ARWA 301 | muse

Recovering (Writing Exercise #23)

October24

Well, the audition was horrible. To start off, I was late getting out of work and therefore late to my audition. The gal had just sent the next person in in my place. So as if I wasn’t frayed enough already, I now looked irresponsible to boot.

When I finally went it, the room seemed as big as a football stadium. And very white. White, with a big black grand piano and a slight man in the middle of it. I have always been utterly terrified of him. I don’t know why, as he’s very nice. But I was literally quaking, head to toe. When I went to hand him my papers, you could hear them rattle dryly against each other in my unsteady hand.

He took them, sat down, and we started my song. My knees didn’t exactly hit each other under my skirt, but I could feel every single muscle in my body quivering. And I couldn’t catch my breath. And for a singing audition, that is a very very bad thing. Despite all the practicing I’ve been doing, besides feeling pretty comfortable with my piece, I breathily squeaked it out at a fraction of my usual power and volume. It was utterly humiliating.

He did some vocalizations with me afterwards, which went a little bit better. And then we chatted a bit, just about my job and such. Then he told me they’d be in touch. And then it was over.

I went outside and promptly dissolved into sobbing. I sat down under a crepe myrtle in front of the Methodist church’s pumpkin patch and cried and cried and cried for about half an hour. I managed to call my mom, who came to get me. She convinced me to go back in there and ask to reaudition at a later time. I don’t know how, but I did it. It added in spades to the humiliation, but at least I now feel I did what I could to remedy the awfulness that was my self-presentation. So far, no word back yet.

Mom took me to Trudy’s for dinner where I quickly downed a Mexican martini and refused to feel guilty about the beef fajita tacos or the brownie sundae (at least we split the dessert). Then I drove myself home to wait for Stv to appear, which didn’t happen until about ten-thirty. I cried and knitted the whole time. I was still teary this morning, but by midday I was feeling mostly recovered.

As the icing on a particularly rotten cake, I was so wrung out that I failed to do my writing last night. So with only a week to go in my commitment to do 301 words a day, I stumbled. I can no longer hold my head up and say I accomplished that goal.

And thanks to the Mexican food I’m about a pound heavier today.

NEAT.

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Panic (Writing Exercise #22)

October22

Tonight I am panicking too much to write about anything other than my panic. I am re-auditioning to stay on the roster of a choral group I used to sing with about five years ago. I have been dwelling on it for six weeks or so, ever since it was scheduled. It’s been strangely draining just to think about it, that kind of deep seated stress that affects everything else, leading to a big fat crying jag on Thursday that took me out of my show that night. Neat.

It’s odd. I haven’t sung since I left the group, except for some caroling gigs. But I’ve been working on my piece and despite the hiatus, I feel I’m vocally almost stronger than I was when I was last part of the group. How weird is that? But I’m still just scared that I won’t quite be good enough. I don’t know how I’ve managed to build this up so much in my mind, but there it is. I swear, these ten minutes are looming larger than a new job, my wedding, or any of a host of other actually important things.

At least it will be over tomorrow, and then I can rest more easily. I have actually been practicing for once, so it is as good as it is going to get. Right? Right?

Ugh. Save me.

What else? Let’s see. I’m back in the middle of scarf-knitting. Because, you know, I didn’t have enough other projects going on. But this one is a present for my dad, so it’s a good cause.

I taught a bellydance workshop at a sorority meeting tonight. I had forty-five minutes to get thirty girls “up to speed” on shimmys, piston hips, lifts and drops, and some snaky arms. It sounds like the set up for a really bad movie, doesn’t it??

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Two-Thirds Down (Writing Exercise #21)

October22

Once again I find myself trying to do this after midnight on a “school night,” so once again, you’re basically getting a blog entry. Sorry. I think it’s high time I posted some of my responses to this exercise I’m doing, and this seemed like a good opportunity. Here are a few of my observations…

Writing every day is really hard. Especially on the weekends. For some reason, I can’t get myself to sit down in the middle of the day and do this. It’s always at the end, when I’ve sucked up all the free time doing other things.
I find writing fiction scarier than writing about my everyday life. That surprised me a bit at first, but it makes sense the more I think about it. I am fairly open about my life, my thoughts, my insecurities. i am a thinker and a worrier and I’ve put hours into making myself more communicative, so that comes more and more easily. Fiction, however, is a window from the cold, analytical word directly into my imagination. And that feels much more vulnerable. It’s not about what happens to me. It is the stories I tell to myself when I’m idle. It’s a much deeper form of self-expression from my perspective.
I have a problem making characters act. They’re in constant danger of thinking themselves in circles for pages on end without so much as getting a fork from plate to mouth. Art imitating life? Quite possibly.
I like writing humor or mystery. I don’t like writing dramatic pieces. I keep bypassing writing exercises that would require me to get heavy. I don’t like making my characters cry. They can be scared or insecure or mad or hurt, but I hate reducing them to tears.
I have an over-affection for stingers. I run the risk of being one of those Dan Brown-esque authors, who ends every chapter with an evilly dramatic hook. While it does keep you reading untill three AM, by one you’re really sick and tired of being unable to find a stopping point.
It is nerve-wracking to know that people are out there reading these exercises, but saying nothing. Now yes, there’s no reason they should have to. But it makes me understand the abject terror with which other writers I know wait for that initial contest, editorial, or commercial feedback.

That’s it for tonight. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll get back to the writing. For now, sweet dreams!

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Writing Exercise #20

October21

Another late night means I’m going to excuse myself and just blog for my 301. I danced at Carousel Caravan tonight, which was a big deal to me. I’ve always thought of it as the one locale in town reserved for “real” dancers, with a clientele outside of other venues (even though most of it is boozy bar partrons, but hey). So it felt like a rite of bellydance passage for me.

The Carousel Lounge is an amazing place. If you have never been there, it’s a dive bar just off of the highway. The teensy strip of parking spaces fronts a building that is painted with a mural of free-form circus performers. My favorite are the twin fire-eaters in glitzy fringed red bras with flowers in their hair. When you walk in, there’s a jukebox and vinyl booths across from a large thrust-shaped bar. The room has a general patina of age, that indescribable grubbiness that you get in a well-loved public place. It’s not dirt, it’s just use.

The bar is beer, wine, and setups only, but there’s a liquor store next door. You’ll see everyone from sorority girls to workmen holed up at booths with a giant bottle of whiskey on the table and a few sodas sitting around. There’s a miniature carousel smack in the middle of the area behind the bar, decorated with silver tinsel and twinkle lights.

At the far end of the long, rectangular room is a landing strip shaped dance floor, which is presided over by a giant pink paper-mache elephant. Above him hang giant copper-colored tassles. The walls around him is adorned with another mural, this one inside the big top, with a wonky looking ringmaster and various animals.

Dividing the room are a few VERY old video game machines. Tonight, a patron was cleaning house on Ms. Pac-Man. It was impressive to watch! The tables have candy-cane backed chairs that seem to think three legs on the ground are all you really need. The fourth one is entirely optional, and keeps you alert. Maybe it’s the sobriety test?

I love this little place, and it’s wonderfully eclectic clientele. Everyone is super friendly. If you’re looking for a slice of “old Austin”, I recommend you check it out.