The Diary of a Sad-Sack Muffin

So I decided (just this second) that one feature of this little blogging experiment will be: titles for imaginary failed novels. Henceforth, you will find the imaginary title at the top of each post. Today's: The Diary of a Sad-Sack Muffin. Go ahead, try to write that story. You'll fail.

Anyway... an update. I've finished week two of this full-time novelist gig. Week one was extra-ordinary. Oh such freedom! I went to a movie, met up with friends for lunches, dinners, spent a little money I do not have, explored a couple museums... joined a dang Dungeons and Dragons group. Oh yeah, and I did some writing.

Week two was different. More real. A little more lonely. (I keep reading in different places that writing is a solitary existence... um, yeah.) But, and this is a big BUT, (ha, big butt) I've more than doubled the manuscript's pages since I quit the job.

To give some perspective: from the end of August to the beginning of November, while working full-time at the hospital, I'd managed to produce a meager 35 pages. A good beginning, but the writing time was way too inconsistent. After two weeks of writing every day, I've pumped out (ha, pumped) an extra 55 pages. That's write (oops... right), I'm up to 90 pages, suckas. More important, I'm happy with the book, so far! (I know! Unbelievable!) If I can continue at this rate, I hope to be done by the beginning of December.

Despite all the realness, the trying to figure it out-ness of my new life, so far, the move has paid off, at least metaphorically.

So I guess the point of this entry is to tell you all to quit your jobs. You'll be much happier. Most of you will probably all be fired soon anyway, so why not beat them to the punch?

Cheers!

The First Day

Hi,

So, I left the office last Friday with a large bag filled with stuff. Pens, folders, paper-clips, post-it notes... all stuff I probably should have left there, but I really don't think they'll miss it. I did leave the electric stapler and a few Halloween gourds, so I'd say it was an even trade.

It really didn't hit me until this morning that I quit. This past weekend was so action packed, I didn't have time to think.

So far, I slept in later than I thought I would or should. I sent an email to my editor, letting him know my new situation and asking for an update on the manuscript I turned in two months ago. And now, I'm wasting time writing this little entry before I actually get down to the writing.

I haven't looked at the new book for several weeks -- and I'm hoping I'll be able to dive right back in. I hope having much much more time to do so doesn't make it more difficult.

We'll see what happens. I have tons of social invitations this week -- all of a sudden I'm so popular! Also, there are tons of movies I want to check out. But why do they keep raising the price of tickets? Last theater I went to charged 12.50. I guess that's going to be one of my luxuries I'm going to have to cut back on... Netflix will have to do.

Anyway, I'd better get started before the day gets away from me.

And it's official...

Now I understand the screaming...

You have to hear it to believe it...

I've lived through a lot here in New York City. Fourth of Julys. New Year's Eve's. In Astoria, when Greece won the World Cup, the streets flooded for twelve hours.

There is such power in the voice of the people. And this is the loudest I've ever heard it cheering...!

You have to believe it to hear it.

11:11 11/4/08

Headlines put Obama in the lead.

Rooftop. Brooklyn.

I've never heard such incredible shouting from the streets below. It is constant. Steady. From ALL directions.

Like a battle cry. Triumphant.

We are ready for you.

I am so happy.

Made my Morning

Days are getting rougher heading into the final stretch of the "job." Strange. I thought it would be easier. But thank heavens for this.




I forgot about this website. They just came out with a book, which is doing quite well. Good for them. Now I have something to do at work today!

xo

For Better or Worse, A New Yorker

This past week, while walking down New York City streets, I've noticed a trend. On at least four occasions, strangers have stopped me and asked me for directions. In each disparate location, I had the right answer for them.

One time, one man stopped me and asked me the way to Columbus Circle. I told him we were standing in it. Seconds later, another man asked me where 59th street was -- I pointed directly behind us.

Instead of my default reaction of, "Why the hell are you talking to me?" which has evolved swiftly over the past several years, being able to answer these questions for these people has made me envision my place here in the micro-cosmos of this city. I am no longer looking at it as an outsider. I am part of the machine.

When I first moved here, almost 10 years ago, my father had already been living in Manhattan for 6 years. Ultimately, I've had a type of home in this city for nearly half my life. Yet, in those early days, I couldn't escape the constant comment, "You're not from around here, are you?"

I would say, actually, "I sort of am." Even if it wasn't in NYC that I originated, like Walt Whitman, or Teddy Roosevelt, I'd still only come from New Jersey, which in the grand map of the world, is not THAT far from New York.

I learned that when these people insisted I wasn't "from around here," they didn't mean, from across a river. They meant Denmark, or Austria, or some small country in Eastern Europe. I don't know what it was in my demeanor that made me appear so to be so green. I've always sort of had a youngish looking face, but there are plenty of young people who've grown up in New York. And I could sort of say the same thing for myself...

Was it an innocence? A naivete? A profound appearance of one who is lost in the woods? I cannot claim that I possessed none of those things. Somehow, I was proud that the city hadn't claimed me...

I haven't decided whether or not this new-found appearance of me as someone-who-belongs is a good thing or not. Because appearances are deceiving. I could always leave. Anyone could, and many people do.

And if I look like I'm one to ask how to navigate these streets, does that give me some sort of authority here? That is something I thought I never wanted. Not here. New York is wonderful, but anyone who knows me, knows that it has kicked my ass from the Bronx to Brooklyn and back.

I wonder if all this is related to the new direction I'm taking -- leaving the workaday world to work on what I care about? Exploring this city on my own terms, to find inspiration for my writing. Maybe making a choice like that is what gives me authority -- not in the city particularly, but in my life. Maybe that's what people are seeing in my no-longer-so-young-ish face, and maybe that's why they finally feel like I'm someone who knows the way...

I was right...

Joss did it to me again. Two episodes later. Another major character. Dead.

I'm a masochist...

(sigh).