winner, winner, chicken dinner

I found out today that I placed in a creative writing contest through my university's English department, which is pretty cool beans. A few of the other winners were from my creative writing class last semester, and honestly, that was really flattering; knowing what great writers they are, I feel pretty pleased to be included among their ranks.

Also, this means I can FINALLY stop obsessively re-writing the same story over and over again. Now that it's been published (or accepted or whatever) , it is done. I am not going to pull an Auden and go rewriting poems for years after I've published them. I've heard stories about howAuden would go over to friends' houses, find anthologies of his work, and start correcting his poems in the text, years after they'd been printed.

Though, in retrospect, Auden was pretty bad ass. There are worse authors to be compared too... Like Stephenie Meyer.

But hell, who am I kidding? I would totally write a vampire abstinence-fest if it would score me a four book deal and franchising rights.

Still, especially because this story was based on personal history (writing what you know can be really effing hard, btw), I found myself cutting and rewriting massive chunks every time I came back to it. There were huge discrepancies in voice simply because I've been working on it off an on since I was in highschool. Obviously its a good thing that my style has developed since I was seventeen, but it makes it hella hard to reconceptualize your family history while its staring at you in 12-point font and all you can think about is what a whiner you were in highschool.

I dont know if I'll ever want to write about family stuff again, if only because I know now that I've won something, I can't put off showing it too my family, and I'm worried they'll take it too literally. It was a personal essay four years ago, but its fiction now; the fine distinction makes me uncomfortable.

Now thats a problem I'm sure Meyer doesn't have.

Like the Dickens.

I still love this even though I've only ever made it through "Hard Times," and even then grudgingly.

Why can't all reading be this fun?

Here we go

So. The first post. No pressure or anything, right?

I haven't had a blog since highschool, since I got sick of writing about my own life all the time. Fiction has been a lot more exciting, since I can, you know, make stuff up whenever the hell I want. I guess I could do that on a blog too, only the people who know me in REAL LIFE would ever figure it out, but I honestly lack the imagination and energy to bother with all that.

So why blog?

Mostly because I need a swift kick in the ass to get me writing anything, be it fiction, journalism, obits, or otherwise. Case in point: I opened this blogger account over a week ago, and have put off writing anything until now. I haven't updated my profile because little text fields that want me to describe my self (worth), hobbies, and interests in 200 characters or less freak my shit out. And even now, I am blogging about how I am unsure about this foray into shameless internet-based self-promotion.

In the last few weeks, every time something notable or quotable has happened to me, I have either been saying I could write a masters thesis on it for cultural studies, or that it sounds like the title of a new blog. The most common responses I have received are
1. "Ha, cultural studies!"
2. "I would so read that." (Hopefully refering to the blog and not the masters thesis)

So here it is. Another way for me to waste time, bring the wtf moments of my day to the attentions of my friends and potentially creepy internet strangers, and, uh, pose deep and philosphical questions about life or whatever.

All you jerks who said you'd read my blog, you have no one to blame but yourselves. For those of you that were hoping for the masters thesis, its going to be a much longer wait.