I'm having one of those days when everything I write sucks. Even writing my own name sucks (I mean, is that the best way to write my name or is there a better way? Last name first? No middle initial? Two lines instead of one?)
The details can drive one mad. And I'm good at driving myself mad.
I'm stuck on my second novel rewrite. I have my shitty first draft completed and am now rewriting and trying to make the whole book a little less shitty.
This is harder than I can say.
The first two chapters sing, and it's taken me months to get them to that point. I'm feeling discouraged: Do I really want to spend months rewriting one lousy chapter?
It's summer in Alaska. I want to be out in the mountains. I want to run. I want to lounge around eating pretzels dunked in Paul Newman's Ranch dressing.
I don't want to write.
At least, not today.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Friday, June 8, 2012
A grant, and a rejection
I was lucky and honored to be one of approximately 25 Alaska artist who received a Rasmuson Individual Artist award.
Yes, the money is much appreciated and will be a huge help with my upcoming project. But more than that, it's the honor of having been chosen, the acknowledgment, the pat on the back for a job well done.
Anyone who is a writer knows that such things don't arrive often.
For the most part, it's rejection, followed by more rejection, and then, when you're almost completely kicked down, even more rejection.
So I decided to write this post in thanks, not only for the grant, but for all of those people who unknowingly gave me a slight boost when my writing wasn't going well: The Fred Meyer cashier who gave me her chocolate chip recipe (thanks, honey); the guy at the gas station who told a joke while I was filling my Escort with unleaded; the Walmart employee who chased me down after I left my keys by the toilet paper.
I have many supportive friends, and they've helped more than I can say. But sometimes it's the unexpected gesture that keeps me going. Or, as Blanche DuBois said, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."
Which leads me to the not so "kind" news.
I received a rejection letter for the Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Residency. It was a very kind rejection, and they sent me $5 (!!).
Turns out I had sent too much with the application fee and they mailed me back the remainder. Yep, I was rejected but still got five bucks out of the deal.
I was a bit crushed. Even though I was recently awarded a month-long residency at Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts for October, I wanted more. I wanted not just one residency, but two. Or maybe three. Or heck, an entire year of bouncing from residency to residency and writing like mad and never washing my hair and living like a hippie writer.
So I won't be living in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere in Oregon next year, with no electricity or running water, no neighbors, and limited contact with the outside world, sigh, sigh.
But I will be at KHN in October, and there will be electricity and running water and other people around, and I'm hoping to write like crazy, eat a lot of pretzels, meet a few new friends and run through the Nebraska cornfields.
I suppose it's about balance or, as the old motto goes: You win some, you lose some.
Why, then, do the rejections linger so much longer than the awards and acceptances?
Writing: I'm presently working on an essay about running for a lit magazine contest
Reading: Anything and everything by Anne Tyler: I'm trying to improve my dialogue techniques and no one writes dialogue as well as Tyler.
 |
| Photo credit: Rasmuson Foundation (I'm the startled-looking blonde near the back, hee, hee) |
Yes, the money is much appreciated and will be a huge help with my upcoming project. But more than that, it's the honor of having been chosen, the acknowledgment, the pat on the back for a job well done.
Anyone who is a writer knows that such things don't arrive often.
For the most part, it's rejection, followed by more rejection, and then, when you're almost completely kicked down, even more rejection.
So I decided to write this post in thanks, not only for the grant, but for all of those people who unknowingly gave me a slight boost when my writing wasn't going well: The Fred Meyer cashier who gave me her chocolate chip recipe (thanks, honey); the guy at the gas station who told a joke while I was filling my Escort with unleaded; the Walmart employee who chased me down after I left my keys by the toilet paper.
I have many supportive friends, and they've helped more than I can say. But sometimes it's the unexpected gesture that keeps me going. Or, as Blanche DuBois said, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."
 |
| Oh, Blanche, it wasn't all your fault. Truly! |
Which leads me to the not so "kind" news.
I received a rejection letter for the Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Residency. It was a very kind rejection, and they sent me $5 (!!).
Turns out I had sent too much with the application fee and they mailed me back the remainder. Yep, I was rejected but still got five bucks out of the deal.
 |
| Love you Abe! |
So I won't be living in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere in Oregon next year, with no electricity or running water, no neighbors, and limited contact with the outside world, sigh, sigh.
But I will be at KHN in October, and there will be electricity and running water and other people around, and I'm hoping to write like crazy, eat a lot of pretzels, meet a few new friends and run through the Nebraska cornfields.
 |
| Where I'll be in October, writing my heart out. |
I suppose it's about balance or, as the old motto goes: You win some, you lose some.
Why, then, do the rejections linger so much longer than the awards and acceptances?
Writing: I'm presently working on an essay about running for a lit magazine contest
Reading: Anything and everything by Anne Tyler: I'm trying to improve my dialogue techniques and no one writes dialogue as well as Tyler.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
My perfect reader
Last night I met the perfect reader. I don't know her name or who she was but she was in the hot tub at the apartment clubhouse where MM and I were soaking off the hurts of our last run.
This woman, I'll call her MPR for my perfect reader, was a bit chubby. Okay, she was more than a bit chubby but so what? Because she slid into the hot tub across from us and she was holding a book.
A book! In the hot tub!
She sat down, in that churning water, with all of that steam, and opened her book and began to read. I could tell that she was enjoying herself, too.
What she was reading isn't important. It's the fact that she was reading, and that she held the book so carefully above the water, as to not get the pages damp. And sitting there I thought: I want someone to read my book in a hot tub. I want them to not be able to put it down. I want them to carry it with them to the bathroom and the supermarket. I want them to sleep with it beside their pillow (as I so often sleep with my books) because they can't part with it, even as they dream.
I hope someone loses my book, too. Because have you ever found a book somewhere, picked it up an knew, without a doubt, that it was meant for you, that it had been patiently waiting there for you to find it?
Years ago I found a tattered copy of Susan Kenney's In Another Country at a rest stop in Washington state.
I knew it was meant for me. I picked it up, sat there in that dead grass and read for hours. I was transfixed; I couldn't put it down.
What I'm saying is that I want my book to be used. I want it torn and crumbled, damp and food-smudged, the poor binding cracked and worn. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, I believe that books only come alive when they are loved.
And what am I loving right now? Poison, by Kathrn Harrison (Oh, Kathryn, I love you so! Or at least I love your writing so!).
Hope everyone is reading, and writing, books and poems and stories they truly love.
This woman, I'll call her MPR for my perfect reader, was a bit chubby. Okay, she was more than a bit chubby but so what? Because she slid into the hot tub across from us and she was holding a book.
A book! In the hot tub!
She sat down, in that churning water, with all of that steam, and opened her book and began to read. I could tell that she was enjoying herself, too.
What she was reading isn't important. It's the fact that she was reading, and that she held the book so carefully above the water, as to not get the pages damp. And sitting there I thought: I want someone to read my book in a hot tub. I want them to not be able to put it down. I want them to carry it with them to the bathroom and the supermarket. I want them to sleep with it beside their pillow (as I so often sleep with my books) because they can't part with it, even as they dream.
I hope someone loses my book, too. Because have you ever found a book somewhere, picked it up an knew, without a doubt, that it was meant for you, that it had been patiently waiting there for you to find it?
Years ago I found a tattered copy of Susan Kenney's In Another Country at a rest stop in Washington state.
I knew it was meant for me. I picked it up, sat there in that dead grass and read for hours. I was transfixed; I couldn't put it down.
What I'm saying is that I want my book to be used. I want it torn and crumbled, damp and food-smudged, the poor binding cracked and worn. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, I believe that books only come alive when they are loved.
And what am I loving right now? Poison, by Kathrn Harrison (Oh, Kathryn, I love you so! Or at least I love your writing so!).
Hope everyone is reading, and writing, books and poems and stories they truly love.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Pigs and peanut butter cookies
Today I wrote a few pages of my new novel, edited a few pages more. Then, feeling strangely productive, I outlined the next chapter.
I won’t, of course, follow this outline, will end up misplacing it or dribbling it with food. Why, then, did I feel so smug as I wrote? I sat at the breakfast nook, a cat on my lap, and imagined someone viewing from above: “Look at her! She’s outlining her next chapter! She’s a real writer!”
The idea depressed me so much that now I want a cookie. I want this:
All I have in my cupboards are healthy foods. Healthy foods suck when you’re a writer who can’t finish her second novel.
(‘Why write a book?’ I imagine asking God.
‘Why not?’ he’d say with a shrug, and then he’d get back to watching The Food Network.)
My second novel is a mess. I’ve been switching from first- to third-person and agonizing: Which is the stronger voice? Which more accurately portrays my character? My theme? My intent?
Damned if I know.
So, yeah, I want a peanut butter cookie. I want that buttery, white-flour and white-sugar badness in my mouth. I want to smooth it down my throat. I want to bury my head in a plate of peanut butter cookies and eat face-down, like a pig.
Is that you, Wilbur??
I suppose if writing were easier, more people would do it. But really, is it supposed to be this hard?
Today’s stats:
Writing: Stuck in Chapter Ten (I’ve been stuck in Chapter Ten for over a week. I’m getting tired of Chapter Ten)
Reading: White Oleander by Janet Fitch
Quote of the day: “Mom brought me some peanut butter cookies and a biography of Judy Garland. She told me she thought my problem was that I was too impatient, my fuse was too short, that I was only interested in instant gratification. I said, ‘Instant gratification takes too long.’”
Carrie Fisher, Postcards From the Edge
I won’t, of course, follow this outline, will end up misplacing it or dribbling it with food. Why, then, did I feel so smug as I wrote? I sat at the breakfast nook, a cat on my lap, and imagined someone viewing from above: “Look at her! She’s outlining her next chapter! She’s a real writer!”
The idea depressed me so much that now I want a cookie. I want this:
All I have in my cupboards are healthy foods. Healthy foods suck when you’re a writer who can’t finish her second novel.
(‘Why write a book?’ I imagine asking God.
‘Why not?’ he’d say with a shrug, and then he’d get back to watching The Food Network.)
My second novel is a mess. I’ve been switching from first- to third-person and agonizing: Which is the stronger voice? Which more accurately portrays my character? My theme? My intent?
Damned if I know.
So, yeah, I want a peanut butter cookie. I want that buttery, white-flour and white-sugar badness in my mouth. I want to smooth it down my throat. I want to bury my head in a plate of peanut butter cookies and eat face-down, like a pig.
Is that you, Wilbur??
I suppose if writing were easier, more people would do it. But really, is it supposed to be this hard?
Today’s stats:
Writing: Stuck in Chapter Ten (I’ve been stuck in Chapter Ten for over a week. I’m getting tired of Chapter Ten)
Reading: White Oleander by Janet Fitch
Quote of the day: “Mom brought me some peanut butter cookies and a biography of Judy Garland. She told me she thought my problem was that I was too impatient, my fuse was too short, that I was only interested in instant gratification. I said, ‘Instant gratification takes too long.’”
Carrie Fisher, Postcards From the Edge
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