I have a habit of associating actors with rolls that don't really define their career correctly. For instance, when most people think of Vince Vaughn, they probably conjure up images of "Wedding Crashers", "Dodgeball", or if you're a bit older "Swingers". The first movie I think of is Gus Van Sant's "Psycho". Vince Vaughn may be a funny, badass, towering man, but I automatically go to Norman Bates. It may have to do with the fact that it was the first movie i ever saw him in. It was 1998, so I was only 11. I was 9 when "Swingers" came out, so I hadn't been introduced to him as this character. I was too busy facing my fear of slasher flicks.

Another actor I do this with is Edward Norton. This one I didn't realize until I heard he was going to be "The Hulk". He didn't seem like the right fit for a character with inner rage. This is because until most people who hear Edward Norton and think of "Fight Club" or "American History X", I automatically thinks of him as Smoochy the Rhino. Either that or Father Brian Finn. A priest and a beloved childhood friend cannot have inner rage.

I don't think i do this because my mind emasculates men. Henry Winkler will always be The Fonzie, Bruce Willis will always be John McClane, and Johnny Depp will be dressed as a pirate or riding a motorcycle in my dreams forever, but these two will be the Underdogs of my movie memory forever.

My new favorite thing to do is search for unintentional comedy on YouTube. This one is my favorite

I got this idea from the Tucker Max Message Board of all place. It's called The Happy Book and it's basically just this girl filling a composition book with all her favorite little things in life. I decided to start of my own, and these are some of my better ones. (I'm up to 132).

1. Bonfires

7. Wind chimes

8. The Smell of Library Books

17. My Father's Laugh

22. Greasy Pizza

27. The mixture of sunshine and a cool breeze

28. (I know I'm not supposed to say this as a girl but) a good morning poop

31. Daydreaming

32. Waking up in the middle of the night and realizing you can go back to sleep

36. The first shower after you chop all your hair off

41. Getting a Laugh

49. a clean apartment/ room/ car

56. Goose down comforters

67. Feeling pretty all by myself

70. Hot showers at 3 a.m.

85. Swimming in the ocean during high tide

90. Finding money in your skinny jeans that you haven't worn in forever

98. a sky full of stars

101. Cartwheels

105. Laughing so hard your stomach hurts

116. Knowing that my parents are in love after all these years

124. The Good Old Days (and realizing I'm still there)

131. Blasting the air conditioning during a  rain storm

They're completely silly, but it makes the cold blues and the mean reds disappear.

Someone has put into words what I go through every day as a Creative Writing Major:

Shook Ones - May 30, 2008

The writing program at UCLA is surprisingly solid for a school that doesn't have an MFA program. Since the instructors decide who gets into the class, you get both a baseline of talent and people who are fairly serious about their writing. With all this in mind I was chuffed as fuck to get into my first class.

To write for a class like that, you've got to have a lot of confidence in your own writing. If you don't, there's no way you're going to be able sit through an hour of people critiquing your work.

In order to have this confidence, I have to believe that whatever I'm currently working on is the best thing I've written yet[1]. If I don't believe that, then why bother. Why bother writing it, why bother sharing it, why bother posting it to my site? People know when you're phoning it in.

The first time I turned in for the creative writing class, I truly believed that the story I'd written was awesome. Not just awesome, but mind blowing. I'm not sure what I expected from my peers, applause maybe, but I knew that my shit was good and I expected them to recognize that in grand fashion.

What I got was exactly the opposite. It's not that they didn't like it, I could have written that off to differing taste. They tore it to shreds. My character motivation was nonexistent, my dialogue was weak, the plot had barely more than one dimension. It's not so much that they didn't like it, it's like they were frustrated that I wasn't a better writer.

Sitting there listening to the rest of the writing group tear into this story was awful. I really thought I might be sick and when I got out of class I went home and did shots of rum until I stopped feeling like a jackass. I just couldn't believe I had misjudged my writing ability so badly.

But worse than the embarrassment of sitting through that class was the loss of confidence in my own ability. For weeks after that, I couldn't write. I'd sit at the computer and just stare at the cursor. My fear that whatever I wrote wouldn't be any good wouldn't even let me start.

It's an awful feeling. Writer's block is a hundred times easier.

I don't bring this all up as interesting historical fact. Wednesday night we were talking about where we see ourselves over the next ten years. Obviously I want to write. I want to support myself as a writer and I want the recognition that only comes with being a best selling author.

The unfortunate truth is that I'm not there as a writer. Maybe I'm good enough to get published, maybe I'm even good enough to make an average living with as a writer. But that's not the point. The point is to make the best possible art I can make. It's not about writing well enough to get paid, it's being the best writer I can possibly be and letting the money follow.

I might have to spray paint that on the wall. Burn it into the carpet. Carve it into the desk.

Wednesday wasn't easy. It's never easy to have two people you like and respect tell you "there are assumptions you've made about your life and about your writing that are wrong."[2] And hearing that I need to challenge those assumptions is scary and uncomfortable. I don't want to shine a light on a lot of things that I've lived comfortably with for many, many years. I don't want admit that I've been lying to myself, or that I haven't been true to myself.

But easy or not, it's necessary. Without challenging those assumptions there's no way to grow as a person or as a writer. And that means I have to make a choice. Am I willing to do what's necessary to take my writing to the next level? Am I really committed to this, will I push through what's comfortable and easy or do I blow it off, tell myself they're full of shit? Or worse, do I say the work necessary isn't worth it that I'd rather accept who am I at this moment and never leave my mark on the world, never move past this point.

I guess I've chosen to push through it. I sat here Wednesday night and most of Thursday and almost all day today afraid to put anything on the page. Write a line, delete a line. The only way to get through it is to get back on the horse and write. And so you get a bunch of naval gazing, sorry about that.

---
[1]When writing fiction, blog posts are different

[2]Paraphrased

 From BenCorman.com

Tracy Turnblad:   I wish every day were Negro Day!

How Many Cannibals Can You Feed?

I can feed 11 cannibals. I feel like this is an accomplishment.

Anyway... So I've been home for about a week now and I have to say that I haven't felt this happy in a long long time. I got back to work, ate a hot wing hogie, drove my car, and slept on the tiny pull-out couch my mom got from Pier One. I have no idea why this place makes me so happy. I'm ridiculously poor, working in a basement 8 hours a day, and in all honestly don't have any privacy, but I'm fucking ECSTATIC!

I'm sick I tell ya... SICK!!!

I've been thinking a lot about The Boy lately. After the summer of confusion, I left for Erie in hopes of finding a sutable replacement, and while I have found a young man who reminds me of the boy quite a bit, my roomate is in love with him and he would be a poor substitute for the real thing. Anyway, I spent last semester making new friends, being involved in the drama of others, and basically being the apartment virgin. Around November, The Boy IM'd me on AIM and flat-out asked me why I didn't make a move. I didn't know how to answer the question correctly, so I wrote the story to explain it.(same link as "The Boy"). He seemed to take some solace in the story, but told me that i should really make a move. This was the first thought in my head when I went home for Christmas.

I was a few days before I would have to make the trek back to Erie that I finally got to hang out with him. He works 12 hours a day, so he rarely has time to hang out. The phone call was awkward, but we managed to make plans for dinner. He came to pick me up and we went to a new Thai restaurant that hasn't been there last August. He talked all through dinner. Not in a conversation-hog way, but in an "lots of interesting things to say" kind of way. At the end of the meal, he pulled out his card and without a second thought payed for the whole meal. For some reason I didn't think anything of this. I wasn't even aware we were on a date. He had very literally JUST broke up with his girlfriend (Apparently she thought he was cheating, so she menstruated on his sheets. It took him an extra 6 hours to explain to her that they were broken up)  He was still talking as we walked back to his car, and when he got a call about some midnight bowling, he invited me along.

"I gotta go hang out with this guy for awhile, but I'll give you a call when I'm coming to pick you up" he told me as he dropped me off at my house. But when he came to pick me up the second time, he was a little different. Apparently he was under the influence of some green substance when we had dinner, and he was coming out of the haze. Anyway, to make a long story short, we hung out at the bowling alley and he didn't try to make any kind of move whatsoever. I guess i came blame him though, cause his brother was there and the brother and his girlfriend were having a lot of drama. He dropped me off and I gave him a hug, promising to see him over Spring Break. All that time I don't see a a single chance to make my move.  

Back to Erie, there were massive roomate issues, I was starting to get really annoyed with people, and by the time Spring Break rolled around, I was DYING to get out of here. The night before i was supposed to leave, there was a massive storm and I was stuck in the apartment, by myself, for the entire weekend. I was finally able to escape on Sunday, and it was the longest ordeal of my life. So sets the mood for my week.

I call up The Boy, and the only time we can hang out that week is during his pool tournament at a bar in Moosic (a town right outside home). When i get there, he introduces me to his mother. Then, after the tournament, he gets rediculously drunk. Like any drunk person i know, he is automatically enamored with my breasts. He continuously tries to sneak a grab, eats three pieces of garlic-salted pizza, and then drinks some more. He can barely get off the barstool when it's time to go. I give him a hug, but again see no chance at making a move.

I know he wants me to make the first move, but does he have to make it so fucking difficult? I feel like the only time he even flirts is when he's drunk. Plus, every one of his ex-girlfriends has accused him of cheating. I'm not saying a want a relationship, but I don't want to feel like a conquest either. I'm just not sure if this guy cares about me, or if I'm just going to be an easy lay.  

_

Flowers Blooming in the Field

The flowers in this field just bloomed.

The girl on her knees has come to this part of the valley many times before

with the ivy-crowned man. At first it was a thrill to sneak away

from her parents’ watchful eyes, but now it’s become commonplace,

and she thinks of the poor farm boy with whom she is in love.

She can’t be with her love; she’s betrothed to the ivy-crowned man. He

comes from a wealthy family who will give her a good life and he loves her dearly,

but she doesn’t love him. As she kneels in the field, she lets him kiss her.

She desperately wants to love this man, but can’t hold back her bored look

every time they kiss. Every time he brings her to this field,

the ivy-crowned man attempts to make love, but she doesn’t want to

be deflowered by this man. She longs for the touch of the farm boy

who couldn’t give her any stability but makes her happy.

She tries to imagine her life with the farm boy. Free,

like the flowers in the field.

So I've decided instead of being a Darla Depressing (Debbie Downer is WAY overused), I would start posting some of my bad poetry. These poems are mostly from my "Introduction to Poetry" class, but I giggle at them sometimes.

The first assignment was to find a way to connect a collection of images. I connected the swirls.

Smoking on a Cold Night

How the smoke escaping his chapped lips is

like the swirling paint of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”

that hangs from a string in my living room

Which is like the white curves of cream in my

morning coffee right after it’s been stirred

with my slightly bent and stained metal spoon

That always reminds me of the pattern

on an old hand made patchwork quilt crafted

 by my now deceased from cancer grandmother

You take another hit, and attempted to

carve shapes into the rising smoke with your

 pink tongue jutting in and out of those chapped now parted lips

While I sit in my chair and blow the steam

away from the creamy swirling coffee that

I have made too sweet with sugar, but I will drink

To keep warm on this cold night which calls for

me to pull out the old patchwork quilt that

I have wrapped around us. You’re smoking reminds me of her cancer.

I had someone tell me they love that poem, so i kept it.

This next one was my practice with emjambment. I enjoy it

Confession

When the snooze button has been pressed, for

the third time and I am forced to get out of bed, while

Hello Kitty brews my coffee, in

the almost child-sized pot, while

I slip on my tube socks and snow boots, the

best investment I ever made, Long after

I go out into the knee-deep snow and

I sit down in class, removing my winter coat, since

the day I left home so many months ago, a

decision I only regret when it think of you, I

think of you, and I

write bad love poetry just like this.

This last one was my final piece for the class. We had to copy the style of another poem.

The Start of my Insomnia

Lying in bed, I hear the lullaby

of traffic on the expressway

only a block from my house,

the whooshing of tractor trailers.

Coming from down the stairs

 right outside my bedroom door,

while I snuggled beneath the homemade quilt

I smell the faint odor of marijuana, as

my father is “playing Scrabble”

with my uncle on the kitchen table.

To my left,

sharing the quilt and wearing

matching nightgowns,

my sister snores softly,

adding to the orchestra of traffic

and faint giggling.

I snuggle into my pillow.

As sleep sneaks up on me,

headlights pull into the driveway

my mother is home

from her shift in the Intensive Care Unit.

My father giggles at I.C.U.

My childhood was unconventional.

I'm still hungover. I had way too many jello shots on Saturday and I've literally been vomiting and secretly crying ever since. I've kind of lost the will to eat. I didn't sleep last night because I kept having creepy, half-dreams about logic problems put into the context of "Lord of the Rings". I may most literally be losing my mind.