Because it's just not enough for us to work our butts off starting and growing ONE business, this past weekend it was time for the triumphant public debut of our other business: Beowulf Mead. Josh
and I set up a booth in the "premium wine garden" at the San Anselmo
Art & Wine Festival and poured generous samples of Orange Blossom
and Blackberry Flower mead for about 200 people. Our booth looked
great--really professional IMHO--and we had seriously sexy marketing
materials thanks to our buddy Blair at O'Neill Design Group.
(We also had matching t-shirts and even magnets and bumper
stickers...the magnets were popular but the bumperstickers were
decidedly not.) It was lighter traffic than we'd hoped, but still
really educational for us--instant market research! We talked ourselves
hoarse (largely because we were often shouting over the live jazz band
jamming their hearts out about 20 feet away from us) explaining what
mead was and how ours was different and what each varietal tasted like.
Though some people just didn't (or wouldn't) like it, we gained a
number of enthusiastic converts and I think we did a terrific job of re-introducing "the drink of the ancients".
The truth is, I *like* working booths and talking to people. I love being able to educate and offer up new, delicious experiences to others. I only wish I'd been able to do more of it--I spent big chunks of time both days wrangling kids so that Josh could be the primary salesperson (which he's much better at than me, because he's the meadmaster!) It's tempting to go spend lots of time trying to figure out how to get the appropriate paperwork to do this again at other festivals and events, but then there's that pesky other business to run...and speaking of which I'd better go work on the Beowulf website!
The truth is, I *like* working booths and talking to people. I love being able to educate and offer up new, delicious experiences to others. I only wish I'd been able to do more of it--I spent big chunks of time both days wrangling kids so that Josh could be the primary salesperson (which he's much better at than me, because he's the meadmaster!) It's tempting to go spend lots of time trying to figure out how to get the appropriate paperwork to do this again at other festivals and events, but then there's that pesky other business to run...and speaking of which I'd better go work on the Beowulf website!
Oh the neglectfulness. How the once mighty blogger has fallen, etc etc. I haven't been posting here to Parentheticals lately (have you noticed?) both because this whole running-our-own-business(es) has been grueling enough to wring every last drop of 'net-participation out of me (plus I feel like really what I *should* be doing is posting to our business blog and if I don't do that, I don't do this--it's kind of a vicious cycle) and also because I've taken to posting (mostly fluffier stuff, admittedly) over at LiveJournal, where there is more of a community for me (or at least it feels less like shouting out into the void) and I can friends-lock posts more easily when I really want to whine or vent. And Twitter has certainly become far more addictive for little brief updates than I ever imagined it would be.
But I don't want Parentheticals to die. I got lazy with LiveJournal and haven't been cross-posting, so I am going to try to be better about that (I need that nifty widget that lets you automatically cross-post so I don't have to do it manually!) And as long as I'm "living out loud" and declaring intentions here (with the hope of being held to them by self or others once they're made public) I'm also going to try to re-create all of my digipix galleries. It's been roughly a year (oh the shame) since all my lovingly sorted and labeled gallery albums went boom, and even though the task of re-sorting approximately 23,000 pictures is a bit daunting, it's not going to get any better by putting it off. I have so many great pictures, but they're harder to enjoy (even just for myself) when they're all in one big undifferentiated blob. Flickr, here I come.
Since it's been 6 months since my last post here, I might as well hit some highlights so that at least *I* might remember some of the things that have happened when I look back at this in the future. Let me do a rough month-by-month.
February: this was the month that Eli turned seven. SEVEN! Officially a big boy, and a full-fledged mini-geek, because what did we do for his birthday? What did he request as his heart's desire? A D&D party. That's right, we had his cousin and 2 other buddies over to play kid-level D&D for 3 or 4 hours, with daddy as the Dungeonmaster. Supreme geekiness. We win!
March: a big month. Not only did our "baby" Isaac turn 3 (we had a small family birthday party with a Mickey Mouse theme, in preparation for our big trip to Disneyland a few weeks later), but the really big news was that Josh quit his job at the CSU so that we could run our web business full time. Leaping off the cliff into full-steam-ahead entrepreneurship has been quite a wild ride, to say the least. We are learning an incredible amount and getting better at business every day, but it takes (warning: dry understatement ahead!) a lot of energy, both physical and mental. And emotional, come to think of it: we are constantly dancing with fear and anxiety and that certainly takes it out of ya.
April: the best part here was that we went to Disneyland. Dri & Jim came with us and we drove the party van down to SoCal, stayed 5 fun-filled days, and drove back home. We truly had a fabulous trip, and most importantly Isaac had a peak experience at just the right time (right in the middle of the Mickey obsession). We took a zillion pictures that someday will be posted (sigh). Other April highlights included hosting Passover for 23 people (!), Josh passing a kidney stone, and Eli starting Little League again (his team was the Marlins).
May: I remember May as mostly a jumble of busy. My calendar (and my iPhoto) tells me that we had a lot of school events (walk-a-thon, open house), a lot of baseball, a lot of cub scouts, a trip to an SF convention (Baycon), and a trip to visit family in Chico. We joined a business networking group and the local chamber of commerce to help boost our business, and slowly started building the mead business as a real entity as well.
June: Our first Mountain Play (the Wizard of Oz). The end of first grade for Eli. Visits from family. Pirate Fest. An anniversary trip to Calistoga, including a hot air balloon ride. But most importantly, and jarringly, and miserably: our beloved family dog, Tomo, got sick and even after major surgery, declined so rapidly that we had to put her to sleep last week. Josh wrote about it here, and I put a little bit up on LJ, but it's still hard to talk about. I am still heartsick and grieving. I miss her every day.
That's it for the catch up now. Hopefully you'll see me around here more often.
But I don't want Parentheticals to die. I got lazy with LiveJournal and haven't been cross-posting, so I am going to try to be better about that (I need that nifty widget that lets you automatically cross-post so I don't have to do it manually!) And as long as I'm "living out loud" and declaring intentions here (with the hope of being held to them by self or others once they're made public) I'm also going to try to re-create all of my digipix galleries. It's been roughly a year (oh the shame) since all my lovingly sorted and labeled gallery albums went boom, and even though the task of re-sorting approximately 23,000 pictures is a bit daunting, it's not going to get any better by putting it off. I have so many great pictures, but they're harder to enjoy (even just for myself) when they're all in one big undifferentiated blob. Flickr, here I come.
Since it's been 6 months since my last post here, I might as well hit some highlights so that at least *I* might remember some of the things that have happened when I look back at this in the future. Let me do a rough month-by-month.
February: this was the month that Eli turned seven. SEVEN! Officially a big boy, and a full-fledged mini-geek, because what did we do for his birthday? What did he request as his heart's desire? A D&D party. That's right, we had his cousin and 2 other buddies over to play kid-level D&D for 3 or 4 hours, with daddy as the Dungeonmaster. Supreme geekiness. We win!
March: a big month. Not only did our "baby" Isaac turn 3 (we had a small family birthday party with a Mickey Mouse theme, in preparation for our big trip to Disneyland a few weeks later), but the really big news was that Josh quit his job at the CSU so that we could run our web business full time. Leaping off the cliff into full-steam-ahead entrepreneurship has been quite a wild ride, to say the least. We are learning an incredible amount and getting better at business every day, but it takes (warning: dry understatement ahead!) a lot of energy, both physical and mental. And emotional, come to think of it: we are constantly dancing with fear and anxiety and that certainly takes it out of ya.
April: the best part here was that we went to Disneyland. Dri & Jim came with us and we drove the party van down to SoCal, stayed 5 fun-filled days, and drove back home. We truly had a fabulous trip, and most importantly Isaac had a peak experience at just the right time (right in the middle of the Mickey obsession). We took a zillion pictures that someday will be posted (sigh). Other April highlights included hosting Passover for 23 people (!), Josh passing a kidney stone, and Eli starting Little League again (his team was the Marlins).
May: I remember May as mostly a jumble of busy. My calendar (and my iPhoto) tells me that we had a lot of school events (walk-a-thon, open house), a lot of baseball, a lot of cub scouts, a trip to an SF convention (Baycon), and a trip to visit family in Chico. We joined a business networking group and the local chamber of commerce to help boost our business, and slowly started building the mead business as a real entity as well.
June: Our first Mountain Play (the Wizard of Oz). The end of first grade for Eli. Visits from family. Pirate Fest. An anniversary trip to Calistoga, including a hot air balloon ride. But most importantly, and jarringly, and miserably: our beloved family dog, Tomo, got sick and even after major surgery, declined so rapidly that we had to put her to sleep last week. Josh wrote about it here, and I put a little bit up on LJ, but it's still hard to talk about. I am still heartsick and grieving. I miss her every day.
That's it for the catch up now. Hopefully you'll see me around here more often.
Wahoo! I made it another year. Fuck you, cancer! I'm still here, 16 years later, and still damn glad to be here. It's been a particularly memorable year for me. Full of courage and leaping, (not to mention river rafting), full of transitions and identity work, and just plain full. There was pain, and there was the incredible (if somewhat painful in its own way) pleasure of focused creative growth. There was the love of family and friends, never something to be underestimated or taken for granted. I am thankful, so thankful, for all the blessings I was given and have yet to be given.
I sense (with my awesome Lymph Lady powers of prediction) that I am about to have yet another full year, and I am looking forward to it. I am ready to finish out my thirties with a bang (or heck, why not a series of 'em! Give me rockets, firecrackers, screamers, sparklers!) It sure as heck can't be a boring year, the way things are going around here. And remember: better busy than bored.
Continue reading Birthday Link Salad.
Hi, Internets. I'm sorry I've been so neglectful. It's not you--please don't take it personally. It's just the way life seems to be right now...busy, full of distractions.
Yeah, I know it's always that way. But after a while of not blogging, it becomes harder and harder to blog. Things pile up. The pressure of summarizing several months (let alone in a witty, entertaining fashion) becomes too strong. It hasn't helped that Parentheticals' formatting and template got all borked, and I haven't had the time, energy or accountability to fix it.
Also, I feel like my usual online activities (blogging, reading blogs, surfing, posting pictures, answering emails) have become more overwhelming to me lately, and thus I don't do them--I'm not sure why, except to point the finger at generalized post-holiday, dark of winter blues (with maybe a bit of imminent birthday-related existential angst thrown in). It seems I've been reading the travel brochures for "I Suck"-land, even though I haven't quite set out on the journey there.
It's not like I've been distracted by some new hobby or activity (well, besides running my own biz, which admittedly does constantly color my mental outlook). If anything, life feels like it's been pared down to essentials lately, especially now that the holidays are over. Family/house stuff, biz stuff, writing. That's pretty much it. Working at home makes me even more hermetic--there are lots of days now where I don't go more than a mile from my house, and I don't do anything except interact in various ways with the computer screen, leavened with a few house chores. I've somewhat settled on a routine: I get up, get the kids dressed and breakfasted and driven to their respective locations, and then I come home and write (or do my critiques or other personal admin stuff) for an hour. Then I try to figure out what business-related tasks I can accomplish that day before getting overwhelmed and stalled out with the sheer impossibility of it all. (See, existential angst.) Every day is a constant struggle between laziness (because in my mind the creative stuff, which isn't Work, becomes laziness) and discipline. I fantasize about A Room Of My Own and an independently wealthy life that includes all the time I want for personal artistic projects.
The good part is, I'm making excellent progress with the writing. Regular writing time really does help--go figure. And having the post-VP critique group (with its required monthly submission) helps too, helps greatly in fact. There actually does appear to be hope that I might finish the novel sometime this year. And that it might even be salvageable after a good solid bunch of revision, so that I can start trying to find a way for it to be published someday.
The bad part is, I get waves of feeling hopeless and crabby and misanthropic--I know something's weird when I find myself wishing more than once that people (including my family) would go away and leave me alone. That's so unlike me (well, except for those bad PMS times). I'm having guilt and anxiety over money, creativity, purpose and activism. Where's my Costco-sized roll of silver lining?
But I know how this goes. And I know that it goes away. As my yoga teacher said in yesterday's class (she was talking about meditation and quieting the "monkey mind", but I'm open to re-interpretation): it's not so much whether or not we fail, it's about how quickly we remember how to fix it.
So, one step at a time. First, break the blogstipation. Then, just start doing stuff again. Put a few pictures up. Make a new painting. Go out to lunch with friends and network. Bring a meal to someone. Let the guilt trickle away like thawing icicles, drop by drop.
Yeah, I know it's always that way. But after a while of not blogging, it becomes harder and harder to blog. Things pile up. The pressure of summarizing several months (let alone in a witty, entertaining fashion) becomes too strong. It hasn't helped that Parentheticals' formatting and template got all borked, and I haven't had the time, energy or accountability to fix it.
Also, I feel like my usual online activities (blogging, reading blogs, surfing, posting pictures, answering emails) have become more overwhelming to me lately, and thus I don't do them--I'm not sure why, except to point the finger at generalized post-holiday, dark of winter blues (with maybe a bit of imminent birthday-related existential angst thrown in). It seems I've been reading the travel brochures for "I Suck"-land, even though I haven't quite set out on the journey there.
It's not like I've been distracted by some new hobby or activity (well, besides running my own biz, which admittedly does constantly color my mental outlook). If anything, life feels like it's been pared down to essentials lately, especially now that the holidays are over. Family/house stuff, biz stuff, writing. That's pretty much it. Working at home makes me even more hermetic--there are lots of days now where I don't go more than a mile from my house, and I don't do anything except interact in various ways with the computer screen, leavened with a few house chores. I've somewhat settled on a routine: I get up, get the kids dressed and breakfasted and driven to their respective locations, and then I come home and write (or do my critiques or other personal admin stuff) for an hour. Then I try to figure out what business-related tasks I can accomplish that day before getting overwhelmed and stalled out with the sheer impossibility of it all. (See, existential angst.) Every day is a constant struggle between laziness (because in my mind the creative stuff, which isn't Work, becomes laziness) and discipline. I fantasize about A Room Of My Own and an independently wealthy life that includes all the time I want for personal artistic projects.
The good part is, I'm making excellent progress with the writing. Regular writing time really does help--go figure. And having the post-VP critique group (with its required monthly submission) helps too, helps greatly in fact. There actually does appear to be hope that I might finish the novel sometime this year. And that it might even be salvageable after a good solid bunch of revision, so that I can start trying to find a way for it to be published someday.
The bad part is, I get waves of feeling hopeless and crabby and misanthropic--I know something's weird when I find myself wishing more than once that people (including my family) would go away and leave me alone. That's so unlike me (well, except for those bad PMS times). I'm having guilt and anxiety over money, creativity, purpose and activism. Where's my Costco-sized roll of silver lining?
But I know how this goes. And I know that it goes away. As my yoga teacher said in yesterday's class (she was talking about meditation and quieting the "monkey mind", but I'm open to re-interpretation): it's not so much whether or not we fail, it's about how quickly we remember how to fix it.
So, one step at a time. First, break the blogstipation. Then, just start doing stuff again. Put a few pictures up. Make a new painting. Go out to lunch with friends and network. Bring a meal to someone. Let the guilt trickle away like thawing icicles, drop by drop.
Back from the very traditional food-fest at my parents' house, where as in years past our heroine makes herself sick on carmelized butter/turkey drippings
licked from the roasting pan and gravy-covered carbs. Ooog.
Though somewhat distracted by the migraine that has been stalking me all evening, I feel obliged to post some gratitude reminders now, before I go off to even yet more distraction all weekend long:
I am thankful that I have a close-knit , loving and supportive family, and that I get to see many of them often.
I am thankful that I am (relatively) healthy and able.
I am thankful that I have so many connections to so many interesting and wonderful people, and get to participate in big or small ways in their lives.
I am thankful that I have the capacity and the temperament for risk-taking.
I am thankful that I have the itch and the ability (if not always the time) to create stories and art, and occasionally some small audience with which to share them.
I am thankful for all the new business opening up before us so easily.
I am thankful for good food, a safe neighborhood, and kind interactions with strangers.
I am thankful for the glorious complexity that is this messy, tangly, achingly precious world around me that I find endlessly interesting.
I will not take these things for granted.
Though somewhat distracted by the migraine that has been stalking me all evening, I feel obliged to post some gratitude reminders now, before I go off to even yet more distraction all weekend long:
I am thankful that I have a close-knit , loving and supportive family, and that I get to see many of them often.
I am thankful that I am (relatively) healthy and able.
I am thankful that I have so many connections to so many interesting and wonderful people, and get to participate in big or small ways in their lives.
I am thankful that I have the capacity and the temperament for risk-taking.
I am thankful that I have the itch and the ability (if not always the time) to create stories and art, and occasionally some small audience with which to share them.
I am thankful for all the new business opening up before us so easily.
I am thankful for good food, a safe neighborhood, and kind interactions with strangers.
I am thankful for the glorious complexity that is this messy, tangly, achingly precious world around me that I find endlessly interesting.
I will not take these things for granted.
It's been a rollercoaster of experiences this last week or so:
I quit my job (well, gave notice anyway). I have been working from home since last Wednesday, and it is both a fabulous and existentially ambiguous experience. The biggest problem is figuring out...what to work on. And how not to feel guilty about what I am or am not getting done.
We went on our every-other-year pilgrimage to see Cirque du Soleil with old friends. Cirque is one of my favorite art forms ever. Human bodies and their physical capacities are truly astounding things--after watching a Cirque performance, I feel like saying "that there is the reason why the aliens should not be allowed to wipe out humanity. If we are capable of this, we should be allowed to join the Galactic Alliance and spread our genes among the stars."
I got so caught up in writing about zombies this morning that I couldn't stop. I am finally making progress on the big fight scene that I stalled out on before VP. I literally had so many bodies to choreograph that I couldn't hold them all in my head and had to pull out the gaming mat and dice just to get a visual of the scene (the good guys were the white dice, the bad guys were the purple. Horses were 4-siders, bunched together). Fight scenes are hard, and we hates them, precious. But I am finally allowing myself to just push on through this one, now that I have finally internalized the bright shiny lesson that Revison Will Fix All Flaws.
I went out to dinner with one of my dearest old friends tonight and had the kind of conversation that reminds me to (metaphorically speaking) look up and around, to put things in context. Oh yeah, *this* is why we have friends. Mirrors and textbooks, love and acceptance, all in one.
As if all that writerly existential angst and identity work wasn't enough, there is also the more traditional kind: the "what I do for money" kind. As previously mentioned, I have just waved a jaunty goodbye to the world of working for others and struck out into the wild jungle of self-employment. Which is terrifically adventurous, yes, and exciting--but ohmygod who knows what will try to eat me here in this jungle? Thank God Josh and I are in the same adventuring party together here--I'd be way more angst-full if I didn't have a traveling companion.
Or to put it another way (since here on Parentheticals we never use only one consistent metaphor--where's the fun in that?), my recent adventurous leap off the cliff into the unknown is still going. I thought I was almost at the bottom, but it appears that this cliff was a lot higher than I thought, and I'm still falling. Six months ago, when I kicked over my job of 5 years for a new gig, I did not realize that this--starting our own business--was what I was plummeting towards, way down the cliff below the cloud layer. I've been an employee all my working life (which is kind of funny considering that both my parents are entrepreneurs who have run their own successful businesses for over 30 years). I went from little piddly college jobs into academia (in many ways the ultimate in indentured servitude), figured out I didn't like it enough there, and pretty much by accident (and a well placed temp job) moved into the world of manufacturing and consumer products. I worked for a mid-sized company that made calendars and stationery for 5 years, and then when that company started to implode, made the leap to being employee number 2 in a small entrepreneurial licensing agency.
Looking back from my current vantage point, that leap from semi-corporate to tiny business was the logical preparatory step towards the skydiving adventure I'm having now, but of course I didn't realize it--or treat it that way--at the time. I was too wrapped up in the safe, easy identity of being an employee (and to be honest, in the huge identity work of becoming a mother) to fully clue into the fact that I was also in entrepreneur training school, so in some ways I think I squandered that education. Luckily, I was given another shot at getting the education I apparently needed through the leap I made to this last gig, wherein the company itself sells training for entrepreneurs and wealth builders through seminars and coaching. How much more obvious could the Universe be by giving me that opportunity?
Ok, tangent: it may sound overly California "woo-woo" but I truly believe that we are given (whether by our own subconscious or by God or the Universe or however you choose to frame it) the lessons and preparation we need, when we need it. The overarching lesson of our lives is to learn how to PAY ATTENTION, and not only learn to take the opportunities offered to us sooner rather than later, but to continue to put these opportunities into the broader context of our entire life narratives. In other words the point of living is to be curious and have adventures, and then, at the end, to tell some sort of coherent story about it to the other monkeys.
Ok enough about that, I'm clearly about as far from "coherent story" as possible right now. Time to focus back in on the original topic, which was how, for this monkey, becoming self-employed has created 1) identity work and 2) existential angst. And really, most of what I wanted to say can be summed up like this: I'm in the process of learning how to think about myself in a whole new way, as captain of my ship, or at least of someone minimally in control of the parachute. I'm having to re-evaluate (and become less attached to) what I'm good at, and learn to not look to external validation for my motivation or my happiness. But of course it's terrifying as well as exciting--because with no one to tell me what to do and when to do it, my life, ultimately, is what *I* make of it. Agency is scary and sometimes the boundaried cage looks really attractive, especially when I'm tired or it's raining outside.
But I'm proud of myself for being a brave adventurer. This fluttery feeling in my stomach is something I choose to see as fun and exciting, not as nausea. Ok, well maybe it's both. Anybody know how to work this parachute thing?
Or to put it another way (since here on Parentheticals we never use only one consistent metaphor--where's the fun in that?), my recent adventurous leap off the cliff into the unknown is still going. I thought I was almost at the bottom, but it appears that this cliff was a lot higher than I thought, and I'm still falling. Six months ago, when I kicked over my job of 5 years for a new gig, I did not realize that this--starting our own business--was what I was plummeting towards, way down the cliff below the cloud layer. I've been an employee all my working life (which is kind of funny considering that both my parents are entrepreneurs who have run their own successful businesses for over 30 years). I went from little piddly college jobs into academia (in many ways the ultimate in indentured servitude), figured out I didn't like it enough there, and pretty much by accident (and a well placed temp job) moved into the world of manufacturing and consumer products. I worked for a mid-sized company that made calendars and stationery for 5 years, and then when that company started to implode, made the leap to being employee number 2 in a small entrepreneurial licensing agency.
Looking back from my current vantage point, that leap from semi-corporate to tiny business was the logical preparatory step towards the skydiving adventure I'm having now, but of course I didn't realize it--or treat it that way--at the time. I was too wrapped up in the safe, easy identity of being an employee (and to be honest, in the huge identity work of becoming a mother) to fully clue into the fact that I was also in entrepreneur training school, so in some ways I think I squandered that education. Luckily, I was given another shot at getting the education I apparently needed through the leap I made to this last gig, wherein the company itself sells training for entrepreneurs and wealth builders through seminars and coaching. How much more obvious could the Universe be by giving me that opportunity?
Ok, tangent: it may sound overly California "woo-woo" but I truly believe that we are given (whether by our own subconscious or by God or the Universe or however you choose to frame it) the lessons and preparation we need, when we need it. The overarching lesson of our lives is to learn how to PAY ATTENTION, and not only learn to take the opportunities offered to us sooner rather than later, but to continue to put these opportunities into the broader context of our entire life narratives. In other words the point of living is to be curious and have adventures, and then, at the end, to tell some sort of coherent story about it to the other monkeys.
Ok enough about that, I'm clearly about as far from "coherent story" as possible right now. Time to focus back in on the original topic, which was how, for this monkey, becoming self-employed has created 1) identity work and 2) existential angst. And really, most of what I wanted to say can be summed up like this: I'm in the process of learning how to think about myself in a whole new way, as captain of my ship, or at least of someone minimally in control of the parachute. I'm having to re-evaluate (and become less attached to) what I'm good at, and learn to not look to external validation for my motivation or my happiness. But of course it's terrifying as well as exciting--because with no one to tell me what to do and when to do it, my life, ultimately, is what *I* make of it. Agency is scary and sometimes the boundaried cage looks really attractive, especially when I'm tired or it's raining outside.
But I'm proud of myself for being a brave adventurer. This fluttery feeling in my stomach is something I choose to see as fun and exciting, not as nausea. Ok, well maybe it's both. Anybody know how to work this parachute thing?
Here I am again, doing laps across the sludgy swimming pool of existential angst. I just dived right in the deep end, despite all those lurid warning signs posted along the pool's edge by the Department of Previous Experience. The swimming is slow going through the sticky threads of "what am I doing with my life" type questions, but it's better than treading water waiting for the "I suck" monsters to come and swallow me. I've already felt them nosing at my toes and I don't want to find out firsthand how deep this pool actually goes. It's unpleasant enough on the surface.
There are two things going on right now that have caused me to go for this rather uncomfortable swim. First, not surprisingly, the insights about my writing and my identity as a writer gained from my attendance at VP continue to deepen, and have left me both pleased and despairing. Second, I am (with the full support of my loving family) about to prioritize our new business startup as my main daily activity--which means a radical shift in not only what I do but in how I think of myself. These are two big topics--and each one is simultaneously exciting and difficult, full of "now what" and "where will this take me" questions and issues. But because each one is deserving of full reflection, I am not going to try to squeeze them into one giant post.
So first, the writing. The novel. The self-as-writer. What's been going on here? Well--and I'm not trying to come off as whiny or self-pitying here--I keep realizing just how much my writing truly does suck. Or put more gently, how far I have to go until my writing is where I feel truly pleased with it, and how much more work the novel needs put into it before it's ready to be released into the world. I feel stuck in that stage of "conscious incompetence" they talked about at VP--I'm now acutely, repeatedly conscious of all the flaws and bad habits that must be overcome before it's good art, worthy of an audience's time. It's really beginning to sink in that not only do I have to keep slogging along on finishing this first "fat" draft--which I'm still probably a good 50-60,000 words away from finishing--but I'm going to have to spend a vast quantity of time and effort on the revision draft(s). Not only do I have to seriously polish up the prose (and brutally prune all those long meandering sentences and dense paragraphs), but I'm also going to have to really sharpen and define the themes and answer the "what makes this book different" overarching issue that came up so painfully at VP.
And I'm trying valiantly not to get sucked too far into despair over how long it's taken me to get even to the amount of draft I do have, and how long it will still take to get to the "finish" line. Even now, armed at last with the hard-won knowledge of what needs to be done to get it finished, the light at the end of the tunnel feels very far away. I totally get that everyone's process is different and that I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else, but from where I stand right now, having been intermittently (yet doggedly) working on this novel for over four (!) years now, the realization that I have a whole giant cargo ship-load of work in front of me yet to go is daunting. It's like realizing, after a long and difficult pregnancy and birth, that you still have to raise a newborn and that it will take at least another 4 or 5 years until that child is any kind of independent from you. I read about all my VP-mates submitting this work here, or publishing that work there, about their searches for agents, their multiple projects finished (or at least in process), and I am frustrated at the snail's pace that my writing project is going for me.
Yes, I have perfectly reasonable excuses for why I'm not further along. It's certainly been distracting and busy around here for as long as I can remember, so every little bit I have accomplished is rightfully considered a point of pride. And yes, it's the journey that counts, not the final product. If anyone has a deep awareness of how potentially brief and fleeting our lives can be, it's me--that's what a cancer diagnosis did for me, no matter how well I'm able to bury it most of the time. I'm not even 40 yet, and I'm already painfully aware that I am not going to finish everything I want to finish before I die. I'll consider myself doubly and triply blessed if I make it to grandchildren, let alone ever get a novel published. The pace is what it is (and I have other, perhaps less obvious accomplishments to show for how I've spent my time this last four years), so why beat myself up over it?
But I do. I am disappointed in myself. If finishing this novel means so much to me, why haven't I just. Goddamned. Done it? I am responsible for this pace, I know, despite my very valid excuses. I *could* have prioritized the writing more, been more disciplined about it--but I chose not to, whether consciously or unconsciously. And here's where the existential angst and the identity work comes in. I'm coming to realize that at least part of what's going on here is the insecurity around claiming the identity of a writer. This is a complicated thing. It's not just about giving myself permission (or getting permission from anyone else) to "live out loud" and say "I'm a writer." I've done that, and it's been helpful. It's about the tangles created by my own experiences and not a little bit of pride and vanity. It's about having been rewarded in the past for my writing skills, by teachers and others who gave concrete external praise. It was something I was verifiably good at, and thus a good hook to hang identity on. It's about having wanted to be a Writer, back when I was a kid wondering what I could be when I grew up, and about moving in fits and starts towards that dream--only to be sideswiped by my own essential short-attention-span dilettantism into a dozen other things (acting, academics, painting, motherhood, career). Now, back from my Brillo-ing at VP, I realize that I'm not as good a writer as I hoped I was--not yet anyway. So can I still be A Writer if I'm not good (enough) at it yet? And if I'm not A Writer, do I have any business trying to write? Maybe it's safer if I just don't even try. But then who am I? The same problems come up.
This angst-full identity work creates and is created by a continual questioning of what I'm really any good at in this lifetime, what my special or at least reasonably competent skills are--and the fear that perhaps there isn't really any clear thing that I can point to and say: "that's my expertise." Do I have to be truly outstanding at something to be considered/consider myself successful, and do I have to be successful before I feel it's okay to claim an identity for my own? And who is it that defines "outstanding" and "successful"? Do I really need external validation? And if I'm not particularly good at something, who am I? What's my identity hook(s)? Isn't it enough just to be a good person, to treat others kindly and fairly, and leave the world better than you found it in some small way?
I don't really have any clear answers. Hence, the thrashing around in the sludgy pool. I'm going to keep writing, that's for sure. (And really, is it surprising in the least that the main characters in my novel are both struggling with what prophecy means and with who each of them really is at the end of the day when what they were always told about themselves comes into question?) If it's a long and painful process, well, just look at all the bonus things I'm learning along the way about discipline, determination, priorities, goals, compartmentalization and identity. This is certainly not an unexamined life I'm living here. And speaking of which...time for Identity Work, Part Two.
There are two things going on right now that have caused me to go for this rather uncomfortable swim. First, not surprisingly, the insights about my writing and my identity as a writer gained from my attendance at VP continue to deepen, and have left me both pleased and despairing. Second, I am (with the full support of my loving family) about to prioritize our new business startup as my main daily activity--which means a radical shift in not only what I do but in how I think of myself. These are two big topics--and each one is simultaneously exciting and difficult, full of "now what" and "where will this take me" questions and issues. But because each one is deserving of full reflection, I am not going to try to squeeze them into one giant post.
So first, the writing. The novel. The self-as-writer. What's been going on here? Well--and I'm not trying to come off as whiny or self-pitying here--I keep realizing just how much my writing truly does suck. Or put more gently, how far I have to go until my writing is where I feel truly pleased with it, and how much more work the novel needs put into it before it's ready to be released into the world. I feel stuck in that stage of "conscious incompetence" they talked about at VP--I'm now acutely, repeatedly conscious of all the flaws and bad habits that must be overcome before it's good art, worthy of an audience's time. It's really beginning to sink in that not only do I have to keep slogging along on finishing this first "fat" draft--which I'm still probably a good 50-60,000 words away from finishing--but I'm going to have to spend a vast quantity of time and effort on the revision draft(s). Not only do I have to seriously polish up the prose (and brutally prune all those long meandering sentences and dense paragraphs), but I'm also going to have to really sharpen and define the themes and answer the "what makes this book different" overarching issue that came up so painfully at VP.
And I'm trying valiantly not to get sucked too far into despair over how long it's taken me to get even to the amount of draft I do have, and how long it will still take to get to the "finish" line. Even now, armed at last with the hard-won knowledge of what needs to be done to get it finished, the light at the end of the tunnel feels very far away. I totally get that everyone's process is different and that I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else, but from where I stand right now, having been intermittently (yet doggedly) working on this novel for over four (!) years now, the realization that I have a whole giant cargo ship-load of work in front of me yet to go is daunting. It's like realizing, after a long and difficult pregnancy and birth, that you still have to raise a newborn and that it will take at least another 4 or 5 years until that child is any kind of independent from you. I read about all my VP-mates submitting this work here, or publishing that work there, about their searches for agents, their multiple projects finished (or at least in process), and I am frustrated at the snail's pace that my writing project is going for me.
Yes, I have perfectly reasonable excuses for why I'm not further along. It's certainly been distracting and busy around here for as long as I can remember, so every little bit I have accomplished is rightfully considered a point of pride. And yes, it's the journey that counts, not the final product. If anyone has a deep awareness of how potentially brief and fleeting our lives can be, it's me--that's what a cancer diagnosis did for me, no matter how well I'm able to bury it most of the time. I'm not even 40 yet, and I'm already painfully aware that I am not going to finish everything I want to finish before I die. I'll consider myself doubly and triply blessed if I make it to grandchildren, let alone ever get a novel published. The pace is what it is (and I have other, perhaps less obvious accomplishments to show for how I've spent my time this last four years), so why beat myself up over it?
But I do. I am disappointed in myself. If finishing this novel means so much to me, why haven't I just. Goddamned. Done it? I am responsible for this pace, I know, despite my very valid excuses. I *could* have prioritized the writing more, been more disciplined about it--but I chose not to, whether consciously or unconsciously. And here's where the existential angst and the identity work comes in. I'm coming to realize that at least part of what's going on here is the insecurity around claiming the identity of a writer. This is a complicated thing. It's not just about giving myself permission (or getting permission from anyone else) to "live out loud" and say "I'm a writer." I've done that, and it's been helpful. It's about the tangles created by my own experiences and not a little bit of pride and vanity. It's about having been rewarded in the past for my writing skills, by teachers and others who gave concrete external praise. It was something I was verifiably good at, and thus a good hook to hang identity on. It's about having wanted to be a Writer, back when I was a kid wondering what I could be when I grew up, and about moving in fits and starts towards that dream--only to be sideswiped by my own essential short-attention-span dilettantism into a dozen other things (acting, academics, painting, motherhood, career). Now, back from my Brillo-ing at VP, I realize that I'm not as good a writer as I hoped I was--not yet anyway. So can I still be A Writer if I'm not good (enough) at it yet? And if I'm not A Writer, do I have any business trying to write? Maybe it's safer if I just don't even try. But then who am I? The same problems come up.
This angst-full identity work creates and is created by a continual questioning of what I'm really any good at in this lifetime, what my special or at least reasonably competent skills are--and the fear that perhaps there isn't really any clear thing that I can point to and say: "that's my expertise." Do I have to be truly outstanding at something to be considered/consider myself successful, and do I have to be successful before I feel it's okay to claim an identity for my own? And who is it that defines "outstanding" and "successful"? Do I really need external validation? And if I'm not particularly good at something, who am I? What's my identity hook(s)? Isn't it enough just to be a good person, to treat others kindly and fairly, and leave the world better than you found it in some small way?
I don't really have any clear answers. Hence, the thrashing around in the sludgy pool. I'm going to keep writing, that's for sure. (And really, is it surprising in the least that the main characters in my novel are both struggling with what prophecy means and with who each of them really is at the end of the day when what they were always told about themselves comes into question?) If it's a long and painful process, well, just look at all the bonus things I'm learning along the way about discipline, determination, priorities, goals, compartmentalization and identity. This is certainly not an unexamined life I'm living here. And speaking of which...time for Identity Work, Part Two.
(Let's see...when we last left Our Heroine she was on her way to lunch in Oak Bluffs with a small group of fellow fantasy writers, on the afternoon of the final Friday of the workshop that changed her life. And now, back to the obsessively detailed, parenthetically-riddled narrative.)
I have to admit that I really didn't know anything at all about Martha's Vineyard before I went there. I spent way more time excitedly researching details of the workshop and the instructors than I did the place it was held. (I completely failed to google my fellow students beforehand, unlike my cleverer compatriot Mark, who told me casually on a run to the Package Store, "oh, I saw your paintings" and thus must have found my moldy old Juliart site.) I knew it was supposed to be a lovely vacation place for East Coasters, and that it had something to do with Kennedys and other wealthy and powerful people. I had a vague image in my head of swanky touristy East Coast beach town, based on a single visit to Cape Cod back in my teenage years. I expected salt-weathered blue and grey houses with white trim, some fire-colored Fall foliage, maybe a few fish or lobster-related decorative items. But really that was about as far as I'd thought about the place I'd be spending a precious week of my time in.
And as it turns out, I really *still* don't know much about Martha's Vineyard. I have no sense of its history, its sociology, its economy or its residents. All that I know is what I was able to gather through my brief interactions with the physical environment beyond the Island Inn. I was right about the beaches, but that was about it. On our drive around the Island a few days previous (the day we went to the Bite for the infamous chowder), I'd discovered that the foliage hadn't turned yet, but the trees were slender-trunked, close together and footed by large clumps of underbrush. I learned that the people on this Island made incredibly beautiful stone walls, the mortar-less kind that relies on superior stacking skills to stay together. I'd seen new kinds of both wild and landscaped flora that I'd never known and wouldn't be able to name now without a great deal of research (and we all know how I feel about research: "why bother?"). And on this walk into the town of Oak Bluffs, I discovered that apparently one of the things that Martha's Vineyard (or at least, Oak Bluffs) specializes in are elaborately gingerbread-y Victorian homes. I had no idea that I'd find houses on an island off the East Coast to rival San Francisco's painted ladies, and I regret not having snapped a few more pictures (those that I did take will be posted someday, I swear...posting pix is next on my list after finishing this travelogue).
But back to lunch. Additional fried seafood was consumed (not as good as the seafood from the Bite had been, but tasty nonetheless), much writerly conversation was had and more bonding was accomplished. After lunch we dallied for a precious few minutes buying souvenirs, then strolled back to the Island Inn in the watery Fall sunshine, pausing for a few pictures of especially impressive houses. We arrived over an hour late for the post-lunch collegium, but despite feeling a pinch of regret over the lost opportunity to absorb more writerly bits of wisdom, I was really glad we'd taken the break.
Even given our lateness, the collegium still was valuable. There was no particular topic per se, but here are a few bits I wrote down:
-There are really only 3 reasons to join SFWA (Science Fiction Writers Association): the grievance committee, the medical fund and the legal fund. But overall it has a "toxic internal argument culture" and it may be best to keep it at arm's length.
-Great West Coast cons to check out:
* Bay Con (Silicon Valley)
* Potlatch (up and down the West Coast)
* Norwescon (various West Coast cities)
* Orycon (Portland)
-Making mistakes in short fiction is cheap; making mistakes in novels is expensive
-Try a short story or novelette after VP as a "palate cleanser"
-"To double your success rate, triple your failure rate" (I forget whose quote this is)
-Editors don't get to pick the specific copyeditor who will work on your manuscript (neither do you)
-It really helps to do a style sheet for your copyeditor (when you get to that point)
Eventually the collegium conversation wound down and it was time for the official VP picture (yes, soon to be posted) and the official VP oath:
"I, ________ do solemnly swear:
I will write everyday.
I will finish what I write.
I will revise what I finish.
I will send out what I revise
To paying markets only.
I will continue to send out what I revise
(To paying markets only)
Until Hell won't have it.
And I will tell everyone I know
That Viable Paradise is a really great workshop.
(So consider yourselves told!)
There was also some silliness at the end with an addendum that went something like this: "And if I should ever drink too much and fall down, I will make sure that I pass out face up so that people will see my VP t-shirt and they won't think I went to Clarion."
The picture and oath marked the official end to the workshop, but since most of us weren't leaving until the following day, and no one wanted the experience to be over yet, most everyone transitioned into playing Thing in the common room. As afternoon faded into evening, and dinner came and went, people began to break off into smaller groups and the remains of the alcohol from Beer With Billy the night before came out. I remember having a great conversation with Cory and a few other students about Cory's upcoming wedding plans (such a fabulous and of course super-geeky event it will be, but I don't want to spoil it by giving any details here), and I remember that people started to break off and sing along to Patrick's guitar and Norm's ukulele (?) in the other room. Eventually, though, Kim and Dorothy and I grabbed some bottles and some people (Mark, Yeff, Ben, Laura, Marta, Eric and probably others) and headed up to our room for an after-party.
Little did we know that Room 50 had been the big party room for the VPX bunch the year before, but clearly some of that energy was still hanging around, waiting to pounce. Over the next few hours, what began as a few of us sitting around on the couches and chairs in the living room drinking and chatting grew into a standing room only group storytelling fest, where each of us took turns telling our relationship "origin stories" (e.g. how I met the one who broke/stole/captured my heart). It was vastly entertaining to me that most of us, when liberated by a few drinks, couldn't succinctly tell a story with clear narrative drive to save our lives (see, revisions really are the writer's friend!) And speaking of a few drinks, I have to admit that in my excitement I overindulged somewhat and found myself with the overwhelming need to pass out horizontally for a few minutes. Luckily it was our townhouse, so I just went in the bedroom and laid down on my bed until Kim came in to see if I was ok. Which I was, so I came back out for more origin stories. Perhaps I had been re-energized by my brief "nap", perhaps it was just the reluctance to have the experience end, perhaps it was just a hostess's instinct to not give up before the guests did, but one way or another, I wound up staying up until around 3:30 or 4:00 AM, which is when the last guests finally gave up and stumbled home themselves.
Despite my lack of sleep and burgeoning hangover the next morning, I was determined to cook the French toast I'd promised my roomies and the boys downstairs back on Day 1. And since our door was open, people kept dropping by--which is why I can say I have now cooked for famous (and soon-to-be famous) people. (Jim ate at least two pieces, if I recall, and even Patrick accepted a piece...but Cory just looked longingly at it, since he was on a "lose-weight-for-the-wedding" vegan diet.) Then it was time for packing and tearful farewells, capped by hugs and promises to keep in touch.
Yeff and I were both flying out to Boston on the same puddlejumper flight out of the Vineyard, so he drove me to the airport, and we spent some good end-of-the-event hangout time. We had glorious weather for our flight to Boston so the ride was fun (I got to sit next to the pilot!) but unfortunately it was too hazy for good pictures. I contented myself with taking pictures of the dials and levers "for research" purposes, in case I ever wanted to finish my foul-mouthed pilot story and needed a little realism. Once we reached Boston, we found we were in separate terminal for the flights out to our respective California airports, so we bid each other a fond farewell and I went off to find some food to sustain me for the long trip cross-continent.
And here we pretty much come to the end of the travelogue, since everything else was fairly uneventful. It was lovely to come home to my place and my family (my parents even kindly picked me up from the airport), and while it was maybe not so lovely to be abruptly thrust back into the hurly burly of my usual overfull life, I didn't mind, because I brought back with me something of immense value, something I am still unpacking and exploring because it affected me on so many levels.
I'm sure I have forgotten a few things, and failed to expand on others, but I'm done for now. It's time to let the VP experience go underground, and continue to work its transformations quietly beneath the surface. It is time to carry forward my new enthusiasm and commitment to making my writing better (not to mention a priority), and to simultaneously be okay with where I'm at. It is time to own what I need to own and drop the rest.
And most of all, it is time to stop blogging and go start writing more novel chapters!
I have to admit that I really didn't know anything at all about Martha's Vineyard before I went there. I spent way more time excitedly researching details of the workshop and the instructors than I did the place it was held. (I completely failed to google my fellow students beforehand, unlike my cleverer compatriot Mark, who told me casually on a run to the Package Store, "oh, I saw your paintings" and thus must have found my moldy old Juliart site.) I knew it was supposed to be a lovely vacation place for East Coasters, and that it had something to do with Kennedys and other wealthy and powerful people. I had a vague image in my head of swanky touristy East Coast beach town, based on a single visit to Cape Cod back in my teenage years. I expected salt-weathered blue and grey houses with white trim, some fire-colored Fall foliage, maybe a few fish or lobster-related decorative items. But really that was about as far as I'd thought about the place I'd be spending a precious week of my time in.
And as it turns out, I really *still* don't know much about Martha's Vineyard. I have no sense of its history, its sociology, its economy or its residents. All that I know is what I was able to gather through my brief interactions with the physical environment beyond the Island Inn. I was right about the beaches, but that was about it. On our drive around the Island a few days previous (the day we went to the Bite for the infamous chowder), I'd discovered that the foliage hadn't turned yet, but the trees were slender-trunked, close together and footed by large clumps of underbrush. I learned that the people on this Island made incredibly beautiful stone walls, the mortar-less kind that relies on superior stacking skills to stay together. I'd seen new kinds of both wild and landscaped flora that I'd never known and wouldn't be able to name now without a great deal of research (and we all know how I feel about research: "why bother?"). And on this walk into the town of Oak Bluffs, I discovered that apparently one of the things that Martha's Vineyard (or at least, Oak Bluffs) specializes in are elaborately gingerbread-y Victorian homes. I had no idea that I'd find houses on an island off the East Coast to rival San Francisco's painted ladies, and I regret not having snapped a few more pictures (those that I did take will be posted someday, I swear...posting pix is next on my list after finishing this travelogue).
But back to lunch. Additional fried seafood was consumed (not as good as the seafood from the Bite had been, but tasty nonetheless), much writerly conversation was had and more bonding was accomplished. After lunch we dallied for a precious few minutes buying souvenirs, then strolled back to the Island Inn in the watery Fall sunshine, pausing for a few pictures of especially impressive houses. We arrived over an hour late for the post-lunch collegium, but despite feeling a pinch of regret over the lost opportunity to absorb more writerly bits of wisdom, I was really glad we'd taken the break.
Even given our lateness, the collegium still was valuable. There was no particular topic per se, but here are a few bits I wrote down:
-There are really only 3 reasons to join SFWA (Science Fiction Writers Association): the grievance committee, the medical fund and the legal fund. But overall it has a "toxic internal argument culture" and it may be best to keep it at arm's length.
-Great West Coast cons to check out:
* Bay Con (Silicon Valley)
* Potlatch (up and down the West Coast)
* Norwescon (various West Coast cities)
* Orycon (Portland)
-Making mistakes in short fiction is cheap; making mistakes in novels is expensive
-Try a short story or novelette after VP as a "palate cleanser"
-"To double your success rate, triple your failure rate" (I forget whose quote this is)
-Editors don't get to pick the specific copyeditor who will work on your manuscript (neither do you)
-It really helps to do a style sheet for your copyeditor (when you get to that point)
Eventually the collegium conversation wound down and it was time for the official VP picture (yes, soon to be posted) and the official VP oath:
"I, ________ do solemnly swear:
I will write everyday.
I will finish what I write.
I will revise what I finish.
I will send out what I revise
To paying markets only.
I will continue to send out what I revise
(To paying markets only)
Until Hell won't have it.
And I will tell everyone I know
That Viable Paradise is a really great workshop.
(So consider yourselves told!)
There was also some silliness at the end with an addendum that went something like this: "And if I should ever drink too much and fall down, I will make sure that I pass out face up so that people will see my VP t-shirt and they won't think I went to Clarion."
The picture and oath marked the official end to the workshop, but since most of us weren't leaving until the following day, and no one wanted the experience to be over yet, most everyone transitioned into playing Thing in the common room. As afternoon faded into evening, and dinner came and went, people began to break off into smaller groups and the remains of the alcohol from Beer With Billy the night before came out. I remember having a great conversation with Cory and a few other students about Cory's upcoming wedding plans (such a fabulous and of course super-geeky event it will be, but I don't want to spoil it by giving any details here), and I remember that people started to break off and sing along to Patrick's guitar and Norm's ukulele (?) in the other room. Eventually, though, Kim and Dorothy and I grabbed some bottles and some people (Mark, Yeff, Ben, Laura, Marta, Eric and probably others) and headed up to our room for an after-party.
Little did we know that Room 50 had been the big party room for the VPX bunch the year before, but clearly some of that energy was still hanging around, waiting to pounce. Over the next few hours, what began as a few of us sitting around on the couches and chairs in the living room drinking and chatting grew into a standing room only group storytelling fest, where each of us took turns telling our relationship "origin stories" (e.g. how I met the one who broke/stole/captured my heart). It was vastly entertaining to me that most of us, when liberated by a few drinks, couldn't succinctly tell a story with clear narrative drive to save our lives (see, revisions really are the writer's friend!) And speaking of a few drinks, I have to admit that in my excitement I overindulged somewhat and found myself with the overwhelming need to pass out horizontally for a few minutes. Luckily it was our townhouse, so I just went in the bedroom and laid down on my bed until Kim came in to see if I was ok. Which I was, so I came back out for more origin stories. Perhaps I had been re-energized by my brief "nap", perhaps it was just the reluctance to have the experience end, perhaps it was just a hostess's instinct to not give up before the guests did, but one way or another, I wound up staying up until around 3:30 or 4:00 AM, which is when the last guests finally gave up and stumbled home themselves.
Despite my lack of sleep and burgeoning hangover the next morning, I was determined to cook the French toast I'd promised my roomies and the boys downstairs back on Day 1. And since our door was open, people kept dropping by--which is why I can say I have now cooked for famous (and soon-to-be famous) people. (Jim ate at least two pieces, if I recall, and even Patrick accepted a piece...but Cory just looked longingly at it, since he was on a "lose-weight-for-the-wedding" vegan diet.) Then it was time for packing and tearful farewells, capped by hugs and promises to keep in touch.
Yeff and I were both flying out to Boston on the same puddlejumper flight out of the Vineyard, so he drove me to the airport, and we spent some good end-of-the-event hangout time. We had glorious weather for our flight to Boston so the ride was fun (I got to sit next to the pilot!) but unfortunately it was too hazy for good pictures. I contented myself with taking pictures of the dials and levers "for research" purposes, in case I ever wanted to finish my foul-mouthed pilot story and needed a little realism. Once we reached Boston, we found we were in separate terminal for the flights out to our respective California airports, so we bid each other a fond farewell and I went off to find some food to sustain me for the long trip cross-continent.
And here we pretty much come to the end of the travelogue, since everything else was fairly uneventful. It was lovely to come home to my place and my family (my parents even kindly picked me up from the airport), and while it was maybe not so lovely to be abruptly thrust back into the hurly burly of my usual overfull life, I didn't mind, because I brought back with me something of immense value, something I am still unpacking and exploring because it affected me on so many levels.
I'm sure I have forgotten a few things, and failed to expand on others, but I'm done for now. It's time to let the VP experience go underground, and continue to work its transformations quietly beneath the surface. It is time to carry forward my new enthusiasm and commitment to making my writing better (not to mention a priority), and to simultaneously be okay with where I'm at. It is time to own what I need to own and drop the rest.
And most of all, it is time to stop blogging and go start writing more novel chapters!
Whoops, once again I've hurried the narrative along too fast and forgotten vitally important pieces in my rush to get this travelogue posted. After Patrick's lecture, and well before Our Heroine went to lunch with her new tribe-mates, there was a crucially important final one-on-one meeting with an instructor: Cory Doctorow. I would be wildly remiss if I did not mention it here in at least as much obsessive detail as I have everything else.
Way back on Wednesday, I'd gotten up the gumption to ask Cory for an unscheduled meeting (I wish now that I'd asked Steve Gould and Laura Mixon too, but I didn't want to be greedy or presumptuous about their time, so sadly, I did not. On Thursday, in a fit of optimism, I asked Cory if I could have him critique my fledgling new short story rather than the submission piece of the novel. (Even with the motivation of knowing Cory would be reading it, I didn't manage to finish the foul-mouthed pilot story, but I figured it was more up Cory's alley than my fantasy novel chapters.) So Friday before lunch, we went up to Cory's room for a brief meeting that I wish I could have dragged out for hours, it was so helpful (and enjoyable). I found Cory really easy to talk to, and he always brought up interesting thoughts and thereby encouraged me to do the same. He started by asking me why I'd come to VP, how it had been going for me so far, and if I'd gotten what I wanted out of my VP experience. All interesting questions, and a great way to begin the process of reflection that I've been continuing here in this blog for the last 3 weeks.
Then we got into talking more specifically about my foul-mouthed pilot story (which for the record was called "What You Really Need As Much As A Hole In The Head"), and once again it was a great reinforcement for some of the specific writing craft I'd learned (or re-learned) over the last week. Many of issues as a writer, which I am now becoming intimately more familiar with, were reflected here as well: wandering beginnings with too much muddling about finding my way into the character and the story (the "your story doesn't begin until page 10" problem), characters without clear (to the reader) problems or motivations, run on sentences (even though I'd been trying to write short noir-like sentences, a few of my run-ons still came through). A couple specific pieces of advice:
-Tell what people do--and fail at--and not what they nearly do
-Plant seeds of sympathy for a character early on--if they're not redeemable, they're not sympathetic
-"As above, so below": try making the characters (microcosm) reflect the setting (macrocosm)
Most fun though was talking about cursing though (a subject I'd never considered in much depth before, but *now* I certainly have). Expanding on what I'd already learned from both Debra Doyle's lecture and the sample curses I'd collected earlier in the week, Cory taught me an incredibly valuable lesson, that cursing is more effective and interesting when it gets very specific. To wit: "The ocean below was as smooth as a teenage girl's ass" is decent, but more outrageous (and therefore more interesting and more indicative of character) would be "The ocean below was as smooth as a 14 year-old Thai hooker's ass." (And believe me, that was one of the more mildly offensive bits that came out of this character.) I may or may not put this new knowledge to use in my fantasy novel when I revise, we shall see!
Way back on Wednesday, I'd gotten up the gumption to ask Cory for an unscheduled meeting (I wish now that I'd asked Steve Gould and Laura Mixon too, but I didn't want to be greedy or presumptuous about their time, so sadly, I did not. On Thursday, in a fit of optimism, I asked Cory if I could have him critique my fledgling new short story rather than the submission piece of the novel. (Even with the motivation of knowing Cory would be reading it, I didn't manage to finish the foul-mouthed pilot story, but I figured it was more up Cory's alley than my fantasy novel chapters.) So Friday before lunch, we went up to Cory's room for a brief meeting that I wish I could have dragged out for hours, it was so helpful (and enjoyable). I found Cory really easy to talk to, and he always brought up interesting thoughts and thereby encouraged me to do the same. He started by asking me why I'd come to VP, how it had been going for me so far, and if I'd gotten what I wanted out of my VP experience. All interesting questions, and a great way to begin the process of reflection that I've been continuing here in this blog for the last 3 weeks.
Then we got into talking more specifically about my foul-mouthed pilot story (which for the record was called "What You Really Need As Much As A Hole In The Head"), and once again it was a great reinforcement for some of the specific writing craft I'd learned (or re-learned) over the last week. Many of issues as a writer, which I am now becoming intimately more familiar with, were reflected here as well: wandering beginnings with too much muddling about finding my way into the character and the story (the "your story doesn't begin until page 10" problem), characters without clear (to the reader) problems or motivations, run on sentences (even though I'd been trying to write short noir-like sentences, a few of my run-ons still came through). A couple specific pieces of advice:
-Tell what people do--and fail at--and not what they nearly do
-Plant seeds of sympathy for a character early on--if they're not redeemable, they're not sympathetic
-"As above, so below": try making the characters (microcosm) reflect the setting (macrocosm)
Most fun though was talking about cursing though (a subject I'd never considered in much depth before, but *now* I certainly have). Expanding on what I'd already learned from both Debra Doyle's lecture and the sample curses I'd collected earlier in the week, Cory taught me an incredibly valuable lesson, that cursing is more effective and interesting when it gets very specific. To wit: "The ocean below was as smooth as a teenage girl's ass" is decent, but more outrageous (and therefore more interesting and more indicative of character) would be "The ocean below was as smooth as a 14 year-old Thai hooker's ass." (And believe me, that was one of the more mildly offensive bits that came out of this character.) I may or may not put this new knowledge to use in my fantasy novel when I revise, we shall see!
