Okay, so 28 isn't EXACTLY "pushing" 30, but it's more than "just over 25."
I've been thinking lately about all the things that I have learned or changed my opinion on in the last ten years or so. I don't think I've necessarily grown up, per say, but I've definitely decided that some things I thought were a big deal are, well, not so much, and visa versa. Here are some of them:
-Bottled water is a ripoff. Unless there isn't a tap with potable water around at all, it's much cheaper (and better to the environment) to carry around a reusable bottle and refill it, or just order tap water. I don't always follow my own advice, but it's something I definitely think about more than I used to.
-Recycling is important! I used to think nothing at all about throwing away cans and bottles, especially if they had food waste in them. I used to be a huge baby about touching food waste. I still don't really like it (I would probably try to be an escort before a dishwasher) but thinking about the giant amount of trash sitting around, not decomposing, is kind of depressing. Sure, sometimes I still throw away paper. But I feel bad about it now.
-Doing housework is a lot faster than sitting around for weeks and dreading doing housework.
-Pets are awesome, but pets are expensive. And time-consuming. Make friends with pets, and petsit.
-I used to think I was sooo uncool when my mom would make me wear a helmet while riding my bike, but now I fear looking uncool without a helmet. Uncool and suicidal.
-Healthy food actually makes me feel better. Huh. Who woulda' thought?
-Caffeine does absolutely nothing to me, while alcohol knocks me out cold. So much for a lunchtime martini!
-Knowing about all the finances, whether combined with a partner's or not, is sooo important. I realize now that I couldn't count on one hand the amount of times I took interest in our finances when I was married. I would buy books, go to the coffee shop, and annoy Tom to death for something I didn't even fully grok doing. Bad Kate.
-The freedom from not having a television is worth the hours spent online. Most of the time.
-Walking a mile in the city is shorter than walking a mile in the country. Try it sometime and you'll see what I mean.
-I wear glasses. Holy crap I wear glasses!
-I have curly hair. Where was it hiding all those years? Oh yeah, up in my ponytail. Dur.
-Writing fiction is a hell of a lot harder than it used to be, when I would get lost for hours at a time writing complicated (and horrible) plot lines out on yellow legal pads in the back of my parents' minivan.
-Owning the "cute" car does not equal owning a good car.
-Geeks/Nerds are my people.
And age, of course, is relative, and I don't know if it becomes more relative the older you get, or the farther along we get into the new millennium, where 40 is the new 30, 60 is the new 40, and 21 is far too early to get married.
What have you learned since you've become an "adult"?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Podcasts Saved My Job (I hope)
Hey Strangers!
I've been a little busy lately, I will admit. I would like to say that all of my spare time has been spent on perfecting the six short stories that make up my MFA thesis, which, in its finished form, will be about 125 pages and is due May 3rd.
Sadly, this is not the case.
My after-work and weekend time has lately been spent doing online tutoring for Lesley, reviewing hundreds of pages of MEd papers. While this activity is definitely sharpening skills I will be using this fall when I start teaching freshmen how to write (or, more likely, how to stop Facebooking in class), it isn't improving my own writing very much. But that's beside my current point.
My during-work hours, 40 of 'em a week (which are currently on the cutting table of my company's budget meeting...cross your fingers for me), are spent making sure that the over 6,000 contacts of the old database are smoothly transfered into the new database. I've been here six weeks, and started at the Zs. I am now at the Rs. This enthralling and tedious work was really getting to me, until my coworker mentioned she listened to Podcasts while she worked.
A little disclaimer before I continue: Yes, I am getting to this party very, very late. Call it a very fashionable entrance.
Podcasts! Glorious podcasts! Back when I lived in Michigan and drove 30 minutes to work, I downloaded Wait Wait Don't Tell Me and This American Life to get me through the boring drive, and loved every minute of it, and then like many different things in my life (for reasons I haven't figured out yet), my interest with podcasts waned (probably when I left that awful job and took a better one, closer to my house). So naturally, these beloved shows were my first stop. But these shows only came out once a week each and took up less than two hours to listen to - what do with my 38 remaining?
I sent out a plea to Facebook (and Facebook never disappoints with my pleas...well, at least none but the one about who wanted to come over and clean my kitchen for me) and my awesome friends responded. So, armed with their great suggestions and the ingenius suggestions put forth by the iTunes store, I have discovered favorites:
Librivox (various - right now I'm starting The Odyssey)
I have many more in the wings, including some of your suggestions I haven't gotten to yet, so I appreciate everyone's imput! Thankfully now I have plenty to keep my brain occupied, which in turn makes my fingers type faster on the keyboard, which in turn will hopefully make my job like me enough to keep me on another six weeks or more, which will cause me to exclaim, "PODCASTS SAVED MY JOB!"
We'll see. For now, they are saving my sanity, and if you're looking for a boost and can split your attention a bit, I suggest them to help save yours, too.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
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!
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