The Plaster People

I needed weird inspiration, so I decided to go to the sculpture garden. A coffee shop or a library wasn't going to cut it unless they were floating in the sky.

Writing The Water Door Magician has been challenging in a way that writing the other books haven't. Usually I write about people who could be real and the real things that could happen to them. But now I'm writing about a 16 year old locksmith super hero who travels to different worlds by picking locked doors. The most normal thing about her is that she's gay.

The other day when I was making edits, I was struggling too much in the real world to be creative in another. I needed to get out of the house, but I knew I needed something other than the normalcy of a coffee shop with its stuffed chairs and students who possessed no super powers other than the ability to function on two hours of sleep and a hang over.  I needed to be outside - in a garden. A really weird garden. Some place where when I turned a corner, I'd potentially see a bronze monkey holding a baby smoking a cigar.

That's when it hit me - the sculpture garden in City Park! Of course!

And so I went. At first it seemed like a great idea.  I walked into the garden like a hitchhiker, with my backpack on and my eyes scanning for a place to go. I felt different from all the other visitors who were there on a clear, sunny day, touring the art and moving on. I was looking for something I could sit next to and type away, fueled by the art's complexity and other worldliness. It made me feel interesting, and I spent a while walking around high on my own intellectual superiority, which I mistook for being cool.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for. There's some great stuff out there, like the statue of a naked lady poised on one foot, pulling back a bow and arrow. I think it's a goddess or something. Then there's this other one I've always liked that looks like a giant, black chess piece. It's a soldier beating a drum and it looks menacing and vulnerable at the same time. But these things weren't calling me to write next to them.

There's a semicircle path lined with hedges, and a few statues only two of which I clearly remember. One of them is a man in a coat with letters sticking out of his back like porcupine quills and it's called, "Standing man with radiating words." Another one is "Ruth and Naomi," two women standing together, one with her arm around the other. On the edge of the semi circle are two benches, back to back, and on one of them is a life-sized plaster man sitting with his arms folded. On the other side are two plaster women sitting next to each other. These three people look so human, like those plaster molds you might have seen a picture of Pompeii - people caught in a moment in time. Only the plaster Pompeii people are locked in the moment of their deaths, whereas these three are in moments of contemplation. They look so real, with pants that wrinkle at the waist, and arm fat. 

I decided to sit next to the man because he was facing Ruth and Naomi and the Man Radiating With Words. He was so human looking but not human at all, which I kind of respected him for. I opened up my laptop and began to write.

I only ended up staying for an hour. I hadn't accounted for the other live people at the park, how they felt about my plaster friends, and how loud they would be about it. People had two reactions - fear and too much bravado. 

The first person to pass was a lady who looked at the women and said, "That’s too scary.” The guy next to her said, “Oh, these things are all over the place. You get used to 'em.” He sat next to the plaster man and said, "Hey bud, how's it going?" and the lady laughed.

People did that a lot with the plaster man. Men and women would sit next to him and talk to him like they were old friends, or pretend to accidentally sit on him and say, "Oh excuse me." One woman accused the him of groping her.  Then they'd take pictures with him. No one asked me to move and I didn't say anything, I was just trying to write. There are probably a lot of pictures of me now, that those people will look at later and remember that weird girl who bent over her laptop and tried to ignore everyone. Which was impossible.

No one sat next to the plaster women and called them "bud." The men who talked to them said things like, "Hey babe, mind if I put my hand here?” And the women who weren't too afraid to sit next to them or touch them accused them of being bitches or sluts. 

And really, that's what made me go sit somewhere else. The sexual harassment of plaster women actually began to make me feel sick. I know that they're not real and they don't have feelings, and honestly if I saw someone joking around like that in passing I might have laughed too. But after an hour of a variation on the same joke it became disturbing. This is what people will say to someone who can’t move or talk back. This was unbridled human social behavior and it was just mean.

So I went to a coffee shop. It was loud there too, but if anyone was harassing each other it wasn't obvious. There was this one weird, older lady who was giving bizarre life advice to a woman who seemed to be in her early twenties. Older lady was making way to many hand gestures and her blond, gray-streaked hair was falling out of the ponytail on top of her head with every wild jerk. She told her, “Your resistance gets photo transparent.”

I wrote it down because I didn't know what that meant. The young woman she was talking to nodded as if she got it and I wondered if she really did, and if she thought that the loud lady was just as bizarre as I thought she was. I imagined the three of us as plaster people, frozen as we were, Loud Lady with her hair falling and her hands in the air, Nodding Lady leaning forward to listen, and me looking up from my laptop at the two of them.

I wanted to go over to the young woman and tell her how weird everybody is, really. "These things are all over the place," I'd say. "You get used to 'em."

27 Year Pause

I've written so many things in the last two months but my Vigilantes don't know it. So I'm writing this at work just to say hi, and of course, the phone is ringing. This ringing phone, my loves, is the reason for my great absence from this blog. I put the caller on hold just so I can finish this paragraph. Just a second...

The are times I wonder if I'll only be able to write consistently when I retire at 65. Assuming I can retire. Then I think, "But then I won't be sexy." As if it makes a difference that I'm a sexy writer, but apparently I equate writers with leather-clad rock stars and I just can't imagine myself with high heel boots and spike-studded leather when I'm 65. Though I guess it's good to have long term goals.

This is what I've accepted about myself recently - I hate self care. Regular bathing, cooking, cleaning, budgeting, lawn maintenance, and not quitting my job on the spot are things that just don't jive with my nature. Most of life is the daily maintenance of self and space, and I've just got to face the fact that I fucking hate it. I do those things, but I despise those things, and I can't make myself stop doing them but I'm going to stop expecting to suddenly enjoy or appreciate them. I would like to think that I could evolve into a functional human female who thrives off of pruning, preening, filling in calenders, and praying thanks to God for my 8-5 job every day, but that shit just ain't gonna happen. If left to my own devices I would shower twice a week, never clean, quit my job, take a bat to my cubicle, and spend the rest of my waking days writing, falling asleep, and then going out at night to hear music. I wouldn't even take a lover, and really, with the two showers a week that problem would solve itself.

But since I've committed to the day routine care of my self, space, and those around me, the blog has suffered. I don't have time to do all of those things, finish my book, and blog. The miracle is, even though I'm doing the practical thing for my kids, I don't resent my kids. This is just the time in my life when I have to remain a functional adult for them so that they have the things they need, and that's ok. That's actually the thought that keeps me from taking a bat to my cubicle.

When I turn 65, I promise you guys, more work will pour out of me than you can handle. In 27 years, when I am sitting on my couch, curled up with my laptop, in my spike-studded leather, that's when the work will happen without pause. Right now I have to work around the pauses.

Which is why I'm excited to tell you THAT I FINISHED THE BOOK!!! The Water Door Magician is done! I'm having a locksmith friend read it and make sure I got all of the technical details right, but it'll be ready to send out after that. Everybody get out your leather high heels and celebrate!

Essay or Death

Do you ever not act on something because it means a lot to you and you really love it? Even though you are aware of how little sense that makes?

Yesterday I blogged about how I'm having a rough time writing my statement of purpose for grad school, and today is no better. So I texted a writer friend who's also applying to the program and I said, "I'm afraid that I'm not good enough, that my writing is boring, and that I'm too old to be a writer, like it's too late." She said there's no such thing, and reminded me that I've already been published so I'm actually a writer already. Then I shared the same fears with my coworker James and he said, "If you don't go to grad school for those reasons, I will kill you." Then my writer friend said, "I'll kill you too," and then she texted me a kissy symbol, like "I'll kill you if you don't do this, love ya, bye."

So now I HAVE to apply to grad school or I will die. And my friends will not make this a "she died quietly in her sleep" type of death, no, they're going to toss me from a moving car and into a Miley Cyrus video. So I just gotta do it, I just gotta write it. I'm a writer, I can write this, right? Right? Of course I can!

Why do I want to get an MFA in creative writing? Because...ok. Because I want to learn more about writing, and to become as good as I possibly can. Because I love teaching it and I want to eventually become a professor. Because I would get to share what I know and read other people's work. Because I feel at home at college, I practically grew up on a college campus when my mom went to grad school. Because writing can be so solitary and I want to be part of a writing community, more than just talking to other writers on-line I want to meet them and know who they are. Because it's the career I want more than anything, it's not just a job, it's my vocation. Because my friends will kill me if I don't.

Ok, I need to say all of that, but say it better and make it two pages long. More coffee is necessary.

UPDATE: This is rough draft is honest, enthusiastic, and so fucking cheesy all at the same time. I might make myself vomit if the words "wisdom" and "experience" end up in my final draft.

UPDATE 2: Can't I just say, "Lemme in your program or I punch you in the face?" No, that won't work, it has to be two pages long.

I Get You, Don Music

Sometimes I feel like this guy:



Does anybody remember him from Sesame Street? If not, you can find him at a site called (prepare yourself to be so excited you might need to bite down hard on something - I suggest a Twinkie) Muppet Wiki! It's a complete encyclopedia about Muppets! I just googled, "What's the name of the piano player on Sesame Street," and the site revealed itself! Oh and that guy's name is Don Music, which I never would have guessed, so this site is like gold to me, like more important than www.npr.org or my bank's website.

What does this have to do with how I feel? Am I saying that I feel like an orange guy with a tie and disheveled hair? Or that I feel like an unseen person might be controlling my every movement and supplying me with things to say? No, but I suffer from not knowing what to say so often that I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. Or the bit about a tie and disheveled hair, I think that might make a good look for me. This is mostly because my sense of humor was born from watching hours of The Muppets and Bugs Bunny so I developed an appreciation for ridiculousness and cross-dressing.

Major Momentary Change of Subject!!!!!

I just looked at npr's website and found the following headline, ""Hawaii: 'Let Nature Take Its Course' on Molasses Spill." Mo...lasses? Spill? There's a pipeline of molasses? I don't mean to make light of this because, according to the article, it's killed major amounts of marine life, but...really? There's a molasses PIPELINE? To me, it's a little like finding out that there's a pipeline of maple syrup that leads to a mountain of pancakes. Or like...I don't know. A leaking tanker full of jelly beans. It's interesting to me that there's been a major spill of something that's not oil. Hawaii really does have the most fascinating predicaments. And the best slack guitar musicians. If there was a pipeline full of those guys, I would be all about a major spill.

Major Moment of Self-Doubt!!!!!

Did I really just say I would support a major spill? Of any kind? I was just trying to make a clever transition back to the main subject.

Main Subject!

In episodes featuring Don Music, he was always trying to write a song, like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and would become very frustrated with himself and bang his head on the piano keys. As a kid, the banging his head on the piano was the funniest part. Muppets were brilliant at slapstick because to make a puppet fall down the Muppeteer would just drop him. So when I was five, I found it hilarious when he would suddenly smack his head, causing his arms to flail wildly. So much drama and limp wayward limbs made for a hilarious contrast. As an adult what I find funny is that he apologizes to his bust of Beethoven that's facing him on the piano top. "I'm sorry Ludwig!" he cries, as his head hits the keys.

At work I have a picture postcard of Carson McCullers pinned to my cubicle wall, and sometimes, I'll say "I'm sorry Carson! Look at me! In a data entry job! HOOOOW did it all come to this!" I don't bang my head on my keyboard, but I'm tempted to. Instead, Carson and I just look at each other. My look says, "I want to go home and write," and her look says, "I know, you poor bastard."

The saving grace lately is that I do go home and write at the end of the day. Most of the time. Sometimes I fall asleep before this can happen, depending on the day, but on average I'm getting in 12 hours a week of writing on the side. 

So my challenge right now is to accept where I am. Even though I've had this emergence of writing power, like I want to write constantly, even if it's bad, and even if I send it nowhere and just stare at it like Emily Dickinson in her attic, I can't give up my responsibilities and go do that. For Emily Dickinson, sitting in her attic and reading her poetry about not wanting to be famous WAS her responsibility. Thus she is one of the most famous poets ever. 

This opposes everything I'm reading lately about marketing myself and brings it back to "we are not in control of the universe, some people market themselves and get nowhere, and some people hide in attics with no intention of becoming famous and become famous." I wonder how many attic writers there have been who we don't know about? We'll never know. Apparently, they didn't shut themselves in and not want to become famous enough. 

Regardless of this, I wonder if Emily Dickinson would have experienced my level of frustration if she had been a single mom with nine pets and school loans to pay. How much more angst and hamsters would have appeared in her poetry? Probably a lot. But it was the mid-1850's and, let's face it, she would have probably died in childbirth. That's just what ladies did back in the day. I thought about this EACH AND EVERY TIME I FOUND OUT I WAS PREGNANT. I experienced three things at once - exhilaration about having a baby/immediate love of my unborn child, anxiety about being able to support another baby, and the thought of "I could die in childbirth." I never did, but I'm also not sitting in an attic getting famous writing poetry either, so fuck you, universe. 

No, that's just not the way my story's going to go. I love my house, my children, my furry children, my scaly children, and my writing all at the same time. I just absolutely hate my day job. The problem is, whenever I think about getting another job and start looking for one, I always come back to "The only job I want is to write." It ultimately doesn't really matter whatever job I have, I'll still be sneaking off to write something on scraps of paper. I've always done this, no matter what job I've ever had. So all I can do right now, is do what I love on the side and figure out the day job thing. Because though no job has ever held a candle to writing, I have had others that don't make me want to pull my eyeballs out of my face. I need to go find another one of those. And I have an idea, but it's in the idea phase, where charts and graphs and envelopes labeled "Confidential" are involved.

Oh! Oh! But I just had this other idea! I want to have the job where I have to go find poets in attics in publish their stuff. Yes! That's it! Attic poet detector. I can dust them off, maybe spray them with air freshener and convince them that they're geniuses who should have blogs.

And this is why my change-of-day-job-profession idea is top secret. Because I impulsively keep coming up with other ideas. I'll be a school lunch lady! Something tells me you won't make enough money. I'll be a school teacher! You'll probably make even less money. I'll be a banker! You looked at your son's fourth grade math problem the other night and said, "What the hell is this?" I'll mow lawns, I love the outdoors! Genevieve, you have a bachelor's degree. You're beginning to make a profession out of aiming low.

So I'm still thinking. While I'm thinking, enjoy, if you will, this clip of Don Music composing "Mary Had a Little Lamb." And I promise that after this I'll stop writing about writing, and I'll start blogging about ludicrous news headlines again. Like this one, "Roman Catholic priest injured in Zanzibar acid accident," which I SWEAR I did not make up. This is a real headline on yahoo.com. I think the word "Zanzibar" would make any sentence instantly attractive but "priest" and "acid" seal the deal. The quality of my blogging can only go uphill with that kind of material.

Creature Update

In case you have any interest I just updated Creature Feature House. Which you can check out quickly and easily by clicking on the linkedy thing I provided in that first sentence.

So why is it that I update Payphone Vigilante so often and not Creature Feature House? Well...honestly I think it's because I have a hard time keeping up with more than one blog. I like everything in one place. But I've had requests for it lately and that does things to my ego, PLUS since I've been giving my writing career a whole lot more attention I've gotten slightly better at organization so everything doesn't feel like a huge ball of disorganized mess, unlike this run-on sentence. Hard copies of stories are in files with labels, I have a notebook where I write the date, the amount of time I spent writing that day, what I wrote, where I sent it, another detail that's probably boring for you to read, and so on and so forth.

OH! And I have gotten one thing published in the last month. But it's under that pen name that I talked about using, and I would share it with you but that would just be silly of me. When I get something else published under my real name, which is Genevieve Rheams, I'll let you know.

Ok, ok. I'll give you my pen name. It's Ellen DeGeneres. Go! Buy all of my things!

And now back to writing. Making Ellen DeGeneres famous is hard work.

Everything Else is Noise

I'm having trouble concentrating. I can hear stories and everything else is noise - coworkers, traffic, the voices of people I love. It's a very inconvenient Narrator who speaks to me. I've got a life, ya know.

No, she doesn't know. She just knows what she wants me to write and doesn't care where I am or who else is talking to me.

This was the conversation with the narrator who made me write "Linda's Flowers" last week:

Narrator: Were there roses at the time of the dinosaurs?

Me: I can't write that down right now. I'm driving.

Narrator: So pull over. You'll forget it if you don't.Were there roses at the time of the dinosaurs?

Me (pulling over): I'm going to have a hard time forgetting it when you're yelling it.

Narrator: I'm not yelling.

Me: You're louder than that ambulance! You're taking up all of the space in my head!

Narrator: But I got you to pull over, didn't I?

Me: Yes, I've pulled over! Are you happy?

Narrator: You don't have to yell, you know.


Later at work that day...

Narrator: Can I ask you a question? Sure. Have you ever been in love?

Me: Look...I'm at work. Can you bother me with dialogue later?

Narrator: Write it. Write it now or I get louder.

Me: But see, that's not actually my job.

Narrator: CAN I ASK YOU A QUESTION? SURE-

Me: Would you stop that?!

Narrator: HAVE YOU EVER BEEN-

Me: You're going to get me fired!

Narrator: IN LOVE?

Me (writing it down): I hate you.

Narrator (smiling): No you don't. Finish it up and post it on your blog.

Me: But what if-

Narrator: POST IT OR DIE!

Me (blogging): Would you go pick on someone else?

Narrator: But you do everything I say. Some of the other writers I've possessed have fought me just like you're trying to.

Me: What happened to them?

Narrator: They died unhappy.

Me: Jesus Christ.

Narrator: I hear talking, I don't hear blogging...


So I finished Linda's Flowers. And then she had another story for me. So a few days later at home...

Narrator: I saw her, yea I saw her, with a black tongue tied round the roses, fist pounding on the vending machine-

Me: Would you stop singing to me? I'm helping Emma with her homework.

Narrator: But the rhythm of it goes with the dialogue I want you to write. And it puts an image in your head of an irate woman punching a vending machine. Why is she doing that? Is she always violent and impatient or is she just in that mood right now? Is a boy watching her? Is he wearing dusty sneakers and a Budweiser cap? Does he know her yet?

Me: I don't know. Maybe he-

Narrator: Write it down.

Me: I can't right now.

Narrator: WRITE IT DOWN.

Me: I'm not finished with-

Emma (who has just asked me a question): Mom? You're not listening.

Me (to Emma): Yeah, I am. What - what was that you just said?

Narrator: WRITE IT DOWN NOW.

I struggle to listen to Emma as the Narrator's will tips like a bucket of water over my head, drenching me to the toes. I am soaked in it. Every movement and thought is heavy. I struggle miserably to listen to my daughter and to focus, because to do so is important to me. When we're finished with her homework I'm tired and frustrated from the fighting. I wonder if Emma's noticed how frustrated I am, and hope that she hasn't taken it personally. My mind feels like a dry, crumbled biscuit. I sit down, turn on youtube and play "Girl" by Beck.

I saw her
Yea I saw her
With a black tongue tied round the roses
Fist pounding on a vending machine
Toy diamond ring stuck on her finger

The story I was thinking of comes back to me, the rhythm of the dialogue in time with the music. The Narrator is quiet now because I'm writing it down. There's no noise. I'm only vaguely aware that I'm in the kitchen. I've only got a foothold in the world where I'm in the kitchen, where I have a job and have children, bills, and nine pets. The rest of me is in the Third Place.

Have I ever told you what the Third Place is? It's the place between awake and asleep. It's not drug-induced, like you might think. It's where the Narrator talks to me and lulls me into a trance. It's the place that I only found myself in sometimes before, and where writers go when they tell you that they've hit a groove with their writing. I'm in it all the time lately. It's the place where I hear the lives of other people, what they say and what they've decided to do, and I write it down, and every other sound from the First Place (the awake place) that tries to get through is just noise. I understand why the Narrator said the ones who ignore her die unhappy.

And while I thought it cold when I first read it, I now understand a quote I read from Edgar Degas who remained a bachelor his entire life. He said, "There is love and there is work, and we only have one heart."

Can I ask you a question?
Sure.
Have you ever been in love?

Yes. And it's in The Third Place.

The Uses of Tall

I am six feet tall and have never played basketball. It's not that no one believes me when I tell them this, they just don't understand. They look at me as if I've just told them that I have 25 billion dollars in savings that I've never spent.

"But why?" they ask, looking bewildered.

"Because I don't like basketball. I play softball, I like that."

"Why would you play softball when you could be so good at basketball?"

"Because," I say slowly. "I do not like it."

And most of them say, "So?"

This gets me every time because I thought I'd just put this discussion to rest. So I say, "So...I don't like the game. Why would I play a game I don't like?"

"Because you're tall!"

"Ooooooh," I say, as if this is something I've never noticed.

I also have never understood why people think that being tall would automatically make me good at basketball. Have these people ever stood next to a goal? And if they have do they not notice how MUCH taller it is than them? These people talk to me as if I can take the ball, step over other players like ants and then drop the ball through the hoop. Because my skill is that I am enormous. No, no. I have to aim and shoot, which is hard to do when half a dozen short, stealthy people who are all angry that I'm taller than them are trying to make me fail. I suppose that aiming, shooting, and trampling short people are things I could improve on, I just don't want to. I prefer softball because I like to hit things with sticks and run.

The other thing I haven't done with my height which disappoints the general public is modeling. I don't know if tall men get the modeling comment, but I've gotten that one since the first grade. Because I have been tall since I was a fetus. If there had been ultrasounds in 1975, the obstetrician would have taken one look at my fetal legs and said to my mother, "Mrs. Rheams, it's a model."

"A model?" she would have said.

He would have shrugged. "Or a basketball player. I'm not sexist."

A relative whose name I don't remember was the first one to insist on my modeling career. I don't feel guilty about forgetting her name because she never got mine right. She thought my name was Jennifer and to make matters worse she pronounced it with a Y'at accent, so even though my name is Genevieve, she called me "Jennifa."

"Jennifa, ya so TALL!" she cried. Then to my mother, "Jennifa's gotta be a model! Look how tall!"

"I don't want to be a model," I said.

She smiled preciously. "Ya will when ya get olda. So tall, ya just gotta be a model!"

Maybe it was because she'd failed to phrase it glamorously enough, but I never did want to become a model. Eventually I fell under the pressure of it, thinking maybe people knew something I didn't, maybe their insistence that I become a model meant that they knew something about the course of my life, maybe I REALLY WAS failing to use a talent, a gift from God. I didn't think I was particularly beautiful but modeling, it seemed, like basketball, didn't need pure natural talent - just height. I was tall and thin enough and all other imperfections could be hidden with makeup and just the right lighting.

So I enrolled in modeling school when I was 18. And flunked out. I don't remember exactly why, but I do remember getting points taken off for wearing jeans to class, and I remember being bored out of my mind because all they did at that school was talk about looks.

"Jesus!" I thought one day, listening to some guy who'd come to talk to us about our hair. "This guy is going on and on about HAIR? How can someone talk about hair for 45 minutes? And look at these girls. They're listening! All these people do is talk about makeup and hair! Hasn't anybody read anything lately? And why do we ALWAYS have to talk about our fucking clothes?.....oh. This is modeling school. Well, I'm out."

I've never been one to fuss over hair and makeup in real life so it made no sense to me to do it professionally. I can't tell you how many women I've disappointed with this news.

"Have you ever been a model?" they ask now. Now that I'm over 20 and considered too old for pose for pictures. Honestly, trying to start out at 18 was pushing it.

"No."

"BUT WHY?? YOU'RE SO TALL!"

"I hate fashion."

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

This especially disappoints short, fashionable women who tell me that they used to dream of being a model. In fact, the shorter they are the dirtier of a look I get. Though they don't say it, this look communicates something to the effect of, "You unappreciative motherfucker." Then they call me Jennifa just to spite me.

"So what do you do?" they ask.

"I'm a writer."

And that just seems to piss them off more. There is no height requirement for writing. Two foot tall apes have been known to type, so it really hacks them off that I take these long legs and cram them under a desk.

"Well, I jog. So I run with them," I try to explain. "Oh! And I reach things!"

This is where the listener begins to accept that maybe my legs aren't completely superfluous if I can reach things in high places for short people in need. Then I double as a step ladder.

I'm perfectly willing to do this, by the way. Reach things up high, and stretch my arms behind furniture to reach something that's fallen. Really, by focusing on the things I haven't done with my height to make money, you could focus on the little things I do every day for free for the good of the world. Like dust fan blades. On second thought, scratch that, I don't clean either.

Ok so maybe instead of focusing on me, I can point out some of your gifts. I don't know if you've ever noticed, Short People of the World, but you're fast. You're fast and you're dodgy and that makes it difficult for me to catch you with a ball. Having my head a half a foot closer to the goal than you has not made a difference in my ability to make it from one side of the court to the other.

Short Women of the World Who Have Dreamed of Modeling - models are ugly. They're too thin. Whatever beauty is in their faces and their bodies is washed out by makeup and bone. A lot of them have no breasts because they have no fat. Women are curvy, they are round in places and flat in others with a delicate complexity. To flatten yourself everywhere is to flatline your beauty. Some of the most gorgeous women I've seen have been under 5'3" with no makeup on. Some of these women love basketball. I am happy to reach things on high shelves for them.

In honor of short, pretty women I offer you Lily Allen who is singing of something along these lines. Her lyrics would be perfect to go with this blogpost if they also included aspirations of tall organized sports, but she won't answer the phone and has ignored my voicemails where I offer suggestions of alternate lyrics. She must be jealous of my height.

Vanishing Animal

I needed atmosphere, so I grabbed my rough draft and I went to the zoo. I had the day off and seeing as how it was Independence Day I suppose I should have worn red, white and blue. But I couldn't find anything and I was anxious to get out the door, so I threw on my Social Aid and Pleasure Club T-shirt and hopped in the car.

Writing in the front yard worked so well the other day that I figured surrounding myself with wildlife would have the same effect, if not better. AND IT WAS. Just so you know, if you're writing a scifi/fantasy novel about a locksmith who opens the door to a different world, and part of that world is a carnivorous forest, the zoo makes for a better feel than a coffee shop. I spent about the first two hours walking around taking notes on the way animals moved, the smells, details about them written on signs, things I've never noticed like the way flamingos knees bend in the opposite direction of ours when they walk, and notes on ferns and other plant life around the them. Then I sat at a bench outside of the Primate Exhibit and wrote for two solid, uninterrupted hours, with all of the smells and sounds that I needed. Peacock cries and howler monkeys, and cicadas that sing in chorus, somehow making the heat hotter. I took pictures of vines and rocks that I want in my forest, and signs with phrases that spoke to me, like "vanishing animal" and "coin vortex."

For some reason "Sea Lion Pool," struck me as particularly beautiful. Those three words have nothing to do with each other when you take them apart, and all three of them have their own power. Sea - one of the largest bodies of water on the planet, lion - one of the most powerful animals on the planet, and pool - a rejuvenating space that (to me) suggests fun and relaxation. The three together is dynamic. I explained this to my coworker James this morning and he raised an eyebrow at me.

"It's possible," I said, really thinking about it. "That there are still remnants of illegal drugs stored in my spinal chord that, when released, make terms like 'sea lion pool' tear-jerkingly beautiful."

"I'm crying for you, Gen," he said.

But he did admit that "coin vortex" and "vanishing animal" were neat terms.  He wouldn't have taken pictures of them though. I noticed that some of the other zoo patrons were giving me strange looks when I took pictures of signs or when I scribbled in my notebook. But they didn't ask about it so I didn't bother to tell them that I'm writing a scifi/fantsy novel that involves a carnivorous forest and that I noticed in doing so that the zoo smells just like the French Quarter, minus the booze. People write there, so why shouldn't I write at the zoo?

I'm writing everywhere lately. It all comes out at work or while I'm driving or doing the dishes. This is especially bad when I'm at work. The other day I had the impulse to answer the phone in Japanese and I don't even speak it. I just wanted to play with new sounds.

Speaking of strings of words and sounds, there was a quote etched in the rock by the sea lion pool that I've never noticed before. It's by the poet Robinson Jeffers, who was possibly tripped out by the term "Sea Lion Pool" when he wrote, “As for us we must uncenter our minds from ourselves; We must unhmanize our views a little, and become confident As the rock and ocean that we were made from.”


I'm a little nervous to finish this book and have people say, "You had a writing frenzy and did all of that research for...THIS?" Well, yes. But I don't think this is just a phase. I will write like this until I'm just the memory of an animal and between now and then I foresee a whole lot of stories. With luck, not all of them will draw funny looks, but I suppose even if they do I'll still keep writing them, just like how I'll still keep snapping pictures of word strings and vines.  

"I think that one's eyes are hurt," a guy said by the Sea Lion Pool, pointing to one who's eyes were closed.  

But I didn't think so. It was swimming with the other one who also had her eyes closed, not squinting them shut in pain, but with a soft face. My note says about them, "Both sea lions swim in slow circles with their eyes closed like they're in love." That's what my mind is like all the time now, not in love with a person but with all of these sounds. I close my eyes, say "Vanishing Animal" to myself and swim.

An Exercise in Cheese

For the past four Saturdays I've been teaching a creative writing workshop for kids 14-18, but that's not what I find funny. What I find funny is that it focuses on YA Romance. I do not write romance novels, and I am not good at being romantic or maintaining romantic relationships so what I'm doing teaching this subject to young writers I don't know. But they let me keep teaching it and for the most part I can run it how I want. After much consideration, I decided not to start the class by saying, "Hi, I'm Genevieve Rheams, local author, with a deep fear of intimacy and very little knowledge about love." Instead I gave them this writing prompt:


Exercise: Write about how you would react if your breakfast began talking to you. What kind of food is it and what is it saying? Is it asking you questions? Can other people at the table hear it? Five minutes.

This was at the beginning of the class which was all about the arc of a plot.  So far we've covered character development, dialogue, and plot, so really teaching this hasn't been much different from teaching "how to write a book." Tomorrow, since this is the last class in this particular topic, I decided to tackle romance full on by leading a discussion on "How not to Write Cheesy." And there will be cheese!...No really I'm bringing cheese. I haven't decided if it should be cheesecake brownies, or actual cheese. These are growing girls. Ooooo, maybe nachos....

Anyway, it turns out that cheesy romance is all about your perspective. A lot of readers think that Twilight is cheesy, while others leave their bedroom windows open at night, wishing that a teenaged vampire will fly in and stare at them creepily while they sleep. One person's cheese is another's love monkey. Maybe I'll leave that out of my speech.

It is now three days later. And I FORGOT THE CHEESE. Luckily one of my students brought brownies as a last class celebration.

This is something I'm going to continue to do now that I'm part of the Young Writer's Guild of New Orleans, so next month I get to teach a new group (with hopefully some of the same faces). I wasn't sure if I would like doing this kind of thing you know, getting up and talking for two hours in front of people but it turns out that I absolutely love it. And in teaching the kids (these these smart, funny, wonderfully imaginative kids) how to write for a genre that I'm not too familiar with, I've learned some things that are important to know when writing Young Adult romance and I feel that you should know them too. They are:

1. Have brownies often.

2. Girls like boys with feelings.

3. Vampires sparkle.

4. Don't forget the cheese.

5. Female writers ages 14-18 talk a lot.

6. Females ages 14-18 most likely talk a lot regardless of whether or not they are writers.

7. There is a direct correlation between the amount of brownies a teenaged girl has consumed and the amount that she talks.

You now equipped to write your own YA romance novel. Though those last three might just be things I learned from running the group. 

Speaking of those chatty kids, in their honor I have decided to take the challenge of my own writing prompt. It was in two parts. The first part was this:

Exercise: Part 1 - A girl wakes up in the hospital. She doesn’t remember how she got there, she just knows that she was in her grandmother’s mobile home when a tornado hit. Another family had run into the trailer with them for shelter and one of them was a quiet boy about her age. She remembers the tornado right outside the window, then the boy’s face next to hers, and then nothing. When she wakes up she has bandages over most of her body, and the boy walks into her room with something in his hands. He holds it out to her and asks if she is ok. What is the object and what do they say to each other? Ten minutes.

I will not be writing that part. I will do this:

Part 2 - Now rewrite it and make it as cheesy as possible. 10 minutes.

Storm's eyes snap open. She tries to rub them, but when she lifts her hands she notices that they are in bandages. She gasps, screams, "My manicure!" and falls back onto the pillow, her golden tresses falling angelically and symbolically around her head.

At the sound of her cries, Hugh rushes into the room. His long blond hair flows majestically as he strides beneath the airconditioning vent, his magnificent chest swells beneath his torn t-shirt, his eyes are an ocean of blue tears, raging like the sea. His hands are filled with roses, the thorns of which prick him but he does not feel the pain.

"You're awake, my love!" he cries, rushing to her side.

Storm screams again. Her bandaged hand falls across her eyes. "Hugh! Don't look at me! I'm not beautiful anymore!"

"But you could never be anything but beautiful to me!" he cries. He drops the roses across her. "Look! I scoured the forests where we played as babes for the most beautiful roses! I've gathered them every day and brought them to you hoping to find you awake! And now! You are! My darling!"

"MY darling!"

She faints.

I'd go on but that was ten minutes. A little over actually. That was fun, I kind of liked it. Stay tuned for further Stories of Storm and Hugh - Desire in a Trailer Park Tornado. The love that FEMA could not replace.

Cubicle #84

First, I realize it's been over a month since I last wrote. It's terrifying how quickly a month passes by, because although it felt like it had been a while since I'd written I had no idea it had been THAT long. It's like one of those movies where a guy wakes up and says, "Man, that was a good long sleep. I wonder what time it is." And it's five years later.

There are a variety of ways he can find out this information. He can look at his calender instead of the clock, and realize that he's missed five seasons worth of "Dancing With The Stars." He can find a newspaper on his doorstep with the current date and the feature article on the cover that says "Local Man Lets Newspapers Build Up for Five Years," and then he'll notice that he's standing in a five-year pile of newspaper. He can roll over, look at his cell phone and see that it has updated from a 5G to a 10G. The signs that this man has slept for an ungodly amount of time are endless.

But time travel is not what I want to discuss today. What I want to talk to you about is my day job because talking to you about what I do from 8-5:00, Monday through Friday will lull you into a good long sleep and then you can tell me about the interesting ways that you woke up only to discover that you've been napping for 100 years and that your cell phone is now also a hover craft.

I was just talking to my friend Tom about my job yesterday. Tom is a talented sculptor who also has a day job and I believe that our conversation went something like this:

Tom: What are you up to this morning, man?

Me: Getting ready for work.

Tom: Me too.

Both of us: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We both have similar sit-in-front-of-computer jobs that have nothing to do with the ways we are gifted. Tom should be welding kinetic art sculptures and I should updating silly things on my blog more often than once a month. And marketing my novel, working on the next novel, and writing more personal essays and short stories. Goddamnit, I should be Dorothy Parker, only not drunk and not dead.

To be honest, some days I feel trapped. I leave at 7:00, get the kids to school, get myself to work, leave at 5:00, pick up the kids, go home, we eat dinner, prepare for the next day, and by the time they're in bed I'm exhausted. Assuming I ignore my friends who call and text me in the evening, I can write. But I don't ignore them most of the time, and then I make deals with myself that I'll wake up at 5:00 to get writing done. Which incidentally is what I did this morning, and why I'm writing now. And it's 5:44 so I have to stop writing in 16 minutes and get ready for my mind-numbing job.

But on my good days, I find hope in things....hey! Wake up! I didn't say to fall into a five year coma yet, I haven't even described what I do during the day. Anyway, I remember that I do write whenever I can and though the novel and essay writings are slow, they are definitely steady. And then I remember that I am NOT trapped. I can look for writing jobs again. I'm just afraid to. I'm afraid of trying and failing, or trying and getting a writing job and not being good enough for it. Or starting my own free-lance writing business and living in constant stress because the work isn't steady enough. So some days it's easier to sit in my cubicle and reset passwords for frustrated doctors and update patient records because it's something I know I can do and I know how much money I'll make every two weeks.

The problem with that is that after three hours of that work, my face which is ordinarily sunny and attractive begins to look like this:


And though you might be thinking that's not so bad because that's the Crimson Ghost and The Misfits adopted that as their trademark and they are super cool, it's not cool having that on your face. It's particularly upsetting to coworkers who come to ask me questions some time around 11:00.

Innocent Approaching Coworker: Hey Gen, Dr. Jarron called and - AAIGH! What happened to your face??

Me: Cubicle.

This is my Cubicle Face. This is what happens to it when I realize that I've settled for the job that I promised myself as a Misfits-listening-novel-writing-black-nail-polish-wearing teenager that I'd never have. There are no colors in my office, which is an expansive gray space with precisely 105 cubicles. I'm number 84.

So this is what I've decided to do. I have a picture of Carson McCullers that I'm bringing in with me this morning, and I'm gathering some pictures of my kids. Yeah, I have no pictures of my kids on my desk. There are some days that thinking about them is the only thing that makes the job bearable - because I know they need me to work a steady job. They give me purpose when I've got Cubicle Face. So I think I need to do a combination of writer and child pictures for #84. It will remind me why I'm there, and that I still haven't lost my talents or stopped using them.

Plus, as I pointed out to Tom, most of the best artists I know had to have a day job. T.S. Eliot was a banker. Amy Tan was a technical writer before she hit it big. People painted into works of art also work.  How many paintings and photographs have I seen of workers? People who don't know why they have the lives they have, and you can see it on their faces. How good of a writer would I really be if I didn't know what it's like to struggle?

And when it comes to that, how much do I REALLY struggle? I don't have a job like this:

And a lot of people in the world do. They don't even have a choice about it. I'm at my desk, not straining my back, not getting rained on, risking heat stroke, or afraid that if my body gives out I won't be able to work anymore and my family will starve.

Also, right now I'm doing my absolute favorite thing in the world. I'm writing to you (take five to swoon). Without an audience, what's the point of writing? Then I'm just telling stories to myself in the mirror. But that is what I do when I let the fear take over, and all that self doubt.

It's 6:00 am. I need to wake up the children and gather pictures of them and my favorite writers. To work!



PS- You can find Tom Harold's rolling ball sculptures here: http://tomharold.com/ Though he is also an 8-5:00 cubicle drone, he made this beautiful, brilliant thing:

Mom's Writing

It's 5:38 am and I have to leave for work in exactly one hour and 22 minutes. I can fill up that time with straightening up the house, straightening up my hair, putting on makeup, exercising, excessive budgeting, or excessive obsession over someone else that involves mad journaling, speculation and crying, but I thought maybe instead I would read a poem and then write to you.

What I've been avoiding lately, out of insecurity or whatever, is consistent writing. I do that a lot. I go to the rough draft of my book and I think, "But it's so stupid and it's never going to sell anyway." And so I don't write it and what happens is over the next few days I begin narrating things. Like when my daughter asks what's for dinner.

She asked what we were having for dinner, but it wasn't a question so much as an accusation, already scowling and ready with a scathing retort even before the answer came.

While I'm narrating this in my head, I've forgotten the question and her scowling turns to indignant outrage, "Mom! Are you even listening?!"

The thirteen year-old's face changed like a firecracker's - solid one second and exploding red the next.

"Mom! I NEED to know what we're having for dinner, I have to prepare myself...Why are you looking for a pen?"

"I have to write something down," I tell her.

"Are you writing down what we're having for dinner?"

"Firecracker," I mumble, jotting down that last sentence.

My other daughter walks up. "What's the matter?"

"Mom's writing."

"Shit," the eleven-year old whispers. "We're never going to eat."

See what happens? See why me avoiding my novel is dangerous for children? And really other than feeding them, I don't want to do much else with my time at this point. No social obligations, no real-life dramas, nothing like that. Just a single focus on channelling that loud, insistent narrator. The poem I read in The Writer's Almanac reminded me of it and since I haven't shared a poem with you guys in a while, here it is:

The Undeniable Pressure of Existence

by Patricia Fargnoli

I saw the fox running by the side of the road
past the turned-away brick faces of the condominiums
past the Citco gas station with its line of cars and trucks
and he ran, limping, gaunt, matted dull haired
past Jim's Pizza, past the Wash-O-Mat,
past the Thai Garden, his sides heaving like bellows
and he kept running to where the interstate
crossed the state road and he reached it and he ran on
under the underpass and beyond it past the perfect
rows of split-levels, their identical driveways
their brookless and forestless yards,
and from my moving car, I watched him,
helpless to do anything to help him, certain he was beyond
any aid, any desire to save him, and he ran loping on,
far out of his element, sick, panting, starving,
his eyes fixed on some point ahead of him,
some possible salvation
in all this hopelessness, that only he could see.

The Pre-Dawn Blues

Have I ever mentioned, and I know I must have but humor me, that the sound of my typing wakes up children? It's 4:00 in the morning. That's 4 am, still dark outside, chickens aren't even nudging farmers awake yet, BUT because I have gotten up to write my 11 year old is wide awake. She's not even bleary-eyed and groggy, she's asking me questions that require thought like, "Mom, why do some of your friends call you Gwenevere?" My answer was, "Go back to bed," which didn't answer her question and made her frustrated.
"I've told you before why some of them call me Gwenevere, don't you remember?"
"Well...who does?"
And she knows the answer to this question too, so I glare at her.
She smiles. "Mooooommy...."
"Go to bed."
"I love you."
"For God's sake, go to bed."
"But I'm not tired!"
"Fine, but don't look over my shoulder while I type."

She sits next to me on the couch and dutifully looks everywhere else but at my laptop. The problem is, she has a running monologue.
"Mommy, why is that plant there? Can we put it somewhere else? Will it grow flowers? Did you buy that coffee cup because it has hearts on it? Why do they call you Gwenevere?"
"ITS THERE BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE IT GOES, THERE'S NO PLACE ELSE TO PUT IT, IT WILL NOT GROW FLOWERS BECAUSE IT'S A BAMBOO STICK, THE MUG WAS A GIFT, AND THEY CALL ME GWENEVERE BECAUSE IT WAS A MISPRONUNCIATION OF MY NAME IN HIGH SCHOOL AND IT STUCK!"

It is her turn to glare at me.
"I'm going to go write in my bedroom," I say getting up and unplugging the laptop from the wall.
"But WHY?"
"Because I need to write in peace."
"Fine!"

She's in the living room now, probably writing letters to a therapist that she has't hired yet. "Year 11 of my life: mom still thinks she exists separately from me. I wish she would stop writing and fix me pancakes with money in them. PS- I'm going to start calling her 'Gwenevere' instead of mom."

The kids have off of school this week for the Thanksgiving holiday, which means that this child can sleep in. She can sleep until noon if she wants. Why won't she do this? Someone explain this to me.

Ooooooooh, wait I know why.Silly me. It's because I'm writing. If I stop writing, she'll fall back to sleep. She's like one of those babydolls that open their eyes when you tilt them back, only her eyes rolling open is dependent on my typing. Actually, it doesn't have to be typing. Pen scratching does it too. I think it even makes the dog have to go to the bathroom. I get up at let's say 3:30 in the morning because I'm that desperate for quiet time to write, take out the rough draft of my book (the first of which I always hand write) and suddenly the dog's eyes pop open and she realizes that her bladder is about to explode. "And hey!" she says, "A human is awake! She doesn't mind putting down her pen to take me for a walk! And I should wake up the rabbit too, she's probably hungry. And a kid! I'll jump on a kid who'll think he can't make his own breakfast! This is an awesome plan! Thank Jesus I have to pee!"

I want to get up to refill my coffee, but am afraid to because the sound of coffee pouring into my cup wakes up 13 year olds. And ooooooh my, that can be sticky.
"MOM! Why is my hair ugly!!!!!" she screams, tossing her clean, beautiful blonde hair around as if it's a dead raccoon on her head.
"Your hair's not ugly, sweetheart, it's-"
"YES IT IS!!!! I HATE IT!! AND I HATE THIS HOUSE!!!" (runs from room, slams door)

Thus my hesitation. I'm going to figure out what to do. Perhaps I could figure it out if I'd gotten that Brain Transplant I mentioned a couple of years ago. I keep forgetting that I was blogging two years ago. I must have gotten up at 1:00 in the morning. Anyway, the reason I bring up that blog post is that I came across it the other day and I can tell that I must have really embarassed myself in a conversation but I don't remember what it was and I don't mention it specifically. What did I say that could make me want to have my brain surgically removed? Maybe I don't want to know. I'm going to go get my coffee, dodge the child and appreciate my selective memory.

Apology to the Audience

Sorry I haven't written in a while, my friends. I've been letting daily life get in the way of writing. You may take 15 seconds to scold me................................................................................ok, you can stop now. My frail artist senstivity can not possibly take more than 15 seconds of scolding or little pieces of my soul begin to fall away much like my memory of all the lyrics to "Macarena." Which is probably a good thing, but that's not my point!

The point is that I promise to write more tomorrow morning. But right now it's 7:30 and there's a 9 year old boy in my kitchen who can't go to bed until he finishes writing his spelling words. Which I means I can't go to bed until he finishes. Hence my latest exhaustion. Still, I should write while exhausted. It's a good opportunity for silliness.

ps- That nine year old boy in my kitchen is my son. Just in case, you know, I should clarify. Uh....I need sleep.

Is Anyone Else Worried About Allie Brosch?

Who is that, you ask? And then, if you haven't read the title of this post, you're asking me, "Who is who, and what kind of opening sentence is that for a blog post? Please take more writing classes or I will be forced to start reading Lady Gaga tweets again, and I just can't go back to that place in my life, I can't!"

Ok, well first, calm down, we'll get through this together. All celebrity tweets are addictive, the most addictive of course is Steve Martin's. You can't help it. Steve Martin is the world's most brilliantly funny human. His last tweet was "Is the election this year or next year?" See! See! He's being silly because the election is SO obviously this year. And it's even funnier when I explain the joke.

But that's not why I'm writing tonight. I am writing because Allie Brosch, writer of Hyperbole And a Half has not posted anything for about a year and the last thing she wrote was about depression. This woman is so funny that it should be against the laws of perpetual entertainment for her to stop writing. And drawing. I love her drawings so much that, for a while, this was my Facebook profile picture:


I know that I've never posted a picture of myself here, but you'll have to trust me that this is exactly what I look like when I get the impulse to clean. My cleaning cycle happens in mad bursts where I run around with a broom, shaking my stick arms, with my googly eyes popping out. Allie might not have realized that she was drawing me, I'm sure that she thinks she was drawing herself, but I recognized it and I've kept up with her blog ever since to see how I'm doing.

I haven't had any update lately though. Maybe I should do some internet stalking - I mean, google research. (15 minutes later) Ok, I found her. Sorta. She answered a question on AskReddit.com and the question was, "Does anybody know what's happening with Allie Brosch?" And she has, indeed, been suffering from depression, but that update was from six months ago. I've wondered from time to time when I read her stuff if she suffered from depression and insecurity. The first thing I'd think was, "How could she possibly feel bad about herself? She's got over 50,000 followers. How could she think she sucks when she's so talented and makes so many people laugh?" But I know that shameful feeling, the feeling of disliking yourself not because you are a bad person but just because you ARE, and it's so hard to shake. Nothing on the outside can cure it, it's all inside stuff and it can shade everything in your life if left untreated.

I just finished reading Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott, and one of my favorite things that she about success as a writer was this, "the realtionship between getting published and mental health was summed up in one line of the movie Cool Runnings which is about the first Jamaican bobsled team. The coach is a four-hundred pound man who had won a gold metal  in Olympc bobsledding twenty years before but has been a complete loser ever since. The men on his team are desperate to win an Olympic medal, just as half the people in my [writing] classes are desperate to get published. But the coach says, 'If you're not enough before the gold metal, you won't be enough with it.' You may want to tape this to the wall near your desk.'"

I forget that just because a person is successful doesn't mean that they don't get insecure about themselves or their work, just like I do. I have 27 followers so if I don't write for a while, that means about a handful of poeple will be disappointed, whereas, the suffering of Allie Brosch has affected thousands of people, and caused me to internet stalk her to make she she's alright which I never NEVER do, unless I'm really worried about someone or unless they said that they were going to call me and they didn't or when it's Steve Martin and he's Tweeted something about going shoe shopping and I suspect that it might be the Payless near my house, then MAYBE I might do some web snooping but other than that I'm a typically well-adjusted non-obsessed person.

Hmm, reading back over this I don't sound all that considered about her as a person, just as someone's whose writing makes me laugh. It's ok, Allie! Take all the time you need to heal yourself! What you're dealing with is something that's not you're fault and is really REALLY hard to fight but you can do it! I'm ok, I've got backup, I can reread my Bloom County collection, and I can follow Ellen Degeneres for good measure...

But wait...Bloom County...That cartoonist hasn't come out with anything in years. Is anyone else worried about Berke Breathed?



ps- I also just found this which I thought was a good, both as an update on Allie Brosch and about depression.

Howl's Effect on Rubber Chickens of the Imagination

I watched the movie "Howl" tonight, the one where James Franco plays Allen Ginsberg. It's the kind of movie that I'm glad I saw by myself because then I can just let it soak in without comment or having to break the mood after by asking the person next to me what they want to do next.

Speaking of writers and writing, I did a little homework on promoting The Daily Dylanson Obituaries on Amazon.com and one of the things it suggested is that I update my blog every day. Weeeeell, I did decide that writing needs to be my part-time second job. So that's what I need to do. What if I run out of material? Well, darlings, you're just going to have to give me material. Someone send me a box of rubber chickens in the mail so that I can write about that experience. It would inspire a post like this:

I went out to the mailbox, expecting the usual bills, yoga magazine, and coupons for oil changes that are always wet by the time I get them, for some reason. Honestly, I could get a bundle of bills, health insurance statements, and an add for a better face cleanser, but the coupon for an oil change will be the only one that is soggy and useless by the time I lay hands on it. And it doesn't even have to be raining. How is that? Do they sweat? Are they that excited about my potential savings?  But anyway, yesterday I did not find bills, wet coupons, or a monthly magazine when I went out to the box. What I got was a package of rubber chickens, each with a rose in their beaks and no return address. What did this mean? Was this a message from the vegetarian community to join their ranks again? Does Fozzie Bear have a crush on me? Was this a stunt to get me to blog daily because this is exactly what I asked my readers to do? And why didn't I ask them to send cash? There was no way of knowing, and no way to return the gift without a return address, so I brought the rubber chicken bouquet inside and arranged them in a vase.

Ok, I think I can do this. All I needed was the mere idea of rubber chickens (with roses in their beaks) in the mail and whamo - instant blogification. This means I need to make (sigh) a writing schedule. I've tried this before - making a schedule and showing up, just like a do for my day job. It's worked when I've done it before, you know, until one of the kids got sick, or until I got lazy, and stopped.

I suppose I can look at this as a challenge. Can I blog something every day? And if I do, must I always have to mention my book? I don't know, I only read that promotional stuff for ten minutes. I hate the whole business side of this stuff so much that I actually had to set a timer to keep myself reading it for ten minutes. Now that I'm pretty much done with this post, I'm going back for another ten.

But before I go, I want to share what I'm reading in case there's another independent writer who's working at promoting their stuff.
http://cwcberkeleymarketing.wordpress.com/2010/06/17/how-to-make-amazon%E2%80%99s-secret-promotional-tools-work-for-your-book/

And Fozzie, stop sending me gifts! How many times do I have to tell you I am not a Muppetsexual, and no amount of rubber chickens is going to change my orientation, I don't care how sexy you look in that hat!

Step 1: Worry about being accepted

I emailed two of my former professors to ask if they could write letters of recommendation for me and they actually remembered who I am! We haven't seen each other in five years! I would like to believe that my world class writing skills is what makes me stick out in their minds, but I think what really registered with them is when I reminded them that "I was the tall one." Then they thought, "Oh yes! The tall one of the spring of '07! Of course!"

So the application process is going well. Now I just need to take the GRE, send everything off, and cross my fingers. Then after I get in I will worry about passing. Then after I pass and graduate I will worry about finding a job. Then after I find a job, I'll worry about getting fired or laid off. That's my career plan.  It's solid.

But I am worried about the finding a job part. Every time I tell people that I'm going to be a librarian they have one of two reactions. Either, "That's awesome! I can see that!" or "When are you get a job? When someone dies? You know librarians hold onto those jobs until they die." And I believe them because once I get a library gig I plan to hold onto it until they have to pry it from my cold, dead hands. Oh the other thing that people like to say is that there won't be many jobs open by the time I graduate because everything is moving on-line and there will be no print books. Ok. Then I'll be the old creepy lady who takes care of the archives. Surely, even when books are no longer printed on paper, the old originals will be so prized to book lovers that they will insist there be gate keepers to mind them and care for them in temperature controlled climates. Gate keepers with master's degrees in Library Science!

Why oh why do I care about how people react to my ideas? There's always SOMEBODY who's going to point out the flaws and inevitable catastrophes. "Don't become a librarian! It will be the ruin of us all! Run! Hide the children!"

The only downside I see is more student loans. Ugh. But I'm going to apply for everything that's out there! Grants, scholarships, single-mom-sympathy-gimme-money, ALL OF IT!

Writing my old teachers reminded me that I miss school. I miss sitting in classrooms and talking about a books, styles of writing, papers, and deadlines. History and ideas that people had. That's what I like about the library. It's one big reference section where people go to learn, or share knowledge. Dude, my inner nerd just goes CRAZY. And when I work at a library it'll go crazy every day! Because I'm going to find one of those hard-to-get jobs! And I'll have to die before someone can replace me! And I'll keep submitting my books to hard-to-please publishers so that one day, goddammit, I'll be shelving my own book! And fifty years from now when I'm caretaking the ancient archive I'll show my work to a young person who's never seen paper before and I'll say, "I'm Genevieve Rheams. I wrote this loooong ago." And they'll say, "I remember you! You're that writer! The tall one!"

Where is my plot?

I've been writing the Locksmith story for about a month now. The day before yesterday I finally wrote out the whole plot so I can see where I'm going with it, and now I can't find it. You would think I might keep track of things like, oh, the plot of my novel. But no. It's probably under a piece of bacon somewhere in the house.
At least I know where my notes are from my two days with Jay, the hospital locksmith. I followed him around during my lunch breaks to get an idea of what the swinging life of the average locksmith is like. My favorite notes on my time with Jay are ones that have nothing to do with anything, really, and/or don't help my book much. Here they are:
-"Jay's storeroom is so cluttered you'd have to climb across a work table to get into and and he won't let me because he's afraid I'll hurt myself. Pshaw!"
-"To pick a lock, you must use a pick."
-"The 11th floor has a good view of the river"
-(a quote taken from Jay out of context) "Key shavin's? Key shavin's don't smell like that. You probably smell me. Does it smell like dried shrimp?"
So that's been fun. I called over at ACME Lock, which is the place Jay calls when he needs back up, and left a message with the head Boss Lady there. I'd like to interview her, and come by the see what the shop looks and smells like. You would think I've had enough of the smell of dried shrimp but no. Never!
Aside from random notes, I also like facts about locks and keys with no clear idea of why. I like that the wheels inside of a combination lock are called "tumblers." I'm also charmed by words like cylinder, pins, pick-tool, and tension bar. Yes, I think I will use these words a lot in my book. "She crossed the room, eyes piercing coldly at Burt like pins at a tension bar." Actually, that makes no sense and there is no one in my story named Burt. But I like that sentence anyway.
For this story I'm ressurecting a name I've used in a previous book I wrote that is lying somewhere under my bed. Her name is Parker. In the other book she worked at a coffee shop, and in this one she gets to have supernatural powers and help save the world. She's been given a promotion. And yes, supernatural locksmith powers! She can pick a lock like it's nothing and wears a toolbelt like a stud!
My writing goal for this week is to send out the short story I wrote over the summer (yet again, because it's only been rejected once) and to work on "Locksmith." Perhaps also update Creature Feature House. So you can look out for that too, if you're into that kind of thing, which everyone should be.

Sick advantages

Today I am sick and home from work, and I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You lucky duck! You get to stay home while the rest of us slave over the things we usually slave over on a Monday!" And this is true. But do I consider myself lucky that I'm at home and you're not? Not really. I would rather be at work, and have the ability to smell and breathe through my nose than be home drinking microwaved honey because the lining of my throat is gone.

But enough about the linings of my internal organs. Today I have the opportunity to finish the short story that I started over the summer. For those of you who like to keep track, the summer officially ended two months ago. And I'm still not finished with the first draft of this thing. This is the one I started about Michael and Betsy, but it's evolved tremendously since then. Now, I'm not saying that the actual writing has evolved tremendously. I'm saying that the story itself has ended up in a totally different place than I expected it to. The writing itself is about the same. To give you an example, whenever I find myself stuck I tend to write things like this:
"So," Betsy says, twirling a lock of her hair on her finger. "What should we do now?"
"I don't know," says Michael. "Gen's stuck. Until she gets her shit together we're just gonna sit here at this booth in this diner."
Betsy stops twirling her hair and looks around. "When did we get to a diner?"
"Hell if I know," Michael shrugs. "She forgot to mention that's where we are, and that we're sitting across from each other, and that we've got that disheveled look like we've been up all night."
Betsy rolls her eyes. "She's so bad with setting."
"I know. You would think after writing for 25 years, ten professionally, she would have learned a thing or two about that."
"Seriously, how many fucking writing workshops does she have to go to before she figures it out?"
"I don't know, but until she gets it together I'm ordering more bacon." He holds up his mug. "Garcon! Coffee!"
Betsy looks at me, the writer. "Genevieve, that line is from 'Pulp Fiction.' What are you going to do have us hold up the diner in a few seconds? Who are you, Quentin Tarantino?"
I feel embarrassed at having been corrected by one of my own characters and I change Michael's line.
"Garcon!" he hollers, holding up his plate. "Bacon!"

So anyway, I get to do a lot of that today, which I wouldn't be able to do at work. At work I would just be answering the phone and frightening people on the other line with my croaky, demonic voice.
"Safety and Security," I'd growl, then cough. "This is (hack, wheeze!) Gene-(wheeze)."
"Is this some sort of sick joke?" they'd ask.
"Sick, yes," I'd reply and cough up a lung. "Joke? Only in that God has a sense of humor."
Click.
So let's thank heaven I'm not in that position today. And now, to write. Somehow I have to get Betsy and Michael out of that diner. I don't like Betsy's attitude and Michael's had more than enough bacon.