleached white as a bone, and its swirl of plastic hair may have once been brown but was now a pale, grayish color, like that of dirty dishwater. It had a tiny, slip of a nose, and its pinched-up lips were the perfect cupid’s bow, faded from red to pink by the sun.

Bianca looked around furtively for girl fishers. These were old men in leaky, wooden boats who cast out lines with dolls or hair bows attached to ends, hoping to hook a little girl and lure her out to sea. But the ocean was empty, and so Bianca took her find and plodded back up the beach.

There was really no telling the sex of the doll, but Bianca decided she was a girl and christianed her Catamarina Marie. “You will have two nicknames,” Bianca said, shaking the head to drain some of the water trapped inside it. “You’ll be called Cat by your family – mainly me since I’m your mother – and you’ll be called Mari by your friends, if you ever have any.”

Cradling the doll in the crook of her elbow, Bianca sat down in the dry sand to examine her daughter more closely. She and Catamarina looked very much the same, she thought. Both pale as paper with large green eyes and small, pink lips. Bianca’s hair, cropped short for easy care, was the same nondescript color as the doll’s: somewhere between brown and yellow.

“I’m not sure what to do with you, Baby Cat,” Bianca said, stroking the doll’s smooth cheek. “I can’t feed you. You have no tummy. I can’t change you. You have no bummy.” Bianca giggled and wished someone was around to hear her rhyme. She always seemed to be at her most witty and charming when she was alone. Around her mother and her mother’s friends, she often pouted and cried and was a general nuisance.

Suddenly, Catamarina’s eyelids blinked and her tiny, painted mouth began to open. From it came a sputtering cough and a spray of seawater. Then she began to speak in a high and lovely voice…

 

Day 8: Enough is Enough!

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Day 8:  Enough is Enough!

 

  TODAY’S STATS

# of pages written: 9.5

# of times I’ve checked email/facebook: 6

# of days left to write 1st draft: 153

The past few days have been rainy here in Cape Cod, so today, since it was actually going to be sunny, I decided to go to the beach for some good, old-fashioned sunbathing. (Right now my mother is screaming in horror and making me a care package of SPF 50 and a giant, floppy hat.) I know, I know, it’s very bad for me, but I like to lay out in the sun. It feels nice to have a blanket of solar heat against my bare skin as I drowsily read and listen to the waves. But, I must admit, I do it in large part for the vain reason that I think I look better tan.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten much more concerned about wrinkles and skin cancer and unsightly moles, so I don’t sunbathe as often as I did, and when I do, I take more precautions than I used to. For instance, now, when I go to the beach, I wear a hat, and SPF 50 on my face. My chest and back and stomach get SPF 15 or SPF 30, and they may or may not get a reapplication, depending on how responsible I’m feeling that day. My legs, more often than not, get nothing. That’s right. Nothing. I think my legs look better tan.
This habit is probably why the following conversation occurred when I visited my friend Dawn and her husband, Scott, in Philly a few weeks ago:

Scott: Eva, are you wearing pantyhose?
Me: What? No.
Scott: Are your legs just that tan?
Me: (Secretly delighted) What? Yeah, I guess so.
Scott: They’re like a completely different color from the rest of you.

Which I guess is true. My legs are a few shades darker than my arms, which are a few shades darker than my face, which makes me look sort of like one of those 1-2-3 Jello Parfait desserts:

It all begs the question: how tan is tan enough? When will I be pleased with my level of tan and stop feeling the need to go to the beach every time it’s sunny?  The answer, it seems, is never.

I am by no means tanorexic like the disturbingly-tan mom who was accused of bringing her 5-year-old in the tanning bed with her, but I’ll admit that I sometimes my day around finding the optimal time to lay outside and tan. I’m always pleased to see my tan lines in the shower, but no matter how tan I was, I always think that maybe I should get just a little bit more tan.

 

This morning I told myself that I would write until lunchtime then go to the beach in the afternoon. After all, I hadn’t sunbathed in a while, and heaven forbid my legs lose their tan. I spent the morning alternately writing and slacking off. And when I mean slacking off, I mean doing things that aren’t writing. My slacking off included:

-booking a plane ticket to Ohio for a wedding
-vacuuming and mopping the entire house
-finishing The Psychopath Test (awesome book – I highly recommend)
-eating various snacks

However, despite all this slacking off, I managed to write over nine and a half pages on my novel. Still, I wasn’t sure this was enough to warrant the treat of going to the beach in the afternoon. “I don’t know, Eva,” I told myself. “You could write more. Joyce Carol Oates would scoff at this measly bit of writing.”

The question is: how much writing is enough for one day? Because no matter how much I write, I always think that I should do just a little more.

I guess that’s true with a lot of things. When do you know when to stop? When you’ve done what’s expected of you? When you’re tired of it? When you’ve gone on a three-week-bender and written an entire novel on scrolls of paper ala Jack Kerouc?

When I first got to Cape Cod, I set myself the goal of writing five pages per day. But now that I’m routinely exceeding that goal, I’m not sure when to call it a day. Last night on the phone, a friend told me that I haven’t set my goals high enough. But what if I set them too high and can’t reach them?

The thing is, we can always do more. I could always get more tan. I could always find more things in the house to clean. I could always write a more (and maybe I should). For other people, they can never make enough money, run enough marathons, spend enough time with their kids. But “enough” is a relative term.  What’s enough for one person might not be enough for someone else.  At some point, you just have to decide what “enough” will be for you, for today, and make it be true. On the other hand, if you have something you’re working towards, maybe it doesn’t hurt to keep pushing up the bar a little bit, making what counts as “enough” just a little more as time goes on.

After my nine and a half pages, I ate lunch, then rode my bike to Crosby beach. The bike path smelled like jasmine, and I realized that it was good to get out of the house, away from the computer. I walked along the beach. The tide was really low. I spread out on my towel and told myself: one hour of laying in the sun. That’s enough. And it was. Then I came home and wrote this blog post. Because I’m not Joyce Carol Oates, and I think I’ve worked enough on my novel for today.

 

Day 7: Drumming ’til You Hate It, or, Writing ’til Your Fingers Bleed

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Day 7:  Drumming ’til You Hate It, or, Writing ’til Your Fingers Bleed

TODAY’S STATS

# of pages written: 6.5 (so far)

# of times I’ve checked email/facebook: 2

# of days left to write 1st draft: 154

This morning I go to Nickerson State Park to see if I can recreate the experience I had the other day of running and enjoying it. This time it’s not raining and I have my i-pod with me, but still I wonder if I’ll be able to go as far as before, or if I’ll stall out halfway down the trail, miserable and wheezing.

As I run, I think about a conversation I had with Nikki yesterday…

 

“Do you ever miss drumming?” I asked her.

(I should mention that Nikki was obsessed with Taiko drumming for many years. She took drumming classes every day, joined a performance group, and eventually quit her job to become a drumming apprentice, which apparently meant she did nothing except drum and perform menial tasks for her drumming instructor, such as scrubbing his apartment from top to bottom. (I imagine her doing this with a toothbrush, but I assume it was with something more humane, like a rag.)

“No,” Nikki said. “Not really.”

I was surprised. She had been so intensely passionate about drumming.

“I think I sort of played it out, you know?” We were walking through downtown Orleans with Nikki’s dog Zeus, and we stopped to let him pee on a bush. “I did it so much. I was literally drumming for hours and hours and hours every day. I guess I burned out and got sick of it. I sold all my drums on ebay.”

I thought that was strange, but interesting.

Taiko drumming (Nikki not pictured)

I’ve been running for a little while, and now I’m running up a small hill, through the damp woods, doing OK, but my breathing is becoming irregular and my legs are protesting the incline. Suddenly, a girl cuts over from the bike path and starts running directly in front of me.

I’m not sure what to do. I have at least another couple minutes in me before total fatigue and lung failure sets in and I give up with disgust (which is what usually happens when I run). I feel awkward about speeding up to pass the girl, but I don’t want to keep eating her dust. So I decide to just stop and walk the rest of the way. This way, I figure, I actually have the desire to come back and run again another time.

All this makes me think, of course, about writing. I don’t want to be like Nikki with drumming and let writing consume my life so thoroughly that I eventually burn out and never do it again. And I don’t want to force myself to write so much that I end each grueling day on a note of frustration and total exhaustion.

Way back in 2007 I read Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, which is about his time living and writing in Paris. From what I remember (and I could be remembering this entirely wrong), he mentioned that when he wrote, he always ended the day with a sentence of the next scene or next story he wanted to write. When he came back to his typewriter, he would know where to pick up.

I think this is very a very valuable thought. Yesterday, I wrote a scene in my novel, and I was excited about writing the next scene, but I’d been sitting in front of the computer for hours; my butt hurt and my eyes were dry. I decided to write the first sentence of the scene then leave the rest for today. That way, I’d be excited about sitting down to write, and I’d know exactly where to begin.

There’s something to be said having the motivation and stamina to run until you collapse, or drum until you hate it, but there’s also the old adage: “too much of a good thing.” Writing is something I enjoy, and something I want to continue enjoying for the rest of my life. There’s no need write until my fingers bleed. I can write a decent amount then call it a day and do something else. Leave myself always wanting more. I think this might work, because I can’t wait to sit down and write that scene in my novel, and I’m looking forward to my next run in the woods.

Day 6: Hello, Neighbor? Are You a Psychopath?

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Day 6:  Hello, Neighbor?  Are You a Psychopath?

TODAY’S STATS

# of pages written: 7

# of times I’ve checked email/facebook: 3

# of days left to write 1st draft: 155

Today I’m trying to figure out who in my life is a sociopath. What with the Colorado massacre and the fact that I’ve been dipping into various books about psychopaths and sociopaths (these words, as far as I can tell, mean pretty much the same thing), I can’t seem to escape this fascinating and disturbing topic.  According to The Sociopath Next Door, 4% of the population are sociopaths, which means 1 out of every 25 people, and I know way more than 25 people. Thus, I must know at least a handful of sociopaths.

On the other hand, I’m not sure how much I believe this 4% statistic. The Sociopath Next Door is very sensational in its claims that 1 in 25 Americans “has no ability whatsoever to feel shame, guilt, or remorse….They can literally do anything at all and feel absolutely no guilt.” I don’t know about all that. How exactly do scientists determine whether or not someone is feeling guilt? And isn’t one of the hallmarks of a psychopath his or her ability to lie and act normal? So how do we know much of anything at all about them? I suppose I need to finish reading both books to find the answer.

illustration by a very talented friend

Even still, I will give my uninformed opinion now. I think, if this 4% has any semblance of truth, perhaps it’s that 4% of the population demonstrates sociopathic tendencies. Maybe there is a scale of pychopathy, just like there’s a scale for everything else in psychology, including empathy and intelligence. Maybe some people are more likely to feel shame and guilt, or they feel it more often, in more circumstances, than others.

Because, try as I might, I cannot think of one person I know who could possibly be a true psychopath. And I know some crazy people. I know some people who have treated me or others badly. And yet, I can’t believe that any of these people are totally devoid of conscience. Am I being too naïve?  Even someone like James Holmes, the deranged, orange-haired joker who killed people at a Colorado movie theater, I have trouble calling him a psychopath.

And although I have trouble proving their existence, I’m fascinated by the concept of psychopaths and often want to write about characters who have sociopathic tendencies. But it’s hard, because I honestly have no idea what that would be like. I feel guilty every day for numerous things, such as eating too much dessert, or being a minute late to meet a friend, or not writing enough, or accidentally saying to someone, “you got a haircut” instead of “I like your haircut.”

So the question is, how do I write from the the perspective of a character who is nothing like me? And, even more intriguing: could I write from the perspective of an insane person? Sometimes I worry that I’m just too darn stable and mentally healthy to be able to write from the point of view of a truly disturbed character.

I’ve decided that for now I will not be writing from the perspective of anyone on the psychopathic scale, but I almost definitely will populate my fiction with characters who have psychopathy and other interesting psychiatric dysfunctions. I’m also, for example, fascinated by bipolar and borderline personality disorders, as well as all forms of paranoia and disorders that skew people’s perception of reality.

Currently, I’m writing about a disturbed 14-year-old who is extremely uncooperative, sexually provocative, and socially inappropriate. She’s certainly nothing like the way I was at fourteen (I don’t think!), so it’s interesting, and difficult, for me to figure out her psychology. She’s not a sociopath, but I think she must be way farther down on the guilt scale than me, because she doesn’t seem to feel bad about making other people upset or uncomfortable. Of course, she’s got a back story that explains a bit why she’s so troubled.  That’s hard thing about sociopaths – there doesn’t see to be an explanation.

Anyway, I think I’ll start here, with this low level of understandable psychiatric dysfunction in my fiction, and I’ll wait until I’m more of a seasoned veteran to tackle writing about the truly, dangerously insane, and from the perspective of the truly, dangerously insane. And one day, I promise you, I will do it…. Oh, how I dream of the day when I successfully create a female Humbert Humbert!

In the meantime, if you are a psychopath in my life, would you please let me know? I won’t be mad – I’ll be super excited! I swear I won’t tell anyone. I just want to hear all about it.

Day 5: Run for It!

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Day 5:  Run for It!

TODAY’S STATS

# of pages written: 12 

# of times I’ve checked email/facebook: 2

# of days left to write 1st draft: 156

This morning I went on a hike in Nickerson State Park. A fine mist of rain fell from low, gray clouds, and the woods were green and lovely, but about five minutes down the trail, a terrible and persistent fly began to attack me. This was not a normal house fly like the ones that loop lazily around your kitchen on a summer day. This was a crazy, biting, attack-fly that was buzzing angrily as it tried to ram itself inside my ears, up my nose, and into the wet jelly of my eyes. I swatted and swatted, but it just attacked the other side of my head – flying into my ponytail, trying to go down the back of my shirt. I took off my baseball cap and began batting at it with full force, but still it came back, buzzing louder than ever.

Obviously, I couldn’t enjoy my walk. I couldn’t marvel over the flash of a red cardinal in the cedars or wonder what was making that deep groaning sound in the marsh. I couldn’t enjoy anything because the damn fly would not leave me alone!

The fly made me think of my past few days trying to write fiction. As I attempt to start writing a novel, I am attacked by persistent, buzzing thoughts: This is no good! Maybe I should write in third person, or present tense? This is juvenile. This is boring. I need to start over. I need to stop trying to write fiction. Normally, writing is a thing I enjoy, but it’s been hard to like it lately, as I’m constantly plagued by these annoying thoughts. I find myself rewriting the same thing over and over, or starting all over with something else. Or saying to myself “What’s the plot? What’s the point??” I am getting frustrated and not enjoying the journey.

As I swatted and cursed at the fly, I remembered visiting Nikki in Cape Cod last summer. We had been walking on a trail at Fort Hill when not just one, but an entire swarm of angry, biting attack-flies came after us. We had basically run back to the car, screaming and flailing our arms the entire way.

So now I did the same: I sped up my pace to out-distance the wretched fly. And then I thought, this is what I need to do with the annoying thoughts that keep buzzing in my head: out-run them. I need to just write at full speed, not worrying about tense or point-of-view or even whether or not it’s good, and leave those doubts and questions in the dust. My writing won’t be good the first time, and that’s okay. It’s a first draft. And I enjoy revision. So I can run through the first draft at top speed then come back through a second time when the flies are gone – it will be much less frustrating that way, and I’ll be able to actually enjoy myself.

Suddenly, I realized I’d out-paced the fly and I could hike the rest of the trail in peace. But as soon as I had that thought, the fine mist of rain turned into a downpour. Normally, getting rained on annoys me, but I was so pleased to be rid of the fly and rid of my writing doubts, I sort of enjoyed it. The smattering of rain drops on the leaves sounded like applause. The trees were giving me a standing ovation!

And then I did a strange thing. I started to run. This is very unusual for me because I detest running and avoid doing it unless being chased by a swarm of angry flies. But today, weirdly, I sort of enjoyed it. And I wasn’t running to escape the buzzing fly, or even running to get out of the rain. I was running because I was so excited to get home to my computer and start writing at full speed. Today I wrote 12 pages, and I like them all.

Me at Fort Hill last year. (The site of the angry swarm of flies, although this picture was taken pre-attack.)

Day 4: After we go extinct, our facebook pages will live on…

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Day 4:  After we go extinct, our facebook pages will live on…

TODAY’S STATS

# of pages written: 5 (but I probably won’t use any of them)

# of times I’ve checked email/facebook: 3

# of days left to write 1st draft: 157

Yesterday Nikki came home and announced that machines are going to succeed humans on earth. “Like in WALL-E?” I asked her.

“Yes, I guess so.”

We had been talking a few days ago about how eventually the earth will expunge us and enter into some new age, just like it did with the dinosaurs and those giant armadillos from the age of mammals. Species go extinct all the time, and humans are no exception.  I actually find this to be quite a comforting thought. When I worry about the atrocities we humans are doing to the earth, I just remember that the earth is a lot bigger and more powerful than us, and eventually it will find a way to kill us off, whether it be by global warming or catastrophic weather events. The earth will enter into a different phase and different types of creatures will flourish, like cockroaches, or those crazy giant worms that can live in toxic ocean vents at the bottom of the sea. People who plead “save the earth” really just mean “keep the earth human-friendly.”  I, on the other hand, realize we won’t be here forever.

So Nikki thinks that after the age of humans the earth will enter into the the age of machines. Heck, we might be at the very beginning of the age of machines already. In a few more hundred years, we will have trashed the earth and either died or gone elsewhere, and the machines we’ve left behind will gain consciousness and live on.“I think there have been a bunch of science fiction novels about this already,” I told Nikki. I used to think the notion sounded crazy. Now, I’m not so sure.

It’s kind of terrifying to me what machines can do and how connected we are to our machines. I’m afraid of how much time I spend on the Internet, and how much the Internet knows about me. It used to be that people wanted to write books or make art, at least in part, because they wanted to leave something behind that would live on after they died. But now, with the Internet, everyone leaves something of themselves behind, and it’s not exactly prestigious. Once you put something on the web, it never goes away. A book is something that you’ve spent time shaping and revising, making as perfect as possible before you present it to the world for posterity. But your comments on facebook? Your daily blog that contains (probably) a lot of typos? That’s going to live on forever, too. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. Technology scares me.

Prehistoric glyptodont, aka crazy giant armadillo

On another note, today was my last day tutoring Sergiy. Tomorrow he and his family are heading back to New York. I was sad. It’s the end of the age of Sergiy. I gave him a card I made, and he told me, “you made my week.” I had taught him “you made my day” on our first lesson, and it made my day that he had remembered the phrase.

Today Sergiy and I talked about facebook. He doesn’t understand why Americans use it so much. “In Russia, everyone is introverted. Everyone keeps their thoughts inside. Here, people tell everything to everyone.”

“It’s true,” I said. “It worries me sometimes. I’m worried that we’re all becoming too vain. Or facebook is just feeding our naturally vanity. We think that everyone cares what we’re doing at every moment. We’re constantly saying ‘hey, look at me, look at where I’m going, look at how much fun I’m having.’”

What I didn’t say to Sergiy is that I worry about my own vanity.  I also worry about my own dependence on the Internet, and technology in general. I worry about how it’s changing the way I think, the way I behave.

Today I also taught Sergiy the phrase “keep in touch.” “It doesn’t mean you have to touch the person,” I said, patting my own arm. “It can mean, let’s keep in touch by email, by phone, by facebook. Let’s still communicate sometimes.”

“Technology touching,” Sergiy says with a laugh.

When we left the library today, we promised to keep in touch. “I’ll send you the link to my blog,” I told him. “And let me know how things go in New York.”

“Yes. Of course I will.”

In the old days, before the Internet, we probably wouldn’t have kept in touch, Sergiy and I, but now I think it’s very possibly we will. Email has made these sorts of connections much easier.  So I guess technology isn’t all bad. Without the Internet, I never would have met Sergiy at all. And now, this documentation of our time together will live on in the minds of the machines that will rule the earth when all the humans are long gone.

Day 3: Knock Knock! Who’s There? Depeche Mode.

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Day 3:  Knock Knock!  Who’s There? Depeche Mode.

# of pages written:  4 (so far!  it’s only 4pm)

# of times I’ve checked email/facebook:  3 (so far…it’s only 4pm)

# of days left to write 1st draft: 158

Currently I’m working as an English tutor, and I tutor a middle-aged Ukranian man every day for three hours. I’ve been spending so much time with Sergiy he’s sort of like my BFF here in Cape Cod. Today we were talking about animal sounds. I learned that in Russian, a dog says “guv guv,” a pig says “hroo hroo,” and a frog says “qua qua.” Cats sound pretty much the same.  I started thinking how interesting it is that we hear animals in a different way, depending on what language we speak.

After we had exhausted the animal noise topic, Sergiy said, “what is this knock knock joke? I hear of it but I do not understand. Can you explain it?”

Oh man. I tried. I really did. I told him this one:

Nikki knocking on the door of an old home (belonging to an old sea captain) in Eastham, MA

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Doris.
Doris who?
Doris open, why are you knocking?

First of all, he didn’t realize that Doris was a name. Then he didn’t understand the play on words “door is open.” Basically, he just did not get it at all. I tried a couple more, including the famous “orange you glad I didn’t say banana” joke.  I explained that “aren’t” sounds sort of like “orange,” and Sergiy laughed, but I think it was more a laugh of mystification than anything else.  “I don’t know,” I apologized.  It was impossible to explain.

So, yet again, my words are failing me.

Sometimes someone will point something out to you, something you’ve never noticed before, and then it seems like all of a sudden you start seeing it everywhere.  I feel this way with my realization about the imperfectness of words. A few days ago I started pondering the imperfectness of words (see my essay Drawing the Universe with Crayons). I wondered if maybe there is an understanding of the world that can only be reached by going beyond words. Now this idea keeps cropping up everywhere. On my home from tutoring today, the Depeche Mode song “Enjoy the Silence” came on the radio, and without really paying attention to the lyrics, I started singing along:
Words like violence
Break the silence
Come crashing in
Into my little world…
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm

Whoa. Here I was just thinking that words are imperfect. But Depeche Mode is saying that words are violent. They are unnecessary and can only do harm. Yikes. Is the universe trying to send me a message?  It really makes me question this whole writing thing….

Well, I will continue using words anyway.  Today I worked on creating a more detailed outline of my novel. And I wrote some dialogue, thinking about how sometimes words are unnecessary, and we know what a person is thinking without  him having to say a single word.