So on this second novel, I have written about 56,000 words with little worry… this story has just been flowing out of me. I barely started it two weeks ago and I am more than 2/3rd of the way done.
But today and yesterday, I haven’t been able to get out more than 1,000 words. Part of me feels like I’m entitled to a day or two off, but the other part knows that at any “real” job… I would need to be there and producing work no matter what. I am trying my best to get out of the “artist mindset” and remember that above all else, writing is a profession to me and I cant allow imagined ideas such as “writer’s block” to get in my way.
So in the interest of being a good employee(?) … I am going to sit my butt down at get out a couple thousand words before bed. (Did I mention it’s already after 11:30 at night?) Eek.
Anyone who thinks being a writer is easy is just plain wrong.
Hey, we could all use some support. Let’s add each other and share trade secrets!
Is there anything more stressful for a writer than trying to construct the perfect query letter that at once makes you seem: funny, charming, witty, professional, and experienced in 300 words or less.
I wish I could bottle the sun
and swallow it- and it would
burst from my fingertips and
through my pores-
then maybe the flowers
and the trees and…
will lean toward me
rather than away for a change.
“Swallow The Sun”- 3-6-14- jessicagadziala
It bothers me that my pillowcases
never smelled like you- the scent
doesn’t linger when the lonliness
creeps in at night and I find myself
not sleeping again-
over thinking again-
and the voices in my head are screaming
that I should have tried harder-
or tried at all-
even though I knew he would never
want to spend weekends with my family
or sit and discuss
and that he could never see the
self-inflicted marks on my skin
as a testiment to my
strength to recover- not just
proof of a soul that sometimes
cant handle any more disappointment.
And it bothers me that
I don’t have a note to cling to-
love words to read over when I
cant help feeling like the tiny
inconsequential speck of stardust
that I really am.
But instead of diving into the
memorabilia of better times,
I fall asleep listening to
break-up radio and trying to remember
how you smelled like
and engine grease
“Olfactory”- 3-3-14- jessicagadziala
Try to remember all the times
he reached for your hand first-
not the times you felt completely
alone in his company-
it wont do you any good searching for
lemons to suck on-
sour has never been a look you’ve worn well.
It’s easier to allow the last
six months of
frustration so thick you couldn’t even
think clearly through it
to cloak the memory of the time
he pulled you close and told you
you were beautiful-
but rewriting history creates a
monster where there used to be someone
you cared deeply enough for to share
your body with night after night-
Refuse to cheapen your former self
for the present need for somewhere to
place the blame.
Be mature enough to realize
that like the seasons wane and wear
so do the tethers binding hearts and
caprice isn’t a synonym for carelessness-
love changes and feelings fade
but there once was beauty
and endings breed new beginnings.
“Lemons”- 3-3-14- jessicagadziala
“Life Would Be So Much Easier If Our Bedtime Stories Went Something Like…” – 12-26-13
You wont ever be able to ride a
bike without falling down and scraping
Your imaginary friends will be better
than any of the ones you will find
in real life.
And all those romance novels you will
devour in middle school will break
your heart because
#1 will cheat
#2 will cheat
#’s 3 and 4 and 5
And #6 will grow a beard you will hate
but he will have pretty eyes and kiss you like he means it.
Your body will be your enemy
and you will starve it and you will
carve into it with razor blades alone in
your room when you realize you are not
as strong as you have always tried to be.
And you will lose parts of yourself that
you once swore were sewn in with
But you will always be that lover of words-
nose buried in the pages of those books
and your hands furiously trying to pen
And, have faith because your heart
cant, in fact, be broken
and the colors will fade and
the pain will fade and
you will again sleep soundly
you will again sleep soundly.
If I had any such talent
I would draw you in caricature-
taller than Mount Everest-
skinny as a garden rake-
with a santa claus beard-
and I would passive aggressively make
your head too big and your shoulders
too narrow to lean on-
and you would be carrying my battered
heart in its protected steel cage
where you would unconsciously be
poking at it through its bars with a stick whilst
playing Magic and video games and
paying no attention to the
figure of a squished little me underneath
“Any Such Talent” – 12-6-13- jessicagadziala
I miss basements
cold and dreary on old forgotten
furniture from the 80’s long replaced-
with friends I swore I would keep forever
grasping onto music like lifelines
and there wasn’t anything more dire
to discuss than whether La Dispute or
Gaslight Anthem were superior lyrically.
We were eighteen and not worried that
we were running out of time and hadn’t
chosen a career because
we were all going to be
musicians and artists and
romance novelists and poets anyway.
And now these days are all numbers-
the precious few hours in the day
I don’t have to spend slaving away-
my bank account’s bottom line-
how I need to save X amount
every pay period if I want to buy
a house that costs this much or that much-
and how much older I am getting every day.
Now I am longing for the Friday nights
of my youth spent at my grandmother’s house-
three generations of women cuddling
tea cups in their hands and completely happy-
Instead of with my fellow twenty-somethings
playing dress up with fewer yards of fabric and too much eyeliner-
drinking too much and trying to forget
that somewhere along the way we
gave up the belief that
were more important than acting our age.
“Acting Your Age”- 12-4-13-jessicagadziala