Writing II

Why is it that in that one true moment of epiphany there are also ten thousand moments of insecurity, self-doubt, calamity, and general fear? It's like sure the sign says to go ahead and feed the swan but you can't because all the bloody ducks keep eating your bread. All you really wanted was for the picture perfect snow-white swan to lengthen out her neck and pluck that tiny bit of bread out of the water, and maybe for her to spread out her wings in an appreciative sort of way but instead what happens is all of the noisy, scrambling, greedy ducks race after the bread, while laughing at you with their sharp little quacks, while the lovely swan turns away from you - miffed that you didn't get the bread to her, and then you realize that not only did you not throw the bread far enough but its now, quite obviously, not the right type of bread, so of course only the ducks will love it, and they clammer for more, swimming alongside your little boardwalk as you try and escape them, hurling bread over your shoulder in an attempt to distract them, which of course they see right through, while the other pedestrians laugh at you for your sheer idiocy when it comes to the bread throwing antics.

I'm having some trouble with my writing, as it were. And even now I find myself more infuriated that I can spend a mere five minutes on paragraph about ducks that will hopefully have a few of my readers smiling to themselves but for some reason or another I cant seem to turn out a decent chapter for my novel. The story is there, the characters are there. But for some reason my pages seem flimsy and see-through. Part of me says that its simply because I'm starting out. That maybe I haven't gotten the flow, the heartbeat, of it all down just yet. That small part is quickly silenced by the rest of me which thinks I'm a hopeless failure and am using up my laptop memory with writing akin to the paper they line fish with at the markets.

There was a time in my life where, should this have occurred, I might have lightly shrugged my shoulders, said "Well, that's that," and gone on my merry way - probably off to buy a pygmy goat or to steal one of those lovely bright traffic cones (which, by the way, for those of you concerned with my crime habits, I haven't done - I did receive two however via a present from my boyfriend J - thank you again!). But now I'm more deeply involved. It's like when someone buys a pet fish for you - a fish that you didn't really want and certainly don't need. For the first few days you're impassive towards this fish. You think of naming it but you also think of frying it up and feeding it to the kitty. You feed it - out of boredom if nothing else, but it doesn't really belong to you yet. Those are the days where you can give the whole thing up, tell the fish you're flushing it and then proceed to do just that. If you wait though you'll find yourself growing attached to the fish. You'll realize that it sort of seems to bob its head approvingly when you talk out loud to it, and that maybe it flicks some water out with its tail when the plants are getting a bit dry. Soon you'll find yourself admiring shiny marbles and little green castles wondering if "Fredrick" would like them and eagerly awaiting your next paycheck at which point you will buy that nice big twenty gallon tank all for your fish that you didn't really want in the first place.

Sadly enough for me, I'm there. Not with the fish -obviously, however if that happens I'll be sure to take pictures as it all goes down, but with my writing. There was a point were it didn't matter to me one way or the other - I could write or not write, whichever way the wind blew, and either way I was happy. I suppose some childish part of me though that it was only my motivation that was the problem - that surely if I just sat down to write consistently the writing itself would come naturally. However now that I've actually done just that I've realized that not only may I be just completely terrible at this whole "Fiction" business but that I also cant live any other way. Where I didn't give even the slightest of a damn before I now have fallen in love and certainly will not resurface. My on and off affair with writing has ended entirely and I am now married to the idea - never to be parted.

Its inevitably cruel that right when I've committed myself to the idea of pursuing a career as a writer I also realize that I'm absolutely awful at it.

Needless to say - this has been a very long afternoon.

Lizzy

Practical(ly) Lost Art

It's unfortunate that in our society the technological advances we make often serve neither function nor form but a loss of passion; a laziness that has quickly rooted itself within our daily lives. We used to be a country built on the inventive, creative, and persistent foundation our forefathers had laid down for us - yet now we find ourselves a stressed, overweight, and largely unhappy people. The very creations we had once stared up at in wonder are now merely unappreciated background; time and dedication lost to the ages. And in our pursuit of these new technologies that minimize and materialize our day to day interactions we have also lost many great forms of art.

One such form comes not by canvas, nor playhouse, not by ink or by paper but instead by a firmer hand and a nobler pursuit. The great downfall and only true lamentable quality attributed to art is its lack of practicality. Art cannot cook your meals, it cannot remind you where you set your keys, and it will not listen to your complaints about gas prices. As a student of its history and a lover of its progressions I can attest to the joy that comes with the creation and preservation of art so please don't misunderstand my words as a criticism but rather be happy to learn that there is a form of art that retains its usefulness. Hidden in forgotten fields and vacated barns you might find a surprisingly pragmatic form of art. Consider it archaic if you must - call it a lost art even, but only a few have that undying technique that allows them the end result of cruising through town in a newly restored car.

It's not something you might think to label as art at first glance but even the most removed viewers of the local car show can tell you otherwise. For many its a relentless love - and one I might have remained innocently oblivious to but for a recent discovery. There is a complex and intricate beauty that comes along with the otherwise negatively viewed profession that spills over into this addictive hobby. Most of us remain blissfully ignorant (read: scared shitless) when it comes to our cars but these enlightened few have a painters hand with an extra bonus. What they create is for many not only a glorified sense of nostalgia but a truly accomplished work of art because we and they can live out small pieces of our lives inside it. There isn't a painter on the earth that can claim that.

While it would be arrogant of me to claim that I know anything but the smallest details included in the vast amount of work the restoration of a car entails, I will say this: I've seen the work, the end results, and the joy that can be achieved from this particular pursuit. And if anything, anything at all, is meant to be labeled as art surely the shine of new chrome, the smell of fresh paint, and the feel of the wind on your face qualifies. Even if it has to compete with a bowl of fruit.

Trial and Error

I have decided to start a garden. Yes that's right. Me - the poster child for a complete lack of homemaking ability - has decided to start a garden.

I can tell you right now that this is a really really really bad idea. It shouldn't be that complicated right? But I was blessed with the remarkable ability to over complicate the simplest of things. The purist in me wants to say -

"Hey its really not a big deal. Get some seeds, some potting soil, some coffee grounds from work, and a book on gardening. What could go wrong?"

But of course that sarcastic little voice that comes out at the worse (and best) of times likes to respond:

"Everything..."

Well pooh on you little voice. I'm starting my garden with or without your approval.
I've already gone and borrowed far too many books on gardening from the library and today I went and picked up some packets of seeds. Here's what I got:

Summer Squash
Zucchini (It's actually labeled as squash but it still looks like zucchini)
Onions
Carrots
Snap Peas

Plus I got two varieties of flowers (Phlox and Snapdragons) with which I plan to line the edges of my soon to be beautiful and prosperous garden. I think I may be going a bit overboard.

I suppose that's a rather ambitions little crop I have planned but I've decided that this year will be the one where my garden works out. The last two tries were not as well planned which I believe (along with their location and the lack of funding) ultimately led to the downfall of each. The first time I was about 10 and I decided that I was going to have an indoor garden. I had three pots, each with about a 6 inch diameter, and I proceeded to use about 4 packets worth of different vegetable seeds in each. Needless to say, my garden quickly found suicide to be its ideal option. A few years later, on another gardening kick, I decided that this time I would try my plans outdoors. I began to work away at the 2 x 4 bit of soil I had in front of my bedroom window (we were living in a meager apartment complex at the time) and after reaching the concrete that was 3 inches below the surface, quickly gave up.

The greatest success I've had so far has been with my houseplants. I have three. Two bamboo and a jade. I've only had them about 6 months or so but they all seem to be doing well. I've made sure they get their recommended amount of water and sunlight and occasionally I sing to them. The bamboo seems to prefer ballads.

I think its safe to say that I've had my fair share of trial and error when it comes to gardening. Hopefully I'll have better luck this year.

I'll let you know!

Lizzy