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.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
don't read this book----yet!
So I finally have a 100% shi^&* first draft!
A friend I spoke with on the phone this morning was shocked I had accomplished the amazing feat of the terrible first draft- or any draft-- because of the nature & consistency of my complaints. That I'm getting nowhere fast. That writing sucks. That I have no discipline and just can't get it together. That nobody will agree to sit down and write my book for me.
But somehow-sometime- amidst my kvetching and canoodling I have managed to come up with some pages. Here and there. Around 150 to be inexact. They lack a consistent narrative drive, lots of threads go untied and I switch frequently between past and present tense. There are 2 or 3 paragraphs I would love to show anyone but all in all it is truly awful. At least it would be if it were a book. But it's not, it's a draft and for that reason I am THRILLED.
It was heartening last Friday night to hear Travis Holland- who just won the VCU first Novelist Award for his book, "The Archivist's Story"- say that he wrote 4 or 5 drafts before striking gold. And I'll never forget Jeannette Walls saying that she wrote the first draft of "The Glass Castle" in 5 weeks and then spent the next 5 YEARS revising it. I was in complete shock at the time and thought she must be an incredibly slow writer (yeah, somebody who covers celebrities for MSNBC would be a slow writer) and that couldn't possibly ever be the case with me. Now I'd be tickled fuscia to think that 5 years was my timeline and the NY Times bestseller list was my destination. Again and again I have to pull my mind out of the gutter of the publishing industry and the end product and whether or not Oprah will still have a book club by the time I'm 40 and just remember to concentrate on my task at hand. Writing. Another draft. Page by page.
A friend I spoke with on the phone this morning was shocked I had accomplished the amazing feat of the terrible first draft- or any draft-- because of the nature & consistency of my complaints. That I'm getting nowhere fast. That writing sucks. That I have no discipline and just can't get it together. That nobody will agree to sit down and write my book for me.
But somehow-sometime- amidst my kvetching and canoodling I have managed to come up with some pages. Here and there. Around 150 to be inexact. They lack a consistent narrative drive, lots of threads go untied and I switch frequently between past and present tense. There are 2 or 3 paragraphs I would love to show anyone but all in all it is truly awful. At least it would be if it were a book. But it's not, it's a draft and for that reason I am THRILLED.
It was heartening last Friday night to hear Travis Holland- who just won the VCU first Novelist Award for his book, "The Archivist's Story"- say that he wrote 4 or 5 drafts before striking gold. And I'll never forget Jeannette Walls saying that she wrote the first draft of "The Glass Castle" in 5 weeks and then spent the next 5 YEARS revising it. I was in complete shock at the time and thought she must be an incredibly slow writer (yeah, somebody who covers celebrities for MSNBC would be a slow writer) and that couldn't possibly ever be the case with me. Now I'd be tickled fuscia to think that 5 years was my timeline and the NY Times bestseller list was my destination. Again and again I have to pull my mind out of the gutter of the publishing industry and the end product and whether or not Oprah will still have a book club by the time I'm 40 and just remember to concentrate on my task at hand. Writing. Another draft. Page by page.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
This is what I want to know:
How do so many writers publish such amazing, breathtaking, awesomely beautiful books when I have felt like a writer my entire life but the act of actually sitting down to write makes me want to tear my hair out and consider Harikari?
As a book editor, I am subjected to achingly beautiful, gorgeous writing on an almost daily basis and for someone who has been trying to write the same damn book for 33 years, this is-at times-akin to torture. How come they can do it and I can't??
To make matters worse, the authors I am blessed to read make their writing seem both effortless and inspired. Easy and necessary and sprinkled with profound insight. Like God spake and they merely pulled out the little pencil behind their ear and took dictation. God may be speaking to me but the wires are crossed, the connection is fuzzy, the phone is ringing and the dishes, the peanut butter cookies, my son and my husband are calling to me on a much louder frequency.
OK, enough complaining. OK, maybe not quite enough. Here's a little more. I actually have time to write these days but I'm using that time to worry about health insurance, paying the bills, cleaning the house, going to the gym, taking care of my mental health and updating my BLOG. Oh, and reading all of those books that are so very good, they make me want to cry.
As a book editor, I am subjected to achingly beautiful, gorgeous writing on an almost daily basis and for someone who has been trying to write the same damn book for 33 years, this is-at times-akin to torture. How come they can do it and I can't??
To make matters worse, the authors I am blessed to read make their writing seem both effortless and inspired. Easy and necessary and sprinkled with profound insight. Like God spake and they merely pulled out the little pencil behind their ear and took dictation. God may be speaking to me but the wires are crossed, the connection is fuzzy, the phone is ringing and the dishes, the peanut butter cookies, my son and my husband are calling to me on a much louder frequency.
OK, enough complaining. OK, maybe not quite enough. Here's a little more. I actually have time to write these days but I'm using that time to worry about health insurance, paying the bills, cleaning the house, going to the gym, taking care of my mental health and updating my BLOG. Oh, and reading all of those books that are so very good, they make me want to cry.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
is it possible to become a bestseller through osmosis?
I must say that I just experienced the most star-studded week of my life- for a nerd like me. I'm not all gaga over actors or musicians (altho check back in if I ever run into zach braff, johnny depp, paul simon, leonard cohen, tom waits or any one of the Wiggles), but authors- good, brilliant, moving authors- really get my adrenaline pumping. The week started out last Monday night with a little known comedy writer named David Sedaris. Now, if ever there were a ROCK STAR of the book world, it is he, Mr. Morsel-of-Wood-Sedaris. I laughed so hard I felt like I wouldn't need to meditate or pray for a week. It was good, extremely left, irreverent, slightly foul humor that I oh-so-desperately needed to improve my blood flow, my marriage, and my faith in humanity. Thank you Modlin Center for scoring him TWICE even if he will never again grant interviews to lowly alt-weekly reviewers like me!Next, Tuesday night, I sojourned to the ever-so-glamorous auditorium of Short Pump's illustrious Deep Run High School. The hassle of trying to park amidst the football demographic was totally forgotten and forgiven when Dominican-American author Julia Alvarez took the stage. She was beautiful, elegant, passionate and truly inspirational. It's too easy to say someone's inspirational these days, but I think Ms. Alvarez took it to a new level. Naturally some Henrico mom is trying to have her book banned...don't get me started...but Julia Alvarez continues to beat the odds. After escaping a dictatorship, immigrating to the US, learning a second language and trying to assimilate in NY and becoming an award winning best selling author she went back to the D.R. and built a library in the mountains, teaching all of the children and adults how to read while promoting organic coffee farming. I cried the whole way home because this is a woman who has never allowed her passion to die or dwindle, even while the odds were stacked against her.
So that was just the start of the week. Thursday through Sunday I immersed myself in the James River Writer's Conference at the Library of Virginia, meeting and schmoozing and hanging with and being intimidated by and forcing myself to try to act natural with any number of NY Times bestselling authors, screenwriters, magazine writers, agents and editors. I even moderated a panel loosely titled "Commercial v. Literary Fiction" with 2 editors from Algonquin, 1 editor from Simon & Schuster and an agent on the big ass stage with a microphone. Don't get me wrong, I love talking to people, I just don't love talking to people in front of a lot of other people while the whole conversation is being recorded. I was nervous as hell, made an egregious gaffe or two, but survived and lived to tell the tale. Just don't ask for details, because I don't remember them at the present moment.
Who knew that David Baldacci was funny? That people actually read the articles in Playboy? That Kate Jacobs practices dialogue by pretending she has 2 Barbies talking to each other? That Adriana Trigiani leaves General Hospital on because she read somewhere that dead people exist on the same wavelength as electricity? That Taylor Antrim could be "painfully attractive" while stringing coherent sentences together? By and large it was a productive, fun, stimulating, thought-provoking, butt-getting-in-gear kinda weekend. I was truly impressed with the masterful coordination and seamless execution of the event as a whole. I even found that I really liked a number of people I didn't think I'd like, and for someone striving to be less judgemental, that's a really good thing. There's truckloads more I could say, but my brain and body and soul and heart and mind and fingers are still digesting a lot of the information that came my way in the last 7 days. Here's to hoping the brilliance I swallowed will also recycle.
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