Writing Is Stupid
I was majoring in philosophy and how to become a sorostitute,
failing in theory and ignorantly earning a scarlet letter carved from plastic
flittering bright shades of green, so when my boyfriend burst in from class, slammed
down his book bag, and declared, Writing is stupid-it does nothing for the world,
I knew I'd found my escape. One look at his jail-cell of an apartment, empty cabinets,
clogged up shower drain, and aluminum-foiled antennas, I smirked and went upstairs,
came back loaded: Mr. Curly piggy-bank, Madden heels, Coldplay playlist, Colgate toothbrush.
I revved exhaust out of its narrow pipe, leaving his face covered in soot while watching my dreams
appear, the rear-view reflecting only a black, discolored mirage of a dead oasis.
He whined for days. Calling the cell that only answered on command, my fingers
pushed ignore. His laments showered through hiccuped slurs, voicemail after voicemail:
you stupid ssslut, you'll never find no one better, recounting his broken string of testosterone
As. Sonidos de su therapist' lecciones para superar la enfermedad. I despised his tremors,
involuntary shaking of body and limbs from dusk till dawn, envied with a numbing ache
the chastity of me he wore like a gold metal around his neck, sluggishly tarnishing from the oxidation
prolonging my exposure to the moisture of his viscid, watery fluid secretions; his hot breath sucking
the very life from me. Exhailing, he'd cue me in with a nod, come closer and greet his acid lips.
I used to slump off the the library, pour through Plath hymns, "Never Try to Trick Me with a Kiss",
slicing the mantra with my serpent tongue, Writing is stupid...
Second term, I traded "Cogito ergo sum" for Sexton, Aristotle for Pound and Dickinson.
Slowly, as West Georgia thawed, the journal filled: "I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, /
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. / Leaving behind nights of terror and fear / I rise"
Recitation vexed the bastard- Trash that shit, he'd snarl from a dark corner, crouched like
he was some kind of King in his moth-eaten, mildewed recliner.
Rumor has it he moved back home. Failing as an insurance salesman, he put his red-neck
mental incapabilites to good use, and made himself one hell of a hicktown taxidermist. They
say he even moved out of his parents house, and into their basement-gross parasite. In my mind's
eye, though, I place him in a smaller scene, purchaching for himself a Christmas gift: Hunting
For Dummies. He browses the wrong isle in a Barnes & Noble, and seeing my name printed
in bold, double-takes, then shouts, Hey! I use'ta date this bitch... if it weren't for me, she'd
be nothin' ya'no. Not taking time to look around, bloated eyes centered on him, pulls
apart the front cover, seperates the publication page from the table of contents, fingers over
poem titles till he finds the poem-this poem dedicated to none other than him: my oppressor-
my anomaly, my catalyst, my muse.
I like this draft a lot--the narrative flows nicely, it's interesting, and you have some great words and phrases in here ("sorostitute", "Mr. Curly piggy-bank", "broken string of testosterone" "one hell of a hicktown taxidermist"). That being said, it needs to be pared down. It has some phrases that can be compacted into one image ("a black, discolored mirage of a dead oasis", for instance, would probably work better as just "a discolored mirage"). I think it could also benefit from some more specificity. For example, "earning a scarlet letter" has, well, been done. Not only by Hawthorne, but by a movie and even misused in a Taylor Swift song. It was nuanced by "carved in plastic", but I didn't feel like this was enough. I would love to see something like "I was earning a plastic letter magnet--an A in maraschino". I love the scene at the end, but I think it could probably stop it at "this poem dedicated to him" or even just say "this poem, his poem." By saying "my oppressor- / my anomaly, my catalyst, my muse" the draft ends by telling the reader what the speaker thinks about her boyfriend, while the poem should speak for itself on this matter. Once again, though, I really did like this draft overall.
ReplyDeleteThis draft has some really catchy, snappy parts. I lingered over particular bits like “crouched like he was some kind of King in his moth-eaten, mildewed recliner,” “slicing the mantra,” “jail-cell of an apartment,” and of course all the ones Christine got to before me.
ReplyDeleteI think, however, that the piece could do with some cutting. Overwriting is great—it gives you more to work with. So now that you've got too much, it'll be easier to pick which parts are not essential. There are bits that almost seem too much, in a way. For instance, “prolonging my exposure to the moisture of his viscid, watery fluid secretions” seems overdone, like it needs to be pulled back. Watch for redundancy, first of all—you've got “moisture,” “watery” and “fluid” all in one bit here. All three of these words get across the wetness of it all, but do you necessarily need that much? Probably not. Also, be careful of stuff like “serpent tongue” and “acid lips.” This type of wording can seem melodramatic and cliché.
Overall, this is a wonderful draft working here with some great lines and a whole lot of potential.