happy dance

I just got news that QRB has agreed to stock my book -- yipppeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!

guest blogger

I've been wanting to have a guest blogger for some time. I suppose it's only fitting that the first be my writing partner in crime. This is something that she composed on her private blog, and I don't know which moved me more, the poemlet or the reflection that preceded it. I relate to both in ways that I can't really explain. And so, here they are, reflection followed by poemlet, with her permission.

Enjoy, folks:

poemlet for a stormy day

there's something about composing poetry in the car, as though you can feel the rhythm of the tires, or are forced to work on the sound and feel of the poem as you recite it out loud over and over line by line trying to hold on until you make it to paper to catch it. (when i was in high school i used to come home late after dance class and say only, "hi mom, need paper!" or "hey, gotta write this down before i lose it" before even taking off my shoes.) and there's something nice about finally having paper and pen and letting the words just come from your memory straight onto paper, all the hard, unsteady work done, just letting the words come out with a sigh.

some of my best rhythms have been written while driving, and while this is really not be one of those (being a poemlet it is still rough, after all a few hundred more recitations would undoubtedly smooth it out, but it's still a poemlet afterall), it's fitting for this steely, stormy day:

last night i tried to call to you
to bring you back inside, but
my voice was only wind and so
the sound it could not carry.

three storms were closing close
in steely sheets below iron sky,
my lips too dry to purse at all
couldn’t carry sound.

and i was alone the only one
who could see them bearing
bearing down, only alone
as i ever was could i feel them

coming through the calm.

geeks and getting personal (ads, that is)

Here's how geeky my rhetoric-composition friends and I are: we rhetorically analyzed my online dating profile.

Believe it or not, I've conducted a class activity in which students need to write a dating profile (it's a good way for them to think about word choice, rhetorical appeals, audience, etc.) -- the best is when the students get so into it that the girls start reading the guys' profiles, the guys start reading the girls' and each gives the other feedback. ("I would so date you..." "I would think you're a stalker..." etc.)

Anyhoo, I'm getting a little personal here, but recently I jumped back into the online dating pool, and, of course, I composed multiple drafts, revising along the way. So this past Sunday, I had invited some of my girlfriends over for a dessert party (and I wonder why I'm so easily categorized as a chick lit writer), and aside from talking books, movies, and music, the conversation got around to dating.

And so, I showed them my profile, and lo and behold, we found ourselves dissecting one part of my text, namely one in which I adamantly state that I'm not interested in having kids nor dating men w/ kids (ok, this is getting *really* personal now... yikes). I had explained my rhetorical intent--be strong in my conviction without sounding selfish or like a child-hater-- and we discussed to what extent my text had achieved this intent. Before I knew it, I was peeling back my own layers -- what was I really trying to say? Rather, what was at the heart of my conviction? Why?

And so, at that moment, I put the truth on the table.
"Why not be that explicit?" asked one of my peer reviewers. "Why not use the words you used just now? Why not show that little bit of vulnerability?"
"Because I thought it made me sound incredibly selfish," I explained.
"I think if phrased well, you would convey your sincerity as well as your honesty, and men would respond w/ a much greater understanding than you have now, not to mention support."

I pondered this.

"If I re-write it, can I send it to you guys so you can workshop it before I actually post the profile?"

What made it all the funnier was that despite our laughter over my request, I was serious, and they knew it. What's more, I knew they were all too eager to help me craft my message.

As much as I love working w/ students, and helping them arrive at the place where they "get" it, there are times when it is all the more satisfying to be with those who already get it, who so intrinsically get it and revel in it and can't live any other way. Those times are fun. Those people are my colleagues, my friends, my collaborators and co-creators. Those are my teachers. And I love them dearly for it. We are all a perfect match for each other.

After we finished my profile, we searched potential match profiles and rhetorically analyzed them. Oh, to be a fly on our wall-- a male fly w/ an online profile, that is.

We're all one status update away from putting together a panel discussion on the rhetorical value of Facebook across various age groups.

um, it's chick lit, but you'll like it

I have a cousin who loves to tease me about the fact that I write chick lit (that, and that I'm a chocolate addict). Oddly enough, when someone asks me about the genre of my novel, I typically answer "women's fiction" or "romantic comedy." Then I cave in, apologetically: "um, it's chick lit." And I find myself following up with, "but I think you'll like it." I am also very quick to point out how many heterosexual men have read and enjoyed Faking It as well as my other work.

I wonder why I'm ashamed or embarrassed to admit that I write chick lit. I seem to be afraid that I won't be taken seriously as a result. I am even more quick to admit that I don't necessarily read a lot of chick lit except to get a feel for the market that my work apparently fits into. And that's true, too.

So how is this possible? How, or why, is it that I'm writing for a genre I'm not particularly invested in otherwise?

It's not that I think chick lit is bad. I find some of it fun. But I also find much of it lacking a je ne sais quoi -- I just can't put my finger on it. If I had to try to distinguish it in my own fiction, I might be so bold as to say depth of character, but I can't be sure. I might also say wit, but I think that might be insulting chick lit writers. There's definitnely a light-heartedness to chick lit. But, aside from Bridget Jones (both Diary and the Edge of Reason), I haven't really laughed out loud during any chick lit book I've read (and I listened to the latter BJ on audiobook -- it was so superbly that that lended to my enjoyment).

Then again, maybe my own book is lacking. I'm not exactly objective.

What bothers me more than my own haste to defend (or deny?) the notion of me as a chick lit writer is why I feel the need to do so in the first place. I've thought about attending a chick lit writers conference (I'd like to attend *any* conference, really, but they're so damn expensive...) or finding some kind of chick lit writers network, but I worry about the stigma it carries.

And just what is that stigma?

I suppose chick lit is not considered very "literary" compared w/ other genres. Then again, I might not characterize fantasy fiction as such either, although I'm sure a hovercraft full of fantasy writers would pelt me with enchanted flummoxsticks smuggled from the Divo-one forest planet. (As you can see, I suck as a fantasy writer. They'd beat me senseless for that bit o' writing, too.)

Really, I don't think any author is in a position to legitimize or deligitimize any genre of work, or to set an unrealistic definition of literature to begin with. The bottom line is that I write books that I would want to read, and thus I work w/ what I know. I write about Long Islanders and West Wing fans and writing geeks and relationship fiascos (I'm sorry to say I know about the last one) and I stylistically steal from those writers I love to create a world and cast of characters that don't always quite get it. Maybe this just makes me incredibly self-centered. And these days, I also like to read stories that make me laugh out loud, especially when I'm reading in a public place. And so I do just that -- I try to get myself to laugh out loud as I write.

And of course, like any other reader, no matter what I'm reading, I want to be riveted. And, like many readers, I never know which book is gonna do that to me until I start turning the pages.

When I worked in the salon as a manicurist, I insisted on calling myself a "nail technician," as did the nail technology profession. Nowadays I just plain like the word "manicurist," and the sound of it, better. But to pinpoint myself as a chick lit writer, stigma aside, is too limiting for me, I think. I think I'm a writer, plain and simple. Fiction, non-fiction, blogger, sometimes academic, sometimes technical, sometimes private.

And definitely published.

But I think you'll like it. My writing, that is. In the end, that's what I really care about.

today, I wrote

Maybe it was the inspiration from the inaugural rhetoric. Maybe it had stewed long enough. Regardless, I wrote today. To be more specific, I worked on a manuscript.

I've had massive fears regarding my nonfiction manuscript. For one thing, I've been quite focused on my fiction, especially getting the word out about Faking It. When I initially started to write the nonfiction book, I don't think I had ever really had serious plans for it. Rather, I was willing to put them on hold in favor of the fiction. I had just wanted to get the first draft done, perhaps send a proposal to a few agents, and let the chips fall where they may.

But God has a sense of humor. Or maybe she's a literary agent.

Nevertheless, I fell into a publisher, a co-creator, and suddenly my manuscript had a real audience. And real problems too. For one thing, I couldn't get a grasp of my audience (at this stage, I typically write for me). For another thing, I started trying too hard.

Before I knew it, my manuscript had become a mess. It had no purpose (or too much purpose), a lack of focus. The more I tried to keep my ego out of it, the more it dug in its heels.

So, I stopped writing. Or maybe I just plain ran away from it. Everytime I wanted to work on it, I opened it up and the thing just frightened me, because I knew I had to obliterate and start over. And what scared me most is that I wasn't sure I wanted to start over, nor did I want to try to fix what was already there.

I kept procrastinating. January, I told myself. I'll pick it up again in January.

It's taken most of January to get the momentum back, to figure out what I want, but, as what typically happens when I put a manuscript down for awhile, sooner or later the words come, because they've been marinating, stewing, all this time. And I think I had finally made the decision: start over. move forward. re-see.

So let's hope today's burst of inspiration was enough of a spark to get the flame going. I think I totaled about five pages, single-spaced. So yeah, it was a good day.

Really, it's about getting over the fear. Isn't that what it's always about?

too verklempt for words

How cool is it to have a self-proclaimed writer in the White House? Read Emma Walton Hamilton's blogpost about her take, titled "Obama and Reading."

This is a great place to be a citizen, not to mention a reader and a writer.

checking in: an assessment

So far, my writing/reading resolutions are not going well. The culprit? Facebook!
It's very addictive. And yet, something terrific has happened in that I've reconnected w/ childhood friends, friends that, in some cases, I have been sending the yearly Christmas card and that's it, others I've not seen or spoken to in 20 years. That's been immensely gratifying. I feel like I'm home when I'm "talking" to them. (Don't get me started on that irony...)

What's more, it's been a great tool for promoting Faking It. The fan page has recruited 65 members (in less than two weeks), and I've sold at least three units, not counting the other two from friends (one of whom wouldn't have known had we not reconnected on FB) that I ordered and signed (check's in the mail, so they say, haha!). Doesn't sound like much, but consider the time span. And that's not the grand total of sales.

But... I'm spending too much time chatting, commenting, scouting other people's pages, etc. It's fun, but it's time I could be spending on any of the major writing projects I've got going on right now, which is about four, counting Faking It.

I suspect that those who have difficulty balancing their careers and families w/ their writing are really having difficulty committing to attending to their writing and making it just as much of a priority as their other life areas. This is not a judgement, mind you -- I put myself at the top of those to whom I refer. I believe this is a choice that we have to make. We need to value our writing careers (if we've decided that we want our writing to be a career) the same way we value our full-time job that pays the bills. We need to act as if writing is what brings home the bacon.

That means turning off the screens. Turn off the boob-tube. Turn off Facebook. Turn off the Black Berry. Etc. Keep Word open, of course. But shut down and sign out of the rest.

So here's my new intention: I intend to commit at least one hour each night to one of my writing projects. (Monday night for Faking It, Tuesday for Daily Presents, Wednesday for WILS, and so on.) One hour is more than do-able. It means sacrificing watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report (but really, how funny is it gonna be now that the Obama Admin is taking office?). But if I had a second job (and I do), then I'd be missing them anyway. Priorities. It's like saving $20 a week by not buying the grande latte.

It's time for me to walk the walk. I've been saying that I want the scales to tip, that I want to make a living as a full-time published author rather than a full-time instructor. It's time to make that happen. Start by devoting a minimum of 5-7 hours a week. That's still part-time, meager, even, but it's a start. It's clocking in.

It's a plan.