Pre-Christmas Reflections

Is it really almost Christmas already? I think I say that every year. Honestly though, the past few weeks have whizzed right by. And I'm also at the point where I can say that the past few years seem to have whizzed right by, too. Just in case you haven't picked up on it yet in any of these posts, I am one of the most secretly sentimental 22-year-olds I know. Fittingly so, I find it nearly impossible not to be in a near-constant reminiscing state of mind-- especially on Christmas. (I wonder whether my tendency to over-analyze and over-sentimentalize everything in painstaking detail is the the mark of a writer's mind, or insanity. Or both.)

I remember my childhood Chrismases pretty fondly like anybody would. They had all the right elements: presents under the tree, seeing [almost] all of my cousins, endless amounts of chocolate, etc. Indeed, Christmas is experienced in its purest form when we're children, when it consists only of toys, food, and fun. There's no stress or drama yet; that privilege is reserved for the adults (unless you're like Charlie Brown: wise beyond your years).

But of course, when the obligations and conflicts that the holidays create start piling up, the pure joy gets slowly filtered out. That's what happened as I got older-- much of the magic started to disappear. Like any child on the verge of adolescence, I lost my faith in Santa Claus, realizing that Christmas presents were not mysterious gifts from the North Pole, but the direct result of my parents' hard work and everyday sacrifices.

Coupled with that was my falling away from the Church. It became harder to sing songs like "O Holy Night" at Mass when I couldn't appreciate them on a deeper religious level like I was supposed to. I wish I was more of a believer, not because I'm "supposed to" (thank goodness my family doesn't force religion upon any of us), but because I'd probably get more out of Christmas. (I'm not a full-out atheist, but I'm doubtful that God exists, if that makes any sense.)

But hey now, don't get any ideas-- I promise I'm no Scrooge. If anything, all of us are surrounded by Scrooges these days, what with the neverending talk of the recession and uncertain times. Life isn't easy, but I'm just grateful that my family and friends are alive and okay. We have a roof over our heads. My parents still have their jobs. I have a job. Life is tough, but at least we have life. That might seem like a 52-year-old's way of looking at the world rather than a 22-year-old, but I guess I'm an old fogey.

Most importantly, I don't need dozens of glittery, sparkly presents to enjoy myself, or else I'd be buying into the whole holiday sham. I see through the facade of our gift-obsessed culture and I refuse to get lost in it. I do like getting gifts-- who doesn't?-- but I don't need a gift to verify Christmas (and I'd much rather give them). That might sound hopelessly cliche, but a lot of people still don't get that.

Recent years have also brightened my holiday season like never before, ever since being lucky enough to share it with someone special in my life. Some of my favorite memories of our relationship are from Christmas activities and events that we experienced together: making gingerbread houses in the Italian Kitchen at Villanova, visiting the Rockefeller tree, attending and hosting holiday theme parties. "Merry Christmas Darling" by the Carpenters sums up my feelings pretty accurately at the moment:

I've just one wish
On this Christmas Eve
I wish I were with you
I wish I were with you.

I never thought twice about all those melancholy Christmas songs until I was in love, of course. And yet the hurt of missing a significant other is also something to be grateful about-- I'd rather have her to miss than no one at all. But for now, I'll have to be content with listening to the Chipmunks' "Christmas Don't Be Late," making a vanilla pudding pie, and putting up a few last decorations with my mother. Merry Christmas, readers.

And Now a Word From Our Sponsors

So apparently I'm completely inept with certain aspects of Blogger.

Scroll down and you'll find my "Kooky Christmas" post that I just published today, underneath the "Missing the Rush" post from last week (they're marked under the same date). I began the Christmas entry as a draft last Thursday, so it retained the Thursday December 10 timestamp and I can't seem to get rid of it. After numerous tries, I have concluded that the date cannot be changed to the actual date of publication, i.e. today.

If anyone knows how to fix this, or wants to reassure me that I'm not going totally insane, please provide enlightenment-- and a kitten-- if possible.

Is it me, or was Xanga way easier than this?



EDIT 12/22/09: Problem has been fixed thanks to my brainy other half. And this kitten:
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Christmas Songs: The Kookier, The Better

It's the holiday season, and you know what that means. Chesnuts roasting on an open fire? Herald angels singing? Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men?

I wish. The holidays are perhaps best defined by the well-known fact that Christmas tunes are played out to no end on the radio for a period ranging anywhere from 4-6 weeks. New York City's own 106.7 Lite FM "got an early jump this year" (they proudly said it themselves) by beginning the musical showcase just a few days before Thanksgiving. Not surprisingly, at this point I've nearly memorized Lite FM's entire Christmas playlist, since the radio remains my faithful companion throughout the workweek.

Thus, being an amateur expert of holiday music (translation: having been exposed to the same songs over and over again in an endless, sugary loop), I've come to notice an interesting pattern: Christmas songs are weird. On the surface level, the predictability and innocence of our favorite holiday hits is comfortably mundane. However, a closer listen to the lyrics reveals some serious "WTF?" moments. Let me care to elaborate.

"It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," Andy Williams

Mr. Williams' version of this song is, in this blogger's opinion, the #1 most overplayed Christmas song of all time. The third stanza is composed as follows:

There'll be parties for hosting / Marshmallows for toasting / And caroling out in the snow / There'll be scary ghost stories / And tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago

Ghost stories? I'm sorry, what? I don't know about you, but if I had tried scaring my younger siblings and cousins with spooky tales of the macabre before sitting down to dinner, then I would've received an ass-whooping. Let's save the ghost stories for Halloween, people. (Except A Christmas Carol. Dickens, you're excused... this time.)

"Santa Claus is Coming to Town"

Typical happy, jolly holiday fare, right? Wrong. Who can forget this iconic line:

He sees you when you're sleeping / He knows when you're awake / He knows if you've been bad or good / So be good for goodness sake!

With these words, Santa Claus is officially outed as the world's most talented stalker. Furthermore, one couldn't possibly be good for goodness's sake while knowing that Santa remains ever-vigilant. Good luck falling asleep tonight, kids.

"Christmas Tree," Lady Gaga
Okay, maybe this one isn't a classic (yet). But there's just too much pleasure in listening to Gaga make no effort to be discreet in her innuendo-filled Christmas number (and too much pleasure in me getting to write about it).

Light me up put me on top, let's falalalalalalalala

Unless the star or angel atop the tree is actually talking to us, I believe something highly sexual is going on here, and it doesn't involve caroling.

Ho ho ho, under the mistletoe / Yes, everybody knows / We will take off our clothes / Yes, if you want us to we will

Like I always said, nudity and Christmas go together like peanut butter and sushi.

You, oh, oh, a Christmas / My Christmas tree is delicious / Oh, oh, a Christmas / My Christmas tree is delicious

Personally, I've never tasted a Christmas tree before, nor do I know anyone who has (unless we are referring to my grandmother's delicious tree-shaped sugar cookies). Therefore, I can only conclude that it is a metaphor for the female ge-- oh, you know.


These are some of the wackier moments in holiday song history, and they're just a few of many. Now if you'll excuse me, the responsibilities of adulthood and Gloria Estefan's spicy rendition of "Let it Snow" on Lite FM await me.

(Feel free to add your own kooky holiday lyrics in the Comments section.)

Missing the Rush

It's hard to believe that an entire semester at my alma mater has come and gone without me being there to experience it. My girlfriend, also a recent graduate, likens the beginnings of post-grad living to an ongoing summer vacation, minus the blisfully warm weather of course.

According to many frantic Facebook and Twitter updates from my undergrad friends, today is Reading Day at Villanova. Reading Day is the sacred, lone free day in between the last day of classes and the first day of final exam week that students are given to use or abuse at their own will.

While I've always considered myself a pretty serious student, I can confess without shame that I was never really the type to utilize Reading Day to its full potential. Rather than waking up at 7 AM and squeezing my brain dry all day long in front of my laptop, I instead chose to treat Reading Day like any college Sunday: sleep late. Eat an intensely satisfying breakfast at noon. Think about the workload that lies ahead for a few hours before finally hauling it over to the library. Chat with fellow library prisoners. Buy a snack. Sit down and get to work. By the time all of that is said and done, it's already 10:00 PM. Crap. Perhaps this wasn't the smartest or most responsible way to go, but it's how I worked.

Who knew that it'd all be over one day? Of course I knew, but it just seemed so far off in the distance back when I was gulping down cans of Redbull while cramming mozzarella sticks down my throat in an effort to produce a history paper as a solitary, sleep-deprived sophomore. My study habits vastly improved during junior & senior year when I finally realized that working in one's dorm room or apartment is not conducive to productivity in the slightest. Thus, the library became my place of both solace and socialization, and perhaps that's why I miss it so much.

Yes, I said it. And I know what you may be thinking: What kind of weirdo would honestly miss the sterility of fluorescent lights, the graffiti etched into the wood of decades-old cubicles, and the feeling of being doomed to a finals week-related death? Well, I definitely don't miss those things. And I cerainly don't lament the loss of agonizing over each and every word of whatever essay or article I'm in the midst of composing, because, well, I still do that. Oops.

What I find myself strangely feeling a fondness for is the all-out "rush" of the end of a semester. Sure, bitching and moaning about your workload sucks, but it's lot more bearable when you can do it as a collective unit. The shared sleeplessness and suffering caused by a 10-page English paper also brought about feelings of comraderie amongst classmates. We were all such different students and individuals, but for at least a few days (or weeks) we all stood on common ground. Working on an assignment took on a kind of epic meaning, with everyone up against "The Man" that was Academia. Some of my best work was churned out during the last days of a semester, and some of the best discussions I ever had at school took place then too: in the 24-hour library lounge at 5 AM, just when the birds began to chirp, and when consciousness became increasingly ambiguous.

And how sweet it felt to be finished with it all! Clicking the print button, stapling a paper together, and bolting with it flapping in my hands against the wind to a class halfway across campus about to begin in thirty seconds is something I'll never have back again. Knowing that I would soon be traveling back home to New York to a decorated apartment and a family eager to see me was a comforting thought-turned-soon-to-be-reality as well. In short, surviving the rush made Christmas and winter break all the merrier.

Is it true that we always want what we don't have? I don't want to believe that. But as grateful as I am to have a decent job, loving family, and a strong relationship, I can't help feeling at this time of the year that I'm missing out on something back at school... even if it is those blinding library lights.

That's What Friends Are For?

About two weeks ago I had to make a quick trip to the pharmacy just a few blocks away from where I work. Feeling a cold coming on, my objective was to purchase a box of tissues, Zicam Vitamin C drops, and copious amounts of Tylenol. As I gazed at the tissue box mountain in the corner of the store carefully contemplating which brand to choose, a little old lady approached me.

If this sounds liked an all-too-cliche expression to utilize for my description-- well, it really isn't. The woman before me barely reached the five foot tall mark (five feet short?). She stood hunched over with a cane in her left hand and a shopping basket in her right. Pointing her cane at a row of sky-blue colored boxes, she looked at me and said in a raspy Brooklyn accent, "The Puffs are on sale, ya know."

Although I consider myself a fairly streetwise New Yorker-- I've mastered a "subway scowl" that successfully creates a facade of toughness, if not the illusion that I'm sufferring from lockjaw-- there is always the occasional internal freakout session that occurs when a stranger starts talking me up. But this little old lady seemed harmless enough. "Oh, really?" I replied.

"Yeah, ya gotta pick up one of these circulars at the front to get the good stuff," she said, holding up her basket, the bottom of which was lined with multiple sheets of coupons.

I grabbed a box of Puffs. "Thanks," I told her.

"They're 99 cents!" she said.

"Wow," I replied, immediately feeling a bit silly after the utterance left my mouth. But I looked back at the pile and noticed that the other brands were $2 and $3 apiece. Any embarrassment instantly evaporated. "Thank you," I told the old woman.

"No problem. Have a good one," she said, turning around. But before she headed back up the aisle, she added "Have a good blow!"

Now, I rarely laugh out loud in public when I'm unaccompanied by a friend or family member, but this case was an exception. Regardless of whether or not the woman knew what she said had sounded like to the outside observer, I cracked up while walking to the cashier, and was still forcing back a smirk during my wait in line. As I was about to pay, the little old lady brushed by me again on her way out the door. "Take care," she said, but not without adding "The Puffs are 99 cents, right?" to the cashier. Any good bargain-hunter has to be sure of herself.

The cashier, a gothy-looking woman only visible from the waist up behind the counter, responded "Actually, they're 88 cents today."

A twentysomething hipster with a fauxhawk and thick-rimmed glasses emerged from behind me (this is Williamsburg, don't forget). "Wait," he said, in a slow, deep bass voice. "Puffs are only 88 cents?" Before anyone could answer, he was bolting to the back of the store to scale the tissue box mountain.

I laughed out loud for a second time. "Told ya so, gotta ask about these things!" the little old lady said. I told her thanks again as Goth Woman rang up my purchases. Halfway out the door, she looked back and said "Sure. What're friends for?"

The ten minutes or so that this older woman and I were in contact with one another was certainly not enough time to create a lifelong, life-altering friendship. But it's funny how a single act of concern about something as trivial of tissues stuck with me (as well as the inherent comedic nature of the situation). I don't know if I'll ever see her again, but I do know I'll be retelling this story again. You know what they say about laughter being the best medicine? Here's my spin on that classic maxim: an anecdote is the best antidote.

And now, I end this entry with a bundle of kooky kat quadruplets. Enjoy.

Aimless Navigation: Wandering a Lost Digital Landscape

AOL Instant Messenger (more commonly and fondly known as AIM) is collecting dust. Since chat functions were built directly into popular sites like Facebook and Google (via Gmail's)-- and also since Twitter took over the world of social media-- AIM is becoming more and more obsolete (and so is AOL). There's no need for an AIM away message on your laptop all day when you can instead simply send out a new tweet, informing your entire fan base (if you're lucky to have one) where you are and what you're doing, if you choose to use Twitter for that purpose.

I remember how magical AIM was back in 1999 when I created my screen name and signed on for the first time. The concept of instant internet communication through IMs, compared to the waiting game of sending and receiving emails, literally blew my 7th-grader mind. Over the years, AIM became far more than a communication tool; it strengthened existing friendships and provided a safer, less awkward way of connecting with my numerous teenage crushes. (Whether or not all that hard work IM-flirting paid off is an entirely different story.) The point is that AIM signified a social revolution for my generation, and its gradual disappearance feels strange and different to me. But the times, they are a-changin'.

Both AIM and Xanga (one of the earlier weblog communities) played a crucial role in my high school social life while growing up in the early 2000s. As an outlet for venting about the woes of adolesence, my Xanga page was both a blessing and a curse. How could someone say so much yet so little at the same time? It's easy when you have an audience of teenagers eager and willing to read and comment, reassuring that all those empty words weren't for nothing.

Actually, the act of posting to my Xanga page as a 17-year-old was not unlike my behavior as a 2-year-old, right after my parents brought my twin brothers home from the hospital: there was a lot of jumping up and down, banging on our cookware with a large rubber spoon, screaming "Look at me! Look at me!" In other words, talking (or shrieking, rather) merely for the sake of being noticed. As high schoolers, our emotionally/sexually frustrated selves sought to be recognized and appreciated just as much as a jealous older sibling. We craved connection without the risk and fear of rejection, and the safety net of the web was there to catch us when we fell.

Let me get one thing straight: I don't regret having a Xanga, because I would have suffocated even more than I already was without one. It's also a hoot laughing at my saptastic, angst-ridden entries (and also embarrasing, but mostly endearing). But while Xanga and AIM did the trick, sometimes I wonder what my high school experience would have been like if sites like Facebook and Twitter had existed. Part of me wonders how easy it would have been to stay in the loop about friends, photos, parties and crushes. Perhaps I wouldn't have felt so isolated from my peers. Maybe I could have found an online community to come out to before the pressure and pain of lingering secrecy did me in.

On the other hand, I probably would've grown up too quickly. There's no doubt that my parents certainly would not have approved of their 14-year-old daughter's membership on one or more social networking sites. I'd probably feel the same too about my own kids-- I already find myself gasping and tsking at profiles of junior high schoolers on Facebook. (A minimum age requirement of 18 would be safest, but it's just too easy for anyone to get around that by lying.)

I'll never know how my life may have turned out if I'd been sucked into the Twitterverse at an early age. Despite being perptetually "in the know," it's quite possible that I wouldn't have felt any less lonely. What happens when you flip through the TV listings on a Sunday afternoon? There are about a thousand channels, yet nothing's really on (until you thankfully come across a rerun of your favorite show). A Facebook friend list isn't too different. Out of 860 faces, I can count the best and truest on one hand.

Thoughts on a Thanksgiving Eve

Weird. For the first time in four years, I wasn't on a Bolt Bus or Amtrak train from Villanova headed back to New York for Thanksgiving.

Instead, I was already here. For the past six months, I've been sweating it out and scraping by in the real world since that pesky little thing called graduation. (Wait, has it really been six months? Shit.)

Having graduated, something's definitely missing this year. The annual journey home for the holiday had a certain warmth to it, and I'm not talking about the grossly overheated Amtrak cars. Eager dreams of food, family and time off from class while in transit have become a ritual-turned-memory left over from the magic of college. (Insert a lengthy, collective sigh from the Class of 2009 here.)

Then again, this first ever post-grad Thanksgiving is like a return to normalcy more than anything-- it isn't too different from most other Turkey Days in my life. Aside from those four golden years on the Main Line, PA, I never had to do much traveling to get to the feast. Thanksgiving was always a Brooklyn thing-- not a huge change from our daily Brooklyn life.

Thus, college Thanksgivings were special, such that they turned my idea of home into a sought-after place of relaxation and comfort. Whereas these days, being at home is constant and familiar. I'm not saying that the holiday fuzziness has totally evaporated (obviously I love my family very much). Rather, it's just assumed a different form. Or I'm just getting older.

Given the situation, I told myself I would make an effort to try something different this year to spice things up a bit. After much thought, the best I came up with was to contribute to the Thanksgiving meal itself. My decision: bake a cheesecake.

Actually, there was no baking involved whatsoever. Thanks to the wonders of pre-constructed crust, Cool Whip, cream cheese, sugar, lemon juice and a refrigerator, I was able to concoct a delicious and oven-less dish. The recipe was no stranger to me, having recently cooked up (but not literally!) the no-bake dessert with my other half just a few weeks ago. But who knew that the process would be slightly more difficult the second time around? Thanks to my top-notch lack of coordination, some sugar cascaded in a snowy-white avalanche onto the table, and later the entire Cool Whip/cream cheese mixture almost flew out of the bowl, narrowly missing the floor. And so I learned the hard way that the duo is a powerful tool in the kitchen, and should be utilized whenever possible.

Nevertheless, my hungry relatives will be blown away by the taste and sass of my sugary-sweet creation. Who needs to know that I stole the recipe from a Weight Watchers-ish web site? A BB original it shall be. And besides, I deviated from the original by adding a secret ingredient: mini chocolate chips (gasp!). And alright, maybe that's not so secret, but they're pretty well-immersed within the gooey cheesy center if I do say so myself.

Tomorrow's agenda is not unlike that of previous Thanksgiving mornings in my house, and you know what? That's totally fine, and I didn't need a cheesecake to tell me that (although it sure doesn't hurt). The plan falls along these lines: wake up. Watch the Macy's parade. Watch the National Dog Show. Realize that it's 2 PM and I'm still in my pajamas and "dinner" is in an hour. Throw on some clothes, head over on the bus to whichever family is hosting dinner. Eat. Pass out. Get up, eat some more. Repeat as much as needed. Perfection.

Happy Thanksgiving, residents of the blogosphere.

WWW: Writers' Workshop Wrap-Up

Six weeks have come and gone. Now that my writing class at Gotham is finally finished, I'm left with a number of afterthoughts.

1) My instructor, Cullen, was smart, witty, and likeable. This might not sound too impressive, but come on-- the guy spent three and a half years in a Korean prison for smuggling hasish when he wasn't much older than I am (and directly led to his 1st published memoir). He had stories to tell and a fun personality, which made it much easier to drag myself to class at 7 PM on a Monday night. (I had also been expecting an air of pretentiousness coming from these Gotham instructors, but I didn't get any of that from him.)

2) The class was a wee bit overpriced. The initial cost was $295, but they tack on a $25 "registration fee" which brings the grand total to $320. The good news is that if I ever want to take another class, I get $30 off as a returning student (and an additional $30 off if I were to sign up before a certain date). But yes, this was no minor investment for a recent college grad living on a budget.

3) The experience wasn't what I expected it to be. The class wasn't a true "workshop" such that our writing assignments weren't exactly, well, workshopped. Each week, a number of us read our pieces and listened to reactions from our classmates and instructor. But this feedback primarily consisted of comments that began with "Well, I liked it because..." or "It was good because..." etc, etc. In other words, everyone routinely refrained from saying overly negative things, and I wasn't going to go ahead and be the asshole to do it first. While it was definitely reassuring to hear praise about my work, more constructive criticism would have been beneficial. Then again, this was only a six-week-long intro level course, and from what I've seen on the website, it appears that it's the ten-week-long class that follows the traditional workshop format.

4) Attendance was choppy, which was disheartening. During the first three sessions, we had a full house of 12 students plus the teacher. For Week 4, only five of us showed, which I attributed to the Yankees/Phillies Word Series game going on that night. But Weeks 5 and 6 resulted in similarly low numbers, and that's when I knew that people had lost interest. I don't understand why anyone would fork over $300+ for a writing-intensive class and then not show up to half of the sessions. Then again, these people were older adults in their upper 20s, 30s, and 40s and clearly had money that they were willing to spend. Still, if I were in the same position I doubt I'd waste my own money like they did. (On the plus side, the small crowd did contribute to a more intimate setting.)

5) I don't regret taking the class. Overall, it did exactly what I initially wanted it to do: get me writing. The in-class prompts and weekly assignments forced me to pick up a pen and paper (or keyboard and monitor) and put my thoughts into words within a given amount of time. I also frequently read my work out loud, a huge confidence booster for somebody as painfully shy as I used to be. A lazy student I was not, coming to each class and completing all of the weekly home assignments. Because of this, I probably stuck out like crazy as an overeager recent grad still mentally trapped in a world of deadlines and homework. So what though? My education isn't over yet. I hope to be back in the classroom in the near future, getting a master's in who-knows-what-ology, so I've got no problem being in a school state of mind. Honestly, I refuse to let my brain waste away.

So that's the rundown. I've spoken with several friends who were either interested in or had some past experience with Gotham, so hopefully this assessment contributes to what current, former or future students have to say as well. And now that I've got my Monday nights back, I'm really hoping to devote more time and energy to this little blog of mine, because I think I've been neglecting it to a degree. Which means it's time to scoop up DTRW in my arms and take better care of this thing. Back to [dodging] reality for me.

Too Close for Comfort

It was a few minutes before 10:00 on Tuesday night. My parents, my brother and I were in the living room crowded around the TV finishing up an episode of Law & Order SVU. My brother had been sitting on the sofa closest to the window. He stood up and stretched, tilting his body to look outside. That's when he half-jumped back, and yelled "FIRE!"

The rest of us shrieked at the same time and bolted to the window. Huge, flickering orange flames were shooting up from an apartment window in the building just next door to us. Less than 100 feet away. On the second floor, facing us-- mirroring us.

My eyes twitched. "Shut the windows!" my mom screamed. Black smoke was spilling from the burning apartment. We all rushed to our rooms and slammed shut every window, sealing off any open nook or space. This was the most we could do. We would've called 911, but the piercing wail of sirens was already fast approaching.

While we were technically out of harm's way at this point, I feverishly threw my wallet, phone, and keys into a bag anyway. I slipped into sneakers and pulled a sweatshirt over my head. By the time I reached the kitchen window to see a crowd of residents from both buildings (including my father) on the ground below-- looking upward, open-mouthed, some pulling out phones and taking pictures-- a team of firefighters was already halfway up the fire escape.

In a matter of seconds, the image of the vicious flames was replaced by gushing jets of water. There was something strangely beautiful about it. Maybe it's because I'd never seen a house fire extinguished right in front of me before. Or perhaps I interpreted the scene metaphorically as forces of good (cool, clean water) triumphing over evil (hot, harmful fire). Either way, I thought to myself, Thank God we're four blocks away from a firehouse.

After the fire was out, the firemen began to spray down the charred apartment from the inside-out. One of the jets briefly hit our window. Good thing we'd closed them. Firefighters were also airing out the apartment directly above the scene of the fire, talking and motioning to the older couple who lived there. Even from a distance I could see that their TV was still on, tuned into Game 6 of the World Series. The Yankees were winning.

My dad, a member of the co-op board, returned from outside. He'd gathered some fast facts-- the fire was contained to the one apartment, so it didn't spread to any other units or floors. And no one was home at the time, which meant that nobody died or got hurt. A true miracle, considering how many people-- senior citizens, families, children-- could have been affected.

Gradually the crowd dispersed, and I crawled into bed. I didn't fall asleep until two hours later.

When I first saw the blaze, I'd automatically assumed the worst: people must have been trapped inside, doomed to a horrible death. And although my dad reassured us that we were too far away for the fire to reach us shortly after my brother's discovery, I had panicked nevertheless. Truth be told, the mere visual of a human structure burning makes my stomach churn.

Is this my post-9/11 syndrome showing itself, nearly a decade later? My mother is convinced, but I'm just not sure. Whether or not I bore witness to terror much worse years ago, nothing like this has ever happened so close to home during the seven and a half years that my family has lived in our co-op. Freak accidents are perhaps even more invasive than organized attacks. Originating from no pre-planned, intentionally malicious actions, they render us totally vulnerable. Our lives become fragile as glass, breakable at any instant in the hands of circumstance and fate.

For the past few days, I've had to walk past the burn marks on the side of the building next door on my way to work. The jagged blackness managed to travel up the wall to the third and fourth floors. Such remnants are a constant reminder: It could've been anyone.

If that gives me some small sense of relief, the feeling is fleeting. It could've been us.

GWW Assignment #2: Personal Essay

For this assignment, one option is to pick a random object in your house that interests you. The exercise is to flex your writing voice, to feel it out. A second part of the assignment is to add a few interesting facts/ideas to your piece. Do five minutes of research online about something prominent in your essay, and blend the information in. Keep it to around 500 words.

Throughout my life, I've had a special fondness for piggy banks. What can I say? Dropping a coin into the slot on the back of a pudgy farm animal made saving up actually fun. I even enjoyed the story behind the object, which I read about on a box of Cheerios long ago: “pygg" was actually a type of clay used for making household objects such as jars. Thus, when people began storing money in these "pygg jars," the piggy bank prototype was born.

My most current piggy bank resides on a desk in my bedroom. Like a typical specimen of its kind, it’s plump and rosy-cheeked, complete with four legs, two ears, and a curly tail. It isn't pink, but a pure, porcelain white. (You might not realize it at first, but real-life pigs come in all kinds of colors-- brown, black, gray, spotted, speckled, etc.) The nose is small and delicate, and a coy smile can be found just below it. But most notably, the snowy swine is also covered in forest green four-leafed clovers on its face and body.

Yes, this piggy bank is Irish.

If you don't believe me, just pop in a penny and an entire verse of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" squeaks out in a high-pitched whistle. As a child, this provided endless hours of entertainment for me and my brothers (as well as a lot of ear-covering for my parents). This highly musical, pigment-challenged piggy bank sat on my grandmother's nightstand for as long as I can remember her being alive.

When our time spent with her became confined to the paleness and sterility of hospital rooms, the weeks slipped into months. After what we had all been dreading eventually happened, I remember being back in her apartment with my mother. The bedroom looked like it usually did: clothes hanging up, bed made, rosary beads draped around the mirror. The clover-covered piggy bank was still there, resting on her dresser. I didn’t dare put a coin in.

My mom suggested that I keep the pig, but my first thought was how could I? One look at it and I was ripped back to childhood, eating Entenman’s banana crunch cake on Nana's sofa and watching The Lion King on VHS. But I took it anyway, accepting the accompanying tears as well.

Seven years later, the piggy bank sits on my desk, its Irish eyes as wide as ever. When I press my fingers against its smooth, cold surface, a wave of tenderness inundates me— a feeling that’s sometimes sad, sometimes happy. And yet, the smoothness soothes me. The cold brings comfort.

How natural these material possessions seem to us— they become such regular, constant parts of our lives that we often neglect their true significance. If you were to shake my piggy bank, the soft jingling noise would clearly indicate that it isn’t loaded with cash. It is, however, packed to the brim bursting with images and sounds of memories of a past stage of life, and of a life that passed.

I didn’t see it then, but I know now that people need those tangible objects— something to hold on to— because people just don’t last forever.

Gotham Writers' Workshop Assignment #1: Memoir

Each week, I'll be posting my latest writing assignment from the Nonfiction 101 class I'm currently taking at the GWW in NYC.
Feel free to comment; I value any and all reader feedback.

Prompt: Make a short list of three big realizations you’ve had in your life. Pick one and write 500 words about the event or events that led to that realization. Stretch your memory, draw out the telling details, and keep in mind the natural arc of a narrative (beginning, middle, end).

Have at it, and good writing to you.

I was five years old when I met Gina in Miss Jones's kindergarten class. We used to sit next to each other at lunch, picking the crusts off of our turkey sandwiches together. Gina could never seem to stay in her seat in class. Each time she had to use the girls' room, throw out a raggedy tissue, or claim the best easel for Art Time, she had to pass my desk on the way. And every so often, Gina would sneak up behind me and plant a tiny kiss on my cheek, breaking out into a fit of giggles before darting away quickly. I would wince and rub it off, shrieking "eww" in front of my tablemates. Why, then, did I look forward to it every day? Gina's family moved at the end of that school year. I don't remember her last name.

* * *

As I entered middle school, pool parties were all the rage if you were lucky enough to have a summer birthday. Getting invited to one felt like winning the golden ticket to a land of inflatable pool toys, infinite piles of cheeseburgers, and do-or-die chickenfights in the pool. But my eyes were not drawn towards these things. I recall standing aside from the pack, observing the swimsuits of my female friends hugging their bodies' subtle curves, my head feeling lighter than the inflatable inner tube I'd just been clinging to minutes earlier. When it was time to head inside the house to change out of dripping wet pool gear, the group always preferred to change in the same tiny, crowded bedroom. But I dissented, grabbing my clothes as fast as I could to retreat to separate chambers in search of solitude. Just before my mad dash at Laura Rogers's 11th birthday party, she and another girl came right up to me and asked “What’s the big deal? We’re all girls here!” I turned and bolted to the bathroom, locking the door shut and blocking it with my body, even though no one had followed me.

* * *

Throughout high school, I often spent hours at the riverside park just one block away after my grueling day was finally finished. One warm spring afternoon, Rebecca and I were sitting on a green bench right by the water. As we watched the shimmering crystals that danced upon the waves of the Hudson, Rebecca silently moved from the upright position to horizontal. She gently lowered her head onto my lap, stretched her legs out along the bench (one crossed over the other), and closed her eyes. I breathed short, choppy breaths, and stole a glance at her illuminated figure before continuing my steadfast gaze upon at the river.

Perhaps it was then— when the still serenity of that moment washed over me— that I knew this was, and always would, be a part of me.

Writing About Writing

I've always found that writing about writing tends to fall into self-indulgence. Even as I just begin to compose this entry, a squawky little voice in my head is telling me: "don't try to sound like you know what you're talking about too much."

Such reservations most likely stem from my perpetual awareness of what an amateur I am. Why should anybody listen to what some 22-year-old-- just a kid, really, in the grand scheme of things-- has to say?

And yet, that very question is exactly what motivates me. What do I have to say? I'll prove it to you. If another human being can connect with or derive some kind of meaning from my written word, then I know I've succeeded... mostly. (I don't believe that anyone is ever 100%, fully, truly satisfied with what they've created. Even if you're 99.9% happy, there will always be that irking 0.1%, which leaves you with two choices: cast it aside, or let it eat at you. As much as I try to pick the former, the latter often wins out.)

So here I am. This is the period in my life where I'm aspiring, hoping, dreaming that I can one day turn an interest into a career. How does anyone even begin to do this?

There's only one way I know how: cultivate. It's like taking care of a plant: unless I nurture this passion, it won't grow and develop into something greater. Letting it die would be sad, but it would be even more pitiful. And just downright lazy. (I'm no botanist, but I'm pretty sure of this.)

Thus, with my college newspaper column gone (and a circulation of 5,000+), the first step was the very blog that you're looking at right now. These past few months, DTRS has been an adequate outlet for those sporadic bursts of inspiration that bubble up in my brain. When they threaten to spill over, that's when I take up the pen and paper (err, keyboard and monitor) and get to work. While I certainly don't write in it as much as I would like-- the daily 8:30-4:30 is more draining that I initially predicted-- I'm just glad that it didn't crash on the takeoff and fizzle quickly into a failed experiment. So far, so good.

The next step: I just began a six-week "Nonfiction 101" writing course with the Gotham Writers' Workshop in Midtown Manhattan. If you're a New Yorker, then you've probably seen their little yellow newspaper kiosks interspersed on street corners around the city at some point. After 3 months to the day (eep!) as a full-time working stiff, I've felt achingly inhibited both intellectually and creatively (the true nerd actually misses being in class-- that's me). So I signed up for a course with Gotham while I could still afford it (the student loan bills start rolling in next month-- I know nothing more terrifying at the moment).

The verdict is still out. I'm the youngest person in the class, and the only recent college graduate. The "students" include five lawyers or lawyers-in-training, two therapists, and several businesspersons. Oh, and our teacher is a published author who spent three years in a Korean prison when he wasn't much older than I am now. An intimidating environment? Pardon my language, but I almost shat myself.

And yet, it felt strangely familiar at the same time. All fourteen of us sat around a rectangular table facing one another. We did a series of writing exercises pertaining to memoir and shared some of them with the class. I forced myself to raise my hand and read, because I've done this before and can do it again. Spontaneous, in-class, timed freewriting-- an activity that many find natural and liberating-- is actually my Achilles heel. (I'm the nut who thinks too much and agonizes over each and every word. Ask my girlfriend; she's seen me at my worst.) All the more of a reason, then, that I should be working on it.

As jittery as I can be, I try to remind myself that if I had allowed fear to defeat me, then I honestly wouldn't have accomplished much of anything in my life. Coming out, giving Villanova a chance, and letting myself love and be happy-- none of these would have happened. I can't even fathom the thought of a universe in which I'm still trapped in my 17-year-old body. Repression and regret got me absolutely nowhere, and the same lesson can be applied to writing: as much as writing frustrates me to no end, I'm a thousand times more frustrated when I'm not writing.

Let that be my mantra. As much as life is so uncertain at this stage, at least I've found one thing I'm absolutely sure of.

Stranger in an Unstrange Land

In May 2009, I donned a cap and gown and sealed the deal on my Villanova University undergraduate education. Four months later, I still feel as though that moment didn't quite happen.

No, I'm not crazy. Of course it happened. (Who could forget the surprise speech from Coach Jay Wright?)

What I mean is that the moment is still fresh in my past-- in our past (hi there, Class of 2009). Fresh enough such that I don't exactly feel like a graduate just yet. True, I have a job (knock on wood), but not enough time has passed to make me any more of an "adult" because of it. Simply put, I am a recent college graduate.

Therefore, when I visit my beloved alma mater-- which I have already done several times since my official exit from undergrad life-- I still feel like a student. And I have more than a few younger friends who are still blissfully caught up in college, so why would I not pay them a visit when I can? Makes sense to me.

Well, it doesn't seem to make sense to some other people. What I've discovered in the midst of this post-Villanova abyss is that even recent college grads like myself are often viewed as outsiders, foreigners, even as invaders when we reappear on the Main Line.

Example: It's a Friday night and you're in town headed to Brownies, a Villanova senior's favorite place to spend happy hour. You fork over five bucks, grab your cup and enter the bar. You're about to dash over to the buffet line before it gets ungodly long when you quite literally bump into an old buddy from the Class of '10.

Almost instantly, these few words are emitted from this person's mouth:
"What are you doing here?"

Ah. Except they really come out sounding more like this--
"What are you doing here?!"
or "What are you doing here?!"

Wow, that was awkward. This phrase is usually coupled with arched eyebrows, and a look of complete and utter confusion.

I'm sorry, but I don't understand. In the span of just a few months, has my alumna status also labeled and subsequently denounced me as a "creeper?" Is it really so strange to come back to visit more frequently than once a semester? (i.e., Homecoming) And shouldn't us recent college grads cherish these visits to our alma maters while we can, while we still have friends who go there? (Honestly, after the Class of 2011 graduates from Villanova, I won't have much of a reason to be at Main Line bars unless it's for a reunion-type event).

I'm not going to have a random acquaintance or crappy Facebook friend make me feel like a weirdo when I'm back at my school. I won't allow it. Truthfully speaking, your real friends will be thrilled to see you again, and make you feel just as welcome as you should be.

After all, wasn't it just yesterday when we were playing beer pong on a Monday night and ordering from Domino's at 3 AM? Yeah, I thought so.

Bye Bye B Express: The Current "Q"-tastrophe on the Brighton Beach line

I have a bone to pick with the MTA. That statement probably doesn't shock you in the slightest. After all, what New Yorker hasn't had a complaint about the subway system? No, I don't mean foot-long rats scampering across across garbage-littered tracks. That's nothing.

I'm talking big: service disruptions, construction, track work. One might say these things are an inevitable part of any public transit system, and that their purpose is, ultimately, progress and improvement of that system for the good of the community. And I probably would have agreed with that.

That is, until September 2009 wreaked havoc on the Brighton Beach line in Brooklyn-- home to my beloved B express & Q local trains.

Actually, it's worth noting that the problems began long before September. For months, the Avenue U and Neck Road stations on the Q have been closed due to construction. In their place popped up the oddly-named B3k shuttle bus, which originates at Kings Highway Station, making stops along Avenue U between Ocean Avenue and Gerritsen Avenue. What's silly here: 1) The B3k doesn't actually stop at either of the blocked-off stations. Ocean Avenue is as close as the bus gets to the Avenue U station (located 4 blocks away on E.16th St), and it doesn't go anywhere near the Neck Road stop. Not quite as helpful to commuters as it should be. Additionally, the local businesses around the Avenue U station in particular are probably suffering.

Anyway, here's what happened next. At Kings Highway and several other express stop stations, signs were posted explaining that there would be no B express service in Brooklyn for a period of two weeks due to ongoing track work. Thus, the B would operate on the local track with the Q. I groaned out loud when I heard the news. The morning and evening rush hours would undoubtedly be delayed to some extent. An annoyance, but at least it was temporary, right?

Wrong. Soon after the original posters were put up, new ones stated that the B express service was now being terminated until (drumroll, please) Fall 2010. Upon taking in this revision, my jaw dropped and fell to the floor, in a manner not unlike a cartoon character.

While the thought of having to wait at least a year for the B to return is just awful, what angers me more is how the MTA sneakily chose to break the news to commuters-- by, well, withholding the truth from us. Did they think that initially telling us of a "two-week service disruption" would soften the blow of a two-YEAR disruption?

That's right-- in the middle of writing this post, I logged onto the official MTA website (www.mta.info) only to discover that this massive project has now been extended a year until Fall 2011. That information sure as hell isn't printed up on any posters yet (but it is on the web site, finally).

It's infuriating, and yet there's nothing much straphangers can do but write frenetic, useless letters to local officials. Oh, and bitch about it to one another (which will certainly occur more frequently with the arrival of colder weather, while waiting endlessly for a train to come with the wind nipping at your face).

And now, here is the icing on the cake: for the past two weekends, shuttle buses have replaced the suspended Q train service from the Kings Highway to Prospect Park stations, due to-- you guessed it-- more track work. Thankfully, there are both local and express shuttles (the express zips right to Prospect Park in one stop), as well as a much-appreciated connection to the 2 train at Flatbush Avenue. But God help you if you're the poor sucker stuck on a local shuttle-- a typically quick journey on the Q becomes a hellish crawl through the middle of Brooklyn. My guess is that this weekend shuttle bus mess is going to continue indefinitely as well, just like the B express cancellation. Of course, as usual, the MTA chooses not to tell us this until whenever they feel the time is convenient. Lovely.

Thus, three major problems-- the Avenue U/Neck Road station closings, the banishment of the B express, and the weekend Q shuttles-- are occurring simultaneously along the Brighton line. In all honesty, this kind of thing would never happen to commuters living in that fancier, more expensive borough across the sea. This is more than enough to expect us to put up with, especially considering the recent fare hike (I find myself now longing for the "two dollar days," a now-golden era in NYC transportation history preceding the financial crisis). Is our money really going towards progress, or are we simply getting ripped off? I suppose that the proof is in the product. All I can say is that the "new" stations, post-construction, better be flawless in every way. Or, more realistically, they can at least shine with the brightness and beauty of modernity that characterize much of the Manhattan underground. It's the only way that anyone can endure the next two years of commuter chaos and still stay sane.

So just how much more shit will be dumped on Q/B train users this year? Stay tuned, Brooklyn. We really have no choice but to, comme d'habitude, wait and see.


[*P.S. Forgot to comment on the impeccable timing of this mess. It just couldn't have happened while I was away at school-- no, of course it had to perfectly coincidence with my current post-grad situation, i,.e. living back home and commuting 5 days a week. Ah, life has funny ways of playing tricks on us, does it not?]

9/11/2009

Amidst the horror of September 11, 2001, what I tend to remember most about the day is just how beautiful the weather was. The sky was cloudless, a near-sparkling blue. The sun was shining. The temperature comfortably hovered in the 80s. All of the ingredients for a perfect summer morning.

Today's weather was just about the opposite-- unseasonably cold, wet, gray. Any sign of summer seemed to be long gone. The wind thrashed my umbrella about wildly and sent shivers through my body. After a trip to the financial district to collect my long overdue employee ID, I trudged to work damp and crabby.

At my desk, I watched MSNBC's live broadcast of the ceremony, suddenly transported right back to the streets of lower Manhattan that I had just left. I watched face after face read name after name, realizing that this was the first time in five years that I am actually in the NYC on 9/11. Perhaps that's why I chose to watch more coverage, more clips-- both new and old-- this time around. Then again, I had to shut off the broadcast when I felt my eyes getting too wet.

I can't ever block out memories of earthquake-like rumbles, running up the West Side Highway, and thick black clouds covering the sky. I would tell you that I'm grateful I didn't see planes hit, towers fall, or people die firsthand, but it feels like I did. The footage on TV is all too familiar to me-- I lived through it. I lived. Others didn't.

I kept a copy of the NY Daily News from September 12, 2001. It's hidden deep under my bed, in an old Adidas shoebox. The cover reads "IT'S WAR" in huge fire-orange capital letters. Just a few days later, another cover read "10,000 FEARED DEAD" in that same ominous print. Just typing it out makes me twitch.

In one way, all of it still seems like a part of my not-too-distant past. But with each year that goes by, what happened feels like it belongs to another era, a completely different part of time, of history, my life. It's a strange duality. Handcuffed to history, time ticks on, life continues.

I don't really know how to properly end this entry, because there's a degree of absurdity in trying to tie this subject up with a neat little bow of closure. I could say so much about everything, but I don't know where to begin, how to put any of it in order, to where to stop.

The Myth and Magic of Summer

I can't help but feel a bit melancholy about today's date. 9/1. September 1. The first day of... fall?

Wait a minute. That's not true. Technically, summer isn't over until September 22-- a full three weeks away from now.

And yet, something about the instantaneous change from August to September puts me in the mindset that it's already fall. Or rather, that fall is on the way, even when it's still a hot and humid 85 degrees outside in New York City. Crazy, right? (Today is an exception. Oddly enough, it was chilly when I left my house for work this morning. Take 85, reverse those digits and that's what the actual air temperature was!)

If there's any scapegoat here, it's got to be that infamous back-to-school Staples commerical. You know, the one they've been playing on TV since 1999 featuring an overexcited dad, his two depressed kids, and the "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" jingle? Retailers are all too eager to mistakenly tell us that autumn is already here, and that we better stock up on school supplies, clothes, bedding-- among other material things-- before it's too late. Thus, it becomes awful hard to savor the last days of the summer season. They slowly slip away.

However, things seem to be different this year, not just for myself, but for my fellow freshly-graduated peers from the Class of 2009. For the first time in about eighteen years, many of us are not returning to school-- "no more pencils, no more books" couldn't be any truer. As long as the warm weather holds up, it'll feel like we're still on summer vacation. Not too shabby.

In all honesty, summer should be far from over, especially given this year's circumstances. For most of the Northeast U.S., June 2009 proved to be a total washout. I can only recall a total of maybe five, six days when the sun decided to make a special guest appearance to the citizens of NYC. It was gloomy, dark, depressing. Let's hope this doesn't become a pattern in the years to come.

Growing up, I tried my best to cherish the summertime as a precious, well-deserved break from the neverending chaos and stresses that the academic world imposes upon its victims-- err, students. Childhood saw many fun days at home during the summer weeks with my siblings and cousins. Field trips to various NYC parks, museums, and the beach can be attributed mostly to my father, who took on the role of stay-at-home dad for several years ("Mr. Mom" he wasn't). As I delved deeper into my teenage years and entered my twenties, summers began to be taken up by job and internship commitments, which formed an awkward taste of adulthood in my mouth. And just two summers ago, I felt myself falling deeper and deeper into something that I thought I always understood, but realized I never truly did until then. Until two very different, yet very similar bodies in orbit aligned perfectly together, bringing sense and purpose to the universe. Yes, love-- I owe that to the summer, too.

While it's strange to not be back at Villanova and already planted at my usual desk in Falvey Library, I do enjoy this new and extended version of summer I'm currently experiencing. True, I have a job, so it isn't exactly a vacation-- a fact I'm constantly aware of as I sit at yet another desk under the glare of flourescent lights. But this September, I'm going to make the most of all that's left of summer. Without papers and exams to worry about, these last few weekends at the shore and in the city, spending time with the girl from two summers past-- for she is still my summer love, past and present-- will certainly taste even sweeter.

Notes from the Underground

Anybody who's anybody knows that the New York City subway system is no ordinary place. Spend just a single day riding one of the many trains belonging to the MTA's color-coded spectrum, and you're bound to come out with at least one interesting story or two. (Or three. Or ten.)

These stories can be good: happy, cheerful, uplifting. Perhaps you had the pleasure of listening to a three-piece Mexican mariachi band play a few numbers right in the middle of the train car, complete with cowboy hats and bow ties. Or maybe you watched a seven-foot-tall tattooed punk rocker give up his seat to the pregnant woman who already had a child glued to her hand. There are many little miracles that happen underground.

Unfortunately, the subway can also bring out the ugly in New Yorkers (unless the ugly was there all along, of course). And lately, I see more and more of it.

This past summer I've witnessed a noticeably increase in the amount of nasty confrontations and hostile behavior that take place on and around the subway. These bizarre blowups happen fast-- in a number of seconds-- and they turn scary in an instant.

In the Union Square N/R/Q/W train station a few weeks ago, a white man and a black woman were arguing (I didn't see the incident that sparked the fight). He hurled the N-word at her, and she called him a "f-ng white bastard." This was all in front of the woman's daughter, who remained completely silent and couldn't have been older than ten.

Then, on the Q train, I heard a woman across the car tell a man that she would pull out a knife and start "shaking it all over, God damn it" if he brushed against her one more time. Whether or not the physical contact had been accidental, I don't know.

And today, a man began addressing an invisible opponent on the Q. Every other utterance out of his mouth was a curse word of some sort. He had a small child at his side-- the boy's feet were too short to touch the ground from his seat-- that I assumed to be his son. The man even got up at one point and attempted to open the door that separates one car from the next (which any Q train user knows are always kept locked). I could feel the droplets of sweat forming on my neck when the man suddenly exited the train at Newkirk Avenue to switch to the oncoming B express, dragging the boy behind him. The image of that kid being pulled away like a rag doll wouldn't leave my head until all traces of light disappeared, and we were swallowed up into the underground tunnel to 7th Avenue.

So what is it that makes rationality go out the window and cause subway-goers to lose control-- aside from the obvious possibility of mental illness or emotional instability?

Claustrophobia and impatience may be at work. Every day, we pack ourselves onto crowded trains, giving up personal space and privacy in exchange for a [relatively] speedy commute. All of that stored energy squished together just can't remain inert for too long. At some point it fizzes up, bubbles over and, as witnessed, explodes all over the place. Gross.

On the subway, too many human bodies become forced to do something that we're supposed to learn on Day 1 of preschool: share.

Ultimately though, as a collective community of commuting New Yorkers (how's that for alliteration?), we all have to take the train together. Therefore, play nice, or don't play at all. A conscious effort of increased self-restraint and courtesy towards our fellow straphangers may do the trick, no matter how much you want to punch out the oversized guy who's practically sitting on your leg in the seat next to you. (Then again, speaking of courteous, it would be kind if he moved just an inch over.) Or else, don't buy a Metrocard in the first place. The $2.25 fare won't be worth it.

La Nouvelle Histoire

Sometimes I wonder if it means anything that most, if not all, of my favorite works of fiction considered to be part of the "Great Books" canon, feature males as their central characters-- and were written by male authors themselves.

It's a lengthy list: Warren's All the King's Men, Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated, just to name a few. Today, I'm adding the classic Fahrenheit 451 to my collection (just finished it on the L train this morning).

Have I always inherently related more to male protagonists than females? Are men simply more interesting to read about than women? Am I grossly overgeneralizing? Can I finish this paragraph having written it entirely as a series of questions? (Nope. Ran out.)

A partial explanation: simply put, there are far, far fewer books that have been put into print starring women, told by women, written by women. Perhaps that was the most obvious answer.

But I find it somewhat shocking that most of the shiny new paperbacks I eagerly look forward to purchasing at Barnes & Noble so noticeably lack a female perspective. Even the select two or three books that have changed my way of looking at the world (and that's doesn't happen too often) contain women characters that are starkly one-dimensional.

What I mean is that fiction-- creative nonfiction, too-- is longing, begging, for the new and improved great American novel. A piece for the 21st century that tells a story never told before, in a way we've never heard before. I know that there's room out there for the woman/hero, the gay/hero, the gay/woman/hero in literaure, and there will be a day when that isn't weird or wrong.

Part of me wonders whether I'm capable of even writing the first chapter-- hell, a single page-- of my own novel. The mere thought of it gives me the jitters. I might have a better chance of winning the lottery than being the next J.D. Salinger.

At the same time, it makes the blue in my eyes burn a bit more brightly. Every kid has a dream, and a kid can dream, can't she?

Baby steps, though. Before the novel comes the novella. Before the novella comes the short story. Or the essay. (It's a lot like one of those wooden Russian dolls-- a nugget within another nugget.)

And before that?

For now-- the blog. Here's to getting started.

Musings and Memories

Was I really driving along the northern coast of France in a petit voiture with my host parents just one year ago today? (Happy Bastille Day, tous le monde.) Hard to believe, but it's true. The six weeks I spent in Rennes and then Paris last summer exist only in my mind and in photographs these days, but it's not hard to relive them. Just yesterday I walked past a sub-par and laughably overpriced crepe stand in the mall at South Street Seaport, wishing that I just a few steps away from an authentic creperie on the cobblestoned streets of Rennes. Perhaps one day I'll make the trip again... just don't know when.

I guess you could say that I did quite a bit of real world dodging more recently. In the past few weeks I've made trips to Los Angeles, Vermont and Atlantic City. I witnessed the color and chaos of a pride parade for the first time. And I've finally been exploring the NYC bar scene, an experience that was long overdue. (All of this bouncing around is probably why I nearly abandoned my newborn of a blog.)

And then the impossible, the unpredictable happened... I got hired. Yes, I have a job, and in this current state of economic insanity, I'm very grateful for it. I'll mostly be operating from behind a desk and computer, but I'm looking at this as an opportunity to learn and grow. We'll see how full-time employment pans out.

I feel like I have more to say, and much more that I owe myself to say, but alas, the working world is taking a toll on my sleeping habits. My goal is to be in bed by 11 PM tonight, so I'm signing off here. My grandma would be proud. Until next time, digital world... whenever I feel that the time is right.