July 21st, 2005

The summer time flies for me, even though I do the same shit almost every day: I get up, go to work, come home, play on the computer and hang with my friends on the weekend. My lady love is 1250 miles away in Omaha, and every day without her is torturous. Talking to her on the phone makes things better, but it is also a reminder of how far apart we are. Longing has new meaning for me.

I've never been in a long distance relationship before. I knew going into this though, that being with Heather would mean being apart for a while as she is finishing her undergrad schooling and I am out in Maryland working. Moving to each other has entered both our minds, and it may soon become a reality for me to move back out to the Midwest.

However, Im a little nervous. I'd be gaining everything I wanted, in that she and I would be together. However, I don't have a job lined up like I do now. I will be teaching this fall, as an Adjunct Developmental Writing Instructor, at a community college. This job will give me the experience I need so I can some day get a job teaching Creative Writing courses. I am very happy with this job. Becoming a Teaching Assistant in the fall of '04, and a teacher this fall, makes me so happy. I love helping students with their writings and get so much satisfaction when I see that glimmer in their eyes after I have successfully taught them something. Like writing, teaching is my calling.

I want to move, but the thought of not having a job right away, or getting a job where I'm not happy, worries me. Over the next few days, as I look for jobs, maybe things will brighten up. Even though my pessimistic nature has me worrying about not being able to make money, I know if I were with Heather in Omaha, I'd be happy.

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November 27th, 2002

Two words, two definitions:
Quote: Verb. To repeat exactly what someone else has previously stated.
Quotation: Noun. The exact quoting of words as a passage.

I quoted Gene Fowler in a previous Thought. I also used a quotation by Antoine de Saint Exupéry.

All too often people say quote when quotation is the correct word. I do not exclude myself from this practice, but since my Senior year in high school, when my teacher Ms. Roberts emphatically clarified the two words’ meanings, I have tried to use the correct word for the correct occasion. I find it weird when college professors still use the wrong word. Yet, they give me crap for doing something similar in a paper. A bit hippocritical, don’t you think?

November 26th, 2002

When does a writer stop revising, cutting, rewriting? When is a piece finally done? I keep running into this problem. I hand in a piece and no matter how many times I edit and revise it, there is still something that can be improved upon, or changed. I have run myself ragged making sure a piece is “perfect”.

But sometimes a reader has a problem with clarity, word choice, or the amount of details. Sure the word might be used in an unconventional way, but I used it correctly. I put that detail or word in for a reason. It might lend to the piece’s overall tone, or give the narrator a distinct voice, or really draw out an object or scene.

This brings me back to my initial statement: When does too much revision, or catering to the reader, ruin the author’s original intent? Can I, or should I–a writer–cater, or should I throw caution to the wind and do what I want, express myself how I want? I realize I need to be concise in some places, I know full descriptions aren’t always necessary, and I realize I always need to be clear so the reader will enjoy my piece, and not get confused. But, I also know if it isn’t broke don’t fix it.

Getting by a difficult passage doesn’t mean it is written poorly, it might mean the reader just needs to think through what he or she just read, rather than gloss over the words without paying any particular attention. Joseph Conrad is an author whose details are so engrossing and intricate that if a person quickly read, or skimmed through his book, Heart of Darkness, they would be utterly lost. His wordplay is such that one must take in each word to understand his full meaning.

Writing is a form of art and each writer has a story tell, but in their own way. If a writer allows another person to overly-change a piece to the point of destroying the original form, intent, voice, tone, or whatever, they are doing a disservice to the art form, and to themself.

So, when is a piece done? As Antoine de Saint Exupéry said, “In anything at all, perfection is finally attained not when there is anything to add, but when there is nothing to take away.”

By the same token Gene Fowler stated, “Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”

Writing is hard, soft, and constant work. And I love it. I just want to know when a piece I have written is truly and completely done.

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November 14th, 2002

I have an enormous fear of public speaking. I hate speeches and loathe presentations. The biggest presentation for a young Jew is the right of passage into adulthood--Bar Mitzvah for boys, Bat Mitzvah for girls. There is nothing more nerve racking than being an awkward 13 year-old and reading biblical Hebrew in front of 200 relatives and friends: All their eyes, hundreds of tiny spotlights, focusing on me. God forbid I should screw up a word while reading. Did I mention biblical Hebrew has no vowels? I know my fear of public speaking did not begin with my passage into manhood, but where did I acquire this discomforting quality?

A couple of weeks ago I was on my way to class. I had to give a thirty-minute presentation on two books I read. As I walked across a St. Paul St. bridge situated above I-83 and train tracks, I began feeling the symptoms of nervousness. My mouth started drying up, my stomach turned and tossed, and I began to feel very warm and flushed--I still had a ten-minute walk ahead of me before I even reached the school building!

I tried to calm myself, and divert my mind from the impending class. I breathed, drawing in deep breaths through my nose, and slowly exhaling out my mouth. My mind wandered, but thoughts of my nervousness were never far away. I started to rationalize my fear of public speaking: Where did I pick up this fear? How long have I had it? Is it directly related to my shyness? My Mom is also shy. Is this fear genetic? I have so many questions, and no answers.

If I am so afraid of the spotlight why did I build a website? Why do I have my picture on it? Why put down my writings, some of which are revealing and very personal, for others to read? I think I am able to have my website, which contains all that material, because none of the fears I have with public speaking are present. There is a separation between me, and those viewing my site. I cannot see my audience or their reactions to my writings.

I feel safer and am free from the fear of mistakes. Don’t get me wrong, I know I make mistakes on my website but I have time to fix a webpage’s link, or correct a spelling error. With speeches and presentations, no matter how prepared I am, if I mess up or leave something out, I can’t go back and fix it. That time has passed, and unfortunately, I don’t have a silver Delorian, with a flux capacitor and plutonium fuel, that can take me back in time and prevent my public embarrassment.

Without a layer separating me from my audience I get nervous. Curing this fear, if there is one, will take time. So, I’ll just have to take a risk, and embrace the shining spotlight. This website is a start. After all, people can email me their opinions.

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October 12th, 2002

Several things on my mind, here is one of them.

Whenever I get a written assignment back from a teacher there is one editorial comment I can't stand: “Awk.” or “awkward”. I haven’t received this comment lately, but with the massive amount of pieces I have to write, and have written this semester, it is bound to come up. I hate this remark because usually the reader doesn’t say why it is awkward. The reader, in this case a grade giving god, AKA a professor, automatically assumes I know why it is awkward. If I didn’t think it was awkward the first time I wrote the piece, or the other two times I read it when revising the piece, how would I think it awkward just because the teacher says so?

What happens when we assume? You not only make an ass out of yourself, but you also make an ass out of me, and I don’t think anyone purposely wants to look like an ass.

In conclusion, I plead with all teachers, professors, tutors, editors, or anyone else who reads and edits a paper for content and grammatical mistakes - please, please explain, either directly to the author or in the margins of the written work, (hell, use a spiffy red pen so it sticks out), why you think a sentence, phrase, or word choice is awkward. This will immensely help the author, who most likely is already hesitant in sharing his or her piece with you because of a great lack of confidence - something that seems to afflict many writers (including myself), artists, and musicians.

Finally, be gentle when you read something. They call it constructive criticism for a reason. Make your comments count for something other than putting a piece down, shredding it, and stomping it into the ground. We writers can’t always see our mistakes, and we sometimes fall in love with a line and are unable to let it go, even if it shouldn’t be in the piece. Your helpful comments can point out to us why, what we see as genius, is really crap.

September 26th, 2002

Rediscovery. The act of something old becoming new again. It is an exciting feeling. Yesterday I was walking to work and was listening to Daft Punk: Discovery. I haven’t listened to this album in months. When I first got it, I remember listening to it nonstop. Its infectious grooves, light and heavy beats, and repetitive guitar riffs, vibrating in my head; a crescendo of sound. Daft Punk’s style of house reminds me somewhat of disco, or at least the time period. It is light and airy. You can’t help but smile when certain songs are on. It embodies that era’s fervor for life, but without the crap music, clothes, or drugs. It is just some form of pure. I can't quite put my finger on it.

A month or so went by and I “retired” the album out of my rotation, moving on to something different. But yesterday I put it in and listened to it again. It had been so long that I felt like it was a new album. Each sound entered into me and I liked it.

It was a nice feeling to have, a sense newness for something months old

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September 25th, 2002

I lost a familiar friend the other day. Buckling myself down to do homework I started my computer; the familiar start up chime quietly signaled the start up process. Once booted, I connected to the internet and made a bee-line for my iTunes program. The little icon bounced in the dock, eagerly awaiting for the program to load. Once the window appeared I clicked on the radio option; scanned the list of categories for the classical section; my forefinger firmly clicked the mouse to affirm my choice; and the list of stations cascaded down like a waterfall of musical selections. I knew what music I wanted to listen to, music that would be a welcome background to doing homework: not too distracting not too diminuitive. A balance of soothing and stirring notes to perk the ears enough to stand out.

Shock and disappointment was all that awaited; the channel I so desired no longer appeared in the ladder of music. Classical Archives took its place. Maybe the name changed, I thought. Clicking on it I heard not the unusual sounds of the far east; I heard not the whooping cranes sunning near the shores; I heard not the river bursting at its banks from the spring thaw. Instead I heard the sounds similar to those coming from a disconnected phone line. Three ear splitting beeps and, “We’re sorry you’ve reached a station that is unavailable at this time. Please try again later.” So I did.

Travelling down the ladder of stations I made my way to, Mozart Forever, Always. Two clicks of my finger and the music began. Trumpets blared, violins sang, cellos bellowed; notes trailed into me setting my ears on fire with a cacophony of sound; distinct from it’s far eastern counterpart, but no less beautiful.

I’ve really become accustomed to classical music on a whole, but I like the unfamiliarity of Chinese classical music. I discovered this online radio station months ago back in Iowa. It's foreign notes differed from anything I've heard, but I liked it. The music is very literal. The title of a song matches the notes. If the title consisted of cranes by a pond, then I could hear birds near water - high pitched notes chittering rapidly.

I lost a familiar friend who started out foreign; I have gained a new friend in the Mozart station; familiar in origin and history, foreign in sound. I have become so accustomed to my far east friend, that I must refamiliarize myself.

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September 18th, 2002

I'm having trouble configuring my e-mail for the website. I can receive but not send. For some reason the mail gets stuck in limbo; unsent; never reaching the final destination.

“When it rains it pours.” Or “If it’s not one thing it’s another.” Two phrases I am all too familiar with. Phrases so ingrained into my vocabulary, that when the circumstances fit, it is easy to mutter one or the other under my breath. My grandpa had a good answer to happenings that would cause him to want to say either of those pessimistic phrases: “Eh, whaddya gonna do?”

It may sound like he was giving up on whatever problem was at hand, but that isn't so. That is just the surface reflecting brief surface thoughts. You have to first delve below to see what is really above. My grandpa's saying is about just letting it slide; to go with the flow; roll with the punches. Cliches abound, doing battle with each other. In one corner the pessimists. In the other corner, the optimists (or maybe Taoists).

Too often to I find myself preoccupied with the pooring rain to let myself slide in it. Only when I breathe, calm myself, and just push myself from the frustrating situation can I say, “Eh, whaddya gonna do?”

September 17th, 2002

With a sigh of relief I slump in my hard deskchair. Knowing that I have finally completeted and launched my first website, I am happy. The entire process was a mixture of things–fun, frustration, grief, calm, excitement, and satisfaction. All these emotions experienced over the two months I have spent building. Like an architect, I carefully layed out my plans; I meticulously mulled over every detail. I feel I have done well for my first try. I know I will be adding more, like a homeowner remodeling their house, but for now this site is complete.

To borrow from Kubrick–This is my website, there are many like it but this one is mine.