The following piece of microfiction is based upon two tweets that I have posted in the past month. The first tweet posted on February 1, 2011 is “I love when ordering coffee sounds like a dissertation!” The second tweet posted on January 26, 2011 is “Why can’t everyone prefer texting over phone calls like I do?” I was inspired to commit all of the emotions and expectations I have recently been facing to writing. I found the process therapeutic and surprising. Greyt Expectations was therapeutic in the sense that I was able to view my circumstance objectively and adopt a new perspective. In addition, writing this piece was surprising in that the words I was typing kept taking a different direction than the plan I had in mind. Remarkably, this assignment helped me grow as a writer as I was forced to shift tense, remove prepositions, utilize my thesaurus, add color, and limit my words.
Greyt Expectations
I enter the café, offer my dissertation of an order, and feel I’ve earned every word. I make my way to the corner seat, pull out a pen and write Expectations, with a capital E on the back of the grey napkin. Most people would probably call this a to do list, but to me that never seems to carry the weight of what is to follow. Certainly there are some monotonous tasks like running errands, making appointments, and cleaning house, yet more lines are filled with obligations of my full time job, being a student: read this, analyze that, and write my thoughts; however, these aren’t the most dreaded words committed to this napkin. The biggest challenges are the idealistic standards repeated in the margins week after week — practice patience, take risks, exude confidence, offer forgiveness, demonstrate selflessness, applaud humility, develop trust, exercise vulnerability, radiate love, and above all cheat perfection. They are seemingly unobtainable, but entangle themselves with the tasks they surround. I pause and try to think of a way to see more things on my list scribbled out, but my phone begins to ring. Why can’t everyone prefer texting to phone calls? (Tweet) At least that way I could have a written reminder of what is expected of me.After a mhm, ok, I’ll add it to my list, and an I love you, I sat back, dropped my pen, and sipped from my coffee cup now that the grey steam had disappeared completely.
In the following piece of microfiction, I incorporated a quote from Anzaldua’s “How to Tame a Wild Tongue. I should note, however, that I altered the quote slightly by taking out the 2 Spanish words and replacing them with their English translation as well as changing my bedroom to our bedroom. This piece of writing has stretched me as a writer by trying to make someone else’s tone and language fit my own style of writing.
Lovesick Little Girl
Trouble sleeping— check. Lack of appetite—check. Depression— check. I’d continue on with side effects doctor, but wouldn’t it be easier for me to say “the back of any medication”—check. This is a sickness. No, an infection. It’s beyond that; it’s a disease! You should know since there’s no fitting prescription or pause. Why am I telling you this? This won’t help. That’s what I get for listening for my mother. And I know what you’re thinking, and you’re dead wrong. I am not some lovesick little girl. No sir, I am a strong, confident, independent woman. It’s not your fault; the women who are typically lying upon this crimson, sling back couch are just that—lovesick little girls. I am no girl, however, I am a woman who has seen love come and go enough times. It’s nothing new. What’s that? You want me to tell you about him? Start anywhere? Well, I guess I can do that: “I can remember the hot, sultry evenings when songs of love and death reverberated out of cheap amplifiers from the local bar and wafted in through our bedroom window” (Anzaldua 2953). He held me in his capable arms and I became utterly and completely vulnerable… This is pointless. The songs have ended, the bar went bankrupt, and the honeymoon is over. He left me weak and wounded. You would call this a breakthrough, but this lovesick little girl is out of time.
Greyt Expectations
I enter the café, offer my dissertation of an order, and feel I’ve earned every word. I make my way to the corner seat, pull out a pen and write Expectations, with a capital E on the back of the grey napkin. Most people would probably call this a to do list, but to me that never seems to carry the weight of what is to follow. Certainly there are some monotonous tasks like running errands, making appointments, and cleaning house, yet more lines are filled with obligations of my full time job, being a student: read this, analyze that, and write my thoughts; however, these aren’t the most dreaded words committed to this napkin. The biggest challenges are the idealistic standards repeated in the margins week after week — practice patience, take risks, exude confidence, offer forgiveness, demonstrate selflessness, applaud humility, develop trust, exercise vulnerability, radiate love, and above all cheat perfection. They are seemingly unobtainable, but entangle themselves with the tasks they surround. I pause and try to think of a way to see more things on my list scribbled out, but my phone begins to ring. Why can’t everyone prefer texting to phone calls? (Tweet) At least that way I could have a written reminder of what is expected of me.After a mhm, ok, I’ll add it to my list, and an I love you, I sat back, dropped my pen, and sipped from my coffee cup now that the grey steam had disappeared completely.
In the following piece of microfiction, I incorporated a quote from Anzaldua’s “How to Tame a Wild Tongue. I should note, however, that I altered the quote slightly by taking out the 2 Spanish words and replacing them with their English translation as well as changing my bedroom to our bedroom. This piece of writing has stretched me as a writer by trying to make someone else’s tone and language fit my own style of writing.
Lovesick Little Girl
Trouble sleeping— check. Lack of appetite—check. Depression— check. I’d continue on with side effects doctor, but wouldn’t it be easier for me to say “the back of any medication”—check. This is a sickness. No, an infection. It’s beyond that; it’s a disease! You should know since there’s no fitting prescription or pause. Why am I telling you this? This won’t help. That’s what I get for listening for my mother. And I know what you’re thinking, and you’re dead wrong. I am not some lovesick little girl. No sir, I am a strong, confident, independent woman. It’s not your fault; the women who are typically lying upon this crimson, sling back couch are just that—lovesick little girls. I am no girl, however, I am a woman who has seen love come and go enough times. It’s nothing new. What’s that? You want me to tell you about him? Start anywhere? Well, I guess I can do that: “I can remember the hot, sultry evenings when songs of love and death reverberated out of cheap amplifiers from the local bar and wafted in through our bedroom window” (Anzaldua 2953). He held me in his capable arms and I became utterly and completely vulnerable… This is pointless. The songs have ended, the bar went bankrupt, and the honeymoon is over. He left me weak and wounded. You would call this a breakthrough, but this lovesick little girl is out of time.