Back in Business

Hey folks!

It's been a really long time (reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally long), but I'm back!

The show went well-- we finished up performances on Saturday. I'm trying to get used to having free time again. It's weird.

Apart from that, I'm trying (trying...XP) to do NaNoWriMo this year. I'm already way behind, but I'll catch up. Or not. I'll give it a go, anyway.

The semester is drawing to a close (which means that I will soon no longer have an 8 o'clock class--yay!).

Well, that's really all I have to say for now. I haven't been able to plan a post-- spending all of my time at the theater and all. But it shouldn't be too long before I have more interesting (or not) tidbits for you.

It's good to be back.

Reunited

When I was a junior in high school, I took a creative writing class-- it was definitely one of my favorite parts of high school. As part of our final grade, we had to make a portfolio of all of the work we'd done in the class during the semester.

Earlier today, I was reunited with my Creative Writing I portfolio. I've had fun flipping through it this morning, finding some pretty abysmal stuff mixed in with a gem or two.

Since I'm so excited about having my portfolio back, I thought I'd share a piece that I wrote during Creative Writing in high school.

I don't remember the full prompt, but the prompt title that I have on the paper is "Yoknapatawpha," which come from Faulkner, if I recall correctly. I do remember that we were supposed to jump back and forth between time lines.

Enjoy.

Mrs. Annie Potter pursed her lips, her nostrils flaring. Her family owned the damn grocery store, and she still could get no service. She huffed, her wrinkled face fixed in a most unflattering grimace, and glanced at the clock.

"Potter's Family Grocery," her father-in-law, Pops, had said. "The pride of Green City. Or at least it will be."

Momma Mary Potter wrinkled her nose in distaste. Who's gonna want to sell their crops here?"

"Plenty of people," Potter laughed. "It's in the best part of town."

Annie listened as her father-in-law went on about the grocery store and how it would change all of their lives. She didn't think their lives needed much changing-- they were already the richest family in the county; they owned half of the town. But Pops, as the late Granny Potter, now residing in the Potter Family Cemetery, had always said, was a dreamer, fanciful and always in motion.

As Mrs. Potter handed the check-out clerk the money for the bag of potatoes she was purchasing, a teenager bumped into her. "Watch where you're going, dear," Mrs. Potter snapped.

"Sorry," the young girl called back at Mrs. Potter.

"You're late, Taylor," the store manager said to the girl.

"I know, I'm sorry," she replied, tying on a apron that had "Potter's Grocery, since 1937" printed on it. "It won't happen again."

The manager waved Taylor over to one of the check-out counters; she stood behind the cash register and began ringing up an impatient patron's order.

"All done!" Taylor said cheerfully when she had finished ringing up the last item, (a box of Cheerios). "Do you want anything else, Mr. Teddy?"

A stuffed bear sitting in a plastic stroller gazed quizzically back at her.

"Okay, Mr. Teddy," Taylor said. "Have a nice day."

"Can I help the next person in line, please?" Taylor said, leaning on the cash register.

"Afternoon, Taylor," Reverend James Valley said, handing Taylor a jar of peanut butter. "How are you doing today?"

"Eh," Taylor shrugged. "Your total's two dollars and nineteen cents, Reverend V."

Reverend Valley handed Taylor a five. "Have you seen Mrs. Potter today?"

Taylor nodded, rolling her eyes. "She's in a mood," the teen said. "She's always in a mood."

Reverend Valley smiled. "She's had a hard time since her husband passed away."

The reverend cleared his throat and adjusted his collar. He hated doing funerals. But it was part of his job. He glanced across the room at the sobbing Mrs. Potter.

"Reverend," Mrs. Potter said as she made her way out of the store, bag of potatoes clutched in her fist. She paused only long enough to spare Taylor a withering glare before leaving.

"Here's your change, Reverend V.," Taylor said, frowning at Mrs. Potter's back. "Have a nice day."

August: Osage County

Well, not really.

My apologies for my lack of content lately--I moved back to school a couple of weeks ago, classes have started, so on so forth, busy busy.

So here's an update on what I've been up to while I've been...not updating this blog.

Like I said, I've moved in to my apartment (which I'm sharing with my darling roommate from last year--thank God we didn't kill each other last year). The place looks beautiful: in the mid-afternoon, the sun comes in through the curtains in the living room, and the whole front room of the apartment is gold. I pretty much love it.

My classes have started. My Spanish teacher is still waiting on her visa (which doesn't bode well for me, but whatever). The freshmen are all bigger than I am.

I have my first audition in a week. It's for The Sugar Bean Sisters, which I know nothing about, but that's half the fun, right?

And I've been writing lately. Some of you (well, only Colby, really) have asked what I'm working on. There's a short story contest with a deadline coming up in November; I've been pulling together something for that. And I've signed up for NaNoWriMo (I'm gonna die...). We'll see how all of that goes--I might post bits of the story here, after the deadline, of course.

So that's what I've been doing the past few weeks. What have you been up to?

Summer Winds Down

My summer at home is about to end: I move back to my school in about a week. And that'll mean course work and shows and all that sort of thing.

Anyway, I know I've let this blog slide this month-- there's been other stuff on my mind and, honestly, there hasn't been much worth blogging about. But I do have a couple of posts planned. They should be up soon. Ish.

I haven't been blogging, but I have been writing a little bit on something or other every day (except Sundays). If I come up with anything worthwhile, I might post some of it on here.

That said, I hope everyone's having a great summer-- even if it is almost over.

This Would Be A Wonderful Thing

My competition piece has made zero progress in the last week or so. I love my characters, but I'm not sure where I want to take them.

I saw this little comic and made a decision.


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

Yeah. I totally need one of those plot devices.

I Hate First Drafts

Seriously.

Even for short stories.

I like for the things that I do to be as close to perfect as possible (just ask my roommate), so the idea of an unpolished piece of writing drives me crazy. I know the first draft is pretty much word vomit-- just getting the idea out in a form that will be only vaguely like the finished product.

But, God, it's difficult to leave things alone.

I'm trying to get better about it-- so far I haven't gone back and changed anything in my story. All of the writing I've done on it has been moving it forward.

That's not to say that, when the first round of edits comes, I'll be keeping it all. I might end up trashing most of it.

I know it's impossible to write something and have it be perfect after the first try. But wouldn't it be nice?

Gas Prices Will Kill My Writing

That might not make much sense, but it's true.

I love riding in cars and buses, especially when they're quiet. In my experience, there's nothing watching the scenery pass to make a mind ready to receive the spark of an idea.

There's a story writing contest in November that I've been planning on entering, but I hadn't been able to come up with an idea for a story--and I wanted to have time to edit whatever I wrote, so I was a bit concerned.

Riding back from the bookstore in the dark a few nights ago, just letting my mind wonder where it will, I came up with the beginning of my story. Not just the idea, but the exact words that I wanted.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened. The plot and title for one of the first stories I ever really worked on came to me while my dad was driving around a less developed part of the county; this story has since spawned into a piece of what will be a frame-style novel.

Car rides being one of my favorite sources for ideas, I'm finding myself more and more concerned as gas prices rise. It's hard to drive around in search for an idea when you have to sell your spleen to buy a tank of gas.

What do these prices mean? Is my best creative source being taken away from me all together? Am I doomed to mediocre ideas from now on?

No, I don't think so. But it is sad to see something so simple as a drive to nowhere in particular that can spark such good things becoming something of yesterday.

Though, if the quality of literature falls in the next few years, we'll all know that the oil companies are to blame.