here we go!

I scored a sublet at the Writer's Grotto in SF. This means I get an office in which to write, for 3 weeks. My dogs won't be there to distract me, neither will a television, neither will a kitchen tempt me with its fatty, distracting snacks.

So my residency will be for 21 days. My boss has ok'd my going into work late for 3 weeks (or leaving early if I happen to have morning meetings).

Keeping my fingers crossed. I've decided to re-start my novel from the beginning, with a new structure in mind. Excited. Hoping to make great progress and share it here!

Hey blog pals, I'm cheating on you!

Sitting here (not presently writing) at my writing residency. Just to let you know I set up another blog. Check it out: www.orientalish.blogspot.com. Hope all is well....

Mac deodorant, please

My friend F gave me her old Mac laptop out of the kindness of her heart. But a problem's crept in . . . well, into my nose and into my house. At first I thought it was the couch that stunk, and I made a note to tell J not to lie down on it after coming back from the gym. Then I leaned closer to the keyboard and got a whiff of powerful body odor. Serious body odor. Undiluted, no-holds-barred body odor. Not-washing-for-a-month body odor. I pictured F carrying the laptop underneath her arm to cafes, to bookstores, to her office; I pictured her huddled on her bed with it; I remembered something she'd once said about having hyperactive sweat glands.

I called J to freak out.

me: F is sweet, but, ah, there's B.O. all over the laptop! She said she'd written her book on it---I understand pouring blood, sweat, and tears into a project, but come on. Should I bring it to Tekserve? I can't stand being near it.

J: I'll look up some information for you. [Ten minutes later.] Okay---do you want the good news or the bad news first?

me: The bad news, please.

J: The bad news is that there's no easy solution to this issue. You can place dryer sheets on the keyboard when you close it. You can also replace the keyboard itself, which will cost between $100 to $200 (keyboard plus installation). But apparently the smell, however muted, will always be there.

me: Oh. And the good news?

J: It's actually common for a certain series of iBooks to have this smell, something to do with the adhesive used in the keyboard---so it's not your friend who'd stunk it up!

mac

My sister's initials.

The makeup I use.

What I'm switching to, through the generosity of a kind friend. Hopefully, I'll be up and running in the next two weeks and I can start writing in cafes again. Fingers crossed.

novel progress report

Word count: 378

Location: Borders

Soundtrack: Apparat, Things to be Frickled

Writing Snacks: chai tea, rice krispie marshmallow square.

Incidents of note: The cafe worker gave me an odd look as he cleared the table of my "distraction" magazines--The Advocate, Fangoria, World Literature Today, The Uncanny X-Men.

re-start

I had an incredible workshop last week with a great novel writing mentor. He got me to really examine the structure of my novel and to probe more deeply. He said I have a fantastic story but I really should start over. After a month of rest.

So I'm starting over. I'm sooo excited.

novel progress report

Word count: 361

Location: Golden Castle Diner

Soundtrack: Daniel Agust, Swallowed a Star; Ms. John Soda, Notes and the Like

Writing Snacks: Pancakes, bacon, sausage, Pepsi.

Incidents of note: A middle-aged man sat at the bar, in front of the video arcade, and tapped his finger on the touch screen, playing games for what seemed like hours.

Retraining the brain

The last few days I've been waking up at six a.m. for the office. Yesterday it was five a.m. So many huge projects on my desk, and no time to get through them all. It doesn't help that I'm easily distracted by little things, especially by the Internets and all the clothing and shoe sales that are going on right now. But this month I plan to spend mornings on the writing, to focus again, and retrain this ADD-addled brain of mine into using words to good effect. This morning's inspiration: um . . . it was good, but I've lost it. What a brain.

*

Oh wait, I found it again! (The inspiration, not my brain.)

novel progress report

Words (for this section): 619

Location: Golden Castle Diner

Soundtrack: Electric Birds, Gradations; Isan, Plans Drawn in Pencil; Matthew Dear, Asa Breed

Writing snacks: open-face tuna melt on rye, coleslaw, Pepsi

Incidents of note: Four male New Castle County police officers came in. They all ordered Diet Cokes.

crossing the threshold

Seems like it took me over thirty days to actually post ... I was somehow leery of crossing the threshold into posting. Besides, every post I envisioned had me kvetching for far too long on the pitfalls of procreation (namely, the side effects -- children). Of course, the maternal part of me loves my child but the 'writer' in me finds him to be a serious hazard. Interesting about reworking the MFA thesis from a novel form to a collection of short stories ... my thesis advisors thought I should rework my collection into a novel.
The other day I was sort of jolted by a supercool 72 year old client, a sculptor and maker of tools for astrophysists, who recounted a sort of cliche story about an artist who came to speak to his students at Berkeley and said, "when you embark on your careers as waiters/waitresses, taxi drivers, social workers, just remember that you're always artists first -- the danger comes when you flip your identity around to taxi driver/artist".

A good thrust

What's all this blathering amounted to so far?

A collection of stories.

I have a real, cohesive collection in mind, thanks to some brainstorming with J about a single paragraph I'd slaved over for four hours at 71 Irving earlier in the evening.

I'm reworking my MFA thesis, only this time the narrative makes sense. Well, the thrust of it, at least. I'm sure that once I start writing, everything will fall apart like a house of cards, or a stack of cards?, or a house of straws? A house of hay?

Well, you know.

Whatever happens, fine---am still going to scribble down and bask in the thrust. It's a good one. I hope it sticks.

*

Random: So strange, and even sad, how breakthroughs big and small can light up one's life for such a brief shining moment.

Must stay realistic.

Television glutton

I love Charlie Chaplin, but Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd seem to have more depth. Somehow.

Right now I can't quite dissect what I'd watched last night (a tribute to Chaplin, then The General, Our Hospitality, and Now or Never), having gone to bed at five a.m. and gotten up late and cotton-headed for work . . . where I'm getting a brilliant memoir ready for the design department---or trying to, as I keep nodding off over the text, my eyeballs feeling like orbs of grime, and at the same time I'm trying to read and digest the words, though I don't have to read anything at this early point in the production process, just code the material (chapter number, chapter title, lists, lists, lists), but I can't help reading the words anyway because SS's lists are both illuminating and irritatingly childish.

("Must not be so judgmental. It is vain.")

I haven't stayed up this late in a while. During NaNoWriMo I went bed at the latest by two every night (I think). Tonight is going to be a late night as well, but I haven't done two back-to-back late nights in ages. Tomorrow morning promises to be similarly discombobulating.

Oh, and I didn't have time for coffee this morning. That might be part of it . . .

Sucked back in

My cable's back on. I forgot that I'd suspended it in the middle of March for the thirty days, not the end of March.

Now the Democratic debate is on in the background.

And after that is a retrospective of Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton films, till six a.m.

Somebody help me.

City

The KGB bar was barely lit (as usual) tonight. The first reader opened one of the heavy curtains and I noticed the sky was misty but light. Spring…finally. Four readers read four quirky pieces for the Istanbul Literary Review, funny things were said. When I walked down Fourth Street, the mist made colors pop out everywhere and quieted things. In front of me, a beautiful blond couple spoke Spanish. She was dressed in red: red trench coat, red pants, red patent leather shoes. He was dressed completely in black except for a red purse slung over his shoulders, her purse I presumed. On Great Jones Street, I passed a dance studio where one of my favorite teachers made me leap across the room on a top floor. There is no way of knowing from the outside that the building is filled floor after floor of empty white rooms and sprung wood lined with ballet barres and mirrors. An open window spills high above me spills white light into the dense, wet air.

On Lafayette, restaurants filled with people spill energy onto the walk. I pass, hearing a rumble of talking but no words. Menus flash in hands. A man stepped out of the mist just before I got on the train, hitting me up for cash. I kept walking, feeling guilty. Another man dressed immaculately in white appeared, “Sallam aleykum,” he said, wearily. He lowered himself down, crouched in the corner, and waited for my reaction.

work versus novel

work versus novel

novel is the underdog. but this week--i played hooky. i took an additional day off (yes, i have one day a week off to write but i find i spend it running errands and recuperating more than writing). i just did it. i had allergies, the oaks are pollinating, i am outrageously allergic to oaks, there are a ton of oak trees in SF and Berkeley, the oak trees are a protected species with a considerable fine for those who cut them down (cursed me!), i was miserable and i was snotty, but i could have dragged myself in to work.

but i did not. i called in sick. i had a few work items. but i also spent a couple of hours writing. i didn't get a ton done, but i finally had a few hours of clarity, a few hours focused on writing.

ahhhhh. relief. how can i do this more often?