Just Say No

The math of time is simple: you have less than you think and need more than you know. We are not taught to say “no.” We are taught not to say “no.” “No” is rude. “No” is a rebuff, a rebuttal, a minor act of verbal violence. “No” is for drugs and strangers with candy.

Creators do not ask how much time something takes but how much creation it costs. This interview, this letter, this trip to the movies, this dinner with friends, this party, this last day of summer. How much less will I create unless I say “no?” A sketch? A stanza? A paragraph? An experiment? Twenty lines of code? The answer is always the same: “yes” makes less. We do not have enough time as it is. There are groceries to buy, gas tanks to fill, families to love and day jobs to do.

Read the rest here. Make your weekend plans accordingly.

Summer above the Mason–Dixon line

It’s the last week of my school-based job. Thus it’s “summer,” no matter that I haven’t seen 70 degrees in several weeks and that my irises haven’t even come out yet. Academia is weird.

It also means that I am going to have more time to edit, and hopefully, more time to write. I have to go do research at [prestigious institution] and see if I can finagle a place to stay at [fancy place] to do more research. I’m going to try to give myself the time I need to do that research.

In a mere two weeks I’m sending out the entire Fucker to a friend of mine. No worries that the end isn’t quite done, I’ve worked pretty hard on the rest of it, thank you very much.

And then there’s my buddy J. I’ve worked with J for a bunch of years, as a tutor and as a colleague. She is one of those sneaky writers, always doing good work, never having to try that hard. Then she started working with me and I pushed her. She started revising for real. Her prose will make you cry. (And if you don’t turn that into a book, my friend, I’m going to kick your ass.) J is going off and working a real job a few hours from here. And I’m going to miss her like crazy.

Seasons, artificial or not, are good for you. They force you to change your habits and remember where you’ve been and where you are going.

Where are you going?

Awkward

Hi, my name is Indy (or close enough), and I’m socially awkward. When I was a kid this caused me a lot of worry. I worried that I couldn’t make small talk with people, call people on the telephone, or talk to people I didn’t know. Age and years of working retail has given me a friendly demeanor that I rely on to get me through social situations. If someone starts a conversation, I can usually help keep it going.

Yesterday I went to a social function for my part-time job. It involved a lot of the higher-ups and people I don’t know. And so I clutched my glass of beer and stuck with the people I knew. I joked with a few people. I exchanged pleasantries with my boss’s boss. I caught up with a former colleague, and hugged the lady who was retiring. Finally I sat at the table with some of my colleagues, making polite conversation, until I finally gave up and turned to one of my colleagues to talk about writing.

I warmed right up. There was no relying on awkward jokes; I had ideas, opinions, questions, conversations on conversations. My colleague, who had also been sitting there awkwardly, warmed right up too. Clearly I need to do nothing but talk about writing for the rest of my life.

I’m taking care of a lab puppy. He’s a maniac, but lovable. At the park, he tore off and said hi to a group of dogs. The humans stood around talking. I’m bad with faces, but recognized a few of the dogs. I’ve been coming to this park with my dog for two years. While the dogs sniffed each other’s butts, the humans couldn’t be bothered to say hi to me. One woman commented on the weather, and I said something about the sun, and there was no response.

I walked away puzzled. I understand regional reserve. But to not manage a simple “Hi, how are you?” Fuck that. At least I wasn’t trying to sniff their private parts. I hope the lab shook on them.

C’mon, cheer me up, tell me your stories of social awkwardness.

Writer’s Math

Inspired by Paul’s discussion of grammatical errors, as well as a recent acceptance, I decided to do some writer’s math. And as it’s still my workday, I haven’t even had a drop of booze. Last year, I submitted work to 26 journals and got two acceptances. This seems like a lot for me. I submitted both prose and poetry. In 2011, I submitted 17 places and got one acceptance. Among these were five publishers I sent my poetry manuscript to.

One of my friends is sending out his work and made the mistake of saying to me “But I thought they were good,” when he got rejected by the first journal. Rookie error. According to my little black (brown) book, I’ve been sending out work out since 2005. But before I kept these current records, I sent poems out earlier than that. My first poetry publication was in 2000, when I was a wee twenty-not-very-much lass.

I am not going to count out how many things I have sent out versus how many things I have had accepted, it’s just too depressing. But I’m pretty fucking pleased to be sending out my work at all. DP likes to remind me that it’s easier for poets, because you can send out a bunch of poems at once, and I have 50-some poems to choose from in my manuscript. I don’t disagree.

Where do you send your work?

Love ‘em, or, er, love ‘em

I have a bad habit of writing fake book proposals to my friend Louis, who is an acquisitions editor. Here is the latest:

Millions of Americans are affected by a life condition that brings them together at the same time that it pushes them apart. Sound contradictory? Then you probably don’t have sisters.

“Sister Wrangling” is a 250-page full color (no! I like the blue borders! You had the green borders in our last book!) book that addresses the simultaneous desire to hug and strangle our nearest and dearest. With chapters ranging from “How to get your sister drunk so she’ll forget to tell your husband how to cook Thanksgiving dinner” to “Mom always loved you best! A guide to effectively taking care of your parents in their golden years” this book is a much-needed response to “Chicken Soup for a Sister’s Soul.”

Taking a no-holds-barred approach familiar to any woman who has argued with her sister why My Little Pony needs that Strawberry Shortcake lip gloss now!, “Sister Wrangling” is sure to delight and entertain even as it instructs. Features include an alcohol matrix for how to deal with more than one sister in your house, an extensive list of sure-fire conversation changers, and a sizing guide so that you can figure out whether or not the merino wool gray hoodie your sister is wearing will fit you, not to mention sixteen tried-and-true excuses for getting off the phone.

 

And Louis solicited the following blurbs:

“Cassandra, where is my copy of Sister Wrangling? Did you take my copy?” –Jane Austen
“It’s great that Sophia brings me food and all, but sometimes I just need upwards of fifteen tried-and-true excuses to stop talking to her.” –Henry David Thoreau
“I’m 100% sure I fit Elizabeth’s hoodie.” –Jessica Wakefield

And this one doesn’t really make sense, but he insisted on being included:
“And My Little Pony shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered,
We few, we happy few, we band of siblings.
For she to-day that sheds her blood with me
Shall be my sister”

–Henry V

Conversions 1, Indy 0

When I was in fifth grade, conversions stumped me. There were so many places to misplace numbers, formulas to remember, and a thousand ways to add to 100 (if you were me, that is). And now it’s back. Cookbooks require conversions, and house style seems stuck on 1 cup of garfava flour = 120 g rather than telling me how much one cup of plain old all-purpose flour is. And it’s too late ask for a better style guide.

Lessons learned? Do your damn conversions (and let’s not even mention references) before the day it is due. Okay? Okay.