SCRIBOMANIA

Who Cares?

2011-12-02T20:04:00.001-06:00

The news about the suicide of 10-year old Ashlynn Conner from Ridge Farm, IL did make the TODAY show eventually, all the way from the quaint News-Gazette. According to the police, a ruling wasn’t expected for weeks, because when a 10-year old girl hangs herself with a scarf there may be uncertainty as to whether she really wanted to die. Weeks have passed, no news. The nation, to the extent it has noticed this small town tragedy, is back to mourning a geezer’s firing because he covered up another geezer’s raping a 10-year old boy, or the demise of Demi Moore’s latest marriage because Ashton Kutcher, on their anniversary, would rather be having sex with a 22-year old than his half-centarian wife who once looked like Demi Moore.

Ashlynn, meanwhile, was a beautiful girl with a bright smile and a sensitive soul. So sensitive that when other kids called her a slut, fat and ugly, a boy, again and again, and when she complained about it her teachers called her a tattle, she couldn’t take it anymore. The police haven’t found evidence of anything “so bad” that should have driven Ashlynn to end it all; perhaps because none of the insults made any sense? But a child who goes to school in fear of ridicule and ostracization, day after day, year after year, doesn’t have to look for the deeper meaning of life to think that there is none.

I, too have a fifth-grader daughter who turns 11 this month, like Ashlynn would have today. Just days before this story “broke,” my daughter’s principal sent out a warning about “negative behavior” toward one girl, and that bullying would not be tolerated. Could it happen to anyone? Bullies tend to pick the weaker ones. But weaknesses vary so much, and bullies’ tastes are so flexible that those it hits will never know why. I’m lucky to never having been bullied for longer than five minutes, but I witnessed classmates being emotionally abused to the point of severe physical illness. If I winced at how they were treated, what did it feel like for them? I have never participated, but, other than giving them a quick smile and low “hi” in the hallway when the “cool kids” weren’t around, I haven’t stood up for them either. To this day I am sorry.

As with any accusation, people have strong opinions on the role of bystander. Some equalize him with the perpetrator. I respectfully disagree. Doing nothing is not admirable, but standing out from the masses by actively harassing and libeling and threatening and maybe beating requires more viciousness than the nothing-doer should claim. At the other end of the spectrum there’s full absolution, bullies being just kids who don’t know what they’re doing. Sorry, not so. The kids in Ashlynn’s class are in the fifth grade, not kindergarten. They know basic right from wrong. They must have heard at least one story, presumably read at least one book on human values, delivered in kids’ terms.

But one won’t do. We do need to stand up. We parents must not only protect our own children but also look out for others. Invite the odd kid over, if only to get the picture. You can’t make your children (nor yourself) like someone they don't, but, if they’re not harmful, don’t make others like them less. The moment I find out my kids have any part in organized teasing, it will be the end of their hanging out with such “friends,” and if I witness kids bullying today, I won’t be afraid to personally set them straight, and if their parents have a problem with that, all the better.

And Ashlynn’s educators? They wanted their peace and quiet. Ashlynn got hers, her own way.

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Important Chicago conference

2009-02-16T14:15:00.004-06:00

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?

2009-01-19T19:10:00.005-06:00

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?

2008-12-10T17:12:00.004-06:00

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

2008-11-10T14:58:00.008-06:00

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

2008-10-03T14:53:00.007-05:00

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

2008-09-27T16:43:00.006-05:00

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)

2008-09-25T14:34:00.002-05:00

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.

Rainy days make for more writing time

2008-09-13T10:27:00.005-05:00

It's raining non-stop since about noon yesterday, and I noticed (again) that our house isn't fully waterproof ("again" because I had noticed the last time there was a deluge of sorts, but we preferred not to dwell on the issue and instead hope it would resolve itself by forgetting). There is something liberating about bad weather in the summer. Good weather, which was far more pervasive in Southern California, where it wore me out before moving away, implies the obligation to "go outside and play". In Chicago, where it lasts for only a few months before it gets cold again, the pressure to make the most of it is all the more intense. Now that we even have a big-gish back yard, bicycles, skate boards, helmets, tennis rackets, a NBA-height mounted basketball net and requisite balls for all games televised on regular TV, there is no excuse for not getting out on the weekends. How pathetic is it to spend the morning at Costco, sniffing the aisles for stuff we didn't know we needed, or hacking away at the computer, when a glorious late summer is going on outside? That's why on days like these I can make the most of my free time, while my husband and kids are saving money at Costco, and I can write in rainy silence. True to my assertion from yesterday, I chose the easy way in and wrote a monster e-mail to a former classmate of mine (hi P.T.!) in response to the monster e-mails he likes to write; needless to say, I am feeling in top form!

Addendum to my thoughts on voices:

Sometimes I actively (sometimes overactively) play certain roles, as expressed in either a motherly sotto voce or shriek, a wifely or girlfriendly murmur or shriek, an amplified sing-song with elderly people, an official monotone, a hostessy lilt, a wise-beyond-the-age chit-chat with my friends' parents (even as an adult), a stand-up-stand-in parody, a customer's charm when wanting something and chill when it's denied. At other times, my transformations are less obvious to myself. Not caring too much to admit it, but I often find myself adapting to my conversation partner's tone without seeing evidence of him/her doing the same. But there is little objectivity in this observation, and I am left to hope that every now and then I am of some influence, too.

These speech-related differences in behavior may be even more pronounced when different languages are in question as another variable. Depending on the language I'm conversing in, I am re-inventing myself. I have yet to find out if this is good or bad, in any case I am not quite the same person, and I suspect that this is the case with anyone who speaks more than one language. I don't think this is true for writing, however. I believe that people may pick up lots of idioms, jargon etc. from whatever author they admire in the respective language, but that their basic style stays the same, to the extents that it's translatable. Which leads me to my biggest doubt of all, and that is whether I have any business writing in English. There is always some residual doubt if things can be said this-and-that way, and I am certain that there are grammatical gaffes. Those don't disquiet me as much as they maybe should, since I am assuming there will be editorial help, if I ever get to the serious publishing stage. I just hope that the language I am hearing the most will leave a strong enough mark to put it down on paper.

Does blogging count as writing (if no one's reading)?

2008-09-12T11:23:00.005-05:00

Depends on the perspective, I'd say. If the units are frequency, quantity and convenience, then it counts ever as much as, for example, e-mailing is accepted as correspondence today, or like snacking is food, too, or the notion that facebook-stalking is socializing. If it's about yet another avoidance from a set goal (I fear going back to my first entry), then it's writing as much as "only" snacking is dieting. Whether the cruelest analogy--that blogging is writing inasmuch as celebrity and fashion magazines are literature--is also dependent on the quality of the blog, which is up to the silent readers to decide on this particular blog.

Like with singing, some voices come easier in writing than others. Of the manifold voices we all have, some are louder and are therefore easier to articulate, some are quieter, some have never been heard. The question is, then, whether in orchestrating a written performance it's more worthwhile to use those that are solid already, or to invest more time and energy to bring out the ones that don't come so naturally, in other words the old question that has been sold as new in a brand of business books: whether to work on weaknesses rather than on strengths (Marcus Buckingham is very lucratively propagating the latter).

To the extent that there is any point in these musings, I am wondering what to make of the different comfort levels in my writing styles. Here is the ease of my keystrokes, in descending order:

- E-mails, incl. longer letters
- Snail-mailed letters
- Other people's blogs (ideas are given and I just add comments, however well thought-through)
- My blog, since I have to come up with own ideas
- Non-fiction, and within this category:
- essays, where I opine on certain topics that are occasionally less fluffy than THIS, and which sometimes merge into my blog, sometimes find their way into the "deleted" file of newspaper editors
- memoirs, where I tell true stories from my exciting life, and which I also sometime incorporate into the blog, provided they meet the contents standards
- Fiction!

Uh-oh. Good thing then I am set on writing stories and a novel. What can I say, this realization has been haunting me for a while. I just find that language comes almost completely naturally to me when I write about things that have actually happened, and put my creative head into the manner in which to word them, as opposed to plotting and inventing. But like with so many things, the goodness is at the bottom of the pot, not what floats on top. Out of the comfort zone! Now!

Everything worth doing...

2008-09-05T13:02:00.009-05:00

The day after my last post, September 3, I tried to be a little bit better of a housewife than I normally am for a good reason, namely my husband's birthday. But before I go any further, let's clean up the slate of this pseudo-self-deprecating lingo that I seem to have found as my "voice" (that's lit lingo). I mean, what are people really trying to say when they paint themselves as losers, which nobody wants to be, much less be perceived as? I may be guilty of some coqueterie, as in "I'm so not made out to be a stay-at-home mom, but please try some of my fig-prosciutto salad while you wait, and take a shot of pomegranate-vodka with that, oh, I am so delinquent with my kids' activities, I'm not even involved in the PTA, the absolute minimum (which I am kind of relieved in more than one way now, because look what can happen to you-- before you know it, you're nominated for vice president), but kids, let's all sit down and do really tough word games (long as I win, hoho)". Fishing for compliments is a sport we all pursue at one point or another, I boldly presume, but I should cut the crap and say things as they are.

The truth and nothing but the truth is that I make a lasagna that has been called the best in the world by my friends, and I do have some hit salad creations, but I am likely the last person in America uncapable of pulling off a Pillsbury cake mix. The pastry that I delivered on my hubby's big day was such an offense to the eye alone that it remained untouched, and considering birthday courtesy, that is telling. I don't know what went wrong, but it takes plenty to screw up Pillsbury (chances are it would have happened with Betty Crocker as well). In an effort to ennoble the bad basic cake, I made my own buttercream frosting, as I read in a 40s home magazine (yes, I read a lot) any self-respecting housewife, no, lady, should do. The recipe from Cook's Illustrated, our bible, sounded idiot-proof. They must not have accounted for me. After sinking one pound (that's half a kilo in metric, as I still count in, and which is a lot) of butter into many eggs and even chilling the damned sticky thing after a copious hot-water bath, I tried to spread it onto the cake, which I had ambitiously baked in a heart-shaped form (post-Valentine sale at Williams Sonoma). It just dripped down the sides and onto the plate, the working surface, the floor and the cracks between the stove like greasy ick. After chilling some more, it got a little too hard, so spreading it now caused the cake base to crack, and the impression was more one of a broken heart. My son's well-meant but counterproductive attempt to help by stabbing in his toy knife and patting with his hands as soon as I turned to wipe whatever was spilled on (that would be almost everything within a 3 foot radius) did not improve the end-product, either.

Oh, and apparently I can't handle Crate & Barrel picture frames, either. I spent quite some time selecting, editing and ordering for print in different dimensions some family photos that I wanted to give their special place and, in recognition of my husband's contribution to this family, make it his birthday present. Unfortunately I was overtaxed by the concept of flip frames, so half of the pictures (6 total) are face down when you flip them (stupid fancy patents).

On the upside, I remember Joan Collins' birthday (May 23, 1933, and that's before verifying on wikipedia) but could not recall corporate (or other) law to save my life. My mother, who has saved plenty of lives, only mildly exaggerates when she claims (and demonstrates) her inability to operate answering machines or her cell phone, yet she has worked deft-handedly with extremely serious machinery while inducing anesthesia's and overseeing 20-hour surgeries.

Do you know people full of contradictions? What are yours? This is an active invitation to participate, so please post comments...

Lowering the Bar

2008-09-02T18:32:00.005-05:00

Okay, my kids are tired, my husband has, eh, digestive problems, I have to make dinner, but I want to share this one on the go. You see, I'm lulling in kind of a literary rut, both on the creative and the receiving end. Re-reading The Corrections, I can't fight this feeling (REO Speedwagon) that it was somehow better the first time (another song title: Never as good as the first time, by Sade, of whom I'm an even more rabid fan than of Jonathan Franzen). This is doubly disappointing, since I expected things to be the other way around, and I can't seem to get my plot together for my Great American Novel. So when I took my kids to the park to get them out of the house and let my ailing husband rest, and saw the latest Star Magazine on the bench, abandoned by another desperate mom or disaffected teenager (for some strange reason, playgrounds seem to be a favored after-school hangout, both here and in Europe), I threw myself on it guiltily like a junkie (more like a linebacker, really; no problem to fully cover it with my behind, so that no one else could claim possession).
Don't you love the moments when you're glad just to be a regular person, mom or not? The "46 Best & Worst Beach Bodies!" may be terribly unfair and intrusive (though not cheap) shots, but hey, with the loot you take, equally unfairly, you can take this, too, you know who you are! Granted, the authors of "Uma lets it all hang out!" evidently don't understand the laws of physics if they bash on Uma Thurman's "belly flab" while she is leaning forward at a 45 degree angle to shake out her goggles, or proverbially smack Jennifer Lopez' butt for "rocking the boat" while she is sticking out the same to keep balance, but hey again, it's SO good when it's not you! I can only imagine the blurbs for my swim shots (insert into mental picture most ungraceful moving position, tense facial expression but relaxed tissue and additional pixel-induced width): "Whew, Dragana, someone's been a good eater! The formerly curve-a-licious but now more cowlike mom of two, trying to catch up with N. (7) and M. (almost 5, snatched by the lifeguard), shows her little one's that there's a lot more energy to burn! Good luck! And, while we're at it, your bikini is a little too itsy bitsy teenie weeny (huh huh huh)!"
Ah, this felt good. Now I have to eat.

Printer's Ball (didn't have a ball)

2008-08-27T14:39:00.004-05:00

Oh, the things we think we don’t remember. Like, how we talked back to our parents and talked nonsense with our friends. What it felt like to get dumped (or dinged) the first time. Why we thought we’d look cool if we dressed like Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan. Or, why we chose to get a law degree instead of an MFA. While that decision may never be fully explained, I came a lot closer to finding out last Friday. The founder of my writing group, as yet unattended by me due to (not just my) scheduling conflicts, forwarded an e-mail informing us about the third annual “Printer’s Ball” thrown by the Poetry Foundation, which was to take place at no less hip a venue than the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. Probably because I am largely ignoring poetry I have never heard of the foundation nor of this event, but this “celebration” was supposed to showcase Chicago literature’s local publications such as newspapers, magazines, journals and books from many sources, touted as “the biggest annual event in Chicago publishing” (TimeOut Chicago, which at one point also used the word “gala”).

Utterly unartistic though it may sound, I should have been skeptical when I saw that it was free; not that I’d expected a glossy party (ok, I hoped for it, but even my naïve and cheap self didn’t believe in free drinks); after all, even book and job fairs usually charge for entry. But my hope for free fun and networking triumphed over sense and convenience. My husband was traveling again, which doesn’t happen as often as it sounds, it just always happens when I want to go somewhere, so I dropped off my kids at their friend’s awfully nice parents and took on the battle with beyond-murderous Friday evening traffic. It is enough of an issue for my suburban existence that I actually penned a story about it a while ago, not just any story, but my official entry into the Illinois Emerging Writers Competition late in June (I reported in my last post, between which and now a lot was going on, but I need to be selective with my coverage. This may give reason to worry, as I realize). I will write about the outcome only if I win; no loser talk in this blog.

I have built this up too much already, but some events are just too trite to talk about. Among the few bits of info that I am willing to give away is the astonishing fact (to some) that this thing could have held its own with any given grimy, grungy, messy fête, minus the indoor smoke, that I have attended as a Gen Xer at Frankfurt University. And that is not a good thing, although often times I did have fun there, 15 to 20 years ago. Which is about the age gap that separated me from the average party guest at Printer’s Ball. That fact alone may not have been so horrible if there had been something that was of the remotest interest to me. But between indie publications on “minority” issues, some of the stacks on display carrying the date of the year 2001, jackhammer and chainsaw sounds from the band, beer spilled from plastic cups, puke in the toilets, snotty hankies in every cavity, and people uniformly dressed in a style that was supposed to convey “unpretentious” but was just negligent, a total pretense in itself, I had enough before I made the first round, desperately thirsty for a drink but not willing to cough up restaurant prices for wine served in plastic cups out of 5-liter canisters. Maybe I’ve lost my ability to network, or maybe there wasn’t any net to work with, I don’t know. All I know that it was a flippin’ waste of time and gas and garage money, and few things can bring me down faster than that. After this flop, I will research some more venues to invest my efforts in.

Tic-toc, goes the inner clock

2008-06-27T10:22:00.008-05:00

It's an interesting phenomenon, personal time management. Even the least gifted in that area, people like myself, do possess something like an inner clock that lets them expand the fourth dimension to the limit, then snaps and somehow, almost miraculously, arranges the particles of one's obligations to fall into place. Before I engage further into a lowbrow imitation of Science Friday, let me give an overview of what's on my plate, for my own benefit (whose elses, silly rhetoric). I am going on a month+ trip to Europe this Sunday with two kids, still have not completely ruled out the possibility of flying tonight, if my standby status clears, the suitcases are completely empty, although there are piles of clothes on my bed, if you want to count that as packing efforts, I am working on the last touch-ups on a manuscript that I want to turn in for the Illinois Emerging Writers Competition, deadline June 30, which means it needs to be in the mailbag by tomorrow, and yet here I am blogging, both in my own blog as well as a German blog I discovered that is run by my favorite "migrant" newcomer (see my March 21 entry) Saša Stanišić and heavy on hip poetry, which is apparently what has been missing from my spirit until now.

So I post a short fan letter on that blog, which is pretty austere, whether out of fashionability or the webmaster's limitations, and he writes me a relatively elaborate personal email hours later! I was ecstatic. What a nice person with zero ego but a great personality. Getting a little piece of authors' attention still excites me to no end because this is only the second time this has happened to me-- albeit out of only two times that I have addressed authors, so it can be said that I draw a 100% response rate.

The only other recipient of my (larger scale) expressions of profound admiration has been Lionel Shriver. She (!) has not been granted instant success like Saša, instead has been toiling away for decades under the radar of literary criticism, until at long last she gained broad recognition that she has deserved for so long with her Orange Prize-winning horror story We Need To Talk About Kevin (getting stocked at Costco is probably as close to becoming a household name as it gets). This, her best-known book, was the last of four of hers that I have read, and I promise that it will kick you away (if you consider this a good thing, in terms of literature). I wrote her a longish letter via her publisher, hoping for but not really expecting an answer, but lo, a few weeks later I got a blue-and-red framed Royal Mail envelope from London, where she lives. The fact that two successful authors, who must have so much on their minds, as evidenced by their writing, and who must be used to so much more high-profile praise, actually take the time to sit down and deal with my takes on their works truly gratified me. Could it mean that success and celebrity, at least in some circles, still leaves you a normal, humble, perfectly polite human being? It is sort of unsettling that this came as such a surprise, but in todays celebrity- and money-obsessed culture, it had to. Could it also mean that wide success does not make you immune to compliments? For me to assume that there was anything in my letters to make them stand out from others would be sneaking in too much self-praise, but I am still baffled that pep-talk from a virtual nobody moved them enough to direct some of their valuable words to me.

It's time to go (to the mall).

My first foray into the (g)literati scene of Highland Park, IL

2008-06-20T09:42:00.009-05:00

I love to party. I have woefully neglected this love of mine because of a set of circumstances that weren’t entirely of my own choosing (or so I choose to believe), but as the newly discovered seasons change, the fête season is picking up as well. Picky is something I haven't been in the position to be lately, having found myself a semi-regular at Chuck-E-Cheese’s and elevating that to the highlight of my day, since it’s supposedly all about positive thinking. Thus, the “East on Central Publication Party 2008”, thrown in my and a couple dozen other verbal and visual artists’ honor, at Saks 5th Avenue no less, was an event that had generated internal buzz for weeks, which I had to externalize for tension relief in a very amateurish way, e.g., by live-update postings on Facebook and Skype (which is a whole other story, but ‘nuff said for now).

In preparing for my five minutes in the sun, I gave my hair a nice “mask”, dressed in black, made the man at my side wear black (“But it’s summer!” “It’s art, do as I say. This isn't California.” “Those black slippers make me look gay!” “Good.”), briefed the latest in our succession of teenage caregivers (“I’m more of a book person” when asked about familiarity with DirecTV, coming from a 13-year old boy, which is what we’ve come down to, lifted my comfort level instantly), buckled my foot-torture devices and went downtown… Highland Park. I shouldn’t scoff at the North Shore suburb which is my current residence, for it’s a town with a high musical and bookish average. Not exactly defying my expectations, we hit the upper end of the average’s factors, since the median age was about 65, not counting the grandchildren some of the laureates brought along as their posse. My husbands remark “Wow, you are by far the youngest here, and you are pretty old” went down like truffle oil and made up for the fact that there was no red carpet rolled in front of Saks (paparazzi, yes, but indoors only).

I’ve got to hand it to the Highland Parkers: They know how to make a wicked party mix. Free booze (and cute little Saks-logo’ed water bottles for alibi), viciously tasty butter and chocolate fondant cookies, right next to the sales rack of cute designer dresses, predominantly size 2, and anti-wrinkle creams (of which Kiehl’s sponsored a generous pile of samples in our goody bags). After mingling, easier in lockstep with inebriation, came payback time: We took our seats and pretended to focus on the poetry slams and art discussions, which, in daylight and with a fresh mind, could have been truly enriching (and are as of today), but, alas, weren’t in this particular setting. I bear no illusions that had I been called up to read my story (p. 92, prominently featured in the table of contents in the first line of the second page), the crowd would have been befallen by a narcolepsy attack like in Sleeping Beauty (then again, one may not be conditioned by the other).

All in all, I didn’t meet any big name (or any) agents or exchanged numbers with more than three people. But those with whom I did were very nice, seemed interested and could be links to my long overdue involvement in the community. And for that I thank them in advance.

Tempus fugit

2008-06-11T14:08:00.004-05:00

It has been two months to the day since my last post (ahem, I might as well call this journal entry, since it's entirely private). Not that I was looking out for a round number or anniversary of sorts, I just happened to post a comment on somebody's lit blog myself, which then--wonders of the Internet!-- linked to my own.

Turns out I could have made it to New York after all, since my husband's trip was canceled. But lo, once my goal came closer, I didn't feel I was all that indispensible anymore. Suddenly the hassle, cost and potentital disappointment of it all outweighed the euphoria. Is that sad or wise? Isn't it funny (or sad) how we think we'd be the happiest person in the world, at least for a moment, if we achieved XYZ, and once we do or it moves out of our fantasy and within our reach, it's not all that fantastic anymore? I am not a superstitious person. But I try to fit into fate's schedule every once in a while. Thus, I was almost hoping that my positive response to the organizers' previous positive response would come too late, and when it did, I was relieved of the burden of prolonged pondering.

I have put the last two months to hopefully good use. My book is going so-so, still no clear outline or idea where it's going. But I did throw a short story that I've been working on for months into three contests and one short story-only magazine. I'm curious as to how it's going to go, since I'm not clear on the criteria. I mean, there obviously are literary elements that the chosen works must contain, or some big fat mistakes they must not. What I wonder, and I'm not sure anyone could answer this, is inhowfar the jury or editors honor the craft, and how much is personal taste. I have read a number of short stories in the meantime, including selections from the Best American-series and the Iowa award, and while I am reverential to every published author, some stories impressed me far more than others. It comes down to human nature, I guess.

The Mother of All Bummers

2008-04-11T17:04:00.007-05:00

Three days ago I found out about the PEN World Voices Festival taking place in New York from April 29 through May 4. Loads of authors I know (from reading, that is) have filed appearances, and I immediately knew I had to go. I was too excited to even read the extensive info on the web page, but did see that they were looking for volunteers (today was the deadline) and fired off the most ardent e-mail I could think of in my state of ecstasy. When my e-mail box didn't show the two relevant names the next day, I was disappointed, only to find a voice message on my machine at home, professing interest and asking for a return call. After the initial shock, which I dealt with spontaneously by throwing a pile of clothes for a wash and dusting off my bedposts, I gave my son a bear hug, planted him on the couch, turned on the TV with whatever had flickering animated pictures in it (yes, I, too love the dumbbox sometimes) and told him that I really, really needed him to let me have a phone talk now. It was like job interviewing all over again, complete with blood rush, hot and cold flashes, stammering and silly faces, bragging and butt-kissing. And this talking about a volunteer position with someone who sounded like straight out of college. Adolescent or not, he did say that I was "obviously extremely well-credentialed", although they unfortunately could not cover my travel expenses or room & board, much less pay me for my expertise, since that's what volunteering was about. But it has been an extremely long time since anyone has said something so nice to me that involved credentials of any sort, so he had me at "well". I could work it out, I thought and said, I would have him post an ad that I was looking to share a room, and I would contact NYU and Columbia to do the same, and it would make me 10,15 years younger instantly without the anti-wrinkle serums I have recently taken to dabbing onto my face in increased doses (high ponytail and no make-up do the best trick, by the way). I would find a cheap airfare, red-eye if need be. I could even take the biggest hurdle, the care for my children: My husband could cover, a few half-days off is all it would take, since they had school, and I could roam among the glitzy and famous! Schmooze with Jeffrey Eugenides about Chicago, suck up to Bernhard Schlink how I thought his public law books were the best, bond with Joyce Carol Oates over I don't know what, tell Mia Farrow that my mom was wrong for thinking she was an airhead and that I liked her blog, yuck it up with Steven Pinker about that language thing he and I are infatuated with, check whether Daniel Kehlmann really is a genius and reminisce with Saša Stanišić about Yugoland and coming to Germany and see if he is funny in person, too. Not to mention that I would be making all those friends among publishers, editors and agents. Oh, and we would party all the time, too. I was so star-struck I am lightheaded even as I write this, obviously. True, the volunteer pool admin guy made it very clear that I should nip any aspirations for glamour in the bud, since the work was very “flat”. The volunteers were mainly supposed roam cross-town and cater to last-minute whims of people higher in the event’s hierarchy, in other words, everyone’s. But, oh, just to be there!

But then life caught up with me. As my luck would want it, among my husband's thankfully very thin travel schedule for this year is a week-long meeting in L.A., which New Yorkers and Angelenos alike label as the opposite of New York, for better or worse. No chance of rescheduling, either. Bye-bye, big-shot conference. Will there be a next time? Not sure. I try to tell myself that my state of mind could go back to what it was like three days ago, which was less depressed, but it's the way it is: Once you know something, you can't un-know it. And, knowing that a fun event is going on without you, the sense of missing something, is a bummer of a very basic kind.

On the roll (not me)

2008-04-04T10:37:00.012-05:00

Something's on the roll, but unfortunately without me. I have entertained the thought that it may have to do with selective perception more than with anything else, but the news, as selected by the editors, seem pegged to my brainstorms, see the last entry. Yesterday it happened again. Having read "Mom lets 9-year old son ride subway alone" http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23935873, prominently featured on my homepage in what I can't quite call disbelief, since I have come to be prepared for any sort of news making the headlines these days, I contacted the woman in question immediately (a columnist herself). Since plenty of people are sure to have made uncalled for remarks about her childrearing practices, no additional comments, but I had a question of practical nature of another sort:

As coincidence would want it, I have penned a 1200-word article on what I perceive to be a safety craze in this country just a few days ago, and I wondered if she had any suggestions on where to pitch it. Probably silly and naïve of me, but I thought that as a fellow writer and mother she might as well be disposed to support me, since I support her stance (ok, I'm not her fellow; she's on Wikipedia, and this blog is not even googlable: I just checked, and it asked me if I meant Dragonball). Not waiting for Ms. Skenazy's reply (which hasn't come as of blog time), in my newfound spirit of enterprise, I emailed the editors of the Today show online edition, got an automated reply, grabbed the phone and called the New York number in the message, talked to the second person in the phone chain at NBC (if only I had the stamina of my youth to get through to the equivalent of Jack Donaghue, if you watch 30 Rock-- if not, I highly recommend it despite my anti-TV air), who gave me a second email address, mailed by entire article, not worrying about copyright, got another automated email, and that's the status quo. I am aware that my initiative is laughably amateurish, though hopefully not hopelessly so. I will give them until Monday and then try to contact them again.

In related updates, I have pitched said article in a modified form to Newsweek's MyTurn column (with a 0.5% chance of getting the time of day, or *week*) and asked Chicago parents magazine if they were interested (they're not "at this time", claiming that they don't have an opinion column, which is not true). I have offered (twice) to review for Bookpage and Booklist, specified one book and addressed my email to the proper editors, they are keeping mum. Also, I have submitted another short-story to a publication searching for stories that "must be true, uplifting and inspirational", and whom better to call on that than me, right?!

Are those signs?

2008-04-02T17:44:00.005-05:00

More strange things are happening in addition to my semi-acute case of word loss, which are prompting a second entry on the same day, for the first time.

As my computer loaded Internet Explorer and defaulted to my msnbc.com homepage, which is closely collaborating with Newsweek, I came across the highlighted - updated!- blurb that gangsta rap glamorizes drug use, as confirmed by a study. I am shocked. Outraged. Sorely disappointed. Next they're going to find that the odds of getting a stupid name are higher if at least one of your parents is a celebrity, but luckily there is going to be a study to tell us why. I double-checked that I wasn't accidentally reading The Onion.

Among the things that really get me going are studies on trendy subjects conducted by fancy-titled scholars from more or less renowned academic institutions, who then publish findings so trite and commonsensical that I can only scratch my head, slap my not-so-firm thighs and wonder less who needs that sort of information in this age of extreme info overload (to which I am contributing with this very blog), but more who funds this. It adds to the comedy when these scientific data are framed in journalistic lingo in serious publications.

In true versatile super-mom fashion, I like to scan the Wall Street Journal every morning, starting with the "world-wide" front news column, where happenings outside the U.S. and occasionally even outside of Iraq are given a few lines each, then skipping to the opinion page to see if a luminary I have an opinion about has something interesting to say, but most often I grab the Personal Journal straight. I am grateful that formerly gunpowder-dry news powerhouses and trade papers have popularized themselves a bit, even tinted their pages, because it allows me to truthfully claim that I am a daily reader of the Wall Street Journal, when I am really consuming "soft" news about lifestyle, fashion, work-life balance, famous people's movie and music picks, and, of course, arts and literature. I am even more grateful when a well-regarded newspaper like that alerts me on the latest statistics in areas of my interest. So imagine my distress when I read yesterday, as a headline in the Personal Journal, that "Women M.B.As [are] more likely to divorce than men", adding in smaller print that things don't look much better for medicine and law graduates. They name names, they spill numbers-- those are hard facts. For instance, 12% of women with an M.B.A. are divorced or separated, whereas only 11% of women with bachelor's degrees are. That's a 1% difference! The article is filled with more stats on law or medical graduates' divorce habits, juxtaposed to those of men, ruminations on the weird inverse proportion between women's earning potential and the number of kids they put out, and concludes by advising "well-educated, highly compensated women" as well as "super-credentialed" ones (those with graduate degrees-- that would be me, yippieh, I'm addressed!!) "should be targeting particularly loving and supportive men."

O-kay. I don't think this needs any comment.

The latest Personal Journal study du jour even made the front page, likely because it deals with Americans' happiness, the most coveted, Oprah-ized state of them all. To start out fair, the conclusion on this one, at least as drawn by the editor, is that people should be doing other things with their leisure time than watch TV. I couldn't agree more. I am writing this as my kids are playing Disney games on the TV monitor, and I read the article itself while my son was watching a Power Ranger DVD, so that doesn't stricly qualify as television, at least not broadcast. But the key term here is the concept of time. Five professors from places like Princeton and sunny UCSD, upon testing thousands of Americans on their happiness level in relation to their lives' "episodes" have found that people were happiest when immersed in "engaging leisure and spiritual activities," things like visiting friends, exercising, attending church, listening to music, fishing, reading a book, sitting in a cafe or going to a party. When we spend time on our favorite of these activities, we're typically happy, engrossed and not especially stressed.". The contributor further concludes what is "The obvious implication: If we devote more time to these activities, maybe we would be more satisfied with our lives." So they are telling us that if only we partied more, went fishing or hiking and hung out at Starbucks reading, we'd be happier. Who would've thought? I bet all those working folks are really glad to hear that.

But here comes the twist that will reveal my ignominy, if not in full, then to a large extent: I saw the gangsta rap study after coming from the gym, caught up on the phone twice today with my dear South African friend in San Diego, read my book while listening to music and attended a play date at the park. And the TV is off (now)! With most of the happiness ingredients checked, I should be the last person on earth to mouth off about anything, but here I go again. I am practicing writing, you see.

And then, the last straw: I check back online because I want to type this posting, and the first thing I see is this!
Rats! Scooped again!

At A Loss for Words

2008-04-02T12:08:00.001-05:00

Something has been happening to my brain's language center lately. It seems the more I read (which I do), the harder it is to find the right words. It doesn't make any sense, except that I might be suffering from word overload and something has to give, in this case my ability for word choice. But I noticed too often to call it a lapse how I recognize an expression to be the most descriptive one only after I read it in, say, an interview, or a book review, or when speaking to someone on the phone. Favorites include the terms dynamic, systematic, fatigue, trustworthy, and many more that pop up and I think that that's what I was searching for but can't find them again right now. Whatever the cause, it it something I need to get a grip on if I want to continue what I'm doing.

Quick update on my future as a published writer that seemed more than just wishful thinking the other day: The editor-in-chief of the publication in question updated me yesterday that they will make a concesion on one of my editorial remarks, but otherwise stick to theirs. They would notify me of the final pub decision by the end of the month in writing. Yeah, that's why I said I won't believe anything unless it's in writing. That's not the lawyer in me speaking, who's a total goof, but the voice of reason. I can only hope that I did not jinx my good fortune by even mentioning the unmentionable. And, maybe I should have been more insisting about my version? What if I came over as a dilettante, maybe it was just a test? Not much I can do about it now other than write, write, write, to produce a stack just in case that I can show to other houses.

Unexpected developments

2008-03-25T15:58:00.003-05:00

Fans, thanks for checking back in, and as a reward to your loyalty I have some news: This blog may be worth more than it looks.
Okay, I was going to say that this is probably the biggest letdown since the Spice Girls Reunion tour in the U.S., except that I didn't get as much build-up, but I'll explain, if you stick around for just a little more drama.

Last Sunday I had a bad day (no, that's not part of the news). It was a particularly bad day because it had all the ingredients of a very good day: Easter Sunday, spring break, husband took more than a week off, healthy kids, roof over our heads, pure luxury problems. La la la. Probably as a punsihment for bashing on the paperback bestseller Eat Pray Love with a friend two days earlier (you know who you are) without having read it, suddenly I was THAT kind of woman. The kind who seemingly has it all but can never get enough, who cannot lift her ever-expanding behind to do anything about her imaginary misery but whines and has tantrums that would embarrass a three-year old (honest).

Just as my husband was about to outsource me for an afternoon on the town ("go to the spa to let off some steam, or the Art Institute"-- hmm, interesting combo for working off aggression), I checked my e-mail because I like to stay abreast of the latest jackpot winnings and pleasure-enhancing novelties even at moments of emotional urgency. And there it was, the most unlikely of messages, on a Sunday: A magazine wants to publish one of my short stories. It's a quarterly publication dedicated "to the arts and letters in Highland Park", so it's not exactly the New Yorker, nor do I know if anyone but me had answered the submission call for the upcoming anniversary issue, but isn't it something?

I am now on the other side of the table of what I used to do for years, namely I am working with the editors on some alterations they proposed (explaining jokes on MS word change tracker highlights is almost as excruciating as live), and I will believe it only when I hold the booklet and see my name in print. The very first submission resulting in publication, this may place me out of competition!!! (in the sense of journalistic accuracy, this does not include the recent contribution in the Chicago Tribune, albeit anonymized, on the only subject I have thus far been called on as an authority-- bad date experiences, as well as an infamous letter to the editors of the Frankfurter Allgemeine, Germany's equivalent of the Wall Street Journal in 1991, which had led to weeks of hate-mail but has made me a local celebrity in absentia in a few towns in Serbia, where my letter has been translated without my knowledge nor approval, so I'd rather never know what it said).

I am still awaiting responses on a few other manuscripts I have circulating, but this one was definitely worth a blog entry!

Hoping that I will be forgiven for this sort of self-aggrandizement, I will keep working on the feeling of success, however tiny.

Springtime!

2008-03-21T23:16:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was the first day of spring, our six-month anniversary of having moved from San Diego back to north of Chicago (what the... were we thinking), it's Good Friday, and we are not being good Catholics, but more interestingly, outside it looks just like on the background picture for my blog, which I had picked for a lack of IT skills to create a different one. I feel cheated. We have had rough weather, pretty-looking or not, for about four months now. How impossibly shallow to talk about the weather, anyway, but it's hard to avoid.

I have been reading vigorously and with much gusto. As for the writing, some projects are moving along smoother than others. I have had my doubts whether reading so much while writing is beneficial or detrimental to my creativity even before Writer magazine picked it as the March pro-con cover story, but even though I agree with the points the con-author makes (above all, for self-inflicting miserable feelings of impotence, apart from the obvious, such as distraction and usage of valuable time), I can't possibly not read. That would be like advising me not to breathe. To my huge relief, Francine Prose, who composed the wonderful book "Reading Like a Writer" (one of many how-to guides, and one I keep returning to), also wholeheartedly supports my position. She flat-out stated that literary influence was desirable, so I am breathing a little easier while reading. But I am also busy remixing a few short stories and a personal essay I plan to submit in a few days. I already have submitted two for contests! No reaction so far, which is probably the way it's going to stay, but at least I am plunging my toes in.

I just read two "migrant-lit" books back to back, though it's always a bad idea to do that within a category . As expected, because the first one happened to impress me a lot, the second one did not, probably much less than if I had read it out of context. The first one was in German, by this kid Saša Stanišić (how sad that I am calling someone kid who is turning 30 this year and was 28 when the book was published), who recently argued that the very term "migrant literature" was a misnomer. He came to Germany as a Serbian refugee from Bosnia when he was 14 without speaking a word of German, and pulls off this incredibly poetic, touching, witty book (think Jonathan Safran Foer getting drunk with Gary Shteyngart), after having started publishing back in 2001! I checked out his blog, which he presumably writes on quicker notice and without much editorial assistance, and he's just brilliant. Ambitious writing in a language other than one's first is not a literary unicum, but it's still relatively rare. Among those a Nataša Radojčić-Kane (she dropped the second last name for her second book, I don't know if she got divorced or if she realized that hyphenated, hard to pronounce names with funny characters not easily supported by standard word processing systems are usually not predestined for megasellerdom:-). Her first novel also dealt with the 1990s carnage in Bosnia, but what a difference. I was partial towards her, which I know I shouldn't be, but she is from Belgrade, came to the USA in her twenties and is a woman a few years older than me, but how flat she fell compared to cocksure firecracker Saša! The fact that, unlike me, she holds an undergraduate degree in English and an MFA in writing, both from highly reputable schools in New York City, is both intimidating and reassuring. Another one, albeit with the Russian-English axis and slightly younger, is Lara Vapnyar. She's got it made. She has also published two books, one of which I've read with delight, and her short stories keep appearing in the New Yorker. She's damn good.

Those migrants are dulling my marketing edge, though. If nothing else, I was counting on promoting myself as the émigré, drawing attention ("look at!") to how well I think I have mastered a foreign language. Looks like I won't be turning heads with that fact (?) alone, and that's probably a good thing. Good night.

Skidding like on snow (oh what cliché)

2008-02-06T11:34:00.001-06:00

Why am I avoiding it again? I am coming up with plenty of subjects, just none for writing purposes. What’s going on?

Have I become too serious about this, so now it’s become an obligation that I want out of? What have I to lose, other than what remains of my self-respect? That would be an expensive price to pay for not typing away at this laptop every day, or at least every couple of.

What do I have to tell, then? The pros are right when they say Just tell the damn story. The same thing anyone would say (or think) when someone goes on and on about something without getting to the point or moving the story forward.

I want to tell interesting things, but I also want to write them nicely. Of course what’s interesting to me may not be to others, so it really is a work of art to keep readers engaged over hundreds of pages. Even works by the best and brightest hit occasional slumps, but how to make readers care overall? By writing well, I get it. I don’t care what my favorite writers write about, as long as they write.

I find it very hard to stray from the autobiographical path. I know that many writers, if not most, incorporate some personal experience into their novels, but there’s no way of knowing what percentage is fact and what fiction. The invented part is what intrigues me. It’s the beauty of fiction that things don’t have to have happened that way, that you, as the author, are allowed to fabricate your story the way you would have liked it to happen. You are even required to do that, unless you want to categorize it as a memoir. Maybe I just lack imagination, but I am significantly less fluent at describing situations or, let alone, sensations that I have not lived through, than those that I have. Writing-advice authorities stress the “continuous dream” as the necessary Leitmotiv of the plot (yes, I have learned that plot and story are not synonymous), while at the same time warning against the “and then she woke up” anticlimax. Incidentally, this is the intro I chose for my very first writing exercise that I hope will grow into a book, so this foray may not bode well. But I want to end this entry on a positive note, so let me promise I will work on a potpourri of dreams, wishful thinking and actual events. As far as I can tell, this creative skill is a mix of talents itself: acting, writing, and cooking (yes, cooking).

Scientific Approach

2008-01-04T15:41:00.000-06:00

I have read several books on writing, reading like writing and writing like reading, and still have some to go, in addition to the two or three monthly publications on writing I have taken to consulting. This is supposed to help be become a writer, though I am not sure if all the info I am ingesting is not ending up distracting me from my original goal and distorting whatever inspiration I had on my own, free from expert influence. That’s without taking into account the time it takes to write and read, including material on my book list for pure pleasure. Although at this point one might say that pleasure and work combine, since every reading session is another writing lesson—isn’t that great?

Like in all self help-books, there are common threads that can be summed up and save the time it takes to read another book on the same subject, but my thirst for knowledge is hard to quench at the moment, and my fear on missing out on something, a general trait of mine, is superseding efficiency.

The gist goes something like this: Write and rewrite regularly and establish vigorous discipline. Some writers suggest writing at set times to the minute, practicing “on demand” writing, some are adamant about writing every day, no matter what, some seem a little more laid back in that they advise taking some time of the day. The point is to overcome intrinsic inhibitions, to turn off the internal editor and to just get to writing, regardless of what it looks or sounds like. Some day, the experts claim, this will unleash the inner genius and form into flowing, potable prose.

I always had self-discipline issues. But, as I stated in my initial entry, I am doing a little better now that this is entirely my own endeavor. Though I could do even better than that.

Doubts and Hopes

2007-12-19T11:12:00.000-06:00

What is success if you have no one to share it with? A philosophical question with tremendous practical implications for the future layout of my daily life. Is it even success if I, say, stick to my routine and fulfill my self-imposed 1000 words-per-day requirement, if I don’t even have an outline for a book yet? And if I did, what good would it do me if the odds of my getting published are just marginally higher than winning the lotto, as the experts keep telling me? And why am I blogging, anyway, if no one (and I mean no one) is reading it? Reading, then. Essential to writing and obviously lower-pressured to produce visible results, and I love it, always have, but what is the value (verbal enrichment, at the least, spiritual at its best) if there is no one to discuss it with, which is to reap the true benefits?

I have pondered for at least 15 years whether our own, private opinion about our actions, our appearance, in short ourselves, counts more than the public opinion. And I am not talking about public figures of any sort, just society as Everyman’s surroundings. There certainly are individual differences in how much weight we place on the impression we leave on others, but I challenge anyone to show me that he or she is truly independent from even casual acquaintances’ or strangers’ judgments.

What does that have to do with writing? Well, if I didn’t want at least a certain, marketable amount of people to have interest in what I have to say, I would toss out the idea of publishing and just resign myself to journal writing (if I could still be bothered). I was never accused of being a free spirit, but I doubt that even the most prolific authors are, as far as their work is concerned. They just can’t write whatever they want to and hope to sell, unless they can afford to neglect the business part of their occupation. Maybe the trick is to “train” the spirit so that its output is printable but still retains the genius. A long way to go for me, so let’s go.

Reviewing process

2007-12-18T13:59:00.002-06:00

I posted another amazon book review yesterday, on Faint Praise, by a longtime freelancer named Gail Pool. It's a book about book reviewing . Sounds like one of those convoluted, novel-in-a-novel (or film-in-a-film) constructions, and, in a way, it was: I had to be particularly careful to observe the do's and don'ts as laid out by the author so as not to fall from her (imagined) grace. But no amount of care, writing prowess or humor could possibly measure up to the critique (which, I learned, is basically a review at length) on the same book that was coincidentally published in the December 10 issue of the New Republic by James Wolcott. It made me laugh out loud several times. The guy is full of mordant wit, which he used to simultaneously make benign fun of Ms. Pool's plight and to agree with her on principle. If I had checked out Wolcott's take on it first, I could have skipped reading the darn thing and saved two days, since he included generous citations of the premise's cornerstones. That's research 101, and I should have known better, but it's been a while since grad school. The article also led me to more related info, and thanks to the internet, specifically Wikipedia, I got there very quickly. I now know more about Michiko Kakutani (we are not New York Times subscribers), who Ben Yagoda is and that he also writes very funnily, as does a former Yale classmate of Kakutani's who published a hilarious spoof on her. Armed with those names, I instantly felt more empowered to hold my own at a literati party, should I ever come close to one.

No, I don't think that this sort of information is crucial to anyone, but I learned a few things. Among them, unfortunately, is overflowing evidence of how flippin' hard it is to be a successful writer. Reasonably, I shouldn't be harboring any hopes whatsoever, but I do. Because, simply put, this hope and my actions propelled by it, like yesterday morning's pastime, make me happy.

Writing, thinking about nothing in particular, writing...

2007-12-13T20:26:00.002-06:00

A gorgeous, frigid day. I am looking out the window again and, still in the weaning process after my re-relocation from southern California, marvel at the thick blanket of snow. The reflecting light from the mercilessly distant sun is making everything surreally bright, especially at night. I am surprised that the creek has not frozen still, but still trickles its way through the snowy hills, as much as there’s to speak of in Chicagoland, but I was never much of a nature person. Nature lover, yes, since my quarter-life crisis at least, but a city-kid-turned-suburban-mom who is clueless at best and completely helpless if left to her own devices in the wilderness.
The sight reminds me, distant as the link is, of the Japanese animated version of Heidi, a Swiss tale about an adorable, red-cheeked orphan who gets in the temporary custody of her grumpy hermit of grandfather in the Alps. The show was hugely popular in the 70s, and I used to love it. How great, then, was my consternation when I recently found out that it has caused quite some socio-cultural stir in other countries. Heidi has the happiest time imaginable with grandpa, who makes her cheese sandwiches by holding the skewer in the fire until the cheese melts and drops, tucks her into her hay bed while she looks at the pure-air starry night, and who, despite being shunned by the villagers, has a pedagogically irreproachable way with Heidi. After a blissful while, she gets whisked away to the city of Frankfurt by her aunt to live in a stately home as the companion of a sickly girl with a loving but eternally traveling father (management consultant would be his modern job description) and a spectacularly mean governess. She gets to wear fancy clothes, has her own tastefully decorated room, receives education and learns table manners, but nearly withers away. It is only when she gets sent back to her natural habitat (and grandpa, of course) that she blossoms again. So healthy is the mountain life that even Clara, who was wheelchair-bound for undisclosed reasons, can walk again after a visit and a diet of whole, hormone-free cow’s and goat milk, free-range eggs and pesticide-free herbs.

If I sound ironic, it is not on account of the story, much less the adaptation. It was a show of such lasting feel-good content to me that the analysis I became aware of decades later seemed not just absurd, it was bordering on blasphemous. Apparently, some Muslim nations were unsure what to make of grandpa, who was my favorite character because I identified many character traits of my own grandfather in him. In a literary sense, he was also the most interesting because of some dark spot in his past that caused him to live as remotely as he did—but not that kind of dark secret, as one is (very sadly) prompted to assume today in a story setting where a little girl is living with an oddball old man. Interestingly, this is apparently not at all what the watchdogs were concerned about. It was grandpa’s physique: his prominent white beard was too, um, religiously provocative, if I understood correctly. Even if I didn’t, I felt selfish relief that this was the “only” objection.

Even wackier was another controversy I learned about from my Argentinean friends. Buenos Aires is known to have a higher per-capita ratio of shrinks to inhabitants than New York City, so with that in mind, it may not come as such a surprise that Heidi made it to panel discussions of grief experts and reached widespread notoriety. The sadness quotient was seen as too high, and parents were discouraged from allowing their children to watch because they might just get too depressed. I did not have the impression that the Argentineans’ sense of humor (and talk about “feel-good”) differed so much from mine, especially given that no depression potential escapes me, but then clearly this advice, if coming from practicing psychoanalysts, was not entirely altruistic. Now that I think about it, I am detecting blatant melancholy in loads of children’s series. Reportedly Caillou has dealt with death (though whether an elder relative or a ferret, I don’t know), his name is way too francophile, and his involved, post-hippie dad so maddeningly patient and perfect that it must make every real father feel like a failure. Teletubbies and Boobah were most likely produced while on LSD and are one of the most mind-numbing British exports since Creutzfeld-Jacob’s disease, and the Barney kids with their ultraphony smiles and blow-dryed hair waves look like they once were JonBenet Ramsey’s competitors.

Now that I have successfully evaded literary examination of any sort, let alone progress on my book, but instead have steered towards celebrity culture, I might as well continue. The real distractors nowadays, while at my “workplace”, are not other people or noise or even loopy thoughts while gazing through the aforementioned window. It is celebrity. To be more exact, the term that has widely replaced “pop-culture” as manifested in pertinent magazines, some of which even bastions of real culture such as libraries are not above circulating, and, worse, the internet. It has become hard to bypass the inviting displays of People magazine or Entertainment Weekly without grabbing the latest copy, even when the retouched face on the cover doesn’t interest me in the least, and it is practically impossible for me (why lie) not to scroll to the gossip column included in my free web-based e-mail program. A few sharp-penned writers have already remarked on the nation’s insatiability on celebrity dish and raised the question WHY, but apparently not sufficiently. I still don’t get why I, with my professed disdain for mass “culture” feel the need to know who’s banging whom in Hollywood and elsewhere, who’s pregnant, who’s divorcing, who’s losing custody of their kids, who’s getting in and out of rehab, you get the idea. Notice how most of the activities on the list have a negative connotation, and perhaps therein lies the key. Akin to real-life gossip, do we need to elevate ourselves by putting someone else down (or learning about it), in this case someone who is so much better-looking and richer than we are and gets invited to all the cool parties? It is a question I do not like to confront but probably should. The explanation that we like gossip mags, much like junk food, because they’re easy is, well, easy. I do believe, want to believe that there is deeper meaning to dishing about the latest hook-ups and fashion failures of people we pretend to know because they are in the limelight. It provides, at the very least, a basic conversation topic, and if it happens to be between buddies, it connects almost as deliciously as bashing on real acquaintances, but without the guilt.

Of course it would speak higher of the national education level if a discussion about the latest Pynchon novel or Beethoven recording were the average small-talk come-on, but how realistic is that? Apparently it does come down to easy—the smallest common denominator can’t be that grand.

But I don’t want to indulge in snobbery. Between my first post and this one, my mood has shifted to a more reconciliatory state. I’ve since come across a few very informative articles which have answered my initial question about the distinction between “serious” (as in “good”) and other literature in large part. For one, there seems to be consensus that the line between the two is, at best, blurred. Since there is not even an all-encompassing term for the “other” category (“genre” is so vague it says nothing, and so is “literary fiction”), this is no wonder. Beyond that, the categorizations are a function of several factors, among them editor-reviewer-bookseller dynamics and, not least of which, personal preferences. Who is to say that authors who manage to entertain the masses and get them to read something are less apt and less hard-working than “serious” ones, for lack of even a distinguishable adjective? Of course this recognition does not change the fact that easy reads don’t provide the mental workout necessary to stand out from the mass—if that is what one wants.

Though I feel comforted (and confirmed in my instincts) by established editors’ non-committal way of describing good vs. bad literature, I still strive to find definitions. What makes a good book? Part of it is taste, agreed. The absence of a formula, maybe? The feeling of satisfaction with word choice, sentence composition, cadences and tone like after a zesty meal or a good wine? An interesting plot doesn’t hurt, but personally I’ve found that a deft-handed author can write about anything. To think how much is in a book that moves me—talent, hard work, research, numerous rewrites, economy with words-- , none of which, except the first feature, is noticeable as such, if well done. Like any artist, a good author makes it look easy. He or she makes it often impossible to describe what makes their work so good, as opposed to just okay. For instance, I, as a reader, can’t recreate the thought process the author has put into a passage where more could have been said, but he chose to leave it out, or events that he put into an order that may not seem obvious, nor do I want to invest too much of my reading energy into syntactic analysis. I just feel when it’s harmonious and works as a whole, and I admire that. I want to be able to do that, too.

The first day of writing in the library

2007-11-29T12:39:00.000-06:00

This is the first day of my writing that I am actually beginning as an outside workday. I packed my laptop, my small notepad for morning notes, and placed a cup of water on the library desk that I now regard as mine. I think I’ve figured out what it is about libraries that draws me so. I could say that it’s the vast knowledge stocked up in high shelves, not counting the storage rooms, interlibrary loans, microfilm and a little internet. But the truth is that I like it because it’s free. (Not, my husband would say, you pay for it with your, pardon, my taxes, but that’s beside the context.) Loads of books, music and movies—old ones, new ones, classics, guilty pleasures-- can be taken home, the waiting time for new publications keeps getting shorter, the latest magazines can be browsed peacefully without feeling sneaky like at a book store, and in comfy settings such as outdoors in the (optionally shaded) sun, or on a couch next to a crackling fireplace, depending on where your local library is. All that without paying a penny, so what’s possibly not to like?

The vast knowledge used to intimidate me, but it is actually well organized and accessible, thanks to online catalogues and librarians. The latter are a fascinating bunch to me. They emanate such calm. Not to mention erudition, but without a trace of vanity. They are generally friendly and helpful. They are where they are because they like to be there (I could be wrong about this one, but then they’d have to be putting on a pretty darn good show, which would be at odds with the previous features).

I also have that childish belief that library patrons can’t be bad people. Could someone who signs up for a library card, checks out books or sits down to read or write be truly evil? Although, I have to allow for one exception in the case of the decidedly evil bottle and can recycling guy who would occasionally hang out in the Carmel Valley branch of the San Diego Public Library (if you read this, which is unlikely, know that I could take your constant rudeness and surly attitude, but I never forgave you for brushing up my child when she handed you a drawing she made).

But back to my writing career in the making. The situation I brought myself into should remind me in many ways of my law school days, when I would sit down to study but really spent most of the time either eyeing the shelves, counting and categorizing the books in my head depending on my level of boredom (usually high), or the aisles, hoping to see a familiar face or last weekend’s flirt (often), or gazing through the window onto the gorgeous view that the Law School’s prime location could afford me for my prime tuition, or, yet most pathetically, staring at my computer monitor until the screen saver popped up right in front of my eyes.

But it doesn’t. The book shelves here are much more interesting, and the vista is still lovely (no lake view, but I am overlooking the colonial-style City Hall building, hidden amidst trees whose yellow leaves cover the ground, a little creek and a few wooden stairs and bridges). No past nor potential flirts in sight, but that’s hardly the main reason I am actually able to do something here. It’s the absence of scholarly or professional pressure and, reversely, the presence of free will.

I may not be painting a pretty picture of my academic habits, and I realize that many fellow aspiring novelists thrive on deadlines and other outside pressure. That need not be a contradiction. A certain minimum of ambition is a condition sine qua non, that much is true. But my pressure comes from the inside, from the thirst to know and to express my knowledge to whomever is interested.

For the record: I know very well what hard work is, and I do realize that not being subject to the daily demands of permanent employment is a tremendous privilege, and I am grateful for it every day. Now back to work.

Introduction

2007-05-29T23:11:00.000-05:00

I love to read (wait- isn't that a usual description in personal ads in teenie magazines?), and while I am sure there are many out there who do, too, I don't know many who share my interests and methods. I have been a book worm ever since I was little, but, due to heightened demand to read for academic reasons, had temporarily lost interest in novels or anything non-law related during law school (actually, add legal reads to that). At some point I forced myself to sit down with a book, not wonder whether all of that could have been put more concisely and just get through with it. It probably helped that I picked a page-turner without knowing the term back then, namely The Firm by John Grisham. My next choice, as I still vividly remember, came from the other end of the spectrum: Jazz by Toni Morrison, who had just won the Nobel Prize for literature.

That was in 1993, and I have been pretty disciplined since.

People call me a snob because of my loathing for mass-market, chick-lit and the like. The truth is that I have devoured The Nanny Diaries (very entertaining and justifiedly genre-defining), The Second Assistant (way overdone) and Bergdorf Blondes (abysmal, though I heard that the follow-up was even worse, if that's possible), as well as some publications targeted at broader audiences in other languages (German, French and Serbian, as the case may be). It is also true that I will not be caught dead with most titles from bestseller lists, in particular Sandra Brown, Nora Roberts, Janet Evanovich and the like. Then again, I confess to having read Barbara Taylor Bradford's A woman of substance and Colleen McCullough's Thorn Birds in my early teens and having had great fun. I did it upon recommendation from very educated women, and those guilty pleasures have their place in our lives. But nowadays I am refusing to waste my time by investing intellectual units into subpar scribble designed to please the masses and-- guess what-- sell.

If you are getting the impression that I must be the most stuck-up, unlikeable b***h ever to patronize Barnes & Noble, I must tell you that

1) I am a very nice and sociable person, and

2) I avoid Barnes & Nobles (Borders, too) because the concept of a megastore for books is killing the romance between them and me, and thus favor small used-book shops and libraries.

Seriously, the questions that have been lingering in my mind for a very long time and are now more present than ever are:

What constitues good literature?
What separates a good author from a mediocre one? The bad ones are easy enough to recognize, you'd think, kind of like the "I know it when I see it" definition of pornography by Supreme Court justice Stewart, but then what about books that I would call awesomely bad, i.e. those with pretension to be serious literature and with wide recognition, but which are just-- lacking? (I'll work on a ranking, but think The Kite Runner, for starters.)
Then what is the point of literature, anyway, if sales figures in literati circles are more of a scarlet letter than a distinction?

As I am figuring this out, I have decided to not just slap around with criticism and stroke with praise, but to offer my cheek as well, so to speak. I will become a writer. Follow me.