Cleaning House

Happy New Year to you all! I have been offline for awhile -- not because things have been going badly, but because things have been going well. The writing is flowing and there's just been TONS to do . . .

I think partially this is because I actually cleaned up my house. It makes all the difference I tell you. A friend of mine who is a writing professor, and therefore instills me with the sense that he knows everything in the world about writing -- even though I know that he struggles with all the same B.S. I do -- recently saw my office. My office was crammed to overflowing with all the boxes, clothes-to-give-away, artwork, cookbooks, presents, and other detritus from the other rooms in the house that there was just enough room to walk to the computer desk, if you're willing to step on a lot of paper to do so. John took one look and said: "Do you write in here?"

Honestly, I don't even know if he meant it the way I heard it -- which was of course "How can you possibly write in this pigsty?" For all I know, he really meant "Lucky you, you get a whole extra room to write in, when I only live in a studio." But I don't think so.

I said: "Um, yeah, usually it's neater." Which is, of course, a total lie. But clearly the time had come to feng shui that place up.

It's much nicer now. . . and lo! I can write!

Laziness Gets You Everywhere

It is amazing to me how often the whole zen, release-yourself-from-the-outcomes, just-stop-worrying-about-it attitude, well, works. After I told myself I needed a bit of a break from tracking down more magazine work, I was able to cross off a whole host of things from my to do list that had just been weighing me down.

One of these was a serious thorn in my side -- I pitched the story six weeks ago, I was going to send a follow up e-mail about two weeks later, and Christy told me I should just call. "Call Burk" has been on my to do list for literally four weeks, and every day I tell myself it's not such a big deal, just pick up the phone and call this guy (whom I have never met, who is busy, who clearly must not have liked my story or he would have called back, who won't recognize my name when I call, who clearly hates me).

I have not called. Christy keeps telling me I should. I tell myself I should. I haven't.

Yesterday, with the magic stroke of a the mouse, it was off my to do list. Gone! Done! Who cares if I get that story or not? I have other things to pay attention to!

It was a major load off my shoulders.

. . . and I got home this afternoon and he had called. He apologized for taking so long to get back to me. He wants the story.

This is so exciting I can't STAND it. It's my first article for a magazine that I would love love love to write for.

Um, but I'm just not sure what the moral should be here. Give up and good things will come to you? Laziness rules? Succomb to your fear and you will succeed? I mean really.

The Great Huge Sucking Sound

I've told it to others. I repeat it to myself all the time. I know it in my bones --

First drafts are supposed to suck. You have to get something on the page and then you can edit it.

But man, does my first draft of this book suck. I mean it's just so disheartening.

Home Again

I am back home, sitting at Tryst, with all the motivation and excitement that the fall brings. I swear the ingrained patterns of starting school every September still leave me in such a state of organization and determination.

Of course, I have been home exactly two days, am coming home to a novel that was totally stalled when I left, an article for Ride to edit asap, two technological writing pieces to do for Argonne National Labs, an overflowing e-mail inbox, and a whole host of other things to follow up on. We'll see how long this so-called organization lasts.

That having been said, it's the novel that's hanging over my head the most. Having taken a six-week break, it's time to get a move-on. Especially when I was feeling fairly blocked six weeks ago. I need all the cliched writing tricks to get me going. Do some exercises. Force myself just to sit down at the computer. Set a timer and promise myself I'll work for a solid hour before turning on my e-mail. I have pulled out my copy of Writing Down the Bones, and am looking at some exercises to get my juices flowing. Am being reminded about powerful verbs, bad first drafts, scrawling across a large notebook without lifting your pen. . . but most of all I am thankful for a sentence she has in her introduction: "Every time we begin, we wonder how we ever did it before."

How have I managed to do it before??

Blocked

I am sitting in a coffee shop in Woods Hole, STARING at the screen, trying to throw myself back into Kepler and Brahe with a vengeance, and mostly I am . . . staring at my computer screen. It doesn't help that my favorite coffee shop in Woods Hole got wireless access and so e-mailing becomes a far too accessible procrastination tool. But really. This shouldn't be so hard.

I've been stumped on this book for a solid month now I think -- partly 'cause I've focused elsewhere, getting ready for my trip. But also because I am finding myself having to write about characters I just don't know as well. And so I stare at the keyboard, take a sip of coffee, stare some more, turn on my e-mail -- hit send/receive a few times, turn off my e-mail, sip some coffee, write a sentence, turn back on my e-mail, realize no one has written me in the last two minutes, turn it off, stare at the screen, watch the people go by, wish I had a copy of Writing Down the Bones to help me out with some fun writing exercise to get me started, finally say Screw it! and just write something here instead.

Why doesn't this ever get easier?

Woods Hole

Exactly NO writing is getting done while I'm in Woods Hole, as the salt air is pickling my brain and making me focus on really important things like napping, reading science fiction books, and drinking wine. This is a problem, because I actually have quite a few things that I told myself I would get done while here. . . but tomorrow! I really will start writing tomorrow!

Searching Through Trash

So, it's 10:30 on a Thursday, and my book club just left my home after dinner (we read Santa Evita -- go read it -- it's awesome) and I quickly logged on to my e-mail to find a note that someone had seen a "blurb" about me in today's Washington Post Express -- the free paper the Post hands out to metro riders.

I don't know what "blurb" this could be -- whether it's a review of Einstein A to Z specifically, or a mention of our reading at Politics and Prose this weekend or what -- but I figured what the hell, the Woodley Park metro is only a block away, why don't I walk down and see if there are any papers left.

There are no papers left.

So I decide, well, it can't hurt to just maybe take a glance in the trash cans to see if someone tossed one aside. As it happens the trash cans have been fairly recently replaced with new garbage bags which is good news in that the cans are reasonably clean and I am not so grossed out by this "vague glancing" I'm doing, but bad news in that there's not much in them.

Since I'm having no luck outside the station, I decide to take the 5-minute escalator down into the station to see if there are any tossed newspapers there. Once down-- hallelujah! -- I see the paper I'm looking for sandwiched underneath the clear plastic garbage bag and the can itself. I glance around, make sure no one is looking, rip a hole in the garbage bag, hold my breath while reaching in, and snag a perfectly clean lovely copy of the paper.

I couldn't believe that I had just a) gone searching through trash bins or b) actually found a clean version of what I was looking for.

I was half way up the escalator before I realized I had snagged last thursday's paper.

(Conveniently -- they listed their website, and I found the mention. . . Scroll down to page 18!)

Drinks

So I'm sitting at my favorite coffee bar -- which, OK, is also a BAR bar -- and the guy sitting next to me brazenly ordered at 1 o'clock a Maker's Mark. A Maker's Mark!

It was like a challenge I couldn't turn down. I couldn't stop staring at his drink, I was so tempted. I mean aren't fiction writers supposed to drink? I'm a fiction writer, right? Didn't Hemingway do this all the time? There was no reason for me not to order a drink.

So I did.

The bad news is that it didn't help my writing. The good news is that it didn't hurt it either. Hmmm. . . this may lead to far more interesting afternoons. . .

The Maker's Mark guy on the other hand is curled up on the couch almost asleep, barely able to work. Amateur!

E-mail, Take Two

. . . And what's up with those people who don't HAVE easily accessible e-mail addresses that I can search for and find on the web? Who are these people who are making me CALL them??? Mean, mean, mean.

Kid's Book Update

So, I finally got a note back from my editor on the kid's book project. Sigh. I am left feeling about these publishers pretty much the way I did before -- good editing advice, coupled with slightly weird people/organization skills. She would like to continue working with me, but has suggested a fairly major rewrite. In addition she made no mention of the "competitive" book she talked about previously and sort of threw the ball into my court to ask if I would like to continue the project, as if I had been the one balking previously. (Which I suppose I was, but only 'cause they started it. Nyeanh nyeanh nyeanh.)

Anyway, I am left with the following array of thoughts:

● Wow, the edits are really great suggestions -- and I crave good editing, since I think so many people just read and go "hmm, no spelling mistakes, it must be ok!"
● Except they kind of go in the opposite direction of the last set of edits, so that's frustrating to have to redo this in a completely different way when I already did a major rewrite based on her suggestions. I realize that sometimes a major rewrite doesn't get you to a finished product, or even to "just a few refinements" stage . . . but it's still tough to have done what she said the first time, and now have to go undo it.
● If I put in the work for a major rewrite (still not having seen a dime, mind you) will I be waiting ANOTHER year before I hear back from them?
● Why no mention of the other competitive project? It makes me feel like that was just a quick excuse offered me and not the real issue.

I have not yet written her back, since I always like to take a few days to let the conflicting thoughts (which in this case do have a bit of crankiness to them, of course) settle. But I'm not quite sure what to say. I think I would like to continue, but I want to write a "but are you realio-trulio going to make me a priority here?" kind of note. I have also received a suggestion that I tell them I'll go forward if they give me a quarter of the money before I do so -- sort of a good faith check. I haven't discussed any of it with my agent yet, which I should probably do. . .

The Tiara

After a great several-week spurt of good writing, I have totally lamed out over the last week, and written pretty much nothing. It is directly correlated to a mood swing -- though that turns into a chicken or an egg cycle, since the moment I force myself to write, I get into a better mood, so the "I'm cranky and therefore I can't write" excuse isn't such a good one.

But I am going to get some writing done today, I will, I will, I will -- and to help with the cause, I have put on my trusty tiara. Those who know me well, know the tiara. It is left over from my third grade princess costume and it has carried me through years of homework assignments, deadlines, life crises, or --to be honest -- just plain cleaning the house when I don't want to.

Everyone should have a tiara.

Exhibit A:

It is the night before I am supposed to give a talk on my senior physics thesis. I am completely and totally blocked, I can't figure out what I'm supposed to talk about, life sucks. My friend, and fellow physics major, Kent, knocks on my dorm room door at about 7 o'clock, to find me staring at my computer, desperate. He says: "forget this, you need a break" and takes me off to see the movie Jacob's Ladder -- one of the weirdest mind-games movies ever. I get home at 11, with a totally new pretty-close-to-what-I-can-only-imagine-being-tripped-on-acid-feels-like attitude, throw on my tiara, light candles all over my room, and pump that talk out. The tiara comes through.

Exhibit B:

It is the night before my graduate school applications are due -- I think I'm in good shape. I have written all the essays, have gotten all my recommendations, I just need to fill out the information on the basic forms and do a few short answer questions. I discover that one of the applications has a whole extra essay that I had not even realized was needed -- and I certainly haven't started. I panic. I call my friend Jane, who in her most blase tone says: "No problem. You know what to do. Put on the tiara, go get a cup of coffee laced with Baileys, light the candles." I got in to every school.

Exhibit C:

When my friend Catherine was sad one day, she decided she needed to wear the tiara out. Three of us went out for dinner and we all found a tiara to wear -- the waitress looked vaguely askance, but never asked anything about it. Jen finally leaned over and whispered to the waitress "She's a bachelorette" . . . within minutes the whole restaurant knew who the bachelorette was, and we were the most fun table in the place. Everyone sent us drinks, everyone asked the bachelorette to dance. It was awesome. Totally snapped her out of her mood.

Exhibit D:

A few months ago, I came home from lunch having just broken up with the guy I'd been dating -- and I put the tiara on. I was due out at a happy hour that evening, but just couldn't bring myself to take it off. I mean I NEEDED that thing. Here's a funny thing about tiaras -- it turns out that when you walk down the street at 6 on a Friday afternoon in one, nobody even bothers to ask why you're wearing it. Hell, no one even looks twice. I wore it all weekend -- including a drive up to New York City with multiple stops at Jersey Turnpike rest stops. At a brunch on Sunday, one of the female guests brought her pet turtle -- she carried it around, she made kissing noises at it, she showed it to everyone, talked about it incessantly. And all I could think was: "Who needs so much attention that she'll bring her turtle to brunch?" A beat later, I thought: "um, yeah -- this from the girl in the TIARA." I laughed for the first time all weekend.

The tiara rules. I highly recommend it for jolting you out of moods, for forcing you to focus, for just getting motivated. I have mine on now, and I am going to write write write write. I swear.

Disorganization

It's just being one of those days. I wrote two words today on the book. TWO. They were: "Good afternoon!" And I just can't seem to force myself to stick with it and do more.

Instead I have been playing with the computer, sending out the occasional e-mail, washing my dishes, doing things that basically one could argue need doing but even still aren't the BIG non-writing things that need doing. Like paying my bills, say.

I just forced myself to do a few important desk work items however, and so I am not declaring the day a WHOLE loss. First, I just got myself off of some horrible charge-you-once-a-month-so-you-can-have-home-shopping-discounts thing that I have been on for possibly like FIVE years and never once used. The amount of money they made off of me is so painful that I can't even record it here. Worse, I've called to cancel three times before and always they've convinced me to stay. This time I was firm. I am finished. It is canceled.

HEY, that's actually a major accomplishment for the day, I should be proud of that.

Checking Things Off the To Do List

I know this is SUCH old news. . . but why is it so hard to check off some of the most basic stuff off one's to do list? You put it down there at a moment of total organization and motivation. This, these things, that bullet point, THAT'S what I'll get done this week.

And then it just sort of sits there, getting transferred from one list to the next, gathering metaphorical dust. . .

. . . until one day you just DO it. And you can't figure out why the hell it took you so long to get around to it, since it was so damn easy.

Case in point: Last week I cleaned up my balcony and planted flowers in the 17,542 pots that I had lying around from the last time I bothered to plant flowers three years ago before a sub-tenant killed them all and I decided it wasn't worth it. My balcony is now so gorgeous that I have to run out there almost every two seconds to see just how many femtometers the morning glories have grown since I last checked. And -- including the time it took me to go to the plant store -- the whole shebang took me three hours. Absurd that I put it off for so long.

More to the WRITING point: I have been meaning to send a note to an editor in California for three months. I wanted to strike while the iron was hot, back in February after I had just met his supervisor -- but not him, since he was out of town -- and gotten the low-down on the brand new physics magazine they are putting together. It's a magazine with heady goals, as they're trying to make a really glossy, interesting, culturally-relevant magazine out of high-energy physics. From what little I know of the people involved, and the amount of support and enthusiasm behind the project, I think they've got a decent shot. And BOY do I want to write for them.

And yet, that "send e-mail introduction" to the editor has sat on my to do list for months. It's embarrassing really.

So, I just motivated to do it. A quick e-mail introduction, a quick edit of my current CV to make sure it was appropriate -- and boom, it's been sent into the ether.

WHY ON EARTH DID IT TAKE ME SO LONG???

Perhaps I just needed the inspiration of my balcony. . . I think I better go check on my morning glories.

Book Proposal

Last December I met with an editor at a New York publishing house. We had a great lunch, enjoyed each other's company, and spent the hour brainstorming on book ideas for my next book. (This stemmed from the fact that I had written a book proposal that she liked, but couldn't publish due to the fact that some other (horrible, mean, awful) person had decided to write a similar book just a few months before I did.) I went home, promising her a new book proposal within a few months.

Much to my mortification, it is now ten months later, and still she has nothing on her desk from me. I haven't been incommunicado -- we continued to be in touch, we narrowed down our focus, I gave her some initial paragraphs on the subject, and she knows that I have been side-tracked due to finishing up another book on Einstein.

But really, this is absurd. I handed in the Einstein manuscript exactly a week ago, (only, mind you, three weeks later than the contract asked for it, which in publishing terms is basically On Time, and so I feel very proud of myself) and it is time to get this new proposal knocked out, dammit. In addition to the fact that I promised it to the editor ages ago, finishing the proposal will also help with the twin issues of freeing me from having to cringe and/or panic any time my father asks me "what's happening with that book proposal?" and of getting an advance to help me with, you know, buying food.

So, this is my task for the next week. I am setting myself a deadline of October 3, and writing it down here for the world to see. This would be ambitious if I were starting from scratch, but I am not. I have written a solid half of the proposal already, in fits and starts over the last year, and have done most of the research. All that's needed at this point is the ability, as Letitia Baldridge said in a talk I heard her give yesterday, to apply the seat of my pants to the seat of the chair.

Indeed, I have spent two hours this morning editing what I already had and writing an additional 500 words or so. That sounds embarrassingly paltry when put down like that, but I was proud of it a few moments ago -- I guess just because I have been reminded again of what happens every single time, and yet doesn't sink into my consciousness. Sit down, turn on the computer, force yourself not to leave (helped in the current case by the fact that I'm at my favorite coffee shop, Tryst, and cannot be distracted by the overwhelming urge to go clean my closets) and lo! the writing actually starts to flow. For goodness sake, I've been researching this topic for almost a year, I have the information in my head, it's time to get it all on paper.

A week. I have given myself a week.