Nails.
It's all about appearances
And practicality
Keratin strength, protection
From the mean comments
From the hurtful words
From the fists flying towardsyou
Pretty
Painted purple and gold
Or white-tipped French
Sticker designs
Gemstones glued on
Can't cut short
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Getting Started
I can't even tell you how many times I've written posts that are called "Getting Started"... it's a little bit ridiculous, actually. But, I've been trying--okay, really "trying"--to start an online magazine for way too many years, and haven't been on the ball about that. Partly, I think, I needed to multidimensionalize my identity a little bit more. However, I've also avoided all writing during that time, and that's my biggest way of expressing myself. I used to be a quiet girl. Anyone who knows me now would probably never believe that, but I've realized it's just that I love words so much. However, thanks to my dad, I now have a new laptop. A new apartment, a new husband, and a new job all wrap up the fact that it's time to get back to the old me. The me I liked, with an awesome identity and who wrote a lot and loved herself and knew how to STFU every once in a while. If I get my words out on the page, or the screen, whatever, maybe I'll have less to say out loud, or re-learn how to say it more concisely, or at least know that it's got the chance to be heard uninterrupted, which usually is my issue when I talk. Well, it's one of many issues. However, most of them stem from the fact that really, I'm a writer (and fabulous editor, if I do say so myself, which I do), not a conversationalist. I can come up with witty lines and accurate descriptions when I'm writing them all down. My thoughts are colorful and articulate. When I'm in conversations, it just comes out all wrong. It's like an incredible movie or TV actress who rarely gets the shot in one take but when she gets it, brings this incredible dimension to the scene, transitioning to Broadway. Yeah, that's not gonna work so well, that's not the type of actress she is. Well, that's not the type of wordsmith I am and it's time to own up to that and get back to real me. Who is she? I guess we'll see.
Methods
The screen was white and blue-tinged grey. Sharp-edged geometric shapes in shades of royal blue and pumpkin orange dotted the screen, and Marie was undecided about which thoughts should fill in the blank spaces.
It wasn't writer's block, it was a floodgate waiting to burst open, but since they needed to be streamlined into something at least reminiscent of a story, she almost didn't know where to start.
Black-sleeved arms rested in the air, connecting the 96-WPM fingers that would be typing these thoughts to the brain producing them, and from silence to a furious clickity-clack, nails and fingertips began to put to use the new keyboard.
____
He sat, notebook in hand, hunched over in the poorly lit corner, shadows crossing the tiny netbook screen where the manuscript was finally coming to a close. The grey futon matched his grey button-up, and it was almost as though the plush red velour kippah kept the magical words from escaping out of the top of his head and helped focus them onto the page. A look of extreme concentration on his face, Seth noticed not a single emotion, breath, or oven noise as the work got done. Anyone else would've at least noticed the fleeting thought of pride and accomplishment at being almost done before it passed by, but writing was almost a meditative state for that guy over there, not even noticing that his wife had FINALLY heeded his advice and began to share this central identity--that of a writer--once again.
--
Purple pad in hand and some random ballpoint pen that wrote smoothly enough, she guessed, would have to do. Well, the purple pad was often one of the <supplies> of choice when writing. No favorite pen to speak of, really, except the purple one kept from her old job. Not particularly inspirational, just comfortable and in her favorite color, so why not. There wasn't really a space, but a not-so-crowded subway would work as long as she could sit. Tuning things out was usually the best way to get work done.
The trees came to life and colors ran similarly to Photoshop's "Color-Invert" effect. A pen to the page made it come alive, as the story's pencils brought a new world into being. A story within a story (within a story? she wondered). Could it be true?
__
Bundled up in a puffy winter jacket that made it difficult to comfortably rest this writer's arms *anywhere*, this writer puffed out a frustrated stream of air--literally, a stream, this writer could see it in the air!--and was thankful that the neoprene gloves were at least enabling adept finger movements while deterring frostbitten restriction. Why was leaning on this tree in Central Park one of the only places inspiration fell? A muse here? Grass and bugs or wet, cold snow. Thank goodness for snow pants! And free-flowing pens whose ink wouldn't freeze up in cold weather.
---
An oaky desk with smoothed grooves, an ancient typewriter with a carton of white out tape behind it, and the smell of ink. A soft yet firmly cushioned chair that looked like it belonged in an office very different than this cozy room with a built-in bookshelf wall full of worn hardcover books whose colorful glossy-papered covers had long since disappeared. The radio playing softly in the background--NPR was the choice of the day, even though sometimes it was distracting or influencing--as the white noise machine hummed and the waterfall-on-stones machine trickled. With a reminder to sit up straight and pretend like posture was important, hands went back onto keys and began typing away.
It wasn't writer's block, it was a floodgate waiting to burst open, but since they needed to be streamlined into something at least reminiscent of a story, she almost didn't know where to start.
Black-sleeved arms rested in the air, connecting the 96-WPM fingers that would be typing these thoughts to the brain producing them, and from silence to a furious clickity-clack, nails and fingertips began to put to use the new keyboard.
____
He sat, notebook in hand, hunched over in the poorly lit corner, shadows crossing the tiny netbook screen where the manuscript was finally coming to a close. The grey futon matched his grey button-up, and it was almost as though the plush red velour kippah kept the magical words from escaping out of the top of his head and helped focus them onto the page. A look of extreme concentration on his face, Seth noticed not a single emotion, breath, or oven noise as the work got done. Anyone else would've at least noticed the fleeting thought of pride and accomplishment at being almost done before it passed by, but writing was almost a meditative state for that guy over there, not even noticing that his wife had FINALLY heeded his advice and began to share this central identity--that of a writer--once again.
--
Purple pad in hand and some random ballpoint pen that wrote smoothly enough, she guessed, would have to do. Well, the purple pad was often one of the <supplies> of choice when writing. No favorite pen to speak of, really, except the purple one kept from her old job. Not particularly inspirational, just comfortable and in her favorite color, so why not. There wasn't really a space, but a not-so-crowded subway would work as long as she could sit. Tuning things out was usually the best way to get work done.
The trees came to life and colors ran similarly to Photoshop's "Color-Invert" effect. A pen to the page made it come alive, as the story's pencils brought a new world into being. A story within a story (within a story? she wondered). Could it be true?
__
Bundled up in a puffy winter jacket that made it difficult to comfortably rest this writer's arms *anywhere*, this writer puffed out a frustrated stream of air--literally, a stream, this writer could see it in the air!--and was thankful that the neoprene gloves were at least enabling adept finger movements while deterring frostbitten restriction. Why was leaning on this tree in Central Park one of the only places inspiration fell? A muse here? Grass and bugs or wet, cold snow. Thank goodness for snow pants! And free-flowing pens whose ink wouldn't freeze up in cold weather.
---
An oaky desk with smoothed grooves, an ancient typewriter with a carton of white out tape behind it, and the smell of ink. A soft yet firmly cushioned chair that looked like it belonged in an office very different than this cozy room with a built-in bookshelf wall full of worn hardcover books whose colorful glossy-papered covers had long since disappeared. The radio playing softly in the background--NPR was the choice of the day, even though sometimes it was distracting or influencing--as the white noise machine hummed and the waterfall-on-stones machine trickled. With a reminder to sit up straight and pretend like posture was important, hands went back onto keys and began typing away.
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