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Martin Drury, a British journalist who has been dedicating the past year of his life to learning as many languages as possible and chronicling the experience on his website, recently invited me to be a guest writer on his blog, talking about my own language-learning endeavor. Please visit his website to read the piece and learn more about his amazing experience and success. (I think he already speaks like 5 languages, aside from English!)
Just a quick update about me: I’ve been interning at a literary agency, which has been a fantastic experience so far. Tomorrow I start another internship, at one of the top independent publishers in San Francisco. And I am helping to organize the San Francisco Writers Conference in February. I have lots to talk about, so now that finals are over and I can relax a bit, I’ll be posting more, all about my life in the literary world! I promise 
Cheers and Happy Holidays!
xo
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…
Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, I ride BART about an hour from the east bay into the city, where I exit at the Montgomery Station, get a soy latte from Peet’s, and walk the approximate two miles from Market Street, down Third Street, to the offices in SoMa where I intern at Om Records. The walk is always interesting for three reasons: 1) San Francisco is one of the most interesting and beautiful cities in the world (I may be a bit biased) 2) Downtown and SoMa are always bubbling with hustling business people, camera-happy tourists, and downtrodden homeless, which makes for dynamic people-observing. (If that sounds cold, I totally do not mean it to) and 3) I get to walk pass this billboard every time. I have never shopped a day in my life at A&F, but I certainly appreciate their recent ad campaign
Another point of interest on the walk that I appreciate is the birthplace of Jack London. 
The actual building, as you can read, burned down in the infamous inferno following the 1906 earthquake that devastated the illustrious city. In the aftermath of that tragedy, Jack London wrote The Story of an Eyewitness, for Collier’s, The National Weekly, in which he stated “Not in history has a modern imperial city been so completely destroyed. San Francisco is gone.” What is even more interesting, and incredibly frightening, is that in the months and years following the earthquake, San Francisco politicians and business leaders downplayed the devastation, and the effects it had on the city, despite the destruction and loss of life – an estimate of more than 3,000 people, which represents, to this day, the worst natural disaster in California’s history.
In the rush to rebuild the city, set to host an international conference in 1915, it is said that building standards were lowered, instead of strengthened, and due to this disregard of earthquake safety, it has been suggested that an earthquake even less powerful than the 1906 quake would result in an equal devastation and loss of life – more than half of the buildings in the city today were built in the first half of the 20th century and in accordance with those building standards.
The epicenter of the 1989 Loma Prieta quake was nearly 60 miles south of the city. The damage done by that quake was shocking, to say the least. Imagine a quake of that magnitude, 6.9 or higher, hitting even closer. It is unimaginable; but not only possible – probable.
According to analysts with the Working Group on California Earthquake Probabilities, an expert panel co-chaired by USGS seismologists, the next big Bay Area quake could happen tomorrow, and will most likely happen within the next few decades.
“And don’t be misled by “a few decades”: Statistically speaking, the coming quake is literally as likely to strike, say, next month or next Christmas — or in two minutes — as it is in 2031, the final year of the time window analyzed by the probability study. The group’s overall forecast was that there is a 62 percent probability of at least one 6.7-or-stronger quake between 2002 and 2031.”
After the excerpt, from the article I linked above, it goes on to say that recent research supports an argument that big quakes might even hit in swarms, one after the other!
In a world where global climate change is not only a hot button issue, but a fact of nature, it is frightening to watch the recent hurricane activity in the south (not to mention the tsunamis, monsoons and earthquakes in the Eastern Hemisphere) the past few years, and know these natural disasters have become more frequent and more devastating. It would be incredibly naive for us to assume we are safe from what happened to the people and the cities in Louisiana, in Texas, in Thailand, in China. Unlike those who suffered the horrific experience and aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, for example, we will have no warnings; no time to evacuate the area, no opportunity to congregate with loved ones in preparation. All we can do to prepare is store bottle water and canned food in our garages, and hope to our respective higher powers that we are out of town when it happens.
Not a day goes by, as I sit in a BART train, (usually while it’s underneath the bay and I am imagining the horrific scene were an earthquake to strike at that very moment) that I do not wonder when it’ll be, and where I will be, at the moment the next BIG ONE surprises us.
To end this post on a happier note, and again make us all wonderfully forgetful of the dangerous world in which we gamble daily with our lives, please enjoy another shot of the sexy A&F model I say hello to every day. His name is Brannan – only because he can be seen from the north corners of Third and Brannan
Ahhh, sweet ignorance … 
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.
I felt very unsettled today. In fact, I’ve been that way all week. Anxious and irritable. Not outwardly so. Or maybe not obviously outwardly so, aside from the toe-tapping, hair-twirling, lip-chewing nervous thing I do. I know all of those things are annoying, but I can’t help it. You know how everyone says “Looks like earthquake weather” and we all know that is silly and impossible, but at the same time can feel it, knows what the other person is talking about? That is how I’ve felt, all week. And it has nothing to do with earthquakes.(Although we did have a 4.2er earlier this evening, just a little rumble. No big.)
I had a hard time leaving the house on Tuesday. September 2nd is a day of mourning for my family anyway, but that wasn’t all I was feeling strange about. I had to double and triple check all the locks, the animals, make sure I had all my stuff. I ended up leaving 45 minutes later than I had intended. I was ready to leave too, but I kept hesitating. On the train into the city, I kept reading the same paragraph over and over. I was jumpy walking to the office in SoMa from the Montgomery BART station, distracted by everything. I usually walk down the street confidently, my gait purposeful, goal-oriented, my gaze focused on something far down the street and not on the homeless guy in front of SFMOMA holding the sign that reads “Living with AIDS.” (I am not a cold-hearted, self-important bitch. My heart breaks every time I see him. But this is San Francisco, for Pete’s sake. The homeless are everywhere, they all have SOMETHING wrong with them, and I can hardly afford to buy myself a sandwich for lunch.)
It comes in waves. A smile from a stranger on the street can elicit from me a smile in return, usually. But I’ve found myself averting my eyes as quickly as possible if (gasp!) my concentrated gaze is broken by a construction worker underneath Interstate 80. Or the cute guy who sits across from me on BART. Especially when I can feel his eyes on me, studying the book I am reading. I noticed him cock his head, as if to read the title on the book’s spine. Under normal circumstances I would have looked him straight in the eye and, in the smartass-but-almost-flirtatious-but-sort-of-annoyed-but-not-really way that I can be pretty good at, stated the book’s title for him (Brief Encounters With Che Guevara.) But I felt myself blushing and kept my eyes so fixed to the page, the type went blurry and I couldn’t read a thing. I just sat there, blind by my ambivalent feelings, the waves of crushing anxiety drowning the tide of my calm, cool, collected confidence.
Maybe it was just low tide.
Today I was home all day. Working on PR for Om, trying to write, getting distracted, hoping a buddy would pop up on gmail so we could chat. I emailed him, in desperation for company, for a connection to the world outside my bedroom window. And he appeared suddenly, amazingly. He is pretty amazing though. He has to be to put up with me.
But lately when I am in the world, I cower from it, using my iPod to drown out the sound, shoving my nose in a book to avoid giving anyone even the slightest notion that I am at all approachable. It doesn’t always work though, so when I have to swallow my heart after it has jumped into my throat and answer a question some brave passer-by has had the nerve to address toward me, I realize I am being silly, that my anxiety is baseless, and for a moment I turn back into the confident, aloof creature that typically resides in my skin and psyche.
Unless, of course, it is the crazy homeless woman who always seems to be on the corner of Geary and Powell, screaming gibberish and shaking her paper coffee cup of nickels and dimes.
I used to think that I had plenty of time to figure out who I wanted to be.
Now I feel like I’m having a panic attack about my life at times.
I was walking across a parking lot in Petaluma yesterday after school. I had stopped at this great deli to get a sandwich before work and while walking back to my car, this overwhelming sense of urgency and dread washed over me like a tidal wave and I felt like I was suffocating. In the mere twenty seconds in took me to walk to my car, and listen to my voicemail. One of the voicemails was from, insert ashamed smiley here, a debt collector. So yeah, that was obviously the cause of my mild heart attack, but I couldn’t shake that feeling for hours. That feeling you get when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, and that every decision you’ve made in your entire life has been a total mistake and your life seems completely empty and pointless. All because I got a voicemail telling me I needed to pay my bills. Well, maybe not all because. School has become less than inspiring, and my goals seem so far away, and still have a chameleon-like quality, meaning they keep changing on me. Or I guess, I keep changing my goals is more like it.
Mike sent me an email the other day entitled “book on waiting” and I held my breath for a second, because I thought that he was sensing my distress and anxiety or something. It was about a book on waiting tables I had to laugh at myself when I realized how silly I was being, stressing out over the future. I seem to be doing that (and writing about it) a lot lately. I’m sorry if it’s annoying but I can’t help it. I have this six year plan, and when I think that in six years I’ll be 32… sorry I just passed out for a second! I feel so far behind. I try to reason that I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer, but that’s depressing too. So I just try to focus and remember that I am still really young and have no reason to freak out.
This blog kind of sucks, and is going to be really scattered, but I think I need to vent.
So I think I’m going to drop my writing class. I kind of just talked Mike’s ear off about it so I really don’t feel like blogging about it other than to justify my wanting to drop it.
I’m really beginning to hate writers in San Francisco. They’re all such pretentious, think-they-know-everything, oh-so-cool and emo, unique and super intelligent writers, and yes I’m generalizing a bit, because my last class wasn’t that bad at all, but this class, oh, this class… Not to mention the smell. Yeah, have I mentioned the smell? It’s like, in order to be a writer in San Francisco you have to smoke and you can’t take a shower or brush your teeth because it’s too mainstream or something. I sat next to this person the other day with the worse combination of halitosis and BO ever. I took wintergreen Altoids out of my bookbag and put one in my mouth and then placed them on the table right in between us. I even bumped the tin a bit with my elbow, without trying to make it look like I was being passive-aggressively implicit in my gesture… no…luck.
It is impossible for me to breathe out of my mouth for three hours. I tried. I’m not a mouth breather. (Being sick is so miserable for me because of this.)
The teacher is actually really awesome, so I’m struggling quite a bit with this decision. I think I’ll give the class one more shot.
I’m okay. At least, I’ll be okay. I just get angsty sometimes Don’t we all, right? I’m trying to stay positive and for the most part I usually am. I talked to my sister for a while tonight and laughed and felt better. “The Sounds are this great English band from, um, England.” Thanks for that, Mick! That quote made my week! And I talked to Mike tonight for about an hour and laughed and felt better. So thanks Michelle and Mike!
I guess I better give that debt collector a ring…
The title of this post is from a piece of art by Simon Evans, one of my favorites and a former pro-skateboarder-turned-writer-turned artist. A London transplant to San Francisco, he came here in the mid 90′s for his sport and ended up staying. His art is different, and funky, and makes you think and study it until your eyes cross and your feet ache. The last show of his I attended was at SFMOMA in 2004 (he was one of the SECA Art Award winners for that year) and try as I might, it has been difficult for me to find much current information on him and his art. Pictures in online galleries are few and too small for someone unfamiliar to fully appreciate the scope of each piece. Which is a shame, because his art is strange and wonderful and deserves recognition if only for inspiring me.
This website is primarily a public outlet for me to organize and develop my literary ambitions. I am currently working on a collection of short stories and will soon be posting a few of them, as well as stories I have worked on in the past and are collecting dust in an old binder. I never “finish” a story per se, as I’m sure many writers would agree, but continually rework and recycle them. A good writer friend said to me, as we were discussing an article he had written, that perhaps he should call himself a rewriter, rather than a writer, since he seems to do much more of that.
A writer or a rewriter, I am constantly looking for inspiration and ways to rethink an idea. As well as “publishing” my stories here, I hope to discuss everything and anything that has inspired me to write, rewrite and rethink. With that said, I would love to hear about what inspires others as well.
Visit this website www.jackhanley.com/id162.htm to see some art by Simon Evans
