On Writing

How I Became An Asshole: Selected Diary Entries

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May 16, 1993

Dear Jornal,

Today is Tuesday, and guess what’s going to happen? I’m going to the dentist to get teeth pulled. Four teeth normally but I lost one of them that was supposed to be pulled! Ha, ha! But I still have three more to go. Thank goodness it’s only baby teeth. Another good thing is that another one that is to be pulled is loose. Well it’s 9:50. I’m at my dad’s right now and I have spent the night . . . WITHOUT PAIGE! Anyway, I leave for the dentist at 10:00. I’ll write back when I return!

Yours truley,
Annie M

* * *

Dear Jornal,

About the dentist again! We made it into two trips for getting teeth pulled. Why? Good question.

WARNING do not read if getting teeth pulled again. (Until it says safe!)

O.K. now I’m serious. Don’t read if getting teeth pulled.

O.K. here it is.

It is murder!

SAFE.

Hi again, well I just got out of cleaning up dishes because I’m here in the playhouse! No one knows I’m here!

Annie

p.s. YES!

* * *

June 12, 1993

Dear Jornal,

I have 3 4 exciting things to tell you. 1. We got a new kitten at mom’s house a week ago and named him Copper, because of his eyes. He is about a month old now. VERY CUTE. But . . . he has ear mites. 2. Me and Paige are going up to grandma’s and grandpa’s for an entire THREE AND A HALF DAYS! 3. School ended June 11, and that’s why we are able to go to grandma and grandpa’s for THREE AND A HALF DAYS, and we get a week with dad because . . . 4. Dad and Jan are getting hitched! (married) so we get a week with dad and next week they get married! Then Fathers Day!

One more thing. Jan’s dog Loki got put to sleep. Noooooooooooooo!

(Because of his cancer.)

Your truley,
Annie

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On Writing

Upcoming: Stories On Habit

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“Habit is the chief motive force.”
– Fyodor Dostoevsky

Want to join us in a collection of stories on habit, loosely or un-loosely based upon the above quotation? It will be digitally hand-stitched into a PDF (aka WIA, aka Wee Internet Anthology) with other habitual stories and posted here later next week. 500 to 2000 words, Doc or plain text file, “due” by noon on Monday. Fun and procrastination are imminent. Email here.

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From Others, On Writing, Poetry

Poetry Month!

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My stepmom sent me a copy of Eireann Lorsung’s Music For Landing Planes By last month, and I finally got around to reading it. The book is organized by quotations giving a general theme, and I got distinctly more into some sections than others — so, more on that later. But this is by far my favorite piece in the book. (Okay, actually that was “In The Wide World”, but this format is more html-friendly, and it was the first one I loved, anyway.)

Knitting

When are you coming back to stand in front of the window?
(I heard you whistling last night. Cars pass me by all day,

waves circling the enormous globe.)
So much is left out, I’m knitting a pattern without

stitches, without needles, only long fingerbones
to carry yarn. There was something buried

the night I left Eau Claire for good, and I never knew
how it would grow. Now your childhood friends

are my students, I walk past houses you lived in
without my knowledge and your scent trails

from abandoned bakeries. Whole warehouses
have been invented to catalogue want like this.

I go on knitting night and day because I don’t know
any other thing. All unknits by darkness

into twine birds use piece by piece. What secret
name can I tell you? What adventure are you on tonight?

There is forgetting in the density of raw new wool,
yarn shop one block from your apartment,

the cheap scarf — you don’t value things
because you never make them. Moon over the whitening world

sharpens spindle, windowframe. The sash
is pulled, seam is set: without material, there is no map.

I’ve been trying to discern lately what makes a lovable poem to me, versus what actively irks me. I think the latter is mostly about ego. I have written your bad poetry, I think, and it took me five minutes with a Thesaurus. I don’t like thinking about those careless times. I know my tricks, and I hate to see you using them. Like most prejudices, apparently, it involves accusing you of being just like me.

Lovable, though, I don’t know. Your poem is something I’ll read in the middle of a fight. I will sneak it into malls and bus stops and it will make these places seem lovely, significant, normal, thank god.

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On Writing

How to Solve This Problem

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For the past month and a half I have been listless and ill-tempered, struggling to get out of bed in the morning. I haven’t wanted to write. I haven’t wanted to leave the apartment, to do much of anything. Dust accumulated in layers, enveloping pictures and knick-knacks like future fossils, insects frozen in amber. Bedsheets remained at the foot of the bed like tangled ghosts. Everything just seemed like so much effort.

On Sunday, I finally finished the poorly-written book I’ve been reading for the past month and a half.

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