Transfer #14 from Blogspot

I have been Horribly Remiss…


in blogging. I know, I know.  I think I can confidently say such a long period of radio silence will not happen again.   The week leading up to my trip to Austin was filled with insanity – printing the (hopefully) final version of Haunted by Hemingway, packing, work deadlines and etcetera.  Then, Austin. Which was sun-drenched and tequila-soaked and in many ways utterly wonderful, and it many ways completely depressing.  And then I came home, and all was well, and I was ready to blog, but before blogging I decided to make fajitas (I can't stop eating tex-mex, it's becoming a bit of a problem over here in the suburbs…) and I sliced my middle finger on a can of refried beans, and it bled BLOODY EVERYWHERE.  There – I've always wanted to sound British, if only for a fleeting moment. Seriously though, my finger bled all over the apartment; it was disgusting.  I am proud to say that I handled it fairly calmly, if "Oh, fuck. Oh, Mary, Mother of God. Oh, ow ow ow ow ow o ow" and inexpicably hopping around on one foot can be considered calm.  Anyway.  Every time I went to type the wound opened and it is just today that I've been able to sit at a computer and have it NOT break open.   For those of you who know me well, you may perhaps remember I am every so slightly the hypochondriac – and watching blood ooze onto my laptop is not cool. Not cool at all.  But for now I think we are back in business. Strangely, I sliced the middle finger of my right hand, down the center…on the opposite side of said finger I have a very similar scar from my skiing accident.  That particular finger is officially incredibly ugly now.

So, to backtrack a bit.   The manuscript is submitted. There's nothing left to do but wait a month.  After careful consideration I kept "A Place to Rest" as the second to last chapter, despite feedback suggesting the contrary.  I couldn't help myself – I liked it too much.  To see that chapter you can go through the archives if interested…it's in here somewhere.   So. By the grace of God goes the book.  Then, Austin and the Associated Writer's Press Conference.  It was, okay.  I enjoyed Austin tremendously and encourage everybody to visit for amazing food, drink, sun and sky.  There's nothing like the Texas sky – it just goes on and on and on forever and ever and ever.  It totally bowled me over.  But I didn't like being surrounded by some 40,000 writers.  It's in those situations where you realize exactly what your dream is up against.  If I heard the phrase "Well, my book explores…." I thought I'd lose my mind.  Apparently, EVERYBODY has a book, and at these conferences you have to push your own agenda so completely as to disregard everybody else around you.  I also didn't like the disparity between college professors/instructors and, well, everybody else.  I actually felt, what's the word? Marginalized? Disrespected? For writing for a cancer center.  Let me tell you, if you aren't holed up in some English Department deconstructing Alice Walker and smoking profusely, these people want nothing to do with you.  And of course this environment raises my perhaps somewhat overactive defenses.  I mean, HELLO. I might know somebody who knows somebody who knows sombody who may eventually CURE CANCER! But all of that is just the way my own particular securities arise, and instead of networking and moving my career forward my insecurities and I made our way to the roottop pool where there was a phone TO ORDER DRINKS RIGHT UP TO THE POOL!!!  Enough said on Austin. I think you know how I spent the majority of my time.

And now, for the first time since Sam and I moved from North Carolina, I can honestly say I am remembering that life can be fun.   I can write what I want to write (a book about a catholic university, a novel, a group of essays). I can read (so far I've read Terms of Endearment and The Triggerman's Dance, both great novels).  I can watch television, although now that the opportunity is readily available I'm not so interested.   I can possibly start a book club. I can work out.  I can actually listen to my husband when he speaks to me, instead of thinking about deadines.  I can breath again. And it is so beautiful.  Graduate school was good for my writing, but not good for my anxiety levels and somewhat oversensitive nature.

But don't worry, plenty of things are still driving me batty.  Don't even get me started on our port deal with the United Arab Emirates.  Or on the statistics from Iraq that yahoo sports every day, that we all seem to ignore.  Or the NCAA basketball tournament.  Or everybody's obsession with myspace.  OR THOSE NEW EARPIECES FOR CELLPHONES.  SUDDENLY THEY ARE EVERYWHERE…WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN? I mean, people are actually using them while using the restroom at work.  Or the inability to find American-made jeans.  But all of that can wait for a day or two.  Tonight's the kind of night it's important to remember that life can be made up, of anything we like – it can be made up of books and good wine and people trying to save the world and makeup on sale.  It can be, just, really really lovely.

More Friday. In the mean time, let me know how you are doing.

This entry was posted in Everything In Between, The Private, Time for a Hundred Visions and Revisions, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Transfer #14 from Blogspot

  1. Jamie says:

    Just searching on google and found your site. It was ranked fairly high on google to. Anyway just looking around to see why.

  2. This is very nice and informative post. I have bookmarked your site in order to find out your post in the future.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s