Decisions...and a novel

Sooo, I watched the season Finale of Lost on Wednesday. Not much to say there. Not much revealed. The story has been more bogged down this season than helped by the flashback, or, in this case, flash forward sequences. On Thursday, school sucked. Although Karla and I did find a cool coffee shop in Monrovia to study at that evening. On Friday, besides staying up til 5 am with a throbbing, I-want-to-rip-my-face-off toothache, I'll confess, I did much research on the viability of an MA in Lit. vs and MFA in creative writing. All things being equal, that is, funding, possibility of a teaching post, or at least the possibility of following up with doctoral work, I'd do the MFA, no question. These programs are usually a mix of lit. study and workshops anyway. I'd be there in a heartbeat. Then there's the problem of finding a program that you like. Then there's the slightly larger problem of finding a program that will accept you. Right now there's also the slight problem of what work to submit. I've been working on a novel lately, about which I am by turns excited, frustrated, energetic, and apathetic. I've submitted some poems to Lit. Journals, but no word yet, so I won't exactly have a shining CV. On the other hand, I grew up in Germany, went to college in Seattle, went to Seminary to study Theology and Art, I worked with Special Ed. kids, and I now teach at a Title I High School in downtown LA and coaching Varsity basketball (poorly). This should count for something, right? Back to the novel, though. I've been wanting to write one for years. Not sure if I'm a mature enough writer yet, although, even if this one doesn't ever get published, I'll be learning a ton about the writing process, my voice, etc. Let's call it fertilizer. Although, frankly, whether in fiction, poetry, or music, I'm a little tired of producing "fertilizer." What's a lazy, disorganized pseudo-artist to do? Well, at the very least I found an authentic voice...which is nice. I've been trying to write a story for years that was somehow On The Road crossed with Dostoevsky, but, like, in Central Europe. I also produced roughly five beginnings that sounded like cheap Cormac McCarthy rip-offs. Then I hit on something. Why try and write like these people? I may love their work, but I sure as shit ain't them. A friend of mine said that, in her fiction workshop from the author of "writing from the inside out" she was asked to identify the theme of her life. She passed on the task, and here's what I came up with at the time "compartmentalization in the face of constrictions, displacement, passion, compassion, indulgence and consequence, need for depth of intimacy, simultaneous search for/avoidance of wisdom." I'm not so sure how accurate this is, reading it now, but I do know I've been discounting two very important things: my own voice - snarky, some might say, and personal experience. From uptight German school to Evangelical German church plants with an American pastor (my Dad) to an international school full of sophisticated Europeans and displaced Americans, Australians, Canadians, you name it, to traveling around Europe with basketball teams, to smoking weed in Brussels after graduation, to driving along the coast line in Australia, to living in a basement on the outskirts of Seattle, cursing God, to the small, "safe," Christian college with many shallow people and dorm meetings to determine if the girls Spring dresses were causing the boys "to stumble," to classes where my favorite professor invited us to embrace the infinite in the Blakean sense, "the miracle is right here," he'd say, "right here," to Summer debauchery back in Europe, waking up late, the days filled with friendship, laughter, cars, books, beer, basketball, billiards, and girls, to the insane asylum that is Los Angeles, and our little corner of it in particular, with Peter Pan pastors of non-churches and Tribes of the pseudo-Christian lost re-embracing faith in these postmodern times, hedonist Seminarians in acting classes, Topanga Canyon Burning Man Toys R Us kids clinging to some shadow of the 60s, two seasons: hot for nine months and grey for three. The freeway society, so transient, so busy. All this is grist for the mill. Fodder for the cannon. The raw material for the industrial, Baconian society that is my disorganized brain. I had an epiphany, a moment of clarity, a stroke of genius, call it what you will. It was so Euclidean in its simplicity: snarky+life experience = my authentic voice. Now I'm thinking less "On The Road" and more "Big Lebowski," except without the film noir touches. Derivitive, you say? Pish-posh. There's so much absurdity in this town, The Big Lebowski should have spawned a whole sub-genre. Alright, enough.
ttfn, everybody, ttfn.