Twitter… I know, I know.

Because my life is crazy at the moment, blogging has taken a back seat to it– this crazy mess of my life. Nothing too serious, though–with the exception of my car dying on the side of the freeway at 2 a.m. this past Friday night/Saturday morning and now needing a brand new engine which is costing $3500–just a LOT of other STUFF going on. But I have been Twittering a bit. I know, I know, I know what you’re thinking. But it’s fun, and less of a commitment. (Sorry blog, you knew I wasn’t a relationship kinda girl when we met.) I’m not nearly as addicted as others, but I tend to drop the occasional witty 140-character-comment

Hope all is well with you! Thanks for being so understanding, blog. You’re such a good friend I’ll be back more regularly after the crazy mess is a little more organized.

xoxo

Friends on the moon, friends in the mail.

The man looks sad tonight. My friend on the moon. His face has changed. Maybe it’s because my dirty bedroom window has tainted his pale visage. Or maybe it’s just the wisp of cloud passing him by. Or maybe I’ve changed. I’ve been too busy to acknowledge him of late, and really, we can only get together once or twice a month. I know, I’m not the most easily accessible friend. I never answer my phone, I don’t have time to gaze at the sky, I’m hardly online anymore, I go to sleep before midnight, I rarely post blog entries! I’m such a flake, and the man knows it. And he is sad, and I feel guilty. But I have good reason, you know. I work a lot, two jobs now, and am still in school.

Another friend I’ve neglected lately wrote me a letter. A real, snail mail letter. You know how exciting it is to get an email from a good friend? Well, let me tell you, it is 100 times more exciting to get an actual letter in your mailbox! Breaks up the monotony of bills and Victoria’s Secret catalogs. (Even better, my federal tax refund arrived in the mail the same day!)

I was talking to a coworker recently about art, and how I’d really love to take a class in figure drawing or oil painting. She asked why I hadn’t yet, and I replied, “I’ve just got so much else to do! Other classes that have priority, job responsibilites, sleep to catch up on, etc.” You know, life. And she said something like, “Be careful. There will always be other things to do.” And it’s so true, and you hear it all the time, you know? But you rarely stop to think about how time affects your friendships. And how long it has actually been since you’ve seen certain friends, or talked to them, or hell, even sent a measly email or Facebook comment. And then the guilt sets in, and then the fear they’ll be angry with you , so you put off that phone call even longer and THEN! there you are five years, ten years later, and sure, some of those friends you’re kind of glad to be rid of, but some you really, really miss, and google every now and again and wonder what they’re up to, and where they’re living and you hope that one day, maybe, you’ll be able to reconnect with them, if you’re lucky

I’ve been pretty lucky lately. I have some of the best friends in the world. Friends who send letters in the mail. Friends who collaborate and create beautiful art. Friends who will talk on the phone for hours if need be. Friends who are really good people. Don’t be jealous. If you need a good friend too, I could always use a spare

Die big.

I was watching PBS last night instead of the Grammys. (You totally think I’m an intellectual elitist, I know, but just wait to read the whole story, okay?) Because, really, who cares about which crappy pop singer wins best new artist? I certainly don’t.

So when I saw that The Eleventh Annual Mark Twain Prize for American Humor had been awarded, posthumously, to the comedic genius, George Carlin, choosing to watch the hour and a half special tribute featuring Jon Stewart, Bill Maher, Denis Leary, Joan Rivers, Lewis Black, Margaret Cho, and others, instead of the Grammys, was a no-brainer. And if you can’t understand, there is one of only two reasons why: 1) You have been living on a deserted island for the past forty years and have never seen George Carlin perform or 2) You are very religious.

I am not a huge fan of stand up comedy, because so much of today’s is lame, but Carlin is classic. He is incredibly intelligent, so much of his comedy is as well. More than a comedian, he was truly a social anthropologist of sorts. His insight about religion is raw and honest and fan-fucking-tastic. He was a trailblazer for “non-believers,”  constantly bemused by how seemingly logical people can be so deceived by “the greatest bullshit story ever told,” about “an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do every minute of the day.”

Carlin was also a master of language, a lifetime student of the spoken word. An avid reader, he owned thousands of books; he loved quippy cliches and foul expletives  more than a wannabe novelist, and actually went to The Supreme Court to defend his “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television.”

It was announced that he would be honored with the Mark Twain award a week before his death, so Carlin knew about it and even wrote a few notes, which were found with his belongings and were read by his daughter at the ceremony.

It was a sad day back in June when I learned he had passed away. Especially because that phrase is so inappropriate in his case. Carlin says that we shouldn’t just pass away. We should die big. Carlin certainly lived big. And as Bill Maher stated, Carlin died in a hospital named for a saint (St. John’s) in a city named for a saint (Santa Monica.) So he did die big, giving us one last laugh.

We’re laughing with you, George!

Carve it.

Yes, that is a watermelon. Marvelous, right? Check out the ‘melon madness here. It totally made my day.

Face tag

A Facebook friend tagged me and even though I sort of already did this, here on my blog, I think I was able to come up with some new stuff. And since I haven’t posted in awhile, well, here is a really lazy, self-absorbed post.

Rules: Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you. These are in any random order…

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

1. I get writer’s block just by looking at my closed laptop.

2. I can think of stories and topics I want to write about so easily, and weave sentences together so effortlessly in my mind. But the second I pick up a pen to write it all down, they vanish. Nothing left except the hollow space once inhabited by my creativity.

3. Five beautiful doves have joined the finches and sparrows nesting and living in our backyard aviary. I watch them when I have writer’s block, while I sit at my desk with my laptop open. I’m watching them now.

4. I do not know how to sew or knit. I have no desire to learn how to sew or knit.

5. I love to cook elaborate dinners while drinking wine.

6. I love watching other people cook elaborate dinners while drinking wine.

7. I love hearing songs that remind me of certain friends or moments in time. It is better than looking at photographs; all of the old emotions still hardwired in my brain being pumped through my body,with each meter in the music, feelings that have been there all along, hibernating but still a part of me, as important as my heart, my blood, my memories.

8. I like being nostalgic.

9. Some of those memories and emotions are painful, but I could never wish them away.

10. My sister and I can make each other laugh without much more than a glance.

11. We used to play this game when we were kids, where we’d sit on our beds facing each other and throw balled up socks as hard as we could toward each others’ heads. Once we ran out of socks, whoever could pick one up and shove it into the other person’s mouth first, was the winner… LOL.

12. I usually won.

13. Not all the time, though.

14. And the socks were usually dirty.

15. I do not have a green thumb. But I have this little orchid in my bedroom that is growing beautifully and blooms often and my mother, who has a green thumb and a thousand healthy plants but can’t seem to keep an orchid alive longer than a month, is insanely jealous.

16. I haven’t eaten red meat in 15 years.

17. I’m kind of a flake.

18. I like painting my nails with polka dots.

19. Ladybug design is my favorite.

20. When I was a little girl, I ate onions like they were apples. Just biting right into one!

22. I still love onions. But sliced, in a sandwich or salad, not whole.

23. One of my favorite Christmas presents of 2008 was a purse made from the cover of an old book.

24. I am happy to have no valentine this year.

25. That is my story and I’m sticking with it.

Since I can’t tag anyone here, feel free to leave a comment saying you would like to be tagged. I will reply to your comment, and tag you

Marginalia.

“You just like them because they’re old,” my dad said to me, after I proudly showed him the 1943 Random House editions of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights I recently purchased from two different independent booksellers. They were originally sold as a set.

“Well yeah,” I admitted. “But also because of the art. And the smell. And the inscriptions. And the marginalia.”

The art is truly incredible.

What is most amazing about the art is that they are actually wooden engravings letter pressed from electrotypes. I don’t know how well you’ll be able to ascertain how detailed they are from the photographs, but it is impressive. The artist, Fritz Eichenberg, also produced wooden engravings for several other books: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, among others.

One of my favorite smells in the whole world is “old book.” I love browsing through the stacks in libraries and scouring the aisles of antique bookstores. The quiet atmosphere, the smell, the organization! Heaven Being surrounded by books makes me feel safe and comfortable and just happy; especially in San Francisco. If I pass a bookstore I will step inside, if only to look around for a moment and take a few deep breaths and relax. The city can be a little overwhelming for a country girl like me

Finding a used book with a personal inscription in it is more exciting to me than finding money on the ground… or at least as exciting! Maybe as exciting as finding a one hundred dollar bill To read something so intimate and ambiguous is like peeking into a stranger’s past and becoming a silent witness at a particular moment in their lives. It is special.

My friend, “Lee”, wrote a beautiful inscription to his friend about, ironically enough, old books. (Lee and I are a lot alike. I started writing this post a few days ago, when I first got the books, but haven’t had the time to finish it. In the meantime,  Lee emailed me, and told me to read this inscription he wrote and I was surprised for about two seconds. Our thought processes intersect quite frequently, so the novelty has begun to wear away.) Anyhow, I don’t know his friend but will link you to her website so you can read his wonderful inscription. It is too good for me not to link you to it. I can only imagine how, a hundred years from now, someone will someday discover that book and read his inscription in complete awe.

I cherish all the books I own that contain inscriptions, whether they were written for me or not. I just hope that one day, when I am no longer here, someone will care for them as much as I do.

Marginalia. That’s a great word, isn’t it? Used books tend to be marked down in price if their pages contain marginalia. I find that lucky and baffling, at the same time. If I had to choose between a clean book and one with notes in the margins and highlighted passages, I’d choose the latter, every time. To me, it isn’t about getting the cheaper copy (although that is a lucky bonus!) more than it is about having a book with a little history; a book that can offer a second perspective. I love the hints and insight given by the previous owner, seeing what that person thought was important enough to highlight and note. I love having that disembodied connection with the book’s past.

But maybe my dad is right, in the end. More than anything else, I love holding something that is almost 40 years older than I am. Knowing that when something is truly special, it will endure the wear and tear and decay of time. I resent the Amazon Kindle. It may be practical, but it isn’t romantic, the way a book is. I almost feel like it is disrespectful. I never understood why some people first hated the idea of mp3s, or even CDs. I myself much prefer to download music. But because of the Kindle I now totally understand why audiophiles who cherish records and/or jewel cases resent the inevitable obsolescence of those items. They’ve become novelty.

Nothing is sacred for everyone. Not books, not records, not CDs, not art, not even god. The important thing is to figure out what is sacred to you, if you haven’t already. And respect what others find sacred. Even if you don’t.

*I recently patronized a Barnes & Noble with my mother. She was looking for a certain book; when we made our way to the register, the cashier asked if we were club members. My mother looked at me and said, “Aren’t you?”

“No,” I said and smiled at the guy, not wanting to go into detail and possibly insult him. When he started in on his spiel about how if we spend $250 in one year we end up saving a lot of money with the membership, I almost laughed. Instead I smiled again and said, “Quite honestly, I never spend that much money here. I usually shop at independent and used bookstores, but thanks anyway.”

I do sometimes feel a little guilty about the fact that I am basically working in the book publishing industry yet I refuse to shop at major book chains. It seems pretty hypocritical, right? But you see, it is because of those market-hogging giants that the industry is in such a rut right now, demanding what will sell and ultimately controlling what gets published, so eff them, really. Thousands of independent bookstores went out of business last year, and not just because the market is so shitty. I think the general consensus is that when monopolies begin to control any industry, nothing good will come from it.

To find an independent bookstore near you, visit IndieBound.*

Rejection.

Writing rejection letters is worse then receiving them. Trust me.

I love that at M/C we go the extra mile to write personal rejection letters. The author of each manuscript we decide not to accept receives a very polite letter, explaining our “pass.” We even offer complimentary criticism of the “praise sandwich” variety; a bit of constructive criticism stated between two pieces of fluffy compliment. I think it is admirable to do this, especially in a publishing climate as icy and impenetrable as today’s.

The hard part for me? Trying to write a witty, helpful, gentle yet firm letter; one which they will, naturally, be disappointed to receive, yet nevertheless feel appreciative toward; that an editor(ial intern) took the time to not only read his/her manuscript, but actually gave it enough thought in order to offer praise and criticism.

The hardest part for me? Receiving phone calls from the rejected authors and, being the nice person that I am, finding myself on the listening end of a 30-minute conversation about life, depression, dogs, and regret that concludes only after the author has said, “Let me ask you one more question” five times, and I politely reply with each appropriate response.

Don’t get me wrong; being nice isn’t the hard part. I have loads of diplomacy up my sleeves, customer service skill like Michael Jordan has BBall skill, and patience like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for her prince. Being nice is my middle name.

The hardest part of rejecting a manuscript is feeling like an evil, bitch editor who will inevitably become the antagonist in each rejected writer’s memoir; the person who almost dashed all the hopes and dreams of a future Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. I hold in my hands, at any given moment, the blood, sweat, tears and carpal-tunnel-syndrome-inducing pages produced from the imagination and experience of an eager and optimistic writer. Those pages are the pride of his very existence. The embodiment of her passion, dedication, inspiration and purpose of life.

I have the utmost respect for those pages.

I respect anyone and everyone who willingly offers up his words for others to read. I respect every writer who manages to actually focus her attention on one story long enough to create a novel.

Unfortunately for those who manage both of these emotionally challenging feats, not everything is worthy of being published. Not every story will appeal to a wide enough spectrum of people in order for a publisher to recoup printing and marketing expenses and make a profit. And not every writer is willing to put in all the hard work, research, and rewriting necessary to produce the end result they all desire.

Unfortunately for me, I will ultimately be the bad guy; my name is at the bottom of the rejection letter.  I become the bitchy editor who doesn’t see what an amazing and brilliant writer you are; shame on me. My loss, right?

All I can ask is that you don’t use my name in any future story you write. Which is why I will definitely continue handing out praise sandwiches as if my life depends on it! And because I like to be nice

Validation

How smiles and friendliness can change the world! Awesome film

Horoscope

Um, this was my horoscope for today. If you read my last post, you might be as equally floored as I was:

This first day of the new year tempts you to withdraw into a world of fantasy, for your thoughts can easily float into conceptual realms where you are not bound by reality. At the same time, you cannot get away from those close friends and family who keep bringing you back to the present moment, making it difficult for you to fully escape. Resign yourself to living in two worlds now by balancing your subjective inner life with the objective outer circumstances.

Weird. Totally, totally, weird.

Imaginary Worlds of Words

I’ve been living in two worlds lately. Well, more like living in an imaginary one, and just sort of existing in the other, the tangible world, merely because physics commands it to be that way.

Unfortunately, the tangible world has felt less and less so, as I find myself continuously inundated by imaginary worlds, hundreds of imaginary worlds. I am stuck between pages, crammed into sentence space, lost in black letters. Fictional characters are my friends, and my real friends feel more fictional than the fictional, or at least equally so, since most communication with them occurs on pages, in sentences, black letters on a white screen.  You can see where the line of demarcation between real life and imaginary life might blur… No? Okay, maybe I’m being a little dramatic.

But after two months of becoming better acquainted with characters in stories and all the fictional drama that ensues, I feel less acquainted with the flesh-and-blood cast of characters of whom my tangible world has typically, in the past, been enmeshed.  I’ve felt so completely stuck inside my own head that I very nearly had a nervous breakdown. This was proven to me two nights ago, as I checked my email for the fiftieth time in the past week to find, yet again, that a certain friend had still not emailed me back. While lack of frequent communication with said friend would typically not bother me too much, since we do actually write each other a lot, the combination of that lapse and my hermit-like reading habit for my new editorial gigs, PLUS my lack of proper socialization in accordance with The Standard Twenty-Something Lifestyle Rulebook, led to an all-out “woe is me, where have all the cowboys gone” emotional crisis in email form, sent, undeservingly so, to this friend. He responded immediately and said nice things (although he did call me the second best guilt tripper after his mother), and didn’t offer the number to a suicide helpline. So I guess (hopefully) I didn’t sound that pathetic.

On the bright side, the imaginary worlds have been welcoming and incredible (for the most part) and I have accepted this strange, new existence because I don’t mind the trade-off. I have finally found that I can be a 9 to 5 paper pusher, when the paper I am pushing is literary and and fun and new all the time, and not just hotel invoices, guest itineraries and mundane, office data-entry crap. On the not-so-bright side, at least I was getting paid for the mundane paper pushing. These two literary gigs are amazing experiences and will look great on my resume, but, aside from free books, occasional lunches and the pride of actual contribution to published literature, no pay is given in exchange for services rendered. Thus, I continue my search, the never-ending search it seems in this economy, for a job where a paycheck will be a benefit, if even the only benefit.

I wish I could talk about my literary gigs more openly and in hilarious and horrifying detail, but, ethically, I cannot. Or maybe I can, but I’m not sure I should. I will say this: If you are a writer and are planning to query a publisher or literary agent, please check your spelling and grammar. Please have other people read your work, and edit, edit, edit! Please research the people/company to whom you are sending your work; maybe even read a book they’ve already published so you can get an idea of what they might like. And always personalize your cover letters! Never write “Dear Editor” or “To Whom It May Concern.” But I’m just a newbie, right? What do I know? A LOT, actually! And fyi, since hundreds of editors have been laid off throughout the publishing industry, interns and assistants like me are probably the people who are sending the rejection letters. And we’re a tough crowd, since we’re all trying to impress the senior editors by discovering the next hit book, thus achieving personal success in the form of a real, editorial job. (Oh man, I wish I could type that without a sad chuckle.)  So make sure your writing is fucking stellar!

Here’s hoping for a literary revival and the resurrection of publishing in 2009! May it recover from the awful ass-kicking it has recently received. Happy New Year, indeed.

Read this awesome book, for even better advice on getting published.

This one too.