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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
“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.*
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
I can’t write and listen to music at the same time. It is so impossible for me. Writers very often get asked the question, “What music do you listen to while you write?” While I can’t speak for other writers, I can say with absolute certainty that, while attempting to write, I cannot listen to any music that allows for me to sing along. I start to dance in my chair and lip sync (because most of my writing occurs well past sundown) and I can’t focus any of my attention at the blank page in front of me, much less focus on a frameless idea in my thought process while David Bowie or Elvis Costello is rocking out in my ears.
With that said, it has taken me half an hour to write this little bitty bit. I am currently listening to Death From Above 1979 and anyone who is familiar with them fully understands the difficulty I am having in concentrating on my keyboard.
With my NaNoWriMo word count looking pretty pathetic after four days, I am finally starting to accept a fact I’ve known for awhile but have longed to challenge: I must endure the creative writing process sans my favorite sing along-able songs. Or, at the very least, replace them with some Bach. A little Chopin. Maybe some Tchaikovsky. Probably no Mozart though. His stuff is way too fun to listen to.
When Mike and I were in Key West we had these hopes and fantasies about meeting all kinds of writers and establishing lasting friendships with them, which would ultimately lead to our success as published writers and our deserved place in the community of “new voices”, up-and-comers, brilliant writers. Although it didn’t work out quite like that (well, it didn’t work out like that AT ALL) we enjoyed ourselves nonetheless, and did manage to keep one connection and friendship.
Doug Mack is a travel writer based in Minneapolis, MN and tonight he and Mike and I three-way G chatted! Does anyone else have Gmail? Did you know you could chat with more than one person in the same chat? We didn’t, until tonight. Or maybe Mike did. Anyway, it was very entertaining. In fact, it was very productive and may very well lead to our success as published writers! That’s all I’ll say for now
I am currently working on Nanowrimo stuff, among other things, which is why I haven’t written here in over a week. And since Nanowrimo lasts all month long, it might be another week or so until I post again. I will leave you with this endearing anecdote about our family who just visited from Portugal.
My father’s best friend for over 50 years, Mario, is more like a brother to him. They grew up together on the streets of Rio de Janeiro and, although they haven’t seen each other in nearly two decades, remain very close to this day.
Mario’s daughter, Samantha, and her husband Marcos, along with their two children Marcelo and Mariana, came to California from Portugal for the first time ever last week. Marcelo, 15, and Mariana, 7, attend an international school in Lisbon, and because of this speak perfect English, without an accent even. They are both fascinated with American culture, music, celebrity, movies, and, Mariana in particular, Halloween. Never having been trick-or-treating before in their lives, they dressed up (Mariana as a fairy and Marcelo as the grim reaper, complete with a Scream! mask) and took to the tradition like fish to water, racing from house to house yelling “trick or treat!” It was so fun to watch!
But the best part was when one person opened his door unprepared and had to retreat back into his house for the candy. Mariana, who can be very impatient and very demanding yelled, “Hurry up!” We were all laughing and, thank goodness, so was the poor guy who had the nerve to make Mariana wait for her candy! Maybe you had to be there to fully appreciate it… luckily, I caught it on video!
I can’t get the video to work 
It’s late here, time for bed, so I will try to post it tomorrow
Okay, you can’t see much, uh, because it’s dark and my Nikon camera is a piece of crap, but you can hear it all, and see the “hurry up” part
Pictures!
Marcos and Samantha bought Marcelo an off-road skateboard in Napa, as a belated birthday present. The streets in Portugal aren’t as smooth as they are here and many are cobblestone.
Samantha, my dad, Mariana, Marcos
Marcos rollerskates for the first time in twenty years! Marcelo rides his skateboard, my dad rides his bike and I ride my beach cruiser and take pictures
Saude!
(that is the portuguese word for making toasts, like “cheers!” only it means health, or wellness. You also say it when someone sneezes It is pronounced saw-OO-gee.)
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
Previously posted on Littoral; the blog of the Key West Literary Seminar.
Can a personal essay be written by two people? If it’s never been done before, then our emerging voices will attempt it, in this blog, before your very eyes.
We are Melissa Ruby and Mike Cook, and (we believe) we were the youngest writers at the 2008 Key West Literary Seminar. Not that being the youngest guarantees that we have new voices or even distinct and worthy voices, but to be surrounded by writers so exceptional is to hope they find our voices new, distinct, and worthy.
Carolyn Mackler’s editor said that to find new American voices one has to look no further than Myspace, which, coincidentally, is why we’re here.
As reluctant as we are to admit we met on Myspace, we’re equally grateful that we did, because there was and is no other forum where we could have found that familiarity in such a chaotic ensemble of new voices. That recognition inspired a camaraderie.
We met on a Myspace group called the Young Readers’ and Writers’ Network. A worthwhile Myspace group is an anomaly (can you even use “worthwhile” and “Myspace” in the same sentence?) but sometimes life allows for extraordinary fruit to come from really stupid shit. We heard our own voices reflected from the other coast in each others’ work.
How do you explain that another writer’s words pump the blood through your veins? How do you find other voices that do the same? A bar patron told one of us about Key West and the upcoming seminar on new voices. We’ll have to thank her, but mostly we have to thank Miles and the board, because without financial aid we would not be here.
We’re here to find solidarity in a world that’s really fucking lonely. We’re here because ultimately we desire to be those new American voices. Because we can’t imagine being anything else.
The new voices we heard in the seminar have inspired us to refine our own. Constant inspiration is vital. Unlike the others in the Keys, we were surrounded by writers who weren’t here on a vacation. We’ve had a lot of fun in Key West, but we didn’t come for the mojitos either. We’re not doing this for kicks; we’re doing this to breathe.
Mike and Melissa
Read more from Mike, my Baltimore-based male alter ego, at: Literature Is Not Dead
then you know that she’s a subconscious saboteur. A wanderer, a soul searcher, a realist and a surrealist.
If you know this girl, you know that she sings the blues in blogs, but not quite like her friend Molly. She writes stories better than she can tell them. She can pretend better than she can face truths. She can hide and lie, little white lies; pale, translucent white lies that don’t hurt; they don’t hurt anyone. Not anyone, but her.
If you know this girl, you know that she loves more than she leaves. Although she leaves a lot too. So maybe she loves too much, too easily, too forgivingly. Or perhaps is not forgiving enough. Maybe she does actually leave more than she loves. Maybe she’s too confused. Or maybe she’s been hurt too many times.
If you know this girl, you know that she is more than a writer. She’s a painter. A captivator. Or maybe she just wants to be more than a writer. More of a writer? She wants to be nothing, but a writer. She’s obviously conflicted.
If you know this girl, you know she has writer’s block. You know she always has writer’s block. You know that she knows that the best way to overcome writer’s block is to write. Anything. So she writes. Anything.
If you know this girl then you know that she loves to be happy. She loves to laugh. But you also know she subconsciously loves to be miserable. Because misery is a catalyst for material. So even when she is happy, she looks for the rainclouds on the horizon of a sunny day. So she sabotages her happiness. Or maybe she just refuses to settle for happiness. Perhaps happiness isn’t enough. If you know this girl, you might agree with that.
If you know this girl, you know that there is always music in her head. Songs swim in an ocean of words, like schools of silvery fish.
If you know this girl, you know that she can’t be alone, but she hates being crowded. You know that she is a lover AND a fighter. You know that she is the smartest blonde to have ever graced the beaches of Orange County. If you know this girl, you know she’s a total bullshitter. But you also know she is in no way disingenuous.
If you know this girl, you know that she tries often and gives up easily. (But secretly never gives up.) If you know this girl, you know that she underestimates herself; she’s very critical of herself.. (But tries to avoid cliches like “you are your own worst enemy” because cliches are unoriginal, duh, and she despises being unoriginal.)
If you know this girl, if you really know this girl, you can’t help but adore her. And if you really know this girl, it must mean that she can’t help but adore you.
But do you really know this girl? Does anyone really know other people, as close as they may be to one another? Can you ever really know someone?
(If you know this girl, you know she loves to get existential.)
If you know this girl, give her a hug the next time you see her. Because if you know this girl then you know that she never forgets a hug. And you know that she thinks a hug is one of the best things you can give to a friend. If you know this girl, you might agree with that.
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
I could never understand how anyone could just throw loose change, or drop and not pick up, even if it was only pennies, on the street or sidewalk.
Tonight their shiny heads and tails caught my attention as I walked past, leaving my class, heading towards my car in the vast parking lot. I turned around, glancing down. They littered the cement, each coin flashing for a moment, as I walked back the way I came, reflecting the dim light high above the campus walkway. I stood for a moment, squinting in the dark as I recognized a handful of pennies; a nickel, a dime. I bent down, resting comfortably on the two-inch heels of my espresso-brown pumps and picked each coin up off the cold concrete, cupping them in the palm of my hand. Not before, however, I had glanced around to make sure that no one was watching.
I quickly stood, pocketing my prize and followed the path towards the parking lot, pondering how anybody could drop a handful of change (six pennies, one nickel, and one dime to be exact) and not pick any of it up.
I paused momentarily at the edge of the parking lot, grateful that it was after ten p.m. and nearly empty. I never, ever remember to remember where I parked my car, as easily as it may seem to be to glance up and remember a sign that reads F12. If it had been three in the afternoon, I most certainly would be lost in a sea of colorful cars, the ocean floor, black asphalt spotted with gum, old and new alike. Thankfully, even in the poorly lit lot, spotting my car was easy. Maybe it also helped that I was lucky enough to find a close space.
When I got home I emptied the contents of my pocket onto my desk and examined my findings. I sat slowly in my desk chair, wondering exactly when it was that I had become my mother.
