Fiction

The Beautiful and Damned, pp. 119-120

Gloria Gilbert’s diary, two months before marrying Anthony Patch.

 

“April 21st. — Woke up thinking of Anthony and sure enough he called and sounded sweet on the phone. So I broke a date for him. Today I feel I’d break anything for him, including the ten commandments and my neck. …”

“April 24th. — I want to marry Anthony, because husbands are so often “husbands” and I must marry a lover.

“There are four general types of husbands”

(1) The husband who always wants to stay in in the evening, has no vices and works for a salary. Totally undesirable!

(2) The atavistic mater whose mistress one is, to wait on his pleasure. This sort always considers every pretty woman ‘shallow,’ a sort of peacock with arrested development.

(3) Next comes the worshipper, the idolater of his wife and all that is his, to the utter oblivion of everything else. This sort demands an emotional actress for a wife. God! it must be an exertion to be thought righteous.

(4) And Anthony–a temporarily passionate lover with wisdom enough tor ealize when it has flown and that it must fly. And I want to get married to Anthony.

“What grubworms women are to crawl on their bellies through colorless marriages! Marriage was created not to be a background but to need one. Mine is going to be outstanding. It can’t, shan’t be the setting–it’s going to be the performance, the live, lovely, glamorous performance, and the world shall be the scenery. …”

–

Something tells me Gloria’s attitude, though charming, is what screwed up her marriage in the end. Ditto with Zelda and F. Scott.

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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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Jayber Crow, p. 197

Day 12.

–

As I drove the old car mercilessly toward wherever in the world we might have been going, piling one presumption on the top of another, I was saying to myself, or perhaps praying, “Why can the world not permit two lovers (any two) a moment of escape, free of all its claims, to be in love, just the two together, each the other’s all?”

What destroyed my vision and all such visions, removed me from the chambers of imagery and put me back in the world again, was the assumption (not supportable by even imagination) that Mattie would have consented to such a thing. The proposition that she might have consented was more daunting to be than the certainty that she would not have. It made me see.

Supposing she would have consented, I saw that what I would be asking of her would not be just that moment of abandon, the thought of which had so commanded me (imagination had spared me nothing of that), and not even just her love. I would have been asking for her life, for the power to change her into what could not be foreseen. If I destroyed what already existed, what would I replace it with? For something always exists before you get there with your desires and visions, and this simply had not occurred to me before in such a way that I could feel the truth of it. What did I have to offer?

If you love somebody enough, and long enough, finally you must see yourself.

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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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Jayber Crow, p. 133

I am a pilgrim, but my pilgrimage has been wandering and unmarked. Often what has looked like a straight line to me has been a circle or a doubling back. I have been in the Dark Wood of Error any number of times. I have known something of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, but not always in that order. The names of many snares and dangers have been made known to me, but I have seen them only in looking back. Often I have not known where I was going until I was already there. I have had my share of desires and goals, but my life has come to me or I have gone to it mainly by way of mistakes and surprises. Often I have received better than I have deserved. Often my fairest hopes have rested on bad mistakes. I am an ignorant pilgrim, crossing a dark valley. And yet for a long time, looking back, I have been unable to shake off the feeling that I have been led–make of that what you will.

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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery

, I hear.

In Prose Style with Dr. Allison, we learned the importance of imitation writing. Three of the essays we wrote that semester were imitation pieces. I wrote a short story imitating As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner, for example. It was about the death of the president and switched points of view all the time. It had the potential of being awesome.

Anyway, when you imitate someone’s writing, it’s not just about form. You aren’t just trying to use the same words as they or the same sentence structures. You’re taking on the mind of the writer. You adapt her philosophy.

It’s a lot of fun to do this, I tell you.

I’m trying it again right now with e.e. cummings/William Carlos Williams. I’m imitating both of them in a poem I’m writing. It’s very imagistic. Short. Lots of odd punctuation.

Why bother? Well, I realized that my best and favorite poems are ones that are different than how I usually write. I would never have written them if I were so stuck in my ways. You can’t be stuck in your ways. It’s great to have your own writing voice, but don’t let your devotion to it keep you from trying something new.

Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing
Poetry as Therapy, pt. II
Imagination
Sh*tty First Drafts
Cross-train
Go get a life
Wishing writing could change me
Install me in any profession
Tell all the truth but tell it slant–
Poetry to creative nonfiction and back again

 

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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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I love you.

I call this a prose poem. 
I also call it an apology.
–
I love you.
Okay, now say it with more feeling.
I love you?
Better, but with more passion this time.
I love you?
Close, but it’s missing something. Say my name.
I love you, Caitlyn.
Say it slower though, like you mean it.
I loooovvee yooo—
Not that slow!
I…love…you…Caitlyn.
Better, but it’s still not right. Hmm. Call me something else—call me “babe.”
I love you, Babe.
Try “baby.”
I love you, Baby.
Maybe it’s what you’re wearing. Can you put something else on?
[In a hat.] I love you.
Now you look ridiculous. Say it to me over dinner tonight.
[Over dinner tonight.] I love you.
What if you were holding a ring?
[Holding a ring.] I love you.
God, that’s still not right. Someone get this guy a baby!
[With a child.] I love you.
Hmm. Take me on vacation; tell me then.
[Clinking glasses.] I love you.
Now say it while you kiss me!

Mm mmuvf mooph.

Are you trying at all?
I LOVE YOU!
You don’t have to shout it! Geez.
. . .  
You don’t love me at all, do you?
Bitch.
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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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And eat it too.

He baked you a cake?
Yeah. Isn’t it great? I’ll never want to finish eating it.
He obviously likes you.
Well, I thought so. Before, I mean, when he gave me the cake. But I know he doesn’t.
Caitlyn, he baked you a cake for crying out loud. How could he not like you?
He’s just home-broken. House-broken. Whatever you call it. He bakes.
No guy bakes for a girl he’s just friends with.
This guy does.
I don’t believe it.
Oh, believe it. You should’ve been there when I met him.
Tell me.
We were at McConn.
Together?
No, no. I was in line, and he was in front of me.
Did you say hi?
Not right away. I just kind of stared.
At what?
His hair.
His hair?
He has really nice hair. He usually covers it with that silly hat.
But underneath it?
Really … great … hair.
[pause.]
So then you said hi?
No, I touched his hair.
You didn’t?
I did. And you know what? It’s soft. Just like you’d expect it to be.
You’re joking, right? You just went up and touched his hair.
I wish. I asked first.
That’s a little better.
I said, “You have really great hair. Can I touch it?”
Oh, Caitlyn, that’s hilarious! What did he do?
He leaned over and let me touch it.
Aww.
The rest is history.
Then he likes you?
Not exactly.
You just said the rest was history, like it’s the end of the story. So it’s not?
Well, that was a month ago. So much has happened.
Like what?
The date.
You went on a date with him?
Sort of.
Tell me!
It was nothing. We just watched a movie at his apartment.
Alone?
Well, yeah alone. It was a date … I think.
You mean you don’t know?
It seemed like a date. He flirted.
Yeah?
And he walked me back to campus.
Did he try to hold your hand?
No.
Then it wasn’t a date.
He could be a prude.
Yeah, Caitlyn, get real. Did he know that you liked him? On the date, I mean.
Oh yeah, it was pretty clear. Lots of signals.
But he didn’t hold your hand?
Nope.
Then he doesn’t like you.
I told you.
But there’s more, isn’t there?
Well, that happened two weeks ago, so yeah there’s more.
What next?
He called me.
He didn’t!
The next day. He called me just to talk.
Oh, guys never do that.
They don’t.
Surely he must like you.
I thought he did. When he called me, I was sure of it.
Then what changed?

Well, he gave me the cake.

Right.

He gave me the cake Thursday, then yesterday we talked. We DTR’d.

Defined the relationship. Got it.
I told him I liked him. I told him I liked his hair and his smile and the way he says his vowels.
Then how’d he respond? What’d he say?
He said, “Huh.” He just brushed it off, like it was nothing.
That doesn’t mean anything.
Of course it does. It means everything.
[pause.]
So are you sad?
Kind of.
What’re you going to do with the cake?
Eat it, I guess.
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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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Creative Writing: Untitled

Yes, a preface: I can’t title this, because if I did, it’d be really cheesy. It’d probably be something like The Words Didn’t Come or He’s Perfect. Oh barf. 
Here’s the thing about writing fiction: it’s fiction. Ha, it’s not true. But in some regards, it is true. I can’t write something that doesn’t have some truth in it, or something I’ve seen in real life, etc. But you all are going to read it and think that it’s absolute truth. I know you, audience; I know some of you will. You’ll say the “she” is me and the “he” is Nathan. And you’ll write some stupid comment saying either “aww” or “oh barf.” 
So just read it as fiction. And don’t leave any awkward comments.
-Lauren
–

She clutched her mug. She took a sip. Lukewarm coffee. She set the mug down. Pause. She took another sip. Her friend asked her, “What’s he like?” She thought. But couldn’t answer. The words didn’t come. She knew in her head. But she couldn’t say it. 

She couldn’t say how much she loves the way he cuts his hair; the way he dresses; the way he smiles at her; the way he plays the drums on her arm; the way he talks more sentimentally at night than in the day; the way he tastes like beer; the way he pronounces her name; the way he laughs when he tells stories; the way he rambles on …; the way he cares about what she cares about; the way he’s over the top; the way he’s just enough; the way his smell clings to her clothes after they’ve hugged goodbye.
When she’s asked, she cannot answer. Not how she should. “He’s perfect,” she says. And leaves it at that.
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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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The Phantom Tollbooth, pp. 118-119

“No one paid attention to how things looked, and as they moved faster and faster everything grew uglier and dirtier, and as everything grew uglier and dirtier they moved faster and faster, and at last a very strange thing began to happen. Because nobody cared, the city slowly began to disappear. Day by day the buildings grew fainter and fainter, and the streets faded away, until at last it was entirely invisible. There was nothing to see at all.”

“What did they do?” the Humbug inquired, suddenly taking interest in things.

“Nothing at all,” continued Alec. “They went right on living here just as they’d always done, in the houses they could no longer see and on the streets which had vanished, because nobody had noticed a thing. And that’s the way they have lived to this very day.”

“Hasn’t anyone told them?” asked Milo.

“It doesn’t do any good,” Alec replied, “for they can never see what they’re in too much of a hurry to look for.”

“Why don’t they live in Illusions?” suggested the Humbug. “It’s much prettier.”

“Many of them do,” he answered, walking in the direction of the forest once again, “but it’s just as bad to live in a place where what you do see isn’t there as it is to live in one where what you don’t see is.”


“Perhaps someday you can have one city as easy to see as Illusions and as hard to forget as Reality,” Milo remarked.

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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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Creative Writing: In Theory

Whenever I write fiction or creative nonfiction for my blog, I feel the need to preface it. So here I go.

I want to call this an outline. I have a concept for a story, but this is how far I got. It’s kind of a character sketch, kind of not. I haven’t decided who the girl in the story is – if she even needs an identity. Well. I’m digressing. Just read:

–

He took a sombre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had read into her. (This Side of Paradise, pp. 105-106)

She only liked Alex in theory. She liked the way he might have looked if he dressed the way she wanted him to. She liked the way he would take her out to her favorite restaurant and order her favorite wine and laugh at all her jokes and hold her hand by dessert. She liked how he would walk with her through the woods behind her house, down a path that didn’t really exist, and kiss her for the first time under the brightest moon she could imagine. She liked him for all of that, but Alex didn’t do any of those things. He didn’t even know how she spelled her name, much less her favorite wine.

Besides, she was with Sean and he had done all of those things, except that he wasn’t much fun to daydream about. Because when he takes her to her favorite restaurant, he orders her favorite wine without asking first, he laughs at her jokes but expects her to laugh at his, and he holds her hand from the appetizers to the chocolate cake. And when they walk down through the woods behind her house, the moon isn’t bright enough to keep her footing – she slips, but he catches her.

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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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Jayber Crow, p. 54

I said, “Well,” for now I was ashamed, “I had this feeling maybe I had been called.”

“And you may have been right. But not to what you thought. Not to what you think. You have been given questions to which you cannot be given answers. You will have to live them out–perhaps a little at a time.”

“And how long is that going to take?”

“I don’t know. As long as you live, perhaps.”

“That could be a long time.”

“I will tell you a further mystery,” he said. “It may take longer.”

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Lauren is a college graduate with degrees in journalism and writing. This summer she is westward bound to Seattle, Washington, in order to pursue graduate school ... and good coffee.

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