The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 5

I'm watching Californication right now and thinking about my own "status" as a fictional character. I know I'd have a wider readership if I posted as myself. But tear the covers off? I'm just not ready.

I'm also reading Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington. Why do I think my stories are worth telling? Well, they're shocking - at least to me. I find myself telling them to people one at a time. One person at a time, that is. Which stories I tell depend on the person and the amount of time I have, and where and why I'm telling them (the stories) in the first place.

I met some chick the other night who was brought to my fiancé's by her boyfriend Noah. Noah was supposed to record a song - my fiancé is an audio engineer and has a recording/mixing studio in his room. Noah brought his guitar, his girlfriend Megan, and a bunch of beer. I don't drink, and I was trying to work, myself, but because he brought her, I ended up having to entertain her while the two of them smoked weed outside.

Megan offered me a beer and I found myself telling her why I don't drink, or smoke, for that matter. Sometimes I just say, "No, I'm not drinking tonight" - but for some reason, this time, I took it upon myself to describe my entire downward spiral, post-separation/intra-bedlam. Those two phases are mutually inclusive, but, I don't know if I would cite either as the cause of the other. That's...more complicated, and to be saved for another post.

Which brings me back to Californication: this guy who has one successful novel can afford a house in L.A., and, women throw themselves at him, every episode, including women who don't even recognize him as the writer of said novel. Hank Moody "exudes" sexuality. I wish I could relate to the former of those descriptors, but alas, it's the latter that's apropos. Even now, as secure in my relationship as I am, hardly a day goes by that I don't get that second-take out there - that, you know, "I'm just turning back to look for an extra second here to see if you're at all interested, because you kinda look like you could be," and I, carefully, have to not smile too blatantly, for too long. Mine is, "Shit, I see you looking at me, again, so I better look away now before you get the wrong idea...even though I like it."

Unfortunately, though, no amount of blatant "exuding" on my part has been able, tonight, to get my fiancé to detach himself from his hours-long stretching routine to come "do" me. He's OC with plenty of other D's; he spent two days cleaning his room, putting every little thing in their perfect little places, and now it's been a full day of stretching. Stretching. I wish I was stretching in writing this.

I hope getting married isn't so close to suicide as being a "permanent solution" to a "temporary problem." The solution is the part that sounds good, of course, which is why people kill themselves, or, get married. I guess it isn't funny, but those were seeming to be the two alternatives back in January when I set out to try and nab this one last guy, or, maybe just be shit out of luck and, maybe just not "do this" any more.

Well, Californication's over. I'm turning in. He's still stretching, and I'm pretty damn annoyed, but there's a bit of karmic comedy in it all. I guess I want feel wanted all the time in every way that I want. I'm a little selfish that way. What I should be is grateful. This is better than the alternatives. Either one - being dead or being alone. He does love me more than anyone I've ever been with, besides my son - and that's a pretty nice feeling.

More About the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and the Satellite Communications Engineer

The first of the new year is a time, I've noticed, for many writers, myself no exception, to ponder especially deeply about what it is they're writing about, and why they're writing. Ray Rhamey postulates at his writing blog, Flogging the Quill, "The start of the new year is often a time folks resolve to do things, sometimes differently, sometimes new, in the coming year. At the least, it's a time to reflect on where you are now and where you want to go." After my last post, I'd like to say that where I've been and where I'd like to go don't really matter - since the only Time there is is Now - but then I'd have absolutely no reason to write, whatsoever. I know I need to get off the existential soapbox and get back to writing stories. My stories are about relationships, "love", sex, and while not always true with a "capital T", they come from my own experiences and my own perspective. And writing about them is what's happening now, for me. 

I do want to make sure I watch my grammar - I think. At The Huffington Post's "Grammarly" blog, the Grammarly Editor shared 7 Grammar Mistakes we're all probably making, based on the errors found in the 300,000+ novels written this past November during National Novel Writing Month. But, from what I can tell, I don't have an issue with any of these: missing commas, run-on sentences, comma splices, comma misuse, and missing articles. But these, I'm not so sure about: definite vs indefinite article use (meticulous use of "a/an" vs "the") and redundant articles (repeating the article when unnecessary: "I want a car, a plane, a boat, a train"). I do know I use a lot of sentence fragments. Sometimes I just like to write the way I speak. I'd never use a sentence fragment in a formal paper. 

If you'd really like to see someone break the rules, read Goat by Brad Land. An author, "Matt," offers a "ruthless review" of the memoir...but it's on website called "Ruthless Reviews", so there ya go - it's their shtick. I was particularly fond of Goat. I appreciate breaking writing rules - as long as one knows he or she is breaking them. And when I break them, I do know, at least, for the most part - but I'm always worried about whether the reader knows that I know. But Brad Land gave me the permission say 'never mind - fuck you'. And I like that. Or do I? Okay - I still don't know.

However I'm writing, I still struggle a slight bit with what I'm writing about - I know what I'm writing about, and it's cool with me, but, does any body else care, and is any body even reading it? In literary agent Janet Reid's blog about writing, one of her latest posts included a question from a reader: "What the hell am I supposed to blog about?" Her answer summarily was this: Don't blog. Janet recommends facebook or twitter for aspiring writers to get their names out there. Well, I can't really do that. I can't have all my friends reading about my sex life. My friends include professors, bosses, church leaders, family, etc. So, I write under a pseudonym. It limits my audience for me to be writing memoir as it actually happens. I imagine it wouldn't matter if I were writing about childhood, or about my marriage that ended two years ago, but I'm writing about the guy I fucked yesterday (well, not today - maybe in the next post).

And why am I writing? Well, I'm not really trying to get my "name" out there; I just want my "writing" out there. I'm not interested in joining NaNoWriMo. If I were to write a novel, it wouldn't be over the course of just a month - I'm too much of a perfectionist for that. And if I do write a novel, I'll use my real name. I've considered that, actually. I've even thought of turning Adora Fallbrook into a character and writing about her in the third person, or maybe still in the first person and changing things enough so that she isn't too close to "me". I'm already doing that with my "characters", in a sense: when I write about the men I've been with, I'm not focusing so much on "who" they really "are", but on my perspective of them and the events that transpired between us. And that perspective changes all the time, so I might write something about one of them, and then my perspective changes, and so that writing is no longer "true", if it ever was, any way.

For example: I wrote about The Shakespeare Connoisseur under the assumption that he had had ulterior motives. He's an older man with money, so I called him a "sugar daddy" because he took me out to a Shakespeare play and frequently to brunch, and he had wanted to help me out with my poorly-running car. But I told him about what had happened between me and The Propane Truck Driver ("Sterling" and I had had sex and four days later he had told me he had herpes), and The Shakespeare Connoisseur, "Deniro", stopped contacting me. I therefore assumed, despite his assurances, that what he'd wanted from me wasn't just my company or to help me. I was resentful when I wrote the post about him.

But, then, I did hear from him some time later. He asked how I was doing, and I told him that I was short $1043.00 for next semester's tuition, so I was trying to decide whether or not I would continue school. Despite my fears about him, he was something of a mentor to me, and I decided to go ahead and ask him for a loan, and give him the benefit of the doubt - or ignore my prior assumption - and hope for the best. We had lunch together again, and I told him about my blog, and about my "problems" with men. He offered this as a provision for the loan: that I maintain no more than two relationships with men at any given time, and keep him abreast of my situation.

I had, prior to that, joined a group for "sex and love addicts", and it was suggested to me there to go through a "withdrawal" period and not be with any men. So that's what I was attempting to do. But, then, like a little girl from her dad, I got "permission" from Deniro to see not just one man but two. "Who will they be?" I thought. Well, that same day I was entreated by both #1, The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and #29, The Satellite Communications Engineer/Composer, so there I had my two. I've spent most of my time with #1, with #29 waiting, asking me frequently when we might meet. And I'd planned on meeting with him today - but I have #1 in my house at the moment. And #1 watched my son for me yesterday while I took a friend to see her neurosurgeon, because she walks with a walker and doesn't drive, for 6 hours. So now my conscience is weighing heavily upon me, as it is wont to do.

Also, speaking of conscience - I hadn't the slightest inkling of it when I gave #25 my blog url. Interestingly enough, I've also given it to #1 and #29, in the interest of "honesty". I thought #25 might like to comment on my writing, and see more "in depth" the nature of what I thought to be my problem. Only, my mind somehow completely omitted the fact that I'd written about #25 in not the best light. In a terrible light, rather.

He was terribly offended, naturally. It brought the end of the relationship. I'm to mail him his check for repayment and his Ron Paul book (he was educating me in politics), and that's that.

So...back to the "why" of my writing - I had originally begun writing as a way to analyze my relationships and sex/love life, but chose a blog format so that I could share it with "the world". Of course, I'm writing from my own perspective. Perhaps, as an exercise both in creative writing and in humanitarianism, I should write from one of their perspectives soon.

Now that'll be interesting.

Oh, and PS: I remembered another guy to add to the list. He's The Christian Airplane Mechanic. I just went over to his house a few times and we went shopping at Home Depot together once. It was at another time when I was trying not to date, and so I maintained the relationship at the platonic level. But I definitely need to include him. I can't leave any one out. I just won't give him the url. I don't want to lose any more friends. But oh well. That's being a memoirist in real time for ya.

Happy New Year!

Ramblings on the Writing Process

It has been hard for me to get back into writing after I wrote my last post. I feel like my writing was sub-par. All over the place. Incoherent. Timeline unclear, jagged, going backward and forward with awkwardly long, frantic sentences. And the content itself was a bit...jarring. Overwhelming. Sickening. I couldn't find the wherewithal to keep going.

I've noticed that my writing wavers like a stick on an old-fashioned metronome, ticking back and forth between writing for catharsis and change -- and writing just to write. On the former side, my writing suffers with my own suffering: I'm charged with emotional recall; I don't care how the words fall off my fingertips and slap themselves onto the screen, just as long as they get out of me and onto it. On the other side, however, I couldn't "care" less "about" "what" I'm writing, so long as I'm writing -- but, even more importantly, writing well. Once in a long while, the ticker slows to stop for a moment, and I, suddenly aware, am suspended, poised in the middle between "meaning" and its signposts, between "content" and the characters that I'm using to represent it. Here is where I hope to find my writing identity.

The purpose of my blog is two-fold, and I find it difficult to stay in balance. One, I'm blogging things (or facts, events) that have "happened" in my life - focusing most intently on the past two years - as a means to prevent things similar from occurring. These things are ones that make me go "Ugh". But I'd much rather the things make me go "Ugh" than the writing itself (writing itself being the second half of the purpose of this blog, of course). My last post stopped my writing process in its tracks, because, that time, both the content and its form offended me terribly. I didn't like what I wrote or how I wrote it.

Here is a brief summary of my blog's "content", or the "what" of it: After watching my relationship with my husband crumble to the ground after ten years of steady erosion and a final heave-ho, I sifted through boyfriends, one-night stands...and before I knew it, was buried under a heaping, stinking pile of men. I enlisted myself in a program for "sex and 'love' addicts", thinking that my problem may be my "powerlessness" (i.e., my seeming inability to say "no" to any man who expresses any interest in me whatsoever). The founder of this program suggests, in his book written for one who identifies as a "sex and 'love' addict", to write a "relationship inventory". This inventory's purpose is to help one identify specific actions in order to discern patterns of behavior with the goal of unearthing motives (or seeing what one "gets" from people s/he has "used"...seeing what the "pay-off" is). Then, one should be able to see how selfish, dishonest, and afraid one has been and acknowledge how one has hurt others with his/her self-seeking motives and actions/patterns. This awareness, along with a surrender to a "power greater than oneself" and a willingness to "let" the behaviors and their propelling motives "go", is supposed to get one to make restitution/amends for harm done and aid other "suffering" "sex and 'love' addicts" which will, inherently, cause one to cease acting out in the patterns of behavior that created the events that made him/her go "Ugh" in the first place. And the inventory's purpose is fulfilled. Boom. Done.

When I found out I should write about all my relationships in order to "recover", I was pretty excited. I love writing! And a former writing professor of mine is writing a blog about his experience with cancer and its treatment (he also writes about bicycling across the U.S.). He also blogs about the writing process itself. It's very inspiring. So, I decided to turn my inventory into a blog so that I could use it both as my motivation to "change" as well as, perhaps one day, material for an actual memoir that I'll publish and have people maybe even read someday!

But...my very influential professor has helped me to see that how one writes is just as important as what one is writing about (along with the books I read in his autobiography-themed lit class in college). His writing appears to be in balance between its content and its characters of representation. It's not just a bunch of emotional rambling that pays no mind to the words being used...nor is it composed of meticulously placed words on a screen without any "real" content behind them.

In contrast, my metronomablog keeps ticking between the two. Here are a few insights I had gleaned about myself last night, before I started to care about how I was writing. I'm not going to do any editing, so you can see a true example of what my content is really like when I pay no mind to characters (as opposed to the above writing, which I've spent seven full hours editing!):



1. I get "high" from a man's attention. My heart beats fast. My body gets hot. My breathing is labored. It's a surge of adrenaline. I like it.

2. I get bored after the "high" is gone. I'm not actually interested in the hard "relationship" stuff. I tried that all ready, and it didn't work. Plus, I start to miss myself when I spend too much time with a guy. I never really got to find myself in the first place, I don't think. So I run to extremes and break it off instead of just try to slow things down.

3. I don't actually like the sex with the men all that much. Sex is just the thing I put up with after I get my "attention high". I do my best to pretend I enjoy it, so he still likes me and I can get "high" again the next time I see him, but then I don't get "high" again, or sometimes I do a couple more times, but soon enough, it goes away - and when that happens, so do I.

4. I still love the guy I ended up with after I left my husband over two years ago. I actually do enjoy sex with him, and, I still get "high" when I see him (or maybe it's not a "high" and is "real love"...who knows?). But it's hard as hell for me to accept him: he lives with his mom and stepdad and doesn't have a job and is about to have his car repossessed and his phone turned off and is more full of self-pity and devoid of motivation than anyone I know.

5. I want a guy to take care of me financially. But, when I find ones who are willing and able to do so, I don't want to be with them, after all. I fucked up by not getting my degree or starting a full-time career; I was being taken care of by my husband who received monthly money from his Indian tribe. Now I have to put my big girl pants on and go to night school and get a full-time job so I don't need a man to build a house on my grandparents' 20 acres (that's what James, the last guy, wanted to do, after knowing me for a week). No thanks, dude -- I can build my own damn house.

6. I'm so goddamn focused on the past and future that I don't actually do anything now to change my life situation. "Someday this will happen, and I'll be happy." "I can't believe all the shit I've done; I'm so disappointed in myself." You know what? Fuck that. I'll just be happy right now. 

Okay, this blog is taking a weird turn. But let's roll with it. Who fucking cares about the men I've been involved with over the past couple years? I don't even care any more. All I care about is what I'm doing right now. And right now I'm sitting merrily at my laptop, typing words - it's something I very much enjoy doing. But it's not making me any money, at the moment, which makes me revert back to insight number 5. Actually, I happen to be on a two-week unpaid forced vacation from my 20-hour-a-week 10-dollar-an-hour job.

So....it's time to get back into reading Mary Karr -- I need to finish her memoir, damnit...but every time I read it, I read like two pages and can't even keep going because I get all inspired and my fingers get itchy...which is cool, I guess. But it doesn't help me write any better if I don't keep reading actually good writing.

And as far as writing for change goes, well, guess what -- writing about the men I've been with over the past two years still hasn't stopped me from being with men. After the Propane Truck Driver, whom I considered to be my "rock bottom", there was the Satellite Communications Engineer, and now...well, you know that guy I talked about in insight number 4? The guy I wrote about me cheating on and leaving, over, and over, and over? Yep - the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and I are back together, again.

But it's all good. At least I still have writing for the sake for writing. :)

Ugh.