11/1/12 Blip Journal; the progress of a NYC writer. Here is my National Novel-Writing Month novel: the edge of the river by Odilia Rivera-Santos

The key to making art is to make art and not care where it goes and whether anyone cares.

I decided to participate in the National Novel-Writing Month thing to write a novel in a utilitarian style with a bit less concern about the outcome. It's output, not outcome that matters, no?

the edge of the river, a novel by Odilia Rivera-Santos

The sun came in through the window so bright that it reminded me of where I was. The tropics again to go to another funeral again and sort through mildewed family albums and sip coffee in a living room where I seemed to be the only one sweating profusely, no longer accustomed to the heat and lethargy of a small country town. The usual gang showed up: curious neighbors who rarely talked beyond a simple greeting on the day of my arrival and the chitchat reserved to speak of the dead. They always had the same wistful delivery and the same focus on what the dead had left undone and what they had wanted to accomplish. I ate the salty crackers with fresh butter and took another sip of milky espresso with too much sugar and kept tapping my foot to a nonexistent tune, praying everyone would just shut up and pray. A Puerto Rican wake is not as much fun as an Irish wake -- the Irish celebrate and are less morose. No one was dancing and I alone attempted to stem the tide of misery that welled up with every word. He is deceased, I thought to myself, and he no longer suffers or dreams or wants, and isn't it a shame only death can bring such bliss. Why couldn't God empty us of all those desires which twist our lives in knots. 

I only showed up in the hopes of meeting the third María, because there was nothing of me in this tribe anymore. If one could say it is possible to outgrow a family, I could definitely have said it with eyes closed, falling back while playing the trust game with the universe. And the universe would have answered my call more logically than blood relatives. No more guava slices or white cheese or salty crackers. The heat was starting to get to me and here it was only eight hours since my arrival. I'd only had time to shower, take a short nightmare-laced nap and awake again to shower with the metal slats of the window open to the backyard and the chickens' squawk and curious eyes of the cow from next door. It was a kind of home, but not mine. The third María was the one who we always waited for at these gatherings and who never showed up. I was convinced, sitting there in my plain black dress with matching plain black heels and facial expression, that she would show -- it was only fair for at least two of the three Marías to show up at their father's funeral. 

 

http://www.nanowrimo.org

10/31/12 Blip Journal; the progress of a NYC writer by Odilia Rivera-Santos

The hurricane is one of those occasions on which you can say "If you want to make God laugh, make plans." Whatever plans we all had for this week -- no matter how intricately choreographed -- have now been rerouted like traffic on a major highway during construction.
I guess we can say all of life is a highway under construction with detours and unexpected potholes and someone hopping out when you least expect it with an orange flag waving to slow or halt your 'progress.'

Progress is one of those things we constantly choose to pin down and measure the way researchers trap dangerous animals in the wild, drug them and measure them to see how climate change affects the fertility rate of an alligator for instance.

How does an artist measure progress?
Perhaps, the true measure of success as an artist is receiving frequent paychecks for one's work or accolades or gaining a big following on Twitter. We could also say the true measure of success as an artist is praise and not being understood within one's lifetime and whiling away the hours, months, years as a clerk, copying data from one oversized notebook to another like Kafka did.

Gratitude is something worth expressing on a daily basis. Having achieved at least part of one's aims in life may be enough. .. just a thought to ponder for those who rejoice or tinker with the thought of suicide at not getting exactly what they want. There is something especially petulant and childish -- in an unappealing way about those who refuse to try something different when the old methods no longer produce desired results. Life is about experimentation and desperation is for children. Children have no means of escape from uncomfortable or undesirable situations, but most adults in the United States do.

National Novel-Writing Month 

And on the experimentation front, I have decided to write the worst novel ever written since the lovely esoteric ones remain unpublished and I still haven't felt compelled to self-publish them -- something I am ninety-eight percent sure I will do.

Here is a bit of my novel

The edge of the river

The two women walk side by side down the dark street leading to the railroad, not knowing what to say next as they digest the idea of being related through a philandering father. María looks at her sister's glistening black braid leading down her back and thinks how it reminds her of the Evangelists in the family and her schoolgirl years -- obeying her mother's endless rules about how a proper Christian girl should behave.


Let's walk down this street ... it's a little bit better lit. It's spooky around here.

You just don't feel comfortable in a small town. This is the way it is after seven at night -- people come home from work and go inside to warm up by the heat of the TV. Look over here! We walked in this area when we were very little. I remember how the road curved here and those stone walls near the maple trees. Do you remember, M?

Not really. 

Well, you were about four when our moms stopped hanging out. .. maybe, that's when they figured out what papi had done. Dating best friends has got to be some kind of sin and that's not a word I use lightly, or at all, really. 

We can't only blame him; our mothers kept the secret too. It's always amazing to think of the worlds people carry around, their secrets, and motivations only they understand.

Maybe, they were just horny bitches and he was a good lay... ever think of that?