So today I got an e-mail informing me that my short story Clara will be published in the York University E.U.S.A. Zine which comes out on March 25th. There's a launch party with readings that night from 6:30 - 9:30PM at Sylvester's in Stong College. Needless to say I'm so excited. This publication is the first step in what I hope to be an amazing writing career.
Here's a link to a copy of Clara in .PDF for those who are interested:
I also finished writing the latest edit of The Photograph. I sent it over to be edited by the one I trust. There should only be one more edit before I share it on the ether.
I spent the week reading Shutter Island. I bought the book on Tuesday and finished it Saturday afternoon before venturing out into the torrential and insistent rain and seeing the movie in theaters. I have to recommend to anyone who likes a good story to check this one out. Read the book first, and I only say that because it's a better experience to go in knowing the story before seeing the movie. You'll know why when you do. I was absolutely blown away by the book and film, and I can't wait to read and watch it again throughout my life.
I've also spent the week trying to figure out why I've been getting headaches (apparently I need glasses), so I've had little time to write, let alone a blog. I feel bad about that, and I don't know why. Maybe because I feel like I should be writing a little bit every day?
Here's a change from The Photograph I wanted to share:
-- Original Edit --
Lily tugged on her sweater and examined her breasts. They were new a new toy, foreign, continuously growing, and she liked them … a lot. How could she not? They made her feel beautiful and confident; they made her feel like she was part of a secret club. She was sure she could get Tommy Hornerbeck to want her like she wanted him. Attention wasn’t going to be a problem, anymore. The rest of seventh grade wasn’t going to be a problem, either. With these new babies, Lily felt an overwhelming sense of power.
‘God, I love these things,’ she said, pressing her breasts up against her chest. ‘They’re so firm!’ Lily sidled up against Missy, shook her chest from side to side, and said, ‘check them out, Miss; they’re like jello.’
-- New Edit --
Stephanie hid her face under the lip of her jacket, fighting off a blast of cold air.
Here she goes again, she thought, watching Lily tug on her sweater and examine her breasts for the thousandth time that morning. Doesn’t she know what day it is today? Yet a part of her understood it: those breasts were new a new toy, foreign, continuously growing, and Stephanie knew how much Lily liked them … a lot. How could she not? They made her feel beautiful and confident; they made her feel like she was part of a secret club. Stephanie couldn’t understand it by experience, but she wasn’t dumb; she knew how the world worked – sex appeal went a long way. But the other part of her was starting to feel left out.
Watching Lily was like watching her baby cousin open his eyes for the first time: she kept touching her breasts, shaking them, flaunting them. She was so sure she could get Tommy Hornerbeck to notice her; she wouldn’t shut up about it, either. It was driving her mad.
‘God, I love these things,’ said Lily, pressing her breasts up against her chest. ‘They’re so firm!’ Lily sidled up against Stephanie, shook her chest from side to side, and said, ‘check them out, Steph; they’re like jell-o.’
It's scary to think that in 1.5 hours I might come out of the eye doctors needing glasses. For the past week I've been experiencing dull headaches that seem to come throughout the day the longer I have my eyes open. It seems that my vision is a little blurry and I might be straining too hard; self-diagnosis can only go so far as all of this is speculation of course, but I'll find out soon. Or not ... which is also scary. What else causes headaches? Nothing good!
The Photograph is coming along. I've decided to keep the focus on Missy, who's name has now changed to Stephanie, but I'm still playing with interior monologue verses third-person omniscient narration of interior.
Been bogged down by essay writing and piano practice. At least I'm still writing in some form. Here's the intro to my essay:
War is eternal. It is graphic, bloody, and vulgar. Peace is an illusion. There is nothing more devastating than death through the conflicts of others. Innocent children, teenagers, and adults pay the price of war. Today there are many wars still being fought throughout the world. And here at home, news reports illustrate the destruction and death tolls with an ignorant tone. Humans have not learned how to make peace with each other after thousands of years of living together. After two world wars and their unimagined death tolls, the unimagined racism against the Jews by the Nazi’s and their subsequent death camps, we are still fighting one another with the same means; only now we have perfected how to kill each other. In Canada, we are lucky not to have to experience war first hand unless we are willing to volunteer for it, to help those suffering. How do you help a broken world consumed by hate? Dominant for control? War is eternal. Both Art Spiegelman’s Maus and Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost are two novels about war that take place in two separate historical eras which remind us that war is continuous and misleading; remind us that control through fear of death forces characters to few options: detach from death, be consumed by it, or take action against it.
I'm twenty-three years old and I've recently finished the first draft of my first novel. Right now I'm working on publishing short stories and advancing my writing career.
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