A Kate in Flight

Caesar Chicken with Pearled Couscous

2011-05-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

I started Weight Watchers again today, and they have a really neat feature on their website that helps build recipes. So I made this one! (Online on the WW site here).

Ingredients:

	1 breast(s) Chicken, breast, raw, without skin & bone, cut into bite-sized pieces
	2 serving(s) Near East Pearled Couscous - Basil and Herb
	1 medium sweet red pepper(s), chopped
	1 serving(s) Newman's Own Light Caesar

Instructions:

Cook the couscous according to package directions.
While the couscous is cooking, stir fry chicken breast on medium-high heat in a 12-in skillet with Light Caesar dressing.
When chicken is no longer pink, add chopped peppers (and whatever other veggies you would like).
Reduce heat and cover, simmering about 5 minutes.
Serve chicken and peppers on couscous, or as a side!

Fashion's a Stranger

2011-04-09T14:58:00.000-07:00

This video sums up how I feel about modern fashion. Whatever most youngsters have around here...I don't got it. And I'm getting kind of fed up with wanting it. More to come on this matter.

Spring is for New Arrivals, Like My First Publication!

2011-03-26T09:29:00.000-07:00

I'm pleased to introduce everyone to my first published short story "One New Message," which was published by the nice folks over at 322 Review.

Like Printer's Devil Review, 322 Review features both established and new writers in an online format. Though the Spring 2011 issue doesn't center around any particular theme, the magazine itself likes to explore "the paths of human experience," which is probably why they've chosen U.S. Route 322 as both their logo and their name. Founded by graduate students from Rowan University, 322 Review has just published Issue Eight.

Check them out, won't you? And thanks to everyone for your support!

Thoughts from a Reluctant (New) Freelancer

2011-01-12T10:33:00.000-08:00

When the temp job that I kept thinking would turn into a perm job abruptly ended in November, my first panicky thought was, "Unemployment again? Crap." Of course, a natural thought for anyone asked to clean out their desk this afternoon. Now, in fact. While your cup of coffee you just poured is still warm. But in the back of my mind I thought, "Hmm. Can I do it without getting another data entry job?"

A few weeks after I rode the T home with a big bag full of random office supplies (my own, I swear), I contacted Patch Somerville at the suggestion of my amazing freelance writer friend, Kristin Offiler and they offered me a story to cover almost immediately. Then, another friend who I met at Diesel, of all places, hooked me up with a social marketing firm. Suddenly this "no full-time job" thing looked like a distinct possibility.

So since I started playing the freelance do-si-do, mainly coasting on leftover Christmas money at the moment, I've had some random thoughts. Here they are, in no particular order.

Six cups on the coffee carafe doesn't actually equal six cups, right? Three at the most. It only fills up my mug twice.
I love Joel and all, but I'm quite sick of him getting gourmet cooked lunch catered to his office every day while I sit at my desk eating cottage cheese.
I cashed in my coins at a Coinstar a couple of weeks ago and made the best purchase ever: my very own oscillating, remote-control space heater. It's my new best friend.
Just because I work at home doesn't mean I'm the de-facto housekeeper. But it does mean that I'm around more often to get annoyed with the state of things. I should start charging my roommates.
I am running out of Pandora hours quicker than Fat Free Half and Half, and every month think harder about giving them their measly $1.
Writing corporate Facebook statuses is kind of like talking to a kindergarten class. And what do you think, kids?
My evening activities are more precious to me than ever. It's writing group night, you say? THANK GOD, GET ME OUT OF HERE.
Taking a shower by 11AM is early for me.

And finally...

I don't think I would like to work at an office for 40 hours a week ever again. 20, maybe. 30 at the most. Maybe. If the pay is good.

And what do you think, kids?

The 21st Century and Relationships Revisited

2010-11-09T09:06:00.000-08:00

Last year, I wrote this post about relationships and how we define them in the modern world. This year, I've been thinking about how we might regain friendships, and kindle new relationships, via social media.

A friend was recently contacted by his ex-girlfriend; they broke up almost two years ago. Although he'd emailed her several times about some of the things she left at his house, she'd not responded until a couple of days ago. But it wasn't via email: it was via Facebook friend request.

He was understandably confused. Why now? Why this way? Without knowing why, I knew the answer: because that's the way we get back in touch with people who have left our lives.

It's happened to me several times with people of my past. We'll make a conscious or subconscious choice not to talk for a while, and then out of the blue one day he posts something on my Facebook wall, or comments on my blog. Without addressing him directly, I'll comment back. He'll probably respond. Eventually, one of us will send a message or email to the other, still under the pretense of the blog or Facebook posting subject, but that's really all it takes. Now we're talking again.

I laid this pattern out for my friend, and sure enough, soon after she sent her friend request (and he accepted it), she posted a video on his Facebook wall. He responded with another video, a conversation ensued, and very soon after that she commented on another of his Facebook statuses, this time suggesting that he visit her. He just told me that he's "upping the stakes" by "Liking" her current Facebook status.

It's the same pattern that emerges when we start liking someone new, but don't want to be too forward: we inch into their social media world, make ourselves more known over time, and eventually try to jump the gap into IRL conversations. It's an obvious pattern, but it still works.

Who knows if my friend will visit his ex. Who knows if they will maintain any sort of friendship outside of Facebook or relegate everything to walls and statuses and comments. But my prediction of the evolution of this development is significant, I think, and showed that real patterns of relationship development emerge online. The question is that will these patterns lead to more, significant, offline connection? Or will they simply lead to more excuses to stay inside on Facebook on beautiful days?

Think about how you might have stayed in touch with old flames (or new flames) over the years, if that's your style. Do you think that coming up with patterns like this (and following them) could help us strengthen or rekindle friendships and relationships, or might we just be deepening our dependence on social media and the internet to keep track of our relationships for us?

Public Service Announcement on Dating

2010-09-30T18:54:00.000-07:00

So you've been out with a new fella/lady. He/she seems quite nice: a good personality, cute smile, interesting things to say. But it's not the right fit for you. You've given it a couple dates and would rather not take the time out of your busy schedule to meet again to pursue something that doesn't rev your engine.

You must choose, but choose wisely.

Option 1 Easy, but Cruel: Do a Disappearing Act
"..."
Option 2 Moderately Difficult, and Slightly Less Cruel: Notify, but Lie
"I really had a great time tonight Martha, but I'm really just not ready for another relationship since my heart was broken by my last girlfriend who just joined the Peace Corps and is now fighting for truth and justice."
Option 3 Hard, but Humane: Notify with the Truth
"I had a really great time tonight Martha, but your inability to get my jokes really bugs me. We're just not a good fit, I'm sorry."

Since Joel and I have been dating openly, I've been on the giving and receiving end of this choice a few times in the last year. I always consider Options 1 and 2, but always go with 3. It makes my skin crawl to think that I might be hurting someone's feelings, but at the same time I've been hurt by the disappearing act and the dump-and-lie worse.

So as a friendly public service announcement, please consider Option 3. You'll feel better in the long run!

Joseph Campbell's The Power of Myth

2010-08-23T07:58:00.000-07:00

By now, all of you know that I'm not a religious person. I don't believe in much besides vampires (the non-sparkly kind), zombies (everyone really should be preparing for the apocolypse), fairies, love, goodwill, and chocolate. So in prepping for my fall course on American Mythology, it's been interesting to think about how I am going to approach the topic of faith.

In his series with Bill Moyers (that was turned into the book I am now reading), Joseph Campbell discusses why we should all read myths. He suggests that there's a lack of spirituality in our day-to-day lives, now that we're constantly gaining new information that enriches our brains but not our souls. Normally I would be mentally checking out after a comment like this, but reading on I see that Campbell isn't talking about religion. Myths, he argued, offer "life models," but the problem with major religions now is that they aren't "appropriate to the time in which [we] are living." He goes on to say that the "virtues of the past are the vices of today," and obviously, visa-versa. So what does he argue myths do that religion can't do?

Myths are fluid. Myths give guide-posts for the stages of our lives. Myths teach us lessons that we can apply to problems we are facing. And he wasn't saying that Christianity doesn't do that, he's just suggesting that by taking the myths within the Bible as a hard and fast rulebook for daily life isn't possible anymore, just as it's not possible to follow "rules" of ancient Greece. The Bible doesn't offer much wiggle room, which is why, he claims, many today are turning outward for their sources of stability.

I haven't done much research outside of reading a few chapters of The Power of Myth, but the kind of spirituality Campbell claims we all need is the kind I can get behind. I've always said that I like the basic moral lessons that religion teaches: be kind to your neighbor, don't steal, be humble, etc. And these are archetypal moral lessons we can find in almost all kinds of myths. Buddhism preaches following the Middle Path, and poor Icarus learned this same lesson the hard way. We are constantly trying to avoid melting our own wings by maintainting moderation in television, internet, work, play and yes, sadly, chocolate. I get Campbell's message that we are more stable and grounded when we have model stories to which we can compare our lives and, religious or not, I can appreciate reading myths.

Campbell also asserts that this role of myths can also be filled by novels and other forms of creative writing. I think this means I can assert that literature is my religion. Literature, definitely, is something I can believe in. And this, I think, can be something I teach my freshmen with quite a passion indeed.

Stuff I've Learned as I'm Pushing 30

2010-07-28T14:14:00.000-07:00

Okay, so 28 isn't EXACTLY "pushing" 30, but it's more than "just over 25."

I've been thinking lately about all the things that I have learned or changed my opinion on in the last ten years or so. I don't think I've necessarily grown up, per say, but I've definitely decided that some things I thought were a big deal are, well, not so much, and visa versa. Here are some of them:

-Bottled water is a ripoff. Unless there isn't a tap with potable water around at all, it's much cheaper (and better to the environment) to carry around a reusable bottle and refill it, or just order tap water. I don't always follow my own advice, but it's something I definitely think about more than I used to.

-Recycling is important! I used to think nothing at all about throwing away cans and bottles, especially if they had food waste in them. I used to be a huge baby about touching food waste. I still don't really like it (I would probably try to be an escort before a dishwasher) but thinking about the giant amount of trash sitting around, not decomposing, is kind of depressing. Sure, sometimes I still throw away paper. But I feel bad about it now.

-Doing housework is a lot faster than sitting around for weeks and dreading doing housework.

-Pets are awesome, but pets are expensive. And time-consuming. Make friends with pets, and petsit.

-I used to think I was sooo uncool when my mom would make me wear a helmet while riding my bike, but now I fear looking uncool without a helmet. Uncool and suicidal.

-Healthy food actually makes me feel better. Huh. Who woulda' thought?

-Caffeine does absolutely nothing to me, while alcohol knocks me out cold. So much for a lunchtime martini!

-Knowing about all the finances, whether combined with a partner's or not, is sooo important. I realize now that I couldn't count on one hand the amount of times I took interest in our finances when I was married. I would buy books, go to the coffee shop, and annoy Tom to death for something I didn't even fully grok doing. Bad Kate.

-The freedom from not having a television is worth the hours spent online. Most of the time.

-Walking a mile in the city is shorter than walking a mile in the country. Try it sometime and you'll see what I mean.

-I wear glasses. Holy crap I wear glasses!

-I have curly hair. Where was it hiding all those years? Oh yeah, up in my ponytail. Dur.

-Writing fiction is a hell of a lot harder than it used to be, when I would get lost for hours at a time writing complicated (and horrible) plot lines out on yellow legal pads in the back of my parents' minivan.

-Owning the "cute" car does not equal owning a good car.

-Geeks/Nerds are my people.

And age, of course, is relative, and I don't know if it becomes more relative the older you get, or the farther along we get into the new millennium, where 40 is the new 30, 60 is the new 40, and 21 is far too early to get married.

What have you learned since you've become an "adult"?

A New Story

2010-07-10T07:47:00.000-07:00

The first Saturday after graduation, Kate woke after a blissful 10 hours of sleep, put on the coffee, and stared at an empty page.

She had forgotten how to start a story.

She hadn't written a new one since November, due to thesis revisions. That one, inspired by a conversation with a friend, came out of almost nowhere. This time, there's no one to talk to but the coffee.

It wasn't as though interesting things hadn't happened in the last couple of months. It was just that those interesting things hadn't sparked any narrative for Kate, who was generally a "write-when-inspiration-strikes" girl and not a "write-every-morning" girl. She got ideas sometimes, and put them on post-its, or in little notebooks, or as a memo in her fancy phone.

There was a post-it right now, in fact, that pale institutional yellow, tacked to the bulletin board over the desk. On it was an idea for a story about Wonderland, that end-of-the-blue-line disappointment that must sound like heaven to a naive child. But the note was partially obscured by another, this one cheerfully purple, that read, "Your mountain adventure awaits!" -- her graduation present from Joel.

She ignored both notes and pulled a few small notebooks out of her bag. This would normally be the time she would give up, journal, and write a blog post about how being a writer is hard. But now that she's graduated, she no longer has the excuse of "in-progress." She no longer has the luxury of deadline inspiration. This was work, now, albeit a work she generally enjoyed. And she didn't just leave the office every time she became frustrated with filing or updating the database, did she? So she must now not leave her desk. It was Saturday morning, and she was still in her pajamas, but it was still work.

So she opened her little notebooks, found a scrap of something she'd written a while ago, and try it out. If not this, something else. Then something else. Something, sometime, had to stick.

Reflection on a Low-Res MFA

2010-06-23T17:19:00.000-07:00

As I sit here writing out an itinerary for my family for next week's MFA graduation festivities, I am choking up a little. This is it. I don't want to end this journey, as much as I want to start the next step of it. So for your reading pleasure, I give you a re-press of a posting I wrote for my old Wordpress blog, on June 28th, 2008:

It’s equally as difficult to capture the soul of a low-residency MFA program in a short explanation as it is to draw a concrete picture of the concept “dream.” But I’ll try.

The short of it is that for the past nine days, I’ve been sitting in class. Some of these “classes” are very traditional in the sense that an instructor with a prepared lecture speaks on a topic illustrated by assigned readings. In these seminars, we have learned about the body (i.e. scene and sentence) and the soul (i.e. character and conflict) of our writing. Other “classes” are actually workshops – small groups of students who have read each other’s writing and have commented on what works in the piece and what doesn’t. At night, we have been attending entertaining and poignant readings by both published authors and students.

The long of it is that this experience has been completely different than anything I’ve ever done. My classmates and professors have ranged in age from their early twenties to their seventies, work their day jobs in everything from art to oncology, and hail from all over the the world. This diversity lends itself to learning about writing and writers in more ways than I ever imagined. I’ve been in and out of creative writing courses and workshops since high school, but in their nature they have been one tentative toe in the water. This past week I was immersed - all the way to the bottom, in the deep end of the pool.

Writing is breathing while we’re here. Even in the cafeteria after seminar, even in the bar at night, even in our dorm rooms at unreasonable hours after the bar – we are writers and we are talking about our craft. And we are similar to each other in this aspect, which is something that a lot of us don’t get in the “real world.” We are building up our writing stores for the six months we are cast off on our own.
For “low-residency” means autodidactic. We are given a map and some peripheral direction but beyond that are on our own. The lessons we have learned here we must take back to our own writing desks, to our couches, to our offices, to hold us over until January. It’s scary to be cast off back into the real world, but I don’t think that I can retreat back into the writing vacuum I inhabited a week ago. I’ve learned too much.

So put simply, I’ve been taking classes and gathering reading and writing assignments that I will complete, in four different submission packets, throughout the semester. But really I have been submersed in writing, learning how to breathe in this sometimes alien environment, and how to occasionally come up for air in order to be able to go back down for longer periods. I know I will eventually be ready to graduate, once I’ve experienced this grueling week three more times, but for now, two years seems far too short for this life-altering experience.

"Kate Estrop": About 385 Results

2010-05-13T18:30:00.000-07:00

I love Googling myself.

I hadn't in a really long time and with the new Facebook privacy settings I was curious what would pop up. Facebook did what it was supposed to do in not letting you navigate to my profile from a Google search. And then a couple of hits down I found this.

"There is 1 person with the name Kate Estrop in the United States."

One person? Seriously? A couple of other sites revealed the 13 Estrops in the country, 6 of which are immediate family. I knew my name was pretty rare, but I didn't realize there were less than 20 of us in the U.S. (though I knew there are more internationally, like in Malaysia and Mexico). My cousin Erin is the only Estrop in my generation. One Erin Estrop. One Kate Estrop. One David, one Virginia, one Mark, one Marjorie.

You are told over and over again that you're unique, that you're the only one like you in the whole world. But it's not until I saw this did I realize...holy crap. It's true, and not just in a touchy-feeley-everyone's-special kind of way. My name could die out. In two or three generations there could be no Estrops at all in this country.

I was already thinking of keeping my name were I to marry again, because I will publish before then and don't wish to be associated with two different names professionally. But this simple, selfish act of Googling has made me realize that it might be about more than that.

Not everyone has the luxury of being the first hit on Google without a gazillion visitors to their site. Why would I throw that away?

Podcasts Saved My Job (I hope)

2010-04-23T15:34:00.000-07:00

Hey Strangers!

I've been a little busy lately, I will admit. I would like to say that all of my spare time has been spent on perfecting the six short stories that make up my MFA thesis, which, in its finished form, will be about 125 pages and is due May 3rd.

Sadly, this is not the case.

My after-work and weekend time has lately been spent doing online tutoring for Lesley, reviewing hundreds of pages of MEd papers. While this activity is definitely sharpening skills I will be using this fall when I start teaching freshmen how to write (or, more likely, how to stop Facebooking in class), it isn't improving my own writing very much. But that's beside my current point.

My during-work hours, 40 of 'em a week (which are currently on the cutting table of my company's budget meeting...cross your fingers for me), are spent making sure that the over 6,000 contacts of the old database are smoothly transfered into the new database. I've been here six weeks, and started at the Zs. I am now at the Rs. This enthralling and tedious work was really getting to me, until my coworker mentioned she listened to Podcasts while she worked.

A little disclaimer before I continue: Yes, I am getting to this party very, very late. Call it a very fashionable entrance.

Podcasts! Glorious podcasts! Back when I lived in Michigan and drove 30 minutes to work, I downloaded Wait Wait Don't Tell Me and This American Life to get me through the boring drive, and loved every minute of it, and then like many different things in my life (for reasons I haven't figured out yet), my interest with podcasts waned (probably when I left that awful job and took a better one, closer to my house). So naturally, these beloved shows were my first stop. But these shows only came out once a week each and took up less than two hours to listen to - what do with my 38 remaining?

I sent out a plea to Facebook (and Facebook never disappoints with my pleas...well, at least none but the one about who wanted to come over and clean my kitchen for me) and my awesome friends responded. So, armed with their great suggestions and the ingenius suggestions put forth by the iTunes store, I have discovered favorites:

Champs Not Chumps

Wait Wait Don't Tell Me

This American Life

The Savage Lovecast

Stuff You Should Know

Stuff You Missed in History Class

Librivox (various - right now I'm starting The Odyssey)

NPR: Storycorps, Shuffle, Fresh Air, Books

I have many more in the wings, including some of your suggestions I haven't gotten to yet, so I appreciate everyone's imput! Thankfully now I have plenty to keep my brain occupied, which in turn makes my fingers type faster on the keyboard, which in turn will hopefully make my job like me enough to keep me on another six weeks or more, which will cause me to exclaim, "PODCASTS SAVED MY JOB!"

We'll see. For now, they are saving my sanity, and if you're looking for a boost and can split your attention a bit, I suggest them to help save yours, too.

Why It's Important to Procrastinate (Sometimes)

2010-03-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

The first draft of my thesis is due a week from Monday. So, like any responsible student who can't stand to write at home, I planned to spend my Friday night at a coffee shop. My normal go-to is Diesel Cafe in Davis, although on Friday nights it can be a bit of a challenge to find a seat (unless I wanted to sit at a high-top for four hours. Constructive writing is produced only with a certain level of comfort involved that, let's face it, does not occur for a short person at a tall table). But since I'll be working at my new temp job at least through the beginning of May, I thought I should probably stick to the neighborhood a bit.

After a short, 10-minute walk from my office, I was in Central Square at Cafe Luna. The nighttime atmosphere is a little fancier, with a specials dinner menu and white tablecloths (and white paper!) at every table. I greatly enjoyed lasagna and a beer, set up my computer, and got down to some serious revisions. That is, until a poetry reading began sprouting up all around me.

Before I knew it I was talking to the woman at the table next to mine more than I was looking at my computer. And despite the owner's insistence that I stay no matter how busy it got (being Midwestern, I always shy away from taking up social space with my work), I kept feeling the pull to close my laptop, order another beer, and enjoy networking with some other area writers. The pull kept fighting with some fading voice in my backpack, crying out, "Your thesis! Your stories! We need you!"

I zippered my computer in my backpack and had gone so far as to get my check when my table neighbor's friends and sisters arrived, urging me to stay, taking the rest of my table, and ordering wine. I sent the check back. One more beer, I said to myself, and I will go. But then my new friends started asking me about myself, telling me about themselves, distracting me from the fact that the poetry reading was starting, and oh why would I leave before I heard my table-neighbor's sister and friend read? I wouldn't of course. So I stayed. And eventually I shook my head at the cute waiter when he asked if I was ready for the check. So he stopped asking.

By the end of the night I had met two poets, listened to some moving poetry and memoir, donated a little bit of cash to Haiti, and swapped emails with people who had been strangers just three hours before. I couldn't even remember what the voices in my backpack sounded like. And that's when I realized that sometimes, depending on the activity, putting off your work in favor of something else is far more valuable. If I had left, I might have gotten my story revised, but I would have missed out on everything else, which was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I might have gotten one step closer to finishing my thesis draft, but I wouldn't have met the poet populist of Port-au-Prince.

So I had to get up early this morning to work on what I didn't get to last night. So what? Totally worth it. I encourage you all, next time you are faced with what could be a unique, once-in-a-blue-luna kind of experience, to consider putting off studying for two more hours and take a chance. That's right, I'm giving you permission. Don't make me regret it!

Vlogs and Memes and Back Hair

2010-03-16T18:56:00.000-07:00

In the absence of a television and the recent cancellation of my rarely-used Netflix account, I have discovered YouTube vlogs (video logs), and among my new favorites are the Vlog Brothers. An older episode of theirs revealed this meme, which is quite funny and would make a good writing exercise.

The Google Verb Meme:
I typed my name and the verbs into Google and posted the topmost hit that wasn't a reference to this same meme...or Lost (that took some scrolling). So here we go...

Kate needs a shave.
Kate looks like a transgendered man. (Hm, that explains why I would need to shave.)
Kate says she loves Sawyer. (Who's Sawyer? Maybe he's my transgendered identity.)
Kate wants to change joint-custody arrangements. (Hey, who else has custody of Sawyer?)
Kate does the right thing. (Do I give up Sawyer for the chance of a better life???)
Kate hates back-combing. (Which is why I usually shave!)
Kate asks judge to throw book at Jon. (Maybe he's trying to take Sawyer!)
Kate likes the smell of vintage. (Nothing better.)
Kate eats the world. (If you can't win custody battles, eat everyone.)
Kate wears the pants in our relationship. (Well naturally.)
Kate was arrested for singing in Sainsbury's. (Maybe I was really out of it from eating everyone)
Kate loves Sydney. (It tasted the best.)

Well THAT was interesting. I wonder what would have popped up pre-Kate Gosselin drama. Give this one a go, especially as a writing exercise to get some juices flowing. Now excuse me while I go shave my back and sing a lullaby to Sawyer.

Writing Blog

2010-03-04T14:26:00.000-08:00

I have just launched my professional writing blog, Here's Your Bucket. I'll be doing most of my writing-related pondering over there, so please visit! And follow!

Fat, Begone!

2010-02-12T15:29:00.000-08:00

Behold, my flagship dinner on Day One of re-starting Weight Watchers (or, at least, following the Points system on my own...):

The Scoop at Diesel Cafe in Davis Square: hummus, sourdough bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, mixed greens, sprouts, carrots and radishes. YUM!

The Big Apple Redeemed

2010-02-09T11:42:00.001-08:00

For a long time, I wasted a lot of energy hating New York City.

I partially blame my upbringing in the semi-rural Midwest, which made visiting a stiflingly-large city filled with fast-moving, brash individuals just about as alien as you can get.

But I mostly blame my previous two visits there. In high school, I followed around my parents, who insisted on traditional sightseeing stops, and little cousin, who insisted on shopping. We did see The Lion King, which was spectacular, but overall I don't have fond memories. I think it was hot, and my dad decided to eat at pretty much the same deli every day. Come on, Dad...do you know how many good restaurants there are in this city?

Fast-forward to college, when I still lived in the semi-rural Midwest, and I went to NYC with some friends to visit my roommate. I remember getting lost driving in the city, running around trying to find student-discount Broadway tickets, and sleeping on a cold, hard floor. Oh and my cat died while I was there. So again...not fond memories.

So naturally, now that I've been in Boston for a while and more acclimated to urban living, AND now that it only costs about $40 round-trip to get down to NYC, I couldn't find a reason not to give it another shot. Joel and I took a quick, un-eventful bus ride and BAM. It was that easy. It helped that he has a friend in the city who has a much warmer floor, too.

In addition to spending time with Ms. Jen, we:
-Enjoyed free folk music at the American Folk Art Museum
-Shared plates of noodles and seafood at Chai Thai
-Sipped exquisitely expensive cocktails at The Library Hotel's rooftop lounge, Bookmarks
-Scored cheap tickets to darkly funny off-broadway show, Smudge
-Stuffed ourselves with pierogi, goulash and kielbasa at Little Poland
-Ate bagels, NY style pizza, and drank Max Brenner's hot chocolate
-Rode the tram from Roosevelt Island to the main island of Manhattan, enjoying the views as we crossed the water

And with that ride, as I watched the traffic below zip along the streets, I gave New York a reprieve. There is a beauty there it might take a little effort to see, but it's there. I even saw it as we wandered along the windy streets in 15 degree weather. I would still never live there, but I don't think I have to waste any energy hating it anymore.

Joel and Jen, thanks. :)

Strikethrough

2010-02-09T08:58:00.000-08:00

I love Google Tasks.

Not only do I love seeing exactly what I need to be doing at any given time, I also love to see those tasks in Strikethrough mode once they're done. (I'm assuming Google realized that everyone does, considering your finished tasks will actually stay in this mode until you physically remove them.) The most rewarding occurred the other day: Taxes. There is nothing quite as wonderful as seeing the word "taxes" in strikethrough, especially after you've spent two hours wondering how in the world you're going to file as a business owner even though you thought you'd been working directly for a company the whole year.

Also currently on my task list in strikethrough, because I like looking at them:

-Revised Stories/Seminar Proposal
-Get new Social Security Card
-Send in change of time to Direct Loans
-Talk to VW about selling car

Sadly, still on the list without that satisfying line through them, are:

-Sell Car
-Get Job
-Submit Stories to Lit Magazines
-Get Teeth Cleaned

The fourth one has been on there for about 2 years. I floss, okay?

I really don't know how I've gone so long without embracing lists, high-tech or otherwise. Because I get just as much pleasure out of adding new tasks as I do at striking them out. It says, "Look! Your life has meaning even though you're currently underemployed and spend a lot of the day at home! You still have all this stuff to do!"

I have also recently started a task list for the blog posts I want to write. I'm not including that in here because that would be ruining the surprise. Although, I can probably now cross off the one at the top... "Write blog post about task lists." Yup, that one is now done.

Strikethrough.

Another Fun Lesson Learned from Internet Dating

2010-01-24T18:25:00.000-08:00

In addition to "Love you," another thing that will get you ignored on IM faster than you can type "LOL" is this one, which an overzealous dude said to me earlier today: "You don't want to miss out in this hunk of man." I think he was kidding. I think.

Parachute Making

2010-01-20T14:06:00.001-08:00

Being unemployed with a small cushion of school loans is like knowing that you will eventually have to jump off a cliff, and you are just trying to make a strong enough parachute that will carry you safely to the ground. Some days, you think you'll never find the right materials for the damned thing: you keep seeing nothing but netting, wool, and monkey fur. Some days, you see nylon but it's too thin, with tears and holes in it. Some days you see material that is way too good for your parachute, and you know you'd never be able to afford it.

Today was a monkey fur day. It's soft and quirky, sure, but not good parachute-making material.

Non-Exclusivity and the Quest for Happiness (and an Extended Baseball Metaphor)

2010-01-10T20:18:00.000-08:00

Ever since I made the decision to leave my marriage over a year ago, I knew I needed to work on myself before getting into another serious relationship. I knew I needed to see myself as an autonomous, successful individual before sharing my life with someone else, because I know myself well enough to know how co-dependent I can become. I am more in love with love than I think I know how to be with another person, as I proved to myself again this past summer.

But who doesn't want to spend time with a romantic interest? Who doesn't want to lay in bed until noon, watch geeky movies with popcorn, or cuddle in front of a fire? I want to work on myself, but at the same time I want to see what's out there. So I have been. I decided that I would date, non-exclusively, until I felt I had become strong enough in my own individuality to enter into a serious, committed relationship once again. After all, you can't learn how to play baseball by simply watching it on TV. At some point, you have to get out there feel the dirt on your cleats.

This works to a point. It worked for me for about 10 months, until situations shifted and I found myself, for the first time, green beyond belief. On Friday night I sat at the bar with my friends, trying very hard not to think about the fact that at that moment, the only guy I'm currently dating (and have been dating since March) was out on a date with someone else.

I bobbed for a while between wanting to know and not wanting to know. For a while, I liked hearing about his past escapades, and his current dates were nothing more than a scheduling barrier. But neither of us have dated anyone else for a while, up until now, and I find myself falling back into the same emotional traps. I would not ask him to be exclusive, because neither of us are ready. But I wonder about my ability to do this.

My solution for the moment, of course, is to be aware of my feelings. And thankfully I have been able to keep up an open communication with him about it. I probably worry more than I should about things I cannot foresee. Neither of us are going anywhere. And we continue to have a great time together, regardless of anything else.

This is just another reminder that sometimes, when you walk out onto that baseball diamond, your cleats will get mired in the mud. But you keep playing anyway.

One of those Gym People

2009-12-30T11:52:00.001-08:00

Well, I did it. With the parents' help, I just joined a gym. I'm going to be one of THOSE people. No, I don't think that I will run a marathon, or get all hyped up on energy smoothies, or open a yoga studio. But hopefully I will try to balance out the fact that I can't afford organic, fresh fruits and veggies or convenient Lean Cuisines for emergencies (ie lazy times), and still be able to lose some weight on tuna sandwiches, apples, bananas, and cottage cheese.

Do you think it's cheating to drive to a gym that's .8 miles away, since I'll be working out there anyway? What if the wind chill is below zero?

An End of 2009 Confession

2009-12-27T15:35:00.001-08:00

I am gripped by fear of graduating and publication submission. I have thus far been choosing to listen to the half of my faculty who tell me to wait until I graduate. But who says graduation will magically turn on a confidence switch? I haven't even been seriously pursuing freelance assignments. What's my problem? Is it something I can actively turn around in 2010 or will I be writing a similar confession next year?

Well, if the first step is admitting you have a problem...my name is Kate, and I have no confidence in my chosen career path.

Hence, Haiku

2009-12-23T07:15:00.000-08:00

Looking back at my last three blog posts, I realized that all I've been doing is writing haiku. I don't even consider myself a poet, nor do I write other poems outside the realm of the blogophere. But sometimes the things I want to say are too big, or too obvious, or too whiny for prose. Hence, haiku.

I do have some ponderings in the works, so I shall be posting those shortly. In the meantime,

How I love to say
quite a bit in fewer words
to keep you guessing.

To Melt a Glacier

2009-12-22T21:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it seems like
trying to melt a glacier
with a hair dryer.

You try anyway,
even though you will be pained
from hard work unpaid.

You try anyway,
'cause maybe you'll discover
a secret weakness.

And maybe you won't.

Haiku for a Good Wednesday

2009-12-09T20:41:00.000-08:00

The boy never saw
the tiny mushroom behind
the giant oak tree.

How he would have missed
its succulent, hearty taste
had the oak not fall'n.

Why I Write Relationships

2009-11-28T16:27:00.000-08:00

I deconstruct them
then put them back together
'cause I can't for real.

The more I do it
maybe it'll be simpler

off the page.

Welcome to the 21st Century of Relationships

2009-11-24T03:10:00.000-08:00

In this day and age, when we are all so aching to let everyone in on our personal failures and triumphs, technology has kindly given us neat little paths on which to do so. But I say, why not step it up a bit?

Take Facebook. Kudos are in order for the site, which has now (in cause anyone's missed it these last few months) added a "In an Open Relationship" status in the fold. But what good is this status if you can only add one name? Do you have to pick your favorite open relationship and snub the others? Do you rotate every month? I say give us multiple slots! In an Open Relationship with Jim Bob. In an Open Relationship with Mary Kay. In an Open Relationship with Your Mom. Then there will be no favoritism.

And while you're at it, why not add some new relationship statuses? "Still Not Over" and "Desperately Wants but Can't Have" are some that come to mind. What about, "Used to be Married to but Now Trying Friendship with," or "Friends with Benefits with"? Oh, and to avoid gender-preference confusion, how about the ever-popular, "Pretending to be Married to Just for Fun but Neither of Us are Gay" feature?

Might as well, right? Then we could all save time on hiding secret angst in our statuses (come on you know we all do it) and just come out with how we are feeling! Who's with me?

The Sloth Hole

2009-11-18T08:06:00.000-08:00

I have now entered the Fancy-Scmancy Phone world. For real this time. That one time, in April: that was a pretend fancy-schmancy phone. This is a Droid. And thanks to the generosity of my awesome parents who put me back on their family plan (welcome back to childhood, Kate!) I'm paying less per month for my F-S Phone and all its perks than I was paying for calling and texting only on that Chinese RAZR I ordered on Ebay after my pretend F-S phone broke. (Although I will miss how amusing it was that the RAZR didn't speak English...)

Now, this new phone could be helpful and it could be harmful on my new quest: not to fall deeper into the Sloth Hole than I have already fallen (Sloth Hole: (n) Reminiscent of Alice's rabbit hole, although instead of pulling you into another world, it makes you complacent with sitting in front of a computer all day.) I am constantly worried that I am missing something as I am stuck here in front of my laptop all day, although there is little I can do about it at the moment. Unlike some who have fallen into the Hole, I have reason to be down here: as a writer and online tutor, my job lies on this computer. It is a part of me, like gaff tape to a theater technician.

So here's where the Droid comes in. Yes, I will have access to e-mail, weather, maps, my calendar, contacts, Facebook, Pandora, even Blogger from anywhere I can get a cell signal. But does that mean that I will spend less time checking these things once I get home to my computer, or more time checking them on the Droid when I should be doing other things away from my computer?

I live in the #2 walking-friendly city in America. I should probably try and stay out of Sloth Holes when I'm walking around out in it, lest I fall and break something (most tragically, my new phone).

Slackening the Reins

2009-11-16T18:15:00.000-08:00

I was having a discussion with my friend this weekend about life. He told me that lately he's come to the conclusion that while he's doing almost everything to work toward his dreams, the one thing that he cannot work toward is love. No matter how hard he can strive for happiness and greatness in all else, this is one area where he cannot prevail with hard work. Happiness in this area must come from something else. Chance? Hope? Being open to new pathways that may lead to love? It's sad to think that in our can-do American world, there are some things that cannot be accomplished with hard work and perseverance alone. Some things you can work and work at and still have them crumble before your eyes, sometimes by your doing, and sometimes not.

It's scary to let the reigns go on something as important to me as love. As much as I've wanted to embrace my independence this past year, I've been lonely when I don't feel something there for someone. But I can't work so hard anymore. Unexpected encounters brought me all the joys of the summer, so I have to trust that the universe will bring me more again, when I'm not searching so hard for them.

Meanwhile, I am going to follow my friend's example of working hard on my own dreams, and hopefully things will fall into place after that, when they are supposed to.

Evolution of a Writer

2009-11-07T21:00:00.000-08:00

Preschool:
First poem is written. "Down went the celery, down went the cat. Down went me but not dat dat." Very proud of self.

First Grade:
Cute furry animal is happy, cute furry animal gets into trouble, cute furry animal gets out of trouble. The end.
Writing method: Dictation to mom, original artwork by me.

Third Grade:
Joint story with best friend about the misadventures of bat and flying squirrel.
Writing method: Two heads better than one. Original artwork by both of us. Giggling abounds.

Fifth Grade:
Possibly embarrassing time-traveling story involving middle school gym teacher.
Writing method: Mechanical pencils and legal pads. Inspiration hits anywhere and everywhere.

Eighth Grade:
Painfully cliched natural disaster story inspired by hit mid-nineties movie. Stilted dialogue and too many adverbs. Lots of fun to write, though. Flew through it.
Writing method: Mechanical pencils and mead notebooks. Lots of Mead notebooks.

High School:
Mushy stories about having lots of free time with my boyfriend. Writing as coping mechanism and escape from "overly strict" parents.
Writing method: Sparkly pens in secret journals and notebooks, scribbled behind illegally-locked doors.

Senior Year:
"Real" fiction as learned in college creative writing class. Previous writing shown to be positively awful. Damn, this stuff is hard.
Writing method: Parents' slow, slow, computer.

College:
Character development, plot, theme, setting, description? Story arcs...inspiration and ideas coming slower, pushed out by craft. Am I actually going to major in this?
Writing method: Laptop at Village Coffee Shop, caffeine addiction begins.

Senior Year of College:
Tackle novella for senior honors project. With 3 weeks left before due date, decide to completely switch from third-person to first-person POV. Write straight through spring break. Accomplishment. 130 pages. Phew.
Writing method: Village Coffee Shop, Granville Coffee Shop, Library, Quad, Maine, on Floor of Room, on Ceiling of Room, on Top of Fridge. Caffeine IV inserted.

(Almost) Last Semester of MFA:
Write a paragraph. Check Facebook. Walk away. Write another paragraph and decide that character isn't flushed out enough, so write a character interview. Make coffee. Decide that that character wouldn't do what I wanted him to do so change what he does. Do laundry. Research antelopes. Stare at the ceiling. Check Facebook. Write another paragraph. Wait until the last weekend before submission to write the majority of the story and then wonder why I'm developing an ulcer.
Writing method: Survival.

Five-Year Journal, Year One

2009-11-03T19:05:00.001-08:00

One year ago today, I started a 5-year journal. I get 6 lines to write a short summary of my day. This was my first entry:

"For the first time, the future looks back at me, as vast and open as the endlessness of space, and as one vision of how to fill the space ends, I must create a new vision of how I will fill it back in. This is very scary."

Though I haven't had the best autumn so far this year, I am happy to say that my future is not so scary as it was on November 3, 2008. Now every night when I open the journal to set down my day, I will also get to read about what happened last year.

This, my friends, is my secret for remembering everything.

5 Randoms for a Halloween Weekend

2009-11-01T11:11:00.000-08:00

1. My parents decided to come up for the weekend, and while I had a good time with them, I was ready to get back to normal after I dropped them at the airport today. As I observed my interactions with them this weekend, I wondered if other peoples' parents (especially mothers) talk about the past as much as mine do:
"Do you remember when we brought you to Boston when you were 7 and we ate at that place with the checkered tableclothes at Quincy Market and had baked beans?"
"No."
"You DON'T!?"
Or, even more curiously, "Do you remember when you were one and we used to dance around the dining room table singing nursery rhymes?"
"Kids don't remember anything from when they were under three, mom."
"They DON'T!? You don't remember that?!"
I've come to the conclusion that my mother never quite got over me growing up.

2. I saw the Post-Meridian Radio Players' production of "The Big Broadcast" last night, and forgot how much I love live theatre and concurrently am embarrassed for loving live theatre so much. It's so corny. But I don't care.

3. I realized that as much as I miss being a child, I wouldn't find walking around getting free candy from strangers as entertaining as I did when I was little. I can go to CVS down the street now and buy whatever candy I want. Kind of a bummer, really. Now if as adults we could go door to door asking for money, or beer, or electronics...that I could get into.

4. I can't believe it's been almost a year that I've been here on Parker Street. I've now witnessed all the seasons here, and still maintain that this is one of the best neighborhoods to live in. Now, if I could get a couch and maybe an area rug in my living room, life would be near-perfect.

5. Autumn seems to be, once again, a time for endings and re-assessing life goals. I think I am better equipped to deal with such things this year, although am still quite sad at the current outcome. Hopefully if this trajectory continues similarly as last year's, I will see a resurgence after Christmas, and for that I am very excited.

And a bonus 6th...

No matter what kind of mood you are in, seeing Chewbacca riding around on a Seguay in the North End will always, always bring a smile to your face. Especially when he growls at everyone he passes.

A Quick Note

2009-10-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

My new cell phone has a section in the "Messages" menu called "Quick Notes." I always just thought these were for business matters: "I'm in a meeting," "Meet me for lunch," "Sorry can't talk busy now" kind of thing. But today I noticed one I hadn't seen before: "I'm sorry/I love you." Ah, I thought, nothing like really showing remorse and love like sending a pre-packaged message you didn't even have to type yourself. And it's not even a comma, or a period, or an "and" - it's an either/or slash. Like either "I'm sorry" or "I love you" or perhaps you're meant to erase the one that doesn't apply...

This...is an apology fail. If you ever receive this text, I would be dubious of its sincerity.

Fall

2009-10-12T17:13:00.001-07:00

This weekend was quintessential fall:

Apple picking and leaf peeping, tree and rock climbing, movie-going.
Festival-attending, beer sipping.
Dancing to tubas and trumpets and trombones and big drums.
Cart Indian food.
Sleeping in, breaking out the fleece.
Long talks on long walks.
And, of course, having to turn on the space heater first thing in the morning...

I try to keep these feelings with me as I'm back to work for the week, waiting until the next weekend of fun, when I get to let loose again. Sometimes I wonder how some people do this their whole lives - working weekend to weekend, trudging through until they get two special days where they can actually live their lives. This is what I'm working towards, I tell myself as I get up at 5:30 and lumber from the red line to the green line with the masses. I'm working for every day to be just as fulfilling as this past weekend.

Good luck to me, you say. Thanks. I'll need it.

It's a Good Thing the Past is Passed

2009-10-04T16:46:00.000-07:00

This is the intro to a really really really bad sci-fi short story I started (but never finished), circa mid-1998. There is a reason it was never finished.

100 years ago, our Earth was unknown and new. Although we had been around for billions of years, this number didn’t even compare to how old some of the other worlds were. 100 years ago, we found out there were other worlds. 100 years ago, other worlds found us.

I was around 100 years ago. I’ve only been around 18. The year I was born was 83 years into the Reconstrcution of our world. My name is Wick Putnum, and my name means “new” or “full of life.” I was totally oblivious of what was going on around me and what my world had been through. 100 years ago hadn’t mattered to me.

It does not. 100 years ago, our planet was blasted by a force of what can only be described as “wind.” This “wind” blanketed the Earth in chemical tonxins, causing every living thing to die. Only two hundred survived – the 200 that were underground in an experimental housing project. These 200 lived underground for thirty years, starting new lives and sadly laying to rest the ones that lived out their last years in that living grave. Finally, they ascended to the surface, finding a barren wasteland, and nothing but dry sand, which was actually the dehydrated bodies of all living organisms.

Here they began the Reconstruction. Here they build cities anew. And here I was born, live, thrive, and grow. 100 years have passed, and we have discovered we’re not alone. We were blasted with what we affectionately refer to as “intergalactic hairspray” by what we affectionately refer to as an “ant.”

Unknowing if the ants will ever strike again, we’ve built up an army to protect our land. We’ve developed spaceships to defend our bases. And we’ve send up thousands of our willing men to man them. We hope they will never come again to this place.

Weird Dream

2009-10-03T05:47:00.000-07:00

Things are changing around here, and I don't yet know how, but I had a weird dream last night that I hope is, if not prophetic, at least can act as a comfort.

I was at a Catholic church, but it was huge, like a complex almost. There were helicopter pads and stuff. I was in an outdoor arena, waiting for a speaker to begin. A helicopter landed very close to the arena, at about the same level as our heads, and the blades were very close. The helicopter didn't sound too good, so we all decided to leave quickly, and it's a good thing we did - it blew up just as we were leaving the grounds.

We entered the city and, lo and behold, it was like War of the Worlds - tripods everywhere. I was running with the priest and we both kind of looked at each other like, "Here we go again." We hid in a bar, behind the counter (think Shaun of the Dead). A friend brought us a party pack with a disposable camera and some chocolate, I'm guessing to capture our last few moments alive. The fighting sounds died down and we decided to get in the car, and as we were driving away from the bar we realized we didn't see any of the tripods. I called my mom, to tell her goodbye, but as we were talking we realized there really wasn't any reason to say goodbye. The tripods were actually just men in paper mache suits, and now they were all falling over. There was no real threat. We actually bumped the car into one and it sort of grunted. Dream over.

So in both parts of the dream there was a threat, and then we dodged things, and then there was a threat again, and it turned out to be not as bad as we thought. So I'm hoping this is to be applied to my current situation. Maybe, in the long run, when I have some ability to look at it closer, this isn't as bad as it now seems. At least, that's my hope.

My Time in Iowa

2009-09-16T12:46:00.001-07:00

The other night, Myque’s mom Carole asked me what I would tell people was great about Iowa. At the time, I didn’t really know what to say, because I think just about everything is great about Iowa. But thinking about it more I realized I should say what I couldn’t verbalize to Carole the other night: for her, for all of them, and for you, my readers who might not understand the appeal. So without further ado, please enjoy

What I Did on My Summer Vacation, or Why I Loved Iowa (Other than the Obvious)

Every morning, sipping coffee at the same table Myque’s family has sat around since he was a child, I could look out the back window at the big tree on the edge of the yard and watch the sun rise. My first morning, the sunrise was so beautiful behind the corn, barn and tree that I couldn’t help but tiptoe, barefoot, out onto the dew-heavy grass to photograph it. Yesterday morning a blood-orange sun captured my eye so thoroughly that I didn’t even manage to reach for my camera. Then in the evening, I could peer out the front door at the sunset, sinking below the beans and subtle hills of the surrounding farmland. The other night, as Myque and I relaxed with his sister and brother-in-law in town, he received a call from his dad encouraging us to get in the car and drive to where we could enjoy a postcard-perfect evening sky. On the way, we ran into some people they knew and ended up talking right through the sunset, but that was okay. That’s Iowa.

And Iowa, especially where Myque’s family lives, is a tight-knit community like that. Ever since I set foot in the Franz household, I have greatly enjoyed being allowed to help. This past week I did bait, cooked, helped set up and tear down a wedding reception, cleaned, hauled tables and chairs, planted grass seed, herded first graders, and socialized a kitten. I learned how to drive a skid loader, a riding mower, and a four-wheeler. I watched Myque’s dad at this farm or that farm, bailing or raking or exterminating rodents, helping neighbors, getting help from neighbors, and not thinking twice about it. That’s just how things are. Myque and I didn’t go anywhere in town without running into someone he knew, and stopping to talk is par for the course. Sure, sometimes you miss sunsets, but the closeness felt between members of the community makes everything worth it.

And then of course there are the little things, the things that are so obviously awesome that they could go without mention but I’ll do it anyway: Fresh Iowa beef (and cousins who grill it perfectly), sweet corn from the family’s garden, pulled pork sandwiches so tender they melt, fresh air whipping through your hair from the back of a motorcycle, exploring Iowa wildlife with first graders. Birthday parties with castle cakes. Card games with old friends. Favorite coffee shops. Wild kittens. Lightning bugs. Watching a couple’s first wedding dance and later impromptu dance recitals. Journaling as the sun inches over the barn and the dog and cat snooze at your feet. Morning dew. Being included on the growth chart wall with amazing people you’ve only known for a few days. Accomplishing something, learning something, loving everything.

That’s Iowa. Or, at least, that’s my Iowa. All of these things, I’m sure, can be found just about anywhere. But I was lucky enough to find it all in the middle of the country in a little state most people confuse with the state famous for potatoes. No matter if I go back once or (more preferably) a million times, I will always love these things about Iowa. And I’m excited to find more!

Haiku . Independence, Iowa

2009-09-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

The moon, a pumpkin
hanging o'er hazy mud skies
behind the red barn

Rural Girl Makes a Comeback

2009-08-09T07:42:00.001-07:00

I really hate worn, overused phrases, so I will attempt to use something a little different. Let's see...

You never knew you even liked cheese curds until they show you some good old Midwestern hospitality and you realize there aren't any where you live, and this makes you bawl like a baby on the way back to your cheese-curdless existence.

Wait, I don't think that worked.

Having lived here almost a year, I have made many friends and found myself involved in a lot of communities. I have my writing group, my work friends, my Lesley friends, and the occasional friendly game night. But over Christmas and then again last week, I was reminded what it was like to be a part of a family of friends and loved ones who have known each other forever, support you almost no matter what you do, and make amazing food. Even more than missing MyQue, although I certainly am doing enough of that, I was sad to come off the plane alone last night alone after being surrounded by MyQue's family the whole trip. While I've learned to enjoy my solitude, I mourned something I forgot was there, and now I look around and realize it's something I'm definitely lacking here.

Since I graduate next July, I know that I will definitely want to be here for another year at least, so this is something I'm going to have to remedy. I don't know how; I think it just has to do with spending more time with those I already know. But since I can't live around my own family (who is spread around the Midwest), nor can I go to visit MyQue's anytime I want (he will be leaving them for grad school at the end of the summer), I am going to have to surround myself with my own motley crew here, and enjoy these little jaunts into the heartland as much as I can.

Although the Northeast's lack of cheese curds is not literally making me cry, I do miss being able to see the sky all 360 degrees, real thunderstorms that shake the siding of the house, the call of a red-wing blackbird, and eating fresh sweetcorn right out of the garden. I guess you can't take the Rural completely out of the girl after all.

Why You Should Not Go to McDonald's with a Writer

2009-08-01T17:42:00.000-07:00

-Did you want fries with that?
-I didn't before, but I do now.
-So...no?
-No, I do want fries with that. Now.
-Are you going to want fries with that or not?
-Listen, I don't know if I'll want them in the future, but I do want them now.
-What are you talking about, in the future? I just want to know if you wanted them.
-When?
-NOW!
-Oh NOW? I'm sorry, I wouldn't have known. With the tense changes and all.
-Sorry?
-It's okay, you don't have to apologize. Just be more careful next time. Tense is important.
-Whatever. Your total is going to be $6.03.
-When?
-I'm getting my manager.
-Now?
-Yes.
-Excellent. That's all I wanted to hear. Here, keep the change.

Happnestance Happiness

2009-07-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

On one of the first warm days of spring, I got an itch to skip the subway on the way home from work. It ended up being quite a lovely evening (mostly) and so when I got that same itch today I decided to try it out again. This time, I shot for Kenmore Square, and while I didn't take any pretty flower pictures on the way, I did enjoy the sunshine and watching the hoards of people making their way to Fenway for the game (lucky bastards). After finally boarding at Kenmore, I made my way lazily to Harvard, and once there I still wanted a little outdoors before I got home and crashed. So I decided to cut through the commons, and ran across someone I'd been wanting to see.

This happenstance encounter (which was pretty happenstance considering she doesn't really live near me and is moving out of the country in a month) only occurred because I walked at just the right pace, caught the right train, and waited for the right stop lights. I veered from my usual path. I don't believe in an omniscient God, but I do believe in a bit of fate. And I'm glad that I listened to my instincts tonight, even if it only meant a short talk with a familiar face. I've been lonely since Myque left, and this was just the kind of push I needed to keep up my spirits.

Thanks, fate. I appreciated it.

Day Job Hell

2009-06-29T19:21:00.000-07:00

I found this, and it speaks better about what I am currently going through than I could. Enjoy.

Re-Vision

2009-06-25T18:45:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was very disconcerted to discover that I no longer have perfect vision. While a display on eyesight at the Museum of Science is not the end all be all of ophthalmology, I muddled through the last three lines on the chart and decided it's probably time to start thinking about a trip to the real eye doctor. This has yet to occur, but I find it ironic, considering my metaphorical long-distance vision just keeps getting clearer.

This has been the best MFA residency yet. I feel like I have finally grasped the concepts of point of view, character development, and revision. I feel like I can actually make a career of this in one way or another. No, I don't know exactly what I'll be doing when I graduate one year from next weekend, but I do know that no matter what it is, I will be on the path to publication. Just a couple months ago I would have said that it would probably take me years to finally decide on a writing career, but I think I can finally see it on the horizon, even if the economy hasn't been too forgiving as of late.

Oh, and if this vision thing keeps up, I will probably be wearing sexy librarian glasses by then, too. That helps, right?

Another Kick

2009-06-21T06:06:00.000-07:00

It's finally time to start trying to sync spending less money with eating less food and eating better food. Any additional kicks in the rear would be appreciated.

Kick in the Rear

2009-06-20T15:28:00.000-07:00

There's nothing more motivating than being surrounded by people who are doing more for their careers than you are.

A side effect of that is that there's nothing to make you feel more lazy...

There is No Excuse for Not Blogging...

2009-06-16T18:59:00.000-07:00

...however, since you're already here, I might as well give it my best shot.

In the past few weeks I have been coping with charging far too much on my first credit card (out of necessity), trying to prepare for school (which is next week), spending time with/packing with/saying goodbye to Myque, continuing to move up the chain in a job I really don't like or find satisfying, and trying to sell my car but continuously finding things wrong with it that I have to fix first (hence the credit card issue).

I have been writing, mostly in my journal, mostly at work, and mostly just to keep all the things I have to do straight in my head so I don't go insane.

As soon as my thoughts un-jumble a bit, and my heart stops pounding, and my feet stop hurting all the time, and my brain takes a rest, I will find something worthwhile to blog about. Until then, I need time to spew the stress onto actual paper with actual ink and hide it away so no one will have to endure listening to it, as I have just forced you to do.

My apologies.

Returning to Maine

2009-05-29T06:19:00.000-07:00

June 2005 – The rain beat a staccato rhythm on the roof of my old Nissan Maxima as mom and I drove the last few miles to my first “real world” home after college. It rained as we drove her to the airport the next day. It rained as I unpacked the last of my things three days later. The rain stayed for two more weeks after that. Welcome to Maine, it said.

It wasn’t that I hated Maine, I just didn’t have a very happy life there. I was in such “real world” shock that I spent too much time missing college and not enough time making friends. So to me, the rain that stuck around for the first 2 weeks of my post-grad life in Maine really summed up my entire time there, despite the moments of fun we had at Profenno’s getting drunk and stumbling home, at Vinny T’s eating roasted garlic on bread, or at various firefighter functions. Kind of sad, really, that the gloomy parts are what I remember the most.

May 2009 – Appropriately, as Myque and I pulled off Rte 1 onto Main Street in Westbrook, it was just beginning to drizzle. The sky was gray. We’d had a great time driving down, looking at all the crazy antique stores along the road, and getting hungrier by the minute. But now that I pulled into town, into the rainclouds that I remembered so well, and I became a bit gloomy.

I didn’t know how I would react four years, three houses, two states and one marriage later. Especially since I was taking someone who had absolutely nothing to do with Maine the first time. So when I rolled through town, seemingly on auto-pilot, it surprised me that stories just started pouring out of my mouth faster than the rain. Here’s our first apartment, I wonder if the family still lives there. Here’s the CVS where we used to walk to late at night for candy. Here’s the pub. Here’s the falls. Up there is where our friends lived. Here’s my old office and here’s the new building where they moved right after we left. Patient, wonderful Myque listened with honest interest. By the time we reached the Oldport, it wasn’t a place I had once lived anymore – it was a new adventure.

After eating lobster rolls (something I’d never done when I lived there) and wandering around knick-knack shops for a few hours, we drove to the Portland Headlight on Cape Elizabeth (where I’d never gone when I lived there). It was beautiful walking on the sea cliffs, climbing down to the rocky shores, and taking pictures. I wondered why I had not been here before, but then I wondered if I would have appreciated it this way.

Driving back we sang at the top of our lungs and I decided that I was okay with going back to Portland again with someone else who would see it all as new. At the same time, I was content if I never did have the opportunity to go back. I think I made my peace with Maine. And, as the sunshine decided to come out (and stayed out for the rest of the day) while MyQue and I feasted on beer, fried clams and lobster, I think it made its peace with me, too.

Another Conundrum

2009-05-14T10:36:00.001-07:00

Okay so I didn't spend all day today thinking of gender-specific bathroom rants, but this is another big one -

Why in the world are women so pissed off when men leave the toilet seat up? What, are we so weak as a sex that we can't bother to put it back down? And why can't guys complain for us leaving it down all the time? Life is far too short to complain about something that takes less than a second to do. Just be glad they're putting the seat up at all.

Phew, thanks, I think I'm done for the day.

Conundrum from a Chick

2009-05-14T04:52:00.000-07:00

Why do men read in the bathroom? Are their bodies so vastly different from ours that they take that much longer to do their business? I've been known to pick up a tube of toothpaste and try to sound out monosodium-whatsis in my day, but I've never stood in front of my bookshelf and thought, "What should I take in today?"

Can anyone else please try and explain this phenomenon to someone who takes literally less than 2 minutes in the bathroom no matter what I'm doing?

Hit by Spring

2009-04-29T06:45:00.000-07:00

It's my day off, and I'm currently sitting at my desk smelling the flowers on the tree outside. Funny, that tree didn't smell on Monday. Must be that when spring makes up its mind to come, it hits all at once, and I daresay this is what has happened to me the last couple of days. Yesterday, Boston saw record highs - it reached 92, and we could feel it - so much so that I couldn't stand the thought of getting on a crowded Green Line trolley when I got out of work.

I wandered down the trail in the Fens, toward the Fenway stop not too far away, thinking I might just be ready to get on the train once I got there. But no, I still wasn't ready. So I kept going, down Beacon Street, the Comm Ave, passing stop after stop until I was almost to Copley Square. Thinking it would be silly to arrive at my friend Joel's building just as he was getting out of work and not make an appearance, I stole him away for dinner and one of the best salads I've had in a while (the Harrington at Parish Cafe - I added steak). After a Ben and Jerry's cone, we walked to the station in gathering rain clouds, and I was thankful for my adventure.

But the insistence of spring and the rapidity at which it hit us leeched over into my personal life, and as I walked home from the station I met up with Myque, who I've been excited to spend the summer with before he leaves for school in the fall. He found out yesterday that his job can't keep him through May, so his departure will be moved up two months. Even though I should have known better, I've gotten close to him and was very disappointed. So this spring will be a rebirth, sure, but also bring with it another lesson in packing a lot of life into a short amount of time.

I think with my walk home yesterday I did that, so it will be a challenge to continue the trend.

Cooking a la Estrop

2009-04-16T19:11:00.001-07:00

My early attempts at cooking were, in a word, atrocious. It is only natural to assume they were probably on par with everyone else’s early attempts, but I think I had my struggles later in life because my mother was such an avid cook. We ate a square meal every night after everyone got home, so I never really had the opportunity to cook for myself. In fact, I found it a treat to “cook” an afternoon snack of Kraft Mac and Cheese at my friend Jenna’s house every now and again (there was no way mom would ever let me make that at home). It wasn’t until the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college that I started to cook for myself, since I ate at the cafeteria during the school year.

Tom remembers, without much zeal, I’m sure, an early meal I made for him – grilled chicken breasts that were flavorless and charred, rubbery steamed broccoli, and crunchy, microwaved potatoes. At home, I was experimenting – half-heartedly – with pasta, olive oil, and garlic powder. I ate it because it was there, but I really didn’t get into cooking anything more complicated until I moved in with Tom and we started following recipes.

Ah, recipes! Why hadn’t I really followed them earlier? They made food taste good! Soon we were amassing recipes from America’s Test Kitchen, thanks to Tom’s dad, and later we joined Brian and Kela four to five nights a week for dinner and my cooking advanced more. For a long time I was cooking a la Hamilton, and things were more delicious than ever. Chicken Teriyaki and Beef Stroganoff, Chicken Piccata and Crab Legs – I had really moved on from half-cooked potatoes and charred chicken.

Now that I’m living on my own and cooking for others very rarely, I’m sort of developing my own style. Cooking a la Hamilton is far too much for just one person, although I have been known to pull out the America’s Test Kitchen cookbook on more than one occasion. Thanks to Tom, I’ve developed a taste for Strawberries and Cream. And thanks to my mom, I know how to pick out good salmon. It’s kind of cool to have my own ways of doing things, and I think that as I cook more, I will become better at certain things and there will be a style, a la Estrop, all my own. Until then, I’m experimenting with my own buffalo wing sauce, the tastiest method for cooking asparagus, and re-discovering my good friends Ben and Jerry.

And what good friends they are…

2009-04-11T18:07:00.001-07:00

New phone. Trying out mobile blogging. Slowly getting the hang of the touch screen. Can now share random thoughts from the t. Beware!

Bad Joke Challenge UPDATE

2009-04-06T07:46:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the idea, Brian!

Q. Why did the turkeys cross Longwood Ave?
A. They thought a trip to the otolaryngologist would keep them from getting stuffed.

Rurban Girl

2009-04-06T07:12:00.000-07:00

Rural Girl has now made a full metamorphosis into Rurban Girl! Full urban transition is not expected, as long as I still like petting zoos and wide open spaces.

How had this transition finally taken place, you ask?

I rode my bike. In traffic. To go somewhere. Not just for exercise! I filled the tires. I locked it up. I carried it back down to the basement. I even beat the rain home! All on the bike I've had so long that inside the helmet it says,

Katie Estrop
829 S. Lincoln St.
Springfield, IL 62704
(217) 546-0835

My old friend's happy to be out in the world again, although my thighs and butt will probably complain for several days.

Bad Joke Challenge

2009-04-04T17:31:00.000-07:00

Q: Why did the turkeys cross Longwood Ave?
A: _______________

I am now accepting punchline suggestions!

2009-03-30T03:49:00.001-07:00

What I've been doing (instead of blogging):

Writing
Reading
Annotating
Dining
Dating
Hiking
Brewing Coffee
Taking Pictures
Talking to Friends
Planning my Summer
Budgeting
Being Patient
Smiling
Listening to Spoon
Cooking

I promise I'll have something coherent for you after the 6th.

Flying Solo Part II

2009-03-21T21:02:00.000-07:00

I had a good time. But I feel like I cheated because another coworker showed up halfway through the show. But I went, and I had a decent time even before she showed up, and Matt was happy I was there. Plus I made plans with the two of them on Thursday. I would consider the night fairly successful.

Perhaps I'll be less anxious next time...

Flying Solo Part I

2009-03-21T17:34:00.001-07:00

If you know me well, this may come as a shock. Prepare.

In certain social situations where I only know one or two people, and they know a million other people and are not going to be able to spend much time with me other than a few moments, I am painfully shy. I try my best to avoid these situations by inviting friends along. But tonight it looks like I'm on my own. It's good for me, I know, but I'm uncharacteristically nervous all the same. And if I hadn't promised my coworker I'd see his band, I'd be snuggling under my covers with The Office as we speak, not freaking out about what jeans I'm wearing, if I'll be able to find a parking spot, or if I'll be able to hug a corner fast enough without being stranded in the middle of an empty dance floor. Doesn't sound like me, does it?

I'd like to say I'm going to take a stand tonight and make everything different, be bold and go talk to people I find interesting, and end up meeting friends. But I've gone out with these aspirations before and come home alone with a Starbuck's hot cocoa for comfort. I don't need to meet a million people, but it would be nice. We'll see.

Update to follow post-show.

I appreciate this. A lot.

2009-03-10T18:39:00.001-07:00

Too Soon

2009-03-09T18:24:00.000-07:00

My sincerest apologies to Beantown today. I unwittingly evoked the winter monster upon us again with my corny and badly-written ode to spring yesterday. I paid for it this morning, walking to the bus stop as slush fell on me, having lost my umbrella.

Remind me to hail the first snowfall and maybe we'll get a week more of autumn.

Spring

2009-03-08T14:06:00.000-07:00

There's something that happens when the weather turns warmer: everyone seems to have new springs in their steps, the cafes and restaurants fill up, people drive faster with their windows down and their radios louder. We don't have to hide anymore, from the weather. We have been released from our salt-choked prison and can once again see the sun. Every summer, just as we forget how bitter it can be in the middle of January, we face a similar surprise at the first warm day of spring. Oh, we say, I remember.

And in this memory, we throw open the windows, let light into our homes, and try to forget how it will be dark and freezing again in just 8 months' time.

Information Age v Age of Privacy

2009-03-05T19:06:00.000-08:00

With the development of sites like Twitter and Facebook, where you can literally update the world on your whereabouts and condition every thirty seconds if you have that much time on your hands, it's no surprise that people have become a lot more public with their private lives. I'm quite guilty of this myself, obviously - I just updated my Twitter, Facebook, Dailybooth, Frappr Map, and am metablogging right now this very second.

But since I began working at the call center I realized that the mentality of this "get it now" information age has made people assume that anyone can access anything at any time. Case in point: Almost daily, I'll get calls from people who want me to pull up their appointment time, look them up by birthdate, and tell them how much they weighed on their last checkup. Most back down when I tell them I'm only the switchboard operator, but some get huffy. "Why can't you look me up?" They ask. "Don't you know everything?"

On the other end of the spectrum, we have patients calling our answering service refusing to give us any more information than a sketchy spelling of their last names, undoubtably sending the poor medical receptionists into confusion. I know these people are probably different than the people who blab their every bathroom break on Twitter, but it's still an interesting disconnect. I'm supposed to know everything and, at the same time, nothing.

When someone complains that I don't know their information, I always want to ask themif they really want me to have it: I'm a temp with virtually no medical background who would probably only use Joe Shmoe's health history as inspiration for short fiction. But I don't. I apologize and wonder if I will show up later on Joe's Twitter: "Annoyed that no one knows anything about me."

At least I'm not shopping online for sex toys with his credit card.

Clinton and Stacy, Help Me! I think.

2009-02-26T18:19:00.000-08:00

"You could be a hobo," Ryan said tonight, holding up a dress that looked like it was made from someone's couch upholstery. "Or a matador," he continued, and if the section hadn't said "Missus" I would have sworn he found a Halloween costume. An hour later I still hadn't found a dress for the wedding reception this weekend, and I was starting to wonder if it was everyone else, or just me. Why did everything look simply awful?

I mistakenly used to think that I had some sense of style. I think the last time that I felt "in" was in the late eighties, when anyone who had enough leg to hold up leg warmers had a sense of style. But I know somewhere down the line I lost it. I went from making fun of my mother's clothes to borrowing them. I have pants in my closet from 2005, when I weighed almost 200 pounds, that still fit me well enough to ignore that the ass sags almost down to the back of my knees. I have shoes bearing holes, underwear wearing war scars from the dogs, and socks that have been missing their mate for so long that they've begun collecting social security.

I need help. I would like to think I could throw money at the problem, but just because I have $5000 doesn't mean I won't just buy 500 Woot! Shirts. I need someone to hold my hand and point. Try that one. Don't try that one. Walk away quickly in the opposite direction.

I'm too easygoing for TLC. I would be so desperate for direction that I would put up little fight and bore all the viewers into switching to the FOX network. That is, of course, unless they tried to trash my Woot! Shirts, and then the WWE viewers would all be tuning into TLC.

So if any of my faithful readers who knows a bit more about this than I do wants to spend an afternoon helping me find some pants that hug my curves appropriately, I will buy you coffee as payment for enduing my tendencies to sigh a lot, brood, and detour to the bag department.

Challenges

2009-02-23T21:12:00.001-08:00

It's probably good that sometimes, things that seemed like they were going to be easy end up being much harder. Otherwise, we'd have nothing to improve upon for next time.

My Temp

2009-02-20T16:37:00.000-08:00

I say the word "certainly" at least a thousand times at work every day, and most of the time I mean it. But sometimes I don't, and I'm slowly realizing that this is okay.

In the last few months I have taken a lot to heart, about love, about work, about writing, about who I am and where I want to be. And one of the hardest lessons I've had to learn is that nothing is certain.

At this point in my life I have already decided that I am not ready to settle down. So with this decision I have to expect a level of transience, for myself and for the other members of my generation. I have already faced the fact that in this economy, any job at all is better than the mire of unemployment in which many of my friends currently stuck. And now, I am coming to terms with becoming close with those whom I know are leaving town and probably not ever coming back.

I've had a great last few weeks getting to know Ryan, and I'm sad to see him go. But I'm excited for his amazing opportunity to cruise through the Panama Canal with Princess Cruises, and his enthusiasm and dedication to his work inspires me. And even though I will miss him, my brief time wtih him has reinforced my new-found philosophy that I should probably not plan too far past tomorrow's breakfast. So far it's working just fine.

And will I make it the yummiest, most satisfactory breakfast I can? Certainly!

Best Ideas and Why My Job is Kind of Cool

2009-02-19T17:47:00.000-08:00

It's inevitable: I always get my best writing ideas when I cannot do a damn thing about it.

When I lived in Saginaw and drove 30 minutes to and from work every day, when do you think I was most inspired to write? If I hadn't gotten a better and closer job I probably would have broken down and purchased a Bluetooth digital recorder (do such things exist?).

Now, I answer phones for a switchboard and while I do have the occasional free 40 second block between calls, I can get about three to seven words written before my thoughts get derailed with a caller looking for the dermatology clinic, to page their psychiatrist, or to find their brother who od'd and "I swear he got admitted this morning I was just too high to remember which hospital."

The good part is that I do tend to get some good ideas from such exchanges. Today a woman called in because if her neurologist didn't page her back within two hours she would get evicted. Why? What brought her to this point? I journaled about it for about ten calls before my brain bounced to something else, or I took a break to get water - whichever one came first.

An example of my work journal, while listening to random mix of soft tunes on the Muzak:

"Human? Dancers? When asking this seemingly simple question, several inferences are made quite easily: first of all, it is inferred that humans are NOT inherently dancers. Secondly, it is also inferred that dancers are not inherently human. We must be one or the other, otherwise the lyrics would be, 'Are we humans, or are we dancers, or are we both?' and that would totally mess up the rhythm scheme."

Where else could I come up with this nonsense?

A Defense of Community (for Writers)

2009-02-04T15:50:00.000-08:00

I have discovered that the more I talk about the writing projects in which I am currently immersed, the more people will lend their own advice. Now while this may not always (or ever) be the best idea in the world, it can sometimes bring about some gems. For example, I’m writing a short story right now that borrowed a basic plotline from a story by Chekhov. I’ve explained my project to several people, and it was almost as if they could not help themselves – ideas came shooting out of them so fast with so much intensity that I had hour-long conversations about it with both of them.

My friend Ryan knew a relative that had been involved in a farming accident, which is something that I’m including in my story but don’t know a lot about. He actually called his mother to ask her more details about it, and took a page of notes for me on all the gory details. Then my friend Dan ran with the plot, and went a whole different direction from what I had planned to write. I could see in his eyes that he was intrigued with the idea, and he actually sent me a long poem he wrote, inspired by the plot idea.

I’ve decided that especially based on these two friends, I should turn to my community, writers or not, for ideas and inspiration, and think that any writer who chooses not to take advantage of their network is doing themselves a great disservice.

Red Line to Park Street

2009-02-02T16:58:00.000-08:00

As I rode the train to work this morning, I watched the sun begin to peek out from behind the buildings of downtown Boston. The very base of the sky was a salmon pink, and then extended into a purple and then indigo blue until it met with the retreating night sky above. No one else on the train seemed to notice. Riding home I glanced back to see the lights twinkle in the darkness as we crossed the Charles back to Cambridge. I am still without a career-oriented job and money is still tight. But it's times like this, crossing the black water and looking out onto the skyline, that I realize I really love it here. I love this city.

My New Holiday

2009-01-24T21:27:00.000-08:00

I just got this email forward from my grandma:

FLORIDA COURT SETS ATHEIST HOLY DAY
In Florida , an atheist created a case against the upcoming Easter and Passover
holy days. He hired an attorney to bring a discrimination case against
Christians, Jews and observances of their holy days.

The argument was that it was unfair that atheists had no such recognized days.
The case was brought before a judge. After listening to the passionate
presentation by the lawyer, the judge banged his gavel declaring,"Case
dismissed!"

The lawyer immediately stood objecting to the ruling saying, "Your honor,
how can you possibly dismiss this case? The Christians have Christmas,
Easter and others. The Jews have Passover, Yom Kippur and Hanukkah, yet my
client and all other atheists have no such holidays."

Th e judge leaned forward in his chair saying, "But you do. Your client,
counsel, is woefully ignorant."

The lawyer said, "Your Honor, we are unaware of any special observance
or holiday for atheists."

The judge said, "The calendar says April 1st is April Fools Day.
Psalm 14:1 states, 'The fool says in his heart, there is no God.'
Thus, it is the opinion of this court, that if your client says there is no
God, then he is a fool. Therefore, April 1st is his day. Court is adjourned.

I had to force myself not to write back and ask her if that meant I was getting an extra check on April 1....

A Sunday in Numbers

2009-01-18T12:32:00.000-08:00

6 - inches of snow on the ground when I woke up
45 - minutes of shoveling the driveway to get my car out
10 - MPH I was traveling when I slid out of control on Corey St.
269 - Address of the house with the wall I crashed into (no injuries, thankfully)
40 - minutes we waited, in the cold car, for the tow truck
500 - dollars of deductible I'll have to pay
.6 - miles from the T stop back to the house where I'm staying
15 - percent incline of the hill from the T stop back to the house where I'm staying
2 - days it will probably take me to recover
230 - time when I got my first cup of coffee and food for the day
65 - degrees F it is in this house
99 - percent sure I am that I will take a nap very soon
100 - percent thankful I am that Kim did not abandon me during my time of need. :-)

I think I need a break.

People Come and Go

2009-01-16T20:31:00.001-08:00

Here's the cool thing about being a writer. People come and go out of our lives, and sometimes we never see or speak with them again. And even if we do, it can never be quite the same. But somehow, even if it's years down the road, they can creep into our stories, and in that way we can stay connected to these singularly wonderful and unique souls.

Of course, we will want to be able to call them up and say, "Did you read my book? You know that larger-than-life guy on page 78? The stage director with the quirky habits? That's you!" But we can't, and maybe we shouldn't anyway. Maybe that would take away from the fun.

Yes, this is a warning. If I'm ever published, you should probably turn to page 78, and don't be surprised if you find yourself.

Tiny, Past Reminders of Encouragement

2009-01-15T18:45:00.000-08:00

A friend once made me a little sign that sits on my desk today and probably always will. It's just two printed sheets of paper in a cheap dollar store 4x6 frame, but its message is priceless. In big print, the sign simply says:

"The single most useful piece of equipment for a writer is a bucket of glue. First you spread some on your chair, and then you sit down." (Joan Bolker)

The printing is a bit skewed, and at first when I turned the frame over to fix it, I found these words printed on the back:

"If you have time to fix this, you have time to write."

Even though my encouraging friend is no longer a big part of my life, his thoughtful gift gives me a little kick in the butt every time I sit down to my keyboard. It's a great message, and I hope all you writers take it to heart. If you sit there long enough, something good is bound to come of it.

Lesley MFA Residency, Take Two

2009-01-12T21:28:00.000-08:00

With my MFA residency in full-swing, I have regained some confidence that I can do this writing thing. Thankfully, I am more energized and excited about my own writing life than I was before, and hope that this feeling lasts longer than it did when I got back from the last residency in June. I am having a great time with all my friends in town from Connecticut, Portland, Miami, Milwaukee, and even Jamaica. I will miss them when they head home on Saturday, and I know there will be a void in my heart while right now it is full. I am confident, though, that I am far enough along in my process of building a new life here that their absence won't diminish the enthusiasm and self-awareness that I have built over the course of these seminars and workshops so far.

That being said, I have been vastly neglecting my housework, internet social obligations, and relaxing me-time. I'll be happy to get that back soon enough. For now I'm going to enjoy the few days I have left with my friends and squeeze as much out of this residency as I can.

Need an Editor?

2009-01-01T20:34:00.001-08:00

In this lovely season of unemployment, I'm hoping to pick up some freelance editing gigs. If you, or anyone you know, need someone to edit/proofread a manuscript, dissertation, newsletter, shopping list, etc. let me know! I have mucho time on my hands and will charge fairly.

Happy writing!

2008

2008-12-31T12:06:00.001-08:00

Piled on, one right on top of another, years themselves simply accumulate for adults. Significant moments happen in the midst of those years, but the years themselves pass before we've even had a chance to take stock in them. For a baby, however, one year can hold so many developmental firsts and changes: first solid food, first crawling, first pulling up to standing, first steps, first words. For a baby, one year is like a lifetime: they begin it in the womb, and end it moving toward becoming independently mobile.

I feel like 2008 has passed for me with the same huge developmental steps. This New Year's Eve, I am so far from where I was last New Year's Eve (even though, ironically, I'm currently less than a mile away), that 2007 NYE Kate wouldn't even recognize the Kate of today. I wonder if knowing my fate back then would have caused me to make different decisions. But of course even if I had, I would have missed out on so much - and there's something to be said about the bad times, too. I am stronger because of them, and to have skipped them would have skipped some good times too. I shouldn't regret it any more than a baby regrets learning to crawl. After all, we all have to make these developmental changes in order to...well...develop.

So Happy New Year, everyone. Here's to a 2009 that's so great that, looking back, the 2010 Kate looks back and just can't believe how much she's grown.

Dear Santa

2008-12-22T07:42:00.000-08:00

All I want for Christmas is hope for a better 2009.

What Christmas Spirit?

2008-12-18T12:33:00.000-08:00

This morning I emerged, empty, onto Tremont Street an hour after my interview began. Sure, the man at the temp agency said I possessed many of the desirable qualities that employers looked for in a candidate. But it was different. I thought I would emerge with myriad ideas about breaking into the editing and publishing world. Instead, I had been told that if anything, I would need to beef up my resume to reveal my secretarial experience.

Secretarial experience?

It hit me as I gazed out onto the frozen ground of the commons that I was going to have to take any job I could get. And that might mean becoming someone’s Pam: too smart, funny, and talented for the reception chair, but possessing little experience to do much else. My only consolation was that perhaps I would find my own Jim sitting only a few chairs away.

This was not what I pictured when I packed almost everything I owned into my little Beetle months ago. I was leaving a Midwestern town of little opportunity for a cosmopolitan East-coast city of intellectuals. If there was anything better out there, it would be in Boston: city of writers, editors, colleges, and think tanks. City of arts and culture, insane sports fans and more coffee shops than I’d probably ever seen in my whole life combined. I had high hopes for this place.

Too bad coffee shops and think tanks are just as susceptible to economic downturns as the rest of the world.

So, beaten, I slumped in my seat on the train back to Harvard Square. The recorded announcement was stuck and so every stop was “Charles MGH.” Attempting to cheer myself up, I looked up at the mistaken speaker and smiled. But no one else seemed to notice. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had been in the Midwest they would have smiled back.

At lunch I half-heartedly read over a delicious roast beef sandwich at Au Bon Pain, thinking about being stuck behind a desk and a phone, editing no more than the occasional office memo. The real world isn’t like The Office. My boss probably won’t be crazy like Michael Scott, and I probably won’t meet the love of my life at the next desk over. I will be bored, get high on copier toner, and want to drink my weight in wine upon arriving home every night.

Just as it’s hard to imagine being in love with anyone else again, it is now impossible to think about being happy doing what I love anytime in the near future. My interview and realization this morning was necessary – yes, I need to pay my bills, and I realize that to do that I might just have to take what I can get. But I am now feeling more lost than ever. I came out here for my future, and was beginning to build it in my mind grain by grain. But now everything is fuzzy again.

My only consolation at this point is that as a member of the Lost Generation, I am not alone. We’re all struggling out there. And all we can do is wait for the economy to pick back up and shove us back onto our feet again. I think only then will Boston blossom into the wonderful place I arrived to find, and I will be able to be more confident in my life choices.

Kate's Christmas Card 2008

2008-12-16T10:19:00.001-08:00

‘Twas the week before Christmas and, hanging my head,
I realized I was frightfully short on the bread.
With the world in the crapper I know I’m not alone
but I felt bad, all the same, as I applied for more loans.

With dollar signs floating above my warm bed,
I could not fall asleep, because all through my head
I was trying to think of just what I could get
for my friends and my family, gifts they wouldn’t forget.

I knew that the mall was beyond my cash flow
and besides, it was just too damned crowded to go.
I could bake, though I’m horrid, and give everyone treats
though I knew they would melt under my airplane seat.

All my beads, and my paper, and craft-making things
are still sitting in Michigan, so no help do those bring.
Excuses! Thought I, as I surfed through the net,
there must be some good, thoughtful gifts I could get!

Everything that I thought of just sounded so lame.
I’d be handed a present, and hand back none of the same!
Oh what could I do, I was filled with much stress.
How could I get out of this holiday mess?

After thinking, and thinking, and lamenting my woe,
I’ve not thought of a direction in which I can go.
So please, friends and family, don’t think I forgot.
Please remember – the thing that counts most is the thought!

And much thoughts I do have for your holiday cheer –
Have the Merriest of Merry, and a Happy New Year!

Coffee Shop Therapy

2008-12-14T10:44:00.001-08:00

I love my therapist, but sometimes I can feel just as good after spending two hours at my favorite coffee shop as I do after I've spent $70 on the couch.

I always sit at the counter, what I think of as the front row seat to an audience-participation show: The barsitas sing. They dance. They make inappropriate puns. They ask me where the heck I've been for the last few weeks. And the loneliness I felt while driving here melts away as I enjoy a veggie omelet and coffee, and listen to the green-haired barista (the one with the wide smile that always makes me smile back) sing, "It Takes Two" in falsetto.

A fellow customer asked me why I drove all the way here while there are so many great cafes in Cambridge. But I haven't found the same warmth there. I haven't found a place I can always get a seat, sit at the counter, enjoy free wi-fi and amazing crepes (and eye candy to boot). Sure, it's a 15 minute drive. But to feel my heavy heart lift in the same amount of time it takes to make an omelet is more than worth the gas.

I thank the Taste in Newtonville crew for always raising my spirits, and tell anyone and everyone who has a car and is willing to make the trip that this, among all the others clumped together in Cambridge, is second to none.

My Favorite Things

2008-12-12T08:27:00.000-08:00

For some reason, this classic song from The Sound of Music has been associated with the holiday season (it must be the "brown paper packages tied up with strings" and "sleighbells"). So, I thought, since it is now the holiday season and I myself am doing little to prepare for it (no tree, no cards, minimal present buying - sorry guys), I might make myself a little list of my current Favorite Things, a la Oprah.

Yes, I could have made this list singable. But I didn't feel like it.

Bruegger's Egg and Cheese Bagel
Blue Moon with an Orange Wedge
Sleeping in under soft sheets
Discovering new episodes of my favorite shows
Drawing
Finding new favorite Indigo Girls songs
Brand new Office Supplies
Reconnecting with old classmates (even from elem. school!)
Laughing on the phone with long-distance friends
Editing (yes, I'm not kidding!)
Writing stories that don't have to be good
The look in my tutees' eyes when they finally "get" something
Writing dirty limericks and bad haiku
Stopping to pet dogs on the street
That rogue warm day in the middle of winter
A stranger's smile
Coffee with my roommates
Bookstores
My Therapist
Taking the T
Coffee Shops
Smelling my body wash on my skin
Making real goals
Journaling
And Learning

Maybe you should make a list of your favorite things, especially if you're feeling down. The fact that I'm doing a couple of these today makes me smile - and I'll be okay.

2008-12-10T15:23:00.000-08:00

There comes a time when we abandon our castles we have built in the sky in favor of the pavement beneath our feet, and stop living for what could be and instead live for what is.

The Perfect Gentleman of the Yellow Checker

2008-11-25T17:05:00.000-08:00

I had the coolest cab driver on the way to the airport early this morning. He arrived in the pouring rain, his golfer’s cap soaking instantly as he got out of the car. I winced as he heaved my heavy bag into the trunk -- he must have been at least 70 years old – but he made light of it. “Isn’t the worst I’ve seen,” he said in a thick Boston accent.

Before he pulled out, he made small talk. Good morning, where are you from? What are you doing here? And then finally he said, “All right missy, do you have your phone? Charger? ID? Medications?”

I laughed and assured him I did.

“You’d be surprised how many times I ask people that and they still forget.” He reached into the front passenger seat and opened his palm to me. “Want a butterscotch?” I realized I couldn’t have painted a better character sketch if my life depended on it.

He pulled out then, started the meter, and we were off on what became the most educational cab ride I’ve ever experienced. Turned out Frank Sullivan was a history buff, and as soon as he found out I was from Illinois he decided that I just had to know the history of Edward O’Hare, the namesake of the world’s busiest airport. I almost got the impression that Frank was a bit of a ham; he spoke in a theatric manner, like he’d told the story before in front of a large audience or television camera. Although I guess he did have a large audience – his moving taxi classroom, with students who really had no choice but to listen.

O’Hare was born, grew up, fought World War II and died in that fifteen-minute ride. At the end I tipped him $12.00 - $6.00 for the driving, $6.00 for the history lesson. I want to remember it all, although while I know the details of O’Hare’s life will probably fade within a few days, I won’t soon forget my morning. And I’ll know who to ask for next time I call for a cab – good old Frank Sullivan from Newton, history buff and perfect gentleman of the yellow checker.

Kate in Boston: The Commute

2008-11-24T15:29:00.000-08:00

In celebration of my last day having to make what I consider an annoying commute to get to work, I’ve decided to write a little poem.

Ode to the Hill

For the last three months,
at least three days a week,
I have climbed this old hill
Whether feeling strong or meek.
And as I do so on this night
I can’t help but make a rhyme.
Sorry Hill, my old friend,
this is my very last time.
In the early morning dew
(although lately it’s been frost)
I have trekked down your steep slope --
a few pounds I must have lost.
Past the bushes, leaves like beetles
and the houses, big and old
in the rain, and in the heat
through the leaves and now the cold.
To the stop there at the bottom
where I caught bus number one –
the 57, I will miss you,
even the times I had to run.
Then to Watertown I rode
to the next chariot of steel
that would stop a million times
with jerky stops and breaks that squeal.
Finally I would arrive
to alight in Harvard Square,
and even though I always fretted,
I never lacked the time to spare.
With caffeine in my grip
(Starbucks always a good friend)
I'd be energized to work
and then commute at the day’s end.
Now I’m here, good Waverly,
trekking up you for the last.
And though your sidewalks were not mean,
I’m happy you’ll be in the past.
On to Cambridge! On to Parker!
There my feet are all I need.
But I’ll remember you, my Newton hill,
I’ll remember you indeed.

Kate in Boston: Bravery and Stupidity on the Road or You Have a Horn, Use It

2008-11-16T11:07:00.000-08:00

Right after moving to Massachusetts, I wrote a post about my car, pondering whether or not I would keep it were I to stay here permanently. Since I now know I will be here for a while, and have been meeting more people that live all around the area (Brookline, Waltham, Watertown, Cambridge, and even Northampton), I’ve decided to keep it for now. I’m moving to Cambridge right after Thanksgiving (more details to follow) and the parking situation is ideal – just $8.00/year for an on-street parking permit. But since I’ve been driving a lot more and must prepare to continue this feat, I thought I’d enlighten my readers on the wonders of Boston traffic.

I always wondered why Brian would get so angry driving in Saginaw. He’d yell, curse, and complain to no end about the sporadic stopping and slowing down by the (mostly elderly) drivers there. I knew he grew up watching his father drive in Boston and then learned to drive in Atlanta, but didn’t really understand his latent frustration until I began driving here myself.

The first thing I noticed was that cars rarely ever stop. Even while sitting in traffic, they inch up, bit by bit, until the line starts moving again. And no one waits to be let into a line; they just go, and if you don’t want a crumpled bumper, you have no choice but to let them in. Being a nice little Midwesterner who not only waits politely for my turn, I also expected to be thanked when I “let” someone in front of me. Not so – not only did I get honked at if I didn’t edge my way in front of moving traffic, I’ve never gotten so much as a nod from thankful motorists that edge their way in front of me.

Secondly, I learned to honk liberally. I could be driving a neon-pink hummer with flashing LED lights all over it, but I would still be virtually invisible if I didn’t lay on the horn. And unlike in the Midwest, where a horn could mean anything from, “Hey Bob” to “F You,” here it just means one thing: “Move.” Someone doesn’t go the split second a light turns green? Move! Someone cuts you off? Move! Someone is driving the speed limit (how dare them)? MOVE! I’ve even been honked at for not going at a red light because the other light was already yellow. “You’re not willing to risk the life and limbs of you and the poor undergrad trying to cross the street? HONK!”

Finally, a word on parking: Every day I thank Mike and the god of fortuitous used-car sales that I have a VW Beetle. This is an old city with narrow streets and even more narrow-minded parkers. Give me a springy steering wheel, keen senses, and a bag of quarters, and my Bug and I can park anywhere.

And as for my Bug, I’m pretty sure I heard it breathe a sigh of relief when I decided not to sell it. Because as challenging as driving is here, we both tend to have a lot of fun.

A Balance to Finally Look Ahead, and An Apology

2008-11-08T06:40:00.000-08:00

Because I've been going through so many big changes in my life lately, I wasn't sure how to approach the loneliness and painful nostalgia I felt for lives left behind. I knew that I wanted to keep talking to all my old friends, the friends that already know me inside and out and could make me smile with a few words, but sometimes this connection did more harm than good. I found myself so lonely for those thousands of miles away that I would curl up into a ball and be unable to open my eyes to new possible friends and experiences out here in Boston.

So I staved off a lot of communication with these old friends, and put my full attention on making new ones. I was able to get past missing my old friends and open my eyes to all the experiences out here with my new friends. But it wasn't until people found out about the divorce that old friends (even older than I'd been talking to recently) started to write and call. Their support has meant the world to me, and I've been even more strengthened to go out here and make new friends and have new experiences.

Thus I have reached a balance. There's no reason I should shy away from those who know and love me already just to have a positive attitude in making friends here. If anything, I need all the support and love I can get - and that's what everyone is giving me. I am so grateful for it all. And if I've been a little distant with anyone lately...I'm sorry. I'm over it. Shall we chat?

Thanks, Fitz

2008-11-02T20:57:00.000-08:00

"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter--to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...And one fine morning--"

...one fine morning, we'll awaken to think, "Hey! In one month I'll be living in Harvard Square!"

Too Late for Empathy?

2008-10-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

We are all wrought with self-doubt at times in our lives, but I'd like to think that for the most part, the even-keeled that walk among us believe that they're usually doing all right. No matter what flaws others see in us, there's a part of us that wants to believe that the way we are is okay, and that there's no reason to change. But sometimes things happen that blow us over and cause us to take stock in a way that stays with us forever.

For me, it was something my dad said to me when I was in high school. He said that among my many talents, among the multitude of friends I had and brains I possessed, I faltered at one thing about all else: empathy. He said that if I were only more empathetic with people, I would have it made and could hand-pick my world to be any way I wanted. Now I know there were lots of speeches my parents made to me over the years, but none stuck with me the way this one did. I went upstairs and sat on my bed and thought very hard about empathy. Was I really so deficient in such a basic human quality?

This conversation has haunted me, but possibly kept me from making decisions or comments over the years that lacked empathy. I know that from it I have learned how to take the thoughts and feelings of others under consideration. But sometimes I hit a large snag and realize that my dad was right and still is in a lot of ways - sometimes I'm far too concerned about making myself feel better that I don't consider the feelings of others. I say things that make me feel better, or stronger, and they come out wrong because I didn't consider how the other person might take them. I hear my father's words and realize that the more I do this, the farther I stray from a happy and fulfilled life.

When we go through life feeling we're doing okay, feeling ourselves fall so far jolts our reality in a big way. Suddenly we do things that go against what we've always felt was right, and even though they seem right at the time, they are revealed as awful later on. It's a realization I must make to continue this process of self-growth, for sure.

I just hope it's not too late.

Dreams are Not My Friends

2008-10-24T05:31:00.000-07:00

Though I know dreams work for us, in helping us organize our minds and purge stressful thoughts, for me they seem to be doing nothing but harm lately: I will be asleep one moment, immersed in a very good dream of better times, and awake to hear voices and see faces as clear as if I'd seen them or heard them yesterday. But I awake alone. And it seems that no matter how hard I work during the day to regain myself, the night works against me and I am lost again when morning comes.

To Print in Big Letters and Hang on my Wall

2008-10-23T12:26:00.000-07:00

"[O]n the starboard hand of every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight, than the bottom of the woe is deep."

Herman Melville

Everything to Everyone

2008-10-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

In trying times, I have discovered that no one friend can be everything for me. My friends are compartmentalized, each one serving his or her purpose, just as I am for them: I know that I cannot be everything to everyone either. The ones that mean the most to me are scattered around the country, unable to be on-call 24/7, and this I understand. They shouldn’t be. But that doesn’t make me yearn for them any less. This weekend I spent time with several friends that have played a big part in my life, and while the combination of them settled my tired soul for the weekend, I am now cast off into my life alone again. I can’t blame anyone for this but me: I must take responsibilities for the decisions I have made. But in these trying times, it’s easy to break down and wish for a relaxing evening and warm hug from someone who knows me almost better than I know myself - and become caught up in dreams that this will once again be my reality on a daily basis. Ideally, that someone will be me.

To Rebuild

2008-10-16T12:59:00.000-07:00

A structure that can no longer serve its purpose can sometimes be remodeled. If the foundations are strong, you can get away with surface improvements – painting, carpeting, and plumbing, for example. Sometimes, more work is needed – perhaps the roof must be patched, the drywall fixed, the flooring replaced. But sometimes, even after making all of these changes, the very core of the structure is the cause of its downfall, and you must tear the whole thing down and begin again, brick by brick.

Over the last few years I have been attempting to make surface changes to my structure: first cosmetic improvements, then some practical ones. But when these didn’t work, I found I had to try harder: patches, major structural repairs. I let these stand for a while, and ignored the roof leaking and the foundation sagging. I let them stand for so long that one morning I woke up and my entire structure had collapsed around me, when I should have made the decision to have it torn down some time ago.

So now I sit, surrounded by the rubble that was once, long ago, a secure structure. I must stand up and rebuild slowly. I must not be tempted to cut corners and use materials that may appear shiny, convenient, or cheap. I must not be swayed by the way others have built their own structures, because while they may be safe in them, I may not. And I must not decline the help of more experienced builders who have made their own structures strong enough to resist the threats of time and the elements, because they will have much to teach me about how to make my own free-standing environment.

I do not remember how I built my structure the first time, just as I do not remember learning to write my name. But as I stand before my cleared lot, a nice deep hole dug for the basement and another in the back for a swimming pool (I will not leave anything out this time), I see the possibilities laid out before me in all directions. My rooms do not have to be arranged the same way they were before, and I can choose the walls to be any color I want. No one else can tell me how to build my own shower, or kitchen, or laundry room. The choices are mine alone, and while these choices sometimes overwhelm me, deep down they are exciting.

Once it’s done (or appears to be done, for a structure is never truly done), I might invite someone else in to share it with me. But I hope this won’t happen for a while - not until the last colorful tile is cemented to the kitchen backsplash and the sawdust vacuumed away. Until then I will try and embrace and enjoy the long process of reconstruction, and like stubborn residents of a tropical island in the path of hurricane after hurricane, resolve to always rebuild again.

Escaping the Cycle

2008-10-14T10:41:00.000-07:00

As I work to come into my own for the future, I have been forced to build from the past. But thus far I’ve only looked at the recent past – my recent mistakes, shortcomings, and insecurities. I need to go farther back than that – to why I might be the way I am. Because then I will have a better idea of how to move forward and build my life around strength, confidence, happiness, and integrity.

I am, in no way, disappointed with how I was raised. My parents were wonderful: they gave me everything I could ever need and want, opened my heart and mind to new experiences, and made sure I knew how to take the high road and choose integrity over what was easy or convenient. There are so many things about my mother and my father that I want to emulate, like my mother’s bottomless cup of kindness and empathy and my father’s ability to take on adversity like a knight defeating a dragon. But there are other things I saw in my parents, especially my mom, that I vowed I would never become.

I watched my mom take bad news with tears, watched her take great joy with tears, and watched her cry in desperation, sometimes being set off for days at a time. When I was younger I vowed not to let myself cry at such seemingly insignificant worries, problems that clearly had some sort of a solution, or sappy movies. I kept this vow for a long time, but as I’ve gotten older the tears come in frustration, fear, worry, anxiety, great joy and yes, sappy movies. I let worries carry me away when I am alone and unoccupied. And even, sometimes, when I am occupied. Sometimes worries follow me to times that should be happy and healing, and they shadow the good time I should be having and the relationships I should be building with the people I am with. And sometimes those people see my melancholy as a detriment to our relationship, which makes me fall deeper into worry. It is a vicious cycle, and even though I have watched my mother go through it again and again, I have fallen into the trap myself.

I’ve gotten a lot better with therapy. But now that my life seems to be changing possibly more quickly than I can plan for, worries and anxieties are overshadowing more and more experiences that should raise me up. Knowing that I am floundering is the first step. The next step is to see possibly solutions and work toward them. I wish I could live in a vacuum and shy off everyone else’s opinions of me (or what I worry is everyone else’s opinion of me), but the time I spent being raised by my mother sets me back from the start. Realistically, I will always have worries, I will sometimes be sad, sometimes melancholy, and sometimes cry at sappy movies. It is the recognition of these times and the ability to pull myself out of them that I have been and will continue to work on. And most importantly, I need support and patience of those around me – and faith that I can and will turn around. Because I have come pretty far already, and can see no reason I should ever back down now.

Change

2008-10-13T18:09:00.000-07:00

Life is change. There is no escaping it. You can either fight it and tire yourself out, no better than you were before, or you can look it in the eye and nod and say, "Okay." Sometimes change is for the better, sometimes it is for the worse, but to know for sure either way is rare. It is a lucky man indeed that knows exactly how change will affect him and those around him.

Yes, it is true that sometimes you have to make your own changes occur. And there will be ripples, sometimes waves, when you do. Uncertainty is inevitable, whether it be over your decision to have Corn Flakes vs. Frosted Flakes or over a change that is much more life-altering than that. Remorse is possible. Mistakes are probable.

Recovering from change takes time. In that time more changes occur and your feelings shift and alter. You reach a peak, and then you even out. The change becomes the commonplace, ready to be blasted with a change again. This is life.

I hope I never regret any of the changes I make to my life. I hope that throughout it all, I can still look back and see that I became happier, or wiser, after it all. But it is the nature of change to blind you to all but hindsight, no matter how much you plan for it. And I cannot say how any of it will turn out.

Thus is life, thus is change. There is no escaping it.

American Literary Snobbery: Business as Usual

2008-10-05T14:09:00.000-07:00

In attempting to broaden my knowledge of the literary/publishing world, I began what will be a weekly endeavor of curling up with the New York Times every Sunday. And, beginner's luck, I found something very interesting that brought up some memories of discussions I had in my Senior Seminar class in undergrad. In this article about the Nobel Prize in Literature, Charles McGrath explores the seemingly biased opinion of the judges against Americans - and why they might just have a point. Makes me want to read more translations.

Lost in Translation? A Swede’s Snub of U.S. Lit

By CHARLES McGRATH

If you’re John Updike, Philip Roth, Don DeLillo or Joyce Carol Oates, you don’t have to worry about whether the phone bill has been paid. You won’t be getting the call from Stockholm next week.

On Tuesday, Horace Engdahl, the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy, the organization that awards the Nobel Prize in Literature, gave an interview to The Associated Press and, while not dropping hints about this year’s winner, seemed to rule out, pretty much, the chances of any American writer. “Europe is still the center of the literary world,” he said, not the United States, and he suggested that American writers were “too sensitive to trends in their own mass culture.” He added: “The U.S. is too isolated, too insular. They don’t translate enough and don’t really participate in the big dialogue of literature. That ignorance is restraining.”

The next day, in an interview with the British paper The Guardian, Mr. Engdahl appeared to backtrack a bit. He insisted that the academy strictly followed Alfred Nobel’s rule that in awarding the prize no consideration should be given to an author’s nationality, and added: “It is of no importance, when we judge American candidates, how any of us views American literature as a whole in comparison with other literatures.”

All the same, any American foolhardy enough to bet on this year’s prize — the announcement comes on Thursday — would be well advised to put his money on a writer whom nobody in this country has ever heard of and who is out of print here or, ideally, has never been published at all. For example, Ladbrokes, the British betting shop, has as the frontrunner, at 3 to 1 odds, the Italian essayist and novelist Claudio Magris, followed, at 4-1, by the Syrian poet Adonis. Were either to win, he would follow in the great tradition of the Italian satirist Dario Fo, who won in 1997; the Chinese novelist and playwright Gao Xingjian (2000); and the Austrian novelist and playwright Elfriede Jelinek (2004); all of whom caused Americans to scratch their heads and say “Huh?”

Another good betting strategy is to look for a writer with a record of America-bashing. His criticisms of American capitalism and the fact that he was once banned from entering this country didn’t hurt Signor Fo, a playwright and performer whom even some Italians considered a little lightweight; and Harold Pinter, the Briton who won in 2005, surely appealed as much because of his outspoken opposition to America’s involvement in Iraq as for his plays, the best of which were written 40 years ago or more.

If you add all-purpose political correctness or opposition to an unpopular regime, your odds get even better. You would have lost your bet in 2001, when the prickly V. S. Naipaul, born in Trinidad but transplanted to England, neither a lefty nor anyone’s idea of politically correct, won the Nobel. But you would have collected in 2003 and 2006 with the novelist and critic J. M. Coetzee, born in South Africa but now an Australian citizen, and the Turkish novelist and memoirist Orhan Pamuk. That Mr. Coetzee and Mr. Pamuk happen to be terrific writers is just gravy, though if you want to try that card again — someone politically sound who can also write — then a good long-shot pick for this year might be the Albanian novelist Ismail Kadare.

In other words, the Nobel selection process is hardly the lofty and purely literary exercise — the “big dialogue” — that Mr. Engdahl suggests, and it never has been. Whatever else the prize may be, it is not a guarantee of literary excellence. Critics are always pointing out that the list of writers who never won, which includes Tolstoy, Proust, Borges, Joyce, Nabokov and Auden, is far more impressive than the roster of those who did. The duds include Henryk Sienkiewicz (1905), author of “Quo Vadis,” and Mikhail Sholokhov (1965), whose supposed masterpiece, “And Quiet Flows the Don,” was probably plagiarized (at least according to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who won five years later).

There are 18 Nobel judges, of whom Mr. Engdahl is one. They’re all Swedes, they serve for life, and in the early years of the prize they tended to vote for — surprise! — other Scandinavians, writers like Bjornstjerne Bjornson, Selma Lagerlof and Henrik Pontoppidan, who were not exactly household names even back then. There used to be a weakness for middlebrow writers like Pearl Buck and John Steinbeck, who championed the downtrodden. But ever since the last American to win, Toni Morrison, took the prize in 1993, there has been a drift not just to the left but away from the conventions of narrative realism. This may be what Mr. Engdahl, himself a post-structuralist literary critic, was referring to when he complained about “trends in mass culture” dragging down American literature: we tend to write, for the most part, about the world we live in, without resort to the devices of myth or fable or allegory, all of which are popular in Stockholm these days.

This is not to say that the Swedish Academy is a united front or that when it sits down for the “big dialogue” there is no conflict of interest. The Chilean poet Pablo Neruda didn’t win the Nobel until his Swedish translator, Artur Lundkvist, was elected to the academy and lobbied for him. (Mr. Lundkvist also blackballed Graham Greene, whose politics were almost as left as Mr. Neruda’s. Go figure.) Mr. Gao’s Swedish translator, Goran Malmqvist, a China scholar at the University of Stockholm and, conveniently, an academy member, similarly pressed his case. On the other hand, a member named Knut Ahnlund quit in 2004 over the award to Ms. Jelinek, a feminist, whose work he called a “mass of text shoveled together without artistic structure.” There was also an internal squabble over whether the body as a whole should denounce the fatwa issued against Salman Rushdie in 1989.

The Swedes read, you have to give them that — they buy more books per capita than the citizens of just about any other country — and they probably care more than anyone else does about their prize. In the United States, a Nobel usually doesn’t produce even the modest uptick in sales that a Pulitzer or a National Book Award does. That fact may underlie Mr. Engdahl’s comments, and especially his observation that we don’t translate enough foreign literature. It’s true. We don’t. Publishers are always claiming that translations just don’t sell here, and they no longer even try anymore. Meanwhile we flood the rest of the world with our schlock, and the rest of the world doesn’t complain much. If you browse in an airport bookshop anywhere in Europe or Asia, you quickly discover that translated Danielle Steele sells almost as well there as back home.

It’s possible, in other words, that Mr. Engdahl has it in for American writers, the Updikes and Roths, not because of their own failings, real or imagined, but because of the rest of us, the American readers, who in truth don’t even read our own Nobel candidates in the numbers we used to, and whose poor mass-culture taste is infecting the rest of the world, even Sweden. Mr. Engdahl has to keep up standards, and probably from his point of view, the more we complain about the Nobel Prize, the more we prove his point.

Published in the New York Times. October 5, 2008

Getting Around

2008-10-02T11:44:00.000-07:00

Lately, I’ve been thinking about a serious choice I would have to make if I ever moved to a metropolitan area: car or no car? In the Midwest, it’s not a question many people ever ask themselves. Not having a car in Saginaw, for example, is extremely debilitating – it can even cost you a job. Out here, however, where car insurance is skyrocketing and parking places are few and far between, having a car can break the bank. It all depends on where you live.

Living where I am now, in Newton, a city mostly made up of large homes, schools, and upscale dining and shopping, would probably require a car – the public transportation around here doesn’t span as widely as it does in cities like Cambridge, Allston, or Boston proper. However, if I lived in Cambridge or closer to downtown Boston, having a car would be a nuisance.

I like my car. It suits me well, and once I learned how to get around, it gave me a sense of freedom. Learning your way around somewhere new is one of the steps you must undertake to becoming comfortable and settled, and though it is a necessary one it is also sometimes the most frustrating. But now that I am not constantly turning around, I enjoy driving here. It’s an adventure to be sure: no one uses a turn signal, bikes pass from every direction and don’t follow traffic laws, and pedestrians (myself included) cross the street with little regard for crosswalks or stoplights. But even the traffic, like everything else in life, gets easier to manage with time and experience.

This newfound confidence in driving around here makes me wonder if I could get rid of my little Bug. Would I feel as unfettered exploring the area if I had to rely on bus and train schedules only? Sure I would probably live in an area with more options for transportation, but having my car everywhere I go in the Midwest is comforting. Sure, I’m not going to drive up to Maine this weekend, but if the inspiration struck me I could. But having the ability to pop off to Maine for the weekend (keeping in mind that I could always rent a car for a day or two if I needed one) is overshadowed by how much cheaper and environmentally friendly public transport seems to be: $59.00 a month for unlimited local bus and train service versus up to $750-$1000 a month for a car payment, gas, and insurance? Cute bug aside, the numbers speak for themselves.

I’m traveling home in a few weeks for the weekend, and during the two weekdays I’m there I won’t have a car. It will be strange to be both car-less and unable to catch public transportation, and the time will probably make me realize how nice that option is. People who have only ever lived where public transportation is dirty, dangerous, and totally unreliable don’t see how much a wide-reaching system could benefit the community and the environment, and that’s sad. Because they don’t have a choice, they don’t see that there could be a choice, and therefore our dependence on the automobile and oil continues. I’m glad that I have had the opportunity to experience using public transportation out here so that I am reminded that even though I love my car, I could live without it.

Dawn of the Deadbolt

2008-09-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

I've officially decided to abandon my writing aspirations and am working on a new movie set to come out this Halloween. I know, that's not very much time to get backers, cast, shoot, and edit a whole movie. But the idea is so rich there's no way I won't end up the same.

And because you're my faithful readers, I thought I'd give you a sneak peak:

"In a world where flesh-eating zombies rule the streets, one woman will dare to fight back the only way she can: by locking the door."

Cut to little old lady in a rocker, sewing, a zombie through the window about to open her door, and she nonchalantly reaches up and locks the door without missing a stitch. The zombie shakes its head and walks away.

"She's kind of slow, but they're slower."

Cut to old lady doing a crossword puzzle in an easy chair, while behind her, out the window, a man with a baseball bat is chasing a zombie around.

"They might have an incurable thirst for blood, but she has an incurable thirst for soup."

Cut to old lady eating tomato soup at her kitchen table while behind her, out the window, a zombie is feasting on a leg.

"This Halloween, they won't die. They won't be sated. But they will shy away from a lock. If you only see one movie this Halloween season, see Dawn of the Deadbolt. This film is not yet rated."

Asking Directions

2008-09-19T08:54:00.001-07:00

This morning as I walked down to the coffee shop in Newtonville, I was queried twice by people who actually stopped their vehicles in the middle of intersections to get directions from me. Do I really look that knowledgeable? They probably thought I was a seasoned student - in my Keens, big green backpack and quirky t-shirt, listening to my iPod and walking purposefully toward my destination. I was confident enough with the first request but, as I usually do when looking back upon all the bad directions I've been given in my life, worried for the next three blocks whether or not I was correct.

I distrusted myself so much, in fact, that merely five minutes later I shrugged at the next woman who stopped her car in the middle of the intersection to ask me directions to Boston College. But even this time, as I had let myself off to hook from giving bad directions by giving no directions, I realized I knew exactly where Boston College was, that she was on the right road, and all I had to do was tell her to keep going and look out for it on her right. I hoped that perhaps she would find it anyway - she wasn't that far away - and not curse me for all eternity for being so ignorant.

How is it that lost out-of-towners always end up asking ask other lost out-of-towners for
directions? I do it too: when I'm somewhere I don't know, I manage to ask the only other visitor where to go, and am never surprised when they turn to me, their deer-in-the-headlights eyes mirroring mine, and shrug. "I'm so sorry," they say, "I don't live here." And I understand and look for the next sucker, who, half the time, doesn't live there either.

I suppose I should feel relieved that I no longer look lost, at least not on the streets close to home. That means I'm becoming more confident and familiar with my area. Has it really only been three weeks since Kristi and I rolled into town? I feel I've been here much longer. And, obviously, I look it too - I doubt drivers risk mid-intersection pileups to query just anyone. Although this is Boston. Risking mid-intersection pileups seems to be par for the course.

Another reason I choose to walk.

The Wheels on the Bus

2008-09-16T19:25:00.000-07:00

I remember riding the city bus with my mom when I was a kid. That’s what we called it, the “city bus.” I’m sure Springfield, Illinois had some sort of mass transit acronym, but if they did I never knew it. The bus mostly took us downtown, into the city, so the name stuck. I don’t think we rode the city bus for any other reason than it was fun; we had a perfectly good car (okay we had a perfectly running car), but my parents have so many funny memories of me as a child on that bus that it must have been partially upon my insisting.

After riding buses and trains as my main mode of transportation for two weeks now, I think back to these memories of the city bus and realize, with a comforting relief, they’re all the same. I think one of the reasons I felt so at ease the first time I stepped on an MBTA bus here was that it smelled the same as the busses from my childhood. I’m not talking about a foul smell, like urine or anything, but bus exhaust mixed with plastic seats and the compounded history of an endless stream of people sleepily gripping the metal bar on their way to work every weekday morning. And I’m comfortable with that smell. To me, it says productivity, motivation, and life, even when it’s rush hour and I’m stuck sitting next to the girl who finds it necessary to gossip at high volume on the phone with her girlfriend.

I like almost everyone on the bus, even the blabbermouth with the pink sparkly Razr. I like to wonder where they’re going, what they do for a living, and if there’s someone waiting at home for them who has gotten off his or her own bus. I like to see what they’re reading, hear what music they’re listening to (even though I cringe at the thought of how loud that must be in their ears) and take count of the items they carry. Some sleep, some study, some stare at their iPods, and some eat, even though the sign says not to. I got on the bus one morning with a girl carrying a Chihuahua in a handbag and realized I’d never thought of dogs on buses. How else would you take your animal to the vet if you didn’t have a car?

Sometimes, in the mornings, I ride with a man on crutches and his young son. I like to imagine what it would have been like to ride the city bus to school. It would have lost its charm, I’m sure. I quickly would have wished for a warm car or at least a school bus filled with my classmates, just as it is possible, in December, I will wish for my own car despite the traffic and outrageous parking. But I feel it is part of my experience here to get used to it: the delays, the rainy days, the girl blabbering on her phone, and the long trek up the hill from the bus stop at night. By January I will probably shrug off the hill, learn to read in the midst of chaos, and ignore each and every other passenger. Until that time, I’m just the curious passenger in someone else’s story about their bus ride to work.

Why I Don't Make My Bed

2008-09-12T09:42:00.001-07:00

The only problem with a made bed is that it's so pretty I always just want to lay down on it.