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November is National Novel Writing Month.
Get it?
NaNoWriMo 
Visit the website at www.nanowrimo.org if you don’t believe me! I first learned about Nanowrimo from another Litquake volunteer and recently signed myself up, after a serious discussion with myself that went sort of like this:
“Uh, yeah right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like you can really write a 50,000 word novel in a month?”
“Well, I’m gonna try. That is the whole premise of the idea, isn’t it? To try?”
“YEAH RIGHT! You can hardly write more than a blog post or two in a month! You think you’re really going to write a 50,000 WORD NOVEL! HAHAHAHAHA!”
“Screw you, jerk! I’m GOING to do it now, just to prove you wrong!”
“Wanna bet?”
“Okay.”
“If you write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November, then I will give up chocolate and soy lattes for the entire month of December.”
“But that will mean I have to give up chocolate and soy lattes too. What the hell is in it for me?”
“Hey, you’ll lose a little weight!”
“Okay, fine jerk, it’s a bet.”
As you can tell, I’m a little lonely these days
After signing up I got a little welcome email from Nanowrimo, offering a bit of advice and some general guidelines. For instance, you create an author profile where you can upload your word count, starting November 1st, and excerpts from your novel-in-progress. You can also join a region, meet other Nanowrimos and participate in write ins, where a bunch of people get together to, well, write. It’s basically a support group.
The important thing, they urge, is to write and write and write and NOT EDIT. Which is something I will certainly have trouble refraining from doing. Also, one rule they have, is that you must start from scratch. Nothing already in progress. Their argument is that you will be too attached to the idea and care too much about your characters. Start afresh. This way, you can be totally cutthroat. It will be messy, yes, a brand new story and characters and plots without the safety net of careful typing and thoughtful, precision-like editing? That is so not my style. But that is probably a good thing, since I haven’t gotten SHIT published in about six months.
Perhaps the most important thing they suggest, is to tell EVERYONE that you are writing a novel in November. “The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.” So they stated. And I believe it. So I am merely becoming an active participant, for real, and not just in my little head, by voicing it to the world.
Effin a.
It’s safe to say I will be burying myself into a hole next month. It’ll be like Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow and scurried right back into his burrow. To write for four straight weeks.
It’s a good thing I already voted via absentee ballot
Check me out at NaNoWriMo: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/416853
After showing Tobias and Catherine Wolff to the green room, I was practically bouncing, on clouds, back to the check-in table.
As I passed the main entrance of the Contemporary Jewish Museum, I glanced at the glass doors, which were locked (the museum’s security is on par with security measures at The White House, it seemed) and saw George Saunders and his wife waving to get my attention. I waved back and pointed them to the cafe entrance to which I ran, in heels no less, and opened the door. Mr. Saunders extended his hand and introduced himself as George, “and this is my wife, Paula!” They were so nice! You sometimes don’t expect celebrities to be all that cordial, but writers are of a different breed. I should know that I shook their hands, guided them toward the check-in table, and walked them back to the green room. Tom Barbash checked in next, with a friend who he introduced as “also a writer” and who’s name I, embarrassingly and regrettably, cannot remember. They were very nice as well, and chatty, as I guided them, yes, to the green room.
(In the middle of all the chaos, Wavy Gravy was chillin’ at a table in the cafe, drinking coffee and reading.)
The tribute commenced shortly thereafter, following me literally running around to see if the emcee, Dr. Michael Krasny, of NPR/KQED fame, had yet arrived. Thankfully he had, he just hadn’t checked in. (I heard one of the museum curators say to another, “I’ve never seen someone who could run in heels so well!” I laughed and took that as a compliment.) After the audience had taken their seats, we volunteers quietly slid in and up the stairs, sitting in the very last row of the small theatre.
The tribute lasted a little over an hour, begun with a stellar performance from Word For Word of an excerpt from one of Mr. Wolff’s stories, Down To Bone. Everyone spoke with such respect and reverence for Tobias Wolff, not only as a writer, but as a mentor and a friend and a human being, it made me want to read everything he has ever written. In fact, it made me ashamed that I had not yet read everything he’s ever written, and I’ve vowed to do so as soon as possible! But more than that, it made me feel incredibly honored to be a witness; a spectator at this beautiful award ceremony for a writer whose work has consumed my attention, and whose character, proven in the admiration of his friends and colleagues, and contribution to literature and education represents a person truly worthy of idolatry; an anomaly in today’s celebrity culture, especially in America.
Ann Packer talked about her relationship with Wolff, one that began as idolatry and evolved into a camaraderie, and about the dichotomy between the two; the respect she has for the writer Tobias Wolff and the friendship she has with Toby Wolff. The other speakers echoed this, in anecdotes about their experiences with him as a teacher, as a writer/role model and as a friend.
His political views and contributions were also recognized. Stephen Elliott praised Mr. Wolff for his contribution to the Progressive Reading Series, quoting Ann Packer in saying that Mr. Wolff is a “willing foot soldier in the war against idiocy” explaining that “many writers are appalled by the meanness of the Bush administration, but few have actually rolled up their sleeves and done something about it.” (I may be paraphrasing!) He has done readings for the Progressive Reading Series, placed phone calls to voters on election days, “Imagine getting a phone call from Tobias Wolff reminding you to vote!” Elliott exclaimed, and has worked to raise money and awareness for progressive candidates and causes.
George Saunders mentioned that, upon purchasing the house previously inhabitated by Mr. Wolff and his family, he discovered in the garage, the actual sled from Wolff’s story The Chain, (recently republished in his short story collection, Our Story Begins) pencil markings of his children’s heights at various times in their lives, and “in the basement, on a workbench, marked in red crayon in a childish scrawl: DOWN WITH THE REPUBLICANS!”
One of my favorite moments was also described by Saunders:
During the Q & A, [after a reading at Syracuse University] someone asks what Toby would do if he couldn’t be a writer.
A long, perplexed pause.
“I would be very sad,” he finally says.
The room makes a sound that means: we would too.
My new friend Jen and I milled about the museum after the ceremony, hoping for the chance to talk to him and perhaps even ask him to sign our books, but he was encircled by friends and fans and, ultimately, we lacked the courage to do so. Frozen by fear, in spite of the knowledge that he is affable and easy to approach, we finally gave up. Unfortunately, volunteers were not invited to the reception (one volunteer blew it for everyone after she was escorted out of the opening night reception for harassing the authors) so we left reluctantly.
Even though we didn’t get our books signed, I’m okay with that. And I’m okay with my status as an idolater. I feel as though I need build up a repertoire of literary accomplishments, before I can talk literature with my idol. “I’m a big fan” is all I’m worthy of saying to him at this point in my career!
Hopefully, I’ll stop feeling like a grinning idiot soon. I guess idolatry and idiocy are separated by a very fine line
I do not know where to begin. I am (almost) at a loss for words. I suppose I must begin by saying never, in my entire life, have I felt more inspired, more in tune with who I am, where I belong and why I am here, (yes, in that ever-so-existential way I can be fantastic at pondering pensively) than I do right now, at this moment, five days into volunteering for Litquake. Sitting on a BART train flooded in harsh, fluorescent lights, I feel as if I am floating; my entire being had been uplifted. I’m not exaggerating. My handwriting is shaky, erratic, unrecognizable even, because of this energy buzzing, coursing, through my body. (Even now, as I type this an hour later, I am still shaky.) I feel as if I have soaked my body in a coffee bath, my energy level so high one might say it could only be produced through osmosis, my skin absorbing gallons of the highly caffeinated liquid. (Or shooting speed perhaps, but I like the coffee reference better – it’s more innocent.) I would say that I have been in the presence of literary greatness in a way I’ve never imagined and if I have absorbed anything, I hope it is a even just a spark of what makes the literary figures to whom I’ve been an eager audience and hopeful idolater, so luminescent, so talented and so inspirational.
“I stood there quietly drowning in two rivers of happiness at the same time.” I read that in Elizabeth Gilbert’s beautiful memoir Eat, Pray, Love recently, and immediately after, set down the book and wrote the quote in my journal, and then wrote that I’d settle for one river. Or just a little creek. Hell, I’ll take a puddle! Because when going through a difficult time in your life, you hope that anything can lift you from the depth of your despair.
I have to admit that my “prayer” for a puddle has been answered and then some. I have been swimming in an ocean of happiness these past few days. And tonight, I think I finally, happily, drowned.
I arrived at the Contemporary Jewish Museum an hour earlier than the volunteer call time. I have been early for nearly every event I have worked. (Except one, only because the train I was on was moving much slower than usual for some reason.) Because of my unusual “early birdness”, I found myself sitting at a table in the museum cafe, chatting with Jane Ganahl, one of the founders of Litquake, and Ann Packer, along with Ann’s friend, also named Ann.
At first it was just Jane and me, and she casually mentioned how stressed she felt and that she had tweaked her neck somehow and couldn’t look to her right, so she had scheduled a massage for the next day. I smiled, a little timidly, and said, “Actually, I’m a massage therapist. I’d be happy to try to help you right now.” Her eyes widened and she said that that would be great. As I was performing the neck/shoulder melt on Jane, she spotted Ann Packer walk through the door and called out to her. Ann laughed as she approached us, Jane explaining the impromptu chair massage, and Ann mentioned how she had a headache. I couldn’t help myself: I said to her, “I’d be happy to show you a few pressure points that might alleviate your headache.” She smiled, sat down at our table and said, “Sure!” I finished with Jane, (who could fully move her head to the right after just a few minutes of massage!) and sat next to Ann, showing her pressure points on her hand, on the back of her neck, and just under her eyebrows. Yes, it felt a little strange to be in this situation, but hopefully I helped them both, even just a little bit. As we sat there afterward, I kept a little quiet, listening to the ladies talk about the festival. I wanted so much to say to Ann that I loved her short story collection, Mendocino and Other Stories. But I couldn’t. I think it was mostly because I felt mortified at not yet having had occasion to read her other books. The possibility that she might ask what else of hers I’d read, stopped me altogether from engaging her any further than offering a brief tutorial on one principle of Traditional Chinese Medicine. Basically, I chickened out.
So they chatted, without much interjection from a stupidly-smiling me, as the other authors began to pour into the cafe. All at once I was in the company (albeit at a safe distance of a few feet) of Tom Perrotta, Stephen Elliott, Andrew Foster Altschul, and the man of the hour himself, Tobias Wolff, along with a host of other people clearly comfortable in the crowd at which I stared, as casually as I could, in awe.
Jane and Ann joined the circle and I stayed at the table, hesitant to mingle, deciding to maintain my post at the check-in area. The crowd began to disperse, walking toward the green room to watch the presidential debate. I noticed that Tobias Wolff and who I presumed was his wife, stayed back to order food at the cafe. I glanced around the museum lobby until Jane caught my eye and said, “Melissa, will you please show them to the green room?” She gestured toward Mr. Wolff who smiled at me. Tobias Wolff smiled at me! I thought. I smiled back and jumped up and said, “Absolutely!” and as I approached them Mr. Wolff extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Toby and this is my wife, Catherine.” I shook both of their hands and replied, “Hi, I’m Melissa.”
I had imagined this moment on the ride into the city, not really thinking it would actually happen. But I had imagined everything I would say to him. I would tell him that his prose is so beautiful. I’d thank him for inspiring me; for writing such amazing stories that make me smile, or make me think, make me laugh or completely shock me, because of how wonderful they are and how they inspire me to be a better writer. I would apologize for only recently discovering his work and would say that I’d have to also thank him for the future me, because I know that he will continue to inspire me. I can foresee that inspiration, and it sounds ridiculous, but I know he will be a big influence in my life. I just know it.
I wanted to tell him all of that and more, but instead I said, “Congratulations on the award. I’m a big fan.” I was bursting inside, but I didn’t show it. (Ten years in hospitality has taught me a thing or two about discretion.) Toby smiled at me and said, “Thank you.” Catherine asked if I had seen Word For Word perform ever, and I told her I had not, and they both exclaimed how wonderful it was and that I was in for a treat, and so we chatted, all the way to the green room.
I was smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
Stay tuned…
Litquake begins in one week! I am so excited I can hardly contain myself! For those not quite in the know, Litquake is San Francisco’s brilliant festival of all things literary. A nine-day extravaganza of readings and discussions and gatherings that culminate in a mass pub crawl, the Lit Crawl, which takes place at about two dozen bars, cafes and bookstores in the Mission district.
One of the events I am most looking forward to takes place on Tuesday, October 7th. The Second Barbary Coast Award is being presented to Tobias Wolff and, (as some of you read in one of my previous entries) because I was recently mesmerized by his book, Old School, I am very excited to meet him. Did I type meet him? Yes, I most certainly did! Because as one of the Litquake volunteers, I get to meet all the authors. Furthermore, for the Barbary Coast Award Night, I get to be one of the author escorts! It is my responsibilty to greet the authors and escort them to their seats. Some may think this is a silly thing to be excited about, but I wouldn’t be more excited if I were an escort at the Academy Awards. I might be wearing a fancier dress, but I wouldn’t be as excited. I don’t know if being an escort includes escorting the honoree, but even so, just being behind the scenes at this magnificent event is enough for me to feel like I am a part of quite an amazing literary community, right here, in my home of the San Francisco Bay Area.
Let’s just hope the shootings and murders that have been rampant in the Mission this past month fully subside for the safety of festival goers. Gulp.
Have you ever felt inspiration and despair for the same thing within mere hours?
I bet it happens to me more often than I think. It probably happens to us all, all the time. The spectrum of human emotion is as detailed as the bits and bytes in binary numbers. Possibly more so. Like how people can have a thousand different facial expressions. Like a friend can have a thousand different facial expressions. How interesting is it that we know our friends’ faces almost better than we know our own. Perhaps it is that we see the beauty in a friend’s face easier than we see beauty in our own. All we see when we look into a mirror is what we dislike, the flaws, the old scars, the new wrinkles. I don’t know what I look like when I am happy, but I know what Mackensy looks like when she is contemplative. I know what Alexis looks like when she sees her son laugh. I know what Mike looks like when he is excited about something he is writing. I know the difference between my sister’s bartending smile and her genuine, Michelle, smile. Her canned laugh for the drunk guy at her bar, and her hysterical, tearful laughter when we’re talking about her sleepwalking escapades.
I finished reading Old School by Tobias Wolff late last night. It took me three days, only because I had other things to do. I would have finished in a day given the free time. No book has captured me, captivated me, the way this one did, with its beautiful prose. More poetry than prose really. Each word in a precise place, the way an epic poem is carefully constructed. Like crossing a river, rock by wobbly rock, stepping in just the right place to maintain that perfect balance. And what an incredible story! Masterful. Truly masterful. I wanted to read it again, as soon as I had finished the last sentence. I almost did, having turned the first page for a second time, before sighing and putting it in a safe place, resolved in my decision to try and read as much as I can from this year’s Litquake line up before the festival begins.
I was so inspired after reading that (I also have to mention I’ve read a few other books in the past two weeks which have contributed to that inspiration, namely, The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls and Dinner at The Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler.) I woke up this morning itching to write poetic prose. The subject matter I tend to be drawn to, however, usually sucks that beautiful inspiration out of me, and my drive starts to fade, and I lose my momentum, like a marathon runner who gets a stitch in his side midway through the race and slows, before eventually grasping at his ribcage is desperation. That’s me. Grasping in desperation to this romantic idea I have of writing emotionally-charged fiction. I’m really good at it in blogs, huh?!?! Somehow it just doesn’t translate into my fiction. I write, coldly, as Mike says. And then I get frustrated and “take a break.” Usually for a few days, or a few weeks, even months, before I give it another go. Because my inspiration has deflated, like birthday balloons the morning after. Sad orbs in darker colors than yesterday, hovering above the floor.
What I am choosing to read for Litquake, if I do it, is Pseudocide. The obvious choice. It is short and simple and SF related. And I started to get inspired, excited about it while chatting with Mike earlier this evening. But I now realize it is also controversial. (Like much of my fiction.) I watched 20/20 tonight and the first segment was about the 2007 documentary entitled The Bridge. It is not what inspired my piece, but many people, especially in SF, are concerned about its impropriety. They think it romaticizes the idea of committing suicide from the Golden Gate Bridge. Gulp. Does my story do that? I didn’t mean it too, but I don’t know. I cannot see my story from the outside. From a reader’s perspective. Much like I cannot see my own face, the way my friends see it.
Inspiration and despair are intertwined, like a smile and a frown. Like crying and laughing. Love and hate. Life and death.
Non dvcor, dvco. Yeah, that’s me to a T. (What does that mean, anyway?) But I have to admit; sometimes I feel like I’m being pulled. Like, by some external force, I am not allowed to be satisfied with the same thing, or the same place, or the same life for too long. Because I have goals too, Mike Golden goals. So maybe I just needed to remind myself that yes, I am in charge, I do lead, but sometimes I should stop and enjoy where I am, and savor any spark of inspiration I get, for as long as it lasts.
Free p*rn is what my mom calls any movie starring Viggo Mortensen when it is on cable television. Particularly the Lord of The Rings movies.
“Guess what’s on right now, Melissa?” My mom stood in my doorway earlier this evening, smiling unabashedly.
I paused from typing, used to interjections during moments of creativity or inspiration after being here a year and a half now, and glanced over my shoulder at her. “What, Mom?”
“Guess?” She grinned.
“Oh,” I didn’t have to guess. “Free p*rn?” I laughed.
“Yeah!” She giggled and disappeared from my doorway, and I could hear Aragorn filtering down the hallway from her bedroom and into mine.
* * *
I sat outside a coffee shop in San Francisco earlier this week, writing in my journal (ugh, I know, how uppity, artisty, coffeehouse-snob of me, right?) and thought a lot about my summer, and the days ahead of me. Spending almost two months in Orange County turned out not quite like the summer I had originally envisioned. I think I had gone there with the expectation that things had changed and realized quickly nothing had. Except for me. My disappointment was magnified by other things. By friends who couldn’t make time, by my need to work and study so much I hardly had time to go to the beach. And when I did it was so crowded it wasn’t enjoyable. I forgot how sardine-can-packed OC beaches get in the summer. How could I forget! Other disappointments I can’t really discuss; they’re private. But a few bright spots helped me get through it. Lyndi; my sister, when she was around and herself; Alexis and Rocknroll; and my wonderful job at a chiropractor’s office in Irvine. Seeing Kenz, and the boys a bit. Saw Rocky Votolato in Hollywood with Danny, Lars and Minh, which was amazing. Had a nice 27th birthday, despite a bit of drama amidst the celebration. Hey, what’s Melissa’s birthday without a bit of drama?
But overall, my time there was very beneficial. I got through my class, I spent time with people I missed, even if it wasn’t enough, and I made the important realization that I will never and could never and never want to live there again. There. I said it. Three nevers. Serious stuff.
My last night was spent packing and having dinner with a small group of friends. The next morning Michelle took me to John Wayne Airport where I hopped on a plane and flew the 3,000 miles to New Jersey. Spent about a week with all my family there, took a train to Baltimore, spent five days with Mike, the best tour guide on his side of the Mississippi, and now I’m back. Sitting at my desk, writing on my laptop, staring at my trees.
Almost as if the summer went by, as they say, in the blink of an eye.
What’s next on my agenda?
I started school this week. I swear, it is more difficult navigating the politics of matriculation and registration than it is to pass a class.
I start my internship at Om Records in the city on Tuesday. I’m stoked on that. I’ll let you all know how that goes.
I’ve started writing more. Mike met the girl who runs Word Riot, the website that published my flash fiction piece, Pseudocide. She remembered my story (!!!) and said it was very good, and that usually the other editors choose the stories they publish, but she chose mine. Needless to say, I was flattered and super happy to hear that. But aside from singing my praises to her, (which he did, good boy) he also mentioned to her that he wishes I were more prolific. That sort of ruffled my feathers. Lit a fire under my ass, so to speak He’s right though, I’ve been totally remiss about maintaning my discipline for productivity in my writing. Fuck, how can I call myself a writer, when I’m not writing? I’m a hypocrite. And I don’t like hypocrites. But I guess I don’t like not being prolific even more than not being a hypocrite. Because here I am… not that blogging is fruitful, but hey, it’s something. And I did just finish a first draft of a new story. I just emailed it to you, Mike
But my most exciting endeavor in the coming months? Well, I think it’s exciting, anyhow Volunteering for Litquake, San Francisco’s awesome literary festival. Check it out. October 3-11, 2008.
So that’s it. That was my summer. Not as eventful as it might sound. Then again, it might not sound all that eventful.
I’m looking forward to fall. That season’s always liked me better anyhow…
1/19/2009
I changed all of the Os in the word p*rn. Hopefully, I won’t get so many effing pervet hits on my site now. GET A LIFE A-HOLES!
