Foolish Writer

Does anyone ever really feel like a writer?

Tomorrow I’ll head downtown to pick up the passes/information I’ll need for the next three days at AWP. And well, I’m nervous.

I won’t be dressed in all black and I won’t look like a writer. I’ll look like a middle-aged mom who could just as easily be going to the grocery store. I’ll have a notebook and a pen, and I’ll sit through seminars wondering whether I should be writing notes furiously or just listening trying to glean as much from what is being said as possible. Experience or the documentation of the experience?

I have the same problem when I go to my kids concerts. Lately I’ve become more irritated by the parents standing with their $1000 videocameras, their iPhones, their SLR digitals, my view being obscured by a lit up screen. I find it distracting and irritating that the need to document has overcome the need to experience. I end up bobbing and weaving trying to get a view of one of my kids singing their heart out or trying to carefully pick their nose from behind a cupped hand. No, son, no one could possibly guess what you’re doing.

Lucky for them, I’ve all but stopped taking pictures at many of these events. I sit and laugh and listen, and attempt deep breathing as I “accidentally” kick the chair in front of me.

Sorry, where was I? Ah yes, AWP. So, I’ve written a book, yes, but if pressed I wouldn’t be able to sum up what it’s about. Not yet. I have hundreds of pages of editing to do before it emerges clean, not sullied up with every wrong turn I’ve ever taken. There I’ll be with people who have written and published books, and people who are ready to publish looking to network.

Man, I hate the word “network” almost as much as I’ve come to hate the word “brand”. I’m not a brand, and have no interest in being one. I want to go and listen and fade into the woodwork, hoping it’s not too obvious how much I feel like a fraud. The idea of networking makes me feel like I’m trying to swallow with a vice smashing my throat shut.

I want to come out of this inspired to be a better writer, to get bits and pieces I can apply, skills that I didn’t have going in. That would be alright.

I’m looking forward to meeting up with my friends, hoping I’m not too nervous, that I won’t flip a switch that would have me dominating a conversation, or go with the switch unflipped where I sit catatonic before running off and hiding in the bathroom.

I’m hoping not to look like a fool.

I’m hoping not to feel like a fool.

Silly really, how sometimes the kid you were comes out at the least expected times.

I’ll be back here on Monday, and I hope to have some stories to tell. May they not be about me dancing on a bar with a lampshade on my head. God knows, I don’t have that sort of balance anymore.

But if it’s anyone else, yeah, I’m bringing my camera.

 

Dream A Little Dream

There’s a new place the next town over, a warehouse covered end to end in trampolines. There are five sections. The largest a floor of trampolines surrounded gladiator-style by a forty-five degree vertical wall of more trampolines. People run up and around in a crescent, bound off of them, or jump at them with their feet and return to the horizontal base trampolines doing a somersault mid-air.

The next section was about half of the size of the main, still ginormous, and a dodgeball court. I sat that one out. Hated it in junior high, still good now.

The third section had four queues and people lined up to bounce across the trampolines into a fifty foot by twenty-foot pool of foam cubes. Just watching people fly into the foam was fantastic. My goal was to avoid having to land on my ass so I was the cheerleader.

The last two sections one was for private parties, and one was for 8 years old and under. My youngest and I spent some time in there at the beginning, but his home was the dodgeball court. Kids and grownups throwing balls at one another. He couldn’t believe his good fortune that he was always one of the last knocked out (even the competitive junior high kids took great pains to avoid the little guys). The toddlers ruled until they inevitably knocked themselves out.

We spent most of our time on the main court. It had to be over a hundred feet long, fifty feet wide. The springs were covered with tough yellow foam in between all of the individual trampolines. We would get to bouncing and bounce down from one end to the other. We joined one another on one, upping the height and trying to see how high we could make each other fly. My hair stood on end just before gravity returned sucking you back in and your feet and knees thrust you back up. Over and over again.

I felt like I was twelve.

It’s hard with a three, six and eleven-year old to find something where everyone has fun. Not to mention the best part of my day, getting to hear the laughter of my husband who is so busy keeping our house running much of the time that I don’t get to hear his belly laugh.

Oh, we laughed.

When we eventually got home, the conversation turned to our pending “vacation”. My middle son is having a very hard time with the fact that my husband and I will be going to AWP. Grandma is coming to stay, but he is beside himself. Even the promise of video games all day and all night (I’m of the do-what-it-takes parenting method) while we’re gone isn’t enough to bribe dissuade him from his sense of doom.

Tonight as he was lying in bed, he cried telling me how much he didn’t want us to go.

“You want to go there more than you want to be with us?”

“Honey,” I paused, “I’m going there because I have this dream.”

“What is it?”

“It’s that if I can figure this out, and write the best possible book, then down the road maybe I won’t have to be away as much as I am now. If I can do this thing right, maybe I can be home when you all get home from school.”

“So wait. We’ll be rich enough that you can stay home with us? Forever??”

“No. But maybe it’d be enough that I could find a different job so I could be here more.”

“But I want you to be here this weekend. I don’t want you to go.”

“J, did you ever have a dream that you thought if you worked really hard at, it may not happen, but maybe, just maybe it would come true?”

“Yeah.” He mumbled.

“It’s like that. If I can make even just a little bit of it come true, my big dream of being home with you guys gets that much closer.”

“Mommy, that’s a good dream. I want you home all the time,” said my youngest, who we thought had already fallen asleep.

“Yeah, me too, buddy.”

Because sometimes the dreams of an entire family coincide and it makes them that much more powerful.

And maybe they can come a little bit true.

Kind of like when you jump on a trampoline and you go higher than you expected and feel free.

I AM HERE

Helen over at Schietree asked for pictures of where we write, so I sent her this:

When I looked at the picture, I saw something I hadn’t before. I’m constantly in motion very often leaving little trace. I drive from my house to the train well before my kids get up in the morning. I sit there, in the second seat from the end always on the top tier,  my book bag, my lunch bag and my fuzzy gloves haphazardly on the end seat. At some point in the journey to the city, some or all items will slip to the floor. On a good day, I’m not the one doing the slipping.

Before I get off the train and walk to work, all trace of me will be removed from that workspace.

I work for a large company in corporate America. This is my view from there:

Eleven stories in the sky, a view that will go unchanged long after my days there are over. The view is one of the best parts of the job, with even a view of the Sears, ahem, I mean Willis Tower (Do I really have to call it that? Does anyone call it that?).

Even here, I couldn’t get a picture without reality imposing itself in the reflection of double-paned glass.

Twelve hours a day, those are my views. I’m either bouncing along on a red vinyl seat, or staring out the window, always looking down to the north, looking at the people coming and going out of Union Station. I watch them cross the bridges and wonder what life they are leading, are they content? Do they love where they live, where they work, who they are? Sometimes I’ll stare down and follow someone as they walk until they turn a corner I can’t see past, wondering where life takes them and if they are happy. Do they take the “L”? Can they get home on a moment’s notice?

As these things do, I saw through a simple picture of my train, that I am constantly in motion. I live out of a bag: fountain pen, notebook, reading material and lunch in tow. I’m rushing somewhere even when I sit still. Motion, motion, motion. Sometimes it’s easier not to stop too long and think about what I’m missing because I’m never where I need to be, where I want to be.

Except when I finally get home. I am everywhere from the words of my husband to the colorful expression coming out of my three children’s mouths. The train is spare. My job is spare. My house is colorful. From a pumpkin orange foyer, to the green of the library, the colors surround me.

I exist here:

This is where all of me is stored so I don’t forget. That’s an old refurbished typewriter under my desk. The flamingo batik was my grandmother’s from a trip of hers to Africa. The painting is from my daughter, an anniversary gift. Favorite pictures, stationary, a book recently mailed to me just because it came up and a friend knew I needed it, the Chicago Manual of Style (otherwise known as my nemesis). Journals representing years of work on the desk where I now spend my nights typing them out, excising words and demons. A small green catapult, because who doesn’t need one of those in case of emergency? Clutter to many, treasures to me.

Sometimes I need a reminder as to where I am.

This is my red dot on the map with bold white letters, “I AM HERE.”

Hey Blondie

“It really doesn’t make any difference. I can’t take you seriously. I can’t take any blondes seriously.”

Huh.

No this was not a character in a poorly written novel. This was said. To my face. I stood staring slack-jawed unsure of what the appropriate response was. You see, she was my roommate’s best friend from back in the day. She and her husband lived in a cool old graystone (common in Chicago. For those in other areas, these are the large, two to three-story buildings usually an apartment to a floor. They are beautiful gray stone buildings and can be seen in the best and worst areas.) in an “up and coming” neighborhood. There were restaurants of every culture within walking distance. You know the type. It was the neighborhood coveted for its melting pot, soon gentrified within an inch of its life.

She was dark, curly-haired and artsy. I don’t remember what she did for a living, but it involved writing. Her husband was a set designer for a large theater in Chicago. He had painted murals on the living room walls, and waxed poetic about how he went every night to a coffee shop nearby to write.

My roommate mentioned that I wrote. It’s wasn’t a sufficient amount for Mr. Art-man. He told me I would never be a serious writer. Then his wife responded with the above verbatim quote.

And I, a person rarely at a loss for a remark, stared. She explained that it didn’t matter whether it was dyed or natural. The natural was self-explanatory but the people who wanted to be blonde knew what they were getting into so it was their own fault. On and on she went and I let it go.

Why?

Because I wanted her to like me.

How messed up is that? A challenge thrown down and I wanted, needed to prove her wrong. I had always imagined when I moved out of a small town that I’d be friends with the artsy crowd. People would sit around drinking whisky and wine, smoking bans be damned, discussing current events and blatant things like how one just didn’t take blondes seriously. The fact that someone would have the rudeness to say this to someone they didn’t know, hit me but only deep enough to make me want what I couldn’t have.

Was this the sort of thing Dorothy Parker would say at her round table? Would Scott and Ernest three-sheets to the wind be discussing Tolstoy or would Ernest be trying to goad anyone into a fight and getting Scott to take the bets?

My gray hair is coming in with a vengeance and with the dark auburn I’ve had for years now, I’ve thought about going back to blonde because it’s the color between the sheets of gray. It’d be easier.

People treat me differently auburn versus blonde. They treat me differently depending on whether my hair is long or short. Lest you think I’m as vacuous as Ms. Artsy, the reason it interests me is character. Not mine. The creation of characters.

I recently saw Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and I wondered if it would be a different story if Noomi Rapace had blonde hair and I couldn’t get around the fact that it would be vastly different. Such a small, silly thing in a far from silly movie would have made it something else, something other than what it was.

How often when we’re writing do we either write to the stereotype (vigilante woman with jet black short hair, nose piercings) or so obviously against it (cheerleader blonde hiding a secret life) that it becomes its own stereotype, a sort of kamikaze metafiction? Every little decision has inherent weight. Fat or thin. Boyfriend or girlfriend. Loner or social butterfly. Smoker or nonsmoker. Blonde or brunette. Short or tall. Wears heels or flats.

Every. Little. Decision.

I saw Mr. and Ms. Artsy a few more times, and eventually won her over. She commented on how well read I was (please, sir, may I have another?) and how she misjudged me. The beauty was that by the time I had worked overtime to prove this, I no longer cared.

One thing this auburn-haired, blonde believes in is not being rude. And as this small comment popped into my mind tonight, a comment from over ten years ago, I couldn’t help but think what a great character these judgmental assholes would make.

 

Little People

My kids love the movie, Despicable Me so for Valentine’s Day I stayed up way too late to make these:

As I sat at the kitchen island with the molding clay at midnight, I wondered if I had in fact lost my mind.

I had grand visions. One was going to be a two-eyed minion. Another was to have a wig and a dress, from the scene where they go to the store (yes, it is possible I’ve seen it more than once). In the end, they ended up all one-eyed in their blue, worker’s overalls, and their gloves are missing. My patience for making something an inch tall does have a limit.

When I finished, I was happy with the way they came out, but it reminded me of writing. When I looked at the picture of the minion on the DVD cover, I thought this was going to be far easier than the Power Rangers. The minions seemed so much more simple.

That was before I started molding them. Have you ever heard someone say, “I’d write a book too if I only had the time?” Yeah, it’s kind of like that.

As I molded the yellow bodies, then the blue overalls careful not to squish the bodies, I looked and saw they had on boots. I mashed up boots that are about half the size of a dime. At this point I realized that they had goggles over the eye. Goggles? Over that one eye. So be it, goggles constructed, straps placed around back and an hour and a half in and still no gloves.

When you write, you have no idea what goes into it until you do it. You can read a million books and still have no clue.

When I finished, my husband was tickled by how they came out. I think he liked them more than the kids because he saw the work that went in to make something an inch tall. I didn’t enjoy making them any more than I like writing much of the time.

But man, do I enjoy having written.

And I loved these minions. But what I really loved was when my youngest grabbed the fat one (in the center in the picture) in his chubby hand, and carried him with him everywhere he went for the rest of the night.

That must be what if feels like when someone likes what you have written.

I hope so.

Because that would be totally worth it.

Inner Shelf Life – S, T and Part of U

My husband sent me this link to Shelf-Conscious and my head exploded. Did you know that people used to shelve their books spine-in and then draw a picture to represent the book on the exposed pages opposite the spine? Click on the link to see what I mean.

The article goes through some favorite writers who can’t stand to have books around them purging as they go, and those whose books are a vision in all of their spine-y glory.

Oh, yeah, book geeks rejoice.

After forwarding this link to Sarah, my favorite librarian, we decided to pick a random shelf and see what it says about us.

The alphabetizing shows that I am married. Prior to meeting my husband, my shelves were by category. He is an unrepentant alphabetizer. I knew that he would be lost without it, so our compromise was that they would be alphabetized but there would also be large categories. There are two Hunter Thompson books here, but the majority are in non-fiction, separate section.

The stacking shows that we ran out of room, and wait. What is Michael Chabon doing in there? That’s a book of essays. Wrong letter, wrong category. That is an example of my chaos on my husband’s at-one-time organized life.

On the far left stacked above is The Sonora Review, David Foster Wallace Tribute Issue. That should be in the literary journal section. Above that, a book of essays writers writing about other writers. Say that three times fast. I don’t know whose that is. I never thought I’d be able to say that, and yet after all this time our lives and our tastes have merged in some places.

I see Tristram Shandy, one of my husband’s all time favorites and a book that I have begun a handful of times and never been able to get into, or understand. He wanted to name our first son Tristram because of that book. Like the book, I have trouble saying it. The “str” sound in the middle of a name is too much for my mouth.

There’s Amy Tan, and Donna Tartt, two books I adore. Hunter Thompson, a man whose voice is like none I have ever read. On to Thoreau, now you know the poets are not mine, and then we have Tolkien. I had just finished reading Harry Potter when I began Tolkien and read them one after the other, loving every minute. I recall wondering why no one mentioned Harry Potter was a retelling of The Lord of the Rings. Why is that rarely said?

Tolstoy and Turgenev, some of the best short story writers on the planet. And in a bit of synchronicity A Confederacy of Dunces is on the same shelf as my husband’s favorite, although he does love Confederacy. Our second son, came within a hair’s breadth of being named Ignatius after that main character. In my opinion, there has never been a greater comic character in literary fiction.

Oh boy, but now we get my heart, Colm Toibin. The Master…this book may very well have changed my life if I can pull off what I’m trying to pull off with my novel. Brooklyn and his latest which I have yet to read, The Empty Family. I see these and my heart beats faster. The promise of an unread book by a favorite author, oh yes.

I have a horrible recollection about specifics in books. But I do have a sensory overload of the way a book made me feel. I’m that way with friends too, come to think of it. I may need to be reminded of a story that you told me, but I will never forget the look on your face, the sound of your voice, whether I am outraged for you, or in love with the person who loves you for you.

Tolkien- A complete fantastical world.

Updike-A small world, bitterness.

Tolstoy and Turgenev- Looking through a keyhole into a study where two people are having a conversation. Nothing is ever as it appears.

Toibin- Small decisions effecting the lives of families. A writer with astute care.

Thompson- Raw and crisp.

Anne Tyler’s The Accidental Tourist- Sadness

And The Confederacy of Dunces-Sadness turned into humor in the best way possible. Over-the-top situations and the human condition as just that, human.

There’s a few that are mine that I haven’t read. Styron’s Sophie’s Choice, one I’ve tried numerous times to no avail, and oddly, Scott Turow’s Presumed Innocent, a book for a college class in which I argued so much with the professor he ended up having me teach a section. Still haven’t read that book.

There’s an old book in the far right stack, The History of King Arthur and Arthurian Romances by Chretien De Troyes in its proper place. I recall nothing other than those were for a class.

And lucky for me, there are three at the end I never noticed before, the advantage of being married to a fellow book lover. Letting Loose the Hounds- Udall, Before You Sleep- Ullmann, and The Palm-Wine Drunkard- Tutuola. As for those I think what I usually do, I must read those.

Oh, yes, and the big fat one in the center, War and Peace. Never read it and doubt I’ll ever have that much to prove again.

After all, in the time I read that, I could have read all of the books on these shelves I have yet to read.

Twice.

 

The Giving Keys

Pay it forward.

Anyone who has been listening to me for any length of time knows I love this idea. I came across this website today, The Giving Keys.

A woman had an idea. She stamped a key with a word and strung it on a chain. It’s a word that’s important to you. You pick the word. Then when you meet someone who needs it more than you do, you give the necklace to them. Sometimes the most simple idea can make an impact.

Love.

She met a homeless couple on the street in Hollywood, and talked them into being her business partners. She taught them to stamp the keys and now from what I understand they run the business. The money for the necklaces goes to keeping them off the street (Cera just got a job at the zoo, and Rob just got his GED and went to the community college as of August 2011). Any extra money goes to the shelters that helped them out.

This is it. It is overwhelming to think about how many areas are a disaster. I get that. But sometimes it’s as simple as helping one person. And that person helps one person. And so on. And so on.

And so on.

Sometimes we just need to see the trees. The forest will take care of itself.

And if you get a key necklace in the mail, you know what to do.

The Problem With Younger Women

(My youngest son, age three, has spent his entire life trying to keep up with kids two to three years older at the sitter. Last month, a new child showed up, a girl who turned three last month, C.

For the first time in his life, he has someone who follows him around and plays anything and everything he wants. He has to tell her when he is going to the bathroom lest she follow him there, a fact that he loves. He is greeted everyday by a girl who lights up the moment he enters the room, and he is tickled that she cannot yet fully pronounce his name.

He is now the big kid as you will see by our conversation last week.)

“Hey M., did you have fun playing with C. today?”

“Yeah, you know. She’s my girlfriend”, he says shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh wow. That’s cool. Are you guys going to get married?”

“No”, he rolls his eyes at me. “She’s too young.”

The End

Three years and three months.

Seven notebooks.

Uncountable pen refills.

One thousand nine hundred and ten hours on a train. Approximately.

And tonight on the way home as I pulled into my stop, I wrote these words…

GAH!

I wrote a NOVEL!!! Do you see the dance? Do you hear the Linus and Lucy theme song?? Do you?? DO YOU?!?

I am excited and…satisfied. Anyone who knows me knows that satisfaction for me is hard won. I rest in a state of motion, my mind whirring around ruminating incessantly. It doesn’t stop.

So for this one brief moment in time, my mind rests.

Okay. Rest time’s over. Holy cow, how am I ever going to type and edit this mother…

First, I’m going to drink this beer. Cheers.

Love.

Joy

When was the last time you experienced that kind of joy? Today? A week ago? A month? Years…

What happens to us that we lose the ability to find joy in the small?

I look at this picture of a boy who is now almost seven, and it breaks my heart that one day he’ll be left with the canned smile of school pictures, a moment in time that says more about the culture he lives in, his shirt, his haircut, than it does about him.

This picture reminds me that we still have that kid inside each of us.

Today do something to reach that kid.

Pursue your happiness. Life is too short not to try.