the unemployment files, week one

So far, I would say that unemployment is much closer to godliness than cleanliness. Having been gainfully un-employed for exactly one week today I would like to share with the world some of the joys of not working.

1--On Monday, my son and I baked pumpkin bread from scratch and have had it numerous afternoons in the guise of a hot-chocolate tea party. Yummmm. I have also learned how to make Bisquick Biscuits. Before today I didn't even know that I owned a rolling pin! Will wonders never cease?

2--I took my son to the library, this gigantic wonderland where all the books are free!! While I might experience a certain level of low grade depression about having to return books when I'm finished reading them, it's a blessing really. There's nowhere for an unemployed person to STORE all the damn books she reads anyway. I have had to purge my house of books so many times, maybe it will actually be less painful to return them little by little, when they are due. So that's a great free pleasure as long as you can convince your little library companion not to yell, squeal or launch himself off the furniture.

3--I helped Henry plant a carrot garden. Well, not exactly. I asked my dad if he had any extra seeds and then strongly encouraged my husband to help Henry plant the carrot garden. My black thumb has only gotten darker over the years, but Henry has developed an intense desire to garden that I really can't brush off. At least he doesn't want to own firearms (well, actually, yes he does) or join the McCain party or something horrible. So I just have to get over my fear of killing plants and help him with the damn thing. "I've never planted a garden before," I said while we were watering the carrots on Day 2 and he said "Well, I've never had a garden before either!" At night, after storytime when we lay down with him for sleep he says in a sweet whisper-voice, "I just can't stop thinking of my carrots all the time." Good night, baby planter.

4--I have spent an entire 30 minutes in the last 7 days working on my book. At this rate, I will be done by 2049... at the latest! Exciting developments, for sure. I have finished reading an excellent book on positive thinking, which has made being unemployed a lot less scary. I am still freelancing after all. I just don't have to drive anywhere to do it. God is good.

5-- I had a girlfriend coffee date that was 100% kid-free, was not frantically on the way to or from somewhere else and gave me hope of rekindling friendships that were blown to the side on the highway of the working too much mother.

Now I am quite sure that the Big Employer in the Sky will have plans for me soon, but in the meantime I'm off to see if I can whip up some yummy ramen noodle krispy treats.

Messages to Me with a Post Stamp from Heaven

In the last week or so I have interviewed half a dozen authors and while speaking to each one it was like in the background, behind their voice, God-or somebody- said EXCUSE ME, VALLEY- LISTEN TO THIS!! THIS PART IS FOR YOU!! I will now share experts from our esteemed panels of heavenly messengers that came down to comfort the soon-to-be-jobless woman struggling to write her first book, yours truly.

My students are worried about their profession and I say you know, this is going
to sound unrealistic, but what I wish for you is not a career or your
profession, what I wish for you is that you connect with your calling. Whether
or not you ever become famous, spend your life doing what you love, what you
feel passionate about. There's a wonderful Mayan weavers prayer that they pray
before they start, because each [blanket] is different: Grant me the patience
and the intelligence to find the true pattern. And that's part of being a
writer. Being patient and honest to the process and giving it all you've got,
again and again. Without a stopwatch in your hand. Every piece of writing wants
one more revision than you want to give it. If you love the work, that's bigger
than your own ego. Julia Alvarez, author of "How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accent" and "In the Time of the Butterflies"


I think of infusing the book with emotion rather than inspiration. Inspiration seems to suggest that you’re hit with a lightning bolt and angels come out of the sky and music plays, but for me it’s much more about the hard work and putting one sentence after another and developing it and working at it. Kate Jacobs, bestselling author of the novels, "The Friday Night Knitting Club" and "Comfort Food."

I always wanted to be an artist ever since I was a kid. I was
always drawing in the margins of my school books. Eventually I did a Graphic Design course then got a job in advertising. I hated it! They didn’t like me much either – I was sacked for incompetence (hard to do a good job if you have zero interest in what you are doing). I started to do freelance illustration for some publishing companies, doing pictures for
other people’s texts, then decided to have a go at writing a story myself. It was a poem called ‘My Grandma Lived in Gooligulch’. It was published in 1983 and I’ve been writing and illustrating my own books ever since. Graeme Base, the internationally bestselling children's author of "The Watering Hole," "Animalia" and the most recent, "Enigma: A Magical Mystery"

(Sorry Matt, your picture would NOT post!)

Question: Do you start with a word or an image?
It’s almost simultaneous and I don’t mean it for it to sound mystical because it’s the
opposite of that. It’s a lot of literally stumbling through and putting
words on the paper. Stammering around and trying to determine what I want to
say, a tug at the sleeve that this is what I want to write about.....
I’m constantly grappling at whatever it is I want to say. I’m astonished
by these polished poems after a dozen drafts. I would guess I write around 100
drafts a poem, because I’m such a slow learner. It starts with 12 pages of notes
and doodles that gradually get pared down and evolves into a poem. It feels like
sailing in the dark every single time I put pen to paper for better or worse.
There are lots of periods of confusion and exhaustion. Matt Donovan, author of the poetry collection "Vellum" and winner of VCU's 2008 Larry Levis Poetry Prize.

Each of these authors is coming to Richmond in the next few weeks or months and none of the articles I've written about them have yet been published. Email me if you want to know when and where they're coming. These are just examples of the words of wisdom I have inadvertently received as I step out of the workaday world and begin to more persistently grind away at my book!

The New Desk- Empty Again?

About 2 weeks ago I finally got my own desk in the editorial department at the alternative weekly where I work. The phone has my first name and last initial programmed into its face. I have a bookshelf. That's my favorite part of the desk really- the bookshelf. Books are not an easy commodity to store if you don't have a bookshelf, so you can imagine my delight. I even tacked a photograph of my son fishing into the feaux-bulletin board that makes up the feaux-cubicle. When the publisher called me into her office last Thursday I didn't think much of it. I didn't think of the print crisis, the downed economy or the imminent and mysterious sale of our company. Why? Because I'm an optimist. I'm willfully naive. And usually I'm just too busy thinking about myself. So I was shocked that what she offered me, instead of a new freelance opportunity, was a lay-off and a severance package! This is the perfect occasion for me to admit that I have never been laid off or fired before, which some may say is a miracle held over from biblical times. I felt like such a grownup! And part of an historical movement- the downsizing of newspapers, the takeover of technology and the new millennium, etc. Just to be clear, they gave me a signed letter proving that my termination was not performance related or personal or about anybody thinking I wasn't cool enough or skinny enough or beautiful and wonderful enough or anything like that. And they want me to still freelance- perhaps more than ever. It's about not being able to pay for an extra body at the front desk. So, my feelings aren't hurt. Really, I think it's an opportunity for the universe to keep me at my word. I said I would be there for a year and it was 14 months, so God-or somebody- was like- remember what you said?? Your year is up!! Out you go!!! So, for the next two weeks I get to REALLY really cash in on some jokes like if I'm a minute late, "What are they gonna do? FIRE ME??" or if somebody asks if I want anything from CVS, I can say "YEAH! A JOB!" Ha ha. So. If you need a marvellously talented, brilliant, gorgeous new employee that you can pay a lot to work not so much (or you know someone else who does) tell them about me! Or tell me about them! Please, no waitressing positions at Waffle House. Been there, done that.

In the meantime, my dear co-worker is starting to organize a canned food drive for our family Thanksgiving- send the succotash! And now, excuse me, I have to go clean out that beautiful new desk.

My Other Life as Brangelina

Once upon a time in a land far, far away (gotta love the New Jersey Turnpike!) I fell in love with a boy. He had golden hair and green eyes and a French/British accent. He reminded me of every classic arrogant heartthrob in the tradition of great English European literature. He was Goldmund, Dorian Gray and Mr. Rochester all rolled into one silk scarf wearing French accent having piano playing philosophy reading wine drinking hunk of a Euro-snob who would haunt my dreams for the next 9 years until therapy FINALLY started to take.

I loved him past the point of ridiculousness and excruciating humiliation. Of course, the whole time he happened to have a girlfriend who happened to be a model and work for the UN and be 6 feet tall and all that but I was much more concerned about what was wrong with me than what was right with her. Anyway, it was tragic. Yeah. I cried a lot and made a generous and abundant ass of myself. So of course, at the end of our freshman year, Golden-Boy came to stay with me at my lovely home in the suburbs of Richmond. He stayed in the Button Room by night (my mom's a button maker- professionally!) and we toured cemeteries and drank coffee at Steak N' Egg Kitchen by day. One of the high-lites of our trip was when I couldn't take it another second and said: "I love you ****" and he said , "You have a shitty car!"

Needless to say, that wasn't the end of our "relationship." It continued for 3 more years, but got a little bit less romantic as time went on. The last semester of our Senior year we didn't talk at all. After we graduated he called me a few times from overseas- once when I was playing scrabble with my then boyfriend, now husband. And more recently to tell me he'd married the UN model and that they'd had a 3 year old- a girl (the same age as mine- a boy) and another one on the way. I cried for 2 days straight after that- releasing him from my entire nervous/limbic/endocrine system- once, I think, and for all.

But alas, that's not the end of it! A few weeks ago, while vacationing with my in-laws at sunny Lake Norman (conveniently located on the outskirts of a nuclear power plant) I happened to indulge in a certain decadence normally reserved for dentist's: PEOPLE Magazine. Imagine my chagrin when I recognized the name of a particular Chateau in the South of France where Brad and Angelina decided to move and raise their small clan of natives. It was the very Chateau he had grown up in, that I'd heard stories about and seen pictures of. That I'd imagined I'd visit one day, if he had fallen madly in love with me and we had run off together and gotten married. Or if I was hitchhiking homeless thru France and one of his maids let me crash in the vineyard. Or in the chapel. Or in the recording studio located somewhere on those thousand acres. But that was not to be.

Instead, I was to read about the leasing of his family home in the tabloids, across an ocean and a continent and a sound barrier and a solar system. Across my own lifetime and much of his, still loosely bound by myth and legend and language, even if my name never was Jane Eyre.