Oh Look, She's Back

So, it's been ages since I've blogged. In fact, I'll be entirely surprised if anyone is still reading this thing. I'm just feeling sort of introspective lately, I guess. Sure, things have been happening, things I could talk about. The Jeep is back, fixed after the Deer Incident of 2006. It now sports a white and chrome grille, as I did not rank painting to match as a priority, that says "eep" Sweet, eh? Somehow, it seems perfect (besides the fact that my initials are "ep," and so it seems to hold special significance for me). When I drove by J's work to show him our mechanic's handiwork, he walked out saw it, laughed, and then said, "eep. Perfect." I felt just the same way.

Other than that, let's see. I'm back at school and have started the headlong push for my master's. Did a little backwards counting and realized I have about 10 weeks to finish my thesis (that would be a minimum of three more stories that I haven't even written yet, yep). I started working on one of my comps yesterday, and actually think I'm going to try to do it this weekend. It would be lovely to check something off my list.

Read Persuasion this past weekend for my European Novels class. Jane Austen is one of my favorites, and I think this may be, in some ways, my favorite of her books. I've read it before, but for some reason it struck my particularly this time. I've noticed that happening with all my old favorites since I started writing. When I read them, they are like completely different books. I think because I'm so aware of style, structure, and all the little tricky tricks that the great writers can pull off. Now I see something like that and I can truly appreciate it, because I know there's no way I could do it. Anyway, Persuasion was good. I love reading Jane Austen out loud. So proper and yet so wickedly witty.

Next is Jane Eyre - another of my favorites. I can't wait to devote a few days to curling up in this horribly bitter weather and read and watch the frost creep across the windows.

The Waiting Game

So now that my MFA applications are all mailed off, and have all been received, it's all about the waiting. It'll be at least six weeks until I begin to hear from them. It's already driving me crazy. I've been receiving a steady trickle of letters from my prospective schools, all of which say, in one variation or another:

"We've got all your stuff, don't fret. And please leave us along until such time as we will contact you. DO NOT contact us."

I do understand their sentiment, especially after a few weeks of waiting. I'm sure that, no matter how hard they resist, each year there are swarms of phone calls and e-mails from applicants wondering how the decisions are coming along. I'd hate to become one of their number, but I can understand how one might bow under the pressure of the fretting, and just have to call. HAVE TO.

And to top it off, now that I’m not dealing actively with the applications, I have this huge chuck of time and brain space that, until recently, was dedicated to this stuff. Now there are gaping holes waiting to be filled. I’m trying to fill them with my thesis, but it’s slow going. It’s like trying to switch a train going full-speed.

Oh, God. How am I going to make it until March? It’s like waiting for Christmas when you were a kid – but in this case for Christmas Santa is giving me my WHOLE FUTURE.

The Plot Thickens & Nobody Knows

Last night we went to the bookstore (joy!) in Fargo, and spent about five hours there. I made big headway on a story, and we left with only two purchases (we are soooo good): for me, The Plot Thickens, by Noah Lukeman, and for Jason, a movie, Nobody Knows. Both, I am pleased to say, have already justified their purchase.


The book, The Plot Thickens, is just what I was looking for. Needless to say, I was surprised and pleased when I found it in our tiny B&N in Fargo. It is a book about plot, but instead of being full of diagrams and timelines, it is about developing plot through characterization. Which is the way it should be, and is also something I've been struggling with lately, with my latest story in particular. How to juggle what one of my teachers once called "the thing and the other thing," and what Lukeman calls the surface journey and the profound journey. Anyway, it's a nice addition to my small collection of what you might consider writing how-to manuals. They are where I turn first when I am stuck, which happens with disturbing frequency.

The movie, Nobody Knows, we watched last night. It is directed and written by a Japanese director, Hirokazu Koreeda. He also directed Marabosi, one of my favorite movies. If you haven't seen either of these movies, I can't recommend them highly enough. Nobody Knows is about four children of the same mother, but different fathers, who are abandoned by said mother for undetermined periods of time. It is mostly the story of the eldest boy, Akira, and his struggle to take care of himself and his siblings. It is amazing. Oh, and go get Marabosi and watch it too.

Three bits of good news:

I'm done with my applications! YAY! Now the waiting begins. Thankfully I have more than enough to distract myself with.

I got the estimate for my car this morning (remember that unfortunate deer incident?), and it's only going to be about $800. Okay, its still a tough swallow, but since I was expecting well over a thousand, this is a nice surprise.

On Saturday we leave to go to Dallas. Have I mentioned this before? For Christmas, J's mother gave us a trip to Dallas to see a homeopathic MD. J's sister goes to him, as does his mother, aunt, and grandmother (the healthiest, gardening-est, marching-in-protests-est 84 year old I've ever met). We are going to place our various chronic aches and pains in front of him and see what he can do. I'm hopeful he can do something about the headaches that grip my jaw and shoulder in a vise. That would be a great start to the new year. So, but we're excited. Dallas will be warm(er) than here, and she gave us our health for Christmas. Could you ask for more?

Now, I'm forcing myself off the internet and into working on a story. Now that all my applications are done, I have some time to write, which is nice, but I'm finding it difficult to switch gears. Today, with the aid of my new book, I'm going to do it. So, it's time to reheat yesterday's curry, and get on with this story.

Somebody Gets It

So, some time ago, I handed my latest story effort ever to a particular reader that is well-respected by me. We both got busy, and well over a month went by between then and now. During this time, I fretted (when I had the chance to think too much about it). My thoughts went something like this:

Tempermental Insecure Artist Voice In Head:
Shit, she hates it. She doesn't know what to say. We put her in the position of having to tell us she hates it, or having to lie. It doesn't make any sense, after all. IIt sucks. It's slow, uneven, cookie-cutter, self-aggrandizing (whatever that means, Artist Voice), pompous...

Me Voice (Just as tempermental, but ever so slightly less melodramatic):
She's just busy.

TAV:
No, we just suck.

Me Voice:
First of all, even if the story sucked, she would find something nice to tell us. She finds good stuff even in total tripe. She likes our work, anyway, she's seen it before, and we had even less of a clue what we were doing then.

TAV:
You think we have a clue now?

Anyway, it went on like that off and on for weeks. But finally we got together so that she could tell me what she thought. And... she liked it. For real. She had thoughts on a few fixer-uppers (which are always appreciated), and a lot of little editing bits (word cuts, tense problems, the like). But overall, she liked it. More than that, she got it. She GOT it!

I'm sure I don't need to tell you how thrilling it is when you're trying to do something particular with a piece of writing, and it succeeds. Especially with someone who you know is a good reader.

This is an especially good thing because I was thinking about using this particular story in my MFA application work samples, along with another story, an old stand-by. Now I know that, with a little tweaking, it's a good choice.

A good ending to a good day.

Doesn't everyone have at least one voice in their head?

On To The Thesis Proposal

Yesterday I discovered that my thesis proposal has to be done, well, pretty much by Tuesday, so that it can be signed by everyone in the English department, several deans and grad school officials, and possibly some other folks that I know nothing about. This is so that I can hand the proposal in on time so that it can be processed so that I can be issued another form to be filled out and signed by everyone on the planet and handed in within the first week of next semester.

I think I'm going to write a song about this experience. I will call it: Paper Chains Ain't Just For Christmas Trees (I don't know if that makes sense to anyone but me, but I like it anyway).

It's not really a big deal. It's a creative thesis, which helps because I don't have to have tons of documentation, and my bibliography doesn't have to be nearly as extensive. Thank gopdness for that. I was given a few examples of thesis proposals to mull over (and I think, in order to banish that look of panicked expectation that cried help me! help me! from my face when I appeared in my chair's office yesterday). One of them was Amber's, and it was, as everything that Amber produces, thoughtful, elegant, well-researched and constructed, lucid... well, you get the picture. It pretty much kicked ass, and my heart fell to a much lower position as I skimmed over the pages. Her proposal was for a combination research/creative thesis, and mine's just creative, so that made me feel better.

I know I sound doomsday. I don't really feel that way. This is just part of the process I go through before I dig in and pound out something like this. I work myself into a panic, doubt in my abilities, compare myself (unfavorably) to others, make a bunch of to-do lists (on which I put several things that I've already done just so I can have the pleasure of crossing them off), throw them all away, spend an hour or so reconstructing those lists on color coded spreadsheets with checkboxes, file those away appropriately and never use them again, pace around my house, make tea, put some laundry in, do some blogging (this is where I am right now), make some more tea, look into Zoe's (my dog) eyes and plead for reassurance while fondling her incredibly soft ears, receive assurance in the form of several licks on the chin, fold some warm laundry (never fails to soothe me), then get down to work. Once I actually get down to it, things always go quickly. I wish I could skip all the pre-activity, but it seems to be integral to the process.

I'm off to make some tea...

Masters Blues

So, yesterday I ran into a friend who had just finished defending his thesis for his Masters in English. He was getting ready to celebrate, and of course I tagged along to the pub. He was really excited, I think, and rightfully so. It is a big deal.

That was when I realized: this is a big deal. Is this something to be just done willy-nilly, as I seem to be approaching it? I guess the whole MA process was just overshadowed in my mind by the mind-boggling MFA application process I've created for myself. And now I'm having a bit of a panic. I have one semester in which to do all this stuff. I have to write a thesis. A creative thesis. This is, for me, short stories. Quite a few of them. And I am a slow writer. Ponderously slow.

I think I have a concept for my thesis proposal. But I haven't written it yet.

*(A side note for those of you that have been following this saga: I found out that I did, indeed apply to BSU and was accepted so, whew! That's a load off my mind)

But the ink isn't even dry on my application for candidacy, and I need to find committee members, and, and, and... bit of a panic, really.

I have chosen my committee chair. She is amazing, and the great thing about her is that, when she tells me something, I get it. You know how, with the rare teacher here and there, you can actually understand what they're saying? She operates on my wavelength. I hear her loud and clear. This is good, because she is a fiction teacher, my favorite. She is blunt, yet not hurtful. She gives me what I want for my stories, a reader who is intelligent and careful and critical. She gives me criticism I can use, which is something I am finding difficult to come by. Anyway, she is great, and the fact that she has agreed to chair my committee makes me feel good, and better yet, that maybe I can pull this off.

As an example of this woman's sage qualities: The day after my little panic attack in my office, I told her I was freaking out. She told me that, throughout the process of both her Masters and her PhD, she would wake up in the middle of the night in a sheer panic. So I said, "So this happens to everyone? Everyone is hiding in their offices, hyperventilating with the door closed?"

And she said, "Yep. And it's only going to get worse."

This may seem cruel to you. I laughed my ass off and felt infinitely better. Maybe we are just twisted in the same way. But that is rare and good.

My Bitchin' Portfolio

I just finished my portfolio for my creative non-fiction class. Well, not really finished - I still have the folder to acquire and stylize, but the content is done, and prettified.

Usually when I have to put together a portfolio for a class, I am dull in the extreme. I print out all my work in Times New Roman 12 with one inch margins, staple things together, and put them in any folder I can scrounge up in my house, and am done with it in short order.


This time, for what reason I'm not sure, I've gone a little further. Maybe it's because I'm drowning in MFA applications, and the last thing I want to do is look at something in Times New Roman, or make it look like a business plan.

I didn't go crazy with it, because I know that if I was a teacher, I would appreciate a certain amount of creativity, but only if combined with readability. In my view, a portfolio should not be a challenge to the professor that has a towering stack of them on his desk. That's just asking for it (and not very thoughtful, besides). But I am planning a trip to Ben Franklin today, to their astoundingly huge paper selection, to garner inspiration for a cool-type envelope, file, what-have-you.

My favorite thing about the portfolio? The font. I likes it. I've scanned the first page, my artist statement, so that you can all share in the joys of Bodoni MT Bold with me. How is it I never saw this font before?

Again with the Morning Thing!?

An update on my recent efforts to get up at 5 am and write brilliant original fiction:

It's going pretty well - the 5 am part, not necessarily the brilliant fiction part. Some days its more like 5:30 (so don't be too impressed, Jessie), and some days it's more like 8. But out of the past week or so that I've been doing this, I've managed to get up 6 out of 8 days. This ain't bad, considering there isn't a fire or a paycheck involved, both of which qualify as good reasons to get out of bed (well, paycheck depending on the job).

I am writing this cool story that sort of came out of the dark (literally) at me. Before, a couple years ago, when I was doing the early morning write, every morning I would write something new. A couple pages of dreamland, a bizarre scene straight out of the depths of my brain. Then the next day it was something else. But this time around, something different is happening. I'm working on the same story every morning.

I think part of me is afraid, since it was conceived this way, that if I try to bring it out into the daylight before it is done it will vanish. Or, more realistically, that I won't be able to duplicate the style of the earlier pages unless I am in the same state of mind. I worry about trying to write it during the day, or the evening, or late at night. It is a pre-dawn story, and I don't want to break the spell.

I read J what I had written after he woke up the other morning, and he told me he thinks its the best stuff I've ever written. He said that it's like the stuff you read in a book, a published book, a book you buy (I'm paraphrasing here, J, it was early, give me a break). Although I can't remember what it is he said exactly, this is what it meant to me. I hug that compliment and save it - it's a good one.

So this early thing is okay. And a side benefit of rising early is I that every morning I have a choice. After a few hours of writing I can: 1) crawl back into my flannel-licious bed and cozy up to a snuggly sleeping J or 2) keep writing, and revel in the fact that, when you get up early, the days are so very long.

This Morning Thing

Off and on throughout my life, I've been forced to be an early riser. High school golf practice (5 am), lifeguarding (5 am), baking (4 am), suitcase factory (5 am), and doughnut frying (1 am - and don't ask, its a sordid period of my working life).

But I am not naturally an early riser. I am a 2 am to bed kind of person, and have been for as long as I can remember. But I've started a new resolution to get up at 5 am every day. Okay, so maybe every 4 out of 5 days would be good. There is a good reason for this. I am getting up to write.

Getting up early, for me, doesn't result in jaw-cracking yawns all day. Once I manage to pry myself out of bed (which is the bulk of the difficulty with getting up early - I love bed), after that, it's really not so bad. I wake up pretty quickly and am fairly alert. But it puts me in a wierd frame of mind, one that will permeate my day. My thoughts are disconnected and dreamy. My imagination basically takes over both halves of my brain and leaves me an absent-minded fool for most of the day.

I have discovered something about this state of mind, though. I produce bizarre stuff while in it. Good writing stuff that I read later and say, "Did I write that? I can't believe that came out of my brain. Who knew?" I get, by far, my best stories by writing at 5 am. The only rule I have is that I can't think about what I'm going to write, oh, and another rule (that's two, I guess) - I can't stop writing. I think it was Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones where I first got that suggestion. It was one of those writing tips that normally I'd say "yeah, okay" to, and promptly brush off. But I tried it one day sitting on my deck, and actually came up with an entire story.

Pretty wierd stuff.

So anyway, that's why this post is coming in at 6:30 am. Because it's Daylight Savings Night, and so I actually got up at 4, which is pushing it a little, in my mind. Out of the past seven days, I've managed to get up at 5 for 5 of them. So far so good, but every morning is a fresh struggle.

Deadlines, please

In order to get anything done, I need deadlines. This has been the case since I was in second grade and I waited midnight the night before my project on volcanoes was due to wake up my mom and announce it. Being the good mommy that she was, she got up with me, made hot chocolate, and we put the project together. But, that night, we set a dangerous precedent. Ever since then, I've been hooked on deadlines.

Thing is, I'm not sure this is a good thing for a writer. Sure, a journalist. Definitely, a grantwriter, the career that I believe honed my penchant for deadlines into a dependency. Because I don't seem to be able to finish anything without them. Is it possible that I cannot be self-motivated?

So, the reason this comes up is that I was literally unable to finish this one story until the very postmark deadline day for the contest I wanted to send it to. I can't help it. I love that rush, the way everything becomes crystal clear when you're down to hours, even minutes. The ruthless prioritization that must accompany this last-minute dash, because you just know you can't dither over things. I am able to focus in a way that is just not possible most of the time.

This is probably unhealthy. I will spend the rest of my life setting up fake deadlines for myself to force me to finish stories. There must be a prescription for this kind of thing.

Poet Schmoet

Today, for the first time, I workshopped a piece of poetry. I mean, my own poetry. It was a new and startling experience for me, but no less startling than actually writing poetry. It has always seemed to me that poetry is one of those things that you are born with, or you are not. And poets, well, they are some sort of otherworldly breed that can channel emotion and move words around like three card monty. Of course, you'd think I'd know better, as, up until recently, I thought the same of writers. That it was a club that I'd never belong to. I was known to say such asinine things as, "I'm a reader, not a writer." Cripes.

Of course, looking back I can say that this was some major avoidance on my part. Because, by defining myself as such, I never even had to try, did I? Someone said to me today that being a cynic is safe. I had never thought about it in those terms, but it struck me. That is why I do it. If you're not open to possibility, you don't have to explore and possibly fail. That is one thing that I've avoided most of my life: failure. Not healthy, I know, but fact is, that's sort of what I was taught. And it works. But it is sort of boring. So is being a cynic. In fact, that is one of the qualities of cynicism, of being jaded. You have to be bored. Nothing is new, nothing is exciting, and nothing is waiting to be discovered.

Well, I discovered something today. Poetry gives me something that none of my other writing does. There is a latitude within it that I do not allow myself with my fiction and creative non-fiction. I'm allowed to rest in a moment, to toy with it, to please myself by exploring it. I'm not required to hold together the forms required by narrative, and I can make leaps that I just can't do in fiction.

Anyway, it was cool. And I'm still pretty jazzed. And further jazzed because I managed to overcome the anxiety I experience when reading my work aloud. I remembered to breathe (big plus), and so read without a crack or a quiver. That was a breakthrough. And now I'm tucked up in my dorm room for the week, which smells like new carpet (ick). But I have a bowl of homemade alphabet soup for dinner, and some pita bread. So I got no complaints