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• The Best Things in Life Are Free, But Everything Has A Price

  08Nov
  Categories: My Daily Struggle, writing Comments: 7

  

  Right. I’m being a terrible blogger and I know it. For those of you, friends and family and lookers-on that enjoy what I do here, I apologize for letting you down.

  Be warned: I’m probably going to continue to let you down.

  I have thought of closing this poor neglected site down altogether, but in the end I like the record I’m keeping here, no matter how sporadic it has become. It has to be this way because the work I’m doing elsewhere is more important to me, and something I absolutely must make the most of.

  My writing outside this blog is going really well. For the moment I’m productive and prolific and inspired. I intend to ride that for all it’s worth. Writing fiction is work that makes my heart sing, work that feels worth doing despite the fact that I’m courting financial ruin to pursue it. (Note to family: I promise not to let the children starve or go shoeless in winter.)

  So, today, following a conversation with my husband that was along the lines of: how much longer can we go on like this? I spent some time mapping out my writing goals. You should see the document I just wrote up. You won’t, because I won’t show it to you, but I promise it’d be good for a giggle at my expense. It includes such gems as “Get agent,” “Finish novel,” and “Land teaching position based on (currently nonexistent) publication history,” complete with target dates. It felt a little silly to write, which is part of why I’m making fun of it here, but also: it didn’t feel entirely silly. Some of it felt a little bit exciting, and I don’t mind saying that I’ve worked hard to get to a place where I can target a date for dreams like: “Finish novel,” and actually write those words down as if such a thing would actually happen.

  Yes, the work is going well, and the blog is not. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.

• Overwhelmed

  19Aug
  Categories: Me, My Daily Struggle, Uncategorized, writing Comments: 7

  Seriously. I can’t seem to get it together. I have been daily making an effort to write, but I just can’t get a handle on the story I’m trying to revise. I’m just dicking around with it, and not getting anywhere. Can you tell it’s pissing me off?

  I think I’m still recovering from my vacation. Returned to cloudy England from sunny France and am having to force myself to leave the house. And the weather’s not even bad here–it’s just not warm.

  One good thing, actually a very exciting thing, is that Sugahill, a local cafe here in Sydenham, is displaying some of my work. I finally got it all up yesterday and thankfully, none of the photographs are embarrassing to me. I think I feared that once I blew them up they’d look terrible–all their flaws painfully visible in large format. I was actually afraid to open the package from the lab until the day I was supposed to hang them. I just didn’t want to know; I was afraid I’d lose my nerve. But, actually, they please me. We put them up on the walls and they all evoke a kind of mood. They go together, and I think they’re interesting enough to look at over a cup of coffee.

  But, my story is stuck and so I can’t even enjoy the moment.

  And I have so much to DO, and I’m not doing it, and so my blog is getting neglected. It’s the way it has to be for a little while. I have to get some good revisions done this semester. My time at WW is limited, and I will not waste it fucking around online, or even taking pictures. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to take pictures–clearly I can’t help myself–but I have to prioritize. I have to, and I still haven’t told you anything about my vacation. Which was awesome. Maybe my best vacation ever. Maybe that’s why I can’t work. I can’t get over the best vacation I ever had.

• A Little Forgiveness

  23May
  Categories: Me, My Daily Struggle Comments: 8

  I’ve been catching up on my blog reading the last few days and I wanted to share something I read–something that moved me.

  That’s Bryan. He’s in my writing program and he was the guy in the lecture hall with all the insightful comments. And also the guy at the late-night beer-drinking festivities with the wicked wit. And although I haven’t actually read any of his fiction yet, I suspect that it’s pretty effing fabulous.

  Anyway, Bryan wrote about how he reacted to the death of a friend by avoiding it, and he ended his post by saying how sorry he is.

  I know how he feels.

  A few years ago, Girlish had a pre-school friend whose mother I knew from all the birthday parties we attended together. We weren’t close friends, but our girls were the same ages, in the same class and she and I were pregnant at the same time. We both gave birth to boys in June. We used to chat at birthday parties, and one time I made a joke about smoking pot and she was the only mother standing in the circle who got it. (I make inappropriate jokes at children’s birthday parties; I can’t help myself, and occasionally it pays off with a look like the one Christy gave me that day). We didn’t spend a lot of time together, but I’d had coffee in her kitchen; I’d laughed politely at her husband’s jokes.

  Then, just after our girls started kindergarten at different schools, Christy came to Girlish’s fifth birthday party wearing a wig. She told my mom, who’s a doctor, that she had kidney cancer. Later my mom told me she figured Christy had six months—two or three years at the outside. A couple of months later I took Girlish to Christy’s daughter’s birthday party and noticed a small stack of books about dying on her kitchen counter. That might have been the last time I saw her. Not because she died—it was the last time I saw her because I never called her again.

  How’s that for cowardly? I never even asked her about it. I wanted to know how she was doing; I wanted to offer some words of comfort, maybe, but I couldn’t bear to hear what she might say if I’d have had the nerve to ask her about it. She was my age! We both had little girls just-turned-5, and little boys just over a year. I imagined myself sitting on the end of Girlish’s bed, trying to explain that I would be gone in a while, and that I would never, ever be back. I pictured a photograph of me on my son’s dresser someday and him saying, “Oh, yeah, that’s my mom. I don’t really remember her.”

  I say “I imagined,” and “I pictured,” but the truth is I’m doing that now. At the time, I don’t think I even dared imagine. At least Bryan said prayers. Me, I just shut all of it, and her, out.

  So somehow, reading what he wrote about his friend—although it dredged up memories I might rather not revisit—made me feel just the tiniest bit better. Like my reaction wasn’t so much about me being heartless and self-centered, but about death being scary, particularly when it hits so close to where you’re living. About our fragile, precious time on the planet among the ones we love.

  Would Christy have done better by me than I did by her? Probably. It wouldn’t have taken much, certainly, to be a better friend than the woman who never called you again. I hate that I was probably one of many friends who dropped away when she needed us most. But I like to think now that she might have understood it, that whatever wisdom death brought also allowed her to forgive.

  At least I hope so.

• I’m Not Dead

  16May
  Categories: Me, My Daily Struggle, writing Comments: 7

  I’ve just been totally snowed under with with work. Not paid work, of course, but writing stories, because, you know, it’s so lucrative. Happily, though, I completed my semester project last week, and I must say it has been a productive four months. I got along well with my advisor and I racked up four new stories, all in different stages of development. So, although I haven’t been around here, I have been writing, and it has consumed me.

  I was so absorbed that I wasn’t photographing much for awhile either, and those of you who know how obsessed I am with my camera will get that that’s a big deal. I picked it up again, though, and I’m doing some stuff for a friend that’s getting married, and carrying it around with me now that spring is here and I am feeling like there are so many pictures to take. The light here is really crazy, too, because in the summer it stays light until 9 or 10 o’clock at night, and the twilight is long.

  In other news, Boyish’s accent is out. of. control. I’ll add a sound file this week because where before he faded in an out of London talk, and seemed to be acquiring it more gradually, he has all of the sudden begun to sound properly and wholly English. Girlish still speaks English at school and American at home, and Baybish–who barely talks at all–has an accent, too. You should hear her say “Uh-oh.” It’s like: “Uh-ah-oooh,” and when she walks down the street she says “Hiyaaaaaa,” to everyone we pahss.

  I’m tired, people, but I decided I would not let this go another day. I’m going to try doing some shorter posts. I’m going to make myself post shorter so that it won’t seem like such a big deal to check in here. I love doing this, but I get so focused when I’m writing that I can’t do much else. My obsessive personality is a blessing and a curse, I swear.

• I Gave My Friend A Special Rock.

  03Mar
  Categories: Me, My Daily Struggle Comments: 0

  
  For years, I have kept a rock in my pocket. It’s a reassuring presence there, so familiar that when I lost it, I dreamed it was in my hand, and I realized I had memorized the weight of it in my palm, its every curve and groove beneath my searching fingers. It’s lucky; it’s comforting; it’s something I miss when it’s not there, growing warm against my hip.

  I was at a wedding in Riverside when I discovered the rock was missing.

  Only two or three days earlier, I had given my friend a special rock to keep in her pocket, because who doesn’t need a little luck and reassurance, right? And then, in some weird sort of reverse-karma, my magic rock went missing. I spent a fair amount of time looking for it, of course. Turned the hotel room upside down. Fought the vague sense of unease I had for days, not having it in my pocket, where it should be. Before we left California I even asked my mother-in-law to keep an eye out for it.

  “A rock?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

  “A green one,” I told her. “You’ll know if you find it. It looks like it belongs to someone.”

  Meanwhile, my friend kept emailing me, going on and on so sweetly about her new rock, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she’d made me lose mine.  Until yesterday, when I finally confessed. I reassured her, though, that it was a magic rock, that it had gone missing before, but somehow always turned up again. Then I went upstairs to unpack, hoping I would find it.

  I emptied all three suitcases, and put away my clothes.
  No rock.

  Goodlooking sat on the bed, consoling me over the loss. I have other rocks, actually, but none as special as the lost one. I got down the box in my wardrobe where I keep my alternates, and showed the collection to him, so he could help me decide which one to keep in my pocket until my magic rock returned. I spread them out on my dresser, trying to choose. None of them were quite as pretty. None of them were exactly the right size, or that lovely shade of green.

  “General?” he said (that’s what he calls me). “What is this?”

  I turned around, and there, in his hand, it was. He found it on the bed. He just looked down, and saw it, where it hadn’t been before. Now you may say that it fell out of my pants or whatever, but I know the truth: it’s a magic rock.

  And it’s back in my pocket.

• Dear Blogosphere:

  05Feb
  Categories: Me, My Daily Struggle, Weblogs Comments: 0

  

  I miss you. I think of you every day. I think of all the things I want to tell you: like how Baybish has some words now (”light” and “hot”); how Boyish is growing up so fast–he’s dressing and brushing and wiping his cute little bottom (hal-lay-effing-looooo-yah) all by himself; how Girlish has finished all 7 Harry Potters and now started in on the Lemony Snickets (they’re shorter; she’s four books in already).

  

  I think about how I never wrote about Katie’s visit, and how awesome it was to have her here, and how awesome it was to just talk photography with someone whose eyes didn’t glaze over when I bitched about shutter speeds or flash diffusion. We took a walk one night and I stopped to look at the moon through the bare branches of a scraggly tree, and I thought, “Nah, too far away. Wrong lens.” And Katie said, “What, do you see something?” And it was the way she said it–the word “see“–that was so lovely to me. See, it was a photographer’s “see“, and all it implied, and it just felt so great to be understood in that tiny way. And so although I was only looking for something, and not actually seeing anything that I could capture, I took the shot anyway, just to please her.

  And I also never told you about Deb, and how nice it was at her house. Or maybe I told you about her house, but I know I didn’t say enough about how she’s like a pixie or brownie, maybe–one of those tiny fairy-type creatures that’s more mischief and mayhem and less sweetness and sparkly dust? She has a big smile and we have waaaaay too much scariness in common. And did I show you this?

  Her kids are funny.

  And while I was there, we talked about what camera lens she should get next, and I sort of talked her into a particular one, and then she got it, and Oops! It wouldnt’ autofocus with her camera. So she had to buy a new camera, and holy shit, you should see the pictures she’s taking now.

  So that worked out.

  And I’ve been trying to think of ways to make the blog fit into my life better now–maybe write about the books I’m reading or something, so I can multi-task. Because whenever I’m not writing my own stories lately, I’m writing about someone else’s, and when I’m not doing that, I’m trying to take pictures, and then there’s chickens to feed and laundry to do, and the dishes don’t do themselves, you know. And, oh, yeah, my blog.

  So, oh, I’ll say it again, I miss you guys. I miss the support I get from knowing, after I post, that I’ll hear from a few of you. I miss participating in the conversation. I am determined, though, not to give up. It may be quiet around here for frustratingly long periods of time–for you and me both–but I will get it worked out, I swear.

  (sniffle) ‘Cause I love you guys.

• First Day of School

  04Jan
  Categories: Me, My Daily Struggle, writing Comments: 0

  So, yesterday was registration/orientation at Warren Wilson. I took a first-day-of-school picture of me in my very spartan dorm room while I was waiting for things to start, but I haven’t yet uploaded and jpeg’d it, so Goodlooking, you’ll have to wait another day or so for that.

  This is what I wrote in my journal before the meeting:

  Yeah. Okay. Here I am @ my first day of school and I’m totally freaking out. Freaking. Out. I feel like the biggest fraud on the planet and I’m about to be found out. About to be found out!!!!!

  My stomach hurts. I don’t know what to write on my Project Preference Form. I feel like I’m about 13 years old. Why am I so nervous? I am so nervous. I can’t breathe too good. I need to pee, but I don’t want to go out in the hall–what if someone looks at me? What will I say, and did I mention I’m freaking out?

  I need to make my bed. I need to finish reading my worksheets. I need a drink. Badly.

  And here’s the entry just after I got back from the orientation and new-student reception:

  So now I’m back from the first night of orientatin, meeting the faculty, dinner and readings and oh. my. god. I am freaking out. I talked to Michael Martone, who’s all silver-foxy experimentalist, and Anthony Doerr, who’s all enthusiastic genius, and Debra Spark, who’s all warm funny articulateness. And CJ Hribal, who wrote American Beauty and is workshopping my story on Thursday came up and introduced himself to me. Like he wanted to meet me. And maybe you don’t know who any of these people are, but trust me, they’re awesome. God. I am stoked. Like I hardly dared to hope I’d be.
  

  So: for tomorrow I need to straighten out FINAID and turn in my project preference form. Which I need to finalize, like, now. And sleep, which won’t be easy, but I have a feeling–there may not be much sleeping for a few days.

  Yahoo!

  Yeah. I really wrote, “Yahoo!” So, do you get the picture? I’m having a good time.

• The Heebie-Jeebies

  24Nov
  Categories: London, My Daily Struggle, Stories Comments: 0

  So Wednesday I’m coming home from London Bridge on the overland train around 6:00. The train is packed, it’s pouring rain outside, but I have managed to get a seat. Usually I read on the way home from London Bridge, because the ride is about 20 minutes, and I can lose myself, if only a little, before I have to get off. I have to be careful, though, as I have looked up before to find that I’ve missed my stop.

  On Wednesday I had spent the day working on my teeny-tiny map project for English PEN, and so my nearly-40-year-old eyes were shot. I could not face Bird and his terrible problems, and I could not focus on the printed page on the swaying train. So I pretended to stare into space, and surreptitiously observed the people around me.

  This is what I do on the train.

  The guy directly across from me looked just like my horrid law-school boyfriend, except that this man had brown eyes instead of blue. He was also wearing a wedding ring and carrying flowers for someone, and I wondered if Doug was married yet, if he had any kids. I felt reasonably sure, however, that wherever he was, he damn sure wasn’t bringing anybody any flowers.

  Also bearing flowers on the train was a man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a blond flat-top straight out of the 50s. Because of the configuration of the seats he was facing me, about as far away as someone might be diagonally across the dinner table. He clutched a dozen damp red roses in his fist, the first two knuckles of his hand swollen, the skin reddened and bunched there. I wondered what had happened. Had there been a fight? Had he punched a wall during an argument, maybe, and was now bringing roses to his lover to apologize?

  I played it cool, of course, but I was intrigued. A few minutes later he jammed his free hand in his mouth and bit his knuckles hard, baring his teeth and screwing up his face like someone in pain. When he lowered his hand I saw the same thick red knuckles, and a small crescent-shaped sore, from his teeth.

  And for the next few minutes, I questioned it. It was the kind of bizarre thing you see that makes you wonder immediately afterwards: Did I see that? Maybe I misinterpreted it. But no, a few minutes later he did it again. At least three times more before my stop. Each bite seemed more anxious – more vicious — than the last, and by the time we reached my station I was glad to be getting off. What was he thinking of? Biting someone else? There was unmistakable fury there, although it was impossible for me to tell whether it was directed only at himself, or at someone else. For all I know, this is what your average serial-rapist murderer does on the train to pass the time.

  He got off behind me. Had he seen me watching him? Did he think I knew his secrets now? And even after I saw him entering the cab stand I couldn’t shake that feeling that someone might be watching me, following me, all the way home.

  Tags: London, scary, trains

• Vigilance

  14Sep
  Categories: My Daily Struggle Comments: 0

  I try.

  I try to be a good person. I try to give way, on the sidewalk, in the road, in line for groceries or stamps. I try to smile, and be kind to people. I try to be honest, even when that’s difficult. I think it’s important. I try to be rational. When I feel very strongly that I am entirely in the right, I know that I must not be. I try to figure out how I might be at fault, how I might stand in the other person’s shoes and see how what I’ve done, or not done, how I could have contributed to the problems between us. I try to set my emotions aside, and remember that no matter how angry I am, some things are more important than being right. Or feeling right.

  But I won’t lie here: it’s not easy. I like being right as much as anyone does, and maybe more so. I’ve been told over the years that I am “competitive,” and “aggressive,” and “harsh,” and sometimes I feel like the people around me are unjustifiably afraid of me, or afraid of what I might do, or say. And their fear? It feels like judgment, and it makes me angry.

  And then I do slip, and say something that I regret as soon as it’s out of my mouth—or worse, say something I think is perfectly appropriate until someone checks me. And then that fear I mentioned? It feels like judgment and it makes me really, deeply, unsure of myself. Which I don’t like. And which pisses me off.

  I wonder, then, am I mean, and I don’t even know it? That in spite of all my trying to be good, and live right, and do good even when it costs me—in money, time, or pride—that maybe I’m just delusional. Maybe I just hold onto superficial nice things I do, or say, or think as evidence that I’m a good person. But in reality—some indefinable something that everybody but me can see—I’m really just a stone-cold bitch.

  It shuts me down. Makes it hard to think, hard to write, hard to talk.

  You want to know a secret? Mental illness runs in my family. My grandmother had breakdowns, more than one. At least two of my great uncles killed themselves; and in my parent’s generation at least two more suicides—that I know of. And although suicidal isn’t my problem (I have others) I worry about going crazy. Specifically, that I might go crazy and not be able to stop it, or not be able to recognize that it’s happening to me.

  Or sometimes I worry that I might already be crazy. Because that’s the way it happens, right? From inside your own head you can’t tell. You think what you’re doing makes perfect sense.

  Tags: Anxiety

• Vocabulary Lesson

  09Sep
  Categories: Family life, Me, Moving, My Daily Struggle Comments: 0

  
  estrange [i-streynj] verb (used with object), -tranged, tranging. 1. To turn away in feeling or affection; make unfriendly or hostile; alienate the affections of: The quarrel over their mother estranged the two sisters. 2. To remove or keep at a distance: Her move overseas has estranged her from her family. 3. To divert from the original use or possessor. [Origin: 1475-85; <MF, OF estranger; c. Pg. estranhar, Sp estrañar, It straniare <ML exstrãneãre to treat as a stranger. See STRANGE]

  Tags: somewhat inappropriate