Archive for June, 2009

Part I-

June 14, 2009

The honorable Prince Zaw

            I am typing this on the laptop of an elderly polish immigrant named, Strychacki Zbigniew. We call him Stanley for short. I am using his laptop for two reasons:

1) I made a scene at the Starbucks at Times Square a week and a half ago when I moronically dropped my Macbook, then subsequently dropped my “iced venti, sweet (indecipherable word), leche,” after trying to catch my beloved computer on its unfortunate way down to the stone floor. I bit my lip. Hard. After gravity was done yanking three years of pictures, documents and progress out of my hand and down to the ground like a fucking tractor beam, I bent down to pick up the now defunct laptop. It was still in one piece and I was shattered. I grabbed all of my belongings and high-tailed out of there, never looking back. I will never see those people again.

2) I have accepted the task of locating and getting in touch with Stanley’s good friend and prominent homosexual, the honorable Prince Zaw of Dubai. Downloading Skype onto his computer seemed like a good place to start. Apparently I’m doing this in exchange for two Marcepan candies made by Poland’s own famous Mieszko candy company. What joy! I didn’t expect the candies, but they were sloppily taped to a tattered note with my name on it in the bag with the laptop. They tasted like sugar coated with pure shit.

This is not fiction. 

It’s 3 am during the graveyard shift at The Manhattan House and I need to get some rest. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.

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Three pages a day

June 14, 2009

So.

            I am writing this at the recommendation of a young, New York film student clad in designer, suede leather shoes. He’s most likely terrifically well-to-do, as most, if not all tenants of The Manhattan House tend to be. The middle to lower classes of society do not fare well in the Upper East Side. Full pockets and stiff necks are a must.

            “Three pages a day,” he told me. A slim task, given the breadth of the laziness that seems to have clouded and infected the whole of western civilization; myself included. As he was making his way beyond the spotless (thanks to yours truly) stainless steel doors of the elevator, we wound up in a short, hurried conversation as the doors kept trying to shut between incessant and annoying beeping noises. I asked him about film school and discovered that he too, was interested in writing as well as directing and producing. When I told him that I was studying writing, a dim, yet apparent enthusiasm emerged in his eyes. “Three pages a day is all you have to do. Do it until it’s a habit—something automatic,” he said with the calm, laid back certainty of any good teacher. I knew he was right. Every textbook in every writing class I’ve ever taken said to get into the habit of writing on a daily basis until writing is no longer a task, god forbid a burden, but a part of your routine. It should be like brushing your teeth or masturbating (never been more sexually frustrated).

            Maybe it’s because I knew he was right that I am writing this now. The idea of writing every day had been mulling around in the deep, nearly forgotten recesses of my mind for quite some time. Every day I did not write, I went to sleep with a small shard of relative guilt in my conscience somewhere. Like the pinnacle of splinterdom, I could never really put my finger on it, but I knew it was there. Somewhere. Recently, everything has been slowly coming into perspective. A new and growing light has been revealing my life to me, day by day. The clouds around my head have been dissolving into the atmosphere. The weather is a beautiful 70 degrees and sunny in my airspace and take-off will be any minute now. Maybe it’s compensation for the fact that I’ve hardly seen the sun in the better part of a month. The engines are primed and the last throng of expensive Samsonite luggage is onboard. An excited little boy points from a terminal window in a tarmac somewhere.

 Somewhere.

            For the longest time, I’ve known that I was passionate about writing, but I lacked any direction or motivation. I was thinking of giving up on writing and assuming my unfortunate position in one of many dead-end jobs that in no way applied to what I really longed for in life, as many Americans do. It’s the summer before my last year of college and I’ve never looked for an internship anywhere. Maybe it’s because I had no idea what type of writing job I was looking to get. It seems that any successful young adult should have an internship during the summer before the last year of school. -That’s just what people do-. It’s like looking both ways before crossing or putting milk in your cereal. -That’s just what people do-. Every year seminars are given and mile-high stacks of handouts and flyers are given out, blowing around and littering college campuses around the globe. They practically shove it down your throat. So much time is devoted to the concept of finding this coveted “internship” that it seems to take on a mythical aura; like the banshee or the clitoris. It has become a requirement for success, much like a pristine academic record or a wallet bursting at the seams.

Fuck internships.

            So I write this now—three pages, size 12 font, one-inch margins, Times New Roman, double-spaced. A part of me wants to find solace and confidence in the routine, the other part hopes it will be the easy way out to success—a way to gain lost ground and fast. Writing every day is the difference between being a writer and being somebody who writes. I don’t know why this has taken so long, or why I am finally getting serious now. It seems like a good time to begin, as I’ll later explain. I want to write fiction. Maybe I’ll write a book. I want to be a writer and I have to start somewhere, so I’ll start here:

Here.