Back from the Dead?
Posted on: November 21, 2011
Actually, I’ve been living in the land of the living. Now, I’m coming back to the land of writing. Excited, hopeful, nervous, not wanting to put too much into this… At the same time, I truly believe this could be my last shot. If I don’t write now, I may never have the chance again. (How long can I exist without a meaningful career?)
NEWS! I’m registered for an online revision workshop this coming December with A.J. Verdelle, my graduate school mentor and thesis adviser. With Wayne gone, she and my mother are my only champions remaining. As much as I love my mom, A.J.’s got a lot more experience in the writing arena. Also, she’s better at kicking my butt.
When I was her student before, I gleaned maybe a fraction of her wisdom. I was far too “busy” to take anything she said seriously. At least, I’d like to blame it on that and not on my ever-present and usually detrimental bravado. But A.J. thinks I have some sort of natural talent–which I have to agree with (duh)–and she’s willing to give me a second chance because of it. It’s my turn now to take advantage of the opportunity. This time, for real.
I killed about 50 hours last night going through my Google Reader, which I haven’t done in quite some time. I’m guessing it was before the beginning of the school semester in January. So, yeah; I was a little behind.
A few things occurred to me, one of which is that I don’t really like reading blogs. Of course, I knew this already, but I can ignore the annoyance if I’m reading a few entries every day. Whereas, sitting down to read 700 posts about ABSOLUTELY NOTHING in one night makes it hard to pretend that I’m actually interested. Outside of the fact that most use people use their blog to chronicle their life and most peoples lives are more boring than a 24-hour dish washing marathon in a windowless 4 x 4 room, I find that bloggers are just plain lazy, writing-wise.
My biggest pet peeve? Lists. Lists are NOT meant for publication. Lists are a form of brainstorming. Once you’ve made the list, you should READ it to discover what, if any, connections exist between the listed items, and then rewrite the list in paragraph form including those connections. Otherwise, the reader has to figure out what the connections are and–guess what???–readers are even lazier than writers. They don’t want to do work; they’re Reading Blogs all day long. Brain=Mush. Does a lead-in sentence previewing what you see as the overall theme of the list substitute for actual writing? No. No, it doesn’t. Have I ever written a list? Yes, but only when I was feeling TOO LAZY TO ACTUALLY WRITE ANYTHING. (p.s. numbered lists are okay, but only if used appropriately, e.g. to put things in order.)
The next thing that bugs me? Blogs that end in a question. I mean, how much more obvious (read: needy) could you be? I have an idea! Why don’t you write something that actually makes people think, and maybe then they will respond to you without the begging. Note that I said “maybe” because one thing I’m learning from the 30POV Project is that sometimes people just don’t comment. Even when your post is {probably} the best thing that’s ever been written for a blogging-audience. Maybe I should just give up on humanity altogether, but I’d much rather live in a world where really great writing goes ignored over a world where lackluster writing that ends in groveling goes ignored.
The final thing I just can’t stand? I don’t know; it’s a tie between every-day blogging and ignoring your reader(s) altogether. Actually, the two are probably related. I mean, how could you actually sit down, think about what you’re going to write and who might read it and why they might read it and what it might make them feel and how you could get your point across, etc. etc. when you’re posting something Every Single Day. Yeah, yeah; I get it. You have goals, daily ones. You want to record your weight loss/gain or your success at new recipes or your cat’s antics which are just So Cute… Since I can only assume that you want to record these things for your own posterity and not mine, why blog them? Get a journal, or–if you must write online–make it private. Hell, go to Twitter even. But, please, don’t publish it in your blog that shows up in my reader every. single. day. I don’t usually give advice, but here it is anyway. Keep the “reality TV show” mantra in mind; real people don’t have Exciting, Recordable lives. However, with a little editing and a phat lead actor, fans will come back, over and over again.
What have I taken away from this experience? I think I discovered the reason I don’t blog all that often, and it’s not that I’m “too busy,” which is my usual rationalization. I don’t have anything to blog about. At least, not every day. Not even every week. Hell, I’ve had entire years of my life that are basically disinteresting to anyone but myself. And I’ve spared you from those! Don’t I deserve the same???
Rest assured. I’m not done blogging. (oh yeah, I forgot; I also hate people that express their opposition to technology via technology). When I do have something to say, and I’ve thought about it long enough to say it eloquently, or at least graciously, then I’ll be back, unless it’s good enough to go here or here, or stupid enough to go here. Until then, I’ll obsessively write daily lists about my boring fucking day-to-day life in which I focus on my daily inability to meet daily goals and I’ll post them every single day. Okay by you, {Google} Reader?
So, I have to revise the goals a little bit, because it’s only January and I’m already applying for a grant. I won’t say which one, so that no one will be disappointed when I don’t get it. But it’s about trying not about succeeding.
(Yes, I really believe that. What is all this crap about not making New Year’s resolutions so you won’t fail at sticking to them?? Isn’t that what making goals is all about? Not meeting them is really just revising them, especially if your goals are realistic to begin with. Listen, life gets in the way. We get in the way of ourselves. But that doesn’t mean we should just stop WANTING things to change…does it??? And this comes from a cynic!! All of you shiny, happy people should be making resolutions left and right!)
ANYWAY
So, if January 2010 is “applying for a grant,” that means I can save publishing the WB essay for March. I can also pretty much guarantee that I’m not going to work on the “joel” story in February because I’m actually working on “Something is Always Broken” which A) no longer fits under that title, even though I still think of it that way and B) is turning into a novel. Yes, a novel. Not a nanowrimo, crappy, how much can I write?, novel, but an actual PLANNED, outlined, discussed, thought about, worked on & working towards something Novel. Am I excited? yes. But not because I want to write a novel. Because I want to write this story (and by “write,” I mean finish). Because this story needs to be told and in order to tell it, I need more room.
Lastly, for the summer, I think I’ll change all of my hitherto “education” goals to going back to my roots and working on another bathroom essay. If they can do it, I can do it too. In fact, it was my idea first!!!!
Qui onques rien n’enprist riens n’achieva…
I tend to blur the years between high school and my 30’s, but sometime around 1996 or so, I moved to Dallas for about 6 months. Of course, it wasn’t intended to only be a 6-month gig; I’d actually gotten a really good job as a nanny there and was committed enough to sell my beloved Jeep to get a “kid friendly” car. But things didn’t work out as planned.
I was coming right off of my first nervous breakdown (their terms; not mine), which–in retrospect–probably wasn’t the best time to make a major move. But I felt weird living with my parents after college, even if I’d dropped out early. The plan was to move to Dallas, shack up with my big sister, and live a grown-up life. What I didn’t know at the time was that my sister’s grown-up life as a sales rep. consisted of 50% traveling and 50% drinking, a habit I hadn’t yet acquired. There were very few of the “family dinners” or late-night talks, that I’d envisioned when setting off for the Big City.
Despite maintaining my image as “the innocent baby sister,” I still got fired from my nanny job due to sleeping through the daycare pickup time. So, with a fancy car and no way to pay for it, I took the next thing that came to me–a job as an executive admin. for the husband of a woman my sister knew through her job.
Even without a degree, I was more than qualified, which made me lazy on the job. He’d give me his car keys to go to the car wash and I’d spend a few hours there, even {once} picking someone up. (Turns out he, too, was a friend of my sister’s; I think she knew everyone within the Dallas metro area.) Presumably, I did enough for him to keep me around, as well as dispense valuable advice. In fact, I still hear his voice, to this day, ringing in my ear whenever I’m unhappy on the job : “On the day you wake up and don’t want to go into work, find another job.” Of course, I was too young then to really understand such sage advice, like I do now (no, I really do…!), so when I woke up one morning and felt miserable, I equated it to having a lousy job–instead of a lousy life–and quit.
It shocked everyone, including me, but I stuck with my decision. I was moving home. Somehow this shock turned into me making several new friends on my way out the door, which turned into me having a going away party that made me want to stay, which turned into me being invited out on the annual Holiday Lights event–driving around in a limo and looking at lights, then going out for drinks at a local club. By this time, I could successfully pass myself off as 21 to get a Zima when out at dinner, and had even snuck into a few gay bars under the pretense of being lovers with my sister, but no straight club was going to let me in their doors. So, an also under-21 friend of mine from Little Rock , who was in town for a visit (before I moved back), and I stayed behind in the limo to “wait.”
Waiting, of course, meant drinking. The limo was completely stocked and we’d had enough champagne by that time to not think about the fact that we were neither one used to drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle or to care about the fact that, at some point, the rest of our group would come back to find us completely wasted. Fortunately, I don’t remember them coming back. I don’t remember anything after about the 6th swig, other than me and my friend’s giggling. No, that’s not true. I remember her telling me something I’d never known in our 6- or 7-year friendship; her dad had been an alcoholic and that’s why she didn’t drink.
At the time, that Christmas felt like a breath of fresh air to me. In place of oppressing relatives, I’d hung out with sophisticated grown-ups. Instead of the annual taco-eating competition, I’d found a more refined addiction: alcohol. And rather than ending the season expressing well-wishes to people I didn’t see often enough to feel close to, I said good-bye to my failure at a grown-up life. However, I also let go of all hopes of being that close to my sister ever again, along with the friend I’d felt closest to up until that time. Though we continued to see each for a few more months, we never seemed to have the same bond after that night.
***
I have some pictures of my family from that holiday season. My brother was still living at home and my sister had taken time out of her busy schedule to be with us as well. Even though my dad was living and working in another state, he, too, was there. We were all dressed to the nines, for the decadently laid out dinner my mom had already prepared. Glad to be home and no longer eating tuna out of a can for dinner every night, I’d put aside my differences with the holidays. Also, I hadn’t yet processed how much my family was growing apart. In the photos, the five of us are lined up, posing and giggling, my overly-tall brother first, then my guffawing dad, my chic sister and the normally tenebrific me, smiling.
Surely, that wasn’t the last holiday we were all together, nor the last time we were collectively happy. Nevertheless, it stands out in my mind as our final “family” Christmas. I don’t remember any gifts I received or even what we had for dinner, only that it was our last carefree year.
Parents are notorious for going overboard on Christmas — every toy bought equals retribution for the ones we never got! — and I’m sure I bought plenty of useless stuff two years ago, considering Henri was only a little over a month old and would’ve been perfectly satisfied with an extra 2 oz. of milk wrapped up with a pretty red bow.
However, I don’t really remember what I got him, or what I gave to anyone else, and–with the exception of the locket with Henri’s picture in it–I also don’t remember what anyone gave to me. That’s because all I remember is the Mortification, the Exhaustion, the Abashment that was being a new mom. As such, I hadn’t yet accepted that Henri would scream throughout each and every painfully long holiday event that year. Much like I imagine Mary would’ve been at the Original Christmas ceremony (e.g. THE birth), I felt out-of-sorts, out of place, and completely Out. of. It. My mind, body and spirit had all given up on me, so, to get through the holidays, I’d overloaded on Denial.
Looking back, it was unrealistic to wish that baby Henri wouldn’t call attention to himself in any way just because that is the role I’ve always assumed at family gatherings. But, was it really asking too much to hope he would sit still and admire the twinkling lights in place of his ritualistic wailing and gnashing of teeth for 45 minutes or so before bedtime?
Here We Go A-Wailing
My in-laws did their best to go on with life as usual, regaling a truant relative with their chorus of “Blue Christmas” over the phone, while I sat alone, refusing to be a part of the apposite song, tricking myself into believing that I would never feel comfortable in this new role or in this new family. Henri, on the other hand, did his best to add a note of authenticity and, not caring that I was obviously anti-wassailing, wailed right along.
As a new citizen on Planet Baby, I was also silly enough to think the weight of calming my child was all my responsibility, and onus that, quite truthfully, I’ve yet to succumb when confronted by In-Law gatherings taking place during Henri’s witching hour. Though, at some point on Christmas Eve, I must have collapsed from sheer exhaustion, thus allowing someone else to cajole the bleating lamb because I’ve seen pictures of both his aunt and grandma holding him. (*Holding = jumping up & down while also patting his bottom, rubbing his back and praying to whatever God is listening that the crying will, at some point, Stop!)
Henri Not Crying = Christmas Miracle (aka, Grandma)
Thankfully, I was able to keep my own tears on hold until later that evening. But I couldn’t silence the voice inside my head: if it weren’t for Henri and I, the Christmas Dinner could have been perfect. It bears mentioning that being postpartum wasn’t the only emotionally raw aspect of this evening; I’d only just met my husband’s–at the time, boyfriend’s–family during the previous Thanksgiving, less than a week after Henri’s birth. I’ve never been comfortable around strangers, especially not when they’re singing!
I’ve since come to learn several things, both about parenting and about my in-laws, not the least of which is that they love both Henri and Henri’s mom-mom for who they are and expect nothing less than our most raw selves at all family functions. Additionally, no logical group of adults holds the expectation that a baby won’t make a sound for an entire evening. After being a mom for two years, I can proudly say I am part of that sensible group.
Most importantly, I have come to realize that the responsibility for Henri’s well-being shouldn’t perch on my shoulders, a constant reminder that I could probably be doing something differently and getting better results. Instead, I can enjoy myself through sharing him with family, a gift they deserve after welcoming us into their lives at a moment’s notice. Hey, maybe it’s not “joining in the chorus” or anything, but learning to be generous takes time.
Last year, I actually {quietly} sang along.
There are exceptions to every Rule; however, you aren’t one of them. — Prof. leethom
yes, yes, yes…i’m working on my 12 days of Holidaze posts. but, in the meantime, i thought i’d post this special reminder as a present to all of my students. also, i need to take the Gravity out of this Situation i’m in (also called: end of semester mishegoss, e.g. grading papers) and see the lighter side of things.
Top Ten Things for Students to Remember
- The teacher assumes you can read. If this isn’t the case, you should notify her as soon as possible so that special considerations can be made. The inappropriate time to let her know this is the day before your Mega-Research Paper is due.
- The teacher doesn’t feel sorry for you that you have to come in to take a final on Christmas Eve day. SHE HAS TO BE THERE TOO, NUMBNUTS.
- The teacher doesn’t believe that you are Jewish or that you were in a car accident. And even if she did believe that, she wouldn’t feel sorry for you.
- The teacher isn’t a psychic and, therefore, cannot read your mind. When she asks a question in class, it requires some sort of verbal correspondence. This is true even if your class is at 8 AM.
- The teacher has no control over whether or not school is canceled in inclement weather. So, yes. We will be having class {every}day.
- The teacher does not enjoy repeating things that have been put into writing. (See #1.)
- While the teacher acknowledges the theory there are no stupid questions, she still gets annoyed when you ask them.
- The teacher does not like to be corrected in front of the entire class, especially if she is actually wrong!
- The teacher cannot remember the specific comment she left on your paper, which you are referencing, that made you feel unworthy of love (despite bullshitting her way through that tearfully emotional conference a few minute ago). This doesn’t mean you are unworthy of love, nor does it mean that you are worthy; only that you need to bring your commented-on paper with you to student/teacher conferences.
- The teacher actually knows what she’s talking about, 95% of the time. We refer to the other 5% as “the Grace Period,” e.g. the teacher version of Can I turn this in late and still get a grade for it???
death to november
Posted on: November 30, 2009
i have to say: november didn’t go as planned. not in my work. not in my writing. and, Certainly, not in life. it may be related to this, or it may not. i haven’t yet analyzed it…too busy hiding. too bad i didn’t bury myself in my “work”; my students would’ve probably appreciated that more than what i did bury myself in which was–namely–anger, which, of course, is a mask for fear and other things that i won’t name here.
so, the novel {once again} did not get written. i think i wrote like 15 words or so. and a lot more in my head. but i ended up diverting my attention to something i like to do much better than writing: reading. also known as: ordering books on amazon.com. i ordered the hell out of some emily dickinson books. Happy Birthday To Me! and i will read them. however, the more i read, the more i realize that there are a lot more people that know a lot more about ED than i had thought when the idea of this novel came to me. so, i either have to do my “homework” (e.g. read all of those books and then some) or think of a new novel idea, that’s actually novel.
well, now that november is {almost} over, let’s not dwell in the past. (eventually, if i blog that phrase enough times, i might start doing it.) it’s time for THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS! {lee lee style}
yay!
this should be accomplishable. i have 31 days to write 12 blog entries. i think i can do it. at the end of the month, i may not be standing and i may not have any family or friends left. but, by gosh, i will complete this goddamned writing goal or my name isn’t lee lee thompson! (*which–technically speaking–it isn’t.)
bring on the holidaze…
p.s. i urge my readers (hello reader!) to plow through the first few entries, which will, no doubt, be very dark. there is light at the end of the tunnel, right?
here’s a hint into American Culture: the term “black” is narely used to describe something good. hello…has anyone ever read the play Othello? read “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson? read anything by anyone that has influenced or was influenced by american literature…? The color black is a symbol for Evil, its very mention a formidable foreshadowing of events that will most likely lead to someone’s death. Not to mention that, very often, the color black is Literally tenebrific, like the last 46 days without sun. Red, on the other hand, makes us passionate and hungry. It represents drama, intrigue, and sexy lingerie. Why not Red Friday? …the day to commit wholeheartedly to that which makes you a better self: Shopping!
when it comes to Black Friday, the link between black and red isn’t all that far off. after some quick research, i found that some historians think the coinage of the term was in representation of ye old bank books going from In the Red to Back in Black by none other than FDR–that great spender of money who brought us a *new* economy, which relied even more on the sale of goods than ever before (!). but even if i were nequient to find that particular explication waaaaay down on the google search list (you see it down there…all the way at…number…Five!), i could still easily learn–from that most horrid and unreliable of sources we’ll just refer to as W, in order to save my job–that Black Friday wasn’t coined to describe something pleasant, useful for marketing gurus and retailing execs everywhere. it’s BLACK FRIDAY. duh!
actually, i’m not “learning” here (are you?), i’m confirming a suspicion that’s been nagging at me this week as i have been continually bombarded by those savvy advertisers on Facebook–I always click on those pesky ads that pop up! Don’t you!?!–to take advantage of their “Black Friday Sales.” having previously dated an anarchist who would never have participated in anything carrying The Stank of Capitalism, i, indeed, at one time knew that Black Friday isn’t a “holiday” nor a “license to go on a shopping spree in the name of helping the very same economy that has so royally screwed my entire friends, family and community-at-large in the Ass.” it’s Actually an anti-holiday: a lack of celebration in which the good people of the USA, e.g. {some} residents of cambridgeport along with the governor of new mexico, band together in the fight against capitalism (sort of like the cold war, only more boring) and Don’t Shop.
*screeeeeeeeeeeeech* {record player stops}
WHAT? not shop on Black Friday, that holiest of days in which retailers take even more advantage of us than they would on any other “normal” shopping day??? You. Must. Be. Joking.
but yes, dear reader. this practice does exist. there are people who don’t shop on Black Friday. pleasedon’thitmei’mtellingthetruth!!!
in the writing of this, it occurs to me that perhaps the anarchists were the ones to re-interpret the name “Black Friday.” if it’s true that a traffic cop or some ad guy in Philadelphia was responsible for the moniker, which was really just meant to describe the god-awful amount of traffic on their city’s streets, then–hey–i can see how it might have become the name for the day in which we ALL spend too much money, thus ingesting our bank accounts with a god-awful amount of traffic. thus, if we don’t spend too much money, we’re dishonoring all that is sacred about the ensuing season of commercialism, which would obviously be the point for those against Black Friday.
still, i don’t think it makes a good gimmick. what true American wants to participate in something “Black,” unless you fancy yourself the Dark Knight or Darth Vader or Malcom X or something. this november, i vote for Red Friday.
Possible Ad Slogans:
- Have you ever wanted to be on the Red Carpet? Go shopping on Red Friday, and you’ll feel just as beautiful and successful as Angeline Jolie in couture!
okay, i can only come up with one, but it should be a good jumping off point for those savvy advertisers (see reference above). also, the color red can easily be twisted into something dark, though in a more subtle way (i.e. The Joker’s lips, “Paul’s Case” by Willa Cather, the recent showtime phenomenon “Dexter”). so anarchists, too, will be completely satisfied with this change. it’s a win-win, which… isn’t very American. oops. i guess it’s a good thing i’m not president.
Blagconic V2.01 