"Here I am again, driving down another god-forsaken stretch of road to god-knows-where in the middle of the night. It's like that most of the time, now. Night, I mean. Or at least it's night more often. I mean that I'm active more at night now, not that night is any longer than it used to be.

"'Course, it might be. I lost my watch somewhere in the fall down the well, and this piece of shit I'm driving's got no dashboard clock. It might be two in the afternoon, for all I know. But that's impossible. No, it's improbable. I've gotten a little leery of the word 'impossible' in recent...weeks? days?

"I haven't seen the sun proper in a while. I've seen daytime, but there's always clouds or a haze or a mountain range in the way. And you know what? I'm okay with that. I've gotten used to night. It's comfortable. It's quiet. I'm almost starting to prefer it, a strange nyctophilia settling into my soul. If I still have a soul. That fellow down in Hell wasn't too clear on the price of this junker.

"So I spend my days driving at night, just the stars, the road, and...wait. Is that a hitchhiker?"

Why.

For my Tisch application, I need a statement of purpose; why I want to be a writer, and why I'm applying to their program. As I need every bit of awesome in this I can get, please feel free to critique what I post.

"I didn't always want to be a writer. This isn't something I've dreamed about since I was little, but rather something I discovered fairly recently, and while I've always loved a good story, the inclination to write one for myself didn't strike until I was 18. A friend had suggested I write something for our student-written full-length play festival, Infinite Monkeys. For months, I had nothing. No characters, no tales needing telling, until, while lying in bed, something grew; a scene that carried with it some strange admixture of emotion. It was a sensation complex beyond description, but it was one I wanted to share. I could think of no other way than to write the story that would evoke such reactions in a viewer.

So I spent four months writing. I chose a traditional structure, one might say a boring structure, as it was my first play. I didnʼt want to clutter the play with thirteen types of experimentation, so I wrote a kind of “Arthur Millerʼs Don Quixote,” which I named The Florentine, the play included in my portfolio. I enjoyed the process of writing, learning structure and pacing through experimentation, but the real joy didn't hit me until opening night.

I digress, but I still find it fascinating that, as busy and selfish as we are, people crowd into a darkened room to watch. There's a magic in a good story, a simple sort of sorcery that grants fools wisdom, cowards courage, and brings bold men to weeping...if only for a few brief hours. Watching an audience breathe together as they lived a story that came from my heart was profoundly rewarding. Yet, at that point, writing was still only a hobby.

It wasn't until after the show, when friends and strangers came up to me to tell me that their grandmother had Alzheimer's, or that their father just passed away. I saw people smiling through their tears. They couldn't articulate exactly why they smiled or cried, other than that it was right, and that it was true.

And still, at that point, writing was not my future. I would write another show or two, because friends told me not to stop, but writing wasn't a viable profession. In my mind, once college was over, I'd move on to a real job, one I could actually succeed at.

Nine months after The Florentine was staged, my grandmother passed away. My grandfather later told me that in the weeks that followed her death, he read The Florentine over and over. That he cried every time, but the tears weren't bitter. My simple story brought a measure of peace where it was needed, to a man I had no business advising.

The Talmud teaches that to save one life is to save the whole world. If, by simply telling a story truthfully, I can ease one heart, spark one laugh, bear a single measure of wisdom, every effort I spend is worth it.

Sadly, while I possess the art, my knowledge of the science is dismal. What little technical expertise I possess is from my own blind study and experimentation. I want to learn to tell a story, as best and truthfully as I can. I want to ensure that the story is never hampered by the telling, and to do that, I need to learn from writers who have gone before me. As much as I can, as fast as I can. There are tales full of truth in my head, and I simply want to tell them. All I ask is that you give me a little guidance. "

Ember Eyes

"When I was a little kid, I used to have the most terrible dreams. Monsters with embers for eyes and venom in their smiles. And every night they'd wait for me. Quiet. Watching. I'd scream awake, and my mother would tell me that it was just a dream.

"Of course, that was a long time ago. I don't dream anymore. There's nothing for me between dusk and dawn, just a little slice of oblivion. I suppose it's for the best. But sometimes...sometimes oblivion gets lonely, and I miss my monsters and their smiles."

A Little Somthin' Somethin'

I was walking around on my grave shift Monday, and I saw an "add lines to this poem" paper on a wall in a stairwell. I didn't have a pen, but that didn't stop my brain from writing. Given lines are in quotes (and they're not terribly good).

"Like a firecracker
Or loaded bullet sleeping in a clip"
Awaits a single spark ere it lets slip
The dogs of war, those hateful hounds
That salt the earth and scorch the ground
In whose fell footprints poisons seep.
They slumber now, so let them sleep.

Act One

I've finished Act One. Those who want to read it can do so here, for a limited while at least. Please feel free to post any comments you have.

15 Minute Poetry

Like it says, 15 minutes. Forgive me if it's a little rough.

On truthful eyes depend the lies
We tell our friends and neighbors
While our own soul declines the role
Reserved for outside saviors
We turn away and try to say
"Someone, somewhere save us"
Nothing will come but a distant hum
And starshine, darkly luminous.

Freud Would Have a Field Day

This sprang forth from my brain, fully-formed. Have fun.

Welcome, welcome, one and all
May you find joy within my hall
And not the horrors, lurking deep
Beneath the dungeons of my keep.
Do not open any doors,
And peace and safety shall be yours
But the greatest gifts await for those
Who knew the risks, and danger chose
May courage mend you
God defend you
And grant to you the silver rose.

Ballad

The show I'm working on needs a song, a sort of ballad-lullabye thing. Here's a shot at lyrics:

It lit the dark behind my eyes,
But now my lamp is gone,
As storm clouds, dark, begin to rise,
Obscure the setting sun.
But on the wind that softly keens
A whispered voice across the sea
Tells me what was, and says what is,
And what will never be.
-------

Rainfall

Tip-tap, goes the rain against my shoes
Tip-tap, sings the rain its gentle blues
I should be chill, but warmth runs through me
A memory so soft and fleeting
I cannot think, for I have only
Thoughts of love this summer evening

Pit-pat, fall the leaves against my sill
Pit-pat, and the rain is singing still
Try to forget that love's just left me
But a memory so soft and fleeting
An impression in the bed is only
All I have this autumn evening

Drip-drop, lands the rain on soggy fields
Drip-drop, always rains and never yields
A bitter chill just seeps into me
While a memory so soft and fleeting
Haunts my thoughts, now filled with only
Pains of love this winter's evening

Tip-tap, falls the rain in springtime's heat
Tip-tap, and its tune is bittersweet
A new year's growth invigorates me
And a memory so soft and fleeting
Leans in close and whispers softly
Songs of love this April evening

Still it falls
Still it falls
The pleasure of a love remembered
The sorrow of a love recalled

Random Dialogue

"To go out in a blaze of glory. That's what I want. Like James Dean. To race towards the peak of my life, and then to launch myself into heaven. Remembered as the best I was; I'd never grow old, never flicker and fade away before sputtering out. And it'd be so easy. All I'd have to do is...stop."

More Six-Word Stories

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."
What he hoped for scared him.
Falling hurts; at least I jumped.
Never said goodbye. Never needed to.
Her smile never reached her eyes.
Shadowed eyes still burned with pride.
"Great night – wait. Where am I?"

EDIT: Changed number 5 to be six words.

BEST DREAM EVER

I was hunting Grizzly Bears in Alaska. Using packs of trained wolves. And then I was framed for murder. And had to go on the run. With my murderous pack of trained wolves.


IT WAS AMAZING. I slept in an extra five hours just to finish the dream. Fuck yeah.

Petrograd Awaits Update

I've gotten about 20 pages completed on Petrograd Awaits. It looks like it's gonna be long; I'm estimating 50 pages for the first out of 3 acts. I've turned it into a pdf you can download here. If you have any feedback, I'd be glad to hear it, but it's by no means necessary.

The Golem

I've got another idea fermenting now, based on the story of the Golem of Prague. An old Jewish legend about a rabbi who creates a golem out of mud to defend the shtetl from anti-semetic violence, but when the golem is too zealous in its defense, the rabbi is forced to destroy it. My thought is that the golem is sort of a tragic character; selflessly defending the weak, yet, when its actions draw too much ire from the strong, those it protects abandon it.

I'm thinking of doing a modern American family take on the theme, much as I did with Don Quixote for The Florentine. I'll save this for when I'm not working on Lenin anymore.

Lenin Notes 2

These are from Robert Service's "Lenin: A Biography".

Notes:
Lenin had recurring stomach problems and was prescribed mineral problems to cure them.
The Ulyanovs were big fans of Wagner.
Spoke with "angular grammar and syntax", "down-to-earth belligerence".
"Who did I hear this news from? A swallow brought it to me on its tail!"

Will continue later

Lenin Notes

I've been writing down some notes as I read through my Lenin books, and I figured that I would record them here, as well. These include descriptions of historical characters as well as documented quotes from memoirs or letters. The following notes were all taken while reading through Dimitri Volkogonov's "Lenin: A New Biography". Volkogonov was a disillusioned former Soviet general, and he's highly critical of Lenin. I'm going to have to read other sources to get a balanced feel, as I don't want to portray Lenin as a horrible monster or as a noble hero. I want a little of both.

Notes:
"The clever Russian is almost always a Jew, or has some Jewish blood in him." - Lenin (could be referring to Parvus, Trotsky, or Lenin himself)
"Only by struggle and war can the great questions of humanity be resolved." - Lenin
"'We dare not win,' that's the main point of their speeches." - Lenin (about the October 1917 Central committee)
"Row" was one of Lenin's favorite words, i.e. "I'm mad at Parvus, we're having a bit of a row."
Constantly referred to "Russian fools"
Lenin's High School headmaster was Alexander Kerensky's father
"Imagine, Mama, two men at a duel. One has already shot his opponent, the other has yet to do so, when the one who has shot asks him not to. No, I cannot behave like that." - Alexander Ulyanov (Lenin's brother), as recounted by his lawyer on the eve of the October Revolution.
Lenin in the 1895-1903 period: "Lenin at home was a modest, unpretentious, virtuous family man, engaged in good-natured, sometimes comic, daily war with his mother-in-law."
Krupskaya (Lenin's wife) had more of a business relationship with Lenin than a traditional marriage. Was fully aware of the nature of the relationship between Lenin and Inessa Armand. Nadya saw her task as ensuring Lenin's peace of mind by always giving Inessa a warm reception.
Lenin: Usually wore a cloth cap. Short. Seemed 'cunning' due to his high forehead. Most notable features were his eyes, noted by everyone who met him. Described as piercing and full of energy. Dark brown, resembling those of a lemur. Key trait was his pragmatism. Disliked Russia and Russians, consistently hiring out intellectual tasks to Russian Jews and foreigners, while reserving menial tasks for the 'Russian fools'. Full name Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, familiar form Volodya.