reality check

As somebody supposedly versed and submerged in the literary world, I am often horrified by how unwell read I actually am. There are an unreasonable amount of books out there!! And there are more being published every freakin' moment! Not to mention periodicals of the daily, weekly, monthly and annual variety, blogs, emails, snail mails, daily meditations, horoscopes, facebook updates AND a garden variety of other crazies vying for face time, like WORK and FAMILY.

So. I admit it. I have never read Moby Dick. I haven't read the collected works of Jane Austen. I only made it through .094 of chapter one of Gravity's Rainbow.

And I had only read one short story by Richard Bausch when I interviewed him by phone two days ago from my home office. I hate interviewing someone with whose work I am only marginally familiar. (with whom's work I am only marginally familiar? whose work with which I am only marginally...?? PLEASE, if you have an idea about how to make this sentence grammatically correct, I would LOVE to hear it!) And Richard Bausch has written about 100 books. And at least 1000 short stories. The one I read was compelling, excellent, enviable. And he's very distinguished and important looking.

But I was on a deadline. And I had to make the call. I felt the entire time like a complete, bumbling idiot. "So, uh, you've, uh, written, a lot of ummm, books, right?" is, I, believe how I started the conversation. And in my mind, it only got worse from there. Soon, I gave up all hope of sounding intelligent and just prayed that he would politely overlook my idiocy and say something quotable. He did. He said a lot of great stuff and thankfully I have an article to prove it. But the thing that really floored me was what he said at the end. "Are you a fiction writer, too?" he asked. "Ummm, yeah," I said. "I could tell," he said. "You're questions were more intelligent than most."Oh, geez, uh, thanks," I said. I told him how honored I was to be able to interview him and when I got off the phone I did a big, stupid dance around my house. I'm not sure if our conversation proved that most people who have interviewed Richard Baush shouldn't have been let off the farm or if, maybe, possibly, I am too hard on myself and have a slightly skewed perception of reality. Or maybe, it's a lucky combination of both.

letting the baby breathe

I created this blog for the express purpose of writing more about the authors I have had the honor or horror to interview and the books I have slogged through, sped through or otherwise read as the Book Editor for Style Weekly. The spillover. The chafe. The extra thoughts that didn't succinctly squeeze into my modest column. But in the interim, I have developed my alter ego- Bad Valley, shared about my son's desire to grow a vegetable garden and publicly wrestled with my angst over losing my job, the family health insurance and a slew of the other regular, stable factors that this american life seems to require.

Two months ago I resigned from my position as book editor. Having told my mother at the age of 7 that I wanted to grow up to be a famous reader, it was like a real life fairytale when the then arts and culture editor- who had entirely rewritten my first article- offered me the position of book editor. It was my DREAM job- right down to having no idea what the hell I was doing and making a whopping $50 per month. I could read the day away and claim- truthfully- that I was working. I got LOADS of FREE books and the opportunity to talk to the masterminds that wrote them. I got to run around town picking up books and ferrying them between reviewers, the art director and myself and then back again, just to get a good shot of the cover. I got to ask myself life's most important questions: Should I judge this book by its cover? Would the hero want to marry me? Am I prettier than the heroine? Does laying it this way make my coffee table appear more clean?

No, seriously. I was like a kid in a candy store. All the books I could eat. But then something started to happen. To my blood/reading saturation level, I suppose. Instead of being inspired as I was for the first 4 years, I began to be depressed. If there are this many good books already out there, why the hell should I bother with mine? This book is a perfect 10 and in comparison, mine is a negative 3. I started to judge my rough draft against the edited, polished and published books I was reviewing. I couldn't take it bird by bird because I was watching all these bald eagles soar from their nests. Or some ornithological writing analogy like that. In short, I ran my own writing into a big, fat ditch and let it rot there. I burrowed deep into my left, critical, analytical brain and stood by as it beat my right brain's tender shoots to a bloody pulp. So. I quit.

Now I'm trying to let my preemie newborn draft breathe. I'm trying to make my reviewer/judging/critical brain take a nap and quit being so cranky. I'm trying to let go of word counts and deadlines and good vs. bad and other polarizing, critical brain desegmentations like that. And since I have, my little draft has taken its first baby step. Yes, it fell on its face and stubbed its toe, but it's getting up to try again. And this time I promise not to yell and scream and run away just as its learning how to walk.

(Shhhhhh! During nap time I might write an article. Or two.)

Gainful Unemployment

I have never had a hard time finding a job.

Of course, the kinds of jobs I've wanted have included mopping the floor at Waffle House and scrubbing other people's toilets, but still. Work has always materialized when I needed it. I have never, ever found a job through the classifieds, but just peeking makes me want to fling myself from the closest window. Because my BA in Creative Writing does not qualify me to run a group home or sell insurance or assist in brain surgery. Nor do I want to be an office administrator for the Marijuana Policy Project (this job can be YOURS if you check Craig's List today) or supervise 37 kids for $8 an hour. No, my degree qualifies me for those really special jobs that usually don't get printed in the paper. Stained Glass Maker's Assistant. Cruise ship stewardess. Dude Ranch Cabin Girl. Freelance Writer.

When I got laid off from my desk job at the local alternative weekly last September I felt- in a sad way- part of an historic movement. The downsizing of print media. The big recession of late 0-8. The first job I was ever asked to leave. Historic, yes. Convenient, no.

Because answering phones and greeting people for 20 hours a week provided me with 2 invaluable necessities. a) Health Insurance and b) the unambiguous knowledge that I had "a job." If someone said "do you have a job?" I could answer them without having to think about it. If there was an argument in my home about who was actually employed, I was above reproach. Now- even though I'm writing articles here and there and teaching an odd ball assortment of classes- I don't always know the answer to any of those questions.

Do I work? Yes. I wash the laundry and then throw it in the general direction of the dresser. I scrub the dishes. I pack my son's snack and take him to school. Then I interview dominatrixes and try to come up with witty introductory sentences to reviews of their memoirs. I check facebook and debate about what, who and when to update my status. Then I run out and teach a class across town for an hour and a half, come back, cook dinner, decide not to vacuum and put my child to bed. Does that count? Yes. But is it succinct? No. And does it provide health insurance. Hell no.

Which brings me and every other writer/artist/musician/creative type I know to the same harrowing debate. Is it worth it to risk gazillions of dollars of unpaid hospital bills in order to stay home and fulfill our life's desire by creating art? After a moment of tortured reflection, I think yes. But is it worth it to put my child at risk to stay home and create my art? This one isn't so easy. This is the question that has tortured me for the weeks and months since I have been laid off. Because at the same time that the market is saturated with thousands of people looking for work, I have been picky. I have wanted health insurance, but I haven't wanted it at the risk of a mind numbing, soul eating, blood sucking vacuous 40+ hour a week job copy writing credit card ads. (Anyone out there who does this, hats off! I admire you for your stamina and power of will! REALLY!) But the very thought makes my insides shudder and wilt. I'd rather wear rags and learn how to plant carrots in a front yard victory garden than succumb to the likes of that.

So, today, as I apply for state funded health insurance for my son, finish my article about the teenage dominatrix and revise (again) chapter 2 of my book, I will for now, quiet the inner beast that has raged with doubt and confusion. We might not be able to go out to dinner, but tonight I will revel in the luxury of staying home and eating my words.

back again

I want to thank everyone who bore with me through the throes of my "existential crisis" starting first and foremost with my husband. It's not exactly a compliment to learn that your spouse has been reevaluating every aspect of their life when you are one of the leading componants. So honey, sorry. I wouldn't trade you or the life we've fashioned together/stumbled upon/ earned thru blood sweat and tears for all the nightlife in NYC. Not in a million years. Just for a few days I forgot one thing. And that thing is gratitude. The cup half full, the miracle that my life ACTUALLY is when I stop and remember, the beauty of the details rather than the broad strokes of life. A spiritual mentor reminds me that our success is not measured by the mountain we climb but the pit we climb out of. And I'd dug myself a pretty deep pit back in the day. Some days I'm still digging.



Because the truth is I have a bevy of amazing, hilarious and good looking friends. I have the most beautiful son on the planet who says funny and entertaining things (that's Venus not Penis!!!) and then hugs me and says "I love you Mommy!" Today he even said, "Mommy, thank you for cleaning my room." Amazing! He attends a wonderful community based preschool that provides for a lot of interesting conversations and opportunities to participate in my son's education.



I have a husband who loves me when I'm wearing sweatpants.



It's easy to complain about living across the street from my mom and turn a blind eye to the baked chickens, raw carrot juice and ginormous emounts of babysitting that most neighbors don't provide.



And when I found out the other day that I didn't get the full time job I'd applied for, I rededicated myself to my book which has been simmering on the back burner for way too long.

In fact, I've begun working on it everyday and I'm beginning to remember who the hell I am and why I bother. Which I'd started to forget in the midst of the grind, the numbers and trying to make all that outside chaos add up. Because out there, the world might never make complete and perfect sense. But here on the inside, it's time to start writing.

Existential Crisises "R" Us (or Stephenie, can I please steal your brilliant title for this chapter of my life?)

I'm having an existential crisis. By this I mean to say that I am not having a real crisis but one that is fabricated in my head. My family is healthy. We have food to eat. I am *sort of* employed. The credit card companies that call the phone do not ring the door. I do not live in a war zone or have AIDS or cancer and my family gets along in a better than average sort of way. None of us face jail time, impeachment or deportation. I do not have a foot growing out of my head.

But I'm still incredibly freaked out by the course of my life and the dreaded worry that I will not live up to my potential. I might die without ever getting on Oprah's book club.

I'm 33. I live in the house I grew up in. In the suburbs. I like to say it's not, but it is. My mom lives across the street. I've lived here for the last 10 years. It was supposed to be a short term layover between travels. But it wasn't. It was permanent. At least a decade's worth of permanent. I got a dog, a marriage, a mortgage and a son, in that order. Technically we're in a good school district and we have a fenced in back yard, all features which are supposed to make me not want to rent a one bedroom apartment by myself somewhere in a big city far away. I feel like the Paul Simon lyric: "I'm a wanderer. Not really, I've always lived in my parent's house...."

On a good day I remember that I am the luckiest woman alive to have a devoted husband and a healthy son, but on a bad day I feel like a choose your own adventure book that somebody forgot to keep writing. The first dozen chapters are action packed cliffhangers and then you reach this long section in the middle that just kind of goes on and on and on and on and on. There are trips to the dentist and the doctors and to grandma's house and the food court at the mall and the park and the playground and maybe to chuckecheese or the children's museum but the map is succinct and the paths are well worn. Grooved. Deep.


Enter Josh.

I am involved with a local nonprofit that brings people to Richmond to talk about the business and craft of writing. This week I had the good fortune to fly in Josh- a friend from my freshman year college writing workshop who has gone on to become a senior fiction editor at Viking Penguin. All told his trip was a less than 24 hour whirlwind of catching up on the last 15 years, eating over-priced fish, speaking brilliantly to the public about the future of fiction (him), trying to put out event related fires (me) and pretending, as a lifelong Richmonder, to be knowledgable about the history of Richmond while being sure to show off only the beautiful stuff, not the Walmarts and Burger Kings- on my side of town.


While, perhaps what I should be blogging about is all the briliant, witty and insightful stuff he said, what interested me far more was the alchemic reaction that occured within me as a result of his trip. In college, we went out once but he just wasn't cool enough for me to date. And by "cool" I mean he wasn't a pretentious, conceited budding alchoholic womanizer and hence not "fun" enough for me. In fact, I mentioned to him the "boy" I was obsessed with for the entire length of my college career and he said "You mean ---? That arrogant prick?" Yes! That's exactly who I mean! And I felt really sad for my 18 year old self who went for the mean guy who treated me like trash instead of the nice, earnest, sincere, friendly young man who treated me like an equal. Do I think my tale of woe is unusal? Not in the slightest. I think it's one of the most common blues a woman can sing. I think it's the other half of the Cinderella fairytale. I think it's a cliche. Which cheers and depresses me, both.

Did I accidentally get stuck in my hometown or is this a deliberate, educated, sophisticated choice that I continue to make everyday?

Have I sacrificed some sort of brilliant, world-changing career by getting married at 25 and becoming a mother four years later? Can I really blame my lack of worldly success on the fact that I have a child and live in the suburbs? (Hardly, but wouldn't that be an easy out?)

Do the soul searing effects of my bottom feeder self-esteem in college continue to effect the choices I make today?

I wish I could sum up this blog entry with a snappy come back to gratitude or a self-searching realization that makes it all worth it in the end. But I can't do that. Yet. I'm still a suburban mom struggling to come to terms with the choices I've made. And like another fabled cliche, if I went back through the chapters of my life knowing what I know now, would I make different choices?

I don't know. I haven't finished reading yet.

Bad Valley Lives

Bad Valley has been very, very bad.
She has refused to keep you in the loop.

She lives in squalor, entertaining roches and the friends and families of roches. She drinks instant coffee, boiled like black soup from the microwave. She never grinds her own beans. She crunches raw ramen noodles, twinkies and red hot cheetos straight from their wrappers.

Bad Valley lives by caller id, doesn't answer the phone or return emails. Her inbox is full, you can't leave a message. She is too busy watching daytime tv and pasting cutouts of her head onto the pages of US magazine. Bad Valley eats apple pie for breakfast and drives even if she's just going around the corner and there are sidewalks.

Bad Valley has a perfectly good bike rusting in the shed.
Bad Valley doesn't recycle. She never takes the trash out on the right day. When she does take the trash out, she doesn't move the can out of sight after it's been emptied. She rakes her leaves but lets them rot in putrid little piles in the front yard, never bagging them, blowing them or calling the county to haul them away. Bad Valley forgets to eat the vegetables she buys and they go bad at the bottom of the refrigerator. Instead of washing her sheets she sprays Febreeze. She doesn't price check either. She just buys the first thing that catches her fancy. She throws away coupons and doesn't record her receipts. She has no idea what's in the bank, what's coming down the pike or how to reconcile her checkbook with a hill of beans. Bad Valley doesn't brush her teeth very often.

Bad Valley stuffs her clothes in her drawers rather than folding them neatly. Bad Valley doesn't know what's at the bottom of her closet, hasn't organized it in years, hopes that it will somehow-magically- take care of itself.