So when we last left our hapless (and newly Hapa'd) girlfriend, she had just been to a posh writing residency in Wyoming where she had inexplicably written 100 pages of a fresh novel and felt pretty damn good about herself.
And that's all she wrote. Literally. In other words (no pun intended), life has kicked in and made sitting down to write a might less easy than it had been when she was in Wyoming, and the only thing she had to worry about was how much chicken it took to feed six.
Happily I no longer have to consider how much chicken to buy, but I do have to write that damn novel. As you all know, I have turned over a more proactive leaf in my life, and I've decided not to muddle along forever. Besides, if short stories are dates and novels are serious boyfriends (and god knows you spend enough time with them), then I just wasn't that into my first book - but find myself falling in love with this second one. Chemistry doesn't just apply to human involvement apparently. My second book and I have a good thing going. (And by the way, Hapa Boy returned from a business trip with a swollen face from a random allergic reaction, and he is still indescribably hot. So there you go. Chemistry.)
But I digress.
Here's what I did: I signed up for NaNoRiNo - National Novel Writing Month. Mind you, I'm cheating. I'm supposed to start the book on November 1, and obviously I'm not. But I'm hoping this will get me writing 2000 words a day, rain or shine. I'm guessing rain.
Your cheerful "You can do it, Tiger!" good wishes are welcome.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
It's All Good & Not Perfect
My greatest fear for the upcoming election is not that Obama will lose (not going to happen), but that he will choose a song as geeky as "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow" when the results come in. I'm old enough to remember Tipper Gore dancing to that onstage, and there isn't enough soap in the world to wash that image out of my mind.
I think Bob Dylan singing Simple Twist of Fate would work well this time. Especially if McCain doesn't just lose, he and Sarah "I'm a farm girl, they done stuck these fancy duds on me" Palin are forced to spend the rest of their lives on a deserted island somewhere off Timbuktu that will never have enough satellite for the Internets. On the plus side, they could take along the entire Bush clan for company.
I think that's a reasonable solution, really. Sarah won't have to dress up in designer clothes or wear makeup, and McCain won't have to talk to the press. Also, I'd be happy to drop in frozen turkeys for Thanksgiving - particularly if one could land on W's head.
I think Bob Dylan singing Simple Twist of Fate would work well this time. Especially if McCain doesn't just lose, he and Sarah "I'm a farm girl, they done stuck these fancy duds on me" Palin are forced to spend the rest of their lives on a deserted island somewhere off Timbuktu that will never have enough satellite for the Internets. On the plus side, they could take along the entire Bush clan for company.
I think that's a reasonable solution, really. Sarah won't have to dress up in designer clothes or wear makeup, and McCain won't have to talk to the press. Also, I'd be happy to drop in frozen turkeys for Thanksgiving - particularly if one could land on W's head.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Halloween. Boo.
When did Halloween become like Christmas with bad makeup? Seriously, I don't understand how this happened. One day, I was a 12 year old walking around my suburban neighborhood in a sailor suit, and the next day adults were pondering "what to do for Halloween."
Here's what adults should do for Halloween: They should give out candy. The end.
It must be said that I hate dressing up in stupid costumes. I really hate having to come up with one, I hate being uncomfortable, I hate having to admire other people's stupid costumes, and I generally don't like Halloween parties because they feature two things I hate: Tortilla chips and women wearing bunny ears or whiskers painted on their faces. Fifty years of feminism, friends. Anyway, years ago, I went to a Halloween party where I used to live - lovely Inverness, California. I was a sexy bar girl, wearing a cast-off $2000 dress of my sister's. I met a guy there who was dressed as - remember this was a long time ago - as the wounded guy in The English Patient, completely wrapped in bandages.
I talked to him for about three hours, never saw him again (I think), and I still don't know what he looked like. Would you give your number to a man whose face was completely bandaged? I didn't.
So there you go. I hate Halloween.
Here's what adults should do for Halloween: They should give out candy. The end.
It must be said that I hate dressing up in stupid costumes. I really hate having to come up with one, I hate being uncomfortable, I hate having to admire other people's stupid costumes, and I generally don't like Halloween parties because they feature two things I hate: Tortilla chips and women wearing bunny ears or whiskers painted on their faces. Fifty years of feminism, friends. Anyway, years ago, I went to a Halloween party where I used to live - lovely Inverness, California. I was a sexy bar girl, wearing a cast-off $2000 dress of my sister's. I met a guy there who was dressed as - remember this was a long time ago - as the wounded guy in The English Patient, completely wrapped in bandages.
I talked to him for about three hours, never saw him again (I think), and I still don't know what he looked like. Would you give your number to a man whose face was completely bandaged? I didn't.
So there you go. I hate Halloween.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
It's All Perfect & Other Harbingers of Doom
Years ago - roughly one half-grown child ago - my friend S. from graduate school (that's University of Arkansas to the uninitiated) met The Love of Her Life, an Arkansas boy named B.
B. was a sweet, long-haired boy with the open manner and wide smile of Bodhi, the golden retriever that keeps stealing shoes and dumping them in the yard. In fact, now that I think about it, B. had a lot in common with our Bodhi. At any rate, S. and B. fell into mad, passionate union, a sweet joining that could not be contained by say, a public movie theater or a bench with students passing around them. This beautiful love was hampered by only one smallish problem: He was already married. To his junior high sweetheart.
Yes, our friend B. had a wife that he'd been with rather happily ever since the freshman prom in HatchChili, Arkansas. But, as he charmingly put it to me one day, he felt he had traded up with the pampered daughter of an LA heart surgeon. As S. put it, "B. is perfect. He's perfect to me. We're perfect. It's all perfect."
Cut to: B.'s wife in agony.
Divorce. Proposal. Engagement.
After an elaborate $75,000 wedding wherein I was a bridesmaid wearing a hideous pee-colored dress with a giant back bow, S. got pregnant. Baby arrived, followed by divorce. B, you see, a high school teacher, behaved like that old man in that book by Nabokov. Although it must be admitted that he is still with his former student, for what it's worth. At any rate, the relationship that began as "perfect" ended in a semi-Greek tragedy, proving two points: If they do it to someone else, they'll do it to you, and it's all perfect is a terrifying statement, and might give God an excellent reason to look down and say Spinal Bifida.
Which is possibly why I tend to distrust the sentiment. But why do I bring this up? Because at the moment my own B., Hapa Boy, is perfect, and treating me perfectly and it makes me slightly anxious.
On the other hand, Hapa Boy. did not leave his junior high sweetheart for me. Because you know, if you're looking for red flags, that's practically Nascar, isn't it?
B. was a sweet, long-haired boy with the open manner and wide smile of Bodhi, the golden retriever that keeps stealing shoes and dumping them in the yard. In fact, now that I think about it, B. had a lot in common with our Bodhi. At any rate, S. and B. fell into mad, passionate union, a sweet joining that could not be contained by say, a public movie theater or a bench with students passing around them. This beautiful love was hampered by only one smallish problem: He was already married. To his junior high sweetheart.
Yes, our friend B. had a wife that he'd been with rather happily ever since the freshman prom in HatchChili, Arkansas. But, as he charmingly put it to me one day, he felt he had traded up with the pampered daughter of an LA heart surgeon. As S. put it, "B. is perfect. He's perfect to me. We're perfect. It's all perfect."
Cut to: B.'s wife in agony.
Divorce. Proposal. Engagement.
After an elaborate $75,000 wedding wherein I was a bridesmaid wearing a hideous pee-colored dress with a giant back bow, S. got pregnant. Baby arrived, followed by divorce. B, you see, a high school teacher, behaved like that old man in that book by Nabokov. Although it must be admitted that he is still with his former student, for what it's worth. At any rate, the relationship that began as "perfect" ended in a semi-Greek tragedy, proving two points: If they do it to someone else, they'll do it to you, and it's all perfect is a terrifying statement, and might give God an excellent reason to look down and say Spinal Bifida.
Which is possibly why I tend to distrust the sentiment. But why do I bring this up? Because at the moment my own B., Hapa Boy, is perfect, and treating me perfectly and it makes me slightly anxious.
On the other hand, Hapa Boy. did not leave his junior high sweetheart for me. Because you know, if you're looking for red flags, that's practically Nascar, isn't it?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Ch-ch-Changes
As some of you know, I recently spent last month in the comfy confines of lovely Jentel - an arts residency in Wyoming.
For the uninitiated, an arts residency is what God gives you to make up for the other 299 days of the year when being a writer or an artist is a complete pain in the a**. Depending on the residence, you get a room or a house and food or money for food and a studio and a great big reminder that you are up to Important Things in that studio. Or, you know, not - but it feels that way.
Jentel supplies a room that would shame most Bed and Breakfasts, a $100 a week stipend for food that other residents cook five days a week so it's a given that I eat better than at home, 1000 acres to hike within, two squee-dorable dogs to pet, a wonderful studio with a mini gas fireplace and a chair that leans back into practically a bed, and the fellowship of four artists and one other writer (my friend J.)
I loved it. The best part? I didn't even have to apply, I was awarded the residence because of my O. Henry Award in last year's O Henry Prize Collection. Thank you, God! Now could you do something about Obama getting elected?
In other news, while I was in Wyoming, Happa Boy (whom I started dating just days before leaving town) sent emails and phone messages to my non-working cell phone (we're in the mountains up there), plus a printed dinner invitation, among other awesomeness. When I got back, he made me seared tuna - and get this - remembered my love of frozen grapes for dessert. For reals. He remembered what I said in passing about frozen grapes and had them on hand - stunning non-male behavior. But I was not used to a man being so well, nice to me. And so I resisted his adorable inroads. This is a sad commentary on my previous relationships, particularly with S. Especially with S.
But there you have it, Beloved Readers, resistance is futile. I seem to have a *gasp* boyfriend. I know, who'd have thunk it? Certainly not me at this time last year - which just goes to show you that if you go to a big city and leave your house occasionally - you might meet someone.
The object of my affections - he sent me this picture at Jentel. See, nice. I feel guilty God is concentrating more on my happiness right now than say, global warming. I'm good, God. You can move on.
(By the way, I turned off comments due to a weird blip of them being saved half a dozen times. It seems to be resolved but if they disappear again, that's why.)
For the uninitiated, an arts residency is what God gives you to make up for the other 299 days of the year when being a writer or an artist is a complete pain in the a**. Depending on the residence, you get a room or a house and food or money for food and a studio and a great big reminder that you are up to Important Things in that studio. Or, you know, not - but it feels that way.
Jentel supplies a room that would shame most Bed and Breakfasts, a $100 a week stipend for food that other residents cook five days a week so it's a given that I eat better than at home, 1000 acres to hike within, two squee-dorable dogs to pet, a wonderful studio with a mini gas fireplace and a chair that leans back into practically a bed, and the fellowship of four artists and one other writer (my friend J.)
I loved it. The best part? I didn't even have to apply, I was awarded the residence because of my O. Henry Award in last year's O Henry Prize Collection. Thank you, God! Now could you do something about Obama getting elected?
In other news, while I was in Wyoming, Happa Boy (whom I started dating just days before leaving town) sent emails and phone messages to my non-working cell phone (we're in the mountains up there), plus a printed dinner invitation, among other awesomeness. When I got back, he made me seared tuna - and get this - remembered my love of frozen grapes for dessert. For reals. He remembered what I said in passing about frozen grapes and had them on hand - stunning non-male behavior. But I was not used to a man being so well, nice to me. And so I resisted his adorable inroads. This is a sad commentary on my previous relationships, particularly with S. Especially with S.
But there you have it, Beloved Readers, resistance is futile. I seem to have a *gasp* boyfriend. I know, who'd have thunk it? Certainly not me at this time last year - which just goes to show you that if you go to a big city and leave your house occasionally - you might meet someone.
The object of my affections - he sent me this picture at Jentel. See, nice. I feel guilty God is concentrating more on my happiness right now than say, global warming. I'm good, God. You can move on.
(By the way, I turned off comments due to a weird blip of them being saved half a dozen times. It seems to be resolved but if they disappear again, that's why.)
Monday, October 20, 2008
The Blogger Stumbles....Again
Yes, yes, haven't posted in months apology-cakes. Here's a wrap-up of what I've been doing:
1. Working. Gah.
2. Dog walking.
3. Noting that the summer, she is gone, and it is now raining.
4. Going to a writing residency at Jentel in Wyoming. Gloriousness.
5. Writing nearly 100 pages of a new novel. (RIP, old novel).
6. Acquiring a Gentleman Caller. (I've moved from terminally single to singleish. More on this as it develops.)
So I've been busy. But final word is that I'm staying in Seattle, I like it here, all is well, it rains a lot, Brutto is happy, Wyoming rocked, my guy is so incredibly sweet and lovely it scares me. Which tells you how neurotic I am. As if you doubted it.
1. Working. Gah.
2. Dog walking.
3. Noting that the summer, she is gone, and it is now raining.
4. Going to a writing residency at Jentel in Wyoming. Gloriousness.
5. Writing nearly 100 pages of a new novel. (RIP, old novel).
6. Acquiring a Gentleman Caller. (I've moved from terminally single to singleish. More on this as it develops.)
So I've been busy. But final word is that I'm staying in Seattle, I like it here, all is well, it rains a lot, Brutto is happy, Wyoming rocked, my guy is so incredibly sweet and lovely it scares me. Which tells you how neurotic I am. As if you doubted it.
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