make lemons into ... maker's?

Today has not started well. But it will get better. It's the new me. I have hope. I am sure things will change. The fact that today started with a rejection, a waste of time trip to a training for some cool on-call work that pays so poorly it would cost me money to do it, hearing something I didn't want to hear from someone from whom I'd rather hear something else ...

Some of my friends have really great stories and other stuff up:

Dial, by Ravi Mangla

The Rope and the Sea, by Ben Loory

Lucky People Who Knew Murillo (page 61), by Greg Gerke

This Modern Writer: Stupid Video Games, by Erin Fitzgerald

Men Don't Leave Me, by Roxane Gay

#6, by Ryan Bradley

So much more. I apologize to those I did not mention.

I like when my friends are happy and successful. They are good to me and happy when I have stuff published. It has been awhile. But I have a few things coming out in journals I love and I plan to write today. I also have a cool gig that I'll tell you about soon.

It's a stunning day in Northern California. And if all else fails, lemons may, and will, be magically transformed into a drink with a friend.

no blood, no pulp

I have been writing some seriously depressing crap here. And for that, I suck. I will now officially stop beating myself into a bloody pulp.

I am reading at a thing Monday night. I love to read. It is fun and scary and ... fun. The worst part is choosing what to wear. That's not bad for a worst part.

I am drinking Diet Pepsi. Diet Pepsi is fantastic. Even better with lemon, but a true joy on its own.

It is Chanukah and I have really pretty candles.

It has been raining all day and I am inside with a big sweater, warm boots and BOOKS.

I have an awesome cat (Noah) who reads books with me.

I have stamps. Often, I am without stamps.

I have an umbrella inside my house, rather than having three in my car when I need to walk to my car from my house.

Last, but definitely not least, I will probably always have good hair. And that is not something everyone can say. I am very lucky.

addicted to (being) love(d)

Having people read what you write is addictive. When my first story was published in July of 2008, I nearly peed my pants. OK, I think I maybe did, a little. A month or so later, another piece was published. People were reading words that I wrote. They did not hate my sentences. I put more words together. I submitted more. My stories were sometimes published. The leakage continued.

I grew dependent. I liked when people "liked" links to my stories on Facebook. Too much. I hate needing external validation. I want to like things because I like them. I want my opinion to mean something to me.

If something is published where comments are allowed, I check regularly. Fine, I check somewhat obsessively. I want people to like me. I somewhat desperately want people to like what I write. I hate that.

I have a non-addictive personality. I didn't finish my Vicodin prescription following a surgery. I have maybe two drinks when I drink. I like sugar and baked goods a little too much, but, for the most part, I can take or leave alcoholic or chemical substances.

On my few occasions of drunkenness, I have gotten very angry with myself. I do not like to be out of control. I don't like to slur, to be wobbly and reliant. I crave escape from my life sometimes. At those times, I go to sleep or write or read or get an inappropriate boyfriend or eat a cookie.

I think I've mentioned that I was a painfully shy child. Second of four born within 5 1/2 years. I could not ask for what I wanted so I went without. I'm still shy, though few believe it. I am sometimes shocked that people ask for and listen to my opinion. I am no longer entirely avoidant of confrontation. (Though I made someone else confront the guy who sat on my coat and bag last night ...) I didn't know that people might listen to me.

I want it not to matter that people read me or like me or love me or listen to me. It's the wrong thing to want. Don't read this. Don't read anything I write. Don't praise me. Don't like me. Don't care. Please. There is no rehab for my addiction. Don't indulge my neediness. Leave me in blank space. Make me go cold turkey. It's for my own good.

a story about a story

I am going to be writing for the very cool online site "The Nervous Breakdown." It has all sorts of smart and funny people who intimidate me because I am easily intimidated these days. Why is that? I'm not sure. I'll let you know when I figure it out.

Anyway, I put my first piece up today. It's funny and kind of embarrassing. I don't think I wrote about it here. Please check out the site -- and the story if you want -- but definitely the site. It's intelligent and hilarious and other writers actually read your stuff and comment. Nicely. This is not always the case elsewhere, and, no, I'm not naming names. Anyway, here's the link. Go. Now.

The Nervous Breakdown

Update: No word on any jobs, no word on any submissions, no real word except "cold." It is too cold in Northern California. A few more degrees would be delightful.

I just realized I moved here from Southern California three years ago. All I can say is that it's home. I'm not leaving. Ever.

there was a good day

Monday was a good day. After 10 rejections, the story was accepted. The one I liked and then didn't so much after four, five, nine rejections. I know, there are tons of great writers who were rejected 1238 times for works that were eventually translated into 72 languages, won prizes in all 381 countries in which those 72 were the primary languages, sold millions or even billions, married stunning Nobel Peace Prize winners and settled down to write their autobiographies, in which they brilliantly detailed the myriad rejections of days past. I get it. I wallowed. I'm pretty ok with that.

Wow, I totally digressed from the good day part ... Anyway, it was accepted at a journal I like a lot that even PAYS. That is just craziness. About an hour before, I received a rejection from a very fine journal, which read "[u]nfortunately this particular work was not a right fit for ***, but we were very impressed by your writing. We hope that you'll consider sending more work to us soon."

Maybe other people get rejections like that every day. I've had a few. I'm not bragging. It felt good, that's all.

Then this recruiter called me about a really great job and got all excited about me and practically sent me the Office Depot catalogue so I could pick out office supplies, sent an email asking when would be good for her to call back with a few other questions, I said at your convenience and I guess it hasn't been so convenient.

Okay, I admit it. Today is not a great day. I think some other good things happened on Monday but sometimes it's just not that fun to think of great days on not great days.

I am tired and cold and things that look promising are fizzling and, yes, I should delete this, but I won't because it's true and honesty can be comforting. I'm not happy every day. Not even close. And I will do you the courtesy of not blowing smoke if you respect the fact that I cannot be exactly everything everyone wants me to be all the time. Or even close at all.

struck

Tonight, I heard a man predict the death of books by way of technology. He said that we are "trying to disappear ourselves." He said that the persistence of technology is a Stalinesque effort to erase the individual. He said that books are the sacred embodiment of life. He said some things I found ugly with words he put together quite beautifully.

In brief, I found his arguments extreme but not radical. He talked at length about internet privacy. He excoriated Google and Kindle. There was little discussion of the good things the internet does for books and writers. He probably sells a lot more books because people read about him on a blog or hear him on a podcast and make their way to Amazon or another online bookseller and buy them. My own writing is accessible to many more people when published online than in print.

I love books. I own too many. I love the library. Books are not going anywhere. I state that as fact. They are not going away. Ever. I liked when one of the panelists said something to the effect that changing the means by which people read will not stop us from reading. His comparison to music was apt. From records to cds to iPods ... we still listen.

The members of the panel were impressive and smart and made me shy. I talked to some afterward and said stupid things. I blathered. I babbled. The one whose books I have read and liked a lot was nice -- they all were -- but I think he found me tiresome after awhile. I found me tiresome.

I am starstruck by those who have gained success in the literary world, especially writers. Tom Cruise could walk up to me and start a conversation and I wouldn't care. Not true. I would punch him for being ignorant and a generally bad actor. Then I would apologize and compliment him on his exceptional performance in Magnolia, one of my favorite movies. Then I might punch him again. (The violence is figurative. I don't hit.) But if A.M. Homes or Tobias Wolff or Ellen Gilchrist or Paul Auster spoke to me, I would babble and blather and say stupid things that I would listen to on a loop in my head as I kicked myself (figuratively) for being stupid.

Non sequitur time. I think it's funny that my blog gets more hits when I don't post. Is it that mystique thing, like when you're more intrigued by someone who keeps his/her distance? Maybe I just need to stop the babbling. Maybe I just need to let things speak for themselves sometimes. Maybe things don't always need to be spoken.