19th Century Love

I couldn't let this year end without paying homage to one of the greats. One of the sweetest novels ever written. 2013 marks the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' and it's amazing that after 200 years people of all ages still read this book and fall in love with it over and over again. Definitely one of the immortal classics.

19th century writers knew love better than anyone. Find me a 21st century romance novel in which the main couple not only don't have sex but barely touch at all and it might take you a while. Nowadays half of love seems to be lust. But in 1812, a glance, a waltz or a quick exchange of a few words could send your heart racing like 6 chapters of 50 Shades. And Elizabeth Bennett and Mr.Darcy's non-physical romance will always give me butterflies and make me blush. Without completely turning me on. Because there is more to romance than turning someone on. It's that strange, stressful, impatient panicky feeling you get in your chest. That's your heart losing its shit.

In my recent years I've met a guy. He wasn't like most guys. My time with him was brief but wonderful. When all was said and done and I look back, what I had with this guy of mine was very similar to a 19th century novel. We talked for hours. We held hands. We fell asleep next to each other once. We shared glances that still haunt me. There wasn't even a kiss I could tell you about. But to this day he still has more of me than a guy who could tell you my most intimate details. Sometimes I get sad because that guy isn't around anymore. But mostly I smile because I know what a 19th century love feels like. A real love. Real feelings that creep out from the inside. Not the kind that come in from the outside. It's an inner peace and at the same time inner chaos. It's like a Jane Austen novel. I wish more writers today knew how to make you feel that way without sex on top of sex. Don't get me wrong, I'm the first to holler that something is missing a sex scene! But that's because if a story teller just isn't making me feel it for real, the yearning and the panicky feeling in my heart, a sex scene is a good way to fake it. But in 1812 they never needed to fake it. They knew what love was about. And they sure knew how to write about it.

Writing Matters

Yesterday, the beautiful people at The Office of Letters and Light, a literary non-profit I've followed for years launched a beautiful new campaign. It's called Writing Matters and they have called for writers everywhere to share our very 1st stories. I've spent the last 24 hours searching Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr for the #My1stStory and #WritingMatters hashtags and I've been loving it! Some wrote their 1st story when they were 4 years old. Others, just last year.

I wrote my 1st story when I was 13 years old. I was in 8th grade and I had to make a collection of poems. The last poem in the collection was allowed to be a freestyle so I wrote a page long story. It was in the form of a poem, rhyming and everything. It was about a young girl (me) who was visited every night by a boy who always wore the color blue. This boy took me all over the world on wild adventures. There was so much more to the story that I couldn't put into the poem for fear of it being too long. These adventures in my story were so vivid, story-me could never tell in the morning whether they were real or just a dream. My teacher liked my story so much she asked if she could keep it for her future students to see, as a touchstone for how this project should be done. Flattered, I consented. But over the years I would miss it very much.

 

 

My 1st story, which I even wrote in blue ink, was closely based on my favorite story as a kid; Peter Pan. For my entire childhood my favorite color was always green. Maybe because Peter Pan wore green? But for some reason the boy in my story wore blue. I never associated the shift in color to this story at all but when I was 14 years old, everything in my life switched from green to blue. To this day my favorite color is blue. None of this color stuff matters at all, I just think it's funny. Looking back, The Boy In Blue represented everything I wanted out of life; Just one friend I could trust with all of the parts of my heart. Adventure beyond my imagination and seeing all of the world's wonders. A life so simple and beautifully fulfilling I'd have a hard time believing it weren't dream. All of that was my life's wish at 13 years old and I didn't know how else to say it but to put in into a small story.

 

During my sophomore year in college I was having a hard time figuring out my life. I was an Environmental Science major with a biology concentration. I had wanted to be a Zoologist one day but everyday I woke up in my small dorm room and couldn't make those shoes fit. Over my winter break I came home to Philly and visited my 8th grade teacher who still had the Boy In Blue sitting in her dusty filing cabinet. But he wasn't dusty at all. She had held on to him for 6 years for me. she'd been reading him to all of her students over the years. Just thinking about it, I'm still filled with more gratitude than I could ever express. When I returned to campus after winter break I immediately dropped all of my science classes and took on all English and anthropology courses. After that spring semester I transferred to Community college in Philly and pursued a certificate in creative writing. I can't honestly say I would have made that switch in life had I not been revisited by the Boy, who reminded me what I want out of life.

 

When I wrote my 1st story I felt in my bones for the very 1st time that I was good at something. I found something that made me feel like a giant; writing. In those 6 years without him I had lost myself. But I found myself again on that single page covered in blue ink when I went back for him that winter. If it weren't for the Boy In Blue I would be a scientist right now. Not that there's anything wrong with scientists, only I'd be lying to my heart for the rest of my life.

 

Writing matters because we build ourselves through our work. And when we lose ourselves, we find ourselves again in our own pages. Writing matters because sometimes writing is the only way we can say what we need to say. A story can tell you what I can't put into a sentence or a song or a gesture.

 

This was a beautiful campaign, NaNo people! Thanks for taking me back to where I began. And you're right...

 

Writing Matters.

 

 

Chasing That Streetcar

If you've been following my booklist this year ( www.ajadev.tumblr.com ) you know all about my new affair with Tennesse Williams. Probably one of the most tragically depressed of all writers, I completely love this guy. Just yesterday my professor compared a classmate of mine to Williams (Tom, as he preferred), and immediately added, "I'm sorry, that's the last writer you want anything in common with. Don't go killing yourself."

There was something just so tragic about Williams. He was famous, wealthy, well liked and esteemed but yet one of the most miserable people to walk the earth. Before having ever seen a photograph of him, when I thought of the writer I'd picture Charlie Brown. In a sharp suit. What I know of Tennesse Williams is he was an alcoholic and druggie. He was gay. He'd rather undergo eye surgery than socialize. He was troubled. He was brilliant.
 

 

   

This semester, when studying stageplays I was told to use the colorful characters from Williams' 'Streetcar Named Desire' and choose a scene from the play to rewrite however I'd like. I chose a scene in which Blanche and Mitch were standing outside of the building talking, just back from a date. In my own scene I up-played Blanche's decietfulness and Mitch's nack for being gullible. It was a fun exercise and I enjoyed doing it.

                                          

For the college's spring production they were retelling 'A Streetcar Named Desire' in their own playful way. Their project was aptly named 'Chasing That Streetcar Named Desire'. And to my surprise they added my very scene to their play. I was so excited! To have my own work on a stage in front of people? I never thought! I never cared for writing stage plays. But this was an honor for sure.

The last time anything I had written recieved public recognition was in 2007 at a Houghton Mifflin conference in Florida. It was the highest I've ever felt in my life and I knew that this would be finally another high. It's been so long and I felt like I was back on my writing horse. I could not wait to see this play. The anticipation consumed me for weeks.

On the evening of my 24th birthday I went to the college theater alone. Friends and family expressed interest in seeing it with me but I thought it to be kind of intimate. The last time a script of mine was performed (just in a classroom amongst a small group of people) I felt naked and exposed, embarressed yet proud. It was exhilerating. But I definitley wanted to cover my face with a pillow. I knew this experience would give me the same sensation and for at least my first sit-through, wanted to see it alone.

I flipped through the play bill and saw my name printed amongst the "Written by...". My excitement and anxiety reached it's peak just as the play began. It was a great turnout. The crowd laughed and gasped and made all the right reactions at all the right parts. Then my scene. Executed perfectly by a hispanic actress and a black actor with a strong jaw. I leaned forward in my seat. Those were my words being recited. In every movement I saw my own stage directions. I listened and watched and it felt like going to prom.

(((I waited my whole life to go to prom. To wear a gown. Have a handsome date on my arm. Feel like a princess. Have the time of my life. 16-17 years waiting for one night. Then prom night comes and the shoes hurt my feet, the crosage is falling apart, I'm bored,& I don't feel like entertaining the handsome prince on my arm so I pass him off to a dateless girl in my class. They hit it off. I'm free to be a hermit. And at the end of the night not only am I still in high school but I've spent a ton of money on shit I'll never wear again.)))

Going to prom. Everything was perfect. The actors were great. The set, props, costumes, lighting, all great. And yet, no high. No climax. No feeling naked. Nothing. I couldn't tell you why. Maybe because it wasn't really my story. They wern't my characters.That's my excuse. But when the play was over & the lights came on I felt nothing. But older. And completely upset for not getting the high I swore I would. The high I thought I deserved. The high I waited for.

I went straight home, avoiding all conversation, companionship and any attempt at birthday cheer. Until I got home and found in my room a bottle of Merlot with a blue bow on it. I popped it open and thought, 'I promise I won't go killing myself.'