WHEN I AM NOT WRITING
When I am not writing I am not writing a novel called A Cell of Own’s Own about a woman in a mental hospital in a midwestern city who finds her life’s calling collaging photos from National Geographic magazines. I am not writing a novel called Slaughter Me New about a group of hair stylists in Manhattan. I am not writing a book called Salvaged Parts. I am not writing a sequel to Salvaged Parts called The Wounded Vulva: Hear Me Out. I am not writing a book about the meaning of life called Why Not Play Polo? I am not writing a memoir about my life as a high class maid titled The Slaves of 5th Avenue nor am I writing a memoir about growing up with a brain damaged sister who was kept alive on an iron lung in the bed next to mine: Quiet Please I’m Trying To Sleep. I am not writing a memoir because memoirs are for people who have a story to tell and frankly I have no story to tell. When I am not writing a memoir I am also not writing a play. Not a play based on an ancient Greek drama, not a Brechtonian play, not a musical bound for Broadway nor a silent meditative play set in the atrium of the Museum of Modern Art. I am not writing a treatise on theater based on a treatise on theater nor a comedy, melodrama, improv nor no kabuki no. I am not writing a blathering autobiographical monologue Call Me Boi (pronounced Boy) nor am I not writing a play where all the actors wear lycra body suits and are limited to facial expressions for communication. I am not writing a play that interweaves all the character roles that Phillip Seymour Hoffman played in his entire movie career into one tragic comedy played by holograms of Phillip Seymour Hoffman. I am not writing a play that uses a black and white video of cigarette smoke projected onto the back drop of an empty set. I am not writing a play within a play within a play. I am not writing a reinterpretation of Waiting for Godot that takes place in a line for lottery tickets outside of a bodega in Queens nor am I writing a play using the live streaming video of a security camera in an empty parking garage at the Beverly Center on the west side of LA. I am not writing a play set in the slums of Calcutta using native non-actors. I am not writing a minimal piece where nothing every happens nor a play where the male roles are played by women and vice versus in a grand reconfigured staging of Oklahoma! set in a futuristic world in which genitalia is worn as head gear. Not writing upstairs downstairs, east side west side essentializing gesture, speech, song, music, and dance in a tragic comic post HIV, post gender re-assignment surgery play with hard hitting questioning of hetero-normative assumptions. I am not re-configuring Death of a Salesman as “I’m Just a Little Boat Looking for a Harbor,” by Georgia Metz nor “The New Normal is the Old Abnormal,” by Georgia Metz though I would like to write “Truth: It’s A Language Game” by Georgia Metz and “Bruiser: Every Scar Has It’s Story” by Georgia Metz. I am not writing a screenplay about “Georgia Metz de Tocqueville.” I am not writing an account of my life as the cleaning lady at Warhol’s factory entitled I Cleaned For Andy: Mop, Bucket and My 15 Minutes of Fame. I am not writing a memoir titled I Don’t Have A Clue more vivacious than Oprah Winfrey’s memoir What I Know For Sure. I am not writing a memoir based on my diary as a nine year old ice skating girl scout who hid her diaries so no one would read them. I am not appropriating a book of found poetry called The Unhidden: Giving Power to Silence. I am not editing a signature coffee table book on the architecture of the Los Angeles River basin and it’s homeless population. Nor am I publishing a book of photographs of the contents of domestic garages located in Illinois, Michigan and Ohio titled Over Stuffed. I am also not publishing a book of photographs taken from the contents of my mothers closet after her suicide- re-constructed in it’s entirety from memory. I am not editing a book of photographs shot from the positions of vomiting into toilets in the post punk bars of 70’s London nor am I not writing a novel using text messages down loaded illegally from NSA sources. I am not writing a short story collection based on multiple coast to coast relocations titled: Go Where You Want No One’s Watching. I am not writing a Nobel winner, a Pulitzer nor one that will line the re-cycling bin. I am not writing a story of recovery of any kind from anything especially not heroin. Though I do like what Ernest Hemingway said “I drink to make other people more interesting.” I am not writing an account of walking the proposed Keystone Pipeline nor a novel in list form of what naturally arises in one’s mind while purposefully engaging with aimless wandering practice in New York City. I am not writing my account of witnessing the deaths of hundreds of hospice patients in my life as a nurse titled Stop Complaining You’re Only Dying. I am not writing about my defaulted school loan, fantasy lovers, poor credit rating nor my non-performative performances in a trailer park called home. I am absolutely not writing about my lucrative life in sales: The eBay Career Path. I do not have a book in the wings, in the works, half baked, unfinished, prologue or addendum nor am I not writing down my dreams nighty and interpreting them with Jungian drawings sketched by moon light. I am not being asked to chronicle these real life experiences in the New York Times Style section, on Media Blog nor for Vanity Fair and if asked I will say unequivocally no, thank you for asking but really, I’m just not writing.
Thanks to Anne Boyers
When I am not writing I am not writing a novel called A Cell of Own’s Own about a woman in a mental hospital in a midwestern city who finds her life’s calling collaging photos from National Geographic magazines. I am not writing a novel called Slaughter Me New about a group of hair stylists in Manhattan. I am not writing a book called Salvaged Parts. I am not writing a sequel to Salvaged Parts called The Wounded Vulva: Hear Me Out. I am not writing a book about the meaning of life called Why Not Play Polo? I am not writing a memoir about my life as a high class maid titled The Slaves of 5th Avenue nor am I writing a memoir about growing up with a brain damaged sister who was kept alive on an iron lung in the bed next to mine: Quiet Please I’m Trying To Sleep. I am not writing a memoir because memoirs are for people who have a story to tell and frankly I have no story to tell. When I am not writing a memoir I am also not writing a play. Not a play based on an ancient Greek drama, not a Brechtonian play, not a musical bound for Broadway nor a silent meditative play set in the atrium of the Museum of Modern Art. I am not writing a treatise on theater based on a treatise on theater nor a comedy, melodrama, improv nor no kabuki no. I am not writing a blathering autobiographical monologue Call Me Boi (pronounced Boy) nor am I not writing a play where all the actors wear lycra body suits and are limited to facial expressions for communication. I am not writing a play that interweaves all the character roles that Phillip Seymour Hoffman played in his entire movie career into one tragic comedy played by holograms of Phillip Seymour Hoffman. I am not writing a play that uses a black and white video of cigarette smoke projected onto the back drop of an empty set. I am not writing a play within a play within a play. I am not writing a reinterpretation of Waiting for Godot that takes place in a line for lottery tickets outside of a bodega in Queens nor am I writing a play using the live streaming video of a security camera in an empty parking garage at the Beverly Center on the west side of LA. I am not writing a play set in the slums of Calcutta using native non-actors. I am not writing a minimal piece where nothing every happens nor a play where the male roles are played by women and vice versus in a grand reconfigured staging of Oklahoma! set in a futuristic world in which genitalia is worn as head gear. Not writing upstairs downstairs, east side west side essentializing gesture, speech, song, music, and dance in a tragic comic post HIV, post gender re-assignment surgery play with hard hitting questioning of hetero-normative assumptions. I am not re-configuring Death of a Salesman as “I’m Just a Little Boat Looking for a Harbor,” by Georgia Metz nor “The New Normal is the Old Abnormal,” by Georgia Metz though I would like to write “Truth: It’s A Language Game” by Georgia Metz and “Bruiser: Every Scar Has It’s Story” by Georgia Metz. I am not writing a screenplay about “Georgia Metz de Tocqueville.” I am not writing an account of my life as the cleaning lady at Warhol’s factory entitled I Cleaned For Andy: Mop, Bucket and My 15 Minutes of Fame. I am not writing a memoir titled I Don’t Have A Clue more vivacious than Oprah Winfrey’s memoir What I Know For Sure. I am not writing a memoir based on my diary as a nine year old ice skating girl scout who hid her diaries so no one would read them. I am not appropriating a book of found poetry called The Unhidden: Giving Power to Silence. I am not editing a signature coffee table book on the architecture of the Los Angeles River basin and it’s homeless population. Nor am I publishing a book of photographs of the contents of domestic garages located in Illinois, Michigan and Ohio titled Over Stuffed. I am also not publishing a book of photographs taken from the contents of my mothers closet after her suicide- re-constructed in it’s entirety from memory. I am not editing a book of photographs shot from the positions of vomiting into toilets in the post punk bars of 70’s London nor am I not writing a novel using text messages down loaded illegally from NSA sources. I am not writing a short story collection based on multiple coast to coast relocations titled: Go Where You Want No One’s Watching. I am not writing a Nobel winner, a Pulitzer nor one that will line the re-cycling bin. I am not writing a story of recovery of any kind from anything especially not heroin. Though I do like what Ernest Hemingway said “I drink to make other people more interesting.” I am not writing an account of walking the proposed Keystone Pipeline nor a novel in list form of what naturally arises in one’s mind while purposefully engaging with aimless wandering practice in New York City. I am not writing my account of witnessing the deaths of hundreds of hospice patients in my life as a nurse titled Stop Complaining You’re Only Dying. I am not writing about my defaulted school loan, fantasy lovers, poor credit rating nor my non-performative performances in a trailer park called home. I am absolutely not writing about my lucrative life in sales: The eBay Career Path. I do not have a book in the wings, in the works, half baked, unfinished, prologue or addendum nor am I not writing down my dreams nighty and interpreting them with Jungian drawings sketched by moon light. I am not being asked to chronicle these real life experiences in the New York Times Style section, on Media Blog nor for Vanity Fair and if asked I will say unequivocally no, thank you for asking but really, I’m just not writing.
Thanks to Anne Boyers