Love with her was pure irrationality and perfection in one sweeping, sudden fury.
The lancia boat I was lying inside on my back teetered side-to-side, creaking like trees moving by the wind’s hand. I felt the ancient splinters vying for my salt-dried skin. The sea splashed over the side of the boat, tickling my limbs, reminding me with each tongue of water that I was amongst the rawness of the sea, which could take me at any moment in one swipe. The sea reminding me of my immortality instigated the memory of Valentina. I closed my eyes, seeing her petal silk lips whispering if love, if love, if love, over, and over again until our lips were inches apart, almost kissing. Almost. It almost happened. Then I saw her hands dousing creamy white lotion onto my skin. Her hands pined for my skin. But she had already faded into a memory, as if what happened between us occurred many years ago, when it was only days ago. There was still more of her I had yet to experience; I feared this, and yet it thrilled me at the same time. She lingered, waiting for me to take the next step. One part of me wanted her to disappear, but never too far away from reach.
Hello everyone! It has been a while since I’ve posted a blog. I think we can all agree, that life has a way of pulling you in all sorts of directions.
As I have been planning for two (yeah… I think I’m crazy) feature films, I thankfully haven’t neglected my fiction writing. Recently, I went through a transformation in terms of creativity, planning, content, and the act of DOING.
Basically what I’ve realized, is instead of working tirelessly on one full length novel, I am starting to craft existing stories I’ve written, as well as new stories, into short story, novellette, and novella lengths (I am leaning more towards the novellette and novella lengths- see the note below for word counts). When I am finished, it will be published on Amazon for Kindle.
I’m not sure if anyone else has felt this way, but I find completing an entire manuscript of 70,000 – 80,000 words occasionally daunting (Stephen King talks about a 3 month timeline for a first draft, but is that always viable?). I am technically close with a few writing projects, but it just never seems to get finished, as I am torn between life tasks (hello animals), reading, and filmmaking.
This is me looking serious while holding my dog Caddy’s paw. In the lower right hand corner is Ulysses, by James Joyce. This was taken on Bloomsday.
Shorter stories will allow me to do the following: hyper focus on essentially one slice of the pie, hone my skills in a more economical way, craft stories around a genre/sub-genre that I feel passionately about (LGBTQ/YA/Romance), build a platform, and actually get something published out there for you all to read. The proof is in the results, right?
What’s your favorite short story, novellette, novella, and/or flash fiction? My absolute favorite novella is TheLover,by Marguerite Duras.
No, I am not going to abandon the full length novel. It is coming. For now, short stories are the way to go, at least for me.
What do you all think?
The link below will take you to inspiring site. Go ahead, click on it, read some posts, and then tell me what you think. Or better yet, do it yourself!
Is the novella (reading it electronically) the new wave of this age’s fiction? Could Finnegans Wake made as much of an impact as it did in 1939, if it were written today?
Oh, we all wish we could write Ulysses and Finnegans Wake.
I’m tired of here, I’m tired of humanity and all that we stand for and all that we don’t, and these eyes heavily laid upon the green messy carpet outdated for years but who would notice– not I sah, not I, for I want what everyone else wants, making it all go to shit because we compete for this or that, food on the shelves a plenty to make us sick, houses depleted and ugly to make us sick, medications full create all the same get those dogs and cats on the same medications side affects side affects as long as the pocket presents the side affects do not exist until they actually happen and then they’re sorry so sorry they ever met you and that’s what I think when I walk, trying to keep up with the dogs because I am so lost in the darkness of disgusting humanity– disgusting adults– disgusting teenagers– disgusting children– we regulate animals but not humanity no snip snip opiate here, opiate there, don’t worry about the side affects for they do not concern you nor your child so they don’t actually exist until they actually do– all of the muck and dirt combing through my mind as I walk behind them until I reach the smells and the blackness of the sky and greyness of the sea at a time when most humanity is not to be seen for it is too cold and too dark, only then when I smell the seeping clams and muscles while the dogs trot amongst their mother rocks and dirt do I realize that life isn’t alway to shit because nature is there such as the ocean to bring me back to the one and all source loving and true– t’aint nothing more true than the grey ocean sans line to see not to cross, and then I cross it unbeknownst and perhaps I want to go further as the mermaid sirens call me as the gulls flap me as the ducks twirl me to want and I want and this– that– is all I really do want, not this construction not this green paper, not this fake job, not this disheartened look, not this soiled house crumbling to the marshes, but the ocean that appears at night like I could walk across it and through it and disappear to something more and true
A fire romps within the dwellings of a kept creature, I, a lost girl influenced by the masses, a timeless roaring rage to keep purity alive all in the name of doing what is right. Life seems long when the years trickle into a puddle, merging with otherness into sameness. It’s the acceptance of hiding which makes life normal. Sameness, hiding, long, acceptance.
I felt, I thought, I ceased. Time decayed after her.
The word lust is too sturdy and clear; whatever it was, it felt fragile and hazy in my bones and mind, as if for the past month I wandered lost in a foreign nightclub.
I awaited during the lazy morning for this isolation. While all the others padded the stone courtyard musing upon their fresh pressed orange juice and tales of the crinkly-faced sun villagers who adore old lawless Virgil, I paced in a total wreck of a mood to get out.
The asters and carnations blooming near the eating table angered me for their sweet beauty that lived just for the sake of living and nothing else. The sun, always the sun out and about, irritated me, as the pits of my white shirt were already soaked through. Trickling water from the gold fiori water spout pulled at my chest as the water made its way to an idle, content state in the lilypad pond. My breathing became aware of me. I couldn’t swallow the grapefruit topped with sugar. The orange juice tasted dull.
Mother what is it?
My tongue pressed the backs of the front teeth in detest of… mater, mētēr, madre, mother. They contemplated me as if I were crazy or sick. Well, perhaps I am both.
Who else blushes, smiles, and almost has to look away for Oliver’s glorious dance scene in Call Me by Your Name? But yet… don’t we all dance that way in our room blasting that one song?
Writing. Italy. Billowy. Swimming. Jogging. Shorts. Books. Love. Dance away Oliver and Elio.
Side note: who else absolutely loves this song and can’t help but think about The Wedding Singer?
