Important Chicago conference

Shut up and write. Yeah yeah yeah, you can procrastinate all you want and feel even shittier about not getting anything done, or you can sit down with the fear of producing shitty work, but at least do something. So here I am.

Is it hard or not hard, writing? I’m not sure myself. Many writers say it’s not only hard, it is the hardest, most punishing career ever, others say not to believe anyone who tells you writing was hard. The latter comes from Richard Ford, who is pretty well set, so I am taking his words cum grano salis, too.

But the subject of other writers may be worth exploring. Envy among artists is common, I guess. Obvious targets are ingenuity, critical and commercial success, conditions, and plain old skills, the last being a matter of taste. In my mind, envy can both function as a driver and can be paralyzing. When I read someone’s story or, worse, novel and wish very intensely that I could have done that, I feel small and insignificant and incapable—at first. But there is opportunity. Not copying, of course, but learning, opening oneself up for influence, hearing voices.

I was hoping to learn and to get to know people, above all, at the past AWP Conference. Realizing that I’ve become shy at my old age, I did not place too high expectations on the connection factor, but there was some meet & greet. On the first one or two I stumbled like a Tylenol-overdosed grade schooler on her first ice skating lesson; quotes: “I totally don’t have a business card”; “Oh, TinHouse is in Portland? Isn’t Glimmer Train, too (points!!)? Well, I have friends in Portland, in fact one just moved there and says it’s a nice place…” , all the while the person I’m chatting up is giving me a stare that’s between blank and afraid. This is embarrassing already, but the person is also likely the fiction editor (and more often than not the only editor, founder and business manager in one), and I am unlikely to have convinced this person of my storytelling abilities.

But then I sugar up and get back in shape. The little presses have serving plates of little valentines, tattoos, stickers etc, even shortbread and biscotti. I feel rather low munching up some of those, mumblingly shaking hands with the owner, only to have to answer his sweet question of “Are you a poet?” in the negative. What a thought! I smile, I flatter, I schmooze, I drop names, I pretend I know what I'm doing. While the little ones seem receptive, the more established lit journals may be in a financial crunch as ever, but apparently have attitude to spare.

But who cares. There I go again in my nihilism. I’d rather not have known about the so-called slush piles, an insulting description of unsolicited manuscripts in itself, given my aversion to snow slush, but now that I do, I know that I am competing with anywhere between hundreds and thousands of fellow writing enthusiasts. That may include loads of crap, sure, but on the flip side it also includes established authors who don’t really need any more help to emerge, but who are just so good that they deserve yet another outlet. Rationally I know that their work is not primarily aimed at my ego, but I am offering myself up anyway. How amateurish, thin, hollow, bland, [fill in] my prose seems compared to some!

If nothing else, the event was interesting to observe from a sociological point of view, which is what mainly keeps me going to its kind. I could have thought of another outfit to stand out in than a black turtleneck over an ill-fitting black dress and black equestrian boots, but at least I got my self-confidence fix in one way that day: I seem to have retained some of my looks, since I collected quite a few of those, of course allowing for a completely distorted self-image or would-be gawkers’ eye tics. Such is life. I’d better go make some cake for another house guest.

Can reading be a sin?

Is there such a thing as reading too much? Apparently women can love too much, and sly people are writing bestsellers about this problem. One look at amazon.com confirms that copycatting apparently still yields results: Women who think too much, women who love cats to much, women who (simply) do to much, and, quasi inevitably, women who love books too much. Even the bookseller concedes that it's "silly" and "queasy", but the basic notion is out there: Reading, too, can be an addiction. Like with all addictions, the element of shame and concealment surfaces. Perhaps there is help in the form of Reader's Anonymous, sort of like an ultrastrong book club.

The reason for the above ponderings, as if reason were guiding my thoughts, are several recent remarks on my reading pensum which I have perceived as sneers. Granted, it does not take much for me to *read* lowly intentions into anything, but my ground is shaking a little nonetheless. Is it disbelief on the commentators' part? Then I should indeed be insulted, since I would never lie about my book consumption. Is it envy for the time I am finding, undoubtedly a necessary component for the focussed intake of the bound written word? If time is the most valuable commodity, I guess I should consider myself a rich woman. Could it be that, almost unperceivedly, I have become exactly the woman I used to sneer at myself? Frivolously indulgent, underemployed and padded in every way, seemingly worry-free in these worrisome times, leisurely lazy? The question marks are more than decorative, since I am all and none of those things. One adjective commonly ascribed to stay-at-home-mothers I will not stand for, however: I am very rarely bored, as long as I have something to read-- which get the feeling I have to do increasingly sneakily.

What's happening?

Unbelievably, one of my readers (!) has commented on my recent blog hiatus in what could be interpreted as slight longing. This is the first remark of the sort from someone outside my family (and inside there has only been one).

Ignoring the most obvious reason for laying low, namely that my life is way too uninteresting to publish, my last entry is nearly self-explanatory—I have family house guests! Gifted time managers like myself manage to have less time with more help. Needless to say, I am very happy. Boooooring.

So how to spice up this blog? Here are a few ideas, and if there was anything resembling a quorum we could apply some democracy and let you, gentle readers, decide.

- putting my webcam to work, which I was pushed into buying by some of my Skype-aficionado friends but never use; why, if there’s an audience for Britney Spears picking her nose, than surely a few people would want to watch me making sandwiches, starting getting up in the morning… on second thought, maybe not.

- make provocative statements, such as that Justin Timberlake, Leonardo diCaprio, Orlando Bloom or Hugh Jackmann (sexiest man alive?! my (jack)ass!) are not only not hot, they look like baby-faced wusses;
that the latest Coldplay album sucks, as does (even more) latter day pop music; the Grammy must stand for Gigantic Ripoff Affable Mediocre Moneymaking Yawns (I had to consult Merriam Webster for the Y; my second choice was Yolk Sac).

- ask politically provocative questions, like wondering aloud what the @#$% my Gov. was thinking (he should have known better, he’s a Serb), and whether he’s the only one; when Americans in Iraq will start to go home (and stay there); whether it’s correct that teachers and students are banned from wearing religious head gear in France; if delinquent immigrant children should be deported, if necessary without their parents; if all else fails, the Israel-Palestine conflict is an oldie but goodie.

Well, none of the above is really me, so back to literature. Zzzzzzz. There’s actually a guy who published and sold a book titled boring boring boring boring boring boring; okay, he published it himself, even I know the owner of the press, but he’s selling in the top 250,000 on amazon (with whom I have a bone to pick, BTW; that may be another way to get noticed: inflate yourself even more than usual). I need a smashing title for my book, one that would be a natural match for the smashing content, which I am still working on creating. Anything with “confessions”, “mom”, “love”, “money”, “weight” or “mind” or some food in the title seems to fly; not sure I can connect the dots.

I just recently read “White Teeth” by Zadie Smith. I didn’t know anything about the book other than that its author was this gorgeous British sensation, the ultimate new, Cambridge-schooled, hip voice who wrote the thing around age 23. For the a little while I thought that it was mostly hype again, having found it a little bumpy to get into. But then… brilliant. Splendid. Magnificent. So, so good, like they said she was. And hilarious. I read that she could be unpleasant in person, which of course is not mine to judge, but there seems to be a correlation between the good press of an author’s book and the bad press surrounding his or her persona; being young and female seems to have an exacerbating effect. Just saying. Although I know that I shouldn’t let someone’s proficiency discourage me, with certain books it is hard not to be. I will never be able to write a book half as good as Smith’s when I’m twice her age. Ever. So should I even bother? Yes, yes, says my good side.

In other “news”, now that it’s been a month: none. I have written a few personal essays and have made pitches to a few relevant publications, but the answer is silence so far. A former Tribune writer and a current TimeOut Chicago writer, whom I met at some lectures last week, have both assured me that that this is normal and that I need to stay “politely persistent”, but it still is a catch-22 situation: If the editors are so damn busy, especially with all the downsizing in the print industry going on, then they’re not going to bother with a nobody. But how to get a name and out of the nobody section if no one publishes you? Enough whining, more writing, alright.

The Joy of Family Visits

Immediate family members living overseas may be seen as a sad, fortunate, exotic or exhausting circumstance. It usually is a combination of the above, the different flavors accentuated depending on the current state of your mind. A lucky immigrant’s life involves visits by those left behind in another country or, as the case may be, different continent, and the implied distance of their residences typically necessitates sojourns of considerably longer extent than a Sunday family picnic.

Blessed as I feel for the gift of my loved ones’ company in the warmth and closeness of my home, there are challenges to be met. And I don’t mean the possibility of raised eyebrows when coming out of the conjugal bedroom to grab some morning coffee in pajamas, unwashed and untalkative, at least not in my family’s case; this degree of intimacy is just right for us. What could be cozier than scurrying around in flannels and slippers, at any time of day or night if need be, with the knowledge that mom and dad are sleeping down the hall just like in the old days, there to protect us (or us to protect them in the new days) and love us no matter what we look and smell like? Wouldn’t it be a huge letdown to see your sister and brother-in-law leave in the wee hours after a fun-filled evening of games and drinking instead of just retreating to the guest room, looking forward to more fun and games the next day? You have my sympathy if your long-term visitors are of the “passively active” type (horrible word creation, I know, but how else to describe folks who expect an activity-filled itinerary and round-the-clock entertainment but fail to contribute, including the transportation necessary), but thankfully mine aren’t, so I am rejoicing in the relaxation of the days of togetherness consisting of nothing but drinking tea (and something stronger as the day easily progresses), chatting, flipping through foreign-bought magazines and domestic TV channels, both a source of infinite excitement and sarcastic wonder, assured that if my parents or sister needed outside stimulation, they would say so, arrange for it with or without my help and, in the latter case, not be too grand to take a commuter train to their destination of desire. If there are disputes, there is nothing like family, perhaps just the Balkan sort, to get loud with and then kiss-and-make-up, no reputation risked. Oh, and there’s all the free babysitting.

Ah, but if it weren’t for what I call “daily operations”. There are the mundane tasks of functioning everyday life that are too uninteresting to write a word about, much less a column, but everyone has to fulfill them according to varying standards. Keeping up with the same with long-term visitors around may be unrealistic, uncalled for, unfair or plain foolish, but I nevertheless aim for it every time. Let me point out that most of my visitors constantly offer their help, not just of the rhetorical but of the hands-on sort, and occasionally I succumb and let them help with the too-dreary-to-mention tasks. But mostly I strive to keep it all together myself, to stay the puppet-master, metaphorically speaking. And every time at the end of a visit I have to admit that the others were right all along—I am a control freak.

But there’s even more. Beyond the basic operations, there are the “interactions”. If we ascribe to the theory that humans are social animals and thrive on contacts outside the home or one’s tribe, then most everyone will have a few friends they are not related to and that are not identical to their spouse, or at least their kids should have a few friends whose parents can perform the occasional role of conversation partner/interim soul mate/commiserator. To thrive on outside contacts is not the same as to crave for them, but either way they will be a tad tricky to maintain with your house full, assuming your relationship with your visitors is not giving cause for constant escape scenarios. If the thriving and craving is less pronounced, maybe you have some interests of your own that you like and need to pursue in silence, which is never as golden as after weeks (or months) of noise, no matter how beloved the voices. Reading a meaning-heavy book is as far detached from reading a silly society magazine as it gets, and while the latter is perfectly acceptable and doable with house guests around, in fact serves as a sometimes welcome conversation- booster, the former is not. Of course you can always read later when you’re alone, but what if you want to do it right now, after weeks of not having done it, and your mom wants to chat? Or if you want to write because you fancy yourself a writer, but there are only so many days left with your loved ones and you feel guilty taking off to the library or Starbucks without them? Exactly, you don’t do it. Not doing something you want breeds resentment towards the forces that prevent you from doing it (which may very well include yourself). Personally I am quick to blame outside factors, but those do not include my visiting family members as such. It’s the big picture, people. Why, oh why, must I live so far from my family (must I?) that seeing them is always an all-or-nothing deal in both directions? Why does the success of each visit hinge on my performance (does it?) as a housekeeper, mother, daughter, sister and wife? But this is all good. Self-pity gives way to the realization of what a colossal mistake it is to take one’s family for granted, whether they live two streets down or whether they have the health and willingness to come overseas to make everyone’s lives more and merrier. That someone who has choices in life is generally better off than those who don’t. That blood is thicker than water (on the ins and outs of overseas friends’ visits another time). And that kind of introspection just might get me back on the writing track.

Fairy Tales

The vice-presidential debate is over, and not that I ever want to get political, in fact I made a conscious choice to keep this blog politics-free, but I am disappointed that it didn't turn out to be the soap-opera that I could have bashed on. Sarah Palin didn't make an idiot of herself as some hoped she would, Joe Biden came over as a perfect gentleman and kind person, so I will slip back under the cover of informational uselessness.

There’s something delightfully tickling about etiquette books, stuffy as they look and even bill themselves. The older, the better. Browsing through Emily Post’s tips on what the proper wording is for, say, your neighbor’s niece’s post-debutante ball invitations and how to subsequently arrange the guests and silverware transports me to a world so quaintly different that the weighty care that’s attached to its blatant irrelevance is, to me, the epitome of carefree.

Perhaps the same could be said about children’s books of previous generations, or, more specifically, about their ignorance of the political intricacies that embody correctness today. Accusing the eminently innocent Curious George series of anything would be sacrilegious so I won’t, but others, with more darkness in their hearts, may see a nod to Blaxploitation in the original edition; also, one of the firemen who apprehend the cute & mute troublemaker George is unabashedly called fat. Substance abuse was so established in both print and film, both for adult and young audiences (“After a good meal and a good pipe George felt very tired”) that it almost warrants the question of whether we are just a bunch of fun-spoiling sourpusses today.

That smoking and drinking too much was harmful was, of course, confirmed later. Should advancement in science vilify past enjoyment, I wonder, including societal sensibilities? How To Behave and Why, sort of an etiquette book for youngsters equally dating from the 40s, gives a name to issues, starting with the title (“to behave” has, in my impression, been widely replaced by the more mellow-sounding “manners”). It flat-out tells kids to obey their elders, not to fool themselves, and what ways are stupid. It was the s-word that got my kids’ attention and elicited their trademark mischievous laugh, as if I had said poopy, so unaccustomed were they to the directness of the tone (in literature, at least). Then again, the book (by Munro Leaf) was reprinted in 2002, so it must have some following.

The storylines in the Brothers Grimm fairy tales are notorious, but some other German classics are off the charts (is the nationality of those slashers pure coincidence?). If you’re into kiddie horror, read the 1.0 version of Rapunzel and the Pied Piper, or check out the original Wilhelm Busch story collection, and your guts will freeze. In the latter, kids starve (funeral and all) for refusing to eat their soup, thumbsuckers get a short trial by getting the offending limbs chopped off, torture scenes abound, and Max and Moritz, the two arche-bad boys, get done with in a way that I’m pretty sure the Coen brothers “borrowed” for their wood chipper scene in Fargo.

A lot of the gore in children’s tales has been watered down by the book and film industry to great success and, as far as I’m concerned, for good reason; I like my books and movies gritty, but not with ancient midgety fantasy characters, for heaven’s sake! But herein lies the question that I had to quiz my kids’ pediatrician about yesterday: Is it our taste and our understanding of modern-day acceptance that should be guiding our children’s imagination exclusively, or can they stomach stuff that we can’t anymore and come out stronger for it? Our trusted and wonderful doctor, Dr. Lum, thinks they can. Like I had hoped he would, he stated that stories and situations that are troubling by our standards can be taken as an opportunity to raise critical thinkers. He finds this approach, which he had taken with his now grown daughters, favorable to banning. Unfathomable though it may be for parents of young children, we won’t always be around to nudge them into the right direction and won’t be able to shield them from the real world forever, so instead of pretending that smoking and drinking, blood and excrements, insults and racism don’t exist, we can discuss with our children what is good (or nice to talk about at the dinner table) and what isn’t. Seemingly explicit stories are implicit in their way, since it’s all about morale. But children seem to enjoy the contrasts, the predictability and the sometimes shocking simplicity: If you are bad, you’ll get thrown in the fire/well/dungeon/get your intestines cut out and die. As for the happily-ever-after farce of being rescued by a prince on a white horse and live in a castle—-I say come on, don’t rob them of all illusions.

5K and writing

What does a 5K "race" have to do with writing, other than it's obviously inspiring me to blog about it? Nothing. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to state that it is always exhilarating to penetrate a formerly unknown culture, a sub-culture even to some, almost as much as the accomplishment itself. Now, I am not new to running, nor is a 5K race a big deal, really, not even to me. I've experienced runner's high and have visits to the sports doctor on record. In my better, shapelier days from only two to three summers ago, I used to run close to 10K without flinching, but also without officially registering it anywhere, and like so many things I regret it now that sprinting to the finish line (to shake off a pesky competitor who was intent on passing me) gets me close to collapse. And, the starry-eyed look in my son's eyes when he asked me "Did you win the race, mama?" made me want to swear to run my heart out the next time. And there definitely will be a next time. What is a paltry distance of five kilometers, when you get so much in return? Bragging rights, for instance, not so much for my finishing time itself (just over half an hour--ok, seconds count here, so it was 32 min and 46 sec), which was barely faster than that of a little girl who kept sprinting randomly in front of me and looked like five, which she turned out to be. No, but because I occupied the same ranking number as the number on my runner's bib, pinned to my back (116; out of 220, mind you, so I'm among the top of the bottom half), and how many people can claim that?

The best part of any new "trip" (and in a sense, this was one), to me, is people watching. Stereotyping, another one of my favorite pastimes, is only the logical next step. Oh, I'm sure that there's a trite niche where I fit in, and that's fair enough, but let me list the types I am sure I'm bound to encounter in my future of organized running:

1. The formerly fit, now washed-up, emaciated post-hippie
2. The cute, young-at-heart, healthy-mind-in-a-healthy-body senior citizen
3. The cute kid
4. The competitive runner in total show-off mode, running to the starting location to actually win this thing, but only as a warm-up to a half-marathon the same day and the Chicago marathon in two weeks, clad in bikini with extra support (female) or topless & shaved in shorts with just barely more textile than Speedos (male); looking good from afar but SO not sexy when he accidentally rubs against you, full frontal, in the post-race line for the free Gatorade
5. The suburban serious running mom
6. The suburban mom who wants to shed a few pounds and is not dead serious about the whole thing but at least wants to contribute to a good cause-- by far the most populated category, and the one I fall into.

This felt good, like I knew it would. Can't there be an equivalent for writing?

Some action, finally (boring for...anyone but me)

To get on with the motto of this blog, I have taken some more recommended steps to becoming a writer, further reducing the time available to do it. But there is no cutting certain corners. I was afraid (still am) that one of those might be an MFA after all, because if so many outstanding, award-laden authors were not above sitting through class to get a Master of F....ing Around, as some cynic in the Poets & Writers magazine has dubbed it, who am I to pass on it?

Comparison is a double-edged sword. It does help to see or read or hear like-minded people, but if they are too like-minded and know what they're doing at that, they intimidate me. No sense denying it. In an effort to circumvent going back to school and to find more reasons why I'm not working on the last pages of that book I want to write so bad, I joined a writing group two weeks ago as well as the OCWW (Off-Campus Writer's Workshop), a great institution that has been around for over 60 years. Both may be tragically short-lived, however. Just as I was about to gush about my first writing group, the founder of the group announced her departure per e-mail. I don't know if it was something I said; without self-inflation, I tend to have my well-formed foot in my mouth at many an occasion, but I don't think so. This course of events doesn't come in all that unhandily, since I can now stage my coup of becoming the absolutistic leader (the reason why I have never joined book clubs and have waited so long for a writing group is that I have a problem with democracy in those particular settings).

As for OCWW, the problem is of an even more mundane nature, namely child care. But I am so glad that I was able to attend at least today. The lecture and following manuscript analysis were very instructive, plus I got to meet the third person ever to post a comment on this blog (the other two being my husband and a friend, both of them one-shot dealers). Yes, a small world indeed. There is so much to pay attention to in good writing, so much talent out there that needs to be kept track of. I could be discouraged, and sometimes I am, but I'm not going to be. This is fun. Looking at my stack of how-to books, all high-caliber, and the literature still to be consumed, both for pleasure and education, I suspect I'd be more apt at writing about how to become a writer than actually becoming one, as I'm doing this very second, but ... patience.