Defenestrations

The view from my sister's back porch.

The view from my sister's back porch.

My cousins and I spent many a barefoot summer playing in this...

My cousins and I spent many a barefoot summer playing in this creek behind Granny's house.

Top 5 Couch Potato Movies | Top5.com

Top 5 Couch Potato Movies | Top5.com:

Hey y'all … check out my list of "couch potato" movies. Did your favorite make my list or are you going to remind me of something I forgot so I feel terrible?

Meet Rita. I have been singing "Lovely Rita, Meter...

Meet Rita. I have been singing "Lovely Rita, Meter Maid" to her. We slept together last night. I am plotting to steal her. She is a very good pillow.

In sixth grade my English class put together a book of poetry....

In sixth grade my English class put together a book of poetry. This, the piece I contributed, is the earliest surviving poem I've ever written. It was also probably my last attempt at illustration. Enjoy!

Grow Oysters

If you are (or ever have been) a "young" writer struggling to find new ideas, someone's probably told you that what you need to do is go out and live. "You have to go out and experience the world!" they'll say. "You have to travel, experience different cultures, step outside your comfort zone, try new things!" Sounds easy enough, right?

Yeah, I'll check back with you after I win the lottery. In the real world, such advice isn't easy for most people to follow. In the real world, people have responsibilities. In the real world, people have ties — be they professional, educational, or familial. In the real world, people have obligations. For most people, the real world has limitations. Your imagination does not.

Think about the last dream that had you shaking your head when you awoke, wondering  where your brain came up with such a bizarre thing. While you may not have dreamed up the next great fantasy novel, that dream came from your brain. When you're asleep, your conscious mind isn't there to hold it back. As William Blake wrote, "If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite." Your brain can do amazingly creative things — if you let it. The only thing holding back your imagination is you.

Conan O'Brien interviewed George R.R. Martin, and asked him the one question all creatives dread, because it doesn't have an answer — not a satisfying one, anyway. I'll give props to Conan for his question's careful wording. He didn't ask George where he got his ideas — he asked him if there was anything in his childhood that fostered his great imagination. If you believe you have to travel the world and experience different cultures to be a great writer, you probably wouldn't enjoy his response — but I did. George (and I'm only referring to him by his first name out of some (perhaps misbegotten) sense of parallelism, because it feels awkward to refer to Conan by his last) explained that, far from having a far-flung and exotic life, he grew up poor in New Jersey. George was the son of a longshoreman and lived in the projects. Since his family couldn't afford a car and never had the money to travel, his entire world for the formative years of his life consisted of five city blocks. He read books and watched films and wrote stories. The fact he didn't have the ability to travel the globe was irrelevant, because he knew that this world, and plenty of others besides, could be contained in his own mind if only he let them. To quote Goethe, "Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."

If you have the ability to explore the world and immerse yourself in other cultures, do it. But if you don't, realize that inability isn't holding you back from being a great writer or creator of any sort. Not everyone has that liberty, but we all have the same freedom in our minds. Release it. When it comes to creativity, the only thing holding you back is you. Go and dream. Then come back and do. Einstein said "imagination is more important than knowledge." Prove him right. George R.R. Martin did.

Here's the Deal –

If you are a creator who posts original content on Tumblr (which is the place to “follow the world’s creators,” after all), you probably need to be aware of the following fantastic shit:

1. People will steal your shit. Whether you think it’s worth being stolen or not, keep posting original work and sooner or later people will steal it. The only 100% fool-proof way to prevent plagiarism is not to post your work in the first place — much like the only 100% fool-proof way to prevent pregnancy is to abstain from sex. Deal with it and move on.
2. People will ask you if everything you post is your creation (or, accuse you of not creating the content you post). If your work actually is yours, say so and move on. The onus is on them to prove otherwise. Deal with it and move on.
3. People will say your work sucks. Thank them for taking the time to look at your blog and tell them you appreciate their opinion. Nothing you create will be loved by every person in the world. Deal with it and move on.
4. People will say your work is the greatest they’ve ever seen and OMG they can’t believe you’re not famous yet and WTF is wrong with people your shit is the greatest stuff ever. Thank them for taking the time to look at your blog and tell them you appreciate their opinion. Deal with it and move on.
5. People will attack you personally or attack your character because of something you’ve posted. Thank them for taking the time to look at your blog and tell them to eat a bag of dicks you appreciate their opinion. Deal with it and move on.
6. People will tell you how to run your blog, or imply that you’re fucking up their dash in some way. Politely point out that their dash is a social construct, the parameters of which they themselves define and therefore control. Remind them their dash doesn’t exist beyond their own account. Advise they check their privilege but add that you appreciate their opinion. Deal with it and move on.
7. I wanted to have seven items on this list. Deal with it and move on.

The Cool Kids

"I just don't get it." She was looking at our senior yearbook. Again. I was starting to realize why I'd been told no one stays friends with their high school friends. Here we sat, still rehashing the same issues over and over again, the same problems we'd never resolve. Well, some of us, anyway.

"Why was he so — fucking — popular," She had her finger in the back of the book. The index. She'd looked up his name, and was flipping through to all the pages where he was pictured or mentioned. This would go on for quite some time.

"Why are you so obsessed with it? I mean, graduation is supposed to mean moving on."

She sighed, flipping the pages, and gave me that look. "I just don't understand it. What's so great about —"

"Look," I said, reaching over and taking the book from her hands. "Jake —"

"Jacob. His name is Jacob."

"Fine. Jacob was popular because he did things, and he did them well. People found what he did interesting, so they supported and followed him. It's not that difficult to understand."

"Fuck that. I did things. I did the same fucking things he did and people never supported me." She kept reaching for the book and I kept jerking it out of reach until she eventually gave up, because I was standing so far away she would've had to get up to reach me, and I knew she wouldn't dare. She didn't. "We were friends, you know," she said, grabbing another beer.

"I know. And you probably still would be if you'd ever —"

"Don't, okay? Just don't. He transferred at the end of sophomore year, you know? He didn't know anybody. I took him under my wing and introduced him to all my friends and made sure he didn't get bullied and shit just for being new, you know? And he took that boost and just — just —"

"Made something out of it?"

"Moved on." She slammed the last of her beer and went outside, slinging the empty bottle at the trash can as she walked by. She missed. I sat the book on the table and followed. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn't know what else to do. I felt like that's what I'd been doing for years — sticking around because she constantly complained that everybody abandoned her, and I wanted to prove her wrong.

"It's all because he got that stupid award," she said as I opened the door.

"What? The Principal's Award?"

"Yeah. That one. Fucking stupid. It's meaningless. It's just whoever the principal's favorites are; it has nothing to do with anything."

"Then why do you care about it?"

She didn't answer, just brushed past me and went back inside. What was she gonna say, because I didn't get it? Doubtful. I followed her despite the fact it was now obvious she wished to get rid of me. Back inside, she was digging through that damn yearbook again, flipping through mentions of other classmates. "People only ever liked her 'cause she had nice tits," she said, pointing to one of the more popular cheerleaders.

"Maybe so — but did you know she talked Dylan down once when he was suicidal?"

She shrugged and kept flipping through the pages. "If people thought she actually cared they were fooling themselves. She didn't care about anything past her own reflection."

"That's where you're wrong," I said, biting my tongue. If anybody doesn't care about anything past her own reflection, it's you. That's what I wanted to say. "She did care. You were just too wrapped up in your own shit to notice. You had your idea of who she was, and whatever didn't fit in that box you created, you just discarded. Real people don't fit in pretty boxes, Emily. Stereotypes are superficial for a reason. Anybody's more than that if you take the time to scratch through the veneer."

"You're no better than the rest of 'em," she said, tossing the book on the table. "All these people ignored me, Jessie. I had plenty to offer, and they just ignored me. They didn't care about anything I was doing. At best, I was a diversion — someone to laugh at. Remember when I called myself the queen of our travel club? Ha, more like court jester."

"Everyone else called you queen, too, Emily. They probably still do. You wanna know why you never achieved the same heights as all these other people you're so obsessed with? Because you quit all the damn time. It's really fucking hard to get behind somebody when you just know they're going to skip off. If you care about something, you show people that by sticking with it, and doing the work that needs to be done. You never even stayed in the travel club a whole semester. You kept complaining about how there were too many divisions, too much politics, and it was too much work. Then you'd leave, and we'd all carry on. Every time you came back, though, we welcomed you with open arms. Every fucking time. So you had people who disliked you — it was because you were a whiny fucking bitch who wouldn't shut up about how everyone was against you. If you would ever just shut the fuck up for once and look around, you'd see people who support you, people who care, if you're willing to actually put forth the effort to make something happen. You'd see me."

I wish I could tell you what she said in response, but the truth is, I didn't say that either.

Hearts

1. The animated heart thing when you heart something is the dumbest thing ever.
2. Like seriously, I’m pretty sure a website designed for 10-year-olds would think that was too childish.
3. I’m a grown woman who has had sexual intercourse.
4. I’ve found that with this change, I am disinclined to heart posts.
5. Hold me.
6. Because it’s stupid, and it makes me feel stupid for hearting something.
7. I want a pony.

I wanted to reply to this only because I deleted two sentences...

I wanted to reply to this only because I deleted two sentences that addressed "child prodigies" because they ended up being tangential to the piece as a whole. Yes, Mozart wrote his first song at age 5. Have you heard it? I haven't verified the authenticity of this, but there are several other people playing the same thing, so I'll go with it. It can be heard here.

Given that I started playing piano at the age of 4, I probably sat down and "wrote" similar compositions around that age. Sadly, I didn't preserve them for posterity. I'll not argue that Mozart wasn't a child prodigy, but being able to play piano (or violin, which was his first instrument) or read music at that age is not necessarily exceptional. What was exceptional was Mozart's singular focus on music. He wanted to do nothing else, and he wanted music to accompany everything he did. There was hardly a waking moment he wasn't either playing or listening to music. That sort of focus on a single activity is unusual in a young child, and is the reason many child prodigies become highly skilled relatively quickly in a narrow range of activities.

All that to the side, child prodigies are something of an exception to any rule because, well, they're child prodigies. Science can't explain them. But at the same time, they're quite rare. Every brain is unique, and although there are common patterns, every brain works in a different way and processes information in a different way. Different people have different strengths and aptitudes – this doesn't mean they were gifted from on high with the preternatural ability to do something, it means their brain gives priority to information acquired in that area – processing it differently and keeping more of it in long-term memory.

There is also a lot of research demonstrating that we tend to be more likely to remember something if we engage more than one sense in learning it. Although we'll never know for sure, many neurologists believe Mozart had a form of synesthesia that allowed him to see music as colors. Jimi Hendrix is a more modern example of an individual with this form of synesthesia. If this is true, then Mozart would've been engaging both the visual and auditory cortexes of his brain whenever he played music, allowing for a deeper imprint.

tl;dr: neurology is a fascinating science and we still have a lot to learn about the way brains work. I believe in "talent" no more than I'd believe your barn got struck by lightning because you pissed off Zeus.

Untalented and Out of Luck

I don't believe in talent, and I don't believe in luck. This isn't something I tell myself for motivational purposes, to psych myself up to plod through yet another day – I literally don't believe either exists. Bitter people invented these (perhaps) comforting fictions to explain away the fact that someone else has succeeded where they have failed. Once you understand this, someone calling you talented or lucky feels less like a (perhaps) intended compliment and more like an insult.

Whether intended or not, saying someone is talented implies that person has been gifted; endowed in some supernatural way with abilities that exceed that of the average person. This implication carries with it the absurd notion that because they are "talented," they don't have to work as hard as other (presumably, untalented) people to achieve greatness in whichever realm their talent lies. This is bullshit. What is seen as "talent" is actually the result of thousands of hours of practice and work. Numerous studies prove this. When you call someone "talented" or "gifted," you are actually telling them all the work they've put into mastering something is unappreciated, or worse, unnecessary. If they make something seem easy, realize they put in thousands of hours of work to get to that point. If they're just starting, and seem to develop their skill more quickly than most, it's not because they're "gifted" – it's because they have passion, and that passion causes their brains to focus more keenly on the task at hand. If you're inclined to say someone is talented, say instead they're "skilled." It reflects reality and doesn't undervalue the effort they've put into their craft.

Likewise, saying someone is "lucky" carries implications of supernatural tinkering with things in a way that belittles all the effort expended. Anyone with a passion for something pursues it with unyielding tenacity, and if you refuse to let anything stop you, eventually you'll succeed (or die trying). Writers don't get published without submitting – and being rejected – countless times. Musicians don't get a record deal if they never leave their garage – even if they started there. Success in the creative arts may have similar odds to winning the lottery, but it isn't remotely the same. Those who succeed aren't "lucky" – they've kept pushing (and pushing, and pushing) long after anyone else would've given up, because they believed in themselves and they believed in what they were doing. Admire their dogged persistence if you feel so inclined, but don't demean their effort by calling it dumb luck.

If you're sitting on your ass waiting to be "discovered," I hope you're comfortable, because you're going to be sitting there a long while. There's no scarcity of creative talent. If you woke up to 100 pizza delivery guys standing at your door every morning offering you free pizza, would you go out and look for other pizza? Of course not. While you're sitting there, wondering why you don't get more attention, there are hundreds of others working to perfect their craft – submitting, learning from rejection, getting feedback, editing, revising, reworking, improving, and re-submitting – and their persistence will eventually pay off. If they succeed, it is as a result of hard work, and has no more to do with talent or luck than it has to do with fairies and unicorns.

So I don't believe in talent, and I don't believe in luck. I do believe in skill and tenacity; in hard work and perseverance. For me, as David Foster Wallace wrote in Infinite Jest, "[e]verything I've ever let go of had claw marks on it." The only way you'll stop me writing is to put a bullet in my brain – and you best hope it kills me, 'cause if it doesn't, I'll write about that too. As long as my lungs continue to expand and contract, I'll be writing and editing, revising and revisiting. My work is never done, and I'll never stop doing it. Will I succeed? Wait and see.

Hunger

Do not subsume; do not fall asunder
like leaves blown on winds whispering
rumors of the dying and the dead.

Consume me like a fever, knowing
nothing of patience. Speak not of
calm; of passive cravings
quickly sated.

Have you ever held a hurricane?

Beneath brutality's gleaming edge
hides the sacred sophistry
of sadistic urges best spoken
in broken tongues,
and I have been careless.

You are the strength; I, the willing.
If I am to be destroyed,
I'd wish it to be done by you.

Jen's Adventures in Freelancing: So, I'm writing a...

Jen's Adventures in Freelancing:

So, I'm writing a list (Top 5 Things You Shouldn't Say in a Job Interview), and I run a search for "job interview" using my service's image collection, to find a stock photo to accompany said piece. This image was one of the ones offered up. Its official caption? "Woman standing on table as businessman scolds her."

Yeah, I think I'll just leave this here.

Parted

I love you drip-dried on
chapped lips forming
pretty little lies.

Pretty little lies
to match
that pretty little dress
I wore last July —

the last time
our faces wore
smiles unbroken and
made for each other.

Pretty little lies habit spoke
long past meaning's shelf life.
Somewhere past remembrance,
the light of us still shines.

These days, the sun
still feels the same, despite
the fact it's not yet June,
and we are not yet
alone
together.

lafaggot: is it just me or does every white author ever describing a person of color use food...

lafaggot:

is it just me or does every white author ever describing a person of color use food metaphors:

"creamy chocolate skin"

"smooth caramel complexion"

"her legs were the color of cinnamon"

like wtf you're trying so hard to not be racist that you sound like a fucking cannibal

Alright, I’m sorry — I have to weigh in on this. I have never described the skin tone of a character, ever. Why? I’ve never found it relevant to the story. I try to keep any descriptive details in a story at least important if not essential to understanding the story as a whole — anything more, in my opinion, is basically a writer jacking off. If you’re referring specifically to poetry as opposed to prose (I don’t know, the OP said “every white author”), I’ve never described skin tone there either. In my poetry it’s the feeling that is meant to be expressed more than a specific description of a person.

I try to avoid (both in poetry and prose) describing people except to the extent it’s necessary. Mostly because I feel the more you describe the more you exclude. My characters look however they look to you — I’ve described a person, and you, the reader, have pictured that person in your head based on the image you see when you’re presented with a character’s words, actions, and general personality. In poetry, it’s the same with emotions. I could write a poem eloquently espousing my love for a white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes — or I could leave out the description and the love could stand for the love many more people have felt for an individual of any coloring, gender, or sexual orientation. (See also, why I prefer using “I” and “you” in poetry of this sort).

In fiction, the better question (and challenge) is how you, as an author, can force readers to see a character in the same way you see them physically in your head, without ever using direct description.

Open Letter –

aliterationmag:

To the Writers, Artists, Readers, Supporters, Team Members, and Friends of A Literation — An Apology:

A Literation is not, in fact, dead. To everyone who has kindly inquired as to when the second issue will be released, or when submissions will be open again, the best answer I have for you is soon. This is entirely my fault, and I'm sorry.

Yes, I have a lot going on. Yes, freelance is taking a lot of my time. But that's an excuse at best. I do not work 24-7 (although sometimes I feel like I do). I assembled a fantastic group of people who've been hard-working and diligent in reviewing submissions and selecting pieces for publication — people who blow me away with their passion and their dedication, and the truth is, I've let them down. And I've let you down. All of you who were and are excited for this lit mag, who followed this blog, who sent me a message of support, who put an A Literation badge on your blog, who reblogged our announcements and posts here, and all of you who've submitted your work — especially those of you whose work the editors dutifully selected for publication — I've let you down, and I'm sorry.

Quite simply, I dropped the ball. This should've been more of a priority than I've made it, and it will be. There's nothing I can do at this point but rededicate myself to this lit mag. When I first started this, I referred to it as my baby. Well, if it's my baby then I should probably be arrested for child neglect and endangerment. No more. I will be doing what I need to do to get the second issue into production, and we'll have it out to you as soon as humanly possible — no more excuses, and no more delays.

You all have my sincerest apologies. It won't happen again. I haven't been much of a leader here, but that's going to change. I want to see this succeed, and I know it won't succeed without my own attention, dedication, and support. I hope you're all still with me.

Thank you for your attention and your support thus far — I promise it is appreciated, and it has not been in vain.

Sincerely,

Jen Mueller
Editor-in-Chief
A Literation

Maps

If I could lay your soul out,
flatten its creases and
weight its corners so
it wouldn't blow away,
what paths would its surface
diagram?

All you want is fuel
and my wood's too damp
for timber.

If I can't refold you to slip
in the back pocket of my alone,
should I blame my lack
of dexterity?

I cannot love you
any less
than I did;
any more
than we were.

I screen-capped this the other day and meant to post it, and...

I screen-capped this the other day and meant to post it, and then forgot. But now I've remembered.

It was seriously just the cutest thing ever and I love you both to bits. <3

Courtney and Lachlan, ladies and gents.

Craven [Part 3]

(Continuing from Part 2)

"I fucking hate summer." Cora spat on the ground and lit her cigarette. She was wearing my hoodie. She'd pulled the hood over her head so it covered her eyes. Her hair was still wet. I could see it dripping down the front of her sweatshirt. My sweatshirt. If she thought she was keeping that shit, she could think again.

"It's not even summer yet. It's spring."

"I'm hating it in anticipation." She pulled the sleeves over her hands and shivered into the ball she'd made of herself.

"Two months ago you were saying you loved summer," I said. I don't usually call Cora out on her contradictions. If I started that game I'd end up doing nothing else. But today she was on my last nerve, and I had every intention of calling her out on every self-centered myopic piece of shit that came out of her mouth.

"That was two months ago," she said, like that was an explanation.

"Are you ever gonna tell me what happened to Tiffany the other night?"

"Why don't you ask her? Look, whatever. I gotta get ready for work."

"You don't have a job, Cora."

"Well shit." Her laugh made my nose hairs tingle. "Works on everybody else."

"I'm not everybody else, Cora."

Cora wiped her nose on her sleeve – my sleeve she was getting her biologicals all over, fuck you very much – and looked at me with these sad eyes, heavy like she'd just grown a conscience and her brain was trying to cope with the added weight. I glanced over towards Charles's building and sure enough that fucker's smack-ass sedan was parked out front, taking up two spaces with the front wheel up over the curb. Not knowing how to park was the least of that asshole's problems.

"It wasn't his fault, you know," Cora said, following my eyes.

"Shut up."

"No. She called him. We were talking, and she said she knew where we could score some blow, she said you –"

"Shut the fuck up."

"She just wanted to –"

"Are you trying to pin this on me now? Is that what you're trying to do? It's my bad influence? I'm the eternal fuck-up, am I not? Christ, Cora. I'm trying to clean my shit up, alright? I have cleaned my shit up. I just needed to do that one last deal and I'd be square. I don't know. I just don't even know anymore. You promised." It wasn't 'til I stood up I noticed my hands were shaking. I don't know why I let her fucking get to me like this. She just had this way of weeding her way right up into my blood stream and jiggling my veins against my nerves that set me the fuck off. I had to maintain. I couldn't let it happen again. Not this time, not with so much on the line.

Tiffany chose that moment to emerge on the scene, and I can't say I wasn't a bit flipped out at her too, but with her I can keep level. I ain't been dealin' with her bullshit my whole life. She doesn't even have bullshit, really – not even as much as I do. She shuffled over to Cora and just plopped down right on top of her and curled up like a toddler who'd had a nightmare. Cora started stroking her hair and I looked back over at Charles's sorry excuse. "Tiffany?" She stirred, glanced over at me, but she didn't say anything. "At any point in the near future, were you thinking – at all – that it might be a good thing to mention that you were on good terms with the fuckhead who owes me 800 bones?"

"I thought it was 750," Cora said.

"Shut up. I wasn't talking to you."

"Slug's dead," Tiffany said into Cora's shoulder.

"Wait – what?!"

Tiffany sat up like an adult, turned, and looked up at me. And I'm telling you, her eyes sent fucking shivers. "Did I stutter?"

"Slug's dead," I repeated, like some kind of idiot ape. Slug's dead. Well. This is not good. This is very not fucking good.

Signs You're Finally Growing Up

• You go to reply to a post on Tumblr and then you stop and realize what you had to say isn't actually that interesting or funny
• You go to respond to an Ask on Tumblr and then you stop and realize what you had to say isn't actually that interesting or funny
• You go to write a text post on Tumblr and then you stop and realize what you had to say isn't actually that interesting or funny
• You go to bed