Reality Sets In
I’m moving to Los Angeles.
I’m moving to Los Angeles!
Oh, my God, I’m moving to Los Angeles.
Well, not until later in the year, but reality is setting in and it’s setting in hard. The other day, my dad told me we needed to talk about when we wanted to head out there. To look at apartments. Which I am perfectly capable of doing on my own, but, I mean, come on. What are fathers for if it’s not negotiating real estate? Also, like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, I’m sure I can see the Hollywood sign from every window in my apartment no matter where I live.
In other news, sometimes I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. You know when you watch those movies/read those books where there’s a pretty obvious ticking clock?
And, my shower won’t stop dripping, so I even get the “tick tick” sound effect when it gets too quiet around here.
So, here’s my trouble.
How do I say good-bye?
I made a new friend (which is amazing, by the way) and she is going to school at MIT. In Boston! And, despite the distance, we have kept up our friendship through Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.
But what about the others?
I honestly can’t remember who I had this conversation with, so, if it was you, let me know.
“I’m leaving.” Me
“Okay. So?” You.
“I feel like I’m trying to cut off all my connections because it doesn’t hurt as much when I finally go.”
“Why?”
“That’s how it’s always been.”
“Yeah, but you have roots here. But, your parents are here.”
“I might be the one keeping them here. When I leave, they really have no reason to stay.”
“Oh.”
Yeah, oh.
So, here’s this.
The Obligatory Post on Self-Doubt
I write this now so I can refer to it in the future. You know, because a time will come when I don’t feel this awesome.
Every author struggles with self-doubt.
Does this sentence work?
This might be the most terrible thing ever written.
Am I ever going to be published?
What if I don’t have any other ideas?
This has been done before!
I think the answers are:
Probably. Unlikely. Possibly. You will. Of course it has.
I’ve been working on a project (un)lovingly working-titled: “The Project I Hate“. Why do I hate it?
I feel like I’m selling out. Honestly, this idea sprang from my brain when I was trying to think of a more commercial project. I read it at workshop and I’ve gotten this comment (a direct quote):
“I think this is the best thing I’ve heard you read.”
Well, on one hand, thank you. Regardless of how “good” of a writer I am, there is always room for improvement. I would hope that every week would be the best thing I’ve ever written.
On the other hand, this is The Project I Hate. How can you like it when I hate it with such a fiery passion?
You know what blocks writers from writing? Themselves. By labeling it The Project I Hate, I sequestered it to a little space in my mind and started putting up sandbags around the thing.
Sorry to go all Cask of Amontillado on you.
I’ve complained about it to my writer friends and tried to shut my mouth when they glared condescension. I know! People love it! I hate it! I want it to die! Why can’t I crush it with my mind vice?
Last week, I found myself getting pensive. Every night, I had some sort of interaction with another human being. As an introvert, this was draining. And, when I’ve been in front of people too long without recharge time, I start to dig things up from the dregs of my brain. The pot gets stirred. I scrape bottom.
While I closed down the cafe Monday night, it was the first time I’d been alone in five days. I have been working my second job for three months, which is the job I walked away from a year ago. It sort of sucks to think you are in the same place you were a year before. No forward movement, no developments, no prospects. And, dammit, writing used to be fun! Why isn’t writing fun anymore?
Could it be because I’m actively sabotaging my work?
Thanks, brain. You asshat.
So, I put down The Project I Hate, just for twelve hours. I went to the coffee shop, took out a project I’ve been sitting on, 16 pages from completion (I know, another boneheaded abandonment), and I finished it. It was like a forgotten circuit board lighting up. I remembered. Writing is fun. I don’t do it because I have to, I do it because I love it.
Who cares if that sentence doesn’t work? You can fix it later, or delete it. Maybe it doesn’t go there.
Until you read everything that’s ever been written, you can’t know if yours is worse.
You’re never going to get published if you don’t finish something.
You have new ideas every day that you add to your brain stew. You will never run out of ideas.
Everything has been done before. You can form new connections, mix new metaphors, build new characters, and set new scenes. Everything may have been done before, but it’s new to you.
Oh, and The Project I Hate? It’s called The Elementalist and it is fantastic.
Resolute: We Are Strong
That’s right.
Two weeks in, I’m giving you a New Year’s Resolution Post featuring (gratuitous capitalization)!
Let’s dive right in.
- Start/Join a band
- Don’t talk about “The-Book-That-Will-Not-Be-Named” or, more commonly, “You-Know-What”.
- Save up $10,000 to move to LA
- Punch anyone who says “You’re so young!”
- Be more Internet social
- Read 100 books.
Let’s go in depth!
1. This one seems to always make it on my list. I have two electric guitars, an acoustic guitar, and a bass guitar. This just goes to show, having the equipment does not automatically get you into the band. Bummer. Drag. Total waste. Except I still play often, much to my parents discontent. I need to up my street cred. I need to brainstorm band names with a bunch of crazies. I need to get my writer friends to make this happen.
2. Ah, The-Book-That-Will-Not-Be-Named. Any guesses? I’ll give you a hint. It may or may not have something to do with vampires that sparkle. I know some of you are going to get offended that I have decided to remove You-Know-What from my day-to-day conversation. This tome is an emotional lightning rod. Whenever it is brought up, voices are raised, teams are chosen, everyone gets excited, and I’m left sitting there, wondering what the Hell just happened. I’ve also found that most of my Harry Potter references are dropping off, too. Am I moving on with my life? Probably not, but if you want to talk (argue) about Twilight, take it somewhere else. Life’s too short.
3. Oh, yeah. THIS one. I have three jobs now. One with a television network, one at Barnes & Noble, and now contract work writing for a social media company. I’m going to be a better blogger whether I like it or not because I’m getting PAID! The whole “moving to LA” thing is this nebulous lurking glob on the horizon.
I’m getting erased from people’s minds.
I’m freaking out a little bit.
I’m going to be a television writer.
4. People: Stop saying “you’re so young”. This is a meaningless statement. Would you like me to say, “You’re so old?” No. The answer is no. Besides, the “you’re so young” is not complementary, because you are inferring immaturity and a lack of patience. I am not too young to pursue my dream. No one is ever too young or too old to do that.
5. In the last year or two, I’ve tended to be more of a poster than an interactor. This changes! I will respond to people’s tweets, even if they have no idea who I am! I will put crap up on Google+, even though no one will see it! I will approach social media the way it was intended! The spirit of the conversation!
6. This is another one of those things that always makes it on the list. Last year, I read 65. To be fair, I was quite busy with a new job at the beginning of the year, as well as being disgruntled with the world in general. I didn’t finish reading a book until March. This year, I have my Goodreads goal set and they will be coming for me if I don’t make it. I’ve already knocked two down. We’ll see what happens.
Banging on a Lunch Tray
As I near the end of Daniel Levitin’s This Is Your Brain On Music, I recall certain memories with great emotional implications. Without getting too deep into the book content, our ears connect to the parts of the brain that determine movement, which, in turn, is connected to emotion.
It’s complicated and interesting. Someone should write a book about it…oh, wait.
Music is the great equalizer.
Back when I was just a wee lass on a college campus, I had yet to connect with anyone. I had purposely chosen a college that was over 1,000 miles from home. I knew no one. My schedule was 19 hours (the norm was 16), I was apathetic toward my roommate, and my stomach was tied into a knot of apprehensive fear.
The first day of classes, I made my way to Phelps Hall to experience the culinary perfection that is college dining. I clutched my tray, white knuckled, and slunk into a seat in the corner with the prayer, “Please don’t let anyone notice me. Please let someone come talk to me.”
Lesson number 1: Not many people show up to lunch within the first half-hour of open hours.
That was fine. I’m not really that sociable anyway. I had a book with me.
Then, something amazing happened.
As most common eating areas are wont to do, music was piped in through the speakers. In most cases, these speakers are tuned to either something everyone will enjoy (like a top 40 station) or something everyone will hate (like the college radio station). By lucky happenstance, it was set to top 40 and I was sitting under a speaker.
Cue Tainted Love by Soft Cell.
Lesson number 2: Everyone knows Tainted Love by Soft Cell.
I started a head bob, nothing too overt.
Then, something magical happened.
Thump, thump.
Someone slammed their fist down on the table in time to the music. You know the part. You did it in your head right then.
As the song continued, so did the pounding. By the end, everyone in the dining hall was banging a tray, stomping their feet, and singing along.
I was nearly in tears, thinking: ‘My people…I have found them.’
There was a piano in the dining hall, and, over the course of my college career, there were several sing-alongs. (My school had a ridiculously successful music program and about half of the student population had either a music-related minor or major)
My last visit to Phelps Hall for the Up-All-Night Breakfast, senior year, days before graduation, I entered with my group of friends that I had cultivated over the years. We wore joutfits (for those of you who don’t know, a joutfit is an outfit of all one color). We took the stage and sang Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Needless to say, we had a supportive audience. It was magical. It was amazing.
It was something I will never forget.
And, maybe there was a freshman sitting alone at a table who thought: “My people…I have found them.”
The Mysterious Retail Injury
I seem to be attracted to mildly hazardous jobs. Nothing incredible, like putting out oil fires, just the minor injuries.
I worked at a movie theater for a year, running the concession stand. I got an awesome visor, a nametag, and free movie-themed t-shirts. So what, The Thunderbirds was a flop. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
Anyway, as a concessionist, the duty of popping the popcorn fell on my young, but responsible shoulders. You see, it was a point of pride that our theater had the best popcorn formula out of the three local theaters. Some even used *gasp* pre-packaged popcorn. We popped ours fresh every day. We threw it out every night. When management wanted to save money on popping oil by altering the recipe, the staff rebelled. Sort of. We just ignored the mandate.
The thing about popcorn is that it’s a piece of fluff covered in hot oil. Back then, we didn’t have a door on our popper. If you were anywhere near it when it started popping, bob and weave, my friend. And, God help you if you thought you could beat it. And, God help you if you knew you couldn’t beat it, but the customer was late for their movie. You stick your arm in the burn machine, dammit.
A popcorn kernel burn isn’t very serious. It’s a quick flash of pain, less than a bee sting, than it’s back to scooping the popcorn into the bag. Though, unlike a bee sting, it leaves nice blotch of a scar behind, so small you don’t really notice it until you get a tan.
But, those injuries weren’t exactly mysterious. You took a risk, you challenged the machine, and you lost. Humanity has made that mistake before and will make it again
My current job is as a barista.
Yes, a job that requires me to jet superheated water through a metal tube into a metal pitcher that I have to hold up in order to make sure your latte gets no foam. Additionally, we bake our own cookies, grill sandwiches, and oven-roast pizza.
These things are hot.
And, even if you aren’t clumsy, there will inevitably be a time when you bump into a steam wand, or your fingers slip onto the top of the panini grill. All four of them. I had no feeling for a week.
But, where the hell did that massive bruise on my hip come from?
I’ve come home from my job with my hands chewed up with papercuts and I DON’T KNOW WHERE THEY CAME FROM!
Something lurks in every retail establishment. First, it dries out your skin. Then, it runs you into things when you’re not paying attention. Then, it cuts you, cuts so tiny, you don’t notice, until the aforementioned dry skin turns it into something much worse.
It’s a mystery, I tell you. And, I’m not the only one. When I asked my coworkers if they had ever experienced the “Mysterious Retail Injury”, they looked confused for a moment. But, after the awkward silence, they shouted “Yes! Oh, my God, where do those bruises come from?”
It’s strange to think that retail offers an environment that allows us to function at that level. I didn’t know that making coffee was so consuming that my mind blocked out pain. Who knew popping popcorn was such a hazard.
So far, it’s been nothing life-threatening. But, you never know what Mysterious Injury lurks around the corner.
A Journey Restarted
I have returned to The Fantastic World of Barnes & Noble (or the Nobley, for you who are savvy to the lingo). I’ve worked at B&N for upwards of three years, alternating between seasonal employ and full time. The last stint was a solid two year, full-time block that ended January 2nd of this year.
Let me tell you, I was ready to leave. I had a new job at a startup that looked promising, I was flexing my creative muscle to the point where my words were appearing on television (yeah, promos!). It was thrilling. I refused to enter my local bookstore for several months, holding on to my experience as only the righteously indignant can. I had my Nook. I had the library. I didn’t need to visit a store. Then, a friend of mine had a booksigning at a different but reachable B&N.
Since I’m so altruistic (insert chortle), I swallowed my foolish pride, pulled up my big girl panties, and stopped acting like a total wad.
It’s funny how often I need to do that.
Regardless of the burgeoning Texas heat, the door handle was still chill to the touch, promising an over-cooled environment on the inside. My moment of hesitation was short-lived, as a short, middle-aged man on the other side had no interest in waiting for me to rip the door open. I took a deep breath and entered. The dusky smell of thousands of pages washed over me, caught on the breeze of the air conditioning.
As I entered the B&N, a dribble of drool rolled down my chin as I stared at the shelves and shelves of books. That same old feeling started at the base of my spine and worked its way up into my brain. No matter how fast I read, no matter how much I tried, I would never, ever be able to read all these books. It was like the first time I ever entered a bookstore, but, somehow, so much more.
You see, back in the old days, I was trained in every department. Nook, music, even receiving in the back room. It was like I had returned to my home country. I knew this place, I fit in here, I could wax idiotic with the staff and they recognized me as a familiar traveler, if not a native of their local village. But, something was (and still is) missing. If this was the hero’s quest, what elixir had I returned with? Had a gained some knowledge in the last few months? Did I bring hope to the ones on the inside? I had missed an essential step in personal character growth and made a misstep along my journey.
In some ways, it didn’t matter. For me, the magic had been restored in the bookstore. I could return to my old place of employment without shame.
As it is wont to do, my financial situation became increasingly unstable. While I hadn’t locked my future into a startup, I had hoped it would provide a stable source of income for a year until I had saved up enough to move on.
Ho ho, not so. The time came when I realized I had to get a second job in order to stockpile any money. I cooked up a big humble pie and reapplied to my old job. They were more than happy to welcome me back into the fold.
Sometimes I think my life is a sitcom. It’s funny, it’s tragic, and nothing ever changes.
But, what if I want the hero’s journey? When does this girl get to leave the farm to pursue her destiny? Why am I so upset that real life doesn’t work out the way stories do?
It’s not too late to begin my epic quest, and it’s not like I don’t have options. But, it feels like I had almost hit the main road with my questing companions, only to realize I had to turn back because I forgot to pack my magic sword.
Readers & ‘Ritas
I went to a conference this weekend. Readers & ‘Ritas is Fresh Fiction’s annual conference, proceeds going to Plano Family Literacy.
There’s the official business, here’s the real story.
Readers & ‘Ritas is the bachelorette party of conferences.
It’s hanging out, meeting authors, discussing all things reading. Or, discussing whatever. Video games, television shows, movies, Damn You, Autocorrect…when you put readers and writers together, magic happens (also, dirty things, but mostly magic). Come for the books, stay for the romance cover model auction. Did I not mention the romance cover model auction?
I had lunch with Michele Bardsley, chatted with Jaye Wells, and sat down with Nikki Duncan to pick her brain about all things writing.
Ann Aguirre bought our table the cover model for Monica Burns‘ Inferno’s Kiss. The plan was to have him read us the steamy passages, but that was until the dancing started.
Yes, the dancing.
For a nerd like me, hanging out and dancing with authors is pretty much the coolest thing ever. Alcohol and reading is the new peanut butter and chocolate.
Tons of door prizes, amazing raffle prizes, and swag now have my room filled with a year supply of books. It was a fantastic weekend.
“It’s either your husband or The Rock.”
They’re Everywhere (who is ‘they’, again?)
Do you know there are 7 guns for every 1 person in the United States?
I have no idea if that’s true. But, someone told me about it this weekend. I’m pretty sure he was a cult recruiter.
I sat at Starbucks, catching up with a friend. We do this once a month, usually Sunday afternoons, a nice leisurely chat. We talk about everything. Culture, books, politics, movies. She was my AP US History teacher and, damn, if I don’t love history. It’s amazing, speaking with someone who holds 30+ years of knowledge and education in her head.
As time wound down, I caught the eye of a stranger sitting at a nearby table. He adjusted his wireless headphones a few times and sucked on his pen, occasionally clicking a few keys on his keyboard.
Middle-age, hair graying at the temples, and astonishingly alert for someone who should have a head bent over their laptop.
He was listening.
At the time, I’m sure we were waxing philosophic (I’m still paying good money for my education, dammit).
He stood and approached our table, pulling the headphones down around his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But, I couldn’t help but overhear that last part of your conversation.”
My eyebrow cocked of its own accord, as it is wont to do when it hears crazy. You could help it. Turn up the headphones. Stumble across a cat video. Stand closer to the steam wand.
I couldn’t help but overhear means I was eavesdropping because you mentioned buzzwords.
“And?” I asked.
“I’m in charge of an organization…”
My eyebrow lifts higher.
“That is interested in protecting the American Constitution by bringing lawsuits against the government.”
“Mmhm.” By now, skepticism and suspicion oozed out of my voice.
“(gun statistic)”
“That’s interesting.”
The conversation continued, citing statistics of questionable origin. Keep in mind, I was talking to a US History teacher. US History often comes up in our conversations. I’m a writer, she’s a brilliant educator. Creativity loves to hang out with us.
“Have you heard of the Georgia guidestones?”
My eyebrows were back under my control, and I lowered them to a glare. “No.” (They exist, by the way, check them out here)
“They were written by a group you would know as the Illuminati.”
Jackpot. Crackpot jackpot. I love conspiracy theories.
Anyway, by promising to visit his website, I was able to save both myself and my mentor. Keep your eyes open. The Illuminati were more than just a plot point in a Dan Brown novel. If I join, does that make me a Templar…or how does that work, exactly?
Not sure. And that’s not even the craziest thing I’ve heard at Starbucks…
Besides joining a grassroots conspiracy organization, what can I bring to these maybe Templars? Not sure about that one, either, but if I remember anything from Lara Croft, the Illuminati want to control time for NO REASON IN PARTICULAR!!
Maybe next week, I’ll be updating my tumblr from my iPhone on a quest for the Holy Grail. I’m taking a fedora. And a whip.
Books, GoodReads, and Why I’m Still Awake
Aight, peeps, here’s the lowdown, the skinny, the 411, the…you know, whatever.
All of a sudden, I have insomnia all the freakin’ time. I wake up the same time every morning (9am), but it seems like I can’t get to sleep any time before 3am.
What do I do with all this time?
Besides obsessively changing my web page theme in an attempt to find something that doesn’t make me gag; besides listening to hours of New Age music on Pandora; besides applying droplets to my eyes because of all these backlit screens…
I read.
A lot.
Like, 13 books in the last 17 days. That’s non-fiction, adult, YA (no picture books).
What does that mean for you?
I don’t always review books, but, when I do, it’s because I liked them.
I can’t review everything. But, trust me, if I make it through the whole book, that means I liked it.
So, for those of you interested in following my eccentric/eclectic tastes, I’ve decided to be a good little social networker and keep my GoodReads profile updated.
Is this some sort of underhanded, sneaky way of encouraging people to read?
Yes.
But, it’s also some sort of underhanded, sneaky way of encouraging people to talk about books, consider what they like, and find more books that they will like just as much.
Heck, if you see something on my list and trust me for a recommendation, I’ll tell you what I thought.
In private. Because I just might know the author who wrote it :/
Stay thirsty, my friends.
Fake Busy
I’m that sort of busy that’s all kind of fake.
I’ve built up the illusion of busyness, and, it’s so good, I’ve even faked myself out.
Here’s what I’ve been up to:
I remembered that I have a library card. This is not a good thing. When I go to the library, I usually have a list already made. Then, I start browsing. What ends up happening is I check out 10-12 books I can’t possibly live without right that very moment. Even though I know I’m at the library and they will be there for my next visit.
I end up starting this pile a week late and have to scramble to read every book before it’s due. I’ve done this thrice in two months.
- I got into Pottermore. While I’m not sure what this entails, I’m sure it will be exciting. For at least fifteen whole minutes.
- I turned 25. Hurray.
- I started watching X-Files on Netflix. I’m not really interested in the alien parts, but I find the paranormal stuff pretty awesome. I’m a big Fringe fan and definitely see the similarities. Just because I have a special place in my heart for multi-verse theory doesn’t mean I can’t like Mulder and Scully. The history of television owes them thanks.
- I saw a slew of movies, none of which are worth mentioning.
- I broke 50,000 words on my current WIP.
- I received 22 rejection letters in 38 days.
- I have listened to Evanescence’s new single “What You Want” far too many times.
So, that’s it. Oh, yeah, and I have a job and volunteer and nonsense like that. So, you know, maybe I’ll pick one of those things and start blogging again.
What have you been up to?
Why I Read YA
It seems every few weeks, someone says something misguided or general about the Young Adult section at the local library/bookstore. While I usually miss the inciting incident, I enjoy pouring myself a bowl of Rice Krispies and sliding into my front row seat on TweetDeck to watch the publishing industry retaliate.
Have I ever mentioned I love social media?
#YAShowdown was the more amusing hashtag, while #YASaves was more of an emotional outpouring, trumpeting the lessons and triumphs, the sights we saw, the scents we smelled, the roads we traveled when traversing some of our favorite stories considered: “Young Adult”.
I’m not a teen. I’m not a parent. I’m not a high school librarian.
So, why do I read YA?
It’s good.
No, I mean, it’s really good.
It’s well-written. There’s a story. The characters are compelling. The styles are diverse. It wants to take risks in the good way.
Life isn’t candy-coated, sugar-sweet, let’s all go to the prom and be happy.
Life is hard. It sucks. We weren’t born with an instruction manual. People make mistakes. Reality is tough and it doesn’t wait for you to be an adult to start throwing curveballs.
Why wait in literature?
My mother read A Wrinkle in Time to my siblings and I at the dinner table when I was a youngling.
My favorite section in the library was that little corner with the crusty sign above that said “TEEN” with half the “N” scratched off. I go to the library now and see their WHOLE ROOM dedicated to young adult literature, and there’s a prickle in my eyes as I try to imagine what it would have been like to have that many books way back when.
I love it. I love the voice. I love the stories. I love the characters.
I even love the covers.
So, that’s it. No great insights.
You either get YA or you don’t. Find something you like, nay, love, and tell everyone about it.
Because reading is awesome.
Philosophical Writer-Type seeks blog topic, ends on Big Question
This little blog-o-mine. Imma let it shine.
Today, I take presumption to a whole new level and tell you the meaning of life (hint: it’s not 42). Those of you who already know the meaning of life will continue reading and nod knowingly. Those of you who don’t will throw things and scream ‘how dare she, blasphemous Internet troll!”
It’s “make the world a better place”. It’s actually a really cool deal. You see, once you start trying to do this, everyone around you sort of takes notice. Since this blog is inherently selfish, I’ll give you an anecdote.
The other day, at Starbucks, my barista handed me my drink. As I reached for a sleeve, I cheerfully flashed a smile and said, “Thank you!” You know, because he was my enabler for the day. But, no, seriously. He just made me a cup of coffee. My Midwestern manners, wait, no, hold that thought, my humanity dictates that I should express gratitude for services rendered.
As it so happened, I accidentally cut him off mid-‘thank’. We both stopped and did a suspicious staredown. You know the one; eyes narrowed, sizing each other up out of the periphery. Now, on one hand, I understand why he would thank me. I’m a customer and the head honchos dictate that such things are supposed to be said to a customer, probably with a certain level of welcoming charm that encourages them to return. But, I was reacting to his reaction.
Did he really not have people say thank you with any sincerity? I mean, God! He could have burnt himself on scalding coffee! He was heating milk with a piece of equipment that blasts out a jet of super-heated water! Thank you for putting yourself in mortal danger so that I may enjoy a tasty soy misto! IT’S DELICIOUS!!!
Granted, I was not in a part of town that has a gracious reputation, but can we please treat other people like human beings?
I have lots of brains, lots of ideas, and very little money, but I’ve got stuff to work with. There are things that I would like to do, things that I can do, and things that I will never be able to do. I’m not going out of my way to treat another human being like a human being because it’s surprisingly natural. It’s a little thing I’ve taken to calling “not-being-a-sociopath”.
All right, all right. Yes, you might have had a bad day. Yes, things might not be going great in your life. Jobs suck. Deadlines loom. Cats start throwing up on your carpet. Your dad won’t let you walk out the door without trying to engage you in a game of 20 Questions. But none of those things are a reason to lose sight of what it means to be human.
The “hello, how are you?”…not enough. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.
I’m not claiming sainthood, here. I usually kvetch to my friends, which is a burden they don’t deserve to bear, but they do, with patient grace, and they sort of signed on to seeing the Monster before the Man.
So, when you are tempted to collect your decaf soy Carmel Macchiato in eye-contact avoiding silence, or you find yourself snarling at the grocer, maybe give Dr. Jekyll a minute to regain control, hm?
Be human. We were born that way.
With Apologies to my Mother
Mom decided to start reading my blog (one year later) and, of course, she joins my small herd of followers on the post of the family reaction to moving to LA.
She was less than thrilled of my portrayal of her. So, Mother, if you still count among my followers, this is the one post devoted exclusively to you.
I’m sorry, but I’m going to continue posting stories with you in them. In fact, I’m starting a new topic about growing up in the Midwest.
I’m sorry you wanted to be a perfect parent. Perfect is boring.
If you were a perfect parent, I’d be a lawyer married to a small-time politician who cheated on me with his campaign manager, but we would stay together for the kids. I’d hate my job, my husband, my house, and my dog. I would be satisfied with that life because it carried the facade of perfection and it would be good enough.
I wouldn’t read. I wouldn’t have listened to Janis Joplin. I wouldn’t have Motown in my karaoke wheelhouse.
I sure as hell wouldn’t be a writer.
I’m sorry that you think I only remember the bad things and the friction. I’m your daughter. We’re not going to get along all the time.
But, who would have gone with me to the Cher concert? I know everyone there saw us and thought, “Oh, what a good daughter, coming with her mother to see Cher,” when they should have been thinking, “Oh, what good mother, coming with her daughter to see Cher.”
Who would have flown up to Boston in the hot-as-hellfire summer of 2007, so I wouldn’t have to drink alone on my 21st birthday?
Who would have sat out in the freezing cold night after night while I struggled to breathe through my fluid-filled lungs?
So, why do I focus on the negative? Because that other stuff makes people sad. No one watched Everybody Loves Raymond to see how nice Marie was to Deborah.
There’s conflict, there’s story. And, while there’s universal truth in the sweet as well as the bitter, it’s just not funny.
I know I don’t have any children, and you think I can’t possibly understand what it’s like, but that’s not true. I’m a writer. I have children. My characters hate me more than half the time. If I was a perfect nurturer to my stories, who knows what that crap would look like.
So, that’s it. That’s the only blog apology you’re getting. If it makes you feel better, just pretend I’m talking about someone else. Usually, that’s what I do.
Soapbox Podium Thumping – eBooks
*shuffle shuffle shuffle* SQUEAK! *clears throat and steps onto soapbox*
I’m about to pontificate, so feel free to ignore my opinion.
I stumbled across something I’m not going to link to because I don’t want to support the cause, even indirectly, but I want to be clear.
eBooks should not be the be-all-end-all direction of the publishing industry.
I know what you’re thinking, “Kate, you have mentioned on your blog several times how much you love your nook, and your iPad. You are addicted to gadgets. How can you say such things?”
I love eBooks. I love my nook. These things are true.
But, unless it’s an actual, physical book at some point in its history, I have a hard time taking it seriously for the simple fact that an author can’t sign it.
Every time I see that scene in Beauty & the Beast, when he shows Belle the library, my heart races, my pupils dilate, and a little voice in my head sings, “I want to go to there”. If I’m ever rich enough to build my own house, that library, be it physically possible, will make the final blueprint. You better believe there will be a track ladder.
I suggested an author to a friend. Said author has a new book coming out soon, which I also drew to the attention of aforementioned friend. This author is someone who I know and have spent time with. Friend freaked out.
Squees, all caps on Facebook, I was thrilled, thinking, “Awesome. She’ll enjoy a good read, as all people of the world should.” Then I got this note.
“What’s your address? Will she sign stuff?”
Um. Well. Yeah, I guess. I mean, why else would you become an author if you couldn’t sign a body part…er…flyleaf or two?
Now, imagine you meet J.K. Rowling (in a parallel universe where Harry Potter is available on eBook). Would you have her sign your nook? I mean, come on. That’s not really the same. You could add a digital flyleaf in an iPad app, but it’s not the same.
As I am clearly the conflicted character in this novel, I’m going to tell you right now: if there were seven books that I could have with me at all times, the Harry Potter series would make that list in a heartbeat (maybe not all of it, but still).
eBooks rock portability, and, coupled with an eInk screen, things look pretty good. But there are some things that you need to see in hard copy.
There are some pages you need to thumb through.
There are some things that you need to get signed, if only to show off to your friends who don’t happen to eat pancakes with awesome authors.
If you’ve ever been to a book signing or plan on going to one, hold that book in your hand and think about this: without that person sitting at the table at the front of that line, this thing – this gigantic, momentous bundle of cardboard, paper, and ink squeezed by your hot, little hands that took you to a place you’d never been – would not exist without them.
You are holding a piece of someone’s soul and it’s not trapped in a little computer box.
It’s contained in this thing that you can give to your mother when she’s lonely. Or, you can read to your son when he’s sick. Or, you can rediscover when you’re swinging from your track ladder on a rainy Sunday evening.
Reactions: Family
Typical Midwest middle class family.
If that phrase doesn’t help you form a mental image, I apologize. This post may not make that much sense.
The first family member I told about my move to Los Angeles was my younger brother.
“When are you leaving?”
“January.”
“Okay.”
His thumbs twirled as he delved back into Call of Duty, and I could see his brain processing the news as ‘I get your room’. I called my older sister, who lives in Washington, D.C. the next day.
“Oh my God! That’s so cool! Have you told Mom and Dad yet?”
“Nope.”
“Are you going to?”
After a pause that was longer than it needed to be: “I guess.”
“You’re going to have so much fun. I’m jealous.”
“Really? I’m having an anxiety attack.”
FADE IN:
INT. KITCHEN – AFTERNOON
MOTHER sits at the table on her computer.
KATE enters.
I didn’t sugar-coat it. I want to write for TV. LA is the place to do it. I told her about some of the places I found with housing potential.
Mom: “Can I just say one thing?”
Kate: (sighs) “What?”
Mom: “Drugs.”
Well, she kept it to one thing. Silly me. While I was worried about affording rent and a car, not to mention food and healthcare, I should have been thinking about my drug budget. I’ll have to stick with the cheaper drugs for a few months. The mountain of cocaine is a dream…no. I don’t do drugs. It’s never been an issue. Now, it is, for some reason.
I let her ramble. Things like: “you don’t have a home there,” and “I guess that means you’ve given up on horseshoeing school,” came up.
I kid you not. My mother had a dream for me and it was shoeing horses. How do these things happen? Mom had my whole life planned before I hit ten years old. She even picked out the guy I was supposed to marry by the time I was eight. Seriously? In the words of Sarah Palin: you betcha. Imagine her disappointment when he moved away after second grade.
I know this because she told me. It is one of my greatest failings (in her eyes) that I haven’t pursued a relationship with a guy I haven’t seen or heard from in sixteen years who may or may not remember me.
Are you starting to see why I need to break free?
Let’s tack a lesson on here:
Life’s hard. The economy sucks. People will do obscene and degrading things for minimum wage just to have a job. Can you imagine what they would do for more?
But, things can get better. Maybe you don’t need to pack up the car and take a Thelma and Louise dive into something, but you need to get out. You need to be on your own. Your parents will never see you as an adult. They had dreams for you, but you aren’t their horse-shoeing Barbie.
Lesson learned? Good. I’m going to make the world a better place.
Six Degrees
Six degrees of Kevin Bacon: fun game or way of life?
Well, its turning into a way of life.
I’m booking my social calendar for the next few weeks (I know, who’d have thought a poor little introvert like me could be so popular?), and you’d be surprised at how many people I know have someone in LA.
I’ve got the one who knows the neighborhoods (Starbucks, Tuesday evening), the one who was out there to do improv (Starbucks, Monday evening), the one who lives there and might have a job if I can’t find anything in entertainment (phone call, next Thursday). I know a guy who knows a guy who can do a thing or two.
Nice to know things work that way. I’m looking at jobs and should start applying soon. The NBC West Coast Page Program sounds exciting, a good job with networking opportunities. Unlike the NBC East Coast Page Program (Kenneth Parcell), the West Coast focuses more on entertainment rather than broadcast news. I could be seating people for Jay Leno. (If you know Jay Leno, you can send me his email and we can skip the middle man.)
There’s an internship at Screen Gems I have my eye on. It’s a development position, much like the one I had at Sony Television, which means I’m sure to love it. I have to make the dream list now. I’ll start on the sad, not ideal existence list probably next week.
Starbucks is on it.
There will always be Starbucks.
Next time, you find out how my parents react to the announcement.
Stay tuned…
Things are about to get…
Things are about to get really boring. And, then, really interesting.
I’m moving.
Probably to Los Angeles. New York isn’t off the table, but it’s less likely. If I fail, it’s going to be in a blaze of glory, like a Katy Perry song or something.
I’m hoping there’s no Midnight Train to Georgia moment.
I’d been kicking around the idea for a bit. Last night, I got the marvelous advice from Shawn Scarber: “You’re broke here. Why not be broke in LA?”
Excellent point.
So, January, at the latest.
I’m not completely without guidance. This blog by Amanda Pendo is quite inspirational. Now, I live in that space that all procrastinating writers love: the Research Phase. Can you really trust anyone on Craigslist? In the land of beautiful people, will I stand out in mediocrity? Am I crazy? Will I ever see my family or friends again? (If you don’t hear from me, my phone plan’s probably been canceled.)
Doing some spec scripts right now. Modern Family and Warehouse 13. I’m flexing my network (hopefully, not to the breaking point). I’m looking for a writing assistant position, maybe a fellowship, maybe a production assistant, maybe a Starbucks employee.
Here’s your latte, Mr. Scorsese.
Watch the blog. Things might get interesting.
Cue Defying Gravity from Wicked.
Obligatory "Something’s Happening" Post
Guess what? I’m teaching a class on writing?
Aw, you guessed it.
Luckily, I’m teaching teens, so if someone calls me out…yeah, I’ll probably get beat up, but, hey, you take a risk.
Anywho, if you know someone in the DFW area who is 13-17 and wants to take classes on writing over the summer, I’ve got the best deal in town.
Because it’s not just me.
We have real-life writers and authors. You know, like people with agents and books that have their names on them. Like (feel free to squee) Jenny Martin, and Rosemary Clement-Moore, and Candy Havens, and A. Lee Martinez.
Did I mention it’s free? How much money? None. Because it’s free.
You can get contact info here. It’s sponsored by the DFW Writers’ Workshop.
Sessions are on Saturdays, 1pm-3pm starting June 18th and running through July 30th (no session on July 2nd, due to Independence Day).
Seriously. You’re not going to find a better teen writers workshop this summer. Spread the word.
The Learning Curve
I have these lists.
And, they’re long.
One is Things I Learned in School. This list is finite. It’s not getting any longer, mainly because I’m not in school anymore. The non-academics are on there, too. Like how to become a cool kid (never actually learned that one, but it might be on your list).
Then, there’s Things I Didn’t Learn in School. This one’s infinite, and I discover more things on it every day.
I unfurled a different list this weekend: Things I Should Have Learned in School. Like, say, how to write a query letter. Or, how to get published. Or, how not to look like a crazy writer in front of a group of agents after you spent the last 12 hours in a caffeine-induced heightened state of awareness while pounding out 10,000 words.
Not that anything like that has ever happened to me…
So, what’s the problem? What’s the point?
I wouldn’t trade my education for anything. I took full advantage of the opportunities my school provided. However, one should never assume they are done learning. Every person in the world is a wealth of knowledge. Lately, I’ve felt like a brain slug, leeching off the intellect of people I know.
Is that a thing? Does it count as leeching if they give it to you freely?
On the flip side, do we gravitate towards each other? There must be a law in the Physics of Psychology (yeah, just made that up).
People with like interests and a passion to learn from each other attract. Whether by choice or how the world turns, it seems we all end up in the same place. iHop on Wednesday nights (wink).
So, here’s the lesson you can take away from today’s ramble:
If you want to be a writer, go to class. Go to conferences. Talk to other writers. Listen to what people have to say about the art. Read the blogs. And, keep writing the whole time. Knowing it all is overrated (and BS).
You can’t learn it all in school. You can never stop learning.
Throw it against the wall. See what sticks.
Bohemian Rhapsody just started on my stereo, so y’all know what I have to do.
The Daily Stalk
Like everyone who gets a new technological toy, I posted about my (yet unnamed) iPad 2. It sleeps next to my bed, curled up in its smart cover. I’ve started using eye drops because I stare at it for long periods of time.
Melodramatic!
Yesterday morning, while sitting at work, I picked up my iPad and thought: “Time for the daily stalk.”
Finger paused on power button. What prompted such a negative connotation to the innocent thing I was about to do?
So, I subscribe to blogs. What’s the big deal?
By “subscribe”, I, of course, mean “am addicted to”. In my gushing “All Hail Apple” post, I mentioned a few of the feeds I subscribe to:
But, that was just the tip of the iceberg.
I’ve got Jenny Martin. Occasionally, I dig into this thing like a mole-inspired super villain, mining it for YA lit suggestions.
Rosemary Clement-Moore, who can make me simultaneously weep and laugh.
Pamela Skjolsvik. She’s got the cajones to write about death. I’m sucked in. How dare you make me think?
And even that’s just a smattering. I’m up to 14 subscriptions (and that’s not including Tumblr).
So, why “the daily stalk”?
Blogging is personal. It’s that thing that’s been bugging the writer, that little piece of irritant that’s stuck in the brain. Something that needs to be worked out. And, because I follow people with creative minds, it’s like seeing an aspect about them, learning something that they don’t have to explain, or describe, or tell you.
And, I feel a little guilty.
Everyone who reads this blog knows something about me. Without ever meeting me, you can form an opinion based on the content. What kind of music I like, what sort of books I enjoy, my personality type.
But, really, we don’t know anyone. Reading a blog is not spending time with someone. Getting to know someone through social media is sort of bogus. I mean, if I really wanted to know, I could just find out where you live, buy a pair of binoculars, and park across the street (well, hello, officer; what do you mean by ‘restraining order’?).
I’d rather sit down with you, face-to-face, and have a cup of coffee. Even if all we talk about is the weather.
Hi. I’m Kate Cornell. I’m a media consumer, obsessed with technology, and addicted to social media. When I sneeze, I always sneeze twice. I sometimes feel bad when I go to the coffee shop because I change my order every time, and I know the baristas try to make an effort to remember my drink. I love angry chick rock. I play the guitar…poorly, but passionately.
So, now you know.
I’m going to read one more post. Just one. I promise.
Hardly Working
I may have…accidentally…on purpose…inadvertently…quit my job.
That was the teaser.
Now for something completely different.
My final semester of college, I flipped my academic advisor (and group of friends) the bird and moved to New York City. NO REGRETS! Jiminy Cricket, I love that city. I participated in an internship program. The Great Lakes Colleges Association purchased an old hostel on 29th Street and 8th Ave. (I could practically spit on Madison Square Garden). Out of all the artistes participating in the program, the coffee-fetchers, the case carriers, the note-takers, I had something amazing.
An internship at Sony Pictures Television.
I was in a three-person department which consisted of the Development VP and Producer for Mini-Series and Made for TV Movies, her assistant, and lil ol’ me.
And this was no coffee-fetching internship. I was picking writers for projects. I was determining which rights to acquire. Script coverage, contacting agents, sitting in on budget meetings, editing scripts…my God, I’m almost shedding tears thinking about it.
Once the writers’ strike was over, the VP was on set while her assistant and I held down the fort at the New York office. I was watching dailies, seeing costuming. I only went out for coffee once, and the assistant apologized at least four times for asking me to do it.
I was in love. There’s something about that city. It doesn’t work for everyone, but when it gets inside you, you feel it. It whispers in your ear. It tugs on your heart. It lifts you up high and reminds you of every low. It makes you forget everything outside of itself.
In retrospect, I did some stupid stuff in that city.
I walked around by myself at two-o-clock in the morning just to feel the pace still burning through the streets when the world should be sleeping. Okay, I didn’t go to Central Park at night. I have seen almost every episode of Law and Order: SVU. I’m stupid, but not suicidal.
And, when walking through NYC at two-o-clock in the morning, I knew what I want to do with my life.
I want to produce content. Not just books, not just TV shows, not just movies. I want to tell stories, no matter what form that takes. I want to take these fantastic images in my head and hand them to someone else and say, “Look. Without me, this would not exist. What do you think?”
I know. All mad gab existential.
But, more than that, I want to be someone people can associate with quality storytelling. I want my name to be attached to a TV show, and a group of people take over a bar on premiere night so they can make up a series drinking game. I want to share other people’s stories that I find brilliant.
I want to determine what gets added to the cultural genetic structure.
Sounds crazy, no?
It’s not about the money. It’s not even about the reputation. It’s about the story. It’s about the culture. It’s about striving for a higher standard, raising the expectation, and achieving something amazing.
This past weekend, I took a step back and looked at Day Job. I adopted a British accent, stuck my finger in its face, and screamed, “You’re not helping me achieve my bloody goals!”
I told my boss I think I needed to explore my options. Because I have to keep moving forward. Stagnancy is going to kill me.
Wish me luck, pray for me, keep me in your thoughts, whatever.
Because I might be broke forever, but, at the end of everything, at least I can say I tried my hardest.
And, that counts for something.
Shameless Apple Product Gushing
I got an iPad 2.
I am such an Apple nerd. I’m sorry, I know. It’s like the Mark of the Beast.
But, I love this thing so much. I want to make it a little bed to sleep in at night. What do I use it for?
Okay. List time.
1. Media input – Time Warner Cable TV, ABC Player, Netflix, Vevo. Plug me in, I am ready to go. And this whole battery life thing? No joke. I get at least six hours of streaming time. Don’t ask me how I know that. I’m hard at work. Seriously.
2. eReader – There is nothing like this badass screen to read books on. Oh, man. Shoot. I have a nook, which I still use for outside and the bathtub and whatever, but one thing I didn’t realized I missed: colored highlighting. Any color. Pick a color, you can highlight in it. If you think that highlighting is not important, then you have never read good non-fiction. Squee! Blue! Orange! Red! Chocolate! Puce!
3. Mobile RSS – I know a lot of people. I like some of them. And, I subscribed to their blog feeds. Here are some of them:
- A. Lee Martinez - author, juggler, he’s got some fun stuff to say and he doesn’t sling any BS
- Kristen Lamb – author, social media expert…no, social media goddess
- Chuck Wendig – author, screenwriter, oh, man, I love this guy. I have favorited three of his posts. Only three because I haven’t been able to get to the rest because I’m laughing so hard.
- Okay, yes, an obvious trend in who I follow. My point is still valid.
4. Social Media – What’s the deal with Twitter? Why do I twitch like a junkie when I’m away from it for too long? Not that I would know. I was a Twitter junkie on my iPhone long before the iPad, but for some reason, I always have to be plugged in. But Twitter for iPad? That app is so intuitive, it knows what I want to do before I do. You flip through pages, you follow links. Oh, my heart flutters.
And, GetGlue. I keep track of my overwhelming media consumption and earn BADGES! I am so excited about virtual stickers. What am I, eight years old? Yes! Check-in to Game of Thrones with 5,000 other people!
5. News – ABC News, Mashable, Wall Street Journal. Even fake news! The Onion has an app.
6. Productivity – You know, because that’s why I actually bought the thing. Ack, this is the most boring number in my list.
dropbox. yeah. confetti.
PDF Reader/Annotater. hurrah. vuvuzela.
Popplet, okay, now we’re talking. It’s like brainstorming. Paste images, draw pictures, text input, connect things. Like a white board, but digital.
And, of course, I immediately set the screen to this:
Why did I buy it? It may have something to do with hypnotoad, but I love it nonetheless.
