The Blurgh

Hey everyone! You may have noticed that I haven’t been posting lately. The truth is, I really love this blog and I haven’t been able to devote the attention to it that it deserves. Between working with the ever-expanding Pittsburgh Women’s Foundation and working on my book and taking part in my writing group and everything else that just seems to crop up when I’m not looking, I have just been too busy to really put any meaningful time into the Blurgh. So, I’m taking an indefinite hiatus. (Please don’t cry, really. It’ll all be okay!) I have really loved blogging here and wish everyone who has made this such a great community the very best. Seriously. Yinz are the best.

Feminist love,

Gretch

Just read a post over at a new local blog, Christina Speaks, and it was a great example of one of my favorite parts about using public transportation in Pittsburgh–the people.

Of course, the people aren’t always great, but if you’ve been on a bus or in line at the grocery store in this town, you’ll know what I mean. 

Last night, at about 8:30, I finished the first draft of the first third of the book project I’m working on right now. I felt happily exhausted, pleased with what the characters had done in these first several chapters, and excited that I would now be moving even deeper into the story and what I want to say. Shutting down my computer, I walked away from the desk feeling complete.

For about three hours.

At 11:30, I was lying in bed next to the soundly sleeping Frank obsessing about my project. Should I change the main character’s name? It’s kind of trendy and her parents are very old-fashioned people – it doesn’t make sense that they’d give her that name. And the explanation I’d given for it, in chapter two, was pretty clunky. No way would it ever work. But is she too much ingrained in my mind with the name that it would be suicide to change it now? Or am I still early enough in the draft that I can change it?

From there it just got worse. Do I need to include more scenes and, by extension, characters to show the protagonist’s evolution into a more assertive, true-to-herself individual? Is the secondary storyline with her best friend enough to carry it through the entire book, or is it a complete dud? Will readers identify with the story? Will it help them realize something about themselves?

I realized that lying in bed and being consumed by these questions was getting me nowhere. So I did what a writer would do: I dragged myself out of bed and pounded out these questions, my thoughts, crazy ideas, anything I could think of that might help me see myself through this story. It helped, it really did. I have a clearer vision of what I want to accomplish in this book, and even though I’m still not exactly sure how I’m going to get there, I’m a little bit further on my way.

I ended up crawling back into bed at 2:45. Good thing I didn’t have to work today.

Today I’m going to post more writing that I did when I was a college undergrad, seeing as how I had my wisdom teeth removed a few days ago and I’m still feeling rather sore and out-of-it. This piece was written when I was a sophomore and it’s part of a larger essay about my father - namely, the fact that he hasn’t been a part of my life since I was about seven years old.

It’s after the jump.

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The day is winding down and I’m in desperate need of some peanut M&Ms to get me through the last agonizing hours. I check the temperature before heading out - yikes. The wind chill is really 5 degrees? I wrap my scarf around my neck three times and button my jacket all the way just to dash across the street.

I bustle into the tiny corner shop and a bell announces my presence. As always, the old Chinese man is sitting behind the counter, watching kung fu movies on a 5” black and white TV. I don’t know his name, but I would recognize his tall, rail-thin figure and broad smile anywhere. I smile at him and head back to the candy shelves - jackpot. Grabbing a bright yellow package, I make my way back up to the register and place it on the counter.

He rings me up and I hand him a few dollar bills. He counts out some coins and hands them to me.

“Here you are, dahhhhling!” he says, his eyes crinkling as he grins ever more widely.

Normally I bristle when people call me cutesy names, but coming from him it’s endearing. “Thank you,” I say, and pocket the money.

“Have a good evening.”

“You too. Try to stay warm!”

For a moment, the happiness on his face disappears and I’m overtaken by the look of sadness in his eyes. I wonder why my seemingly innocuous words caused such a swift change in his emotions. Some part of me also wonders if I really want to know the answer.

He recovers quickly, though. “It’s too cold!” he exclaims, the joy back in his voice. I nod and stuff my M&Ms in my pocket as I leave the store. Too cold indeed.

Between attending the opening of a new Artist’s Marketplace and having my yearly exam, it’s been a pretty full week. So I was glad that last night I attended the chillest author reading I’ve ever been to.

Magda Hausmann is one of the coolest young adult fiction writers out there. Her books are realistic and funny and really deal with the pitfalls of living life as a teenager. When any of the girls at the PWF ask me what they should read for their next book report, I usually come back with a Magda book that’s aimed at the 12-to-14 crowd. Thankfully, there are about a dozen to choose from - she’s pretty prolific.

Anyway, she is super laid-back and last night took questions from the audience as though we were all BFFs who just happened to run into each other at a cozy coffee shop. In response to a question about where she gets her ideas, she smiled broadly and said, “I look around. Everything is right there waiting for me to write about it.” And to another person who asked whether she was worried that her books dealt with themes that were too “adult” for teenagers, she raised her eyebrows. “Teenagers are mini-adults trying to come to terms with this thing we call the real world, right?” she said. “I try to write about as much adult stuff as I can, to help these people prepare and realize they’re not so alone in their struggles. They struggle. They struggle mightily. We should be helping them along the way.”

So super cool. I think my author-crush on her skyrocketed last night. I’m totally in love.

The wind saws at my legs as I pull my winter coat close around my body. This is one of the few disadvantages of living downtown - the wind tunnels caused by the tall buildings. One of these days I’m going to blow away.

I hurriedly press on toward the Wood Street station, eager to descend the stairs and bask in the relative warmth below. Once I reach the platform, an unusual sight greets me. A dozen Amish women and several young Amish girls are patiently waiting for the next train to arrive.

When the yellow line train pulls into the station, I get onto the same car as the women and sit down close to them. I wonder where they’re going, what business they have in the city today. I am intrigued by their simple life and wonder what I would be life if I lived in the country with my small community, rather than this imposing city and its thousands of strangers. Would I enjoy the simplicity of it? Would the silence drive me insane? Would I wonder what my life would be like if I lived in the city?

We arrive at my stop and I walk past the women and their children. One small girl in a long blue dress gives me a shy smile. I give one, shyly, in return.

Today, I’m sharing some of the writing I did when I was still a lowly college undergrad (as opposed to now, when I’m a lowly entry-level professional). The piece I’m sharing was written during my senior year of college for a class that focused on reading your work to an audience. I read it once or twice then decided to go with another piece for the class, but I always kept it in the back of my mind, hoping that one day I’d come back to it. I haven’t, yet, but oh well.

It’s after the jump.

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So I blogged a few weeks ago about having a new book idea since my old one had become boring even to me. In that last post, I didn’t mention what the book was about, since the idea was so new, but I feel more comfortable talking about it now. Basically, it’s a young adult novel about a girl who wants to escape from her strict family life. It’s still in the very early stages, obviously, and there’s more to the story than that, but that’s the general gist of it.

Anyway, last night I met up with my writing group at the 61C Café, took a deep breath, and presented the first chapter to people who proceeded to rip it to shreds. Just joshing - they liked it and gave me lots of good criticism and I’m excited to keep going with this and see where it takes me.

Can I just say how much I absolutely love having a group of people I talk to about writing? The process of writing is so solitary and you spend so much time inside your own head that it is amazingly refreshing to share your insanity with people who understand exactly where you’re coming from.

Now I want to go work on my writing some more, but I’m thinking that maybe tomorrow or Thursday I’ll post some old stuff of mine for you to read. Keep your eyes open!

A woman boards the yellow line. It’s the Mercy Hospital-Duquesne University stop. She wears a crisp navy blue pantsuit and pearl earrings. Sits down beneath the map of Pittsburgh. Stares straight ahead.

Her cell phone rings and she glances at the name. Her eyes roll skyward but she answers. She speaks quietly into the receiver for a moment. Then, tears roll down her cheeks.

“We lost it,” she says, whispering, her eyes clamped shut. “We lost it. That’s it. No more.”

The train slides to a stop at Forbes and Murray and I walk past the woman as I exit. I want to know what she’s lost and if she’ll ever be able to get it back. I want to put my hand on her shoulder and squeeze it tightly. I want her to go home to the arms of someone she loves and sob uncontrollably. I want everything to be all better for her.

But instead I just walk up the steps and emerge onto the busy street. The smell of decaying leaves is fierce and the wind whips my scarf.