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Dear New York: Send beer. And drugs.

So, I was sick yesterday and most of this morning - it felt like the flu, but all I had was cold medication, so there you go. I missed workshop this morning, but got up around 11am and decided I fell well enough to take a shower.

Yes, I slipped and fell, and sprained my ankle.

I'm sitting at my desk now, with my left leg elevated on my bed, and a big old bag of ice on top of it. I took a couple of extra strength pain killers, but I can't walk without limping and wincing. So I'm stuck here: I'm now the Miss Haversham of Clarion, sitting in my little room talking to people who aren't here while I suck down the meds. I'm cranky and tired, and I ran out of beer. !!!!!!! Also, I am so goddamn tired of writing... I cannot begin to tell you. Wait: I can. I HATE WRITING. I WILL HAVE NO MORE OF IT. NADA WITH THE WRITING. FUCK WRITING.

Of course, I look forward to starting a few projects when I get back from Clarion. I'm just sick of writing here, that's all. I had my one-on-one with Kelly last Friday, and it went wonderfully. She gave me some incredible suggestions for "Jetsam" (formerly known as The World's Worst Story), and for the first time in almost two years, I'm excited about it again. Same with "Take Your Daughters To Work" - which is no longer consigned to Trunk Hell. And while I'm loathing my current, final story for Clarion, I know that once I'm back in Jersey City, I'll have the time to rework it into what I want it to be. Right now, though, it's a mess: exposition up the ass, a third act that screams "hey, the author ran out ideas when she ran out of booze", and a character that's so passive, I'm surprised the story hasn't turned into an autopsy report. I'm ending it with everyone being run over by a truck. Clarion Week Six writing at its finest, baby - I can hardly wait for the critiques!

This is the Great Mystery of Clarion: you can loathe what you're working on while you're in the workshop, yet at the same time be incredibly excited about what you'll be working on once you leave. That's because this is not my home, and this six week routine is not really my routine. Yes, it's a wonderful opportunity to spend the entire day devoted to writing, but six weeks of it in a strange environment, without the comforts of home and familiar friends and GOOD FOOD, are too much for me. They're false. As shitty as home can sometimes be, I need to be there in order to enjoy writing. I want my freakishly large kitchen and my crappy leather chair and my "Law & Order" playing in the background, and my horribly worn writing "pajamas". That's what I need. That, and better Chinese food. And more beer.

Ok, I'm rambling - yeah for pain killers! Time for more ice.

Tags:

Marine Autumn

I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.

--Pablo Neruda.


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