Drive it like you stole it.

I have stolen some of my best ideas from DP and woven them into my nonfiction. They aren’t the major ideas, those are mine, but rather a few awesome details. When he calls me out on it, I tell him that because we are married half of his is mine. This argument previously had been used solely over dessert consumption.

I stole this title from Lyra (I think), the idea of stealing from SadFace, and let’s not even talk about my college entrance essay, where I stole a really fantastic line from my very own sister without realizing it.

What do you steal?

How to write a condolence note

1. Always write a condolence note.

You may not know what to say. No one does. You might say the same thing that everyone else says. That’s totally okay. What you says sounds stupid. That’s also okay. There is nothing you can say to help, really, but knowing that someone is thinking of his or her struggles will help the grieving person a tiny tiny bit. Trust me. My mother, who prided herself on being a rational woman ruled by logic and sense, kept track of who sent her cards when my father died. It made a difference to her. It made a difference to me.

2. Choose the right card for the person.

I always send pretty blank cards because I hate the sentiments expressed by sympathy cards. This is not true for everyone. But you can’t go wrong with a simple drawing or a simple statement. I received a pile of ridiculous sentimental cards when my mother died. They could have been sent on yesterday’s fish and chip newspapers. I was happy to receive every single one. It made a difference to me.

3. Say one thing of substance if possible.

If I knew the person who died, I’ll include something positive I remember about her. If I don’t, I’ll say something I mean, even if it is just “I’m thinking of you.” My friend J suggests including a story you remember the person telling you about the one who died.

4. It doesn’t have to be long.

Again, you’re honoring the fact that a person has died. You are acknowledging that the survivor has had her life possibly changed forever.

5. Mention God, heaven, or better places only when appropriate.

When in doubt, don’t.

6. Don’t promise anything that you can’t deliver.

Time may heal all wounds, but the recipient doesn’t need to be reminded that just as of now. Offer to ask with everyday tasks if appropriate. It is hard to eat, cook, wash the dishes, walk the dog, pick up your dry cleaning, plan a wedding, take your kid to the playground, get your car inspected when someone you love has died. Offer to talk only if you’re willing and able.

7. Just do it.

What am I missing?

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?

The carnage is over

Well, I have finished one editorial project, taken two days off, and survived mother’s day. I’m still not sure I have anything to say on the blog. So bring me questions, editorial quandaries, etc. Give me something to write about other than my stripy overlord (i.e., the cat).