Whew.

T-minus 2 days before I send the rough draft of the portfolio out to former advisors.

Almost finished with my third person POV story...I'm not really sure how to wrap it up so I started making minor edits to the rest of the piece. All in all, I have one page that is completely ready to be sent out ("We Sing".) I hope tomorrow to make more edits to the piece I read for the Art of Service Show at the Brannigan. Its been so long since I've dealt with it that I hope I will have a new perspective on what needs to be done with it.

And I have absolutely no idea on where I am going with "Barfly." At all.

However, as it stands, even if I don't include "Barfly," I'll have about 27 pages done. Most schools want anywhere from 20-30 (unless you are University of Michigan. They just 'want enough to judge your work.')*

So, you all know this song and dance, Readers. EDITS! I WANT THEM! ANY FEEDBACK YOU CAN GIVE ME AND I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER AND A DAY. Leave a comment or get in touch with me by any other means (just don't stop by my house...its a wreck and I've been pretty much living in dirty pjs for the past few days).

*I'm not sure if I really plan on applying to UofM. Sure, it's a great school and very ideally located, but I'm not sure if I could get in. It's one of the most competitive in the country.

Update

Hey All,

This month has certainly been a challenge. Between trying to stay focused on writing the portfolio, studying for the GRE, and watching Criterion Collection Films, I have been busy with liesure. :)

So far, my portfolio includes:
-An expansion on "Barfly" (combined with a piece I wrote during undergrad about sleep)
-"We Sing"
-"Brother"
-And a complete overhaul of part of a piece I also did when I was an undergrad.

This last one is proving to be one of the most challenging/enjoyable. During my undergrad fiction class, I wrote a piece that was completely overwrought. *But* it did include a parallel story that wasn't all that bad. So I took one of the parallel story sections and started expanding and editing it. But it was going nowhere: the further I got length-wise, the further I felt I was going from my Main Character. I kept on forcing it and was getting frustrated.

But the other day, at random, I picked up "Snow Falling on the Cedars" by David Guterson. Within the first two pages of his technically sound prose, it hit me. I needed to write the story in third person. Reader, it has been such a freeing experience to write in Omniscient Third POV. Granted, I'll probably tighten it up later so it falls in closer to my MC, but for now, its one of those experiences where I actually enjoy the free and easy writing.

I still have a lot of work to do, and in the next few days I will be mailing my first draft of my portfolio off to former teachers, advisors, and friends for edits and critiques. I hate to say it, but a deadline is a great motivator.

Be well,

dizzyfemme

Barfly

I hate places like this. Always full of wooden men with glass eyed stares. Always with their looks wondering about creamy thighs and hands with fate lines that end at tonight. They tower above me, these giants. I debate about crawling up under a shoe, like a scorpion. Flick my ankles out, a twitch. I call it dancing. Liz says I have no beat, no rhythm, no metro-known. She puts her hands on my hips, side to side, up and down. She calls this dancing. I call her my puppeteer. Pull my strings taut, fish for my joints, hooked under my armpits.

I say I need to get a drink. I leave Liz dancing with flies. I don’t like being touched there anyhow.

This bar is boring. Full of people, smoking, drinking, dancing. And not one of them doing a thing. Even the philosophers in the corner with spit drenched napkins are really just trying to get laid. Only the bar tenders with the tight hard bodies and tight black polo shirts to hide the sweat see how dull the night is. They pour drinks, like a factory, one shot one beer one drink split the orange split the lemon split the soda water. I want to go home. But Liz is laughing, trying to puppeteer someone else. I can see she got her second wind. I try to breath on my wrists, try to tell them to wake up. But I just get a lungful of germs.


Notes:

Whoo-wee. It feels good to get a post up. Taking August off of work to do more portfolio work. Obvs, this piece is super unfinished, but it's a start.

Zombie

Eeek... Sorry for the lack of updates (again.)

Tomorrow, I will try to post a vlog of the piece I did for my reading. Thanks to all of you who made it out.

In other news, I'm taking the month of August off to finish up my rough draft of my portfolio. Double eeek.

Edits for Friday

Hey All,

Anyone want to help me with edits for the Friday reading? Comment or email me.

hearts&flowers,

dizzyfemme

Blood Moon (except not really)

Hey All.

Writing is going well. I am working on a short story for my portfolio and I'm experimenting with a new voice. It's more straight forward, with an emphasis on plot and character development. Usually I just let the language dictate what will happen, but I'm struggling with the idea that writing should just be shimmery prose. Certainly, I want to keep my fidelity to the primacy of language, but I think for first drafts I should focus on the plot. Integrating a strong plot and characters, written in a more traditional, straight-forward way but at the same time include poetic elements could prove to be a tricky balance to strike. I think I want to strive for interesting twists of words.

Anyway....

It looks like I'll be doing a 10 minute reading at the Brannigan for the "AmeriCorps: The Art of Service" show during the ramble. July 1st. When I know the time, I'll post it on here. So, if you're in the Las Cruces area, please do come check it out.

EDIT:

Here is the link for the Facebook event.

Be well.

dizzyfemme

Quick Update

Hey all.

Sorry for the lack of updates as of late. I'm working on The All Important Graduate School Portfolio, which I may or may not post sections on the blog. I do want to keep doing writing exercises, so perhaps I'll post those.

Be well.
dizzyfemme

"Yard work"

The sun struck sweat thick on my neck. Desert noonday and I’m out here burning leaves. But I got a hair up my ass to do it. So I did. A few months till moving and brush needed to be cleared. Took me a few times to strike the fire machine and work, but it came. Wind moves softly, delicately, like hands outstretched twirling in long skirts. Kicks up ash like snowflakes, sends smoke in my eyes, in my throat.

I turn to the porch to sit. I suddenly have the urge to smoke a cigarette, even though it’s been years. I turn the lighter over in my hand. I imagine the nicotine calm. But I’ve got none. I dig my hands deep into my pockets, letting them rest. I have to keep checking for blisters. Got to go easy on my hands. Dirt is ok though. Earth. But not mud. The rain doesn’t come here.


To be continued...

blurb

"Gossamer Girl in Garden"


I try to thread the pieces together. Make the string stick. But mud keeps getting stuck in my teeth, in my jaws. I spend my days eating dirt, oranges—pick the ants off the pits of my knees. Passersby’s tell me to start making mandalas, tell me it will be better if I just echo the stars. I am in no mood to listen to the dead. I listen to white ladies debate other white ladies about the effectiveness of sun block. I listen to panting dogs, to cigarettes hitting the sidewalk, of fucking and sucking. I wish I could grow spinnerets out of my ass and weave these pieces together. I try but shit just comes out instead.




Comments: Just kind of rolled this out in a few minutes. Not really sure how to end it--I don't really like that last line. I started to get more graphic with scatological references, but it just seemed too trite. I suppose this is my teen girl emo post? "Dear Journal, Mood: Pathetic"

Nonfic about why I haven't updated in a while

After lunch, I went out to the garden across the street from the school. I’ve been trying to find the root of this unsettled feeling creeping in for the past few weeks, but I can’t locate it. Perhaps the coming Rapture, or dreams I just can seem to remember but have the flavor of being perverse, or maybe its just New Mexico slowly warming up for the scorching summer has thrown me off balance. I try to make sense of it all: the job applications, boys kissing my neck, buying cars and paying bills. I can tell my mother is worried: I remind her its part of being an adult. I try to focus, try to write something, anything, really, but even my eyes seem deep and hazy. Next to me is a mess of leaves in a tree, nested and tangled.

Rules for writing

Check it out!

Prompt Ideas?

I'm trying to throw around some prompt ideas for my next piece. I tried writing one based off of "You find a roll of film surreptitiously" and it just didn't work. "Atonement" is based off "write about a person who's reputation is based on an inanimate object." Clearly, I use the wiggle room of interpretation. I'm off to scour my prompt books, but in the meantime, to the two people who look at this site, do you have any suggestions?

Flash Fiction Results III

“Trainyard”

She was always nervous around attractive people. Skin stretched smooth over strong jaw lines and collarbones framed by modern cuts made with old fabric. She watches distinguished brows furrow at bright tattoos, tight rolled joints, and sweet plum sake. She secretly massages her throat trying to find the right words to say. Most of the time words come out fawning and muddled: she tries to wipe the drool off her chin but can’t seem to keep it clean. A sandy boy eyes her snake-toothed with knotted pulse. She doesn’t want to see this, hides in the bathroom from these kinds of stares--would rather see the mountains burn: Flaming and bright.


Notes and Reflections: Oh sweet shit. I *hate* this ending (after "knotted pulse").* I know I seem to bitch a lot about my writing but this is one of the challenges I discovered about Flash Fiction: endings are hard. Usually, my method for writing is that I allow the language to take the story where it needs to go. With flash fiction, I don't have as much time to meander. None of my Flash Fiction stories were 100 words, most are around 130. I think that if I were to continue writing in this form I would have to exercise more discipline: writing, re-writing, and cutting out my "darlings"**. It's not that other writing doesn't require this kind of discipline, there is just a shorter time in Flash Fiction to get your point across lyrically. I have seen it done before, good flash fiction. These pieces just aren't up to par. Perhaps I'll revisit Flash Fiction in a few weeks/months.

Additionally, although I like the wording of this piece (especially "snake-toothed with knotted pulse"), it completely lacks a story. Girl goes to Place X, feels awkward, runs away from a boy staring at her, wishes she were somewhere else. Fuckballs. Why don't I just open up my high school journals and copy that shit onto here? It seems so masturbatory, writing this Amelie-like kind of character. It's cute, but it's trite. /end rant&sweary critique.

*Actually, on second thought, I do like the way "stares" sounds. I'm a sucker for long "a's" and one syllable words.
**"Darlings," for those of you who don't know, are words/sentences/paragraphs that you absolutely adore and don't want to part with but you need to anyway.

Flash Fiction Results II

“Spitfire”

The girl wasn’t bad. She just liked to spit sideways and light matches. The girl liked the scent of sulfur. Would lock herself in cupboards; rub ash on her skin. Black flowers and tic-tac-toe. Teachers and counselors say she is a bad one without saying the word “bad.” Instead, they just hop-scotched with phrases like “disruptive” and “aggressive.” One day she tried to lock David Fitz in the cupboard to play ash games. But she got too excited and burnt his skin. Told him she’d cut his pecker off if he told. Red and harsh, his mother was mad. Rubbed soap to wash the ash and the burn. Told him he was bad.

Flash Fiction Results I

“Atonement”

Shame holds fast in small towns. Seeps into sidewalk cracks and paint-peeled porches. Gossiped about after grocery store run-ins and spottings of familiar bumper stickers. I should leave, quit as the town’s official “Cautionary Tale.” But I stay, and year after year the newspaper references get shorter and shorter. This year only the words “tragic joyride,” “local girl,” and “sledding” made it into page B3. Omitted were “Blood Alcohol Content,” “juvenile,” and “civil suit.” They renamed her “local girl, age 16,” forgot her real name. But I keep it. Weekly, I wander through leaves, brush, snow. Weekly I polish her plaque. Weekly I keep her name.



Notes: I'm not crazy about this piece. But I've been sitting on it for the past few days and I've hit my wall on how to edit it. The ending seems weak and I'm not sure I like anything after "spottings of familiar bumper stickers." Again, this is my call to critiques. Please?

Guest Post Vlog

Many thanks to my dear friend, roommate, and co-Slam Poetry Coach Amy for doing a guest vlog. Enjoy!

P.S. Flash Fiction is on it's way. I almost have 3 pieces done.

Flash Fiction Challenge

Happy Easter, everyone!

I have an itch to do something different, so I'm going to challenge myself to write some flash fiction. I'm going to set my limit at 100 words. Results will follow once I feel like it.

Anyone else want to get in on this challenge? Post results in the comments. Or email me (I'm pretty sure that if you are reading this blog you already have a form of contacting me).

Edit:

Thanks to Andro_Boi for reminding me of Dr. Wicked's Write or Die. There, you can input a word and a time limit, and once you start to stall (or thinking too much instead of just writing what comes to mind) the page will do a variety of things including: flashing color, deleting words, or playing awful music.

Disclaimer

This blog could be retitled "The Art of Letting Go."

It feels so freeing to just put my shitty and/or writing I'm not completely in love with out there for public viewing. Of course, this is writing that I will not be including in my Hopefully Brilliant and Scholarship-Worthy Grad School Portfolio. Before, every time I'd start writing I'd get all choked up, analyzing every word and second guessing myself, not allowing even a paltry first draft to emerge. Now, I'm just writing for shits and giggles, knowing that after enough shitty writing I'll find a few sentences/ideas that I can use.

A big thank you to those who have stopped by and read a few posts here. As always, I love critiques and constructive criticism.

Vlog!

I know what you're thinking:

1. Yes, I know I'm awkward. I find it's best to just put the word "endearingly" before it.
2. The poem is *really bad* and doesn't have a real ending. Just enjoy it. :)


Edit: I realize that I kind of sound like an asshole for saying I don't really like writing slam poetry and then I go ahead and post some anyway. I guess I'lll just say that assholery was not intended.

transparent dream

Water colored dreams of conversation taking
place between you and I.

I ask, why are you sleeping so far away?
You look at me; whisper. Can’t talk.
Who can’t talk? Me or you?
Name that isn’t either.
Either
You
Or I. Any name. No name. Never name.

Insatiable
Desire as an Möbius strip:
incandescent
and like skin.
Almost satiated scent.
and dusk.
tip of the tongue, back of
the throat.