Cool girl

Cool girl by Viola Day   Such a cool girl, I thought. How one can be adored, invariably noticed by her peers and still have the spatial awareness to notice someone like me leave the room. She wished me well and hoped for my return.   As I tried not to let the door hit me on the way out, a strange thought surfaced, as though a glimpse of five years from now sat me down: she was the type of friend to lecture you on being more confident as she applied lipstick on your lips before telling you to dab them against a Kleenex. Then matter-of-factly,…

S P A C E

S P A C E by Rina Pritchard It was yesterday when Facebook posts were either inner monologues or rib-tickling, witty remarks on a good day. I still look forward to Instagram captions that aren’t too far from diary entries, ones that do not yield to back-and-forth harangues in the comment section, but rather support, or better, no comments at all. Just space. But why can’t we just listen? Holding space for others is not natural. Because while we itch and fidget with this relentless dire need to speak over listen, nothing, let alone effective, gets transmitted to the receiving…

When writing subplots and what they’ve taught me.

Subplots are windows of opportunity that help with a story’s progression. When written and handled thoughtfully, they can cater to a story naturally without sounding superfluous. I imagine that a lot of subplots are written merely by accident (you know, when we want to kill someone off or weave in a love triangle). As an art of complex storytelling, subplots have taught me several lessons, besides adding depth to the central story arc and a deeper meaning to a story. They provide freedom for authors to flesh out characters, themes and conflicts. Subplots offer writers a chance to add twists…

David Foster Wallace Talks Talent, the Inferiority Complex and Being a ‘Literary Heavyweight’

I’ve been reading Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself by David Lipsky, a book in a transcript/interview format that tells the exchange between Rollingstone reporter and editor David Lipsky and Infinite Jest author, David Foster Wallace. They take a road trip. They sit with his dogs. They confess. They tell and find common ground. I am the backseat passenger, the customer behind two dudes in line engaging in brilliant conversations that consumes me. Like being on the outside looking in, being incredibly drawn even though I can’t keep up with every inside joke, every esteemed piece of literature….

Another rant, another page not written

​It’s ​Day 106 of not having written. The other day, after reading, I tried and just grew frustrated. I place​d​ my fingertips on the keys and made a funny expression into the screen where my reflection tried mocking me. I thought, How am I supposed to feel reading something like that and trying to write something like this?! Maybe my source of inspiration has let me down or has reached its expired date. Maybe this one no longer speaks to me. Maybe it’s too close to home​, or I have to live it out further.​ I oscillate between aspiring to…

18 Introspective Quotes for Pensive Writers

18 Introspective Quotes for Pensive Writers by Rina Pritchard If you’ve reflected all your life, then you’re no stranger to finding deep meaning in books, writing and other forms of expression. From simple sentences to an entire symphony, you connect, as though you long to or are already a part of the subject matter. It’s a quirk, a tendency, a hobby you instinctively do. By staring too long at spaces and things, parsing out the unseen, rationalizing with the arrival of feelings while trying to untangle the framework before you, you’re rewarded a profound understanding, a truth, a refreshing outlook…

​The Trouble With Marketing Yourself as a Writer

The trouble with marketing ourselves, as writers, is that it’s awkward. Like trying to use a computer mouse with our left hand. We try to stay true to our convictions: to lead a more intentional life, to make conscious decisions and above all, to live slowly. But it seems as though, at this rate, many of us have sold the best parts of ourselves to consumerism, to trends, the good looking, popularity and prestige. Where do I fall into this mess? Am I floundering? Yes. We want to reach the right readers and to connect with them, but we can’t…

Checking in

I haven’t written anything in weeks.   W  E  E  K  S. Although I’ve been feeling and thinking all the time about everything, nothing gets down on paper and only goes as far as a drafted text message that goes unsent. I’m tired (to put it at best). Sometimes, I’ll stare off in the distance as my son cries and I’ll almost hear the silence. I’ve decided to surrender to the process part of the process. This, right here. This, the feeling, right now. There’s no sense in locking horns. I welcome it peacefully. I’m reassessing. Shifting some things around. Reflecting…

Can I Be Real? Confessions of a Mom-Writer. 

I carry him, wanting him to hang tight because tomorrow he’ll turn eighteen, and then I won’t see him for months on end. Leggy New York models and his sybaritic lifestyle will steal our attention. He’ll be coming home on Thanksgivings only to tell me that my rendition of turkey is getting less and less dry every year, and he’ll kiss me on the cheek anyway. He may have to crouch over because somehow during my prosaic, languorous life, I have shrunk over time. I’ll learn to settle for weekly calls (if I’m lucky) of his breathing, one-word responses on…

Garden Square on Tenth

Garden Square on Tenth by Viola Day Mr. Cromwell always drew the curtains of his window, where his unit sat right above the Romero’s whose daughter I used to date back in ’93. Some say he was allergic to the sun while others assumed the daylight aggravated his depression. Every time I pedaled my way across his once-dilapidated apartment building in my fixed-speed bicycle, I’d see his shades drawn. I was sure his curtains were stained by the sunlight from being drawn so often. At night, when I’d make my way home, after picking up Mom’s medication from the Pine…