I've been working on something here and there. I've started about 2-3 novel/novellas and got bored with all of them after about 5-10 pages, so I've decided to begin anew. When I first attempted writing novels I began with no storyline or idea of what I was doing, but now I'm plotting things out a bit more. As of now I just have some scraps and loose ends, but when school finishes I plan on attempting once to complete a novel. This one is called "Everything Happens To Me". Here's a short snippet of conversation.

...I perform these acts knowing fully well that somewhere there’s a train or ship to be boarded-there are ribbons to be tied around boxes-beards to be shaved-words to be spoken and lives to be lived…

Am I living mine? (Me.)

I think (M.)

What constitutes “not living”? (Me.)

Death? (M.)

Abandonment of responsibility? Abandonment of our ability to walk down a street and look any which way we please? Not realizing our negligence of the present and studying only the past? (M)

We both paused. It was a long, comfortable pause; like lying in a bed of feathers or the sensation of ants marching around the nape of your neck. Then M. spoke up, “let’s have sex.”

“Okay,” I said.

That was how most of our conversations ended, particularly ones pertaining to our existences. It was under the awning of these conversations in which we discovered that our skin was soft; our hands moist; our thighs pale; our minds aloft in fleeting thoughts of certain uncertainty. Most things I’m sure of in life pertain to flesh. I know the gentle caress of M.’s lips. I know the small of her back and the circumference of her stomach. I’ve touched her spine and clitoris; her nose, her tongue, her everything. It’s the intangibles I struggle with. The nothingness is what steals the bliss from the ephemeral joys of happiness. When I lay M. atop the eiderdown quilt on my mattress, I think of nothing more but the world she possesses. Inside her a vast, treacherous world which I long to be part of. Thoughts run through rivulets, tiny fragments of ecstatic pleasure circulate through her as she reaches orgasm and I become instantly satisfied knowing that if I can please M., if I can bring joy to her innermost being and suffice her most clandestine cravings even if only for the slightest of seconds, than I have pleased a world infinitely more capacious than the physical one in which I live, and that, to me, satisfies my own existence.
Have you ever read any of Tao Lin's books? Your prose reminds me of his. Blunt, but not dumb sounding. You don't use fanciful poetic passages, but you still use a great deal of vocabulary, and it still flows like a poem. Very nice, I say.
Obligatory C4C? If you would check out "Anxiety" in my sig it would be great, I like you a lot as a poet. I'd also like to maybe talk to you about putting that poem on your Whale Blue Review, if you wouldn't mind.
Anyways, I'd give it an 8/10. Keep writing breh
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Last edited by benx3000 at May 11, 2011,
a poem by li-young lee:

As though touching her
might make him known to himself,

as though his hand moving
over her body might find who
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country

his hand's traveling uncovered,
as though such a country arose
continually up out of her
to meet his hand's setting forth and setting forth.

And the places on her body have no names.
And she is what's immense about the night.
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
for forgetfulness."

the point is, you need to figure out how to write about sex. i don't know if you're a boy or a girl, but regardless, examine your own experiences and understandings of sex and figure out how you can express them.
i find that most writers our age are caught between this sort of pseudo-victorian beauty ideal of sex, then there are others who focus more on a pornographic description. i am the latter. you can be somewhere in between, or your own category, as li-young lee is:

'the places on her body have no names'
is literally the most sensual, brief description of sex i have ever heard. it leaves everything to the reader, but whips them into a burst of passion and imagination. no need to describe touching a hand, or clitoris, or anything... just this falling into the unknown of another person.

ps: slightly too much distance between the reader and the characters in the story... but AWESOME idea for a scene. beatnick fantasy porn. love it.
Last edited by punchupatatigge at May 15, 2011,
HEY BITCH SEND ME YOUR SHIT. jk i am bad at keeping in touch. we will reacquaint. I like that sartre is really heavy in this, the way salinger was heavy in the last. your head/voice/motives tend to wrap around things. it's interesting to see how margaret is a little more static in comparison.
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