Days Go By.

I have the next two days off. Can you believe it.

Of course this was not by luck or chance. About six weeks ago Graphic Artist Guy from Music invited me to his Birthday party (being held today in the city). I was uber excited about getting an invite because this dude is amazing on so many levels.

But as a cool Guy his party is not only in the city but at a concert hall in the wee hours of the night. I asked several other people if they were going to go but none of them got back to me soon enough. He lives in the Bronx so traveling to the city with a bunch of his friends and his wife will be a breeze. For me on the other hand I kind of wanted to have another person from work in attendance so I wouldn't be the only new face in a sea of his friends outside of work.

I didn't know until Wednesday that I wouldn't be able to make it to his party, but by then I'd already put in a request for that day off just in case I could get someone else to tag along with me. Because of this flub I have two days off in a row this week. Two days! I haven't been home on a Monday in ages, I don't even know what to do with myself.

Of course it is muggy and grey outside and all plans of going to the library and possibly buying a nerdy sweater are on hold. Instead I am going to do some research on sacred prostitution (it's for a story. I swear) and watch some documentaries on Netflix. Did I mention how much I love Fall. It's the only season where I have appropriate excuse for not leaving the house. The chill here hits the bones and the tips of fingers and toes. Who'd want to go outside to get smacked in the face by the wind and rain when you can stay inside drinking hot chocolate in the most comfortable green pj's ever.

I rest my case.

I've been keeping my spirits up lately by writing as much as I can. When I can. For some reason I have become the go to person for people at work who are interested in writing. It doesn't matter that I haven't shown any of them pieces of my work. My BA in English is all they need to think that I can edit and critique their stories like an agent or something.

Josh, who did not mention his party disaster, wanted me to read a short scene he wrote for a story he dreamed up a few days ago. Josh has never emailed me anything of his since I have known him and I was beginning to suspect he was all talk and no show. That night he sent me a two page snippet of a scene and I was sort of impressed by how bad it..wasn't.

So it wasn't the greatest thing I've read but it has massive potential. Though he only sent me two pages, I wrote him a four page critique hoping to help him in the areas his story were weak in. I also applauded the narrative tone of his story along with his use of effective language. It wasn't until I read over my own critique that I fully released I had taken to heart the lessons of my professors.

So yeah, I am horrible with passive voice and grammar and spelling and my general technique needs work. But my ability to pick up on those errors mean that I am willing to work on them. I emailed Josh my notes last night and I am sort of interested to hear what he thinks.

At dinner with Matt the other night, who i will now refer to as Smurf because of his smurf like colored eyes and because I am worried about someone from work stumbling across this blog thus putting the names and daily happenings together, I mentioned that Josh sent me a story that wasn't too bad. I am still unsure about what we are doing. I know i should just let things work themselves out. But I analyze people. Analyze. And I am not sure if we feeling each other out (not literally of course) or becoming friends. who knows.

Anyway, at the mention of Josh and a story he made a face and said 'how'd that go'. I was sort of taken aback, mainly because they are friends but also because I have read Smurf's stories (aloud to Marie and to myself) and needless to say my ears bled. Hardcore.

I told him that I thought the snippet Josh sent me had promise and that I wanted to encourage him to keep playing around with the language. He then asked me how my writing was faring to which I explained that there is an attachment to my work that I am prepared to detach from. That I was a teen who had only one friend to her name. That I was then a college student with only a few more friends to my name and that I wrote (write) to work through things.

He totally disagreed. He thinks that the stories we write don't reveal anything about ourselves. That one can write things that have nothing to do with his or her state of mind or current situation.Wiping grease from my face I mentioned names like Plath, Dylan, Kerouac, Didion, O'Connor. For christ sakes Wright, Morrison, Sexton, Hemingway, Nabokov, Shute, Lowry....

Need I go on.

The mood was sort of perfect and dreamy as we were sitting in the low light of the pizza place talking about stories and writing. We disagreed and contradicted one another and I felt like I was reveling to much and got nervous. I let the nerdiness slip out, I talked about my anxieties, I wanted to touch his mouth.

While he is confidant about his bad stories, I am hesitant about my okay ones. He talks about his ideas with such passion that it's unfortunate that he isn't executing them well.

As for me, my stories are all so personal because i don't talk about myself in real life. They reveal what I struggle to understand about myself. They are intimate and I guess I'm not so ready to be exposed yet.

I did however promise that would write him a poem because he scuffed at the idea that poems can be fantastic (and the fact that he didn't know any of the poets I mentioned was heart breaking) . And like most aspects of my life, I am not able to communicate my thoughts or feelings that well without pen and paper. I find myself wanting to lure Smurfboy in with fancy sentences and paragraphs that don't suck. Is it awful that I find myself more interesting on paper.

I've always had problems verbalizing my ideas and emotions. I get weird and awkward and panicky when I am put in a position where I have to carry a conversation with someone other than people I've known for a long time. So when Matt asked to grab food after work, I immediately thought he wanted to go to the same pizza place and get something to go. I was unprepared for his request to 'sit down and eat' because that is what people do when they grab dinner together. And despite the success of dinner, I still feel like i fumbled about throughout. Still too nervous in my won skin.

I am not good with social clues. I ignore them. A part of my anxiety revolves around this unfounded notion that the thoughts inside my head do not make sense once verbalized. I know this is crazy because in therapy my amazing therapists said I was a natural storyteller and that I am able to explain my ideas with ease and maturity. The truth is I believe that people don't want to hear what I have to say and because of this I do not open up to them (especially men). Sometimes I feel that my ideas and feelings are coded in another language and when I try to explain them people look as if I have just spewed gibberish.

Writing is a way for me to translate things more clearly. Like a foreigner with a heavy accent, I find myself asking for a pen and paper when I have to explain things because what I am thinking may not come out how I want it to so writing becomes my mode of communication. I think that is why I do it. It's to understand and be understood. It's to connect.

Though the conversation was lively during dinner. I still felt all kinds of weird. I struggle with words and wish I could just write him notes. And damn it all to hell if his eyes weren't really really pretty from where I was sitting. And damn it all to hell that I wanted to touch his face.

I think that is enough pinning for one day. I promised myself a solid hour or two of story writing. I also made the mistake of checking out Palo Alto from work the other night, written by James Franco. Yes, that James Franco. It is really terrible. I find myself wondering if he is going to reveal that this writing thing has been a big stunt because if I have to read anymore stories of cliche California teenagers, I think I may vomit.

~Becks