frustration

After spending many ridiculous hours working on a grant application, it turns out the internal deadline may have passed without anyone in the department knowing. I can only hope this is a joke.

I'm reading articles and articles for class.

I'm reading books and books in an attempt to catch up.

I'm not reading enough.

I'm not reading enough fiction. I miss reading fiction.

I have a stack of review books on my shelf. They are exciting books. I wish I had the time to read them.

For many months now, I've abandoned this blog, using my "blog time" for HTML Giant, but I will start blogging here again now. Hello, Lily's Pad. I've missed you.

One of the world's greatest bookstores

needs YOUR help. It's under threat. Please read and help. I wrote about it on HTML Giant.

On Realism

For the past couple weeks, in the midst of the insanity of existence, I've started writing again, which is wonderful. And I'm not really sure why, but I started working on a novel, a realist novel. Having not written within the confines of realism since grad school & blatantly autobiographical work, I thought it would be fun, a new challenge perhaps.

But what I've found is, whereas I am writing (I've averaged a couple pages per day for the past couple weeks, give or take a page or two here and there) efficiently and the work is ok, I'm not having fun. Realism doesn't seem to be a constraint that fits with me.

So I wonder how others work with realism. I'm so much more comfortable with my world of two-headed mermen and old cat ladies.

Also, check out FC2's blog. There's a new podcast there with my personal hero (and editor) Kate Bernheimer. She's reading from the newest installment of the Gold sisters. It's pretty exciting. Hearing her blog last night, I immediately wanted to throw out all that realist crap I'd been working on and start playing again. I want to start enjoying what I write.

Do you think writing realist fiction is inherently unenjoyable? Probably not. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm wired the wrong way.

Sappy moments

In bell hooks's memoir WOUNDS OF PASSION, she writes about this great love affair--a partnership, really, that lasted 12 years. When this love affair started, she describes how wonderful everything was, "It was a true and perfect union. We could lie together after hours of passionate lovemaking and recite poems" (hooks 61). I love bell hooks. I really do, but reading this, I was almost ill. This is a perfect example of romanticizing the past. I mean, really!?!

Then, I wonder if I'm just callous because to me, reciting poetry after hours of lovemaking sounds like a painful cliche, some "dream" of what "poets" ought to do and be. I'm completely resistant to falling into the traps of what it means to be "poet," "writer," or "artist."

I remember in my undergrad & even during my grad writing workshops, there were always these stories about "all night lovemaking" followed by hours of gently crying each other to sleep. Sure, it may be true or not, but ultimately, who would really want this? Is this what people truly desire? Am I just some callous, unromantic bitch?

Aging

There's something decidedly unpleasant about growing older. I'm officially no longer in my mid-twenties. I'm now in my late twenties. Not to whine, but really, what do I have to show for it?

cell phones

I dislike dealing with cell phones & Canada simultaneously. Why can't there be a simple plan that makes everyone happy?

the last samurai

Seriously... why would a bunch of samurais take in Tom Cruise? And of course, they're going to teach him how to be a samurai. Duh, it makes perfect sense.

I've never seen this movie before, but it's on tv. I'm not saying I dislike the movie, per se, because I haven't really been paying close attention, but god, the fetishization of Otherness...

being "proud of" someone

Yesterday, I got an email from a friend from my MFA program. In the email (which insulted me under the guise of compliments--I'd go into it but there's really no need), this email writer told me s/he was proud of me for my publishing accomplishments. As Elizabeth Bennet says in Pride & Prejudice, "I could easily forgive his pride, had he not mortified mine."

I dislike this very much.

This may be in part because I have always sought approval from my parents & other authoritative figures and am just now seeing how utterly detrimental this need is to me, BUT it's also because it's condescending and reeks of a hierarchical structure where this email writer deems that what I have done is "good" or worthy of being "proud of."

But let's back up a little. So yes, first off, I should clarify that like so many writers, I write for approval on many different levels. My parents think I'm a failure because I'm not a doctor. To make up for it, I went to a top notch Catholic university for my MFA and now teach at a Catholic college. (My parents are very Catholic. I'm not. This is my compromise, at least for the moment.) To make up for it, I am not just a writer. I write obsessively. I publish obsessively. And to show for it, I have books in print, books on the way, books written, stashed away on my laptop. (I've been asked how I write so much. I give some excuse, but really, when it's all said and done, it's for approval.) But aside from familial approval, which I think we can all appreciate, there's also something in the publication itself: Someone somewhere thinks what I've written is good enough that they want to put their time, energy, and money into bringing it out into this world. (Here, I'm talking specifically about book publication, but this also applies to journals, zines, etc.) There's a high you get when you have a ms accepted. Those of you who are writers, you know what I mean. Then, finally, there's the greater societal approval one gets for being a published author. The key word is PUBLISHED. Anyone who writes is given a certain degree of respect (by which I mean little to no respect) for being a writer, but let's face it, there's something about being a published writer that authenticates it to both YOU and society at large, and then, any grief you've gotten for wanting to be a writer (a most underappreciated occupation to be sure) is somehow forgotten because you ARE now a writer.

What is most frustrating though is that this notion of "being proud of someone" only makes us continue running in our little mouse-wheel because we thrive off of approval. We desire approval, no matter where it comes from (well, I guess I've shown here that where it comes from does matter a little), but ultimately, we--as writers and as people--want other people to like us, to like what we do, to tell us we're "good." But fuck that! We ought to write (but you can insert any other word here) for ourselves. But do we? So most of the people who read this are innovative/conceptual writers. The market doesn't dictate what we write, how we write, etc., but in place of the market, what other shadowy monster looms, waiting to give us a gold star of approval, dying to tell us how proud they are?

Being punched in the face

I dislike it when my cat punches me in the face at six in the morning because he's hungry. He's a real asshole about it too. He'll sit near me, purring. It's sweet right? Then, just like that, he smacks me. Right across the lips. If I respond (by getting pissed), he just punches me from a different angle. (He'll circle around me.) If I ignore him, he'll continue punching me until I get angry. If I get angry, I won't sleep. If I don't sleep, I'll get up and feed him.

He's clever, that cat.

Only he doesn't get fed until seven. Every morning it's the same. And yet, every morning, somewhere between 5:30-6am, there he is, all in my face, ready to fight.

Copy editing

I dislike copy editing. I wish I did not have to do it. I would enjoy spring break much more if I weren't doing it, but alas, it's inevitable, isn't it? Luckily, I have a kickass editor who makes many corrections. & hopefully, this will be a good book.