Incipient Authorship

Tomorrow is the first official day of Nanowrimo. I'm not terribly worried. This will be my third time out, and because I do this sort of thing a lot, I'm not particularly concerned. I feel like a person who runs ten miles a day contemplating a 10k. It's just not a thing.

What, in view of what I'm hoping to accomplish, have I done to prepare myself over the past few days? Here's my list:

1. Make an outline
You may not keep to it, but at least having an outline gives you something to which you may refer when you get stuck.

2. Plan out your main characters
Give them names, birthdays, physical descriptions. I often either pick real people I know or cut out pictures of magazines so that I have a consistent description.

3. Get your time line straight
You'd be surprised how many stories fall down because they can't be placed in time. In a short story, time matters less because the action tends to take place over a short period of time, but in a longer story, there are holidays and life events that help to anchor things in time. Help anchor your story in time by having those events there.

That's it. It's not many, but each one of them can take a lot of work. I don't necessarily plot each and every one of my secondary characters, but it's certainly helpful. It's embarrassing to have a character who's called "Bob" on page 52, and "Rob" on page 79, and "Bert" on page 114, or who changes height or eye color.

Little things count, and the more you put into planning, the better your end result will be with less work.

Six Days and Counting

I had sworn off doing any sort of writing in the week before Nano, because I had just finished putting together my submission packages and wanted a break.

On the other hand, I'm terrible at "taking it easy." So, yesterday during a meeting that went more than half an hour over and included me saying exactly five sentences (one of which was "some of us will die sooner rather than later") I outlined my next endeavor.

I bought a program called "Write It Now" that enables me to keep characters, chapters, etc. together on my novel. So, now I have my outline to which I may refer throughout my process.

It's six days before 11/1, and honestly, I'm not feeling even a little bit nervous or worried about being able to make this happen. I have done it at least six times in the last three years, challenging myself in November and other times throughout the year to push my word count in order to get something done.

In that, at least, I feel like a real live actual writer. When the pressure's on, I can perform.

Telling People You're an Author & FAQ #1

I started writing when I was about 5. I had started making up stories long before then, but I didn't know how to write. When I was little, I dreamed of being a "writer," but somehow got the notion that "writers" weren't live people and that I needed to think of something else to be.

Later, I became an editor. Not only did this sound like something a real person could do, but it exposed me to some of the worst writing on earth.

It was only after I got a job with a magazine that forced me into writing large articles in short timeframes that were then ripped to shreds by editors that love me, but not my ledes, that I started calling myself a writer. I felt that, after having my ego forcibly ripped from me, mauled with a red pen, and handed back, I had earned it.

When people ask me what I do, I tell them that I'm an author. "Ooooh!" they squeal. "Have I heard of you? What have you written?" Now, my normal response to this is "No, you haven't heard of me, and I've written tons of articles that you, my retail clerk/grocery checker/dry cleaner would not have read because they were for a semiconductor industry business magazine." Do I feel cowed when they sniff impertinently at me, implying by their dismissive attitude that what I have accomplished might not be "real" writing? I do not.

The point is that you can consider yourself a writer an author whenever you wish. Just because you're not Danielle Steele or Stephen King does not mean that you are any less of a writer. In my book, the less like them you are, the better your work probably is.

You are a writer now, as long as you're writing.

FAQ #1: How could you have won an award for a book that isn't published yet?
That's a good question. I'm glad I asked it. My 2002 novel, Mitos del Pueblo, won at the East of Eden writer's conference in a contest for unpublished works. Not only was it not published, it wasn't even properly finished which is why, two months later, I'm only just getting around to sending it out to agents who requested to see it.

And, finally, an update:

This past weekend, I made up my agent packets and will be sending MdP to 11 agents. I'm sure I will hear back favorably from more than one of them, and we'll see how it goes.

Tips & Tricks #2: Where to Write

I read an article by a reasonably well-known writer recently that said something to the effect of "don't think that if you're sitting there in some coffee house banging away on your laptop, people are going to think you are a real writer. They're going to think that you're a big poser trying to impress people."

To which I must offer a resounding PSHAW! Many of my very productive writing friends have collectively written many words in coffeehouses, all while not giving a single thought to how they might be appearing to others in said coffee house. All of which adds to their cachet, by the way.

But seriously, where to write is the subject of no small anxiety. Many people are worried about creating just the write atmosphere for practicing their "art," and therefore end up putting more energy into creating that atmosphere than into writing anything.

So...where's a good spot to write? That's easy. Anywhere. Get into the habit of carrying pen and paper with you wherever you are. If you're particularly rich and muscular, perhaps you might even lug a laptop everwhere, but for most people, pen and paper are enough.

Meetings offer a wonderful place to write. At the average hour-long meeting, the average person spends 10 minutes discussing topics relevent to them or their work, 10 minutes making stupid jokes about co-workers who didn't make it to the meeting, and 40 minutes trying very hard not to fall asleep.

In that 40 minutes, it's possible to write nearly a thousand words! Public transportation is another great opportunity for writing. I am told that Caltrain has actual outlets where one might plug one's laptop in while commuting up and down the peninsula. I write while waiting for things to compile on my computer. I write while sitting in line at the grocery store.

Even if you're only writing 50 words at a time, those tiny little dribs and drabs add up, so that when you sit down at night to do your main push, if you've taken all the opportunities given you during the day, you might find yourself with only a few hundred words to go to reach your goal.

If you do choose to employ the notebook-and-longhand method of writing, don't tear the pages out once you're done. You'll want to refer to them as you go along in your story.

Of course, if you do have a laptop, you save yourself the necessity of transcribing your work later. Laptops go everywhere, and the newer your laptop, the better your battery life is likely to be.

Another wonderful mobility tool is the AlphaSmart - the pocket calculator of the word processing world. It has most of the desireable word processing functions, but weighs in at about 8 ounces - about an eighth the weight.

But...where to do the main push? For me, there is one essential element of the perfect place for writing. I have two children and a husband who is best described as uxorious. That ultimate essential element for writing would be a door. The ability to close the door and have five minutes to myself where nobody is pestering me is useful, but not essential.

Yes, in a perfect world, all of us will have a room of our own where we can exercise our genius, but if that isn't the case for you, you can still be a success!

Next issue: Telling People You're an Author

Tips & Tricks #1: Know Your Enemy

This is that magical time of year when people all over the world are saying to themselves "Oh no! What have I gotten myself into?" as they contemplate the prospect of writing 50,000 words in 30 days. It sounds nigh-well impossible, but it's not. In fact, while it will have a noticeable impact on your life, it needn't disrupt things entirely.

You've heard stories, I'm sure, of Nanovelists who have pulled some sort of Herculean all-nighter on 11/29 and managed 25,000 words on the very last day to finish. I can't do that. I am a person who likes to break a task up into equal, manageable chunks and pace myself.

If you take this approach with Nano, your task is this: 1,666.67 words per day for 30 days.

In the beginning, when you're still getting in practice, it might take you a few hours to get all 1666.67 words out (just do 1667 - that 2/3 word is tricky), or it might take you half an hour. When I'm really in form, it takes me about an hour to an hour and a half to do 2,000 words including time I spend pondering whether to say "hermaneutic" or "heuristic."

One swell way of powering through your words is to make a pact with yourself. You will NOT get up from your seat without having finished. Not to get a drink, answer the phone, pee - you will NOT get out of that seat.

And just remember - you only have to reach 50,000 words. You don't have to write something publishable. You don't have to write something readable. Your novel does not have to be finished, even. My first attempt had reached 83,000 by the end of November, but it took another two years and several complete re-writes to get it into shape.

Next issue: Where to Write

Blogging My Novel

For the first time, I am inviting you all to participate with me in my own private novel-writing process.

I write the same way I breathe. Constantly. Compulsively. Sometimes I have trouble doing it well, and it makes me panic. I experience a feeling of extraordinary well-being when I am doing it voluminously and well.

I have opinions of other Nanos that are probably uncharitable.
1. I want to smack anyone who logs onto any public forum and announces "What have I gotten myself into? I must be crazy!" If you're so intimidated, don't do it. I've done it several times and lived, so I'm not really sympathetic. We're all busy. We're all intimidated by the commitment we've made. But notice, we're NOT all whining about it.

2. I am not interested in cheerleaders. I know that everyone has to start somewhere and that it's nice to be able to say "I'm writing a Harry Potter fanfic with faeries and a new character based on my younger brother who's Harry's new best friend." And then a zillion other people jump on board and tell that person what a genius s/he is and how great they're sure it will be. Perhaps it's just sour grapes on my part. I have written all my life, and have received very little encouragement for it.

3. I am infuriated by people who cheat. What the hell is the point? You're not winning anything of value, here. You're winning a 50,000-word first draft of a novel that you had to write yourself, that you're going to have to do another 11 months' worth of work on to have a saleable product. Nobody is impressed if you suddenly come up on November 2nd with 300,000 words. We just think you're an insufferable wanker.

4. I am a very curmudgeonly person in writing, but very nice in person. That being said, I don't want to meet you. I don't want to leave my house. And, most of the time, I would like the people in my house to leave for a while and get out of my hair. I am annoyed with the tendency of Nanos to obsess about the next partying opportunity. I am not in this to go to parties. I am in this to force myself to write some stuff down, although I do that all the time anyway. I also like the t-shirts. Except this year's.

5. I am first and foremost a writer. Sure, I do lots of other things, but I'm a professional writer. I make money doing this. So I don't want to hear how full of shit I am from someone who's accumulating half-finished first drafts in a folder stashed away under their unmentionables.

6. I do not represent that either my routine or my process are suitable for anyone other than myself. I'm certain that many successful writers do their thang in ways that are 180 degrees different than my own. That's great. They're not asking me for help, and laughing at me behind my back if they deign to notice me at all. I will probably post little insights into my process, but I don't claim that if you do what I do you'll get anything but tired. Truthfully, that's about all it gets me a lot of the time.

Next issue: Tips and Tricks

Good Work

I spent last night going through the Writer's Market and looking up agents. I have no idea what to look for. My criteria seem completely subjective to me, and I have no idea whether they are helping my search or hindering it.

My criteria:

Should have been in the agenting business for five years or more (I figure this weeds out those who are losers and/or not serious)

Should represent at least 50 clients (this tells me that they're serious about agenting, not running a beauty salon/literary agency)

Should list information about recent sales, and should actually have recent sales to list (if you "decline to comment," it may be because you've got nothing on which to comment)

Prior to being a literary agent, should have worked in a related field (publishing, another agency - no former substitute teachers or psychologists need apply)

Should be local (I'm needy and don't want to spend a fortune in long distance and airfare whining to an agent)

Contains less than 2% of: represents my genre (literary fiction), reasonable query turnaround time, doesn't come off as smarmy and nasty

So, I figure that I have plenty of time to craft the most amazing cover letter possible for my book (since it's not finished yet) and then carpet the earth with query letters. Yes, many of them say "no simultaneous queries," but if I have a manuscript that I spent three years on, I don't want to send it off to one agent, wait two to six months, send it to another agent, etc. A good fisherman uses a sturdy pole and the right bait. A REALLY good fisherman uses four or five poles and homemade bait. A professional uses half a ton of chum and a big fucking net.

I Haven't Posted Anything Significant In a While

Contents:
1. What I've Been Doing with my Writing
2. The Direction My Life is Taking Doesn't Seem to Appear on my Map
3. I Hate My Fucking Job

1. I've been indulging in an orgy of editing and submitting lately. I feel really good about the fact that I've gotten over that mental hurdle that had me too scared and too embarrassed by my own perceived lack of talent to submit anything. I totally credit the Nanos for kicking my butt and helping me find markets and the courage to send stuff to them. It's only a matter of time now before something I've submitted somewhere gets picked up, because it's good writing, goddamnit!

2. I am currently in a weird limbo. Frankly, I think I've got enough talent to be a commercially viable writer. The problem is that I lack the time and the understanding of my family. sees me struggling to make time for my novel, but let's face it - there's only one of me and one of him and a whole house and a garden and two kids and he's got stuff he needs to do as well. In the meantime, I have a boss who spends 12+ hours a day at work, and therefore isn't all that impressed by anyone who does anything less.

I'd love to be able to quit my job and just write, but that doesn't seem to be on the horizon anywhere. My extended family says "But you already finished your novel, right? When is it coming out?" They see people like J.K. Rowling (who took years to write her first novel and another full year to sell it to someone, and then another year for it to hit the market) and see a book a year for a few years and wonder why I can't do the same thing. They don't seem to see the rest of the picture where, by the time you've churned out a best-selling book, you're allowed to quit your job and write full time, and your publisher is willing to assign you editors who will help you through the most time-consuming part of the process - the editing.

But I'm not bitter.

3. The above translates into my looking at the work I get paid to do and think "Why? Why am I knocking myself out for this?" I like the people with whom I work, but I'm not going to feel very bad when I can quit. That probably makes me a horrible person, but there it is, then.

My Fears of Giving Birth to a Baby Goth are Laid to Rest

Peaches gave me folders with her work in it. I put them aside, meaning to read them later. And I didn't read them later. I'm a bad parent. The Pirate handed me one of her poems and I was floored.

Amazing non-Goth poetry written by a 12-year-old with a perspective I could only wish for.

I Am

I am funny and athletic.
I wonder how babies are made.
I hear my mom yelling my name.
I see Sombra laughing and happy.
I want a dog instead of a fish.
I am funny and athletic.

I pretend that I am popular.
I feel like my life is the worst
life a kid could ever have.
I touch things like books.
I worry about the health of my pets.
I cry because I miss the dead.
I am funny and athletic.

I understand why my parents are divorced.
I say that I believe in BUDDHA.
I drream that I will be a good person.
I hope that my grades will be good.
I try to get things right.
I am funny and athletic.

The Living Bedroom

My falling socks are like snow
And my flying shirts are always in the air.
My bed is like huge mountain ranges
And my top bunk is a flea comb swiping up jumping fleas.
Do not throw any clothes into my eating dresser.
They will never be seen again.
My books are like caves covering up my pens,
And my dresser is like a fence
For all of my things.
The cat hair on my bed can be used for string,
And on my bed is a sniffling me.
Everywhere I go,
And whenever I move,
The posters eyes follow me.
So do not go into my room or else you will be eaten
And never come out the other end.
Beware of the flying clothes and strange sounds.
Go back to your room and that grabbing memory
Might just haunt forever.

I feel so presumptuous trying to write. I don't have half the talent this kid has. Or maybe I'm just a doting mama.

Bitching About People Who Can Read This

I'm grouchy.

I have been working really hard, at home and at work, to knock down my many, many "to-do" lists. I live by my lists, and they keep me focused. This week, I actually hit 100% of the stuff I meant to accomplish, but I don't feel any better about it than I did last week when I did even make a list.

Partly it's this: I got my review last week. My boss thinks I walk on water. He's foursquare in my corner and wants to see me kicking more of the ass that I kick for him on a regular basis. He's made goals for me this year that are...ambitious. I worry because I have goals for myself that are probably equally ambitious, but I can't reach them if I'm spending all my time at work. But I'm incapable of just saying "fuck it," and letting my boss down. I have the sort of sense of duty that one looks for in a lapdog. Pathetic, I know. But I take pride in the fact that my boss never thinks twice about entrusting me with very large, very complex projects that must be carried out with no sort of oversight.

That my boss loves me is all well and good, but it also makes me feel as though every day, I make the choice between bolstering my writing career (such as it is) and doing this thing I do for money. The more I search myself, the more I realize that the satisfaction that comes of doing an excellent job for someone else isn't enough. It feels sort of analagous to when Peaches was a baby, and I would call her caregiver two and three times a day to find out how she was doing. I finally had to quit my job because I coudln't concentrate. I had to be with my little girl. I am feeling that way about my writing. I want to be with it more than with my work.

Which brings me to the next thing, which is that I find it nigh-well impossible to find a suitable place to do my work. I can't carry it out at work. I have too much to do there to do much of anything else. I can't do it at home, because again, that dratted sense of duty won't let me concentrate. How can I selfishly sit on my ass writing and editing when there are dishes to be done or laundry to be folded? So I go out, but the problem there is that I am incapable of telling anyone to leave me alone. I went to OVC tonight and saw a few of the gang there and started to make really good progress on a piece that I think is just about ready for submission, but got sidetracked by an unwelcome conversation. And not just once. I made a few comments that this other person found provocative, and at least twice, this person felt moved to get my attention (taking it away from what I was doing) to distract me with a conversation that had nothing to do with what I was there for. I hate to be rude. I really do. I am incapable of saying "leave me alone right now," even when it's what I most fondly wish. The irony is that part of this conversation had to do with Americans' concept of proper manners.

Now, this brings me to the very last bitter dreg of my sour draught. The person who was so interested in what I had to say was also a person to whom I had given a draft of part of my novel many months ago, with the understanding that he would read it and give me feedback. I have never received said feedback. I gave it to at least three people, and never heard anything from any of them. I have now edited two novels, two novellas and half a dozen short stories for this group, and have gotten back exactly one critique of one short story, given by a person who, by his own admission, didn't have time to read it properly because he was in the middle of moving.

Those people who have heard my work read out loud have been unanimous in their praise, but that does me no good at all when what I'm looking for is the little nits that will make it perfect. I am frustrated that I have made time for them, but they have not seen fit to return the favor. At this point in time, I have exactly one dear friend who is enough of a writer that I trust his judgement and enough of a friend that he's not afraid to tell me when I'm phoning it in. He's a writer as well, and I edit his stuff and we sit down together and hammer things out. It's the most valuable interaction I've ever had with another writer. I'd love to find one more, but I don't even begin to know where to look.

I feel like I need more. From my work life, from my writing, from those people who call themselves my friends.


Okay. You can come out now. I'm done bitching.

Okay, Feeling Better

It's a quarter of three here, and since that last post I have finished and submitted that manual, eaten lunch, put a couple of miles on the treadmill and had a shower. I feel pretty justified in sitting on my ass for the rest of the day.

Not that it's likely to happen. Stephanie and I are supposed to go shopping after work, and then I have plenty to do once I get home. Like...kissing on my family, which I could spend hours doing. They're just so smoochilicious.

I'm still a little torn, though. I was talking to The Pirate after the reading I did on Friday. It was really well-received, and I felt about it the way I've felt about other readings: my stuff is as good as any of this, and better than a lot of it. He said that if he were me, he would be frustrated because my stuff is better than a lot of other readers who were already published and my stuff isn't published yet.

That's not why I'm frustrated. I know exactly why it isn't published. It's because there just aren't enough hours in the day for me to earn a living, take care of my family, take care of myself and finish this novel by the end of the week. It's slow going, and I always feel criminally self-indulgent when I'm writing and neglecting other things.

I'm not sure what to do about this.

The Virtual Bank Line Comes to Reality

A few nights ago, I dreamed that I was in the corridor of a hospital. There were about 12-15 women there, all wearing beautifully adorned chadors in jewel colors - deep blues, reds and golds. They were all sitting on benches or standing in the hallway of this hospital waiting to hear news of a women relative who was there having a baby. In among the women were two or three men, including the husband of the laboring mother, all anxiously waiting for news. The atmosphere was festive and talkative. There was going to be a party at someone's house as soon as the baby was born, and everyone was pretty happy.

On the walls were photos of a pretty young woman wearing a black headscarf and a very serious expression. There was no text with the photos, but I knew that she was an activist of some sort who was there in the hospital because she was dying. She wasn't sick, she was dying as a protest. She had simply decided that she was going to die, and without doing anything like taking poison or starving herself, she sickened. I looked at the pictures of this serious woman in black and at all the happy women around me dressed like lovely exotic birds.

A murmur went through the crowd as the doctor came out of the delivery room holding the red, squirming baby. "It's a boy!" The father looked at the baby and smiled, saying "Yeah, he looks just like me!" Everyone laughed and clapped him on the back, and all got up to leave. As they were filing out, the word went through the crowd that the activist had, in fact, died just then. The women in the group all pressed their lips together and nodded. It seemed that they weren't surprised in the least. They knew that it would happen and they seemed to think that things were as they should be. I felt very conscious of being on the outside, an observer, in a thing whose meaning I did not understand and was not meant to understand.

This dream happened three days ago, and yesterday I went to the Baby Goddess' school to drop her off. Monira, a grandmotherly woman who's there in the mornings smiled and I told her about the dream, as she had been one of the women in the hospital corridor. Her eyes got huge and she became very serious. She said that she thought it was strange that I should be dreaming about her.

This morning, she came and put her arms around me and told me that she had talked to her daughters and her sisters and told them about the dream. Apparently, I dreamed a thing that had happened to them. She told me that they were all very flattered that I was dreaming about them, especially as the things that are happening to them are happening in Egypt, where Monira's family lives.

It's always strange to find out how connected we all are to each other.

Finally Processing the Weekend

Many Things have happened. Many. Muchness went on, and I was there for it.

I got my eyebrow pierced. After the hilarity surrounding the microphone-nosering conjuction, I just had to go for the lorgnette and eyebrow ring conjuction. The Pirate is pleased as all heck, as is the man who sold me the lorgnette. He wants pictures for their website.

My mother thinks the overall effect is "punk granny," the Pirate says "Victorian borg," but Stephanie says "It's just Goth." Ew.

The cat pee briefcase has been restored to functionality. Which is lucky for the damn cat. A little Nature's Miracle and then some saddle soap and mink oil and all that's left is a wierd sort of watermark. That's not bad

And on the writing front, several things are popping and humming. The woman who gushed about Orfeo at the last CWC reading forwarded my name to a friend of hers who teaches at the University of Southern Maine. This woman and I have now hooked up and are corresponding. She wants to use my writing in her class. Mmmmm!
I'm giving another reading of The Birth of Athena this coming Friday at the Borders in Los Gatos. Mike M. has already promised to show up, as well as a couple of the other South Bay Nanos.

I'm also pleased as all get-out to see more people putting up their to-do lists. Let me just say, HOORAY! I love the lists! I want to give each and every one of you a cookie. Perhaps two.

And, in other news, there's a billboard advertising insurance on the 880 going toward Oakland (is that north or west?) just before the Montague exit. It has a huge picture of Andrew Jackson wearing sunglasses and it looks eerily like Mike M. only with longer hair. I've been thinking about that every time I pass it, and keep forgetting to say anything.

What Pimping Gets You

Friday has turned out to be a pretty good day for me. I went to the CWC reading at the B&N, and read the same selection from Orfeo that I had read at Zebulon's Lounge last Tuesday, but it went a little more smoothly this time, even though I wasn't drunk.

It helped that I had a few friends there with me. In addition to the Pirate, a friend and his wife from my new job showed up, as well as a friend from my old job and his fiance, and Mike M. and Ian D. The people who showed up for just me outnumbered those who had come to see everyone else. Thank you to those of you who made the trek out. It meant a whole lot to me.

A nice unforeseen bonus came in the form of another one of the evening's readers, a poet by the name of Carolyn Schuk, came up to me and said that she has a good friend who teaches mythology at the University of Maine. This particular professor would be highly interested in the fact that my stories combine Greek mythology and Mexican culture. Well, as they say, write what you know.

And, in a completely unrelated bout of pimping, the Pirate has caught on. He's had a series of interviews with three large, profitable, well-known Silicon Valley companies. Company G flew him down to Los Angeles, wined and dined him and impressed him with their high-energy corporate-cult atmosphere. Company N had him out for a regular interview at their Los Gatos office, and impressed him with the fact that they're a little older on average, and seem to be a little less out to prove something. Company A has only given him a phone interview thus far. Company G wants him in their Mountain View office on Wednesday for another series of interviews. Company A has asked for a second interview. Company N will make him an offer on Monday. They've already talked money, and the only reason they didn't make the offer is because the guy in charge of that was sick today. So, it's all over but the shouting, and I brought the Pirate home some nice champagne to celebrate.

It looks like the shitstorm is letting up a little at the ol' homestead. Actually, I'm feeling pretty blessed right about now.

Ed. It.

No, I didn't make it to CS last night. The poor Pirate was on his last (good) leg and really needed to be given the night off. We lay in bed, him watching absolutely the best movie ever made, a little slice of heaven that is corn with cheese on it dipped in acid, Beneath the Planet of the Apes.

Luckily, I was very busy with the next section of my novel. So...my total hours for the month are now at 13, only 37 to go. I am hoping that if I can shoehorn in 2 hours a day between now and the end of the month, I'll be doing okay. I think that I can hammer this thing into decent shape by then.

The second portion, Atena, is much like the first in that on my first reading after some time, I found a lot of really strong parts, and a lot of flabby filler. But I'm excited to be working hard on it and whipping it into shape.

Time Well Spent

On Tuesday I did that reading in Petaluma and heard a really amazing piece by a woman who lives in that area. So, yesterday, I decided to email her and tell her exactly what I thought of her work. I wrote her a fairly long email with my comments and praise.

She wrote me back last night, a warm happy letter saying in effect that I'd made her day. She also asked for the text of Orfeo because she said that it went by too fast for her and she'd like to "linger over it." I was tickled and, after finishing my last round of edits last night, emailed it off to her.

Increasing the happiness in the world. It's one of my five pledges.

Family Trouble

Now, you might think that I'm having trouble with my family. Au contraire! It's they who are having the trouble.

My younger sister phoned last night. I haven't talked to her in a while. I thought she was calling me to gossip about our older sister, but no. She's got her own shit.

Now, let me just tell you the kind of shit she gets herself into....
Ximena is a clinical psychologist on Chicago's south side. She works with families in crisis (and believe me, she's got a fabulous firsthand foundation on that). On this particular day she was doing outreach with Xavier, a guy who's getting his degree in counseling. She likes this guy because he's working on his degree after being in prison for 20 years on a murder charge. He's 35.

They are at some building in Chicago that used to house a large mental hospital, but is now being used as a sort of outpatient facility. After completing their outreach calls, my sister turns to Xavier and says "Hey, you wanna go up and see the twelfth floor?"

"What's on the twelfth floor?"

"That's where they kept all the real f-ed up folks. It's totally Girl, Interrupted."

Xavier is skeptical, but goes along with it. The twelfth floor does not have any direct access from an elevator. In order to get to it you have to go up to a higher floor and then down a series of staircases that are not necessarily near each other and that, at one time, were all kept locked. Ximena and Xavier thread their way in the near-dark through the series of stairs and doors until they find themselves in a large room on the twelfth floor. There is dusty, knocked-over furniture and trash on the floor, and the whole thing smells like mildew. Xavier, who is still on parole, does not come into the room with her. He is a sensible man who knows that if they do find anything untoward, he can't afford to be the one to find it.

And, sure enough, my sister spots a pair of legs. The feet at the end of the legs do not have shoes on them, and the legs themselves are twisted up in a position that suggests that their owner didn't just lie down for a little nappy-do. My sister is immediately wigged out and turns and runs out, screaming at Xavier "Let's get outta heeeeeeeeeere!"

Xavier is not only a sensible man, but a very large one. He has not seen anything, but scoops my sister up and rushes back out the way they came. As he's running down a hall with my sister in tow, he says "What are we running from?" "A body!" she pants. He rolls his eyes and speeds up.

They get out to the nurses' station at the front lobby and my sister is overcome with an attack of conscience. Xavier would much rather leave this theoretical body that he has not seen where it supposedly lies and get the heck outta Dodge, but my sister will do no such thing. She goes to the nurse at the desk and says "Um...there's a guy....upstairs...on the twelfth floor...um...lying down."

The nurse's eyebrows shoot up. "What were you doing on the twelfth floor?" My sister had to do a little fast talking, but her clinical psychologist cred gets her and Xavier out of being arrested. A pair of security guards is summoned and Ximena and Xavier are asked to lead them to the "guy lying down."

Ximena had completely lost her sense of direction, but Xavier, being the self-possessed person he is, knew exactly where he was going. As Xavier is saying "Left here...right through this door....down the second set of stairs..." Ximena looked at these guys and thought "Okay, Xavier is Freddy, this guy over here is Velma, that guy is Daphne...and I'm Scooby Doo."

They get into the room and Ximena and Xavier hang back. There's no way she wants to see that sight again, and she feels that now that she's led the security guys to it, she's done her duty. On the other hand, she is not without a sense of morbid curiosity. Who is it? It couldn't possibly be anyone who accidentally wandered up there.

The guards looked carefully at the body without touching it. One of them bent down for a closer look, then beckoned the other to do the same. Both of them burst out laughing. Ximena is horrified. She runs up to them, asking them what's so funny. They turn the body over...and she can clearly see the mannequin's face in the dim light.

The rosy glow coming from Ximena's face is enough to illuminate the scene.

Now that the tension's been broken, the four of them turn even more Scooby Doo. They decide that while they're here.... They start walking around the rest of the floor. The rest is much the same, trash and dusty furniture. But WAYYYYY in the back, they find a queen-sized bed up on cinder blocks. The sheets are clean, the bed is made. Someone has been up here recently. The guards immediately turn to Ximena and Xavier and ask "So - what do YOU TWO know about this?"

After a little more poking around, Ximena and Xavier are escorted out. Upon reflection, Ximena has decided that the dead body was an amazingly creative first line of defense for someone's Fortified Love Nest.

Bedtime Reading of the Terribly Pedantic Lifestyle

I've been listening to a history of Alexander the Great written about a hundred years after his death, but it's a little hard to get into as an audiobook.

There are lots of descriptions of places that no longer exist and a lot of passages that sound like this "And so Alexander met with Thorax. This is not Thorax of Hypnotia, whom some of the early Lucites worshipped as a god. This is Thorax of Biodegradia, son of Beltsander." And then there are the countless battles with triremes and quadriremes and lemoncremes until your eyes no longer blink in unison.

The Pirate took Peaches off to the library tonight so that she could get some books for a school project and came home with histories of Mesopotamia, Sumaria, Babylon, Assyria and the Persian empire.

Frankly, there is a whole big hunk of history that I just have a hard time getting past. Everything between....fire and the invention of Popeil's Pocket Fisherman. Okay, maybe not that big, but anything that doesn't already come with a compelling narrative is just tough to get past. Even the Bible skips past all this and gets right to the sex (you know - Hashish begat Diphthong who begat Target who begat Hut who begat Tarnashun who begat....). And then you go right to a place where we begin to have written record.

So, right now he's sitting next to me reading about how the little Mesopotamuses went to war with the Sombrarians under Xanax and created the first empire. Meanwhile, in the Persian empire, Zoroaster was creating the first religion to be picked up by a country music singer and made into a chain of fast food restaurants, Kenny Roger's Zoroasters.

This is really motivating me to find a wall-sized map of ancient Greece so I can go back to Alexander the Great and skip the whole history of the Assyrians who invaded the Sombrarians while the Sombrarians were busy using their little hats as flowerpots. Or maybe it was the Babbleonandonians.

I can never remember.

In the Virtual Bank Line

I have no idea where this came from, but it's a little scary.

So, I'm at work, working hard on this manual that I've got to get done. At the same time, there are two bumbling idiots running around in a place that looks like Golden Gate park, trying to avoid a large gang of terrorists that are trying to kill them.

I can see these two idiots because I'm sort of flying above them, every once in a while stopping and clinging to a tree and checking out the amazing colonies of insects that live high up in trees.

And then I'm back at work, and while I was gone, they have removed all the cubicles and re-arranged the space. Everyone now has small desks arranged in a U shape around the room. The rest of the company is at a meeting, but there are about five people sitting at desks talking together. The nameplates that used to adorn the outside of our cubes are now on the top of the desks so that we can find our place, and I'm looking around for my desk because I had been in the middle of an important project. I ask the few people in the room if they know which one is my desk, and they ignore me. I walk around the U, looking for my nameplate. I finally come upon it attached to a desk with a person sitting at it. I am deeply annoyed.

In another room, there is a guy who looks like the guy from Office Space (who in turn closely resembles my best friend). He has a scam in mind wherein he's going to tell the women in accounts payable that he needs these checks made out to a bunch of vendors. He's got the pile of blank checks in his hand. He walks into accounts payable, which consists of three desks at weird angles to each other, so that the women behind them are no more than 4 feet from one another.

He addresses the middle one, asking if she can do a rush job making out these checks to the vendors. She looks at him, picks up her phone and dials. The phone of the woman to her right rings, and that woman picks it up. Neither of the women look at each other or at the guy, and the women are talking in stage whispers as though he can't hear them perfectly well.

"I think we should get this guy to come and work for us," the first woman says.

"That's fine. He can have Marcy's old desk," the other woman says.

"Okay. I'll get him started right away," the first woman says, and hangs up the phone. Then she looks at the other woman and mouths the words "Thank you."

She directs the guy to another desk directly behind the group, and tells him that there is an account ledger and to just get started. He sits down, baffled about what just happened.

I go back to my desk, and I'm fishing through the very large bottom drawer, which is full of junk. Saddam Hussein is sitting to my left wearing a maroon beret. We are arguing about who currently has control of Libya. He maintains that the beret he's wearing proves that he controls Libya, but I insist that there is a set of filing cabinet keys in my drawer that proves that I have control of Libya. I'm annoyed because he won't stop taunting me as I'm fishing through this large drawer for these very small keys.

I look up and he's grinning like an idiot at me from behind his desk. "You can't find them, can you?" he says in an irritating, cheerful tone. "That's because I control Libya and Ghaddafi." I give him a nasty look and keep searching for those keys.

And in the dream, for some reason, none of this was even remotely funny.

Desperation Food Critic

I would like to take a few minutes to provide a public service to those of you who, like me, find yourselves waking up at bitch o'clock, going in to work, working until fuckthirty, going home, falling into bed and then repeating the process over and over until you forget what day it is.

The first cherished habit to fall victim to this schedule is that of sitting down to an actual meal. Let's face it, a handful of Skittles and three diet Cherry Cokes may get you through, but you will pay in the long run. My personal coping mechanism is this: eating cold soup directly from the tin with a plastic spoon. The beauty of this particular fare is that it leaves no dirty dishes covered with the tiny crumbs of congealed grease that say "This soup was never heated" (as opposed to the long smears of grease on a bowl that say "This soup was heated, eaten and the dishes thrown into the sink a week ago Thursday").

My personal favorite is Progresso's Southwestern-Style chicken. The roasted chicken has that Liquid Smoke flavor that, if you close the one eye that you're not keeping on your work, you can almost believe was hot not very long ago. The rice acts as a homogenizing agent, keeping the grease well mixed in the soup so that it doesn't end up coating your spoon after the second bite making you lose your appetite after the third bite.
The the best part? The slightly spicy flavor is a fabulous complement to the bitter taste of the self-recrimination that comes of neglecting your personal life.

Bon apetit!