Can Kibbutzim Work?

Ah, a pertinent question! Yet it begs the follow-up inquiry, “What the hell is kibbutzim?”

Kibbutzim is the plural form of kibbutz. And a kibbutz is–as far as I understand from looking over the Wikipedia article, anyways–a small community group that functions on basic socialist principles. Kibbutzim exist in Israel, where there are–as of a count made last year–about 270 kibbutzim.

Read that, it’s really interesting.

Now, you’ll see that they talk a lot about this thing called Zionism, and from what I’m getting, it’s basically just the idea that Jews deserve to keep Israel to themselves. Pretty much, they say that they deserve to repopulate their “ancestral homeland”.

Now, allow me to explain to you why you need to know about some little agricultural societies way the hell away in Israel.

So, today, I was in the car with my step-dad, on the half-hour drive home from school. We started talking about the end of the school-year fast approaching, and that led us to talking about my senior friends who are graduating, which led to talk of college, which inevitably led to my being asked, “Have you decided what you want to do, where you want to go, what you want to study?”

Which led to me groaning out an answer, “No…”

And that got us talking about my insatiable need to write. And then I explained why I can’t just write whatever I want and make money that way; I have to get a Real Person Job. Because there’s a saying that goes, “What’s the difference between a writer and a park bench? A park bench can support a family.” And, all right, I don’t have a family to support, but I have myself, and I’m just as much a family within myself as anybody else.

That sounds dumb, but I’ll stick with it. Anyways, I keep telling people and nobody really seems to get it: I can’t just write. There are people who can make writing their bread and butter, but it’s so much more difficult with stories and novels. I mean, there’s no real due dates, there’s no day-to-day thing, with time allocated for this and that so you eventually get your work done. It’s just writing in your spare time and then eventually you send it off and hope for the best. My idol, Meg Cabot, is a very successful woman and I’m pretty sure that her whole life now is writing–that’s her job. When she’s not writing, she’s touring for a book or just for general publicity. And that’s just what she does.

She has over fifty books in print.

That’s not exactly a short road getting there! That’s the thing that people don’t realize! Yeah, there’s a couple really good or successful authors out there, a few J.K. Rowlings and Meg Cabots who have climbed there ways up to the very top and are now making a living on it. But if you look around a book store you’re going to see there are more than two authors around. A lot of them suck. I mean, not everyone is super successful, especially not right away.

I want to get to the point where I have nothing to do everyday but wake up and write stories and books. But unless I manage to get that book deal I’ve been talking about, the mystical book deal that somehow happens before I’m even an adult–before I’ve even written anything, at this point–I’m not likely to just be whisked away into the world of publishing.

Anyways, all this got around to me talking about a story I’m currently working on, the one about the apocalypse and the conflicting view points and such. You remember, Riko. And yeah, I’m going to go ahead and address my one and only viewer right now, because–ha!–nobody else is going to see it.

Riko, when I was telling my step-dad about my story, he told me that the society I was coming up with sounded a lot like a Kibbutz. I was thinking of changing the title from “Picking Up Where We Left Off” to “Kibbutz Costco”. Thoughts?

Anyways, it’s 3 AM and I still haven’t written today’s–well, yesterday’s–story. So here it goes.

I yawned, and then before I could even finish yawning, I yawned again, and then one more time. I checked the clock. 11:20. I groaned.

I splashed water on my face, flickered the lights on and off, ran around the block, twice, and when I came back, it hadn’t even been ten minutes.

I stuffed my head into a pillow and groaned. “Why can’t I stay up? Raaaaaaaaugh.”

I paced my room, constantly checking the time. All the lights were on. I was drinking my third Monster that day. 11:35. Just a little while now. I ran down stairs. I ran back up. The carpet was soft on my cold feet. I went to the kitchen. I made a sandwich. 11:40.

The sandwich was good, so I made another. Then I ate a Twinkie. Then I felt fat. So I ate a carrot. And another carrot. To cancel out both sandwiches.


Almost there.

It was so dark out my window. I saw the faint orange glow of the street lamp, and the little cuticle that was the moon. I could see almost no stars.

11:50. Soon.

I turned my computer on; it took a while to boot up. I logged into Facebook, and I checked my boyfriend’s profile. Nobody. Yet.



I typed it out. “Happy birthday, baby! I love you! Way to be seventeen!”



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