For a couple of months now I haven’t been blogging, or reading blogs. I haven’t been writing. I have been reading, thinking, doing the normal things that one does, work, work-related things, socializing. I saw the shrinkette on Thursday and we decided that I should go back down on my Geodon. I had gone up by 20 mg, but maybe that is contributing to my slump. We will see. She also put me on a new medicine that may, maybe, just maybe, might, help control my appetite. So far it hasn’t, though it does seem to make me a little lightheaded sometimes, maybe a little nauseous, something that just makes me WANT to eat instead of not want to eat. Oh well. Maybe it will help some. I gained fifteen pounds this year, maybe twenty. I just can’t seem to commit to anything.

I just finished reading IN DEFENSE OF FOOD. Very interesting and good. I need to do a bit of research, but I think I’m sold. Means I’ll spend more money on my food. Well, in some ways. In some ways less, or about the same. The good thing? I’ll be eating real things instead of fake things, like real half and half instead of the fake stuff, real pudding, real sugar, etc. The only real rub is Diet Coke. I don’t see myself giving that up, although I have been craving unsweetened iced tea lately. This book really does have me thinking, not so much about all the chemicals, but about the fakeness, about what that fakeness might be doing to us. For instance, what does all this fake sweetness do? Does it make me want more and more and more instead of satisfying me? It’s been so LONG since I added fake sugars to my diet. So very long. I do know that I don’t even WANT a high fat fast food meal unless I can have it WITH Diet Coke. Diet Coke cuts right through the taste of all that fat, just burns right through it. What am I doing to myself? All these years of it? I have it every day, sometimes as much as sixty ounces of it. Or more. What am I doing to myself? Not my brain. I’m not really worried about that. My body. My set-points, my triggers, my balances. I wonder. I started all this because I wanted to cut calories. Look what happened. There’s no way I could drink this much real Coke. I just couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t even WANT to. Good grief.

Today I go to the grocery store. I think I’ll go to Greenlife (our local whole food place) and buy a free range turkey for Thanksgiving. I’ll buy some organic potatoes. I’ll buy some real cream for my coffee and some butter. I’ll buy some tea to brew for iced tea. I’ll buy cruelty-free, chemical-free, hormone-free sandwich meats and cheeses. I’ll buy some bread and salad. Then I’ll go to the regular grocery store for dog food, and to buy James the things he wants which just cost too much at Greenlife and would probably not taste “right’ anyway. He lives off pizza, fat-free hotdogs, pizza-a-roni ravioli, and cheese. And my dog and cats. Who cares what they eat? Or am I being shortsighted?

~r.

So it’s morning, Monday, and I’m in my office ON TIME. Just had my McDonald’s breakfast. Butter biscuit, hashbrowns. I have committed myself to not eating meat unless it’s cruelty-free, or fish. I’m not really worried about the fish or the sea critters. All this is because I reread David Foster Wallace’s article “Consider the Lobster.” I’m not really worried about lobsters, but the article got me to thinking about the poor chickens and pigs. The cows. We have a store near us that carries fair-trade coffee, cruelty-free meats and cheeses, organic milk, some of it local. It does cost more, but we don’t eat a lot of meat, so it’s no big deal. But it does take thought. I can’t buy everything at this store because the cost would be out of our budget. Plus it’s across town, across the river, a special trip. So today I need to go to two grocery stores, something I’m not eager to do.
But there it is.

Dale and I have become slovenly. Our house needs an intervention. Oprah needs to come over with her camera crew and shame us into cleaning up. I can only figure that this is mostly my fault. First, I quit doing floors. Then it seems Dale quit doing floors too, something about the dining room rug for the Roomba. Then everything went to hell. And it’s gotten progressively worse. I wanted the month of November to be about getting things under control, but it hasn’t been so far. So far all that I’ve done is buy two ENORMOUS bins for recycling. And we haven’t even placed them yet. Yesterday I sort of cleaned the downstairs bathroom, which was hairing over. We can’t seem to keep up with the kitchen, the dining room table is ALWAYS covered with crap. Somebody HELP us.

We are going to remodel the screened porch into a sitting, piano room. We will miss the porch, but it was mostly for smoking. We have secured the funds. Now we just need someone to do it. And we hope to have just enough money left to do the floors, which are in terrible shape. Instead of refinishing them, something that could only happen if we left for a week and removed all our furniture, we are going to replace them with pre-finished hardwood, if we can afford it. Dale wants laminate, but I think it would drive down the value of the house. I’d rather just get carpet than do that. One thing I would like to do is to remove the old hardwood so that it can be used by someone else. We could just give it to someone. Anyhow, things are going to be changing, hopefully soon.

And on the writing front? No writing. No watching of the food. No vigilance. I reach a point where I JUST WILL NOT DO IT THANK YOU VERY FUCKING MUCH!!!!! I am stubborn, as are most people. So, in a couple of weeks, the semester will be over, I can get back into a groove. I hope anyway. Yesterday I worked for hours grading tests. Yes, it’s true. I have the best job in the word, but when I have to grade, well, not so much. It just takes so long. Of course, I do have this whole extra class this semester. Yikes!!

Now I have to go discuss Hamlet, something I don’t really enjoy doing.

~r.

I just had cake for breakfast, and coffee that Dale made. Excellent. Happy Birthday to me! We are going to Big River for lunch, have a free birthday meal on them.

The weirdest thing. All last week, I had a canker sore. Been there, done that, many, MANY times. I used to get them so bad, many at one time. And I know the drill. There’s really nothing they can do. I had some gross mouth-numbing stuff and thought I’d just ride it through. But by Saturday morning I was in PAIN and my ear was hurting. This sore was in my throat, not in my mouth. So I go into Urgent Care and guess what? My EAR was infected, and the doctor thought the sore, which she couldn’t see, was probably infected, too. So. Antibiotics and Darvocet, a great pain med for me. Wish I could use it for everything.

Got the refill on my Geodon yesterday. I take 1 20 mg pill in the morning and 5 mg pill in the evening. This is an increase of 1 pill. Guess, just guess what the retail cost for a 3 month supply is. You’ll never guess. $4,500. I’m not kidding. Can you believe it? $8.33 a pill, which doesn’t sound so bad, but….we could NEVER afford this if the insurance didn’t pay. And we’re switching to an HMO in January. I’ve been a little worried, but Geodon is on their preferred drug list. Shit.

I have to grade tests and we still need to clean this place, at least a little bit. Guess I’ll do that later today. And maybe I’ll start writing when the semester is over, maybe I’ll feel inspired to get back on the horse, or rather, the bike? The boat? The wagon? In any case, I’ll get back on it soon or later, in this case later. But better late than…..anyhow. It’s at least on my mind.

~r.

So. I’ve been laying low, watching TV, doing the things that one does when one isn’t writing. At all. I’m serious. I’ve just stopped writing and I suspect that I’ll get started again soon, but not today. Not on this particular Friday when I’m sleepy and wishing I were still in bed, wishing that the day was over and I could go to the after-the-softball-game party at Lanie’s house. Yes, today, there will be no writing. There will be teaching and napping and the calling of the shrinkette to make an appointment. I need to go in. I need to get new RX and I need to redo my employee benefit stuff during this open enrollment period. I need to take my reading glasses to Pearle for new lenses. I need to, well, do lots of things, record grades, mark papers, find a recipe for Mexican rice. We have supper club tomorrow night. I need to do many things.

And what have I been doing since I was here last? Reading books—How to Become a Novelist, The Courage to Write, Mindless Eating. Somebody please tell me that I’ve read more than that! Surely. Well, maybe not. Maybe I just thought I was reading a lot. I HAVE watched a LOT of TV. I’m into V, Flash Forward, Community, Big Bang Theory, Modern Family, Law and Order SVU, All My Children, and Project Runway. Too much TV leads to mushy brain. Indeed.

So.

I have new glasses, new hair.

So.

Meacham went well. Check out the podcasts at meachamwriters.org.

So.

We will see what we see. Maybe if I begin to write here, I’ll feel the need to work on other things. Yes. Maybe.

~r.

So I am just giving into it. Not dieting, not writing. Well, I did write a thousand words yesterday, but it wasn’t really planned. And I may write tomorrow, hell I may go back on my f’ing “eating plan” tomorrow. I just may.

I want something in claret for fall. And something in a black and white plaid.

I got my hair color washed and cut today, a little shorter. I bought stupidly expensive shampoo and conditioner—Redken. And Dale and I had to go buy me a new phone because mine died. I think it got wet. Anyhow, I now have a bronze G-1 with a data plan so I can google things and check email and pretty much be an insufferable phone-clicking ass just like my husband. Click, click, click.
Well, that was a little harsh.

There’s some show on TV that I’m not really following but a lot of people just woke up from blacking out. There are pile ups and blood and a man on fire. Don’t know what’s going on with TV anymore.

I am going to watch this thing and do nothing the rest of the evening.

~r.

So now is the time to take stock, to delve into it. I can either pay a lot of money to see my shrinkette, which would be overkill, or I can try to sort through things myself. Basically, it’s this. Every time I go on Weight Watchers I succeed. And then I fail. I always reach a point where I’m just not willing to do it, just not willing to keep track of points, just not willing to be deprived and to feel the sense of failure that I always feel whenever I go over on my points, whenever I don’t lose weight during a given week. And I have the all or nothing mentality of folks with eating disorders—so, I fucked up and had a brownie, might as well just blow off the whole day and have McDonald’s for supper. Or, might as well just blow off the whole week. And then, shortly after that sort of thinking is—might as well give up altogether. Why is it so hard to wrap my mind around the fact that losing weight is a slow process? It can’t happen overnight, it shouldn’t happen overnight. But here’s the truly sorry thing. I read just the other day that when people lose weight (which I have done, fifty pounds at one point), it comes back 95% of the time. 95%. Damnit. So what does one do? Quit going to parties? Quit drinking? Live like a nun? Weight Watcher’s latest mantra is “stop dieting, start living” which sounds so reasonable and the program itself is really so reasonable. But I’m not a reasonable person. I like to live large, high on the hog. I don’t save money. I don’t save points. I don’t put on the brakes. The only thing I’ve ever been really good at is therapy and getting better mentally. Because, I’m having the same trouble with my writing right now. I just DO NOT WANT TO DO IT THANK YOU VERY MUCH. NOT AT ALL. I feel stubborn clean through. And for all my talk talk about being excited about reading? Well, I’ve read only two complete books since I came home from Bread Loaf. Only two. So much for reading.

So what is it that I do? I work a lot, at least it feels like that at this particular moment. I also waste a LOT of time. I watch TV. Yesterday I watched almost three hours of TV. It wasn’t planned, but that’s how it turned out. I taught my classes for which I prepared as little as humanly possible. I ate a LOT, just because I wanted to. I slept three hours in the afternoon. I fretted inside because I’m fat and I’m not working out and not writing. And I seriously thought about just giving in to all of it and taking a break. But what good would that do? I’d just get fatter. And I’d be no closer to finishing my books. I feel like I’m spinning my wheels and that’s not the person I want to be. I don’t want to be a wheel-spinner, a rut-dweller, a no-good, useless piece of flotsam.

Maybe the problem is in my basic personality, in my disorder. I either go full-tilt or not at all. I don’t burn slow and steady. I burn all at once, quickly and very, very hot. Then my flame goes out and I’m a slug. Maybe I need to embrace that. Maybe I need to be a slug sometimes. And I know, from years of therapy, that I shouldn’t beat myself up no matter what. That’s a very bad thing to do.

Still, what I want my life to be:

Get up every week day and have significant morning time.

Workout every week day.

Stick to a reasonable food plan.

Write at least a thousand words a day.

Write in my journal every day.

Never hang out with friends during the work week.

Never drink or smoke during the work week.

What my life is:

Sleeping late whenever possible.

Not working out.

Not eating well.

Not writing.

Watching lots of TV.

Smoking and drinking during the week.

So what does one do? How do I rectify what I want with my actual reality? About twelve years ago, I lost fifty pounds in about six months, most of it over the summer months. How did I do it? I got sick. I felt terrible. I was very fat and was having blood sugar problems. So I bought a Nordic Track and I went on a hypoglycemic (sort of) diet. I worked out for an hour (hard) six days a week. I was a student, not a teacher. I ate lots of berries and raw veggies and chicken fingers and salads with ranch dressing. I didn’t eat desserts. I didn’t drink often. And I kept the weight off for a few years. During those years, I wrote, somehow, though not every day. I worked at Pearle Vision. I hung out with friends whenever I wanted. I was cycling a lot, but I got up early every day, usually at five o’clock. I worked out in the mornings, before I could talk myself out of it. I did tons of submissions and it was like a fun little game I played. I had stress dreams about never finishing my college degree. But I did finish. And I was raising two boys. And then I started teaching while still working at Pearle and I still managed to write and I published and it was fun. Then, then.

I started teaching creative nonfiction. I started feeling the pressure. Writing was no longer a game I did, something I loved. It became something I felt I HAD to do and then I started worrying WILL I EVER GET TENRUE? I started worrying WILL I EVER HAVE A BOOK?

But I’m not remembering clearly I don’t think. Back in those days I cycled a lot, I went to therapy a lot, I bounced from medication to medication. And I did beat up on myself about not writing every day and I did take it seriously and I did fret and worry, worry, worry. But I didn’t feel the pressure I feel now. Now I’m on committees and I go to meetings and I hang out with people from work and I have an MFA and I so desperately want to be part of the club, but I’m not. I’m other than, I’m a no go.

And my knees.

And my eyes.

Aging, very plain and simple. Feeling the years spinning by. Worrying about what menopause is going to be like for me. Feeling my sleep disrupted. Not feeling equal to early mornings.

Reality has set in.

So, what do I do?

Today, right after I post this, I must read and respond to stories, I must get it done. And I have things to read, too. And I need to get to the bank, to the post office. And at some point I’ll HAVE to eat.

I don’t know if writing about this has helped at all. Mostly I feel like a colossal failure.

~r.

A lot of the practical advice in Alone With All That Could Happen is advice on things I already do somewhat instinctively, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t improve by thinking deeply about those things. In the paragraph on flow, Jauss talks at some length about varying sentence length and structure, something I certainly know about but don’t think about consciously when I’m writing or revising. So I looked over my new novel, seeing what my syntax does, how I put sentences together, what their structures are and I do have variety, but I could probably use more and use it more effectively. As for the types of sentences, I’m still not sure that I know exactly what those are, but I think I have that covered. I wish I knew the term for joining clauses with commas or conjunctions. I probably should take this advanced grammar class that one of our best teachers teaches here. In any case, I continue to be grateful that I discovered this book and I am now going to be much more open about reading books on craft, though they’ll have to be really, really good to hold a candle to this one.

I’m not doing a very good job getting things done this week. My diet has gone to hell and I haven’t worked out since Sunday. I wrote on Monday, but not on Tuesday. Basically, I had two things to do yesterday that were out of the ordinary and threw my whole day off. Dale says he heard an interview with Dan Brown who said, of course, as always, that he gets up every morning at 4:30 and writes and, once again, as always, I’m thinking if only I could find it within myself to do that, then I could accomplish anything, but I just can’t seem to get up early anymore. Still, I’m really just plodding along at this current pace, just plodding, almost dabbling. I need to do more than dabble. I figured out what to do about the opening of Mine, which kind of breaks my heart, but it’s time to buckle down and make the thing sing. I started a new short story yesterday, wrote just a paragraph. It’s going to be a killer story. I think I want to finish it and read it at Meacham in October. There’s also a poem in my mind’s eye, lurking there. It’s been hanging out quite a while, waiting its turn. And there’s the new novel which I’m going to call Bird for now. And what is it about? Well, a woman who is struggling for her sanity, trying to find herself after great tragedy. Not a terribly original story either, but the way it’s written. Now that’s exciting. There’s this scene where she’s in the drug store looking at nail polish and it’s just breathtaking. It’s a very exciting book to work on.

And speaking of work, I need to get to it. I have about forty-five minutes to write.

~r.

So yesterday I accomplished all I set out to do and then some. I read a couple of the marvelous essays from Alone With All That Could Happen, David Jauss’ book on fiction craft. Normally I shy away from such books, but this one is so great, the prose so engaging, the examples so clear, that I just love it. I read the essay about write-what-you-don’t-know, which convinces me even more that I have little imagination. I do not say this so that others will say that I DO have imagination, which is generally what people say whenever I say this—of COURSE you have an imagination; you’re a writer! I say it because of the way I write, and, for that matter, the way I read and relate to and think of the world. Everything I write is autobiographical in some way, even when it is very different from my own life. Now, you may be thinking that that is true for most writers and you would be right to some degree. But there are writers, many of them, who obviously have great imaginations. Take Ishiguro. Now I’ve never read any of his work, but I watched again yesterday The Remains of the Day, a great film. Obviously the book on which it is based is one of great imagination and I just don’t write that way. Cherie Priest, who is on my Friend’s Page, writes with great imagination. So, maybe I can improve? I don’t know. Part of it, I think, is that I don’t think visually, especially people’s faces. I think of the essence of people, I think of them holistically, as a whole, not the sum of parts. I think in images, yes, but more the imagistic feelings of things than the things themselves. For instance, I might describe a coffee cup as simply red, but I won’t generally describe the kitchen the coffee drinker is standing in, nor will I describe the drinker of the coffee. Another example—Callie (from Mine) moves into a huge white house on Missionary Ridge and I have only the sketchiest idea of what that house looks like, probably based more on things I’ve read than things I’ve actually seen, which is something Anne Lamott says you should never do, never base your writing on what you’ve read, but rather on what you’ve actually experienced. Well, I’ve read more than I’ve experienced and often things are based, not just on my own life (which, by the way, I find endlessly interesting which may be the crux of it), but on what I’ve read about other lives. This is something that I’d like to puzzle out in an essay at some point.

The other essay I read was about Flow and it was simply amazing. It was the math of writing, but I didn’t mind at all, I didn’t feel like I’d fly to pieces reading it. Instead, I was incredibly focused and enriched. And I LEARNED so much, so many things I might never have really thought about on my own, which is the point of such books. I am eager to read the rest of the essays. I ordered the book because I read one of the essays (on point of view) while I was at Bread Loaf.

Today is a Monday and it promises to be a good one. I have, as yesterday, a lot to accomplish but I feel entirely equal to it. For the last few nights, I’ve not had to take anything to help me sleep and I wonder why this is. I wish I could trace the source of my insomnia, but…..in any case, I feel fantastic when I sleep on my own. And it’s not alcohol or caffeine. Maybe it’s being busy. Actually, I woke up at 3:50 with “Fame” in my head, and some other song, maybe two other songs. I was awake, then I was asleep, then I was awake, then I was asleep, then the alarm went off and I thought about sleeping another thirty minutes but I got up instead and felt great. So.

Now it’s time to write my five hundred words in the next thirty minutes. So, here I go.

~r.

We are the kind of people who leave old TVs in the hallway, wondering when they’ll ever get picked up by the Trash Flash folks. Of course, to be picked up, one has to have a plan, has to call and tell them EXACTLY what will be picked up and then put EXACTLY those items out there and then you have to remember to put everything out and, and, and. You see the problem. There is also a white, plastic bag and a pile of electrical cords in the hallway.

We are the type of people who have two, useless computer towers in the cramped office awaiting whatever their fate may be because Dale may USE them for something and there’s a white plastic bag in the floor and a chair in the tiny way of traffic and dog hair all over the rugs that NEVER get vacuumed because I don’t do floors anymore.

We are the type of people who go to supper clubs and marvel at the houses of people who don’t leave old TVs in the hallway or electrical cords and white, plastic bags on the floor. We are the type of people who dread the idea of hosting the supper club in their cramped house because ten people won’t fit around the table and we don’t have a fancy porch where we can put two tables together and fit everyone comfortably. We ARE the type of people who didn’t mind AT ALL that the hosts were vegetarian and, so, the main dish was a wonderful vegetarian dish with squashes and fillo dough, so delicious. And we didn’t mind AT ALL that everyone was VERY liberal, though one of the women was so LIBERAL that she scared us (meaning me) a teeny bit. We ate and ate and there was a Tracye-Pool chocolate cake which is a very wondrous thing indeed. And red wine. And Lanie-Rieth appetizers from heaven. We made the ENORMOUS Greek salad, enough for an army and hardly any eaten (was it a sign?) and we are just the sort of people to bring home all that salad with ten dollars worth of olives in it that the wife of this hallowed house picked out because they couldn’t go down the disposal and then, yes, the whole salad down the proverbial drain. We are just the type of people to spend forty dollars on a salad and then throw it away because it is too JUICY. (I didn’t have any of it anyway because the chunks were too big.)

And we went to the football game last night. Well. We started out at T-Bones, a sports bar where I had two (poopy, Dale said) MDG 64 beers that made me drunk; I’m not kidding. Or something. My face and neck flushed red (hot flash?) and stayed that way and I had trouble meeting the floor when I stood up and then we walked over to the game and I could hardly stand the collective emotion of ten thousand people and, so, almost sobbed when our team ran on to the field. I’m serious. I had to keep myself from crying and I’m thinking the whole time, with my flushed face and crawly scalp and swirly head, that this is EXACTLY why I don’t go to football games, that this is what happened to me the last time I went to one (the only other time). I soak up the emotion of the people all around me and it’s just too, too much. And we lost. Of course. I don’t know if I can bear to go again.

When we got home, Gale and I had some wine and then, BOOM!, it hit me again, HOT FLASH, enflamed face. Gale left and I removed my clothing, put cool water on my face and torso, a cold cloth on my face, lying in bed, too hot to be touched. And the thing is, I’m not sure if this was true HOT FLASH!!! or allergies because my face felt like it was swollen, enflamed, and antihistamines didn’t seem to help and just damn it all, can’t even go to a football game and have a normal time.

After I calmed down, Dale and I came back downstairs and watched Thursday’s Project Runway and I swear to the gods that Chris’s emerald green dress was perfectly hideous, though no one said so. Like a terrible dream of a lampshade gone wrong. But there were plenty of bad dresses to go around. Lesson = don’t be safe.

Worked yesterday on both novels. Work = GOOD. Today I go to the grocery store, read the Odyssey, grade quizzes, record grades, and work on both novels and work out. Lots to do and so I better get on with it.

~r.

So I haven’t been writing as much as I’d hoped. I need to crack down. I think that I mostly won’t write on Saturdays. Saturdays I’m lucky to get ANYTHING done. But seriously, this new novel is so very different from the last one, it’s going to go much more slowly, it’s harder, it’s better. As for working on Mine, I just need to take it a chapter at a time. I’m going through and deepening the prose, which Annette says is making it sound more like me. It’s also going to change the storyline a lot, which I’m sure is a good thing. And I need to get Ellen Gilchrist out of my head, stop imitating her. But, of course, that’s not completely possible. She is the most influential, for me, of all that I’ve read of short fiction, which is not a bad thing, but I’m far enough along to stop it, just cut it out! So there’s all that, and I’m still getting used to my schedule, which is not an easy one because I have two night classes.

More later.
~r.

I am SO goddamned mad. My university owes me money for my summer class and they wait until payday to announce that we won’t be paid until the end of September! And knowing how slow the wheels turn at the university and how broke they are, I suppose there’s no guarantee that I’ll get paid then either.

~r.

So, go off Weight Watchers and gain back ALL the weight within two weeks. I’m not kidding. So I’m back on and back at square one. And this rapid weight gain is not good. On Friday, I was getting winded just walking around the classroom while lecturing. I actually had to sit down. That’s when you know it’s really bad. It’s bad and I MUST lose weight and exercise. I simply must. I don’t want to die.

I’ve given myself the week off, but on Monday I’m getting back to a thousand a day. I’m feeling discouraged, but Annette is coming over tomorrow and we’re going to do more agent queries. And I need to just go ahead and plan on doing submissions in the next couple of weeks. And there are contests to submit Squeeze to.

One of the good things about Bread Loaf is that I have reawakened my love for reading. I am just so excited about all the books I have to read. While I was at Bread Loaf I read Loose Girl (okay) and I started Michael Korda’s Another Life. That one I’ll be reading on for quite a while. On the way home I read Lynn Freed’s Reading, Writing, and Leaving Home, which was quite good. She was my workshop leader at Bread Loaf. Last night I finished Lauren Slater’s Blue Beyond Blue, a book of fairytales. And I’m so pleased. Every time I read Slater I am positively inspired, her way with words, her choices. She is simply brilliant, splendid. And pretty twisted in a lovely way.

I have the sequel to the Odyssey to read. I’ll start on that after the Korda is finished. I have three Anne Lamott’s that I haven’t read before, though I’m not thrilled with the one I started today. It had better get better, and soon. I have too much reading to do to waste time on something I don’t love. I have Charles Baxter’s (also a Bread Loaf faculty member) book on writing fiction—Burning Down the House. I’ll start on that soon. I checked out Norman Mailer’s book on craft—The Spooky Art. Ditto. And I still have the Anne Beattie that I checked out. I am going to order David Jauss’ book on craft. I read one of the essays, on point of view, and it was awesome. I must have this book. And I’m going to order Brigit Pegeen Kelly’s poems.
And there’s TV to watch. Project Runway has started again. There’s All My Children. I dare not add much else cause I’m just not going to have the time. Dale and I are going to be in a supper club I think, which should be good.

I have so much to do and, still, this terrible Saturday thing. We went to see District 9 (gag me). I haven’t been feeling well, waking up with a sore throat every morning, feeling like I’m under water. Allergies. Malaise.

I am ready to feel better, ready to work, ready to get things done, new things, fresh things. I am ready.

~r.

So I’m back, I made it home. I was so tired last night, and so crazy I couldn’t think straight. And I’m very, very glad to be back home, drinking my own coffee, sitting in my office in my pajamas, making out my rolls, preparing to go over the Iliad, getting back into things. I watched Project Runway last night, the first TV I’ve watched in what seems like forever. I feel that I was at Bread Loaf for a long, long time, probably because I spent so much of the time not enjoying myself, being uncomfortable and very close to miserable. But there were also good times, good moments. If I had it to do over, I might go to more things. Well, maybe.

But I don’t know when I’ve felt more unattractive and fat and awkward and out of place. Like 4-H camp back in the day, so long ago, so far back, not fitting in, not knowing how to behave. There was a cold swimming pool there, so cold. I remember the water coming into the pool, a pipe pumping in cold, cold water. While I was there, there was a group of girls who didn’t like me. They, without saying it directly, accused me of stealing a girl’s ring. They talked “at” me, making me feel small and vulnerable. That’s what Bread Loaf was like, feeling ugly as a wart, feeling like no amount of me would ever be enough to fit in, to feel like I belonged. I’m so GLAD to be back to familiar things, to be back on my turf. Because, goddamnit, people LIKE me here in my life. Thank the gods.

Now I’m off to shower with my olive oil soap bought in Middlebury, VT. Now I’m off to the day, my real life. Now I’m going to be happy, resume happiness. Ode to joy.

~r.

So the agent loves my book, but she doesn’t think she call sell it. So. The agent says that my novel is too early to comment on. So. Obviously I need to work, a LOT. If she loves my book, someone else will love it, and someone will love it enough to get behind it. Surely. In the mean time, I will submit to contests, I will pursue other agents. I will keep on keeping on. There it is.

Tomorrow morning I’m getting up at 5:30 and taking a shower, reading myself for the 7;00 am taxi. Tonight I heard what may be the most stunning poetry I’ve ever heard-- Brigit Pegeen Kelly. I am overwhelmed. I must write more poetry. I must read more poetry.

I wonder what would happen if someone told me that I could write for a living. I told the agent that I’d just die, that I wouldn’t be able to do it. I wonder. I’ve recently met a writer who has an old-fashioned patron. Well. See what I mean?

The Michael Korda book is just amazing. I will be working on it for quite a while. It’s viscous.

~r.

Yesterday we had workshops and in the afternoon Louis Gluck gave a reading, which wasn’t good. She’s not a very good reader, at least she wasn’t yesterday and the poems didn’t seem good. I was very surprised. Maybe she’s just off her game.

At 5:30 I went to a “special talk” with three editors, a woman from New England Review (the woman who nominated me for Bread Loaf actually), a woman from Ploughshares, and the poetry editor from the Atlantic. The two women started off and things seemed fine. Then the Atlantic guy started talking and it seemed to go on forever. He just took over, and add to it the fact that he is one of those unfortunate people who says “uhm” every few words or phrases. It just about drove me to distraction and I left when the questions started.

Then I rode into town with a group of New England Review folks for dinner. We went to one of the Middlebury University houses and it was, of course, un-air-conditioned. There were twelve people at each of the eight person tables and it was HOT, a ceiling fan whirring away at the top of the thirteen foot ceiling. So, during cocktails, we went outside to the backyard, which was pretty damp and dank and the bugs started eating us, so we went back inside to dinner, ate various mediocre Indian dishes, then went outside again and were eaten again and I’m like “There’s a screen porch right over there” and I went inside and then all of us took our carrot cake to the screen porch and ate and the chief editor of NER, Stephen, had us each introduce ourselves and say something about ourselves. This was very nice, but on the whole, I felt, you guessed it, out of place and awkward. I have decided that what I really want is a party for ME, all about ME. That’s the kind of party I like, parties for ME, all about me, me, ME. I have no interest in being one of the maddening crowd. I want to be the ONE, thank you very much. Still, it was very nice. There were even place cards at the tables. And the woman who lived at the house teaches Italian at Middlebury and she and I TALKED. I asked her a question about Dante and we talked about Italy and teaching and I encouraged her to talk and talk and it was good.

On the way home, I felt sick to my stomach and was actually worried about throwing up on the ride up the mountain. I was VERY glad when I was back in my room, resting and recovering. I guess the food didn’t agree with me. Indian. Yes, I know this. Something in the yellow korma I think because that’s what they had.

Yesterday at lunch they had a do-it-yourself taco and burrito line. It was pretty bad. Somebody had gone crazy with the cumin and everything mainly tasted like soap. The food here, while sometimes good, is so hit or miss, and unlike Vermont College, they don’t have sandwiches at lunch unless you’re willing to settle for peanut butter and jelly. There’s always a hot lunch which I think lots of people would rather not have. Of course, there’s a salad bar too, but you can only eat so much salad and their ranch dressing is WEIRD.

Today I slept in, finished reading a couple of things, went to the bookstore and bought a Bread Loaf tee-shirt. The only one they had in extra large is a white one, so I’ll be sure to stain it before the day is done. I will order some others when I get home.

Not much going on today. I’ll read for tomorrow’s workshops, go to readings. Ed Hirsch is reading tonight, along with Charles Baxter. Should be good. There’s a “GALA RECEPTION” at 5:30, which probably means they’ll have free alcohol again, which they do from time to time.

I haven’t talked to the agent again and I’m not going looking for her. I saw her talking with someone this morning and she seemed very busy. If she’s interested, I’m sure she’ll find me. I refuse to get excited and at this point, I figure she’s going to pass. I just know it.

I have a new goal. When I get home, I’m going to start a new novel and work on the old novel, work on both. I’m giving myself six months. And next spring during May, I hope to have a fellowship at a writers’ colony of some sort so I can go and write for a while. The guy from Vermont Studio Center was here yesterday and that would be one option, if they’ll let me come for cheap.

On to the rest of the day.

~r.

So last night I happened to remember that I had an appointment this morning with an agent. I held out no great hopes for this meeting after the disappointment that was Little Brown. But, I was like, okay, I have this manuscript that I went to the trouble and expense of getting printed out and by god I’m taking it with me, and the synopsis too. So I did. But she wanted to have a read before she even talked with me. She seemed to know all about me. So she said she’d love to read it while she’s here and I said well here it is and whipped it out and she said, if you don’t mind, please reprint so that it isn’t double-sided and I said, of course. Of course I did. So that’s what I did after lunch, I went to the computer lab (The Apple Cellar) and printed the thing off and put some big rubber bands around it from the office and left it for her to pick up. Done. PLEASE cross your fingers and pray to whatever god or gods you pray to. Send good energy my way.

Oh the other hand, I refuse to get really excited. For lunch, I drove into town with a friend who has an agent. Oh yes, she’s had two, and she STILL doesn’t have a book in her hands. So, I need to work, not fanaticize. I need to get busy and stay busy, that’s what.

Tonight I’m going to Treman as the agent may be there and my friend will be there, so. Then I’m having supper and talking to Dale. I may not go to the reading tonight. I may just stay in and get ready for tomorrow’s workshop, read, rest. I just got up from a real nap. A very good thing.

I am having all kinds of allergic crap happen to me up here, some of which happens at home, and some that doesn’t. My left eye has been weepy, my throat has been hacking and dry, my face has been itchy. My feet are covered with bug bites, and, last night, my tongue was swollen, which is a very weird/bad feeling indeed. The only thing out of the ordinary was the nectarine, which I had had hours before. I had only had wine and lots of Diet Pepsi. It was passing strange and I hope to hell it doesn’t happen again tonight. I also had a coughing fit that woke me up at 3:00 in the morning.

Something I haven’t mentioned. Here at Bread Loaf, I’ve heard the worst reading that I ever hope to hear. I cannot imagine anything worse than this one woman I heard. She read her poems like Madeleine Kane doing bad plainsong while drunk and occasionally breaking into un-tuneful song. Just the most tragic thing. No doubt she thinks she reads well. I’m very tempted to send her a letter and tell her what’s what. I just might. It would be the kind thing to do.

On to it. I may not even drink.

~r.

Workshop was good. They didn’t say anything about my LONG sentences and only a couple of folks mentioned the LONG paragraphs and just in passing. They all thought the writing was good and that the story needs to come sooner. One guy, whom I respect immensely, said to open with Pigeon cleaning the gun. That’s a very good suggestion. And our fellow, Salvatore Scibona, said something that is the best advice I’ve gotten in a long time, maybe ever. “One thing remains still so everything else can turn.” Bingo! I finally get the whole temporal placement thing, at least I think I do. One thing, just one thing, remaining still. I can do that, I can give that much.

This morning I went to a lecture that sucked ass, so left, but before I left, I thought of the beginning of my next novel, the one about Ronnie—“that she WAS a bird, she was certain.” These words keep going through my head, over and over again and I feel the need to talk to myself, was actually murmuring to myself in the shower this afternoon, here, in this public place, so I thought better of it and started singing instead, which isn’t the same thing at all, especially in the shower, though my hoarse voice sounds so sexy singing “I’m in the Mood for Love.” I hear voices, my own voice, weaving and stitching, weaving, bringing a crazy woman to life. I have no idea what will happen. All I know is that Annette will like the writing, it won’t be chick lit, it won’t be like that at all. She will walk across the street, maybe in the rain. She will buy a newspaper and then throw it away when it gets wet. She always forgets her umbrella. She can’t help but think of her father, almost every morning. Everything will happen in one day, twenty-four hours, maybe just an afternoon, nothing will happen, everything will happen. Perhaps she will kill herself, finally, for once and all, what she’s been wanting for so long. Perhaps she will come out the other side, into health. Perhaps she will drive to Chattanooga to visit Callie and they will drink coffee or tea and the afternoon sun will slant lazy through the afternoon windows and an idea will pop into her head, a new idea, a new thing she’s never thought before but, unlike me, she won’t say a word because she’s not a writer, she’s not a thing like me.

Well.

Maybe she is, this bird in my eye, my ears full of birds. There she is, standing on one foot, her other foot on her knee, her head cocked to the side, listening to the sound of birds and then Ricki comes into the room and says something important, something she should listen to, but she’s so far away.

I will do it. I will write this new novel and work on fracturing Callie’s world until it doesn’t resemble chick lit at all, until it does what I really want it to do. I will work on both novels at once. I will do it. I CAN do it. I can do anything short of building suspension bridges or reading directions or maps.

I also want to learn to pan fry okra.

I also ran my fingernail under the fraying edge of the wallpaper in my room and slid it up the wall, loosening the edge, making an opening. Remember that story, “The Yellow Wallpaper?” This wallpaper isn’t yellow. It’s little flowers, I’m not sure of the color, I guess pink and blue, and it’s yellowing and fraying and very sad and ugly, these wallflowers.

This afternoon I’m doing laundry, I’m going to a reading, I’m going to supper, I’m going to a reading. I think I will drink wine. I will not go to Treman. They’re having a book signing. Who cares? Why don’t I care? Why am I not star struck?

That she WAS a bird, of that she was certain. She could see herself as a bird, trapped, flying over and over again into a plate glass window. She could feel the wind in her feathers, the sharp black of night against her eyes, a curving claw clamping down on her calves, dragging her to the surface, pulling her through the tiny doorway until she thought she was there, on the other side, and when she was completely calm, in charge of her breath, she exhaled and then it was winter and she flew with her flock out of the chimney, away from the smoke, only now she’s tangled in someone’s long blonde hair and she can’t hear anything but the sound of her own flapping and a far away swishing, swishing, a black flume of water pouring into her mouth.

Something like that. See what I mean? That she WAS a bird, of that she was certain.
Time will tell, of course. Good intentions and all that. I’ve started many things, many, many times.

At lunch today, the food was good and I shoveled in two plates full. Greasy, pseudo-Chinese. If only they’d had eggrolls. I may skip supper altogether. I have two peaches and a nectarine in my room. I’ve never eaten a nectarine before. It seems too much like a naked peach. I may not eat it.

Of that she was certain.

~r.

So, I guess it’s been a couple of days.

My meeting with the editor of Little Brown was just okay. She did give me some advice, mainly to decide what I really want to work in and market and to write Betsy Lerner a very personal query seeing as how I love her so much. It was just okay. And, she didn’t recognize me from my reading. I looked just THAT bad when I read. I believe it.

What else have I done?

I’m connecting with a person from Vermont that I never really knew there. Her name is Angela and she’s great, as a person, as a writer. Just great.

It’s been hot here, no air conditioning = shit.

I’m being workshopped this morning.

Yesterday I went to a lecture. This guy stirred up the audience. He’s all for the dissolution of intellectual property rights. Not the thing to say to a bunch of ego-driven writers. Basically, he’s written a book wherein he liberally borrows from many folks without giving them credit. He wanted to publish it without citing anything, but his publisher insisted that things be cited. Of course. Still, it was very good to see people stirred up and asking questions.

I’ve still only been to two readings, but I’m going to two more today. Plus, I’m about to scoot over to a lecture in a few minutes. I did go to one the other day, a panel on editing that was so bad I left after about ten minutes. Dishwater. Not EVEN helpful.

Just a few more days.

Two stories that I read yesterday that are among the very best I’ve ever read—Robert Stone’s “Honeymoon” and Molly Giles’ “Talking to Strangers.” Just that good. I am eager to discuss them today. Actually, the packet of stories (from published writers) is really good, though I didn’t care much for the first one. Lynn Freed has really good taste. I’m sorry now that I missed her reading.

There was a picnic yesterday that I didn’t go to. Of course. There was a dance Sunday night that I didn’t go to. Of course.

Just a few more days. No doubt I’ll look back on this experience fondly. I’m just that perverse.

~r.

This morning I slept in and it seems that my throat has decided to get sicker, which sometimes happens with sore throats. My voice is better, but something has settled in my craw.

I am pretty resigned to the fact that the meeting with the editor from Little Brown is going to pretty much be a waste of time. She’s probably expecting someone with an agent, someone who’s already on the ball, someone who knows who her clients are. I looked her up but didn’t find much to go on. Still, she may give me some good advice and at least I get to meet her. I just hope I don’t give her my cold.

Oh, I hope she’s a warm sort of person.

Yesterday I went to a lecture, workshop, and a reading. Today I may go to lecture on editing. Today I may do a lot of reading, which is what I did last night. I skipped supper and read and read and read. I started Michael Korda’s book Another Life, which is all about the publishing business. It was a little dry starting out, but then pow! It’s a tome and I’m hooked. I am also reading LOOSE GIRL, a memoir of promiscuity. It’s not exactly well-written, but it’s not terrible either. I want to compare it to LOVE SICK.

I went into Middlebury yesterday, a charming little town, but not nearly as charming as Montpelier. BUT, I found this olive oil soap that I haven't found since I was in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I can't wait to get home and us it. I also bought a few other soaps and a necklace of the goddess. Oh, and there's this woman here, very, very, very nice, who recognized me from my website. We went into town on the shuttle and talked a lot. She was recently published in New England Review and we will be going to a party for NEW writers next Thursday. Should be very interesting.

I just showered and I think what I’ll do next is head over to the barn, find a comfortable spot, get lots of coffee and read. There’s probably a workshop going on in there, but I don’t care. I want some coffee.

~r.

So I went to Treman yesterday afternoon during my allotted hour. I figured since I wasn’t doing anything else, and I wanted a drink, and I had paid for it, that I should just go. Well, there’s a bar set up inside and three bartenders working it, all part of the social staff though I’m sure they’ve been to Vermont bartending school. Waiting in line was awkward. I just don’t feel that I belong. One woman suggested that I order a penis drink, ha ha. Then she said how much she enjoyed my reading, a good thing to be sure, but it didn’t put me at ease exactly. I ordered a double gin and tonic. At this point, it was very hard to make myself understood and, anyway, people here have trouble understanding my accent. Like if I say “light,” some folks are just stumped. When I said “double” the bartender couldn’t understand me and when she got it, she was like a double? Really? And I’m thinking doesn’t anybody around here drink doubles? I’m all for efficiency.

Anyhow, the feeling was very much like the first Meacham party for me, only worse. There’s a lot of standing around, knots of people talking, lots of people who know each other and no one making any effort to introduce me to anybody, not AT ALL. So I went out on the porch and snagged a rocker, facing the sun. Of course no one wanted it. I moved it and then introduced myself to the woman I was sitting beside. Ann Hood. She’s one of the faculty and, while friendly enough, certainly wasn’t interested in engaging me in conversation and since I could barely speak anyway, I didn’t push it.

But…

I said hello to a woman and we started talking and it turns out that she’s the literary consultant that many, many folks here have signed up to see, so, right there on the Treman porch, I had a session with her. This was something she obviously wanted to do. She talks a LOT. But it was very informative. She gave me all kinds of pointers for my meetings with the agent and editor and, I encouraged her to talk about her own writing which it was obvious she doesn’t get very many opportunities to do. All in all, that little trip to Treman was well worth it. And she’s funny. She’s says that I’m losing my voice because I’m afraid I won’t be heard, afraid that my voice doesn’t count. Freud would love her.

After dinner last night I crashed, more than a little tipsy, more than a little sick and tired. I lay in bed for a while, decided not to make myself go to the scholar reading. I feel a tiny bit bad about that, but not all of the scholars were there for my reading either. I walked in my night clothes (code for no bra, boobs sagging) over to the barn to get a Diet Pepsi which, when I got back to my room, I discovered was a WILD CHERRY Diet Pepsi, but I drank it. It wasn’t so bad. So I curled up and watched the HOURS and then treated myself to some wine. Had a candy bar and an orange and some Fritos and some Ruffles. A binge. This is what happens when I’m not doing Weight Watchers. Anyhow, there it is.

I feel like I’ve had plenty of rest and I haven’t spoken in twelve hours and hopefully my voice is on the mend. I simply must be able to talk tomorrow. I’m meeting with Judy Clain from Little Brown. Cross your fingers for me.

This morning is the second workshop. The stories from today were both very good, one of them brilliant, written by a VERY good looking young man. He’s awfully nice to. He’s on the social staff, which means he’s also here on scholarship and means that he’s very talented. I believe it! At Treman, I told him he was fucking brilliant, which took him by surprise I think. It was a little awkward and the guy he was with raised his eyebrows like maybe I was a little nuts and I’m thinking, don’t people give glowing compliments around here??

Maybe today I’ll go to something besides workshop. So far I’ve not been to a single thing except my own reading, which is okay, but seriously, I’m at Bread Loaf. I should go to something.

~r.