It's a Great Day for Baseball

 

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Thursday, August 21, 2003

 
this is it.

tonight.

7 p.m.

mountain pointe high school (auditorium).

5 dollars.

here we go...!!!

updated post-show to say: i feel beautiful.

Tuesday, August 19, 2003

 
I take a class at school aptly named "Advanced Studies." It's basically a free hour created so handfuls of gifted kids could hone their creativity through a random project and still get honors credit. Some people research the effects of hibernation in humans. Others publish pamphlets about teaching your kids to exercise. I write.

I thought the class was a good idea. "Hey," I said, "I can become a better writer and I won't have a structured class that inhibits my free flowing creative juices!" I'd write, without limits, as much as I want. And it would all be good.

And then I found out that I had to set up a grading scale, and set personal deadlines. So I laughed tentatively and went on with my plan.

And then I took my pen to my page and I paused and I realized that I have no creative juices anymore. I don't know where they went. Which sucks a whole bunch. (if mr. meyer was reading over my shoulder, he'd say "You know, I hate fragments and run ons, and things of that sort.")

The people who wrote stuff in Advanced Studies last year wrote novels about modern-day Cinderellas and magic spells and screenplays about women searching for the meaning of life in France and character studies about accountants obsessed with candles. In my cold, bare, uncreative hands I hold half a one-act about this guy who works at a restaurant somewhere. How marvelous.

On top of that, I forgot the words to my song today at rehearsal.

I can't do this "be good at stuff" thing anymore. I should just be average and aspire to work in a cubicle, rather than dream of working on Broadway or writing novels in Boston or painting in France or singing in London or as a competing on The Amazing Race.

Or maybe I should just sleep and start over again tomorrow, with a new page and a different pen...maybe I'll find my spark again.

Monday, August 18, 2003

 
For the sake of National Bad Poetry Day (August 18th), I'd like to share with you a work I wrote five minutes ago to the tune of that popular Mya song:

"My fatigue is like WO
My hunger's like WO
My feet hurt like WO
My homework's like WO

That broken gas pipeline is like WO
The blackout in the northest is like WO
Mr. Nach's really bad jokes are like WO
The fact that my friends are leaving for college is like WO
My hoarse throat is like WO

College credit courses are like WO
Applying for Senior Walk is like WO
Directing a one act is like WO
Being stressed out is like WO."

I ran out of stuff to say. I'm tired. The end.

You know when you have a lot of stuff to write about but you can't remember it all? Yeah, I'm having one of those moments.

Two more days of rehearsal.

When the music stopped we listened to our voices, sharply resonating from every corner, until they, too, faded into silence.

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