Hey, alright..Free Writing!

I take my last final in thirty minutes. It’s an online exam, and it’s over a poet name Thom Gunn. A poet that I know exceptionally well, so I have little-to-no fear about the exam. I’m just waiting for the writing prompts to come up.

On that note, today was the first day of the creative writing project I’ve started with my friend Randi. You’ve seen her in previous posts, if you’ve read my blog, as 1/2 of the people who fostered me last summer while I was homeless for two months. She’s awesome. Every Monday, while she basks in the Uruguayan sun, or whatever awesome things she’s doing while living in Uruguay for a year, she will be sending out a creative writing prompt for myself, Lauren and Yael to participate in and post on this private blog she has created. Of course, and naturally, this is right up my alley and makes me giddy happy.

This morning the first prompt came. This morning I got really excited. This same morning I had an 8-10 page paper due on a poet named W.H. Auden that I had only written three pages of while drunk on wine. I decided that, should I get this paper done, I would post on my creative writing project.

Truthfully, I welcome the project. My writing itself has become rather stagnant and lacking of color, sustenance, VA-VA-voom – the general pizzazz that is writing. It’s been flat, like the diet soda that you’ve left out over night on accident, type flat.

So today’s assignment was a twenty-minute free write. There were four prompts of free writing, each twenty minutes, and I went for the total random. I wanted to see what craziness came out of my brain. It’s an exercise that I usually do on my own, but haven’t had the time yet. I’m glad she started with this one. Randi, you are a smart girl 🙂 I guess that’s why I got you a desk name plate that says “Dr. Miranda “IAFBA” Wilson.” (IAFBA means I’m a Fucking Bad Ass – cause she is, really. She’s the bees knees.)

So here’s my free write, I’ve decided to share it with you. My rules for free write are more like stream of consciousness writing – no corrections, no back spacing and just let loose.  I’m pretty sure I’ll be sharing all my creative writing projects with you all.

Until we meet again…


Total Free Write

Today is the day that I finish the ending and start on the beginning. A day unknown, and a day unjust, but a day nonetheless – I’m not sure where I’m headed but I don’t like where I’ve been. A modern time for a modern lady, or so one would have you think, but I’m covered in tattoos and riddled in sin. Or sin as we know it. What is sin? Do you sin? More importantly, do you believe in sin? I don’t.  I never have really. It’s always been a fortuitous action, or lack there of rather, in what you should or shouldn’t do. I find the sinners of this world to embrace a certain beauty within in them, and the saints to lack a certain color. Then again, what is color? What is color within mankind, or animal kind or human to animal kind? Are we all transposed, transfixed, under viewed like an intertwining tree of Philemon and Baucis? Today is the day that I find out and make a discovery unlike any other discovery. Today is the day that I learn to love, learn to fight, learn to view each person in my life as significant and not insignificant. Not that I haven’t found each person in my life to be insignificant, rather that if found them to be under-significant, which is ultimately worse. I’d rather be insignificant than undersignificant. Would you want to be under anything directly?

A rock? A boat? A mouse…would you want anything to be above you? Not that I am above or below anyone – I think im along side everyone. I’d like to think that I am, anyway. But then I think about people, and their successes, and their fortunes and their pretty little knick-knacks and do-dads, and what-nots that they have scattered about their desks or walls or counter spaces – all to show the world how better they are than you. Then again, that’s everyone. So no one – not a single person is better than another. We are all skin, and bones, and muscles and blood. We all breathe, and eat, and shit the same. Some just do it with more…style.

Style. The thing that separates us – the nerd to the hipster…or is it the hipster to the nerd? Or what about the valley girl? Are those even around anymore? The valley girl with the like oah, may, gawd – like! Totally freak me out!? I said okay! To the prestigious Harvard girl with her casual acknowledgement of the individual at hand – hello madam. I’d like to think that I’m somewhere in between. The middle woman. The middle ground? The valarverd girl. Is that possible? I’m blond. I read Faulkner and Steinbeck. I drink wine while I write papers and usually write them better that way. I read poetry like W.H. Auden, Larkin and Gunn. I write poetry. It’s shit. But I write it anyway. It’s imagery is like poo, stench and flies buzzing happily around it figuring out the precise place to settle and vomit, adding to the nastiness that is my poetry. I wrote a poem once that I was really proud of – then it turned out, it wasn’t that great. I want to be like Zachary Schomburg. Imaginative and ingenious, writing poetry like some poetic gift from God. There’s that God again.

I’m thirsty and my blue cup that I accidentally stole from Randi is sitting in front of me full of ice, and no water. I feel it would be cheating to stop writing before my twenty minutes is up, and I never go back on what I wrote to correct it. That’s how I was taught true free writing in my creative writing class last summer. My cup, however, has taught me to keep it full of water and having me exchange friendly conversation with my cat who is happily laying on my bed, while I am on my computer on the porch smelling the foulness every few hours as the person below me lights up for a smoke, and I go to and from the bathroom and every chance I get. I stopped flushing when I realized that it was just water, and I don’t want to waste water. Water in, water out. Meh, I’ll save the environment this way – contributing to cause, per se. I like the environment, unlike the smoking fiend underneath me who likes to contribute with her, or his, or their – I think there are two of them – smoking and chemicals and whatnot into the atmosphere.

Oh shit. There’s a really big wasp. And I’m at 14 minutes and 31 seconds. It’s really, really big. And my kitten is really, really stupid. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in his little kitten head. “Oh hi bee! Lets be friends, k? I wanna smack you and bat you around like a ping pong ball that mom will later step on in the middle of the night almost breaking her neck, but I wanna squash you. Then expect you to play with me more. K? We can be friends.”

No. Oliver. You cannot be friends. There are some animals that cannot be friends. Despite the childs book about a mouse and the lion, which was always stupid to me as a child, it’s impossible. Honestly, the mouse was stupid for thinking that the lion wouldn’t eat him. I don’t understand the cuteness behind these child authors and their “hey lets be friends!” with the zebras and the cheetahs.  Like, oah may gawd. Whats up with that? That zebra is SO gonna get eaten by that cheetah. Hey look, the valley girl is back. I should bring it back into style with my cheetah pants and high heals. I think I’d make a grand entrance. I could even do my hair all big and stuff. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Except, she’s got really big lips, and I have a big butt. I think that’s out. But at least I could walk down Roah-day-oh drive and be like “yeah, whats up.” They’d probably think I was a prostitute. I may end up in jail.

Have you ever been to jail? I’ve not been to jail. But I read recently about the kid from UCLA, or maybe another school, who got arrested somewhere inCaliforniaand then left in a holding cell for four days and to survive, he had to drink his own urine. I don’t think valley girls do that.

Ollie just got stung by the bee. I told him that they couldn’t be friends. It’s been 19 minutes and 53 seconds of awesomeness…and now I have to go tend to the retard.

2 thoughts on “Hey, alright..Free Writing!

  1. How did your Thom Gunn final go?

    He’s one of my favorite poets, The Man With the Night Sweats one of my favorite books of poems, and I corresponded with him a little, via the U.S. mail, a few years before he died. He was kind enough to carefully answer several questions I put to him.

    • Wow! That’s incredible! I would have loved the opportunity to have corresponded with him.
      I love The Man With Night Sweats, but I’m partial to Moly. I love the imagery in a lot of those poems.
      And, I got an A on my test, and paper and in the class 🙂

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