Wasted dream, shared spaces and I've had a pretty cool year

I'm a little annoyed at my subconscious this morning. A more futile feeling doesn't exist. It's just that if one has to pee in the middle of the night, one's subconscious works that into the dream one is in the middle of and I'm ok with this as long as it could limit itself to just a hint. Like, say you are dreaming it is the 90s again and you are young and dewy eyed again and the college campus where you truly grew up was unchanged and you were walking around seeing familiar sights and loving the gift of time travel that only a sleeping brain can conjure and suddenly you pass a bathroom and the dream you says "I'll just pop in here for a sec but don't go anywhere because I will be RIGHT back." And then the you that lives in on this plane of existence could stay sleeping and effectively find the toilet and not lose the momentum of your dream, then FINE. I would be totally fine with that. But brain, and I truly mean this, don't waste an ENTIRE dream on the search for a bathroom, the locating of that bathroom and then the inability to use that bathroom for a variety of reasons because that's just going to put me in a bad humor the rest of my morning. Like, I could have ridden a unicorn while having sex and eating ice cream. Just bookmark that for later, mkay?

I have the day off from my full time job because I'm working Saturday, for a change. In recent weeks I've been coming to Manhattan to take advantage of a writing space that my friend Nancy told me about. It is in an ancient building in Union Square nestled above a bartending school, at the top of approximately 7,000 stairs. There is a silent space, overflowing with ergonomics and flat surfaces and a decided lack of distractions (the internet notwithstanding) and it is very conducive to concentration. There is a kitchen with a fridge and a kettle and toaster oven and a dishwasher. There is free coffee and tea and little lotions in the bathroom. I am grateful for this space. I have gotten a lot of writing done here and a lot of work for my many, many jobs here as well. However, because it is a shared space, there are minor issues that make me understand why we can't all just get along. Some people never learned how much space they occupy nor how to adjust that space to accommodate anyone else, either physically or in their actions. For example, somewhere in this room there is a man who slams what I envision are meaty sausage fingers doing what I can only assume is this:

...only nowhere near as charming as Ron Swanson. And there is only one restroom. For quite a lot of people. Yet I still dare to expect that the seat will be lowered after a gentleman uses it. Or the pee will be wiped from the surface of the toilet seat after a gentlewoman uses it. I've always suspected my expectations are too high. Also, people walk heavily. Now, unless you are in possession of a titanium appendage on either leg, this is something you can control, yes? The pressure at which you walk is not set in stone; it changeth like the moon's face. Again, I could be reaching for the stars here, but is it possible that, when walking through an ancient, creaky building, in a room that is specifically set aside for silence and concentration, you could, I don't know, walk lightly. Or at least not practice goosesteps in the name of your forthcoming WWII novel. 

Still, I feel a bit douchey complaining about such things. I did just go into the kitchen to find free bagels. Also, I'm literally sitting in the same room as the actor who played Roger Sterling on Mad Men. He just held the door open for me and smiled and I'm sorry, but this is the coolest fucking thing to happen to me this year and this is the same year I lived in NYC again, rode a bike for the first time, met Gloria Steinem, got pulled into a secret room at Sleep No More, got a tattoo and went to Amsterdam. 

I just reread my last paragraph and if I ever complain about anything for the rest of the year, you have permission to tell me to shut up. 

Dieting, Dancing and Being a Big Fat Baby: An Update of No Consequence

It's been awhile. Last time I really updated in here I had passed a watershed moment in my writing life. I went further with it but did not "win" the month of November. No matter, I wrote more than I've ever written in my post-undergrad life and I've got a solid base to keep myself going. I shall finish my book. And then spend 30 years editing it.

I just watched Me and Earl and the Dying Girl film which was based on the excellent novel of the same name and it was a really beautifully shot, beautifully told and heartbreaking story. Some of the shots were really unique and the actors were so talented, I found myself lost in the story again. And crying. Like a big fat baby.

I'm on a Facebook diet. Like all diets I've ever been on, I'm immediately cheating. But honestly, I only read Facebook for the statuses. In fairness to me, I have a lot of witty and smart and informed and intelligent people on my feed. And how ELSE am I supposed to keep tabs on my fake Facebook boyfriends? I know what you're thinking: But Allison, if you just stopped being a huge dweeb and "put yourself out there" you could have an off-Facebook boyfriend. And I hear you. I truly do. The problem is when I try to practice what you preach (and by "you" I mean the other voice in the other part of my brain...the one that isn't a hot awkward mess) I end up turning into some version of a drunk 1920s flapper and an 80s robot. These are two things that do not go together so in addition to the sometimes jerky movements of my body when I get nervous, I am at war with awkward metaphors inside my brain 80% of the time. Besides, I DO put myself out there. I go out dancing, often to sad gloomy new wave pop and punk whenever I get a chance. And I meet tons of people. And none of them are serious because you can't meet anyone serious while dancing which is just contrary to common sense. You can pretty much tell immediately the kind of chemistry you have with someone when you dance with them. I feel like dating should have a compulsory dancing phase. Like a phase of a new relationship that comes right before the "going away together for the weekend" phase because frankly, all that matters to me is that a guy is willing to dance and I'm not going to pack my overnight bag and sit through an argument about directions if I'm not gonna get twirled around the floor a bit at the end of it. I can pretty much tell things won't work out if you refuse to dance out of fear of looking foolish or just because you are a killjoy of the highest order. I have first hand experience with this. Anyway, what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, Facebook. I'm not going on there for the time being. Or am I? I mean. I'm posting this. And I have to go on there for work. So I'm totally off Facebook. And carbs.

So, apparently not going on Facebook four hundred times a day has caused my stream of consciousness to idiotize. I made that word up just now. I can do that because I'm not looking at your Facebook profile right now.

Bernard Malamud on how to write.

"There's no one way-- there's too much drivel about this subject. You're who you are, not Fitzgerald or Thomas Wolfe. You write by sitting down and writing. There's no particular time or place--you suit yourself, your nature. How one works, assuming he's disciplined, doesn't matter. If he or she is not disciplined, doesn't matter. If he or she is not disciplined, no sympathetic magic will help. The trick is to make time--- not steal it---and produce the fiction. If the stories come, you get them written, you're on the right track. Eventually everyone learns his or her own best way. The real mystery to crack is you." --Bernard Malamud

Just something to read

I have surpassed the 25k mark for my novel. I have never written this much in my life. I'm so chuffed at the word count that I'm not even especially concerned with the fact that I am going to have to basically rewrite the whole first draft! Well not rewrite it but....there is a lot of editing that will need to be done. Still, I see the ending in my head so clearly and I've never seen that before. Plus, I am making myself laugh, cry and develop back problems in the process. It is all about the process anyway, right?

At work today I helped an elderly Haitian man who is a regular at this library. He's a retired academic and speaks about five languages, all heavily French accented and he is the sweetest man ever. Today after I looked up a bunch of Umberto Eco titles for him (normally I just answer questions about why the scanner doesn't read the library card number) he handed me an envelope and said "This is a gift for you, my friend. Just something to read." I was surprised but I always welcome gifts involving reading so I thanked him and he left.

My curiosity would not allow me to wait until closing time to look into the envelope and it turns out he had copied an article about the Citadelle La Ferrier, a former fortress, now "tourist attraction" in Haiti. The article was from the Journal of American Architects in 1928 and described the storied history of the Citadelle and was utterly fascinating. I'd say I could make it a destination to visit but honestly, am I going to be able to visit Haiti, ever? On his way out he told me to save my money so I could visit one day. Also, I'm a little bit in love with the Haitian professor, as I call him in my head. Then again, I fall a little bit in love with anyone who gives me things to read, watch, listen to and learn. I've decided I want to be the type of person, when I'm old and lonely, that gives people things to read. No one will read them, of course, but I'll do it anyway.

And now, just like Mary in Beford Falls, during her unfortunate, miserable, grey, depressed spell as a librarian without George Bailey's emo angst in her life, I have to close up the liiiiibrary!

Planetarium Pangs

My surroundings are relatively quiet, that level of quiet that I can manage. Total silence is totally unnerving to me. I have to have some beacon, however faint, that someone else exists somewhere. I wish I could devote the entire morning to writing but in about two hours, everyone is coming in here to take the world up a few decibels. My first instinct on entering work today to the news that nearly everyone was at a meeting and that I'd have most of the space to myself was not to run around in my underwear screaming (though I've had that inclination more than once since starting here) but rather to sit quietly at the computer and write. I think, just like a runny, smelly Roquefort, I've aged.

I've been writing my book and so far have been pretty consistent with my word counts. I'm at about 13,000 words so far and my novel is all over the freaking place but I'm getting the story down. It is way harder than writing has ever been for me. I would much rather work for several weeks on a poem, or a few hours on a blog post than try to take a big story and pare it down and transform all the pieces into a whole.

In that spirit, I need to take a trip to the planetarium soon. I find myself wanting to look up at the night sky and actually see something other than the glare of buildings. I like that you can walk in there and there's the universe, explained, whittled down and categorized, displayed in models and maps and illustrations. I also love that I am free to contemplate endless darkness and undying light for a few hours and then step outside and do something utterly mundane, like eat an apple. The universe is terrifying; the universe with a ceiling is slightly better. Don't get me wrong, I tend to get nihilistic after visits to the planetarium. Something about contemplating that timeline that is displayed in every single planetarium in the world that draws the scale of the known universe from the big bang to the puny amount of time that all of humanity has existed demands that one lie down for a spell. Still, it does a mind some good to tap into the void every once in awhile.

So who's meeting me there?

Just F*cking Write.

The methods by which I procrastinate and find distraction truly astonish me. If I had my druthers (or if I could finally figure out exactly what druthers ARE) I would be able to remove this sense of urgency I have to do, make, show, absorb and go, go, go. A life without urgency...I have absolutely no idea what that would be like. I firmly believe that in those moments when I'm not doing anything in particular, my brain has decided to shift into self preservation mode. Because if I'm not distracting myself with diversions carnal and spiritual (but mostly carnal), I'm thinking about doing it or planning what my next one will be. This is really just no way to live, despite the fact that most people live this way.

 Right now I'm faced with one hour to further along my book, something I began last week and made significant progress on. And instead of doing that, I've been distracting myself with utter nonsense. This is likely because I know precisely how I want my story to begin and end. The plot is complete. It is the unfurling of that plot, the placement of my anecdotal storytelling into some coherent format that would make someone other than me and like three other people read it and enjoy it. It is extremely difficult for me to turn off my internal editor and just do what I'm bidden to do: just fucking write. Just. Fucking. Write.

I sincerely need someone in this room with me to tell me to stop doing anything but write. Stop shopping online, stop fantasizing about that cute guy, stop investigating random factoids like Buster Keaton's filmography (for like, 30 minutes), stop making lists of adult education courses I'm definitely going to take this winter, just stop. Just fucking write.

And I just don't think this blog entry counts. Or does it? I heard if you spend a lot of time writing about the inability to write, a tree falls in a forest and someone hears it. Or an angel gets his wings. Or the call is coming from inside the house. Or something I don't know. I just know that one particular thing doesn't happen: your novel doesn't get written.

Run from Rabbit

Rabbit, Run by John Updike
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This was my first foray into anything Updike and I've got to say, while I truly appreciate his way with prose ( a lot of the passages in here border on poetry, usually when describing something as seemingly mundane as a trip to the corner store), I actively hated the main character, Harry Angstrom by the end of this book. He reminded me very much of someone I know and maybe the whole abandoning your family because you're all jacked up about the meaningless of your small town drudgery doesn't really gel well with my personal sensibility (the abandonment part, not the drudgery...THAT I get) but I kind of wanted to take old Rabbit by the lapels and shake him.

I just don't know if I can continue on with the sequels of this. I'd rather watch Mad Men for this kind of energy.

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