Hey, I've got a bunch of stuff to write.

But right now it's in my notebook. Sometimes I jot a bunch of stuff down, then let it evolve in my head. I did do some typing and posting the other day, but then I decided it wasn't saying exactly what I wanted to say. So I un-posted.

I always taught my students that solid writing is really just a guide through your thought process. The better and clearer and more precise the thinking, the better the end product can be. That, coupled with the thought that if you don't worry about what other people are thinking, you can evolve on your own time... leads me to say: Yep, lots of stuff to write. Plenty of time to write it in.

frayed

Just a little bit longer.

Just a little bit longer and I'll be able untangle all of this.
And dig out.
And stop mixing metaphors.
And start writing again.

There's too much work to get done.
Too many messes to clean up.
And, a bright shiny spot, too many friends to catch up with.
...to let me concentrate.
...to leave me a block of time to write.

Oh.
And.
I'm sick of looking at this page design.

The new design is complete.
But there is CSS to contend with.
For various reasons.
Because Blogger-no-longer-in-beta is still Blogger-the-bitch.

I still love you folks.
I'll be back commenting as soon as I can.
I'll be back writing as soon as I'm dug out.
Or as soon as I snap.

If anyone cares to take bets on which will happen first...

Oh my God, I have a blog!

I'm just being silly. The truth is, I have not forgotten you. I've just been trying to take some pressure off myself. For the first time in... forever. It's been going pretty well.

I did some loitering with Hilary.



Photographed some random strangers. (This one's actually a female! I know, different for me, right?)



Got in some exercise.



Cut a men's XL t-shirt in half and then knotted it back together. (So it would be Jill-shaped, of course... Then made a photo collage of it.)



Ran along the boardwalk in the rain.



And was pretty ecstatic about it.



Pondered the sea. (Actual location is in full color.)



Sat on the beach and got some revising done.



So, yes--that means actual writing is forthcoming~

And a new, improved Jill.
(And a new, improved JillWrites... re-design is almost complete.)
Hope you'll still be here!

spring cleaning

The Jills are patience-challenged.

Those of you who know me off-blog, know this.

My general M.O. is to have too much patience with those who have a secret entry to my secret hideouts and not enough patience with long-term projects that I want to accomplish. (No, my dears, I am not about to announce that you are all cut off from the patience supply that only you darlings seem to have access to. And you know who you are.)

But what I am about to announce is my goal for the month of May. Which is to have patience with two major Jill-centric projects. And those are:

~ overhauling the blog and homepage. (Apologies to those of you who are reading along via RSS feed and have recently been driven batty by my re-publishing. I'm organizing my writing samples with labels. Sorry!)

~ massive spring cleaning of bedroom and home office. (You would not believe how much of a disorganized mess I made this winter.)

Of course, I have to keep up the rest of my life while attempting to accomplish this. It is feasible to accomplish this within 31 days. It is my perspective and approach that needs some altering to get it done. Already done, just have to keep it up.

So, one small step per day. I finished today's interim steps and have positively shifted my outlook. Someone remind me to reread this tomorrow?

Happy May, sweet people of cyberspace.

upon further reflection

I have rediscovered the main truth about the workings of my brain that I learned in high school: the more other work I have to get done, the more I want to write things that aren't on the obligation list.

As I focused on other tasks this weekend, ideas for the play kept popping into my mind. I wrote one full scene, plus made a post-it pad full of notes. Why is it my characters always want to talk to me whenever I'm supposed to be getting something else done?

Whatever the answer, I'm happy to have rediscovered the joy of writing plays. So the next time you find me fretting over something that is not playwriting, please remind me of this. I'd be happy to do the same for you.

But first you have to tell me: what is it that you love doing that you always seem to forget how much you love it?


More thoughts tomorrow after my brain has had time to decompress from an unnaturally busy past five days.

on the bus

Time spent on public transportation should never be viewed as wasted. Now In my eighteenth year shuttling among the boroughs of New York City on my own, I consider myself something of an expert on how to properly utilize commuting time. I get things written and revised, sometimes read, often check email, and occasionally blog. Every now and then, I play with the camera or the cameraphone.

A lot of times, though, I will just gaze out the window, and let my mind go where it needs to go. If where it needs to go is a place of worry, I let it wander but give it something better to come back to.

The secret, then, to never feeling like you're wasting time: accept that time spent dreaming is time well-spent.

moral of the story.

Don't skip your workout.

I've been living off endorphins lately, because there's nothing like running to make you feel like you're getting somewhere. I didn't run today, though. Maybe because it was Monday. Or because it was raining. Or because I'm late on a deadline and I thought I'd use the time to catch up.

I didn't.

I didn't run, and I didn't catch up.

Now it's dark, it's rainy, I haven't run, I have no endorphin high, and I still have work to do. I cannot fantasize about the big things that make me happy, like travel, because there is none in my immediate future, and thinking about what I'm missing will make this worse. Actually, my mental state is bad enough already. I should not bribe myself with sweets, because I've been working hard to break that pattern. I'm actually not sure what I should do right now.

Except... ummmm... work.

Pixie dust, happy thoughts, jokes, smiles, and photos of handsome men welcome and appreciated.

Tune in again... mmm... soon! Possible topic: "What Jill Was Like at 17: An Anecdote That Involves an Older Boy". Intrigued? I guess I actually have to write it now.

I have reason to believe that we are psychically connected.

I had just typed up my indifference, tendered my resignation as to the position of your amanuensis. (Even if it was perhaps temporary.) I'd even hit send.

The recipient, of course, is not one with the authority to accept such a statement, nor make it official. But she is a secret-keeper, and that for the moment was good enough for me.

I'd been on hiatus, few words (if any) clicking onto my keyboard--beginning to wonder how long I could go without it, and whether I would miss it at all.

I should have known.

We are never on the same schedule. Our Outlooks never synch. That is the problem, and that is the solution. And by solution, I mean inspiration. Timing conflicts yield writing. Correlating itineraries would mean we'd have better things to do. In relation to each other.

I wouldn't have to write.

And you wouldn't have to lurk.

Which would be synergistic. Considering if I weren't writing you'd have nothing to read. And you wouldn't have the time nor inclination to read if we were actually doing what I'd been previously writing about.

We should try that sometime.

Have your people call my people. Maybe someday we'll actually end up with some face time.

Non sequitur

Several years ago, I went through a phase during which I absolutely loathed the interior design of my bedroom. I'd had the same furniture since I was seventeen and was sick of arranging it and rearranging it, yet never being able to find a layout that felt organic. It should be noted that at the time, I was working toward my Master's, I had just begun teaching, I had recently co-founded a theater company, and I was producing a play that was not my own.

I dragged my brother to Home Depot. We bought bright turquoise paint, took it home, and painted one wall as a test.

I didn't like it.

But I was very busy, and could not find the time to return to the home store to find a more pleasing color. I lived with one turquoise wall--not evenly-painted, either--for quite a while. Until I couldn't stand it anymore.

Then I went to Ikea and bought new furniture.

Make of it what you will; I wish I had the focus to write something more. There is much I want to tell you.

New and Improved To Do List!

Thanks to all your comments, I have a new to do list!

1. Post to do list. Perhaps it will be eloquent.

2. Throw pile of papers to be graded down stairs. Like confetti! Look how pretty!

3. Steal time for myself from someone else. (Cancel last class before spring break aka Passover/Easter vacation. Teachers get sick, too, ya know.)

4. Nap. Mid-day. A day of sloth is good.

5. So watch The Goonies. Repeatedly.

6. Eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Obviously, it should be Rocky Road.

7. "No, body! Shut up, I tell you! Forget the diet!"

8. According to my comments, one pint is not enough. Eat another.

9. And some Cadbury creme eggs. (Ok, so I added that one myself.)

10. Don't forget the Chuckles.

11. Wow, this is the best diet I've ever been on!

12. Announce to the person who reached this site via Google search for "Do I love Jill?": "DUH! Of course you do! Why else would you be Googling her!" Double duh.

13. Hold an anaconda. No! I mean, a real one. I hear it's all the rage with teachers down in Florida. Hold a real anaconda. The metaphorical one comes later.

14. Shake things up. Does listening to "Shake It Up" count? The New Cars are touring with Blondie, after all.

15. Repeat after me: tomorrow will be better. Sunshine and high notes not required.

16. Speaking of which, go to Times Square. Find the red-haired singing hooker. Kick her ass.

17. Wear flip-flops in the snow.

18. Whoops, that's all gone. What if I throw that fake snow left over from the Christmas decorations all over the kitchen floor? Kinda like pixie dust. Do you think everyone else I live with would like to play pretend Peter Pan in flip-flops when they come home?

19. Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true.

20. Avoid towns near melting glaciers. I hear people can be pretty cranky when stuff starts leaking through the crack.

21. Lie on couch. Watch DVD's.

22. Preferably of midget porn.

23. Wait--I watched The Wizard of Oz yesterday. Does that count?

24. Throw a party.

25. Get some. Anaconda. You know, the metaphorical kind. I hear that's available to chicks like me.

26. Oh yeah, anacondas dig me.

27. Countdown to TequilaCon. (That's an open invite, people! Check it out!)


Looks like I have a busy weekend ahead of me! I'd better get started.

Hey, is that an anaconda or are you just happy to see me?

Despair and Loathing in New York City

Today I lack perspective and know not where to find it. I’m usually in over-stock, and people come to me to get some: family, friends, students, acquaintances. Today I am depleted.

My day is a string of things I can’t ever seem to finish, meals I have to remind myself to eat, and showers that are always way too short. My life has gotten away.

I’d like to go to sleep for a few days, or at least just stay in bed. I already had to cancel one get-together; I don’t have the voice for normal conversation. I am silent.

One quarter of my students were on time for class today. They were the ones who were worried because they missed the last class, when their papers were due. Demoralizing.

Two piles of papers I will likely not finish before class tomorrow. Another set arriving on Monday. Futile.

I look forward to nothing. Except maybe to the publication of things I don’t have time to write and the production of plays I don’t have time to workshop. But these are airy promises, nothings that have kept me running on nothing in the hopes I could finish something. I am exhausted.

I hate that I am writing this. But I want write something. And despair and loathing are all that are in stock right now.

Spring has sprung. And it hurts.

In my first playwriting workshop in college, the first thing we learned was not to make excuses for our writing. I subscribe to this principle faithfully.

But, because I love writing, and because I appreciate having readers at all, I feel obliged to explain the lack of writing. So please don't think of this as an excuse; it's a thanks in advance for your understanding.

Apparently, I'm allergic to things. This is new to me. I can choose a terribly itchy throat, so much that it wakes me up at 5am, or I can choose medication. Guess which one I choose.

While I'm loopy on allergy medication, I'm fretting over the two piles of papers I haven't had time to grade yet. I am quite behind.

AND, a professor is coming to observe my teaching on Tuesday. AND, I may not have a voice to teach. BUT, my students do adore me. In fact, one of the girls was late for class so she picked a daffodil for me on her way in. Am I allergic to daffodils? I don't think so.

Also, yesterday was the bridal shower for my future sister-in-law--which was fun for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being I got to fashion a hat and a bra out of paper plates, ribbons, and bows. The general consensus of the party was that it was the most impressive ribbon-hat and bra anyone had seen. We might just take that bra along for the bachelorette party. Pat Jill on the back. It even rivaled the Vera Wang-inspired wedding dress I improvisationally fabricated out of a roll of toilet paper at the last shower I went to. Someone call Heidi Klum and get me on Project Runway.

On a positive note, my play is evolving in my brain, and soon I will be able to focus on where I want to take it. Damon and Callie are back in full force, even if they are in isolation from one another. Therein lies the drama.

There is so much I want to write and so many things that I am excited about--including all of your questions--that my physical exhaustion and my other obligations are causing me to pout like a petulant child. I'll just chant "I love Mondays" until I fall asleep, and--I hope--wake up rested and ready to take on this week. Here's hoping that the 12-hour relief promise gets delivered upon.

So I leave you with this photo. The trees may be killing me, but at least I can make something pretty out of them. Happy Monday!

And now a break from our regularly scheduled artistic pursuits for spring fever and girliness.

Today is a glorious day. Today is a glorious day even though my computer crashed just as I was about to publish the previous version of this post and it hadn't been saved.

What, you may ask, makes today so glorious? I'll tell you.

1. It is Friday. I am off.
2. I have no papers to read or grade and no impending deadlines for theater reviews or grant applications.
3. I bought a pair of fabulous sandals last weekend that I thought I was going to have to wait at least a month to wear. Not to mention some fun spring clothes. (Not to mention.)
4. Mother Nature is feelin' frisky and has seen fit to bestow some unseasonably warm weather upon the northeast U.S.
5. Therefore, I can do whatever the heck I want AND wear my new spring clothes for THREE WHOLE DAYS.

WOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOO!

So what have I done so far?
1. I woke up at 10-freakin'-30.
2. But then was reminded of the weather forecast.
3. Proceeded to jump out of bed and open every window.

Interlude for morning hygiene rituals, checking of email, reading of a few blogs...

4. Made breakfast while performing select excerpts from the soundtrack to Grease, complete with original film choreography. Shook my booty for the kitchen appliances.


5. Ate on the deck in boxers, tank top, and flip-flops.
6. Tried on all my new spring fashion.
7. Re-realized that I have absolutely no reason to wear the silk Kenneth Cole halter dress that I picked up at a ridiculous markdown, so decided to take pictures. Even if it hangs in my closet until June, at least I've worn it once.
8. Modeled it, of course, with the new sandals.
9. Now I share.

To do list for the rest of the day:

1. Go for long walk in the park.
2. Write outside.
3. Get a pedicure.

Happy weekend, all!

And for those of you here in the northeast: get outside and enjoy the early spring before the crazy bitch in charge of the weather realizes what has happened and goes on another bender.

Relativity, Speaking

Something about thirty has given me words I've never had before.

When I was younger, when I was more forthcoming, more trusting, very rarely did I do the writing. I did the talking, I did the nurturing, I did the giving. Unfortunately, I trusted the wrong people. Millions of words, lost.

I regret every single word I have not told you, but now I am a writer. I write--pictures, poems, stories, essays, plays. All full of images. (You, me, us.) All full of regret. Regret that I did not trust my instantaneous trust. Pre-emptive regret for the explaining I may never do.

Why never? Because. Just because. Because how long will it keep coming? Wells run dry at some point, and my well and your well--well, they're just not well-synched. My regret is your obliviousness. Two weeks for me is a day to you. My physics teacher spoke mostly Russian, but time dilation was one concept I didn't need explained.

Maybe, we were twins. We are twins. But we are separated. You are on a rocket, approaching the speed of light. I am here on earth. Your clock seems normal. To you. You expect I am living at the same velocity. You expect there is plenty of time. Will be plenty of time. But my life just keeps ticking, and in your place are words.

Won't you be surprised. When you return, all you'll find--in the place I once was, next to the place you never knew you had--will be a pile of scripts, a handmade book of poems, and this.

I ask myself: should that make me happy?

To(o) Long

Keep your eyes on me.

Treadmill today. Eyes straight ahead. 4 miles. Left, right, left, right. Keep breathing. Left, right. Stay loose. Left, right. There's that mound of papers to read. Left. Two deadlines I'm behind on. Right. Turn up the iPod. Left right left right left--

That's right. Look here.

Blender. Here's the milk. One cup. Look for the peanut butter. Where could they have moved it? Oh, there it is. Behind the whipped cream. Of course. Tablespoon of peanut butter, scoop of whey, packet of hot cocoa--diet. Adds flavor; adds calcium. Blend on low. Shoot I forgot the ice cubes. Don't want it to be warm. Want--

I want you to see who it is.

Laptop. See if there is any email. There is always email. Respond. Talk mission statements. Production budgets. Grant applications. Revisions. Messages from students. Missed class. Missed a deadline. There's always a calamity. Who is it going to be this semester? Who--

Who it is that makes you feel this way.

Only the second week. Already way behind. Two sets of diagnostic exams. One set of essays. Ought to have them read by now. Ought to have feedback, comments. Organization, style, mechanics. Just so they know what to work on.

Just so there's no confusion.

Phone Home

I don't teach on Thursdays. My body apparently is well aware of this because it decided to go on strike today.

My day started as usual: morning routine, yoga class, eat, sit down at computer. That's when things get a bit hazy.

Next thing I know, I'm in bed again. Still in my yoga apparel. I can't sit up without the room spinning. My eyes don't want to be open. I pass out. I wake up to see that my lucky plant is as non-functional as I am. I fall back to sleep. Five hours later, I realize I am very, very hungry.

Someone get me some Reese's Pieces.

Incubate Myself. Forswear Nothing.

I'm not exactly sure what that means, but that's what came out when I started rearranging the magnetic poetry on Kim's refrigerator. If I were more motivated, I could get out the rest of her magnetic poetry set and see what else comes out, but what I probably should do is track down some food, prepare lessons (considering I resume teaching on Monday), and write at least a scene from one of the plays that I am working on so that when I go to the writing group meeting tonight, everyone else won't think I've spent the past few weeks staring at walls.

Actually I've been working hard, just not on the plays. I've been working at the Fringe Festival, and whenever I'm not at FringeCENTRAL, I'm trying to see as much theater as I possibly can, and talk to as many other theater-obsessed people as I can, and just trying to get myself into the proper mindset to get through drafts of these two plays. Especially the one that I am avoiding. About Richie and Jude and being a kid back on 11th avenue and 9/11 and how painfully blue the sky is in New York at this time of year. Am I avoiding it because it's not ready to be written or am I avoiding it because it's a really emotional subject and it's just much easier and more enjoyable to write comedy?

I suppose I am getting ready to Incubate Myself.

As far as the Forswear Nothing part...well, let's just say I'm going to try to keep an open mind to the messages that the universe seems to be slapping me in the face with recently. Otherwise, I have a few friends who would be only too happy to do some literal slapping of my face.

Exhaustion

One night back in college I crashed at the apartment of a friend who I was working on a show with. A bunch of us had gone out after a performance or something--I don't know; that whole semester blurs together in my memory. Anyway, I can clearly remember him apologizing for the utter chaos that was the apartment he was sharing with his girlfriend. She, also, was working on a show. Dirty dishes were piled up. There was no food in the refrigerator. She had only remembered to buy toothpaste after attempting to brush her teeth and realizing that there was nothing to put on the toothbrush. "We really ought to plan our lives better," he said. "Not work on shows at the same time. Otherwise, who knows what else we'll forget."

Theater has a way of taking over your life. Even more so if, in addition to your current production, you're writing a few others. The desk in front of me is strewn with mail and magazines. Magazines I've not had time to read in the past two months. Mail that includes unpaid bills for the magazine subscriptions. I guess that works out well--if the subscriptions get cancelled, maybe eventually I'll catch up. This is just my desk. I don't even want to tell you what my bedroom looks like.

I've got to start teaching again in a few weeks. If I can barely find time to do a quarter of the things I'm trying to get done now, what am I going to be able to do once I have sixty students to teach to write? I know that's my job (well, one of my jobs, anyway) and I shouldn't complain about what pays the bills. But sometimes I can't help but be envious of the people who have ONE job. One job that is fulfilling AND pays the bills. And when these people have time off from work, they have time off. They're not feverishly trying to figure out how many things they can possibly get done before they return. Maybe they're trying to figure out how much relaxing they can get in, or how many of their hobbies they can pursue...but not, "how many things can I get done so that maybe, just maybe, I'll fully be able to make my living off this some day freakin' soon?"

I'm afraid that the next time I look up, I'll have missed Halloween.