going the distance

Thank God, it's over.
- Neil Cusack, 1974 marathon winner


Yesterday, Alex and I competed in the 2007 Men's Health Urbanathalon.

What is an Urbanathlon, you ask? It's a race in the city that includes urban obstacles - jersey barricades, culvert crawls, marine hurdles, scaffolding mazes, rope walls, and taxi hurdles - and a 52-flight stair climb up and back down 7 World Trade Center.

For two people who aren't crazy about running and whose knees had been pleading for months not to do this, we took the plunge anyway because we were not about to miss the opportunity to run an obstacle course through the city. It was probably the most entertaining marathon we could have picked to be our first, and you can be sure we're going to be there again next year.

We stuck together - for the most part - got quite a few pictures taken of us (not only were we the cutest couple there, but there were also some tourists who wanted to send pictures back home of New York's finest *ahem* marathon runners), and we had a blast. Considering I couldn't even run three miles the day before without coughing up a lung, I was perhaps the giddiest person at the finish line.

A lesson learned? Of course!! When you have a goal, a finish line, and free drinks waiting for you miles and miles away, in both vertical and horizontal directions, you'll find a way to get there.

Now if only we could find a giant obstacle course with a lot less running =P

confined to a life more than extraordinary

Perhaps it would be better not to be a writer, but if you must, then write. If all feels hopeless, if that famous 'inspiration' will not come, write. If you are a genius, you'll make your own rules, but if not - and the odds are against it - go to your desk no matter what your mood, face the icy challenge of the paper - write.
- J. B. Priestly

What is it with people who need to categorize everything? What is it with the need to jam everything into a corner, box it up, label it, and file it away where it won't try to roll away when no one is looking?

I've said it before, but I feel it needs to be said again - everyone wants a definition and a name, one purpose and one goal, and if your job description wavers, well then there is a serious problem.

Lately, I have been finding it increasingly difficult to simply answer the questions, "What do you do? What is it that you want to do? Why are you going to graduate school? Why are you studying film?" Now, it's not that it's difficult for me. I am a writer, editor, actor, performer, and future director. It just seems to be straining on the person asking the questions.

"Oh, so then you don't know what you want to do?"

No. I know exactly what I want to do. I just told you.

"Yeah, but there's no job that you can do that all in. . . right?"

Oh my god. There isn't? Really? I had no idea. I was really hoping I could be a one-woman travelling act. Guess not. Thanks. No, really, thanks for that.

Unless of course, I just named too many things. Was that it? Did I confuse you? Do I sound like a hopeless dreamer with too many interests and who can't possibly pursue them all? Is that it?

Well, if that's it, then how about this: I am a filmmaker.

Does that work? That's one word you can wrap your head around.

I like to say I am a writer, though, if that's okay with you. Don't forget that I am also a performer. I live for the stage. Is that too much?

Not yet?

Okay, then, I'll tell you what - none of these things matter.

I want to be something more and every day is another step in reaching that something more. It is not that I am uneasy, it is only that I am eager and hungry and ready and thrilled to be here.

I will be amazing.

No, wait, I am amazing.

How's that for a one-word answer?

the urge to write

Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
- E.L. Doctorow


I didn't choose to become a writer. Belive me - the writing chased after me.

When I was younger, not sure how old * I began narrating my life. I don't know how old I was or what grade I was in, but I remember I was in Hofstra University's indoor swimming pool with my mom, and I was walking through the hallway to the locker room. Right then and therem I decided my life would be like a book, and I would have to narrate it.

Strange, huh?

But in essence, that's what happened, to the point where I even started narrating stories that had nothing to do with me, but could have something to do with me. It was a child's imagination dictated with an author's intent.

Everywhere I turned I wanted to write about something, create something, and especially in my head, where the possibilities were great and many.

Unless you are a writer, it's hard to understand what it's like to be flooded with ideas, plot lines, characters, phrases, titles, themes, symbols, names, places, and the like on a constant basis AND want to put it all on paper. The struggle between creative inspiration and physical output is never ending because just as soon you've written down one opening sentence, two more have emerged and for completely different, unrelated stoies.

How do you put just one book on paper when you have 10 semi-completed ones in your head?

The answer is carefully. . . very, very carefully

* Contrary to all those people who claim they can tell you the exact moment, place, date, year, and weather forecast when they "did something" or realized something, it's not always realistically possible. How many nine-year-olds remember what they did when they were six? Yet every adult with a boring story to tell remembers that they were exactly six years old when they first knew they wanted to work on, say, Wall Street. Not happening, people, just not happening.

a character emerges

It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does.
- William Faulkner

I'm always curious to know what people think about when they're on a train. Especially when it's rush hour - eyes glazed over, cell phones clutched, on the verge of collapse from a long day's work. What do they think about when they steal a glance at their neighbor's laptop or catch themselves following a coffee spill as it makes its way through the cracks and crevices of the train car floor? What goes through their heads when they see the man with a cowboy hat, the woman with the crazy hair, or the train conductor who looks like he's punched way to many tickets? Or when they see the buildings, houses, faded store displays, junkyards, and platforms as the train rolls through?

For me, stories come to life. It's never just one, but a handful of dark and twisted, sweet and comical, strange and ironic tales that only have taglines, but no exposition. . . not yet anyway.

Characters take shape. Not the characters sitting there on the train, but completely new ones edged into existence by the images in front of me. Shy personalities with secret motives and young faces with old souls, unseen destinies and forgotten pasts.

A girl, her family, and the countryside. Two dwarves and a grandfather clock. Murder and a caretaker, kidnapping and a secret passageway.

It all begins to make sense. . . starting with page one.

an even cooler blog

A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.
- Marion C. Garretty

Drum roll please. . .

The littlest Navia now has a blog of her own -

http://theyayster.blogspot.com

Enjoy =)

take that, martha stewart

Behold, the monkey cake. . . absolutely nothing to do with writing whatsoever.

Just pretty damn cool.

And tasty.