Well it rhymes

The good part about being back in a schooling environment is deadlines. Left to my own devices I would do little more than eat and wander like a feral cat. You could say that deadlines keep me domesticated.

A month ago we had a ten minute very simple presentation assigned. I went completely rogue– “borrowing” video gaming chairs from the student centre to stage my vision, writing scripts, directing– and by directing I do mean controlling everything to the point where I said, more than once, “NO. This is not what I want. I have a VISION.” I hated me too.

But I felt so free. And I started having more ideas. Like, holy shit, my brain had been going on dormant auto pilot for who knows how long.

I don’t remember if I ever mentioned here previously, but I’m a leo. A big one. In case you don’t know any, I’ll tell you one of our traits: we are incapable of thinking small. If someone were to say to a Leo, “let’s go to karaoke.” The Leo would likely agree, agonise over the song choice, put on a pretty good show and then mope around about not being as good as Sam Smith, Adele, take your pick. “Could you make me a Moscow Mule?” would have a Leo scrambling for google to find the EXACT recipe, driving to Homegoods to find a copper mule mug, squeezing limes etc etc. You may know a lazy leo, and that is also a thing, but we are SELECTIVELY lazy. And when an activity or challenge stir our interest, frenzy ensues.

And that’s how I found myself trying to write a song in a foreign language that I speak. Note I say speak, note I omitted “fluently” because I DON’T speak Russian fluently. Crazy thing is lyric writing is a little like poetry. You definitely have to have a good handle on the basics of a language (ie. being sure to say “to write” instead of “to piss” even though they sound horrifyingly the same) in order to write ART in it. But, it’s a good news bad news kind of situation: in Russian almost everything rhymes because of the way the grammar works. The bad news: Russian words are impossibly long. One word could take up an entire line. And…Russian grammar. It’s hard to say which way it goes: do Russians drink because of their grammar? Or did they create their grammar while drinking? Suffice to say, what I have so far is a list of words that rhyme. And even that might be wrong…

Hello from the other side

I know it’s been a while. And I really am in California, just like an Adele song, dreaming about how things used to be when I was younger. Essentially, I grabbed my MFA diploma and promptly joined the Army. All kinds of ass backwards.

I’m in a school at the moment. A Sergeant came into my class today. She’s a anomaly. A redheaded pagan that goes to meditations in a hippier town an hour away. She told me she had joined a writing group in support of (I bet you could guess if you tried) National Novel Writing Month and invited me to Starbucks to join in the collective (but separate) writing festivities.

Frankly, I would rather pull out my eyelashes and use them to make a scarf for a dormouse. I mean, I miss creativity SO MUCH that I constructed a Halloween costume made of feathers and hot glue. (Of course I endeavoured to use a sewing machine, but Singer was not quite up to the task of stitching hundreds of feather quills), BUT the prospect of hearing about people’s creative processes while they are writing their inevitable coming of age novel makes me binge watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer and eat chips and salsa.

That said, I AM creatively stifled. I’ve therefore decided, grudgingly, to at least try to write SOMETHING every day during this month. Yes, I hate myself for needing an arbitrary month to be creatively productive, but if I HAD discipline to begin with I wouldn’t have needed to join the Army.

The fucking horse

Let me just take a second to stretch my fingers, Lord knows it’s been a while since I took a girlish stab at writing (2 points if you got the “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” reference). 

I can’t pinpoint what made me stop writing– but I have some theories:

1. It’s hard. There’s plot. Characters. Punctuation. The freaking pressure.

2. Creative burn out.

3. Financial wisdom. (ie. thus far, writing hasn’t provided a paycheck, and ergo time has been spent earning $$$ because there’s nothing cute about being a starving artist, I don’t care WHAT any indie hipster says).

4. Lack of discipline. I’m just lazy. And Netflix is like crack.

But my dear ones, the time has come to get up on this horse that has thrown me so severely from its back. Time to reassess goals and plans… shall we use roman numerals for those?

i. (Ghost)Write Mariah Carey’s memoirs. (not to be confused with her already existing album: “memoirs of an imperfect angel”

ii. Fix whatever is salvageable of my first two novels.

iii. Destroy all physical evidence of what was not salvageable. Burn baby, Burn.

iv. Write something new and meaningful and brilliant.

v. Try to take over the world (a wild 5 points if you got the Pinky & The Brain reference)

xo

Army time

I’ve been lax about posting, because I’ve been preparing for Army Basic Training… and now… it’s here. I might have a break at Christmas and maybe even time to blog, but otherwise… Jan? Feb? June?

But I have notepaper. And a pen. So… there’s that…

A day in the life of your (or just this) editor: Elephant Memory

The life of an editor is fantastic. We read in the bathtub, at the table, at red lights, while on the phone and (bless me Father for I have sinned) sometimes in church, with manuscript pages pressed in between the Gospel pages. We become giddy at every minor grammatical mistake because the prospect of pulling out our special pen (and indeed, we all have one, mine is purple because it doesn’t seem as harsh as red ink) is a bit like how the prospect of sinking our (humans, not editors) teeth into a chewy chocolate chip cookie has us tearing through the grocery bags on the car ride home. Incidentally, we often make grammatical errors ourselves. (Pointed hint: do not comment on any you find here…)

Yes, we get to coddle, encourage, dampen, annhilate. It is (bless me one more time Father) a little like playing God… yeah, on a lesser scale, but it feeeeeeeels mighty.

Thus far into my foray as an editor there has only been one thing that I can’t  wrap my head around: how I am expected to remember anything I have read. When my editor used to send a marked up copy of my manuscript, I’d start revisions, and fire off 190 emails to him, the majority of which started, “But…” And I’d foam at the mouth waiting for a reply. Cognitively, I understood the editor had other projects. But the part of me that still believes in leprechauns also thought he had a big brain and therefore unlimited storage capacity, somewhat like a gmail account, with the ability to summon total recall of my manuscript.

This, my dear readers, writers et cetera, is vastly incorrect, as I now know because I just got an email from a writer whose manuscript I edited once, a year ago, that read, “So, I take it from your note regarding X’s encounter with the Cabana Lady that it was too ‘complete?’ ” I racked my brain, mentally pawing through the dusty filing cabinets that I imagine to be up there. I found files on blue whale’s tongues, how to jump start a car, the correct posturing for vrksasana, but nary a cabana in the bunch.

After chastising myself for a full 18 hours, I decided to admit defeat and wrote back that he was overestimating my “elephant never forgets memory” and had he considered using the insert comment function on his document. That way we’d be on the same proverbial and literal page on the next draft.

He didn’t mention one way or the other if he would do this but tried again to jar my memory.  “After my description of the encounter you wrote ‘if you’ve gone this far, might as well inform reader if she swallowed.'” … I’m a funny minx after all. Good for me. I had… forgotten.

Stage Fright

In my pageantry days, I never wanted my family to see the show. I had decided then (and still believe now) that they know me better than anyone else, and don’t know me at all. How this is possible, I have no idea. But the thought of them evaluating whether I was being myself gave me heart palpitations and so they were not invited. The pageants, no matter the outcome, were rendered easier.

I started feeling similar nerves as I got closer to my high school reunion. Thank God I only had one day to find a dress, because it was sheer torture– agonizing over what “cocktail-wear” meant, and what said “I’m not a bitch, you can say hi,” what was “classy,” what was “trashy,” what looked like… “me?” Once I arrived, what had looked sophisticated and sexy in my bathroom mirror, looked garish. What the hell was I wearing? Lingerie? What had I been thinking– a coral pink lace dress.

The kids that had been intimidating in high school were still intimidating: taller, liquored up, still beautiful and in Little Black Dresses or the male equivalent thereof. They didn’t say hi to me, and I was far too self-conscious to approach them. So I made a beeline for the bar, clutching at one of my two remaining high-school friends– a reality celebrity and sweetheart who did not need red wine to get through the night but was gracious enough to pretend he did for my dignity’s sake. And in my haste to get to the bar, I snubbed the shyest kid from high school– a talented artist with long eyelashes. He was standing against the wall in a red sweater. I said hi and breezed past and in the seconds that followed, realized he had been poised to continue past the “hi”– and felt like an asshole for letting my stage fright get the best of me, robbing me of what could’ve been a great (and probably easy) conversation.

Writing a blog is an easy conversation. Writing a blog when you have a penchant for telling the truth is still pretty easy. But it gets decidedly more difficult when you start to think about who might be reading it. Like your parents. Like your 12-year-old sister. Like your mechanic. Ex-significant others or exes of significant others. Or high school friends. Or people, we’ll term just “others,” who wish you would fall down a manhole and never be heard from again. But then, if you have a healthy sense of reality, you realize that most people, busy as they are, have little time or inclination to check in on, or even really care about, little ole’ you. But then… just like in high school, you’ll notice someone looking at you from across the room. And damn the money you spent on your Lasik eye surgery because in that lighting, you’re not sure if they’re glaring, curious, or maybe you’re just… wrong… and they’re not looking at you at all. Still, it makes a girl self-conscious of the way she’s standing, what she’s drinking. It makes her… aware. And everything takes on a patina of performance.

So, what do you do? Edit? Censor? Purposely offend unwanted attention?

I think you take a lesson from Madonna in Toronto circa 1990. You go on the friggin’ stage for the people who came to see you, you do exactly what you intended to do, even if it means masturbating, even if it means you might get arrested– no more, no less– having acknowledged that you saw the cops on your way in, and that at the end of it all, they stayed to watch and never managed to arrest you. Some gorillas (bullies) just need to beat their chests, and gaze in your bedroom window as they do so.

In short, the show must go on. As intended.

Some things bloom in winter, like Christmas Cactus… cactuses? cacti?

Most of my life has been spent in the company of severe over-achievers. I can still recall being in second grade, frantically counting on my fingers (and probably toes), trying to arrive at a correct answer to a math problem in an absurdly short period of time in order to be pigeon-holed into the same smart group as my best friend, Kimmy. It was a lost cause. Dear Kimmy could not spell to save her life, but she was otherwise brilliant and ended up at Harvard anyway.

A couple years ago, I decided to shut down my facebook because of my friends. It’s terrible, but some of my friends made me feel really good about myself. “Eh,” I said, “Life might not be ideal, but at least I’m not as bad off as that poor soul.” The other segment of my friend population made me want to lay down under a bus. Wedding pictures. “Best networking cocktail party EVER.” Beauty queens. Video vixens. Actual published writers. Oh but did I vacillate between being a jealous, green-eyed-monster, a happy cheerleader, and self-affirming weirdo.

About the same time as I nixed the facebook, I stopped writing in general. Burn out? Uninterested? Bored? Stressed? Mostly, I just didn’t feel like it. But I felt bad about that. Writers are funny creatures, and some are insecure, and of that variety (plus the zealots) some like to tell you that unless you write every day and squander your youth and beauty as a slave to the page you are NOT a writer. (They also point… like their fingers are the direct condescending index finger of God himself.)

After a jaunt in yoga classes– thank you lower back and your vehement protests toward my “booty popping” and also to you, gyms state-wide that believe the only class a person is capable of attending prior to 10am is yoga, yooogaaahhhhhhhh– where a teacher drums (only sometimes figuratively) into your person to leave your ego, to let go of your judgment, etc, did it dawn upon me that I did not owe myself an explanation– nor anyone else. That I had nothing to be sorry for. That I didn’t need to make a laundry list of all my life’s accomplishments. And in that patchouli-scented atmosphere, the explanation came anyway: I’m not a “writer.” I’m a creative person who sometimes writes as an outlet. And if I take 3 years off, or 3 hours, it’s fine.

So, after the revelation, here I am. Funny how giving yourself the permission to not do anything leads to doing something. And here I thought reverse psychology only worked on those under five.

Dearest Kimmy, I never did excel in math in second grade. And Mrs. D told my parents that I was really nothing special, just average. I tried so hard that I had to rest all through the remaining grades of elementary school. But by doing so, I was able to work my ass off later, and in the time when most childhood friendships would fade– high school– you and I sat, still friends, in the same room, taking that AP Calculus exam. I think you got a 5. I was, and am, happy for you. And how about that, I got a 4– wonders never cease, as I’m sure that teacher would have agreed. Remember when he wrote “Simply terrible” at the top of my test? “Awful.” “Not good.” And I told him, “Mr. S., I appreciate your methodology, but I think I would feel compelled to do better if there were a sticker at the end for my troubles.” He balked. I still have that test where I got 63/65 and the sticker that says “Terrific,” probably the only one the man ever passed out in his life.

And here is the lesson that repeatedly presents itself: patience, dear Lizzie, and don’t be so hard on yourself.

ah!

Dearest readers,

Forgive me… circumstances beyond my control, namely a volcanic eruption in iceland and a pet-sitting gig in a house without internet access and a deadline for thesis revision and submission (May 7) are keeping me from good blogging etiquette and practice.

I’m going to try to accomplish one per week until May 7th. It’s just not happenin’ today. There’s LOTS of stuff going on to write about, it’s just all spinning so fast I can’t get a hold on it. SO please be patient with me darlings, and check back at the very latest by May 8th, though as I said, I’ll try my darndest to post more regularly earlier than that– there ought to be a technological equivalent of Activia yogurt for regularity.

Much love and much ado!

Do as I say and not as I do.

I did something I never thought I’d do.

There are some things that are really hard to write– and I don’t mean sestinas or 600+ page novels. I mean the things that are hardest to write: the true things that you could never bring yourself to admit, and so you call fiction, hoping no one will notice.

How NOT to proceed with such an undertaking: cracking open a bottle.

My family is kind of funny– half are alcoholic, the other half have never had an alcoholic beverage in their lives. Growing up, I was terrified that if I had a single sip of wine I’d become a raging addict. It would only be a matter of time before I had to start saying the Serenity Prayer in front of strangers. I had my first drink under the watchful care of a patient boyfriend– who forgave me when I declared myself a mermaid and promptly shot a stream of Smirnoff ice from between my teeth at him. I let go a little after that– enough that I’ve only puked from drinking too much three times, but remaining neurotic enough to KNOW exactly how many times I’ve puked.

I’ve always considered alcohol and a bevy of other things as crutches for the weak. So I feel like a real class-A hypocritical chicken for having a glass of wine while I’m writing. Again– I’m being neurotic– it’s a glass, and the first drink I’ve had since New Years, but…

A lot of writers drink– way too much. Stephen King wrote in “On Writing” that he has no recollection of writing Cujo, so intoxicated was he. But we’re supposed to, right? It’s the quintessential writer– cigarettes in the ash tray and bottles lined up on the desk. Like so many stereotypes and preconceived images it’s bullshit. No one, myself included, needs to drink in order to write, so don’t ever let someone convince you that might be the case.

A List Of Other Ways To Cope

1. write in a closet with a lot of blankets so you feel safe and hidden.
2. keep company of a pet, preferably a quiet one that won’t poop on you. Bunnies are ok. Cats.
3. get out any aggression by walking, kick boxing, or visiting a shooting range.
4. Tell yourself what you’re writing is like a bandaid, and once you’ve ripped it off, you never have to do it again.
5. I mean, you could always forgo the writing part and talk to people instead…
6. See a therapist (hope that the expense is tax deductible after you get that big book deal… if it isn’t, write your next book about a therapist and call your therapy sessions research– voila– tax deductible now…)
7. Do something soothing afterward– baths, finger painting, crocheting, hatching baby alligators…
8. Cry. (If you can’t, put vick’s vapor rub near the inside corner of your eyes– that’s what the hollywood starlets do)
9. Listen to cheery music– I don’t know, N Sync circa 1997?
10. Take a nap.

So, if you already cracked open the bottles and poured– well, make it worth it. The only things that can possibly hurt badly enough to make us want to anesthetize ourselves are autobiographical. The good news is none of us can possibly be interesting enough that our autobiographical material could span more than one book. So cheers, and be done with it. (Signing off now… to be done with it…)

Accidents and Repairs in life and print

Confession:

Once upon a time, I took revenge on a love who wrote about me. It was hypocritical. (Still is) And these are the unethical (read deplorable) thing I did:

STEP ONE: I stole his style. It’s not difficult to emulate other writers. It happens naturally by reading, which is why it’s prudent to read a variety of authors and genres. I reread a few of his essays the same way I’d try to see one of those optical illusions: only half in focus. How did I feel? Lulled, hypnotized. What was the sentence structure like? Repetitive, generally longish, but simple. How do his stories usually end? Twisted, shockingly, lamentable. What is the ultimate message? Whatever it is, always flip that, twist it so the work ends up yours, instead of a carbon copy. And most important, if you’re going to steal, work with the pilfered: write it all better. Scan the original pieces of reference for flaws, holes, and avoid recreating those.

STEP TWO: I stole the moments of our relationship that he hadn’t, fleshed them out, but twisted them into fiction. Always do this, lawsuits are such a drag.

STEP THREE: I analyzed. Step away, distance yourself from the work and your attachment to it. What are the characters’ weaknesses? Magnify them, make the characters as human and fallible and vulnerable as possible without doing a caricature. Readers (including me!) like to feel better about themselves and the people they know. Make the characters pay the ultimate price for their weaknesses. It could be death, loss of love, financial ruin—it all depends on what would devastate the character the most. (Um, this is if you’re going for tragedy…) Don’t be afraid of metaphors, either. They’re excellent to literalize exaggerated feeling. Just make sure if you’re going over the top that you have solid writing for the reader to step on. A reader will accept a bizarre metaphoric ending if you’ve led him there with breadcrumb trails that are grounded in reality. What was my ending? Literally? He hit his girlfriend with a truck. Get it?

I expected to feel vindicated after, but I didn’t. I got scrappy in the schoolyard, landed my punches (perhaps even a knockout?), and hobbled away, straightening my skirt, smoothing my hair, trying to regain my dignity, which was ridiculous because I was bruised and breathless just the same, just as much as he was.

This happens sometimes, and it’s a double-edged sword. But the damage is done and so onto repair… If you’ve poured your soul into your writing, people see right through you. That kind of vulnerability is unbearable. So here’s what you do if you find yourself wearing glass skin:

1. LAUGH IT OFF. Thank readers who express concern. Make a joke. Preferably one that involves peanut butter. Or railroad tracks.
2. BE DEEP. “I was taking a stab at the writing equivalent of the Stanislavski method of acting.”
3. BLAME IT. Say you had a dream courtesy of seratonin from eating too many sweet potatoes before bed.Say you met this woman with a story like this while you were in line at the Victoria Secret Semi-Annual Sale.

4. BORE THEM. You bled in the water, my writerly friend. And the inquiring minds will circle until you convince them that you’re not bleeding at all: it’s only corn syrup and red dye. Most effective trick I ever used? I droned on, tying my writing efforts to the newest Mariah Carey album. NO ONE cared.

And now for prevention and care of your writerly soul:

It is important to be able to protect yourself, and the people you care about. It’s a lot to ask, and it’s kind of silly because it makes me feel like a soldier or a spy or a prostitute, but as a writer, you must maintain two identities: one is fiction, and one is autobiography. YOU must always know your truth and embrace it to preserve your own sanity. You don’t necessarily have to share it.

Mine was this: When I was broken-hearted, I worked through my emotions in writing, and initially would never have shared it. But when I had to watch a group of people read what someone I loved had written about me, when he thus forced me to look at my pain and re-experience it, I was angry and so I took written revenge for reasons I hardly understood, maybe to make him feel just as bad—he’s an asshole to me when he’s hurting? I can do that. He wants to wreck me? I can wreck stuff, too. And the morning after, when I realized what I had done, how deeply I must have angered or embarrassed or hurt him, I felt bad. Because I wasn’t out of love yet.

The most important aspect of this week’s lesson is this: work with your emotions, then wait, then rework, then wait, and then precisely when you’re sure you want to share your masterpiece of dirty laundry with the one who inspired it, send it to a literary publication instead. That way, at least any incurred hurt feelings are accidental. And accidents happen as often as love.