My Blank Period

I know it's been awhile since I've written. A lot has happened since March: SB 1070 was signed by our smoky governor who sounds and looks more suitable as someone who should pour coffee in a Perko's; British Petroleum with their once-pretty logo has indeed gone Beyond Petroleum; a general resigned as wars rage on; Southern Europe was on the verge of bankruptcy; and most importantly, Ricky Martin came out.


Reasons for not writing: I get very cranky from March on at my job. Feb-April is the season of students' standardized tests. These are administered by our harpy administrator who has a voice that makes one pine for the siren song of 10,000 vuvuzelas. Also, I took a creative writing class that gave me a severe case of writer's block. Kind of weird. It was taught by this local author who has capitalized on her Arizona/Mexican-American indigenous background. She writes about desert barrios, Indian myths, shady street people and appearances of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the back wall of a Circle K. Stuff like that. I really admire her because she loves her writing and has no problem promoting it, or herself.

"Wait ‘til you read my latest piece. It's hysterical. You will absolutely love it."

Most of the class bought it and became part of her fan club. I hadn’t realized until I met her that most writers have to be like this, at least nowadays. I always thought writing was a hermit’s life and not one spent emailing people about your appearances at local Borders for poetry readings and book signings. This depressed me. I always fantasized that becoming a writer meant you were done with customer service once and for all. I thought you could go live in a lighthouse and eventually pass, needing a liver.

As with most adult classes, it had its share of interesting people. Sometimes, however, it was more like group therapy. One woman had obviously watched too much Oprah and was obsessed with remembering her spirit, or whatever it is Oprah wants people to do. Her prose was often about being a victim but taking clean refreshing showers that “sang to my fractured soul whilst renewing my inner child’s strength”. Another woman was unhappily married and unhappy with most of the world it seemed. She never said much, perhaps due to her broken Spanish accent, but she glared at people really well. She was like one of those mothers in a Lorca play. I could imagine her dancing flamenco and lighting the floor on fire. Her writing was usually about how useless and stupid people were. The men she wrote about usually had small penises. That’s probably why I was drawn to her. The class was good, however. I realized how Structure is very important in writing. And how I haven't really paid attention to it in my writing. Things like having a main character want something; (instead of just whining) Things like real conflict; (instead of the character not being able to afford a Mini Cooper) And how a short story is just that – short. Not a short story dying to be a novel.