And perhaps he's right. Due to the fact that I signed about 38 non-disclosure agreements, I've chosen to not write about my work life. And since I'm wagering no one wants to hear about how he looks just like Christopher Robin, I'm left with a serious dearth of potential topics.
And really, what it comes down to, is that I hate writing. I once confessed this to my mother (a writer), and she said, "Oh honey, all real writers hate it." After reading a number of biographies and interviews, it turns out that in this case, like so many others, she was lying. Most writers don't appear to hate writing. Many of them seem to enjoy it. They make special rooms dedicated to doing it much like S&M aficionados, and they they spend time each day doing it and reveling in it. Whereas I sit around watching Friends, and dreading the time that I force myself to sit in front of the keyboard, pecking away about things that no one cares about, namely myself.
And I haven't quite figured out why I do it. I decided recently that I would actually submit something I wrote to someone that determines the worth of such things, i.e. an editor. I decided that it was high time I was rejected creatively as well as sexually. What would be only be better than this, was if I could meet an editor who could reject me sexually and creatively at the same time.
"I'm sorry, but your breasts sag and your work is crap," he might growl while ignoring me in favor of a vodka tonic. This fantasy of mine, which grows much more intense over time, is similar to one once expressed by my pal Iris.
"My ideal man would copyedit my love notes and send them back to me," she sighed wistfully once, over dinner. Just thinking about her round cursive hand, nearly eclipsed by his marks correcting her grammatical and semantic errors makes her shudder with delight.
Perhaps overhearing this conversation, my latest fling replied to a pages-long essay I sent him by saying merely, "It's an infidel, not a infidel, Lina." I've since suggested that although this form of foreplay may suffice with Iris, it's not the quickest route into my pants. I guess I should be grateful though, for any minor insult thrown my way which I can use as "material" on my website or in my latest craigslist post about how mean boys are.
being good at writing, but dreading the act of writing itsself. i can totally identify with that. i was wrestling for months with my thesis paper with always something other/ better/ more interesting (i.e. Friends) to do.
Doktor Florian | July 7, 2005 1:47 AMthen, finally, like a boil of pus festering under the skin, it all broke out with a big popping noise. (hmm, am i taking the metaphor too far here?) i wrote the sucka in 3 days and i got a frickin cum laude on my bfa diploma.
hah.
but i now that the next time i have to write something it will be exactly the same vicious circle of procrastination, self-loathing and binge-drinking.
lina: what should i write about on my internet website
jon: im not sure
jon: i am going to think of a comment i promise
jon: first i need to play with this dj studio
wiggle wit it
jon | July 4, 2005 6:12 PMThe boy has met my family, and in fact, was accused by my grandmother of being sexually attracted to her dog.
Don't worry, the site's not going anywhere.
It may, however, change colors.
Lina | June 29, 2005 2:44 PMThis story was really reaching. What it stinks with is the simple fact you're growing up. It tells of your having a job (if not a career), a beau, and a circle of friends not limited to your family. The paragraph stating your mother's reply is the only portion resembling the style I've come to look for in your blogging. Moreover it left me with the impression this site may soon only be a memory. Have you met his family? Perhaps internalize his choice for you in contrast to his past girlfriends. I know there's something to snap things back. Has he met your family?
bright lights bda | June 29, 2005 12:55 PMyour next post should detail your infatuation with the microsoft word "paperclip" assistant
sunjay | June 28, 2005 10:28 PM