The writer's statement from Celeste and Jesse Forever
After dating for three weeks in the late 90's, we realized we were better suited as friends—and eventually, as writing partners. After several failed attempts, in the summer of 2008 we agreed upon an idea of Rashida's that we both felt could be approached with honesty and a fresh take. What if a young married couple, who grew up together, realized they should get divorced but didn't want to lose their friendship? Is it possible to stay friends after separating? Can you preserve the best parts of a relationship without taking time to process the worst parts? Can you love someone to the moon and back but still not be 'right' for each other? These were questions that seemed to be common amongst people in our generation. Ultimately, we wanted to make a comedy about a broken heart. What it's like to endure real heartbreak. How devastating it can be, how funny, and how you feel like the whole world is ending. But the world doesn't end. You don't die. And you do grow. by Rashida Jones & Will McCormack
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For my creative writing class, our homework was to write a brief "narrative statement about you and your writing, including your work and interests." This has been the one thing holding me together this weekend, my writing. I don't often take pride in my work but I am actually really happy with how this turned out and I hardly EVER share my writing because of many reasons, but I had a sudden urge to post my assignment. So I'm going to post it before I lose my nerve and delete it!
I have found my first great love: a passionate affair with the endless words between my pen and myself. It has at times left me, infuriated me, and threatened my very sanity, yet it has also loved me, soothed me, and filled me. Writing tethers me to the earth, while simultaneously sending me to worlds existing in undiscovered terrain. I am intoxicated by the magic of words, the creation of stories that plunge deep into one’s soul, the sculpting of a stream of sentences, becoming a piece of art from nothing but empty space.
I spent many years denying the existence of my passion for writing. I swore to myself, and others, that I was meant to be an accountant, an economist, or a mathematician, all of which selected from the pool of approved career paths from my father. Yet, the dismal life that awaited me in the miserable acceptance of my uncreative future was short lived. I could not contain myself from my true love. Those around me, bar my father, waited patiently for me to accept what they all already knew, that I was a writer, a lover of books, of words, of the ways in which we can tell our stories. I have come to accept this part of myself, the part that on some days I treasure, and others find more maddening than anything else.
I am sometimes a dark writer, but I am not a dark person, and this has taken me some time to differentiate. I write the ways in which I wish I could speak, with brutal honesty, lacking in inhibition. I write of the things we avoid looking at. I write to make sense of my pain. I can sometimes let my imagination run wildly from me, and it has taken some practice to rein it in. I hold many tiny funerals for all the words I must edit out for excess, for I am in love with them all. I write freely at times, letting lines of poetry fill pages of my journal. More often than I am willing to admit, I stare blankly at an empty page who stares back at me with an equally blank look, mocking me with violent criticisms, painting me with doubt, discouragement, and self-reproach. These are the moments where I angrily tear up page after page of failed, uninteresting words, and proclaim that I have altogether given up and will never again write a single word. After an hour or so, sometimes longer after a particularly bad fight between us, the words and I make peace with each other. They flash their promise, their gleaming beauty, and I cannot resist but to dance with them once more.
I have never envisioned myself shut away in dark studies, surrounded by dusty books, living off of intoxication, of alcohol and narcissism alike. The Hemmingway prospect is dark and unyielding. Though I live with great admiration for Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and Virginia Woolf, I reject the prophecy that awaits the female poet. I write in coffee shops, at a solitary table, but surrounded by strangers, those that I share this life with. The books around me will not be dusty but earmarked and worn with relentless use. I will carry a journal and a pen everywhere I go, no matter the occasion. I write with lightness, though my words may not always be shrouded with optimism. I write with heaviness, in order to find the light again. I write because it is hopeful. I write because of the beauty in this world. I write because I cannot do anything else.
My Mother and my Aunty Eithne met in their early twenties while nursing at the King Faisal Hospital’s ICU ward in The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. While living at the nurse’s compound, the two of them bonded over their love of exercise and drinking and eventually began jogging together around the wire-fenced perimeter of the compound. Several years out of Saudi Arabia, my mother introduced Eithne to her brother Paul and in turn, Eithne and Paul introduced my cousin Patience to the world, officially and finally knotting our families together. Since Uncle Paul and Aunty Eithne split, Eithne had remained over in Ireland and my mother, now with my brother and I, had remained over in Australia… until last year.
As the wine flowed, our mothers began rattling off stories from their time in Saudi Arabia and about the mischief they usually instigated over there. I remember querying as to how they could have bonded over drinking considering the prohibition laws in place in Saudi Arabia and they both just winked at me. Finally, coinciding with the arrival of dinner, the story of MUMMA IN ARABIA was told.
I'm waiting for this world
to love those I love -
to strip the gravity
from their shaking shoulders
and lift the agony
from their spines.
I'm waiting for the stars
to shine sweetly on their faces.
For the sun to reach them
within their abyssal despair.
I'm waiting for a god
to hear my call -
not for me, never for me.
I can bear the world,
I can lift up the sky,
I can bleed evermore
and keep breathing,
I simply want him to answer
why it is that he burdens them,
when I am ever capable
of carrying more than I am now.
I am waiting for you to hear me,
and when you do, believe me
when I promise youÂ
that I will lift the anchors from your chests.
Lay unto me your sorrow,
give unto me your burdens,
and sew within my soul
all of the aching within yours,
and I will carry it all
(I'll wage your wars
and bear your scars)
always, always,
         for you.
I don't want to be behind a desk
I want to be holding hands
and soothing wounds,
but I want to go home, too.
I don't want to be buried in paper.
I want to be writing poetry
and crafting stories,
but I want to breathe outside.
I don't want a nine to five day -
I want to have my life's work
be the simple act of living,
and I want to share it with the world.
I don't want a job, I don't want money.
I want to love and sleep and eat,
and I want others to do it, too.
I want living to be equated to growing.
And I want to give my heart
and receive hearts in turn.
I want stitch the world whole
with the seams of my soul.
I want happiness. I want to make others happy.
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