split lives, part II

trying this out to see if something comes of it - z

if you want to know the exact moment when her life split into two paths, follow amber's father to the embassy, where he has applied for a visa to work in the united states...

retrospective

i think the font might be too small. i like writing small though, i can't stand the thought of writing in large letters. i am a picky sort of person when it comes to writing, temperamental to the extreme. if the journal doesn't bend the write way, if the lines are spaced too far apart, if the pen/pencil in my hand doesn't feel fluid enough, or is too fluid, if the font is too big or too small or just not right.

i am the goldilocks of writing.

cigarettes and chocolate milk

the room is uncomfortably warm, but that's what individual room heaters do when there's an american living there in winter. turn the heat up at night and the room becomes too warm and too dry - thus the window cracked open at the top and the ceramic bowl of water sitting on the coils of the heater.

older stuff

the short story:

driving down the small country highway that cuts trough her town, stuck at a traffic light at 7 am, she has to do a double take to make sure she’s really seeing what she just saw. the day is crisp and bright, the way only October mornings can be: sharp and cold without being freezing, a reminder that winter is not far behind. from here, it looks like a dot in the sky, but as she drives closer, she sees that it is, in fact, a hot-air balloon. she brings her eyes back to the road, notes that none of the other drivers on the road have noticed. no one looks up anymore, and life passes them by just like this. she tries to look ahead, but her eyes are drawn up again to the balloon, floating serenely in mid-air. all these people, and no one finds it strange, no one either bothers to look. in a flash, she is alarmed. have all people become so heartless, such drones that they no longer marvel at man walking on air? 7 am in the morning, and all they care about is beating the rush hour. she always promised herself she would never be like this, never be a drone, would follow beauty if it called out to her loud enough, if it beckoned like this.

starting off with writer's block

i knew this would happen - i knew that as soon as i started this project, i would get an intense case of writer's block. but i will persevere and muddle through this crampiness.

funny thing - for all those critics who believe sex doesn't sell, please note that the only comments i've gotten on this blog so far are on the blog that talks incessantly about sex ;) and the comments were awesome, thank you guys.

as andrew so wonderfully put it, navel-staring does not fly.

sex and lies

so why is it so difficult for me to write about sex? i want to be the writer who can take stories from her own life, disconnect for a bit, and create fiction based loosely on those experiences. maybe i need prompts? or something? is it that religious stigma that bars me from taking risks? a sort of cultural problem?

hopper's "boulevard of broken dreams"

prologue:

back where she started from, only this time a little bit different. there is a steady drizzle outside, noticeable only when it falls past the lonely street lamps in the parking lot outside. everything is closed, and the last customers have trickled (some more reluctantly than others) out the double doors, leaving the cosy warmth of a full cafe for the cold chill of wintry fog.

first things

in the beginning...

once upon a time...

first things first...

oh fuck. how do you begin something literary and creative, whose aim is to create something out of nothing (i.e., the manuscript of a fully-completed novel) in a short span of time (i.e., the deadline being march 15th)? there's no way to properly begin something like this. you look at a white canvas and simply do your best to fill the blankness with beauty.