AWP 2012: off the richter

I am flying home from Chicago. O’Hare to SFO. Four hours and 13 minutes and snowy mountains out the window and the most beautiful horizon of orange, pink and yellow drawn using a ruler by whoever or whatever made the sky.

I went to Chicago for the annual conference held by AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs). Really, I don’t go to or for the conference. I don’t attend panels or keynote speeches or whatever is listed in the huge book included in the ugly tote they hand you when you check in. I go because I am a writer there and an editor and a friend and I feel most like me and most like someone I have never met every single time I go. This was my fourth. I am quite sure it was my last.

I don’t name names on my blog. I do not reveal certain personal information. I do not do book reviews or have a blogroll or list names of journals other than those in which my work may be found. I do this to maintain my privacy, to negate any appearance of partiality on my part as a writer, and especially as an editor, and to keep it small. More people read my AWP posts than the sum of all other posts I make throughout the year.

I’m not bashing on blogrolls or references to other writers and journals. Some do it very well. Many do it very well. I would not, and this is a place I write about a lot of things. Some of the readers of whom I am aware are not writers. They’re people who tell me sometimes that I say things that they feel. That is what writing is for me. Making people feel things. Not making them feel like me or for me or whatever. Just saying things that make them feel less alone, maybe.

But this is the names named post. Except I took out the names. I don't know why except I wanted to. It doesn't mean I don't like those people with the names. I'm just ... back and it's different and the same and mostly the same in ways I want to be different.  I'll just maybe say a few things that happened to me and tell you why I will not go to the conference next year. Maybe.

I lost my voice! I got food poisoning! I tripped on the sidewalk and slammed my knees on the sidewalk! I saw a lot of guys wearing those hats that look like snoods. You know, those hats that droop off the back of their heads. They make me laugh a little. So does the word snood.

A few people went "oh, Lauren Becker!" when I said I was Lauren. It made me uncomfortable and maybe a little happy and weird. Probably because of Corium. Maybe the book? I don't know. I can't say it's because I write. I don't think anyone reads what I write, still. And I get off the plane and have an email from this MFA kid calling me Miss Becker. He wants to interview me about flash fiction because he likes my writing. And I'm like, ok. He probably lost a bet or chose me for the obscurity factor and he can't possibly have read anything I've written. And he sends me questions and he seems to maybe know what I've written a little better than I do. And I had another email from someone at a journal who wants me to write something about why I write or something. And I was like, ok. And I'm totally like, what is going on here? Don't you people know who I am???? Well, you shouldn't. I know. I suck. I should be all, I am so awesome. This is my blog. But I can't, still. And it's pathetic, I know, but I guess I'm just pathetic or something.

The only person I want to name is Erin. We shared a room. That room's got a lot of secrets and stuff. And I probably owe her an extra $50 but that's a whole other story. She held my hair back on food poisoning afternoon. We brought each other into focus. We also watched a little Project Runway All Stars.

Erin left first on Sunday. I cried. I could cry now thinking about it. Why does she have to live all the way across the country. I miss her. I miss you, Erin. I don't care if I sound like a dork. We had some good cries and some good laughs and some good Georges. And some excellent burgers. Mine had a fried egg on it. It was really good.

I got home at around 10 last night. This morning, I woke up in my own bed. There was an earthquake. It felt kind of like AWP.

i am writing my awp post RIGHT THIS SECOND

Seriously. It's going to be really good.

Not really. Come back anyways.

i am packing. can you tell?

So, I'm going to Chicago tomorrow. To hang out with, like, a billion of my nearest and dearest ... Facebook friends. And I'm totally not packed. I'm not going. Seriously. Ok, I'm going.

I feel all kinds of stressy. Because I have to pack and all that crap. Then I have to drive over to San Francisco, where I will do a little bit of celebratin' with Janice, who is having a birthday today. I'm gonna stay over because she lives near BART (for those who don't know, that is not a guy's name I am screaming. It is something like Bay Area Rzzngudssy Transit. I think the R means something else, but I forget, ok?) And the San Francisco airport is almost as bad as O'Hare. Oh, yeah!! I get to fight my way through lots of mean, stressy people at both! And I have to take my boots and belt off. For security. I do not have a hot date with BART or any other capital-lettered man. And you might say, don't wear boots and a belt, to which I would say, don't tell me what to wear because I will look cuter than you! And you will laugh inside because you know that you, in your Crocs and skinny purple jeans, will look way better. And I don't even know who you are. So stop making fun of me.

I really should pack. I am deathly afraid of forgetting my phone charger. Because they don't have phone chargers in Chicago. They have steak and deep dish pizza, neither of which floats my boat. Dunkin Donuts, on the other hand ... We don't have DD here (do we?) and I really like those ones with the oozy chocolate stuff in them.

OMG, I have a very large butt. I wrote about this last year. But this year it is really ... big. You might not be able to take your eyes off it. Like watching someone get eaten by a zebra in a zoo. I don't think zebras do that, but, if they did, you can be sure we'd all be watching.

I am going to go pack my phone charger, dammit. And maybe paint my toenails because that would be a totally useless thing to do and I like doing stuff like that. And, and, and ... dammit, does American Airlines make you pay $25 to check a bag? I sort of hate them for that. But I don't like to pour shampoo and stuff into little tiny bottles, so I suffer your stinking rule. And there's the thing where my parents bought me my plane tickets back in September for my birthday and it was one of the few times they acknowledged that writing is important to me and supported it. Another warm Becker family moment ... ahhhh.

OK, I'm going already. Stop dominating my attention. You are stunning and smell great, but I have to try on some jeans to see which ones make my butt look the least fat. And they will win a trophy! Which I will carry in my back pocket so it looks lumpy and fat. If you are at AWP, you should say hi to me. I believe I've described myself adequately.

Oh, and nobody asked me to read (except for a two minute reading, which is really not enough time to clear your throat and warm up the crowd) so you should invite me to read, because it's something at which I do not suck. I mean, have you seen this??? Yeah, I know. Big deal. But I'm pretty bummed about not reading. Some of my friends are doing about 80 readings. BUT, (BUTT?), I have been invited to arm-wrestle and sing karaoke, so bring your purple skinny jeans and crocs. I'll let you hold my trophy.

close your mouth and be gorgeous, I have a book

So, I have a book. I have a book!!! Holy crap, I have a book. It is a book in a book. Some people call it an anthology, but I think an anthology has some sort of common thread running through, so I'm calling it a book in a book. That was boring. But I still have a book. With four super-awesome other girl writers, and that might be the common thread that makes it an anthology. Womanthology? That is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have said today and it was not a MENSA day.

It is called Shut Up/Look Pretty and it is called Things About Me and You and I've probably mentioned it, like, 100 billion times or maybe five. And the reason I am mentioning it again is because I have it. I am looking at this book with my name on it right this second. It is sort of weird. I didn't think I would have a book. Did you? I mean, really. I am very lucky. I even have a story in it called I Am Very Lucky. And I am.

Except I'm sort of not the luckiest person on earth. Or in Oakland. Or in my tiny apartment building. I still have no voice. I know, right? What is up with the losing the voice? I like talking very much. So, I'm going back to my ENT who wears the shiny mirror thing on his head and calls me a gal. I like him very much. For real. If you need an ENT in the Bay Area, hit me up. I am scared I have permanent damage to my vocal chords or something and that would suck. A lot.

I do not only have laryngitis with this gnarly upper respiratory infection. I am getting weird rashes. And my fingers sometimes hurt a lot. The internet is a bad thing when you have symptoms of ... things. Boring TMI story short, I broke down and got the antibiotics. And I am getting better. BUT, I woke up this morning and my stomach hurt a lot and I started coughing and it almost made me hurl. Gross. I am totally TMI tonight. So I took a no hurling pill my doctor prescribed when I was hurling for no good reason and the security guys at work kept calling ambulances, which was quite excessive, if you ask me. Then I went back to sleep.

And I don't want to talk about it. That much. But I had the most vivid dream that my apartment was broken into again with me here and it was the longest dream in the history of dreams and when I woke up and it wasn't real, I was not entirely convinced it wasn't real. Except I ran quite a bit in the dream and I don't run unless I'm being chased. Which I wasn't. OMG, are you still here? For real? You really need to be doing something else. As do I. I am going to sleep. And I am not taking those hurl pills again.

That is all. Please go do something productive with your lives. Tell me all about it. It would be instructional.

hey, the last number of the year changed!

Sorry this post is late. I know the earth stood still and you held your breath for a long time. But it's here, right?

As I've mentioned, I'm not into dates that imply passage. Into a higher age, expectation of romance, remembrance. I'm not loving 2012 so far, but it's different from 2011, which also kicked me places i don't like to be kicked. I don't like to be kicked anywhere, 2012, so i'd appreciate it very much if you and everyone in you (i.e. everyone) would refrain from kicking. If you and everyone in you must kick, please take off your pointy shoes and maybe hold back a little. I'll forgive.

I don't have all that much to say. Maybe because I lost my voice again for, like, the billionth time in three years. And it's irritating for a number of reasons. One of which is that I'm reading at a series I really like. Another of which is that I am hosting my own series on Saturday night and it would be super-awesome to have sound and words come out of my mouth at both.

I should not complain! I had a great time in Austin, I have a lot of boots and sweaters and I love boots and sweaters very much. My cat is very cute. My book in a book is coming out in February. It's mid-season of Top Chef. I got a free massage last week.

I once said something to a friend and she made it her Facebook status or something and I don't remember who it was, but it was something like texting is the death knell of relationships. I didn't say death knell, but it was awhile back, and I have to say, the text message is not the best mode of communication. Especially when much of it consists of a lot of smileys.

OK, so, the new year. I have no resolutions. Except I do. I am going to exercise! I am going to cut back on sugar! I am going to be neater! I am going to write more and better! I am going to not hate myself if I do not achieve all of these non-resolutions! Because they should never have happened. I need to take better care of myself. I need to do it on February 11, June 14, December 21. I will be a little easier on myself. That's one I can hang with.

My wish for you this year: Be kind to yourself. I'll try, too. Happy New Year.

things that rhyme with sequitur

I'm going to do something I don't do, as a general rule. I'm going to name names. I'm going to name one name. 

My friend, Laura Ellen Scott, wrote a wonderful book called Death Wishing. It's funny and fantastic and makes readers think about the power of actions, behaviors, thoughts. How we can alter the way we exist and relate to one another. So, she has this great site with people's death wishes. The wish they would make while dying. She was nice enough to include my death wish, which is kind of a cheat, because I include myself in it. But my death was theoretical so I think the cheat is OK. 

So, yeah, also the new issue of Corium is out. As usual, it was painful to create (the technical part), but a delight to share. I love editing. I've said it before and will say it forever: I am a better editor than writer. I don't know if I would want the opposite. Another thing I've said before and will say, not forever, I hope, is that I am not good at saying I'm good at things. But I am an excellent editor. And a good writer. Maybe a very good writer, but I cannot say that. I come from a family of narcissists. They are exceptional narcissists. I do not want to be that kind of Becker. Though I wouldn't mind being a more confident Becker. 

In keeping with the non sequitur nature of this post, I am sleeping again. And writing again. I think I'm sleeping pretty well. I'm not sure about the writing. Last night, before I went to sleep, I started reading a book of stories by Grace Paley. Have you read Grace Paley? If not, stop reading this self-indulgent post (redundant) at once and READ GRACE PALEY. I'm sorry to scream, but you will thank me. 

So, I'm falling asleep and need a bookmark. I reach into one of my drawers from hell (also known as a  drawer in my bedside table, which contains, among other things, safety pins, dried out highlighters, spare buttons for clothing I no longer own, receipts for things bought three to five years ago, some really old Ambien, some older hand lotion samples) and pull out a postcard. It is from my friend, Ross. Sent to an address six addresses ago. It is from 1996. Which is probably the last I heard from him. 

I can't tell you more because I had a thought. That became a sentence. Then three paragraphs. Then I went to sleep. It took me awhile to find paper and a pen. Those things are not in my drawers. I didn't look at it today, but I think I started writing something. And I think I pretty much finished something else. I still sleep with pepper spray and a hammer under my pillow, but the sleeping and writing are pretty cool.

My favorite friend and I have a bet. We will each complete a novel by the time of the AWP (the big writers' conference, for anyone reading this who is not a writer. Or anyone reading this. Is anyone reading this?) a year from this one, which starts in February. So, by next February or thereabouts, we will have around 70,000 words of story. If either or both of us have not, I and/or she will wear jeggings and bedazzled t-shirts at AWP. One year, we bet on something where the loser would have to carry tater tots in her pocket, like Napoleon Dynamite. I don't remember the bet or who lost, but we were both too nice (and sanitary) to force the issue. We are quite obsessed with jeggings. Mostly, we like saying it. Go ahead. Say it. It's fun, right? Wearing them would not be. We are motivated.

Who the hell needs logical transitions, really? I have a fun fact, as my friend R. likes to call random entertaining information. I looked up non-sequitur to see if the opposite might be sequitur. I do use logic, on occasion. The answer appears to be no. However, the Merriam Webster Dictionary provides words that rhyme with sequitur. How awesome is that? I guess songwriters might find this handy. Some of these words include: candidature (huh?), caricature, discomfiture, distemperature, divestiture, entrepreneur, expenditure, literature and miniature. OK, they are listed in alphabetical order, but, really, candidature before miniature? I would like to hear a song about candidature. Not really. 

So, I am going to Austin, Texas on Thursday! I might have mentioned I am tired of being Oakland's noun that rhymes with itch. What with the home intrusions and attempted break-in and theft of two wallets. And ill-fitting jobs, relationships and proximity to some of the most exceptional Beckers. (I know I sound mean. Two of them live within ten miles of me and did not call, text or message me on Facebook about my recent traumas. This is not the first time they have left me hanging in seriously bad situations. Still, I love them and would call, text and message any of them on Facebook if they were in trouble.) Anyway, I am going to Texas with purpose. To have fun with my friend, M. And to see if it feels like a better place to live. 

And that's all I have to say right now. Except to wish y'all a happy new year. Yeehaw.

a great miracle did not happen

Sometimes I feel guilty when I didn't do anything. Like last night. My friend and I went to this bar near my house. The same one where my wallet got stolen. And something else was stolen. By him. He stole the dreidel.

He's not Jewish. He doesn't feel guilty about stuff he didn't do, I don't think. So, for whatever reason, some guy brings in a menorah and a dreidel. Which, if you don't know what it is, it's a little spinning top with Hebrew letters on all sides. They stand for "a great miracle happened there" or "here". I don't remember. Hebrew school was a long time ago. Anyway, this guy and some other people were using the dreidel for a drinking game, which I don't think the Jews who did all the fighting and stuff would be totally happy about. Ok, yes, I played a few rounds. They played a lot of rounds.

So, we're leaving and my friend says he wants to steal the dreidel. And he did. And the drunk people were like, where's the dreidel? As if drinking was an unsanctioned activity without a symbol we sang of in kindergarten. And the bartender points at us and says they had it. Or something like that. And we left.

My friend fell asleep on my couch. Before that, I chastised him a number of times for stealing the dreidel. I felt guilty, especially with the bartender girl pointing at us like criminals. Ok, he was a criminal. But I was the victim of a theft of a wallet with money and credit cards in it that were used and they didn't seem to care too much about that. But, I am Jewish (higher propensity for guilt, bigger noses) and these were two separate incidents. So he leaves this morning and ... he did not take the dreidel with him. So, here's this thing accusing me like the bartender. And I can't throw it out and I can't return it to the bar. I can give it back to my evil friend and he can deal with the fact that he stole something that reminds me of my innocent childhood. As I write this, I am growing more indignant. He's getting a faceful of dreidel next time I see him.

In other news, I am very fat. I have gained some weight. Probably because of all the stress of the attempted break-in and my obsession with competitive cooking shows. Likely added to by the fact that Trader Joe's now offers its seasonal treat, Pumpkin Cream Cheese Spread, which is pretty much the best food ever. I feel gross. I should start watching tv shows with really skinny 19 year-olds. But that might make me feel grosser. And I would miss Top Chef. And Iron Chef. And Chopped. I can't wait for the next season of Hell's Kitchen.

Life is complicated.

fistful of pepper spray

I started writing this last week. Some other stuff has happened.

I don't sleep at night anymore. I sleep a lot in the day. Somebody has been in my apartment. At least a few times. They were not invited.

So, I've had this feeling for a couple of months that this had been happening. I'd get home and a light would be on that I didn't think I had left on. Or the top lock wouldn't be locked and I thought I had locked it. I barely mentioned it. I guess I didn't want to think about it.

The other day, I went downstairs for 15 minutes to get my mail and look for a book in my storage space. 15 minutes. Still there. I went upstairs and every single light in my apartment was on. It was noon. And sunny. And I never turn on every single light in my apartment. I guess I turned off all the lights and went to my dentist appointment. I stopped at the grocery store on my way home. I forgot. I denied. I've been denying for awhile. It's human nature to write things off as innocuous, if possible, it seems.

I got home and my neighbor from two doors down, who I've never met (I've lived in this 8-unit apartment building for a year and a half), arrived home to her own apartment, door ajar, all lights on and inside doors closed. Our in-between neighbor and I went in with her. There was nobody there. Nothing was taken. I couldn't deny anymore.

I'll make this part short. There are 7 tenants in this 8-unit building. One has a kid and one lives with her boyfriend but hasn't moved out completely or given notice. The 8th unit is empty. The landlady and her son use it as storage, I guess.

We don't talk to each other. We come and go at different times. Those are past-tense. We had a meeting. Things were not ok. That night, new locks were put on the doors. The neighbor two doors down would not stay in her apartment. I stayed, but didn't sleep. We had another meeting with the landlady and her son. She admitted the hollow wood doors were 54 years old. We agreed she would buy new steel doors and make some other security improvements.

Here's where the new part starts, I guess. Monday morning, someone tried to break in. I was here. I screamed and ran out. Two of my neighbors, with whom I had now interacted and become friendly, came to my apartment immediately. Though both in their sixties, they came in while I called 911. The rest is a blur. Actually, I'm not entirely certain of the chain of events. We might have had the meeting with the landlady Monday night. All I know is last night I slept some for the first night in many. I mean substantial sleep. With the lights off.

My eyes are bruised like he punched me. I say he because I'm pretty sure the person I saw charging into the flimsy back door to my balcony was a guy. And I'm pretty sure the person coming into my apartment when I wasn't there was a guy. I don't know why. Let's just leave it at that, ok?

I have new doors with new locks. I'm very careful. I have barely left my apartment. I am scared to come back in. I am scared to be here. He might try to break in again while I'm here.

My body is unused to rest and wants more. I could sleep the rest of the day. The day is beautiful in this city I loved. I really loved Oakland. But I'm pretty sure I'm leaving. Oakland has kicked my butt for six years and it's time to admit it doesn't love me back.

I'm going to Austin soon. I might be a Texan. I lived in Houston from when I was six weeks old until I was two. Not a significant time in my memory. I'm pretty sure I slept and felt safe. I'm pretty sure I felt ok leaving my house and coming in.

At the very least, which is not a least at all, I will have fun hanging out with my friend there. At best ... I don't know.

A friend gave me pepper spray about a year ago. In the past, I carried it sometimes, often didn't know where it was, even if it was in my bag. Usually, I didn't bother. I know where it is now. It's under my pillow. It's in my pocket. It's in my bag. It's in my hand. I'm ready to use it. I hate that.

A couple of weeks ago, Oakland Magazine ran an interview they did a few months back. An outdated love letter.


Oakland is not a bad place. There are so many things to love. I would hate to leave. But I wouldn't. That's the part I never expected.

please don't steal my wallet

Someone stole my wallet last Wednesday. It was a hideously ugly wallet. Black and white very fake leather with a big silver ring snapped on with a piece of red fake leather. The purpose of the ring? I do not know. I bought the monstrosity at Ross for $7 four or five months ago. After my other wallet was stolen.

Things have been hard lately. I have been sick. I have some big decisions to make, career-wise. I have other stuff. Disappointing, embarrassing, disheartening, scary, paralyzing. I dig deep. I try hard. I try to be good to people. I try not to let people down. Enough about that.

I wrote some stuff. You can read it if you want.

This one's at Wigleaf, one of my favorite journals. Wigleaf does postcards. I love postcards.
I finally wrote this one for The Nervous Breakdown.

I don't write much lately. My head hurts. I'll try harder. I'll keep my wallet close. I'll finish things I start. I'll stop making excuses. I'll stop buying sweaters. I won't smile weird for my new driver's license.

I'll see you soon.

everyone should be asleep

We should all be sleeping. Not all the time. Now. It's 2:50am Pacific Standard Time. We should all be asleep now. Ok, everyone in the U.S. If you're in a country where it's 2:50pm, you should not be asleep. Unless you're napping. Napping is decadent and magnificent.

But it's close to 3am and I'm up, having made great (meaning large, grand, many) plans for today. I planned to complete unpleasant and/or boring tasks today. Yesterday. I had brunch. I got a scarf and a shirt at a thrift store on Mission. I'm wearing the scarf. It is cream and brown with a chevron pattern. Brown is my favorite color to wear and chevron is one of my favorite patterns. The shirt is blue.

My friend had this thing called a Groupon and we got this ridiculously huge brunch that costs $60 for $30. We had to pick many items. It became painful. We had pumpkin pancakes with some kind of bourbon marmalade and maple syrup. Fabulous. Three types of bread - a jalapeno cornbread, some kind of scone, and a ham biscuit, macaroni and cheese spring rolls. Oh, no. We're not done yet. Then there's the crispy chicken sandwich with kale chips. And, dear lord I totally forgot, the pumpkin bread pudding. We took large boxes home. We didn't eat any of the sandwich and left that poor bread pudding virtually untouched. I wish I had it now. We had Bloody Marys, too.

Not to go on about brunch, but one last little thing is a former Top Chef contestant is the chef at this place, so I got all geeked out and asked if he would come say hi. I love Top Chef more than anything. Anything televised, I mean. You know what I meant. Anyway, he didn't come over, but that was ok. I was just going to be a cooking show nerd and say I loved you on Top Chef! And he'd go, thanks and go back to the kitchen and maybe feel bad that he didn't win. A fun fact about my love of competitive cooking shows (Chopped, Hell's Kitchen, Master Chef, I could go on ...) is that I don't cook. I can. I have. But I don't. Because I am one person and I'm sort of lazy and I like cooking as an activity. But I really do love the hell out of that show.

One other fun fact is that the book that my book will be in is now on sale for pre-order right here! My book is called Things About Me and You and the whole book is called Shut Up/Look Pretty. It will be out in January from Tiny Hardcore Press. I didn't expect for this to happen. I was very fortunate. And two close friends and two other friends I don't know as well also have books in this book, and I believe it will be kind of great.

Writing has gotten kind of weird. I don't submit as much and people ask for things and I don't write as often, and I don't want to let people down or lose opportunities. So I am here instead of writing those things or being asleep. I am a super-genius.

The fall issue of Corium came out! It is wonderful - wonderful writing and art. I am lucky to do this. I am lucky to feature such wonders. I love it and will keep Corium alive as long as it will stay alive, which I hope is a long time. Sometimes I wonder if editing other people's wonderful work is impeding my own writing progress. Then I think, no, it isn't. I am lucky and if I don't write, it is because I am distracted by things I don't love. So please read the issue and love it like I do.

I wrote this thing for The Nervous Breakdown about being present during my friend's vasectomy. Someone said it was sick. I don't get it. Unusual? Yes. Deviant? No. I was his ride, then I was his support. We're friends. I care. No sickness there.

It is 3:36am. Seriously. Go to bed.