weepretzels - Tumblr blog

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HAMTARO: RAINBOW RESCUE (2003)

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just some spaces and places

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this is my final form

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ok i just need to know. like i love writing, i'm going to graduate school literally to write. i have written poems since before i knew how to make a proper sentence or how to spell ANYTHING. i have ideas for stories. i even sometimes know what i want to say. but then actually writing it out is like.... so HARD??????? what????? why is the thing i love also the thing i hate that feels like is going to kill me until i've finished a story? AND WHY DON'T I HAVE ANY IDEAS????/ ideas are literally the only things stories are made out of. what am i

doing.

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i hate being so heavy, so tired, so sad, i hate that i carry this with me, that there is no simple way to lower this away from me, to pass this burden off like shrugging off a book bag; what i want is to be happy in a simple quiet way, with no raging inside me, to cross over a threshold at which point i say to my grief goodbye, my friend, but this is where we part ways, this is where i hurry away to a little cottage with big windows that pull the warm yellow sunlight towards me as i putter around inside in house shoes, my hands and arms up to my elbows powdered with flour, and the low hum of the oven heating somewhere deep in the kitchen is comforting and offers me some tangible sense of conclusion, because something beautiful and decisive is happening inside it as the scones rise and change into something completely different to when i put them in as little fluted rounds. what i want is to feel something shallow within me and not shudder, what i want is not to worry about falling asleep because i might dream of this or that, because i’m still working through the immense yearning you left me with to be loved, to be seen, to be appreciated, to be desired. i want away from this, from all my past. i want to say this is where i step away and cross a line and i don’t look back. but my heart only knows how to hold things, because everything is precious to me in its own way; when others wonder at my sadness i rear and fight, i defend this darkness, i cup it in my hands and hold it to me with no uncertainty, i recognize it and claim it, i know that maybe i have been born just to feel certain things; but i am very tired. i hate that i will carry this, that i continue to be myself, that there is no metamorphosis moment, there is no big melting down or second becoming—no, there is only me and this big sadness, this big heaviness, this fear, this anger, this quiet rage. and i’m here wondering whether all the times i have been glad to be myself were as ephemeral as my disassociation... i am suddenly immeasurably distant from the things i know. even the breath that slings from one distance to another within me seems false, as if i’m pulling in nothing to sustain me, with no choice in the matter... in my dreams you answer on the second ring, and i say 뭐야 너무 빨리 받는게 아냐 and you say 지금 핸드폰 만지고 있어서 그래 but even the me in my dreams knows that that’s not the reason because even in the past you ignored me no matter what you were doing. and when i wake up i wonder about it, why is this bottomless desire waking up in me now, this desire to be known and wanted, this desire to be a comfortable half of a pair, to play a role already scripted for me opposite you. and i’ve been thinking a lot lately about how when you did things that were nice for me, i didn’t thank you enough, i didn’t express anything but my frustration or sadness in detail, and just like that every good thing i ever did for you seems insignificant, and not enough, and again i’m floating again in this fog of confusion, not knowing who i am or whether or not anything i have known is the way that things were. what i do know is sometimes when i lay on my stomach between my fluffy pink blanket and the bubblegum pink sheets i got for myself because everything i denied myself in the past brings me immense comfort now, i feel like i might disappear.

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Source

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onion magic

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The Rubáíyát of a Persian kitten, Oliver Herford, 1912

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Ibizan Hound vs. Chunk of Wood

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when dogs want to play & do this, like if you agree

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maison frank, seoul, march 2020 | 메종프랭크, 서울, 2020년3월

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seong-su-dong, seoul, march 2020

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why aren’t we careful readers? why aren’t we careful writers?

everyone has opinions about stories, everyone is clamoring about what a story should or should not contain, and I see quite often a confusion between what is produced singularly and what is produced for the thrill of the average reader; in their assessments other readers are looking for keywords to check off on their rubrics, their pre-assembled requirements which, like a glass box, expect every story that meets the definition of “good” to fit perfectly inside; people are looking for “tension,” people are looking for conflict and resolution, people are looking for action, for excitement, people are looking for something that makes sense to them, something tied up neatly, something explicitly resolved. I’m seeing a decrease in the number of readers who are willing to engage with what’s on the page more than they are willing to interact with who they are as a reader; is workshop pedagogy to blame for this “story by committee” attitude of the contemporary reader, who demands a story be what they want it to be, and if it fails to, deem this some failure; why can’t we look at what is on the page, why can’t we take it for what it is, why do stories need to hit these keywords like tension or resolution, and what’s more, why isn’t anybody able to slow down, why can’t anyone stay with a slow story, a story that builds through dialogue or exposition, a story that meanders, a story that pulls strings together lithely to come to an emotionally smart ending? a lot of these stories I’m reading are far from perfect, but I’m disturbed by other readers being unable to grasp things that aren’t explicitly enumerated on the page, I’m disturbed by this desire for a story to be loud, I’m disturbed by these other readers’ lack of criticism of characters, especially women, that fall into well-worn roles, into women that are pitted against each other for their beauty or their “lack” of it, I’m disturbed by the number of pieces coming in written by men about some ethnic woman who induces a sexual and spiritual awakening in the male narrator and I’m disturbed that these narrators think this is love, I’m disturbed that other people working in the publishing industry aren’t able to read all these different kinds of stories equally, that there’s an explicit bias in all their decisions, that they’ll pass along a story up the chain because it ticks all the genre convention’s boxes, I’m disturbed that they send stories up the chain that completely strip women characters bare of any personality or characterization other than their relationships to men. I’m disturbed that everyone has opinions about what a story should be but so few have the patience to actually read what is on the page in front of them, especially, and really only, when that story is quiet, when that story is operating on nuance, when that story is about women and their emotional connections, when that story makes you patient. like Willa Cather said, we have to first distinguish between what’s produced for the masses and what is produced as art. the masses want change, they want to be shocked and they always want something new. i think literature as art is all of these things, but in a timeless way, in a purposefully crafted way, in a patient way. and i think literature as art shows up on the page. everyone who thinks Hemingway’s philosophy of the iceberg in fiction is the way to go has probably only ever read hills like white elephants. they’ve never read big two-hearted river. this man waxes on. people think they get to have an idea for a story, write that idea down on the paper, and then submit it to a literary magazine and it’s going to get published. where’s the part where you waxed on? where’s the part where you crafted this story with your own two hands? where’s the part where you made this something? i always write in my comments for stories that aren’t cutting it, “the writing isn’t doing that much work.” what i mean is that the writer had the idea but didn’t put it on the page. we sometimes have to be explicit, we sometimes can’t rely on implying everything, we can’t sprinkle clues through the pages like breadcrumbs and expect the readers to do all the work. why write the story if you’re not even going to say what it is you have to say? why dance around the themes and the impact? PUT IT ON THE PAGE. and make it interesting, give it texture, give it energy. do everything on purpose. and EDIT. go back and read it and if it’s not doing anything, take it out. if it’s not doing enough, write more. don’t rely on a surprise ending; a thoughtful and perceptive reader has seen it coming. and just because you’ve written it doesn’t mean it’s ready to be published. there are some things you have to finish a draft of and then put it in the bottom drawer for a while, to draw back out again when they’re ready. you know how your first love is something you want to keep more than you can express but you don’t have the skills yet to keep it? you don’t have the relationship experience or the maturity to make it last? i think as writers we have to let ourselves mature enough to be ready for certain stories. you need to write. get it on the paper. but have enough discernment to know when something is bigger than you, to know when something is more powerful than you can handle right now. and then go back to it later. we can blame my mars in taurus for this, maybe, or my cancer sun, but you have to be patient. if you’ve finished a piece, you’ve edited it and worked on it, share it with someone you trust, and then wait a couple weeks before you decide what to do with it. and you have to keep reading. as someone working in the publishing industry i can’t tell you how many submissions i read where i can spot the TV tropes from the first paragraph. the media you consume will inevitably show up on the page. if you want to write literary fiction, you can’t spend all your time watching TV. read a goddamn book. read the book that your writing professor wrote. read first novels and most recent novels. read short stories, contemporary ones and not that raymond carver shit. read what is new and contemporary. and journal. write your own life and your own lived experience. don’t try to copy what someone else has already done. i can tell you the industry is looking for the fresh, fresh takes on old stories and characters is fine, but something i’ve completely never seen before, that is more stunning, that is a piece i’m going to pass on right away and even email the editors about. you have a story in you that nobody else can write. why would you write an imitation when you can write something new? it might not be in the form you always thought of yourself writing in. i thought i’d publish short fiction for the longest time, and i’m just now figuring out that auto-fiction works a lot better for me. go to therapy. i mean it. learn about yourself, put time towards yourself, find out what drives you and what matters to you. your writing will only gain from any effort you put into your own self-care. be patient and know that when you start a story, you’re going into it for the long haul. you’re going into it for the first  draft, that pulse of adrenaline and pride as you hold the first printed copy hot off your home printer in your hands, you’re going into it for the several revisions after that ,you’re going into it for the inevitable overhaul at some point down the line, and you’re going into it for the waiting, for the time it’ll spend in the bottom drawer as you mature and become ready for it. you’re going into it for that moment, months or years from now, when you’re holding the latest copy in your hands, hot off your home printer, and you just know that it’s ready, and complete, and even perhaps the very thing you were born to write. what makes you a great writer is what makes you you. if you can learn to accept this, then i believe you’ll become a better reader, too. what if we looked at every story that came across our workshop table with the same respect we paid every idea we took the time to write down ourselves? we’d have a lot fewer rubrics, a lot more patience, a lot more curiosity, a lot more willingness to set aside our own desires and expectations for others’ work, a less entitled eye, a kinder and gentler perspective, and perhaps a return to the essentials: good writing takes numberless forms and tells numberless stories. if we had the patience and discipline, we might even be good enough readers to recognize whatever kernels of skill and goodness are in the manuscripts we come across and to build up from those, whatever they might be. if we were patient and disciplined enough, we’d stop producing imitations, we’d stop writing “stock” or cliche or stereotype. we’d get out of this mindset of “everything has to be what i want it to be” and “what can i learn from the best possible version of this story?” being a discerning and patient reader will also teach us when to abandon certain ideas and when to go for others. i see so many stories that lack focus and in the end, end up saying nothing at all, or end up saying something that other authors have said many times before. read outside of your comfort zone, push yourself to be patient, dedicated, and open. and slow down and actually read the manuscript in front of you. sit on your hands if you’re tempted to go after it in red pen—markups are a second-read privilege. SLOW DOWN AND READ THE STORY. SLOW DOWN AND WRITE THE STORY, PUT THE STORY ON THE PAGE, DON’T TAKE SHORTCUTS, DO THE HARD WORK, FOLLOW THROUGH.