Monster in the Subway

I am very, very disappointed in myself, and this disappointment turned me into a terrible monster today, made better now only because e made breakfast for dinner and helped me henna my roots, a process my mother used to call a “hennema” (pronounce like “enema”), which makes me laugh. And a hennema’d laughing monster isn’t so scary after all, now is she?

Reason for disappointment and resulting monster? Many. But mainly the fact that I got excused from jury duty today way, way early and could have snagged a secret writing afternoon and no one would have known and yet for some weird mysterious reason I did not want to go home and emailed my boss that I was coming in. I regretted it on the subway, and wanted to turn around, wanted to GO BACK, but by then it was too late. Grrrrr.

So basically I could have written today and didn’t.

But, you know what, the monster was awake this morning, long before this happened. She was filled with intense frustration and anxiety over the fact that it took the 6 train almost twenty minutes to go three stops downtown, idling in the dark tunnels between stations at every turn. The metallic computer voice on those trains explaining the delay did not soothe the monster. It was between Canal Street and Brooklyn Bridge / City Hall that she felt sure she would rise up out of her orange seat and tear silver poles out of the floor and slam them against the windows and shake the car with her ROAR. I guess she was just nervous about being late for jury duty.

But then the monster saw this quote by E. B. White on the subway wall about the very city in whose tunnels she was stalled in:

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter—the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion.

The monster faltered.

You see, she—I, I’m losing sight of the monster now—I am a settler here. I’m here for a reason. On this quest, the one that has nothing whatsoever to do with my day job. I adore New York, remember? My monster really does want to be here.

So I have to be here. Take advantage. Because who knows how much longer we can afford to stay.

My Civic Duty and How It Involves Dim Sum

Jury Duty in Manhattan isn’t all hardship. The courthouse I was in today was steps away from Chinatown, which to my mind means one thing and one thing only: vegetarian dim sum! (How could I not take advantage during lunch break and search out the place I always have trouble finding in order to have a mini-feast, including the infamous “treasure balls”?) But the other part of jury duty is far more serious. So serious, in fact, that I wonder if I am cut out to be a juror—me, the emotional, illogical, mess of a mess. If you were looking closely at me sitting in the jury box during all the many selection questions you would have seen my mismatched socks. Also the fact that I was clutching my neck, a thing I do when I am uncomfortable or, historically, on LSD. Needless to say (though I have a feeling it was for other reasons) I wasn’t picked.

I am expected back again tomorrow. Does that mean more vegetarian dim sum for lunch? It might, it just might.

That particular neighborhood of Manhattan gives me good memories. It was in one of those courthouses where e and I got married, you know, so I heaved many a romantic sigh waiting on the long line to get to the metal detectors.

But jury duty is no excuse for not writing. (I haven’t been writing… can you tell?) I think I might be afraid of my MacBook. Here it is, returned to me with a factory-fresh hard-drive and a brand-new top case so it looks and acts like a new computer—for the high price of free—and yet… And yet I keep having flashbacks of the day it died. I haven’t taken it out to write yet. I feel exhausted, anxious, under strain even though I’m under no strain. Still, I have to write all weekend, because…

I have more revisions to do. Yes, on the freelance manuscript I thought/hoped was done and over.

But, oddly, they messengered over the final payment today, the one due on d&a (delivery and acceptance). Does this mean the revisions are voluntary? I wish.

Off Chances, Lost Songs and Stories, Countersignatures, Strawberry Fluoride, and Me and Me and Me and Me

On the off chance that you were wondering, this was the week I…

…lost my whole hard drive, writing and pictures and passwords and letters and songs and mysteries galore…

…was delivered a countersigned contract for my novel with a message from my editor that it is now time for more cake!…

…waded through messes at work…

…though there I made a new friend…

…slept more hours than I knew I could…

…was strawberry-fluorided at the dentist…

…was rained on…

a week my ever-paling roots were revealed,

and I couldn’t care less,

a week without a word written,

though Muji notebooks were secured,

a week where my revisions were given more revisions,

due date asap,

though without a computer to write them on,

a week in which I forgot to exchange the shirt

again

a week I disappeared, and wasn’t noticed missing, except when e said I am acting strangely, and I think it’s because I haven’t been writing, because it’s been a week, a week. A week.

I will now describe all the photos I lost, thanks to Apple’s defective hard-drive:

me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me (I take a lot of strange self-portraits) / e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e e / mom / my beautiful sister! / the perfect patch of light on a brick wall / an abandoned building / numerous trips and vacations / a pair of shoes / a pie / an eye / me / and me / and me

Dead Drive

I might be quiet for a while. My computer died this morning while I was starting it up to write… It’s at Tekserve, and I won’t know if the data off the hard-drive can be recovered until next week. The earliest it will be fixed and returned to me is Friday, May 9. Yes, I had another computer that died a little over a year ago and you’d think I’d be better about backing up.

My writing is on there.

Un-backed-up writing.

I am trying not to freak out.

Please think good thoughts for me.

To Do, and Not Do

Now that the signed papers are in, and now that the other revision is in (though more revisions could be forthcoming, I cower at the thought), it’s time to think about what comes next. And that’s my first original novel that will actually be published*, now under contract, and really real (I think) and begging me to come back to it.

Things my new novel is about:

• old movies
• glamorous movie idols
• bad dads
• sad moms
• strong girls
• small towns
• being trapped by the Catskill Mountains (a theme close to my heart)
• deceiving everyone and not getting away with it if my character has anything to say about it
• truth
• lies
• ice cream

Things my new novel is totally not about:

• vapid girls who spend all day using Daddy’s credit card to shop for D&G and Prada
• fairy princesses
• vampires
• big cities
• Lexus
• cowboys
• intergalactic space travel
• teenagers frolicking through the sun in skimpy bathing suits
• drug addiction
• rice pudding

Voice: First person! (Yay!)

Final estimated page count: 150 manuscript pages. (I’m guessing…)

Target age: 9-14.

Target reader: That girl who just snuck out on the roof to escape from her parents because she thinks her life is a total snore, the one who thinks she’s a weirdo, who doesn’t fit in, whose imagination keeps her up at night, who feels like she’ll never ever get away, but she will someday, she will. This book is for her.

Time left to finish writing: Months and months and months.

Next step: Revised outline.

Status of headache: Faint, like bees buzzing.

Even so, current level of excitement: Off the charts!

————————————————-

* As opposed to the original novels gathering dust under the couch

After Revision

I turned in the revision yesterday morning before work. The weekend was spent doing only that; on Sunday I think I worked at it for 11+ hours. There were moments when I felt sure I couldn’t finish, but somehow I did finish, looking back I don’t know how. Then, after it was all over, I spent the entire day recovering—I am not sure how I was physically able to be at work, doing my job, but I was there and no one seemed to notice. Now, it’s a new morning and I have a growing headache. I could curl into a ball under the table at my morning writing spot right now… I could, but the floor is pretty grungy, so I won’t.

I’ve wondered how freelance writers can bang out these manuscripts on such tight schedules—if they can do it, I can do it, I said—but in reality I think maybe the freelance writers who are doing this don’t have full-time jobs. As for me, after doing both… let’s just say I’m exhausted.

What My Locker Reveals

Inside the storage locker at my weekend writing spot are the following items that I keep on hand in case I might need them at a moment’s notice:

• 1 black sweater
• 1 used plastic bag, for covering laptop if it rains
• 1 Antioch Review magazine
• 1 You Can Write for Children Writers Digest Guide
• 2 Open City magazines
• 1 large pencil case containing: 1 obligatory pencil (red); 1 stick of deodorant; 1 travel-size bottle of lotion; 1 plastic spoon; 1 plastic fork; 2 pairs of wooden chopsticks; 1 pen without cap; 1 cap without pen; a one-dollar bill (torn); 1 tea bag; 1 possibly three-year-old granola bar; 1 stale Hershey’s Kiss; spilled Nerds; 3 Starbucks straws; 6 Dayquil pills; 1 tower of rainbow-colored sticky notes; loose change amounting to 71 cents
• 1 Paris Review magazine
• 1 Vogue magazine
• 1 incomplete copy of first literary fiction manuscript ever written (unpublished)
• 1 full copy of second literary fiction manuscript ever written (unpublished)
• 1 Tin House magazine
• 3 old drafts of short stories (all unfinished, all unpublished)
• 3 New Yorker magazines, including one Fiction Issue
• 2 New York magazines
• 1 draft of a manuscript for an embarrassing freelance project based on a movie about to hit theaters this summer (published)
• 2 O Henry Awards anthologies
• 1 pair of Chinese slippers
• 1 pair of thermal slippers, a gift from Mom for my month at MacDowell
• 1 outline of a young adult novel written under a house pseudonym and published a few years ago
• 1 copy of The Paris Review Book of People with Problems
• 1 copy of The Paris Review Book for Planes, Trains, Elevators, and Waiting Rooms
• 2 A Public Space magazines
• 1 set of colored markers (half missing)
• 1 copy of Drugs Are Nice: A Post-Punk Memoir
• Numerous spare Starbucks napkins (loose and crumpled)
• 1 Bust magazine
• 1 pair of socks (mismatched)
• 1 CD backup of hard-drive from 2005

I think the above list reveals a lot about me. Also of note, the locker is the small size: square, about a foot high. It’s crammed so full I can’t fit too much else in there.

You might find it interesting—or pathetic—that I took 15 minutes to make this list, when I am well aware that what I really should be doing is revising.

Honestly

I really have no idea how I will manage to finish this revision today, honestly.

Finish It Already

“Have a good writing day,” e said to me at the door this morning. “Now finish it already, goddamn it!”

The “it” that has taken residence in the apartment, larger in the room than the largest elephant, is of course the revision.

It is a hurdle to write something you don’t want to write anymore, made worse when there is something you really and truly want to write—all sparkly and begging for you to come close to it—and you can’t touch it yet, you can’t let your hand rest on it for even one second, because you have to attend to the other thing, no matter how ugly it’s looking to you right now.

Sometimes I think writing freelance has been a real lesson for me in following the rules, making myself do things when I just don’t wanna, you know, acting like a grown-up when I am (secretly) not.

Sometimes I think writing freelance been one giant distraction, only that.

Either way, it will soon be over—I must finish it this weekend. No more excuses.

In other news, I sent in my signed contract today. As if all of downtown New York knew that that’s where I was headed this morning, the sidewalks were calm and cleared. I walked into the usually hellish post office to find no line—not a single delay—in walking up to the window to mail it off. I was told it will arrive on Monday. I can’t wait to continue writing that book!

But not yet, not yet. How could I forget the elephant?

I am still recovering from a state of panic from seeing Cloverfield last night, but other than that I’m focused. I’m revising. I have 100 pages to go.

Possible Excuses for Missing Deadline

• My manuscript was stolen and I only just paid the ransom to get it back.
• I am allergic to revision and had to take antibiotics and wait for the swelling to go down.
• Bad spill. Can’t read revision notes.
• Grizzly bears / wild boars / rabid pigeons ate it.
• I had a finger injury and lost all ability to type.
• I am boycotting writing until they free Tibet.
• My computer started swallowing words until I had nothing left.
• Alien abduction, a solid excuse for anything, anytime.
• Gossip Girl / America’s Next Top Model / The Pussycat Dolls Present Girlicious was on TV.
• Bad case of the hiccups.
• Violent amnesia. I had a deadline? What, where, when?

Got a better explanation? I’m all ears.

Here I Am Still Revising

Happy Earth Day. Happy Passover. Happy Spring. What day is it again? I am still revising. I am mad-scramble revising, push-it-till-you-drop revising. Can’t-even-form-a-proper-sentence revising. Stop-staring-at-me-from-across-the-room I’m revising. Revising so this can be over. Revising so I don’t take on another freelance assignment like this again. Revising, revising, revising until words have no meaning. When I am at work I should really be revising. When I sleep I should be revising. Right now, typing this, what I should be doing instead is revising. I am at that place in the revision—scribbled comments on all margins, pages in disarray—where it feels like I won’t ever reach the end, where I am revising in circles, revising myself into a box. This story could be eternal, I’m afraid.

I did take a break on Sunday to visit with my sister, though. There is one thing that trumps a deadline, and that’s a little sister.

Oh wait, what’s that noise? It’s my revision screaming at me to get back to work. I have to go! It’s got my feet… it’s dragging me away… see you this weekend, if I can make it through the week…

Losing Antioch

For those of you who may remember my posts from last year about the closing of my college, Antioch College, here’s a very sad update from The New York Times.

This is the worst thing that could have happened. I have often told myself that one day I would publish books and I would give back to the school and contribute to the creative writing program and help make it a better place for those odd, questioning, independent, creative kids who don’t know where they fit in—the kind of kid I once was. But I wasn’t fast enough. My school will close before I can do anything.

The school meant—means—a lot to me. I would not be who I am today without it. I’m not ashamed to say that.

Deadline vs. Life

My deadline for the revision of my 40,000-word work-for-hire manuscript is this coming Friday, April 25. Even if I tried to keep working on this all day today (Saturday), and then all day tomorrow (Sunday), and then all through the week—keeping in mind I leave for my day job at nine in the morning and get home, at the earliest, at six at night—I still do not think I could physically manage to finish by Friday morning. If you saw the notes on the pages plus the additional notes in the revision letter, I think you would agree with me. It’s a matter of concentration, levels of energy, panicked inertia, and just a lot to do.

And yet…

Yet I’ve had plans with family this week. My mom came in Wednesday—we had a blast. It was worth missing a morning of writing, for sure. I want to spend time with e—we went on a walk to the pier last night; it was wonderful. And tomorrow I have a day trip to see my little sister; we’ve been planning this for weeks. I haven’t seen her since December.

On the one hand I have a deadline.

On the other hand—and it is the hand I happen to be favoring right now—I have a life and I want to, like, I dunno, try to actually live it. I want to see my sister tomorrow!

I think, seeing as it is very likely I couldn’t make the deadline of Friday, April 25, no matter how hard I try that I should still go see my sister.

Please say you agree. Would it help if I tell you that they haven’t paid me my first half of the advance due on signing yet, even though I sent the signed agreement back in February and I was counting on it to pay my taxes and I ended up having to temporarily pay the taxes on a credit card because otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to pay rent?

I’m going back to work on the revision now. Outside it’s a beautiful spring day. I want to live! I just have to finish this revision first.

First Book Contract Stupor

Today, while I was at work, my book contract arrived at my apartment. I was fifty blocks away and couldn’t see for myself until after 5 o’clock. E called the moment it was dropped it off. He described the contract, read me choice bits. My name is there. The name of the novel. A plot summary. For ages 9-14. My wonderful editor’s name listed at the bottom of every page. The contract was many paragraphs, much longer (and on longer paper) than the work-for-hire “agreements” I am used to.

Soon, the more he read from it, the more my head was spinning.

Wait, I said. It’s really real?

It’s real, he said.

To be waiting this long for something to happen and then to have it be happening… I came home, sat at the table, paged through the contract, was quiet for a long while. E said I was acting strange.

It’s real, is what I was thinking. I’m not sure if I truly believed it until today.

A to Z

I have the revision notes for the work-for-hire manuscript I’ve been ghostwriting. I am overwhelmed. I am wanting to revise this and make it good. But I am still digesting the notes. Compliments go a long way with me, yes, so when I feel freaked out I just read the editor’s first paragraph where she says nice things. Then I move on to what else she says and my mind scatters. Passing through my mind under pressure of revision are various items of interest. I’ve catalogued them as follows:

A

ass: This is a word I should not have used in the above-mentioned manuscript. This is a word that just spilled out as I was writing. This is a word I knew I’d have to edit out later, but I was so behind, I told myself, so far past deadline, such an ass of a writer I just figured I’d deal with it later. Hello! If the editor’s reaction to this is any indication, it was a big mistake to keep this one little word in.

B

bitch: This is another word I should not have used in the above-mentioned manuscript. Can you see a pattern starting to form here?

C

contract: This is the thing I was told I’d be seeing next week for my first original novel to be published under my real name. A novel I am not ghostwriting. A novel that will really be mine. Once I see the contract, it will be real. I am excited for it to be real; I am nervous for it to be real; I am not sure how I will feel once it is, in fact, real.

D

dumb: This is how I feel for not taking the time to get the manuscript I’m ghostwriting in better shape (i.e., making cuts before sending it in too long, though I knew I’d have to do it later, and removing the asses and the bitches and the hos—yes, I said hos, there was one use of the word ho in dialogue and I knew I should change it and didn’t because I thought it was funny and I am, oh what is the word? dumb.)

E

e: While all this is happening I have to note that my e is sick and I think it might be strep throat.

F

forty thousand: That’s how many words I have to get to—four thousand more to cut.

G

gah!: This is my incoherent reaction whenever I flip through the manuscript-to-be-revised and see all the comments on the pages.

H

help: This is what I wish I had right now.

ho: No explanation required.

honey and lemon: This is what I want to mix for e’s sore throat when I get home tonight.

I

innocence: This is what the editor said I should think of when revising the work-for-hire manuscript. It’s a very helpful note. The characters need to be more innocent. The situations more innocent. The dialogue more innocent. Innocent, think innocent.

IRS: I will send the check tomorrow. Really. I am innocent!

J

jukebox: This is what I’m listening to as I write. I love the cover of “I Feel.”

K

klutz: See the listing under M.

L

lucky: I feel so very lucky to have the opportunity to write a real novel after this one is done. I have to keep this in mind as I work through the revisions. I have to use it as motivation. Can’t let myself forget.

M

mercury poisoning: This is what e and I are in danger of having after I dropped the mercury fever thermometer on the bathroom floor Friday night and it shattered everywhere and e (who was the one with the fever) picked up all the mercury beads one by one and cleaned the floor because he didn’t want me to get exposed. He didn’t get mad or anything even though I am a complete and total klutz.

N

never: I will never, ever buy a mercury thermometer again.

O

old movies: These are what I will soon be watching in a great glorious marathon of black-and-white goodness to inspire me to continue writing the novel I really can’t wait to continue writing. I’m sure I’ll talk more about why classic old movies are such inspiration for the book soon enough. Last old movie I watched for inspiration: Naked City. Next on the list: something starring Rita Hayworth.

P

post office: What is it about the post office on a Saturday afternoon that brings out the inner gorilla in people? They roar. They snap. They practically pound their chests in rage if the person ahead of them in line takes too long. This is where I spent close to an hour yesterday, mailing out a fellowship application. I didn’t mind. Any application out in the world is one more good thing that could happen.

Q

quitting: This is what I’ve fantasized about doing, teasingly, because I would never do it. Never. I will never give up. I’ve almost given up before and I’m glad I didn’t. I was right to keep on.

R

robitussin: This is what I have to buy at the store for e before I come home. We’re almost out.

S

southern california: This is the place that keeps calling to me. Sometimes I think it will solve all my problems, but it won’t now, will it?

T

tin house: This is a reminder to myself to revise that short story for my summer workshop this July. Just as soon as the revisions are done I can do this…

time: This is what I usually don’t have enough of, but with my deadline for the novel in the fall, I actually have the time—a perfect amount of time, it seems—to write this book and make it good. I will not be taking on freelance projects during this period, either. Time, it waits for me. Time, it’s mine soon enough.

U

useless: This is how I feel right now. I’m worried about e. I’m overwhelmed. I want to pound out the revisions, but I can’t seem to move as fast as I want to.

V

vacation: In fact, this is where I wish I was, right this very minute.

W

work-for-hire: I must face what I am doing; I have been hired to write a book that lives in someone else’s head. I have to do what they want, whatever that may be. Point taken. But this might be my last work-for-hire for a very, very, very long time.

X

x’s: These are found often on the first draft of ghostwritten manuscript, because my word count was over. Much to X out, much to lose. If only that were all I needed to do to get this thing done.

Y

yes: This is the word I am hoping to hear from the fellowship application I sent out yesterday.

Z

zero: This is the amount of work it feels like I’ve gotten done on the revision so far. Because, so far, I’ve read all the notes. (There are many notes.) I’ve read the revision letter. (It is a long letter.) I’ve thought about one of the characters and how to make her a nicer person. I’ve thought about the plot. I’ve thought about what to cut. I’ve thought a lot. I’ve rewritten a scene in the first chapter. I’ve cut a whole chapter. But, still, if I look at what is needed it feels like my current progress is only 0%. All I can do is keep moving ahead.

Would Love Some Advice

Lately I’ve been worried about blogging at this url, made up of my first and middle name, and I keep wishing I had set this up under a more anonymous url. At the time I started this blog, I already had an anonymous blog at Blogger and it annoyed me to pretend to not be myself. I decided to be more honest. Besides, I told myself, people would probably not even realize that “Nova” is my real name—it sounds like an internet handle. But then I stuck my middle name in the mix and there’s no denying it now, is there?

This post at Missing Mojo has brought up this issue for me again, and I don’t know if Jade Park remembers, but when I met her I was asking her a ton of questions about being anonymous. It seems more freeing… It seems smarter… It seems more honest, if that’s even possible.

I’m sort of in the middle here. I don’t tell too many friends about this blog, but I think I could be easily found if anyone bothered to Google. I don’t link to this blog from my writing website, but I do link to the writing website from this blog. I don’t link to this blog from MySpace or Facebook. I don’t say the name of the company I work for, but I did mention the name of the publisher I got good news from recently (was that a bad idea?). I don’t use my last name on this blog; then again, my first and middle name are distinct enough that pretty much anyone who knows me in real life would realize it’s me. I sometimes wonder who does know—these New York City visits showing up in my SiteMeter… are they anyone I know and, if so, why haven’t they said anything?

My options are:

• Stay here just as I am, but be very, very careful what I say.
• Move to another WordPress url—I actually grabbed distraction99.wordpress.com a while ago and have thought of importing this entire thing, posts and comments and all, to that url so at least my name won’t appear in the web address.
• Start up an entirely new blog under a completely fake name. (But “distraction no. 99″ fits me so well, I am reluctant to let go of it.)
• Besides, e is a web designer, among his many talents, and when he has the time I have grandiose dreams of “distraction99.com” and hope he has a chance to build that site sometime. I’ve already bought the url and if you type it in now, you’ll find yourself redirected back here.

So, I was wondering if anyone had any advice for me. Will this blog hurt me if editors or prospective agents found it? Could I get fired from my day job if my bosses saw it? Would you follow me to a new url if I changed this address, or is that a pain in the neck?

Advice appreciated in the comments, or you can email me directly at nova [at] distraction99 [dot] com. Thank you!

Now I’m off to the post office to mail out a fellowship application. I won’t say to where, of course, but if by any off-chance you’re reading and find my pages in your stack of applicants, pick me, pick me! (Hey, you can’t fault me for trying, can you?)

The Revisions Are Coming, the Revisions Are Coming!

You heard right: the revisions on my last work-for-hire manuscript are coming my way. They will be messengered to me tomorrow. Sounds daunting that they must be messengered rather than emailed, no? I’ve also been warned I have to cut 7,000 words.

Guess what I’ll be doing all weekend?

Out of Practice

I haven’t written for two days. The past two mornings my alarm went off at crazy-o’clock so I could get in some writing before hopping on the subway for the day job and I, with full consciousness, reset the alarm so I could sleep. But those two days of no-writing also became two days of a monstrous mood that followed me home after work and… enough said. I think the lesson here is that if I don’t make some effort to write, even if I only have a spare hour, I become that person you don’t want in the room with you—you know that person. Even I want to avoid me.

Maybe I’m all off because I’m in limbo. I am still waiting on things out of my control to either (1) revise the work-for-hire project or (2) continue the novel that will be due soon, so I am on my own at the moment, free to write whatever I want to write. You’d think that would make me dance around the room or leap through a meadow, but all I feel is a bit scattered at the moment. There are just so many things I want to do…

So, this morning, I got up and am attempting to work on a fellowship application. I don’t know why I keep applying to these things—I’m nothing if not persistent. Or is it naive? Problem is, I haven’t gotten much done on this application. I keep thinking back to my dream early this morning of being forced to be back in high school, and hours late, and not sure where I was supposed to be because I’d misplaced my schedule, and some girl was mad at me and I was afraid of sitting near an open window because I thought she’d, like, do something to me during class and… Ugh, high school dreams.

Also, I don’t think there’s a shot of espresso in my drink. Also, I have to leave for work now in 10 minutes. Also, I found out how much I owe the IRS and realized I don’t have enough to pay it until my advance-on-signing check comes in… and the contracts department is taking forever for no reason anyone could explain to me, even though I sent in the signed contract on February 16.

I’m a little bit in trouble about that, I guess.

Am I becoming that person you don’t want in the room with you, already? It’s not even nine o’clock!

Maybe I should try and write during lunch.

They Pay You to Do This?

Scene: Italian cafe, near-empty on a Sunday afternoon. I sit alone at a table near the window.

Elderly busboy with unidentifiable (though most certainly not Italian) accent approaches when I ask for the check. The waiter will be just a moment, he tells me.

Then, motioning down at the stack of manuscript pages I am reading, he says: What is that, work? You do work today?

Me: Yes. I work every day.

Busboy: What is this you do for work?

Me: I work in an office all week and then I write on weekends.

Busboy: You are a writer?

Me: Yes, I am a writer.

Busboy backs away, giving me two thumbs up.

Then, thinking better of it, he returns to the table, to ask a question.

Busboy: What do you write, stories or novels?

Me: Both. But right now a novel.

Busboy: And let me ask, they pay you to do this? People pay you money?

A pause while I realize how to answer.

Me (with honest surprise): Yes, they actually do. Can you believe that?

The busboy gives one last thumbs-up, then walks away quickly before I can ask him if he writes too. And to tell him it’s not about the money, really, it never was, it never will be. To tell him I’d be here with these pages, scribbling these scribbles either way. For not a penny. For no readers. For a boxful of rejections. For no reason, and for every reason. It’s what I want to do every day.

Books and Unicorns

Reading is such a personal vocation for me—revealing what I really think about a book feels like flashing my underwear—which I guess is why I don’t do book reviews here. I finished a book I had a love/semi-annoyed relationship with recently and thought of posting about it, then didn’t. Maybe I’m afraid I can’t be articulate. Maybe this is the real reason why I haven’t taken the GRE subject test to apply for a Ph.D.

When I was a kid, I was staying for a bit at the house of my parents’ friends. I recall a trip to their local mall, and a visit to the bookstore, where I was told I could pick out a book, any book I wanted. After great studious inspection of the shelves in the children’s section, I selected a book I normally wouldn’t have read, since I wasn’t big on fantasy (I’m still not big on fantasy, which is why—flash of underwear—I have not read the Harry Potter books). The book had a white cover; it was all about unicorns. Was it even a story? I don’t remember. I just remember showing them this book as the one I wanted, though it wasn’t really the one I wanted, I remember that now, it was what I thought they’d want me to want. What I really wanted was probably something trashy, something aged older than I was (Sweet Valley High?). Anyway, I said I wanted the unicorn book. They looked at my choice and were perplexed: You don’t really want that book, do you? they asked. Yes, I insisted. I don’t know why the lie. Once I had it in hand, I didn’t want to read it at all, though I pretended to, to be polite. I never did end up reading it.

As I get older, more and more I want to keep my opinions to myself: I’m not saying what novel by one of my favorite authors I have tried again and again to read and cannot get past the first chapter, what I really think of Hemingway or Juno, what emo musician I adore, what happens when I watch the Lord of the Rings movies, the depths of my true feelings for the spare scenes by Jean Rhys.* I could never be a critic, I guess. I’m just an observer. I’m the person who looks at art, watches it, reads it, swallows it whole. Everyone needs an audience, right?

I’m just remembering that I’ll be taking part in a writing workshop this summer—it’s been a long while. I have to remember how to critique stories, how to be helpful, how to express an opinion coherently, in physical words. As long as there are no unicorns, I should be fine.

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* E knows, of course. He keeps all my secrets.