Today, during my lunch break, I sat alone in the conference room with my topper ware open and exposed and my little notebook flavoring the tip of my pen. Freckles of wild rice still stuck to the topper glass with remnants of my chicken just waiting to be smittened by my plastic fork. All was interrupted for my boss walked into the room to discuss my hours and schedule over some weekend responsibilities. I sit back to and invite them to sit, for I had nothing else to do. Prolonging the wild rice and chicken’s desired contact with the blades of my utensil.
Why am I being interrupted? I thought to myself in agony. Why now? I was on a freaking roll! My characters were making sense; the bus he was riding was getting strange…..but then my boss walked in and I had to put the little notebook away.
We discuss my schedule as the flirtatious magical moment of writing—something that has been eluding me lately—turns away and waves goodbye as it walked out the office conference room door. A final wink, and off he went.
Gone to the tappings of my boss’ pen on the glass table. He wondered if he should pay me like a contractor or like an employee with my additional weekend hours.
“Whatever is best for the company,” I say like a fool. Only hoping that my muscly writing desire would return back through the doors for just one more kiss.
Alas, I was left in the cold.
My boss and colleague left, satisfied to have solved the scheduling dilemma. Me? Unsatisfied and sullied by the unfinished sentence hanging on the very tip of the of my pen now too heavy for my hand. Dumfounded.
I turned away and watched a single wild rice un-stick itself from the glass and fall to the center of the topper ware. Ay, if I were to switch places with that simple wild grain—I would but at least express the dreary heavy feeling that comes with being interrupted during a writing session.
Okay so I’ve only written a section of Chapter 1 for my new Fantasy story. I’ve been getting spurts of writing every now and then, especially in Utah — but now I’m back in Berkeley and I have no idea what the next few days of freedom will have for me. I went to a coffee shop and ended up reading an article about people reacting negatively to a mixed race Cheerios commercial. It was definitely a little procrastinating moment, but it was good to watch. Sometimes I forget about the crazies in this world. Here I am trying to write about long tailed creatures who live in a desert, while this country battles the issue of racism. Some try to sweep it under the rug, some say things are blown out of proportion, some are in denial about their own identity, some (like me) want to understand without feeling angry. It’s difficult. I think maybe that’s why I stop writing sometimes. The sense of hope in art and storytelling just falls by the wayside and I think, why should one care? It’s terrible to admit this, but it crosses my mind. I met a man at a party and told him that my projects seem hopeless at times. He told me he felt the same when he was in prison once. He said it served as a lesson because of what he looked like. Because he was black, he had to adapt. I cried very quietly and smiled at him, and he said, “It’s okay. This world needs good guys and bad guys, it’s just the way it is,” and he lightly touched my shoulder. I guess I haven’t made peace with that reality. Many authors have expressed their frustrations through art, I guess this Fantasy project can serve for that purpose. I have to better define the world, my characters, and why they exist. They are reaching out their hands waiting for me, and I feel as if I’m almost there. Why am I making this? should be the question I ask myself. It’s becoming clear. I am so sick of the ignorance in this world, and I want to do something about it.
I moved back to Los Angeles to spend time with family before going to Paris in July this summer. Yup–yup, I am back in little Peru with mom, sister, brother, stepdad and the Hollywood smog. Today is day three, what can I do besides call old friends and sit by the pool? What else? WRITE!
I am proud to say that I spent 1 hour on my novel yesterday, and I plan to do the same today. I’ve been focusing on Chapter three of the novel. It involves my innocent character. I am focusing on him because I lost my main character’s voice, that is … until today.
Today I found a box of high school letters. Reader, if you write (and I am sure you do), you know that this is a treasure. A box of love letters, friend letters, drama letters from your past is just the ticket to get you inspired. The use of language, the type of lingo from those days (the days I am writing about) are essential for my story. It captures the culture I am writing about, and the voice of my main character. I am proud to say that I will be getting back into her world pretty soon. This is going to be a good day.