I don’t feel like giving a full review, but let me just say that (a) I loved the movie Blood Diamond, and (b) I bawled my eyes out. Leonardo DiCaprio, Djimon Hounsou, and Jennifer Connelly were all masterful. And the writing was excellent.

3 out of 5 ex-boyfriends polled say that I prefer to be in a constant state of crisis. Maybe I just give a shit.

My heart always told me that people are inherently good. My experiences suggest otherwise. But what about you, Mr. Archer? In your long career as a journalist, would you say that people are mostly good?

No. I’d say they’re just people.

Exactly. It is what they do that makes them good or bad. A moment of love, even in a bad man, can give meaning to a life.

Sometimes I wonder, will God ever forgive us for what we’ve done to each other? Then I look around and I realize, God left this place a long time ago.

Hey, Mom, Dad? Can I go wit you to Disney World next week? I’m all ready! See?

My mother and I had also made peace; she had accepted the fact that I was not only her daughter but a child of America as well. Slowly, she accepted that I dated one American man, and then another, and then yet another, that I slept with them, and even that I lived with one though we were not married.

From “Hell-Heaven” by Jhumpa Lahiri, another of my (many) inspirations.

Apparently the requirement for good poetry nowadays is the same as the requirement for good contemporary art: that I can’t understand it.

(In fairness, that may say more about me than the poetry or the art…)

I recently read Issue 42 of the Potomac Review, and I managed to find one poem that I not only understood (I think) but also enjoyed, one poem that I definitely understood and enjoyed, and a couple that I enjoyed parts of but mostly didn’t understand. The rest… “Huh?”

I won’t tell you which category this came from, but here, enjoy the last stanza from “Signs” by Marjory Wentworth:

I have let the water pull me for miles,
for years. I’ve watched birds turn
their heads in my direction. I didn’t notice
all the signs surrounding me. But I have
felt the stars throbbing like hearts
in the darkness. It has something to do with love,
and the way it hides and waits
in places we never expect to find it.

Also in that issue was “Harvard Man” by Michelle Brafman, which was a FANTASTIC story, the kind I’d love to write myself — and think I maybe could, someday. I contacted her (via her husband’s email address, which was more or less the only thing that turned up on Google) to let her know how much I enjoyed it, and she very graciously replied with thanks and encouragement on my own writing. Another point for Nice Writers!

“Alice Dale” by Laura Albritton was the other story I quite liked.

Immediately after finishing the Potomac, I gobbled up THE KITE RUNNER (my thoughts on its AMAZING-NESS here) and now I’m onto The Cincinnati Review 4.1. It feels good to be reading this much, so hopefully I keep it up. Though writing more might not be so bad either…

Blown. Is. Mind.

Unfortunately, I have yet to read any of Zadie Smith’s books. However, given her renown at such a young age (according to her Wikipedia page, she was basically courted by publishers during college) I decided to read her Atlantic Monthly interview. When I did, the title of a certain Ani DiFranco song came to mind, hence this post’s title.

Zadie Smith believes that fiction is a “hypothetical area” in which to experiment with possible courses of action.

I have to admit, it’s been a while since I thought of it that way, and I was glad for the reminder. Lately I’ve been so stuck in “What would really happen? What would these characters actually do?” that I feel like some of the “let’s play make-believe” aspect has gone out of my writing. And isn’t that the most fun part?

Later Zadie says:

In a lot of American fiction, particularly young American fiction, the idea of writing third person is anathema. But I didn’t even know there were novels that weren’t in third person until I was quite advanced in years. So that kind of narrative voice seems natural to me.

I felt the same way — Books in first person? Isn’t first person bad? Isn’t literature about the characters, not about me? — which is another reason I had a hard time writing in the first person myself. (Except for personal essays, of course.)

I also found her methods VERY interesting:

I don’t take notes. I don’t have any notebooks. I keep on trying to do that because it seems like a very writerly thing to do, but my mind doesn’t work that way. I tend to get the idea for a novel in a big splash. Usually I work out the plot for the first half and then kind of feel my way through the other half. I wouldn’t say I make excessive plans, though.

I don’t think I could work that way — I love my journals, and I’m desperately trying to finish #23 so I can start #24, because there’s nothing so exciting as starting a brand new journal! — but it almost elevates Zadie to an unreal level of cool that she doesn’t need notebooks the way most writers do.

Also, WOW, can I just say how much I love her for saying this?!

All my books are made up of other books. They’re all deeply structured on other fiction, because I was a student in fiction and I didn’t have much actual living to draw on. I suspect a lot of other people’s novels are like that, too, though they might be slower to talk about it.

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH NOT HAVING MUCH “ACTUAL LIVING” TO WRITE ABOUT YET. JUST LOOK AT ZADIE SMITH!

I think every writing student needs to hear that. And every parent of a writing student should probably hear that too. Or maybe just my mom…

When it came to writing the academic part of the novel, I was thinking about how I felt when I was a student—how lost I felt a lot of the time, and confused about what I wanted and what I was getting.

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH FEELING LOST AND CONFUSED.

I think I know a few people who could stand to hear that too.

And finally:

You’re constantly told in college and elsewhere that good taste and good fiction are about not pushing, about not expressing your opinion too forcefully. So we’re always hearing things like, “Oh, it’s a very good novel about a young black boy, but unfortunately the author presses too hard on the question of race.”

And the same with women’s fiction. It’s nonsense, and it’s time to stop. I felt like a hand was at my throat when I first started writing. That if I was going to be a proper writer, I’d better be as polite as possible and as calm as possible and as un-angry as possible—and recently I’ve been thinking, you know, fuck that, basically.

Like I said: fierce, flawless.

Partnership

It’s not a fairytale, exactly, but maybe it’s better. Maybe it’s the real thing.

If you are in (or visiting) Cincinnati, GO HERE NOW:

Space 513

Also GO THERE NOW if you just like neat stuff, because it’s tré cool. I’d love to do something similar (maybe for Houston? or Pittsburgh?) but, um, I have stories to write and people who will yell at me if I don’t…

My apologies for not posting the Friday foto on time. After rowing 12 miles (and leading team-building exercises after lunch) and then coming home to puppy poop on the carpet (we think he has an intestinal bug… the vet appointment later today should tell us more) I showered, ate, and then passed out around 7:30 pm and didn’t wake up until this morning. At which point I realized my ENTIRE body was sore, especially my neck, shoulders, back, and butt bones.

From PREP author Curtis Sittenfeld (a woman! who I hope to meet through a mutual connection!) in an NY Times essay I’m Y.A., and I’m O.K.:

“You write the book you want to write, and then publishing has its way with it.”