29 January 2012

PeeviLeaks: Wisdom of My Rock

Remember Peeves?
She is my rock.  

She abandoned me to live in Louisville, and is now off in Philadelphia, chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool.

Thanks to technology, we are still able to keep in pretty regular contact.  
Which is good, because Peeves is wise.  

Like, the other day I was confiding in her about how strangers often tell me I look like Khloe Kardashian.

She responded with this photo:

Peeves always knows what to say.
The key to her brilliance is her inquisitiveness.
She feels free to question things that the rest of us take for granted.
And is not afraid to doubt the status quo.
Of course, she also questions herself.
She's remarkably self-actualized.

So it only makes sense she would have something to say about my last blog post, in which I freaked out about trying to balance my life. 

Freakout #1: Worrying about increasing my income so I can save for the future: 

"It's wise to save money. But it is not mandatory. And the person who saves money so that he can live his life with a sense of comfort if things go wrong is a fool; money is no savior. But money can be a blessing. And managed wisely, it can be used to prevent unnecessary difficulties. And also be used not just for our own gain, but for others."

Freakout #2: Worrying about the future, in general: 

"Time is the same. We can invest it in something because we're hoping in that thing to carry our lives. Which will probably only end up disappointing. We can waste time, because we don't know how to spend it well, or because we're foolish and don't care; only to again be disappointed and dissatisfied. But we can also invest it faithfully in things that we have been given, whether people, skills, job, whatever. We'll get a return on our investment; but that should not necessarily be our hope either-ultimately."

Freakout #3: Wishing I could just STOP wanting to write:  

"You have a natural desire to do something that you are good at; so you should do it. You already are. This thing may also make you tons of money. And it may not. You can make writing a burden for yourself, if your hope is to make your life like JK Rowling's. Or it could just happen to you."

Freakout #4: Balancing work and money with creative pursuits:

"The God who exists and is there gives gifts, and orders the world in such a way, and governs our actions, and has created purpose in all things, and is the only object of hope with no chance of disappointing (get your crackers because here comes the cheeseball). He has provided you with a job that keeps you grounded and gives you money to live, and he's given you incredible abilities to craft words and create awesome sentences and stories."

Peeves Thoughts on Balance:

"There's no easy line to point to and say 'here's the fulcrum, stray neither to the right nor to the left or you'll tip off balance' but I think a regular perspective reorientation always serves to refresh us to do the things that have been given to us to do, regardless of the outcome, because God gives us work, whether its writing a book, or leading someone back to their room in the middle of the night so they don't hurt themselves. All good. All worthwhile."

To Sum It Up Peeves Style:

"Do the task; think about the future; plan if you think you need to; worry and I'll kick your butt."

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I'm lucky to have Peeves. 
She keeps me grounded.  In the good way.
(think anchor, not teenager)
Without her, I'd be like a kid's lost balloon rising in the sky.
Kind of fun to watch until it's out of sight, but directionless and doomed because the sky is full of power lines and fighter jets.  And I'm leaking helium.
What?  That doesn't make sense?
It does to Peeves.  
Who is probably absolutely horrified that I blogged all of this without her permission.
For today,
Sankofa Me Lately = PeeviLeaks.
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What or Who keeps YOU grounded?  Do you have a Peeves, or would you like to borrow mine?
(Well, that's not actually an option).

24 January 2012

Anxiety: my mind under siege


I occupy too many worlds, and my mind is under siege.

This week, the battle is between “writer Lauren” and “oh my gosh how do you plan on supporting yourself Lauren.”

The tension is mounting.  A clash is inevitable.

I love when I'm focused on my writing—planning, revising, researching literary agents, all of that—but then out of nowhere, the panic hits.

Boom!
What are you doing?!
Me?
Yeah, you, what’s the plan?
The plan?
Yeah, you’re not going to just keep on like this are you?
Aren’t I?
Am I ?
Oh my gosh!
WHAT AM I DOING?!

I used to possess a certain level of arrogance that I had willingly--brilliantly-- strayed so far off the beaten track.  But let’s be real here—I didn’t stray, I fled from the path with only the clothes on my back.  

In college, I’d scoff at business majors. Placing a derisive emphasis on their chosen degree—“yeah, he’s nice and all but he’s a BUSINESS major” 

*cue the rolling of my eyes.*

I had friends who were pre-med, accounting, marketing...
And I pitied them. 
Seriously, I couldn’t help feeling bad for them that they had chosen such a dull course for their lives.  Because I—I! was going to be writer!  I didn’t need any sort of marketable degree, I could get the most random-ass degree in African American Studies simply because it was interesting.  

When people looked at me with doubt and said “But you’re white... What’re you going to do with an African American Studies degree?”  I'd proudly and assuredly declare “Nothing, I’m going to be a writer, duh.”  

*more eye rolling*

Then, I ran off to trot the globe with no real aim in sight, other than evicting a broken mindset and detoxing off of repressed emotions, and when I came back, things were different.

I haven’t been rolling my eyes nearly as much.

I'm not looking down on reasonable people who have their futures in mind, who have some sort of security, an actual career path, a plan.

I no longer have these strange delusions that there is a magical city or a therapeutic country out there that if I can only get there will suddenly make life easy, doable, less difficult.  Because I tried that, and no matter where you go—there you are.

My eyes don’t roll.  They squint in anguish.

No, okay not really.

I think what’s happened here is that I’m growing up.

I guess it’s about time. 

I’m 25.

While talking with a coworker the other day, I started labeling the last few years of my life as “the year of____” and I couldn’t help but notice that every successive year since 22 has only gotten better and better.  Even when 2009 was TERRIBLE, it was an improvement on feeling nothing in 2008.  Then I escaped in 2010 and realized what I valued in 2011. Now it’s 2012 and the Mayan Apocalypse is looming, and I’m caught somewhere between worrying about querying agents and publishing contracts and who to put in the acknowledgments section of my best-selling book, and the paralyzing fear over the future of my non-writery life.

I'm looking at a long list of really awful sounding adult things in my future, and I’m needing to find a way to balance the “aspiring author” lifestyle with the “saving for a down payment on a house” lifestyle.

I wish I could stop worrying about the future.  
Or, I wish I could stop wanting to write.  
Neither of these are likely to happen.  

So I need to figure out some measure of balance.

Suggestions? Ha...

20 January 2012

too brain numb to think of a title


I am so ready to be done with revisions and working on this current thing.  Seriously.  I mean… I want to publish—badly!  But I am kind of experiencing nostalgia for the initial writing process.  Which is really stupid, because while I’m in the middle of writing, all I think about is being done—Ugh, typical “grass is always greener” thoughts over here on my side of the fence.

But seriously.

I’m trying to do everything by the book (pun? I don’t know anymore, I can’t even think about the word “book” without shuddering.  Okay, not really.)

I think my query letter is done… If any of you (complete strangers only, please) would like to critique it for me, email or comment!  I promise not to cry too much.  Or, if I do, I promise not to mention you by name when I cry tears all over this blog. 

Oh, I also wrote a synopsis.

Which is just terribly annoying, but I had read somewhere (I can’t even keep track anymore….) that a literary agent might request a synopsis following the query.  So! I wrote one, then tweeted on the #askagent thread on twitter, aaaaaand pretty much was told that it’s pretty unlikely I’ll be asked for a synopsis.  This = relief because I’d much rather the manuscript float on it’s own, but this also = ARGH because that synopsis has been my brain baby for hours upon hours of writing this week.
Anyways.  

I’m not sure the point of this post.  This is one of those times where I should probably be journaling consistently in a leather bound book you’ll never have to see, so I can only stick to the FANTASTICALLY INTERESTNG INSIGHTS that usually take up this page.

I’m waiting for my very last critique to arrive in the mail… That is, a big scary brown envelope full of red writing.  Still, I’m looking forward to it being here, and I’m glad I’m done with my (probably terrible) query and (probably useless) synopsis so that I can focus completely on my SEVENTH REVISION.

And then… a one-way ticket to rejection town.
But!

I'm ready to start on my next project... it is about as absolutely different from this as you can get.  Which sounds wonderful.  I miss the honeymoon period (which I know I'll be agonizing over once it gets here), because I'm a writer, and that's what we do.  And yet... as torturous as it can sometimes be, there is nothing like that feeling of having written.
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So, how long does your honeymoon period last, when you start something new?  
For those of you on my same side of the fence, do you immediately start writing something new when you reach the stage of querying? 
OH! 
And does anyone have any experience as far as synopsises, synopsi, uh... synopsis' (?) go?!  

19 January 2012

winter: there will be blood

I seriously hate winter.

And, I know—we’ve had a mild one (knock on wood, whatever) but I still feel incredibly oppressed.  This is the most pointless horrible season, and I’m honestly doubting the sanity of anyone who dares to live an inch further north.

All winter is good for is hiding in your house.

Sure, the fashion is nice: We get pashminas and boot socks, and for a few months we endure fewer bouts of booty shorts and jutting cleavage, but is this worth losing the feeling in my fingers?  Is this worth the frigid draft seeping through the cracks around my windows?

I think not.
September is as good as life will ever get.  October is tolerable, and November is a downward spiral.  By January, my tolerance for life is at an all time low.   
Things that wouldn't provoke me in Autumn or Spring are making me teeter on the edge of violence. 
Like this, at my gym:
  Really?  I mean, really?!  
With all the unbelievably complicated and confusing gym equipment, THIS is what you’ve chosen to explain?!

And then there is my CNN app, which sees fit to interrupt my day with such need-to-know and shocking "BREAKING NEWS" as this:

"8 out of 10 Americans believe economy is in poor shape"
 Is that really a surprise to anyone?  
Perhaps the more shocking part is that 2 out of 10 Americans DON’T.

But the most horrible thing I have encountered lately are
personalized license plates.

These should be illegal—nothing makes me want to run you over more than a pretentious or weirdo license plate.  I honor your right to plaster the back of your car with stickers, but when you go to the DMV and special order a plate, you go to far.


Okay.  
You are either a defense lawyer and thus a slick bastard, or you are someone who was accused of something and felt the need to defend yourself in this bizarre way and are thus overcompensating and thus most definitely GUILTY.
Okay.  
You are either the manager of Cains and thus pathetically devoted to your fried chicken franchise, or you are someone who is obsessed with dipping crinkle cut fries in Cain’s sauce and are thus an emotional eater and thus in need of intense therapy
Okay.
I don’t even know what to say to this. 
Or this.
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Spring, Come Soon.
or there will be blood.

17 January 2012

Baby Catcher

As previously blogged, Sars is off in Hippy Town, California becoming a midwife.
Whilst pondering potential Christmas gifts for her
(which included uterus statues and cervix-inspired jewelry)
I came across 
Peggy Vincent's BABY CATCHER: Tales of a Modern Midwife.
 So of course I bought it for her.
But of course she already owned it.
So of course I regifted it to myself.
Hey, I'll read a book about natural childbirth, why not?
 Woah, wait, what WHAT is happening here?!
 Really? That's not true.  Right?  Really...
 I NEVER KNEW.
 This is kind of amazing...
 I am SO giving birth at home with incense and Gregorian chants.
 I'm officially forgoing sleep to keep reading.
 Birth is fascinating! Women are amazing!
 AHHH!!!! NO!
 That crossed the line-- too much, too much!
 No, it's the miracle of life!  Beautiful!
Yep, just got awkward again. 
 Book?  What book, I'm not reading a book, don't ask me what I'm reading...
 Okay I lied.  I can't stop.  Even though it's stressing me out.
 Oh no.
 Wait.  I can't handle a sad story.
 But the next chapter is SO GOOD! 
Warm fuzzies are shooting out my fingertips!
 No.  This is frustrating me.  I can't read anymore. 
 Okay not really.  I can't stop.
 This is just torturous. 
 And WONDERFUL!
 I love this book.
  I'm going to put a bonnet on it and push it in a stroller.
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BABY CATCHER is remarkable.
You should read it.
Obviously, it's not for the faint of heart.
But!
You should read it anyways. 
Even if you've given birth a gillion times (I'm talking to you, Michelle Duggar) or never plan on it (I know you're reading this, Helen Mirren).

She is an amazing storyteller, and--literally--leaves nothing out.  It's refreshing to see births anticipated and celebrated as mysterious and miraculous events and to see women spoken of as strong, without the feminist rhetoric.  Vincent successfully takes childbirth out of the arena of awkward, and explores it without the sterility of science.  Seriously, read it. 

16 January 2012

water's not for breathing


It was casual at first, a thought before sleep, but when the call came, it was a long string of guesses. 

Not that, you said.  No, worse, you said. 

I took a shower when you told me.  The water went away, but not the pain.

Was it hot, or cold?  I don’t remember.

If this were mine, I would scream and rage and feel it.

But you won’t.

You’ll say it is what it is.

And you’ll look at everyone but yourself.

Water’s not for breathing, I’ll say. 

But you can't hear me.