the murakami test

i speak of the one, the only, haruki murakami.
let me first preface by saying i've read a few of his novels. and i didnt like any of them.
norwegian wood?
the windup bird chronicles?
hardboiled wonderland and the end of the world?
a wild sheep chase?

why yes, i have read them all and yes, i did not enjoy any of them.

why do i continue reading them, you may press.

well i read them because he is a god amongst mere mortal writers. so i've been told.

murakami has his own unique way of writing and only those that truly get it, share in on his brilliance. they are in fact, brilliant themselves for being able to appreciate his brilliance. well, that was my logic.
and that my friend, is the murakami test.
do i have the goods to appreciate murakami's warped and confusing mess of disjointed stories?
understanding his novel is sorta like solving a riddle, wrapped in an enigma twisted within a mystery while intoxicated. can it be done? is it meant to be done?

sometimes i would lie to myself and say i liked it. and i would truly believe it too. for a milli second.
and then i would feel bad because i would realize lying to myself is sort of like masturbation. in the end, you're only fucking yourself. okay okay i apologize for that joke. it's been heard around the world ten times over by you, me and anyone who has fb. but it was so appropriate, no?
man, if i invented that joke i would be so proud of myself. not because it's funny, but because it's so appropriate! you can end just about any discussion with that line because anything can be alluded to fucking yourself.

_____ is like masturbation. in the end you are only fucking yourself.


"working this job is like masturbation. in the end you are only fucking yourself," you can proclaim before quitting your job in a blaze of glory.

"being with you is like masturbation. in the end you are only fucking yourself"
that is the ultimate breakup statement.

and the list go on and on.


so back to the topic at hand,
of course my never getting murakami made me very sad. as i felt that i wasn't a true writer because i never "got it". i didn't understand his magnetism obviously therefore i was merely just a simpleton who was better off reading dan brown novels like the rest of the masses. i don't get to cross over to the league of writers. i was a fake writer, an amateur journal writer. oh those goddamn journal writers are the worst. they write one journal entry of clarity and think they can rule the world.

so i marched on and read his novels nonetheless, hoping against hope that one day, i would in fact get it and finally be a real writer.

well guess what bitches... i finally "got it". go get it gurl.
i read Kafka on the shore and was blown away.

i have arrived.

a party is a-coming and everyone is invited.

or as my friends say- party in my mouth and everyone is coming.
ok that was too easy.

a promise to myself

i am making myself promise not to write egotistical and mindless dribble of my daily going-abouts that involve details of what i ate, what i did, how i feel and when i took a shit.
it takes a certain amount of ego to accomplish a journal of that feat and though i do indeed possess that ego, i don't however have the energy to do so. ive been told im a lazy piece of turd. by my bf, no less.
so fear not, this is a promise to myself and for myself. a guideline of sorts for myself to follow.
additionally, i've read plenty of blogs that have flamed out into the ashes because the entries become tediously personal introspections turned public. (oh the weeping!) this will not be a weeping journal. i wont discuss my feelings. (rejoice boyfriends across the world).
there will be no boo-hooing of any sorts. ok maybe there will. but i limit them to once a month.

young and dangerous

"My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip." - American Psycho

female fixations

I'm a big fan of devon aoki.
she's kinda weird looking.
wide face, sharp slanted eyes, tiny little mouth. kind of like a chinese moon girl lost.
those aren't normally characteristics that define what "beauty" is. (fuck conventional beauty)
she has an odd ball face and that is precisely why i love her so.
she has that zany out of this world look to her. it is tinged with a slight shade of indifferent sadness- like an alabaster doll.
i coincidentally too have that same wide face, tiny mouth, those eyes and the sadness! oh the sadness! i am constantly told i look either sad or pissed off. i cannot help it- tis the territory that comes with having this alien face.
our similarities endear her to me all the more.

this is the song that never ends...

my little pea brain is kaput.
i feel like if i shake my head, i will hear a tin can rattle.
i need my wine, where's my wine?
wine is my life elixir. like the Romans.
or at least if my childhood memories of disney's fantasia are still in squeaking working order, i recall the Romans drinking grape wine all day.
for some reason, i can only write when i am just a tad intoxicated. is that odd?
i used to think it was until i realized that wine was the key to the writer's cockblock in my head. wine loosens me up and allows me to be unconfined. to be free with no shackles. kinda like a busty girl with no bra on.

similar to a girl i used to work with back in college, she needed heroin to break free from the mental block that was keeping her from the writing potential she had. not that i endorse heroin. i am way too much of a straight laced prude to do that. though id be lying if i said i never thought about it in a fantasy segment, in which i take heroin and then unleash upon the world a magnificent torrent of fierce ground breaking writing that will become my debut best selling novel, the likes of which has never before been seen in the history of publishing. naturally, this will all occur in a fevered all nighter. yes, that's right. in my fantasy, i will pound out my entire 300+ page novel in a possessed by demon state of mind with sweat pouring down my face. it will be a maniacal marathon of finger jabs/keyboard abuse, of which once i finish, i will promptly pass out dead to everything for three straight days, and once i do awake, i will awake to an IV drip on my arm in a hospital bed.
cue end of fantasy segment. dim lights.


you know, i like to consider myself a writer.
and like any writer, i contemplate what type of novel i would like to debut. a fanfiction best seller like twilight? i mean, doing something as fanfiction trashy as twilight has always struck me as a cop out. that's easy money and no glory. not to beat up on twilight, as i do adore it very much but writers are all about The Glory and The Critical Adoration. yes, on the capital letters emphasis.

should i write something irrelevantly witty like nick hornby or dave eggers? i don't know if i can accurately mimic that kind of presumptuous self congratulatory banter. the problem with that kind of writing is it has to be done successfully or else it's just bad, annoying self congratulatory banter. like a fake hipster. and there's nothing worst than a fake hipster.

and my third choice has always been young adult fantasy. though i didn't quite grow up a sci fi/fantasy nerd (that only happened later on in my 20s. yes im a late bloomer to sci fi/fantasy... how ironic is that? most sci fi/fantasy geeks are themselves late bloomers and i am a late bloomer to their late bloomer), i've always felt a connection, a type of kinship to that type of story telling.
i think the rule to writing an amazing YA fantasy book is to be as ridiculous and far out there as possible. sort of like taking a simple classic child's story and then churning it through the crackpipe so it comes out all psychedelic and fucked up with just a morsel of creepiness.
so those are my three genres of choice and i've been contemplating the three of them for years now.