Friday, January 30, 2009


today I was doing my best not to crash. crashing at work just makes work even more soul-sucking than it already is. I survived courtesy of Bones and Belle & Sebastian.

tonight was not as successful. sure, I took out the trash in below freezing temp, but they don't really give out gold stars for that. instead, I put myself on an express train to emotional instability. I'm not sure having the internet is as lucky as I thought it was.

tomorrow is another day. pray for me.

soundtrack for a friday

when free TV-via-internet just isn't cutting it.

  1. Sky Joshua Radin feat. Ingrid Michaelson
  2. Hanging Around the Day, pt. 2 The Polyphonic Spree
  3. Sun [Acoustic] Mae
  4. The Well and the Lighthouse Arcade Fire
  5. Debate Exposes Doubt Death Cab for Cutie
  6. World Spins Madly On The Weepies
  7. Three or Four The New Pornographers
  8. Reason to Stay [Acoustic of A Lack of Color] Ben Gibbard
  9. Polite Dance Song The Bird and the Bee
  10. For the Price of a Cup of Tea Belle & Sebastian
  11. If You Want Me Market Irglova & Glen Hansard (Swell Season)
  12. Transatlanticism Death Cab for Cutie

Thursday, January 29, 2009

listen + respond

So I was going to write one of those cheeky blog posts where I list and answer questions asked in recent comments, but other than ginsberg asking if I'd left john cusack for john krasinski and some random cyber question about the glory that is my wonky shoulder, I got nothing. It posed a problem for all intents and purposes, until I realized that I can either blog about (1) the fact that my affections for impossible men are fickle (would have left both cusack and krasinski for some cute, appropriately outdoor, guy on the bus tonight--had he shown proper ID and reading list); (2) my shoulder (which really doesn't deserve the cyberspace); or (3) the glories of [fill in the blank]. I kind of get a kick out of option 1, but I think the glories have it tonight.

The Glories of Fob: After my last and, let's be honest, somewhat manic post re: the torture of workshop, I sent my latest project to the hands of Fob. The very next day I received feedback from Theric, and today Edgy and Mr. Fob himself graced my inbox with their comments. All of them said what they were thinking, and everything they said made me think about what I've written in a new way, which is the purpose of workshopping. Yet again, I'm missing these insanely brilliant men (and Arwen) and feel incredibly grateful and humbled that they are willing to read and consider what I've written. (I'm also wishing I had followed them to California or Washington--Chicago doesn't have anything like them.)

Other glories to consider: The Abby Baby, who is following in her mother's footsteps with a love of the outdoors and the Monte Bean Museum. Chicago, which is oddly beautiful in the winter, even if you almost die from the cold (note: I'm going to start carrying my camera everywhere I go--I want you to see this). Yeats, whose poetry is stunning, but is unfortunately stuck in my head, which means I can't write like me right now. And James Galvin and Jay Hopler, for the reading, and the New Pornographers, Swell Season, Joshua Radin, Sara Bareilles, and Ingrid Michaelson, for the listening, to get my rhythms back. Go team.

Oh, and the guy on the bus. He really was that cute.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

missing you

I am writing this at the risk that someone out there will find this. "Out there" being those who I don't think read this blog.

Last night was dreadful. Dreadful. Dreadful and . . . encouraging. The one person in workshop I have any respect for gave me the best one-word response my writing has ever received. Being the kind of editorgirl I am, I'm not going to repeat said word, but still. And the prof's comments were promising. But the woman who suggested I more faithfully follow Ecclesiastes. . . whatever. Go team. I already knew it was good. I wanted to know how to make it better. I wanted some damn reader response. I wanted

I wanted Fob. Maybe a little bit of april. But mostly Fob--there's something satisfying about a group of prose writers (and one undercover poet) reading and responding to poetry. And even though I already knew this workshop wasn't half as wonderful as Fob, I hoped. I was stupid to hope, but I hoped. I'm a good writer. I'm a writer. But I need my Fob. (Hands and knees here, fellas.)

listening to. on repeat. again.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

intensely intense

There are things I've wanted to blog about since September that I just haven't been able to. Mostly because, despite the public forumness of blogging, I don't like blogging in public places, e.g. work, NU libraries, etc. Actually, that pretty much sums up the internet access I've had the past four months, until yesterday, when, miracle of miracles, I let myself hope and check for a wireless connection, and there was one. I'm hoping this lasts. I've got big plans for editorgirl and the outside world (via the internet). It sure beats watching crime dramas (not always advisable when you're living in a big city and the laundry room of your apartment building would be an excellent place to stash a body).

"I'd just spew out how I felt and they'd think I was a madwoman."

Anyway. . .

I've been writing this week. I've been writing because on Monday my prof asked who could be ready to workshop the next class period (aka, tomorrow) and I said I could be. Silly editorgirl. But I think it was a good thing because there were poems to be written and I always need the extra kick in the pysche to sit down and write things out. The result is a rather intensely personal beginning. . . I nearly jinxed myself there.

So tomorrow is workshop and I've sent out these poems and they are intense and personal and intensely personal and I'm wondering if I've done the right thing. Not in writing them, but in submitting them for workshop. I did send them to a few people, but I wish I trusted anyone in this workshop the way I trusted april and fob and poetasters. I've been incredibly lucky with finding people who I trust with my poetry, which is why I've been able to write in such a personal (and I don't mean personal personal, but intimate personal, you know?) way.

And on that note of confusion, good night. "I still have to sell my little Japanese cars in the morning." Name that movie.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

a trip to the laundry

Thursday, January 22, 2009

pity party for one, but you can join me

Every January I follow the Sundance Film Festival. Mostly because I find it unfathomable that the film world would deign to set foot in Utah, but also because every once in a while (a) a really wonderful movie or (b) a really wonderful actor shows up on my radar, and I can get a little giddy and starstruck. Every few years, I considered shedding my scorn for the people who trek up to Park City just to walk the streets in hope of spotting ___________ (fill-in-the-blank).

Now that I'm not in Utah, the one movie and the one actor (okay, one of a handful of actors) I'm really excited about are both at Sundance this year: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, adapted and directed by John Krasinski. It also features an appearance by Ben Gibbard. I'm dying in my cold little apartment in Chicago, when I could be dying on the cold streets of Park City, hoping to see either the movie or Krasinski or both. If the movie gods are reading, please let this be the Sundance sleeper hit of the year. Pretty please?

Monday, January 19, 2009

Deal Breakers, Rules of

[Note: I stole from Lauren and Grover. Thank you.]


Deal breakers must provide specific, concrete details. I will not date men with hair longer than mine. The best looking man is never the best looking man when he’s wearing a ponytail featuring ringlets that would rival Shirley Temple and the Good Ship Lollypop.


Deal breakers must be anecdotal. I will not date men who listen to religious/inspirational music and select Broadway soundtracks. At the end of a religious singer/songwriter’s concert, the audience was asked to join hands for the final inspiring number. The song ended, but my date refused to let go of my hand.


Deal breakers must enforce stereotypes. Love me, love my friends. And if my friends hate you, you’re toast.


Deal breakers must be self-explanatory. Mass murderer.


Deal breakers must be irrational. If you can’t love Journey, don’t bother loving me. Men who use Bic pens. Men who talk through movie trailers.

Deal breakers must be breakable.

my assignment,

of course I haven't done it.

. . .

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

still thinking

Here's the honest truth: I'm not sure I have a deal breaker.

Yes, I'm still thinking about that. In less than one week, I need to have an essay or a story or a poem about deal breakers. And yes, I want it to be funny.

This is not as easy as it looks. I spend my hours on the El and the bus identifying physical deal breakers--too short, too pretty, too. . . and then I consider that personality would trump all of those. I hope. I think. I don't know. After religious and educated, I don't even have a list for the opposite argument anymore.

Oh well. Luckily Modernist poetry and poetics calls. Walt Whitman, here I come.

Friday, January 09, 2009

Deal Breakers, Take 2

So I've been thinking, and here's what I've come up with:
  • Talks incessantly during the previews before a movie
  • Talks at all during a movie (unless it's an MST3K kind of thing)
  • Talks down about poetry, English, etc.
  • Listens only to Michael McLean, country, or select Broadway soundtracks
  • Lapses on cue into his mission language
  • Won't laugh with me when I slip on the ice
  • Won't help me up when I slip on the ice

This is a limited sampling. And I'm guessing now that I've confessed that much, I can add

  • his hair is longer than mine
  • he apparently showers in cologne

Are any of these essay worthy? I'll tell you--I don't know.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

the ebb and flood clearing all the channels of your heart

Feel free to sing along.

I had Laura Veirs' "Saltbreakers" playing over and over again in my head last night. Why? First of all, because it's a good song, completely worthy of being stuck in my head (unlike the rousing chorus from the Buffy musical that somehow found its way in this morning). More importantly, however, "Saltbreakers" was playing courtesy of an odd introduction round in my writing seminar last night: Give your name, your genre, and your "deal breaker."

I know, I know--such a connection is tenuous enough to be worthy of a poet, but I like the song and "Deal Breaker part one" was a lame title. And the song was going through my head.

Anyway, we shared our deal breakers--Enya, bad breath, pinkeye, bad jokes, giving beer to a toddler, Enya--and then went on with the lecture. Until the end of the lecture wrapped back around to deal breakers. It's our first writing assignment--choose a genre, write about your deal breaker.

Despite my answer last night, I don't know what my deal breakers are. I want something entertaining, not a serious discussion--and most of my "true" deal breakers are serious (religion, education).

So here's your assignment: Deal breakers. Discuss.

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