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November 01, 2006


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Is this girl anyone we might know? (o:

Good--I'm glad to see you're not abandoning your aspirations to be a writer. I miss the brief character studies you used to post.

Just a suggestion: Don't try to write TheGreatAmericanNovel. Unless you're Thomas Pynchon or James Michener, that is. Otherwise, try to pare your story to the bare essentials--you could even make it a collection of related short stories. You'll have a much better chance of actually finishing your novel, and it will probably be much better than a sprawling epic.

I'm eager to see the results!

Yes, I am thinking very short chapters. Little vignettes. I'm not trying to do anything but get 50,000 words down on paper. It will be hard not to self-edit as I go, but I'm going to have to let the editing wait til December.

It will also be hard to write and not immediately publish for feedback. I'm ready for this challenge I think.

I'm doing it too--best of luck!

Rawk ON!

I want to do this some time after I get out of college next year. After three years of design school I'll be ready to switch gears.

Good luck!

This post began a million years ago as sand in the desert under the feet of giant lizards that had formed in the heart of a sun gone nova, their diamond hearts beating as the hydrogen turned to helium and crawled up to carbon and gold in a Crosby, Stills and Nashian dance of liberation and dementia. The pressure locked the sand together into plates of silicon and as two dinosaurs fell into a forbidden love, the plates merged and shattered to become wafers, wafers found by an Egyptologist desperate for tenure and were moved to the London Museum Of Silicon We Found Where The Darkies Live and were viewed by the Queen as she dressed in her dark mourning veil and tried to distract herself from her husband, now passed on to the bosom of a God from whom he suckled like so much internet manga. The wafers found there way to America where they were assembled into a complex shape of dials and wheels and a series of punch cards were laid out. This is where our story begins, the story of how this post was born and the brave Navy captain who struggled to find the radio button labled "post" even as his racist General best friend tried to use the Amish Koran to tear apart the love of a young Hawaiian girl and the Ukranian boy who had never known the warm mouth of woman upon his uncircumcized testicles.

Now that's what I'm talkin' bout! Once you learn to write like that, Brittney, you can shoot for about 2,000,000 words or so, all in one massive paragraph.

Awesome on the book plans, Brittney - good luck, you go girl!

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? The evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.

I see quite clearly now, that the statues are blinking. I wander around as if in a dream, and notice one of them with tears on its porcelain skin. "Why are you crying", I ask. Though I'm not in the habit of speaking to statues, this one is markedly beautiful. I feel like I'm in love already..."Its not an easy life being a statue" it replies. "I get terribly lonely and no one really understands that there's so much more to me than this...existence, if you can even call it that."
And here I stand in this gigantic gallery of finely detailed, painfully fragile statues of all shapes and sizes "living" out their sad existence and suddenly I feel more alone than ever. You see I have this terrible habit of believing what people tell me. Of living out the lifetimes of her words. I'm a fool and really, always have been. And truthfully, any sorrow that I have rights to is marred by that foolishness.
To be able to survive this voyage, this part of me needs to die. And no one is ever really ready for Death.

You can do it Brit!!!




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