A Formal Letter of Resignation

To Whom it May Concern,

As a wise friend once said, "Epiphanies have different predatorial styles: some construct elaborate spiderwebs which only get noticed when you tug (and have Sarlaccesque digestion times), others swoop down." This one swooped. And so, it is with a heavy heart that I resign, effective immediately, from the Obligation to Become a Professional Fiction Writer. 

To clarify, I'm not resigning from writing. I still love writing, when it's on my terms. I love reading others' writing, and thinking about writing, and constructing everything from haikus to ideas for novels. It is, instead, this position of "Obligation" I need to leave. It has not been a good fit for me for a while, though upon hearing that "Being a writer is hard" and "You just need to force yourself to do it," I thought it was me, not the position, that didn't fit. I thought I wasn't working hard enough, that I could be great if I just pushed myself, that I would eventually find everything more enjoyable if I just dived in head-first and sent out ten stories a day and went to readings and took classes and wrote (at least) an hour every morning. But I've never been able to dive in - I've just been doing belly flops over and over again until my skin is raw, and I feel useless for all the things I don't do, and envious toward my colleagues who do them. 

So, I must go. I appreciate all that you've taught me to do in this position, like how to take rejection and cultivate a local writing group community. And despite my belly flopping, I have become a better writer. But mostly, I appreciate that you've given me the chance to teach college writing, something I still enjoy. I hope that by resigning from this Obligation I can put the energy I've been using to make myself feel bad about not writing toward becoming a better teacher, and a better whatever-else-I-decide-to-be. And who knows, someday it could be a professional fiction writer, but I won't know that until I learn how to dive in myself and not let you, Obligation, push me. 

I know that you will find many other writers who will flourish and be happy in this position, Obligation. I wish them the best of luck. I hope you will wish me the same.

Best,

Kate

At the Funeral of Spontaneity: A Eulogy

We were the warriors of the Google Calendar. We fought under its cheerful blue banner, killing free time for it, sacrificing for it, crying for it. We were mocked for having to rely on it, for being "too popular" and having "too many friends" or "too many dates."  We were offered tiny violin concerts for lamenting our struggles. But we did struggle.

We did too much to please too many. We couldn't say no but yet often still couldn't say yes. We turned away from work to play and play to work. We carried cannonballs of guilt in our stomachs, shot from others who expressed disappointment at having to wait to see us, and yet we still returned fire on others.

We despaired in the face of too much and were relieved in the instance of last-minute reprieve, yet refused to leave openings in the first place. We fortified the walls with dates, with discussion groups, with volunteering, with singing, with extra work, with parties, with pubs, with more dates. We could not leave our posts. We could not be alone.

At times, we knew too much. We shared our schedules and despaired. We watched our loved ones form allegiance with others, and even though we craved allegiance, our breath sometimes caught in our throats to see it happen before our eyes. We pined for those living under our same roof. We were lonely in the middle of a battlefield a thousand strong.

And among this, among the colorful, carefully timed blocks of work and play and sex and drinking and travel, we forgot to fight for ourselves. We forgot to schedule even an hour for us, because that's the hour we'd been invited to fill with something else, something we'd always wanted to try or learn; or someone else, someone who we'd really been meaning to get to know if only we had a moment.

We left few survivors. Instead, we left a string of casualties, of fading friendships and lovers, in our wake. But to live the lives we chose, we knew no other way.

So here we lie, the warriors of the Google Calendar, crushed under the weight of our own ambitions. Come place bouquets of paper Day-Planners and number two pencils at our graves. Come lament that we were given such little time.

Our Salon Article Disaster

I am, overall, usually quite sanguine about the media's portrayal of things I hold near and dear, like polyamory and bisexuality. When others are raging, I am usually the one going, "Well, at least we're getting press." But this. This throws me so far off my middle-of-center, "let's give 'em a bit of credit" mentality, I think I finally feel what others have been raging about.

The "this" in question is this article, though I want to say up front that I'm not actually against the content of the article itself. I like Nicholas Garnett's writing. I thought the post itself was honest and raw, and the writer in me appreciates phrases like "We burrowed down into a grinding disillusionment and mutual resentment from which our relationship never really recovered." So I don't think I should blame Garnett for the anger I'm feeling this morning. Or, rather, I don't want to blame Garnett.

I want to blame whoever is responsible for the title: "Our Polyamory Disaster."

Yes, polyamory has been kind of a hot topic recently in the news (Yay! We're getting press!).  So okay, Salon, I understand your desire to jump on the bandwagon with some clickbait (a concept I didn't really fully understand the significance of until this very morning). I understand that you want to be on that bandwagon so bad you thought you'd share a two-year-old article on your Facebook page to bring in the droves of readers. The former sorority marketing chair in me really truly understands.

The polyamorist in me really truly wants to write more explicit insults here that I don't feel match the tone of the rest of my blog, so I am refraining. 

The bold italics have probably tipped you off that you have finally reached the portion of the post where I talk about why I'm so mad. Ready?

The article isn't about polyamory. The word "polyamory" doesn't even appear in the body of the article. The word "monogamy" or "monogamous" only appears twice, when the author realizes he has a crush on a woman he is having sex with while both of them are high off the myriad drugs he talks about them all doing over the course of the weekend in question (I'll get to this in a minute).

The title furthers the conflation of "polyamory" with "promiscuity." Related to above, Garnett writes: "Rachael and I were curious. Everything else about [the lifestyle of our partying gay friends] seemed to be working for us. Could promiscuity?" The composition professor in me applauds Garnett for setting up the reader for exactly what he will be writing about: a vacation in which this couple tries having sex with other people at a sex party. Being poly does not necessarily mean an arrangement like this, though it can, and on its own promiscuity is okay (and something to be celebrated when done healthily!). But the two words and ideas are not the same.

The title makes it sound like polyamory is about having sex while high. In short, it's not. I have so many thoughts about how many risks they were taking, not only with the substances but what the substances were doing to their capacity for consent, but that could be a whole other blog post (or two or three). A more appropriate title would have been, according to a friend of mine, "Drug Use and Sex Parties: Not for Everyone, Try Before You Buy." It obviously wasn't for them.

Essentially, the title gives fuel to anyone who wants to argue that polyamory is nothing more than drug-addled sex parties. It gives fuel to anyone who wants to believe that polyamory is a threat to "stable, happy" marriages (which, if you read this article, you can see that this one obviously wasn't, even before the party). It gives people something to point at and go, "See? Polyamory is a disaster. I morally oppose anything having to do with this destructive lifestyle and don't believe these people deserve even an ounce of the legal rights or benefits afforded to NORMAL COUPLES."

Because that, ultimately, is the fear - that misleading titles of articles that thousands of people will click on will send the wrong message. That those clickers who get the wrong message will oppose politicians and laws that would make it possible for us to be able to be visited in the hospital by all of our partners. And laws that would allow our children to be legally cared for by all of their parents. And laws that would allow our insurance to cover all of our family members. The fear is what made me so angry that I ditched grading this morning to write this. It made me realize that there is such thing as bad press, and if anything was a shining example, it's this.

All Kinds of Time: Impatience and Immobility

Last week, I was hit with several large stacks of papers to grade, so many in fact that I worked through last weekend and most evenings of the week. I didn't cope very well with the pressure. I found myself anxious, jumpy, and wanting to cry at the weirdest moments. I couldn't focus. I wondered if I needed to ask my doctor about pharmaceutical assistance. The thought that Oh god there just isn't enough time rendered me almost useless for more hours than I care to admit. Last week sucked.

But I don't think I have an attention disorder. When I have one or two things on my plate, I can get them done, no problem. But when my daily to-do list expands into a weekly to-do list, my desire to get everything done right now makes it hard for me to figure out what to do first.

Saturday, while relaxing for the first time in a week and a half, I admitted that I have a problem with patience. I see things that I want to happen and for some reason expect them to happen today or tomorrow, and when they don't, or when I can't predict when they'll happen, I get anxious. I start to wonder if they'll happen at all. And in my anxiety, I am unable to work toward those things that I can actually make happen. (See: my novel-in-progress, a short story that's done and just needs to be submitted somewhere, the short fiction papers I should be grading right now.) I was posed with the question "What is your ideal for right now?" and by worrying about the future so much, I had difficulty answering.

As I sat down this morning to tackle everything on my daily to-do list, I heard a song by early 2000s band Fountains of Wayne (and it wasn't "Stacy's Mom," though that song does certainly have its merits). The song, "All Kinds of Time," is about an ultra-slow-mo moment between when a ball is snapped to a quarterback and when he throws it into the outstretched arms of a teammate. In that moment of chaos around him, everything stops: he looks around, imagines his family watching him on television, is at peace, and just like that, everything falls into place and he feels like he owns the world. 

I'm not a football fan by any stretch of the imagination, but I couldn't help but listen to it again and realize that in those moments of chaos when I'm working myself into an anxious frenzy of When will this happen or How will I ever get this done, I forget to step back and take stock. I forget to see that what I do have isn't worth ignoring for what I might have, and I forget to see that there are enough hours in the day, I just need to use them better. 

Patience isn't an easy virtue for anyone to learn, but I want to try harder because I feel like I've missed out on so many "own the world" moments. I feel like I haven't been able to separate the crushingly intimidating Future Goals from the totally obtainable Present Goals, and because of it have immobilized myself to opportunities. And mostly, I want to be able to answer the question "What is your ideal for right now?" so that I can attempt to make it a reality. Or, even better, realize that in a lot of ways, it already is my reality. 

Thoughts on the Word "Busy"

Last week, I decided I would try to eliminate the word "busy" from my vocabulary. This was spurred not only by my utter exhaustion of using the word (as repetition is the seed of boredom), but also because it's been the subject of several articles in my newsfeed the last few weeks. 

Laura Vanderkam of Fast Company challenges the notion that being busy equals being powerful, suggesting that "[a]nyone can be busy. It’s easy to fill your time if that’s your only goal. In our hectic world, the ultimate sign of success is empty space on your calendar." Carmel Lobello of The Week takes that idea a step farther, suggesting that "talking about how slammed you are can actually damage your ability to connect and interact with people." Finally, Meredith Fineman of the Harvard Business Review blog drove the last nails into the coffin of the B Word, in my mind, with this:

In addition to having entire conversations about how busy we are, we fail to share feelings with friends and family, ask about important matters, and realize that the “busy” is something that can be put on hold for a little while.

The last thing I want my job to do is keep me from having meaningful connections with people, and what's more, I think the more I tell people I'm busy the more I feel busy, and that leads to more stress and anxiety that I'm too busy. 

So I'm saying goodbye to the word "busy," and instead will explain that I am going to move my regular blog-posting day to Mondays instead of Fridays just because. 

A New Story

The first Saturday after graduation, Kate woke after a blissful 10 hours of sleep, put on the coffee, and stared at an empty page.

She had forgotten how to start a story.

She hadn't written a new one since November, due to thesis revisions. That one, inspired by a conversation with a friend, came out of almost nowhere. This time, there's no one to talk to but the coffee.

It wasn't as though interesting things hadn't happened in the last couple of months. It was just that those interesting things hadn't sparked any narrative for Kate, who was generally a "write-when-inspiration-strikes" girl and not a "write-every-morning" girl. She got ideas sometimes, and put them on post-its, or in little notebooks, or as a memo in her fancy phone.

There was a post-it right now, in fact, that pale institutional yellow, tacked to the bulletin board over the desk. On it was an idea for a story about Wonderland, that end-of-the-blue-line disappointment that must sound like heaven to a naive child. But the note was partially obscured by another, this one cheerfully purple, that read, "Your mountain adventure awaits!" -- her graduation present from Joel.

She ignored both notes and pulled a few small notebooks out of her bag. This would normally be the time she would give up, journal, and write a blog post about how being a writer is hard. But now that she's graduated, she no longer has the excuse of "in-progress." She no longer has the luxury of deadline inspiration. This was work, now, albeit a work she generally enjoyed. And she didn't just leave the office every time she became frustrated with filing or updating the database, did she? So she must now not leave her desk. It was Saturday morning, and she was still in her pajamas, but it was still work.

So she opened her little notebooks, found a scrap of something she'd written a while ago, and try it out. If not this, something else. Then something else. Something, sometime, had to stick.

Reflection on a Low-Res MFA

As I sit here writing out an itinerary for my family for next week's MFA graduation festivities, I am choking up a little. This is it. I don't want to end this journey, as much as I want to start the next step of it. So for your reading pleasure, I give you a re-press of a posting I wrote for my old Wordpress blog, on June 28th, 2008:

It’s equally as difficult to capture the soul of a low-residency MFA program in a short explanation as it is to draw a concrete picture of the concept “dream.” But I’ll try.

The short of it is that for the past nine days, I’ve been sitting in class. Some of these “classes” are very traditional in the sense that an instructor with a prepared lecture speaks on a topic illustrated by assigned readings. In these seminars, we have learned about the body (i.e. scene and sentence) and the soul (i.e. character and conflict) of our writing. Other “classes” are actually workshops – small groups of students who have read each other’s writing and have commented on what works in the piece and what doesn’t. At night, we have been attending entertaining and poignant readings by both published authors and students.

The long of it is that this experience has been completely different than anything I’ve ever done. My classmates and professors have ranged in age from their early twenties to their seventies, work their day jobs in everything from art to oncology, and hail from all over the the world. This diversity lends itself to learning about writing and writers in more ways than I ever imagined.  I’ve been in and out of creative writing courses and workshops since high school, but in their nature they have been one tentative toe in the water. This past week I was immersed - all the way to the bottom, in the deep end of the pool.

Writing is breathing while we’re here. Even in the cafeteria after seminar, even in the bar at night, even in our dorm rooms at unreasonable hours after the bar – we are writers and we are talking about our craft. And we are similar to each other in this aspect, which is something that a lot of us don’t get in the “real world.” We are building up our writing stores for the six months we are cast off on our own.
For “low-residency” means autodidactic. We are given a map and some peripheral direction but beyond that are on our own. The lessons we have learned here we must take back to our own writing desks, to our couches, to our offices, to hold us over until January. It’s scary to be cast off back into the real world, but I don’t think that I can retreat back into the writing vacuum I inhabited a week ago. I’ve learned too much.

So put simply, I’ve been taking classes and gathering reading and writing assignments that I will complete, in four different submission packets, throughout the semester. But really I have been submersed in writing, learning how to breathe in this sometimes alien environment, and how to occasionally come up for air in order to be able to go back down for longer periods. I know I will eventually be ready to graduate, once I’ve experienced this grueling week three more times, but for now, two years seems far too short for this life-altering experience.

Why It's Important to Procrastinate (Sometimes)

The first draft of my thesis is due a week from Monday. So, like any responsible student who can't stand to write at home, I planned to spend my Friday night at a coffee shop. My normal go-to is Diesel Cafe in Davis, although on Friday nights it can be a bit of a challenge to find a seat (unless I wanted to sit at a high-top for four hours. Constructive writing is produced only with a certain level of comfort involved that, let's face it, does not occur for a short person at a tall table). But since I'll be working at my new temp job at least through the beginning of May, I thought I should probably stick to the neighborhood a bit.

After a short, 10-minute walk from my office, I was in Central Square at Cafe Luna. The nighttime atmosphere is a little fancier, with a specials dinner menu and white tablecloths (and white paper!) at every table. I greatly enjoyed lasagna and a beer, set up my computer, and got down to some serious revisions. That is, until a poetry reading began sprouting up all around me.

Before I knew it I was talking to the woman at the table next to mine more than I was looking at my computer. And despite the owner's insistence that I stay no matter how busy it got (being Midwestern, I always shy away from taking up social space with my work), I kept feeling the pull to close my laptop, order another beer, and enjoy networking with some other area writers. The pull kept fighting with some fading voice in my backpack, crying out, "Your thesis! Your stories! We need you!"

I zippered my computer in my backpack and had gone so far as to get my check when my table neighbor's friends and sisters arrived, urging me to stay, taking the rest of my table, and ordering wine. I sent the check back. One more beer, I said to myself, and I will go. But then my new friends started asking me about myself, telling me about themselves, distracting me from the fact that the poetry reading was starting, and oh why would I leave before I heard my table-neighbor's sister and friend read? I wouldn't of course. So I stayed. And eventually I shook my head at the cute waiter when he asked if I was ready for the check. So he stopped asking.

By the end of the night I had met two poets, listened to some moving poetry and memoir, donated a little bit of cash to Haiti, and swapped emails with people who had been strangers just three hours before. I couldn't even remember what the voices in my backpack sounded like. And that's when I realized that sometimes, depending on the activity, putting off your work in favor of something else is far more valuable. If I had left, I might have gotten my story revised, but I would have missed out on everything else, which was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I might have gotten one step closer to finishing my thesis draft, but I wouldn't have met the poet populist of Port-au-Prince.

So I had to get up early this morning to work on what I didn't get to last night. So what? Totally worth it. I encourage you all, next time you are faced with what could be a unique, once-in-a-blue-luna kind of experience, to consider putting off studying for two more hours and take a chance. That's right, I'm giving you permission. Don't make me regret it!

Vlogs and Memes and Back Hair

In the absence of a television and the recent cancellation of my rarely-used Netflix account, I have discovered YouTube vlogs (video logs), and among my new favorites are the Vlog Brothers. An older episode of theirs revealed this meme, which is quite funny and would make a good writing exercise.

The Google Verb Meme:
I typed my name and the verbs into Google and posted the topmost hit that wasn't a reference to this same meme...or Lost (that took some scrolling). So here we go...

Kate needs a shave.
Kate looks like a transgender man. (Hm, that explains why I would need to shave.)
Kate says she loves Sawyer. (Who's Sawyer? Maybe he's my transgender identity.)
Kate wants to change joint-custody arrangements. (Hey, who else has custody of Sawyer?)
Kate does the right thing. (Do I give up Sawyer for the chance of a better life???)
Kate hates back-combing. (Which is why I usually shave!)
Kate asks judge to throw book at Jon. (Maybe he's trying to take Sawyer!)
Kate likes the smell of vintage. (Nothing better.)
Kate eats the world. (If you can't win custody battles, eat everyone.)
Kate wears the pants in our relationship. (Well naturally.)
Kate was arrested for singing in Sainsbury's. (Maybe I was really out of it from eating everyone)
Kate loves Sydney. (It tasted the best.)

Well THAT was interesting. I wonder what would have popped up pre-Kate Gosselin drama. Give this one a go, especially as a writing exercise to get some juices flowing. Now excuse me while I go shave my back and sing a lullaby to Sawyer.

Writing Blog

I have just launched my professional writing blog, Here's Your Bucket. I'll be doing most of my writing-related pondering over there, so please visit! And follow!

An End of 2009 Confession

I am gripped by fear of graduating and publication submission. I have thus far been choosing to listen to the half of my faculty who tell me to wait until I graduate. But who says graduation will magically turn on a confidence switch? I haven't even been seriously pursuing freelance assignments. What's my problem? Is it something I can actively turn around in 2010 or will I be writing a similar confession next year?

Well, if the first step is admitting you have a problem...my name is Kate, and I have no confidence in my chosen career path.

Hence, Haiku

Looking back at my last three blog posts, I realized that all I've been doing is writing haiku. I don't even consider myself a poet, nor do I write other poems outside the realm of the blogophere. But sometimes the things I want to say are too big, or too obvious, or too whiny for prose. Hence, haiku.

I do have some ponderings in the works, so I shall be posting those shortly. In the meantime,

How I love to say
quite a bit in fewer words
to keep you guessing.

To Melt a Glacier

Sometimes it seems like
trying to melt a glacier
with a hair dryer.

You try anyway,
even though you will be pained
from hard work unpaid.

You try anyway,
'cause maybe you'll discover
a secret weakness.

And maybe you won't.

Haiku for a Good Wednesday

The boy never saw
the tiny mushroom behind
the giant oak tree.

How he would have missed
its succulent, hearty taste
had the oak not fall'n.

Why I Write Relationships

I deconstruct them
then put them back together
'cause I can't for real.

The more I do it
maybe it'll be simpler

off the page.

Evolution of a Writer

Preschool:
First poem is written. "Down went the celery, down went the cat. Down went me but not dat dat." Very proud of self.

First Grade:
Cute furry animal is happy, cute furry animal gets into trouble, cute furry animal gets out of trouble. The end.
Writing method: Dictation to mom, original artwork by me.

Third Grade:
Joint story with best friend about the misadventures of bat and flying squirrel.
Writing method: Two heads better than one. Original artwork by both of us. Giggling abounds.

Fifth Grade:
Possibly embarrassing time-traveling story involving middle school gym teacher.
Writing method: Mechanical pencils and legal pads. Inspiration hits anywhere and everywhere.

Eighth Grade:
Painfully cliched natural disaster story inspired by hit mid-nineties movie. Stilted dialogue and too many adverbs. Lots of fun to write, though. Flew through it.
Writing method: Mechanical pencils and mead notebooks. Lots of Mead notebooks.

High School:
Mushy stories about having lots of free time with my boyfriend. Writing as coping mechanism and escape from "overly strict" parents.
Writing method: Sparkly pens in secret journals and notebooks, scribbled behind illegally-locked doors.

Senior Year:
"Real" fiction as learned in college creative writing class. Previous writing shown to be positively awful. Damn, this stuff is hard.
Writing method: Parents' slow, slow, computer.

College:
Character development, plot, theme, setting, description? Story arcs...inspiration and ideas coming slower, pushed out by craft. Am I actually going to major in this?
Writing method: Laptop at Village Coffee Shop, caffeine addiction begins.

Senior Year of College:
Tackle novella for senior honors project. With 3 weeks left before due date, decide to completely switch from third-person to first-person POV. Write straight through spring break. Accomplishment. 130 pages. Phew.
Writing method: Village Coffee Shop, Granville Coffee Shop, Library, Quad, Maine, on Floor of Room, on Ceiling of Room, on Top of Fridge. Caffeine IV inserted.

(Almost) Last Semester of MFA:
Write a paragraph. Check Facebook. Walk away. Write another paragraph and decide that character isn't flushed out enough, so write a character interview. Make coffee. Decide that that character wouldn't do what I wanted him to do so change what he does. Do laundry. Research antelopes. Stare at the ceiling. Check Facebook. Write another paragraph. Wait until the last weekend before submission to write the majority of the story and then wonder why I'm developing an ulcer.
Writing method: Survival.

It's a Good Thing the Past is Passed

This is the intro to a really really really bad sci-fi short story I started (but never finished), circa mid-1998. There is a reason it was never finished.

100 years ago, our Earth was unknown and new. Although we had been around for billions of years, this number didn’t even compare to how old some of the other worlds were. 100 years ago, we found out there were other worlds. 100 years ago, other worlds found us.

I was around 100 years ago. I’ve only been around 18. The year I was born was 83 years into the Reconstrcution of our world. My name is Wick Putnum, and my name means “new” or “full of life.” I was totally oblivious of what was going on around me and what my world had been through. 100 years ago hadn’t mattered to me.

It does not. 100 years ago, our planet was blasted by a force of what can only be described as “wind.” This “wind” blanketed the Earth in chemical tonxins, causing every living thing to die. Only two hundred survived – the 200 that were underground in an experimental housing project. These 200 lived underground for thirty years, starting new lives and sadly laying to rest the ones that lived out their last years in that living grave. Finally, they ascended to the surface, finding a barren wasteland, and nothing but dry sand, which was actually the dehydrated bodies of all living organisms.

Here they began the Reconstruction. Here they build cities anew. And here I was born, live, thrive, and grow. 100 years have passed, and we have discovered we’re not alone. We were blasted with what we affectionately refer to as “intergalactic hairspray” by what we affectionately refer to as an “ant.”

Unknowing if the ants will ever strike again, we’ve built up an army to protect our land. We’ve developed spaceships to defend our bases. And we’ve send up thousands of our willing men to man them. We hope they will never come again to this place.

Haiku . Independence, Iowa

The moon, a pumpkin
hanging o'er hazy mud skies
behind the red barn