Y is Writing Stupid?

I'm taking a workshop at the 92nd St. Y. This is exciting in theory because I like being around other writers and because it will supposedly give me the incentive I need to work on my own things. In practice however, things tend to look much different. This is largely because, while there are a lot of things I like about writing workshops, there are very few things I like about actually writing.

The last class I took at the Y was a 9 week Advanced Fiction course. The teacher was great. She was gorgeous and charming, and I was able to refrain from hating her for these things because she also had a good sense of humor and gave sharp critiques. The people in the class were also great. Sure, one guy was writing a political satire about an incompitent president who's last name was Tree, but even he was friendly. No one was oafish or obnoxious or tried to dominiate the conversations and for the most part everyone could write. It should have been the perfect opportunity for me to get myself in gear and start working on something new for the first time in two years. But of course this didn't happen. I ended up doing what I always do which is spend far too much time writing comments on other people's stories and far too little time working on my own. By the time my submission date came around I freaked out, called in sick to work, and turned in something I'd written five years ago. I was mad at myself and said I would never do that again.

The next time I had a story due I did it again.

So now I'm taking another workshop and I have a story due on Sunday. I know what I want to write about, but am worried that I will once again become paralyzed with fear that the friendly and overconfident hipsters and bored retirees in my class will read my work and declare me untalented. I need to get over this and I'm not sure how. My first thought is to pretend that the thing I'm writing is simply an extended blog entry. Now that I've seen this in writing it sounds like a terrible idea. I don't have any other ones though so I guess it's what I'm going with.

Happy Belated Birthday Post

My birthday was on the 11th and from the level of excitement I experienced leading up to it you would have thought I was turning 10 instead of 24.

I know I'm not quite at that age yet where people start hating their birthdays, but I am at the age where people begin to act like they're too old to get worked up about them. I do not understand this. Birthdays are the one day of the year when your friends and loved ones are expected to buy you things and pay attention to you. I do get why this can sometimes be depressing. Just because people are supposed to shower you with presents and baked goods does not mean they will and any minor slight or moment of forgetfulness gets magnified ten fold because this is your day goddammit.

Okay, so maybe most normal women only feel this way about their wedding. I don't care. You only get a few of those at most and as of right now I haven't decided if I'm even interested in having one. Right now I'm happy to welcome my birthday with the enthusiasm of a fifth grader because I like it when people have to pretend that I'm special and because I truly believe that on the 7th day, in addition to resting, God created cake.

Given my high expectations and my equally high potential for disappointment, this year's birthday was pretty great. That's not to say it was perfect. I definitely got a cold two days before my party and, in a state of panic that I wouldn't be able to taste all of the amazing birthday food my roommate made, took just about every over-the-counter medication available at Duane Read including ones that treated opposite symptoms. Apparently the result of simultaneously taking something that's supposed to decongest you by drying up your nose and something that's supposed to do the same thing by making it run is that you feel not-terrible, but you're kind of woozy and by midnight you completely lose your voice. It was sad and I spent most of the night attempting to play the role of adorable and witty hostess through a series of pathetic little croaks.

That said, I did eat enough vegetarian sushi to make me feel nauseous and none of my friends who hadn't met before got into fights with each other. This might not sound like the formula for a memorable celebration, however, when you consider that last year's festivities involved getting water dumped on me at a subway entrance in Chinatown and the guy I was seeing remembering to buy me a card but forgetting how to correctly spell my name, it's obvious why this was a rousing success.

Here's hoping that my next birthday will be just as great!

Happy Friday

What I was supposed to do this weekend: Run a half-marathon. What I am doing this weekend: Watching dvr'd episodes of Kitchen Nightmares, going to a Jenny Lewis show, and, if I'm feeling unexpectedly ambitious, possibly making and eating french toast.

I don't know how this happens. Sometimes out of nowhere I will get this intense and overwhelming surge of energy that convinces me I'm ready to take on the world. Just a month ago in a frenzy of inspiration I signed up to register voters at the gay center, joined a running club, and seriously considered doing another marathon. Now I can barely summon the motivation to leave my office at lunch every day.

I wish I could break this habit; that I could hold on to even a third of the momentum I generate when I go through these phases. Over the past couple years though it just seems to be impossible and instead of being able to accomplish at least one or two of the many goals I've set out for myself I more often backslide into an embarrassing mess of drinking, smoking, and sleeping with strangers. All things that, although I'm feeling somewhat stagnant and frustrated with myself, I'm shockingly not doing now.

I'd like to think that this is a sign of maturity, that even though I'm still too restless and impulsive to remain committed to any one thing for more than a month, I'm at least growing past the stage where the only method I had for coping with indecision involved seeing how long I could subsist on nothing but low-fat muffins and stomping around the west village on my lunch break chain half-inhaling American Spirits and having animated conversations in my head with people I was mad at. I'd like to think that, but I'm not so sure it's the case. I'm turning 24 next week and I still feel like a mess.

If I said this to pretty much anyone I know they would laugh and/or yell at me and tell me you're supposed to be a mess at my age; that it takes decades before you can begin to start figuring anything out. Well this may be true, but it doesn't mean it helps. Just the other day I was complaining to my mom about my tendency to start a bunch of different things, devote my life to them for a few weeks, then promptly drop them along with my motivation to do anything more exhaustive than staring at the wall. She assured me that she has always been like that and that I would be okay. This might have been comforting coming from someone who hadn't spent the greater part of my childhood a manic depressive disaster. As it was it just served to reaffirm what I've always known; that no matter how old I get my family will always be crazy and that I am fucked.

Happy Friday. I'm going to go try to convince myself that drinking beer and eating pizza is in some way a productive alternative to running 13.1 miles on Saturday.