Final Assignment 2

April 26, 2007
Assignment 2
Writing My Life

Some of my favorite memories were those of this past summer, which I spent in Paris studying modern French theater, and traveling. It was here that I wrote and performed my first play. “Lost Angeles/Paris Trouvee” (trouvee means “found” in English) was based on the experiences of tourists in Paris. The play began in skits concentrating on emotions of anger, frustration, disappointment and even disillusionment of being an American tourist in a very foreign country. As the play progressed, however, the skits became more and more redeeming and positive. They concentrated more on the similarities between the French and American people, rather than cultural discrepancies. The play was almost completely based on my experiences of living in Paris, and being more than a tourist but less than a citizen. Initially, I felt frustrated and the language barrier was almost unbearable considering the fact that I had never been expected to function in a country where most citizens spoke a language other than my own.
The cultural differences were also difficult to deal with. A comedic scene in the play with two American women being verbally harassed by Parisian men on the street reflected what I commonly experienced walking through the streets of the city with my three attractive female friends. The dialogue I wrote accurately echoed the sentiments we often felt. “These French guys are so gross!” says one of the irritated American girls to her friend. It took some time to become accustomed to this behavior, but after a few weeks we realized that French men are simply more aggressive and forward than the typical American. Cultural differences like these made me uncomfortable at first, but then became normal (although still annoying) as the weeks went by. With each passing day, I became more proficient in the French language, culture and quirks. I started to fall in love with the European lifestyle that Parisians exemplify so well. This personal journey and growth was the foundation for the play and what the characters felt, thought and experienced.
One of my favorite professors once told me, “Your art reflects your life,” and gathering from my personal experience, I whole-heartedly believe this to be true. All my life, people, teachers and writing coaches have told me to “write what you know.” Simple enough, right? The theory meaning that your best writing will come from genuine accounts of experiences you’ve had, or aspects of life you know most about. This is what I do, and at my young age I realize there are not many subjects I can claim expertise in, but what I do know, I know well. I can write about myself, my family, my friends, places I’ve been, things that I’ve seen, memories accumulated, and lessons I’ve learned. I write about my life because my life informs my writing.
When it comes to writing characters in my stories or scenes, I tend to have little to no imagination. I think about extremely creative writing genres such as science-fiction or avant garde surrealism and feel a twinge of guilt when I realize how often I’ve shamelessly written myself into a script or story. A short play I wrote last spring, “The Airport,” told the story of a young woman in LAX airport trying to decide between taking a successful job in New York, or staying in Los Angeles. It’s no surprise that at the same time in my life I was trying to decide between going to journalism school at Syracuse University in upstate New York, or USC. Each of the other three characters were based on close friends of mine: the optimistic best friend, the guy who can’t function without being in a two-foot radius of his girlfriend, and the former fling who dropped out of college his senior year. Ironically enough, a few months after the completion of the play, I, following the footsteps of my own, self-titled character, didn’t get on the plane to New York and chose to stay in L.A. As strange as it might sound, instead of my life becoming my art, my art actually became my life.
Writing about my own life is somewhat of a love/hate relationship, I’ve learned. When you’re faced with the task of describing something you’ve done or felt, at times it can seem impossible. How can you describe how you felt the moment your lips touched those of your first love? It’s a memory most of us have, that we will never forget, but once we try to translate that memory into words, it always seems to be inadequate. It is in these circumstances that the written word fails me and doesn’t provide enough sustenance to feed my appetite for accuracy. An assignment in an advanced writing class once prompted me to write about my relationship with my Grandfather who recently passed away. Although emotions were fresh in my heart and mind, the words to describe them escaped me as I struggled to write something honest and eloquent. Being able to remember perfect details of a specific moment in time and lacking the ability to describe it on paper is the most crippling feeling I’ve experienced.
In my opinion, there are two kinds of writers in this world. There are the Arthur Goldens and the Hunter S. Thompsons. Arthur Golden created the believable and realistic “Memoirs of a Geisha” despite the fact that he is a man. While reading the scene where the main character, Sayuri, loses her virginity I could not believe I was reading words, adjectives, verbs that were written by a man. Now unless there’s a big secret that
somebody out there is hiding, Golden will never or has never felt the feelings of a young girl at that moment in her life. How he described it so intimately remains a mystery to me. Then, there is Hunter S. Thompson, gonzo journalist who combined reporting with fiction. His most well-known novel, “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” is the story of a journalist and his attorney’s drug-induced adventures in sin city based upon…well…elaborations and extensions of experiences of Thompson and his attorney’s drug-induced adventures in sin city. As a reader and writer, I highly respect the work of both writers and “Memoirs of a Geisha” and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” top my list of favorite novels. However, I am much more of a Thompson than I am a Golden because I could never feel comfortable writing a novel from the first-person point of view from someone whose time, lifestyle or gender I would never experience. Although some writers can effectively write this way, I felt that my best and most detailed work is inspired by my own life experiences.
Many times people have asked me what poem, story or paper is the most valuable to me. Without hesitation the answer always is, “My journals.” I’ve kept them for as long as I can remember, even when I couldn’t legibly write and the pink pages of my Hello Kitty diary were covered in crayola pictures of mermaids in stead of words. My collection of journals chronicle my life, and I have no better resource. All I have to do is open one and I’ll know exactly how I felt at age 13, 16, or even four days after my 20th birthday. I used to spend hours writing profiles on characters I was planning to use in plays or short stories including the tiniest details of physical descriptions, important childhood events, or even political views. I found this exercise helpful to better imagine a character but it somehow never felt genuine because the voice was still mine, the words were still my own. When I write about myself, however, the extra background work is not necessary and I feel more natural with my dialogue. If there’s anyone on this earth who I know the intricacies and intimate details of, it’s myself.
I know myself and I have enough experience under my belt to know what my strengths and weaknesses are as a writer. But more importantly, I can say that I know how to honestly distinguish where I’m “good” from where I’m “better.” I’m good at creative writing about characters. But I’m better when I’m writing about something I have had personal experiences with. For example, how could you possibly accurately describe Paris if you haven’t been there? How would one know how it feels to come home to aching feet you’re too scared to rub because they are raw and filthy from walking the cobblestone streets all day long or how could one correctly describe the tiny cracks in the wrinkled paint of the Mona Lisa, or the slightly musty smell of the canvas? Except you can’t exactly tell if the smell is from the painting, or the mass of warm bodies crowding around and gently pushing against your back, in a non-threatening way, as your neck strains to get a closer look. It is for these reasons that I don’t have a problem with my tendency to write about my life. Experiences, emotions and life are what inspire me, and in my opinion, creativity could never survive without inspiration .