Saving Dante and Picasso
I am frantically trying to find a home for my two fabulous cats. We can't take them to Japan with us because they'd have to stay in quarantine for half a year. That's kitty hell - they wouldn't be the same sweet cats after that. We've been trying to find them a home for a month and every option has fallen through. I'm desperate. I love these cats and don't want to have to take them to the pound where they'll be killed. Today I called three no-kill shelters to ask for help and none of them have replied.
If you know anyone who might be interested in giving my sweet, wonderful young cats a home, please let me know.
Day two of the garage sale to end all garage sales.
Rule #1: No matter what kind of crap it is, if it sits there long enough, someone will always buy it.
Rule #2: Any item with actual, quantifiable value will always be passed over in favor of the worthless crap next to it.
My second day was almost as profitable as my first. I was visited by the entire West Olympia Women’s Softball team who bought all my old Jackie Chan movies. They later sent their coach whom came roaring in on a motorcycle while wearing eagle feathers attached to his helmet. He bought my science and physics books.
One young couple came to garage sale reminded me so much of Matt and me at that age that I couldn’t stop staring at them. The boy had dark hair and eyes, the girl had light hair and skin. The boy was impenetrably quiet; he kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes always on his girlfriend. She would hold something up to show him and he would smile and nod, maybe emit a soft uh-huh. He had the odd habit that Matt had (an occasionally still has) when he was feeling nervous or insecure. Every once in a while the boy would take his hands out of his pockets, make fists and tense and straighten his arms, then put his hands back in his pockets. I wanted to hug him or hold his hand, he reminded me so much of my young husband.
The girl was soft and warm towards him. She kept talking to him in an endless string of words and touching his back or arms. At one point she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him. She bent her legs slightly to sway with the Beth Orton song that had just come on the radio that I was playing in the garage. His legs stayed stock straight and the uncomfortable look on his face made it clear he was simply enduring this public display of affection. Ah - that’s the big difference. Matt would have been all over me with that kind of encouragement. He would have turned his body around so we were front to front and made the moment into something entirely inappropriate.
Makin' Bank Peddling Crapola
Ok, not all of it's crap. Since we're moving out of the country, we're selling our good stuff along with our bad stuff. Of course, buyers do not seem to discriminate between the two (see post about earlier garage sale). Today we've netted about $750. That's freak-fracking-fantablulous. Our last garage sale barely made $300. Of course, we paid dearly for our efforts. It was a scorching 97 degrees in Olympia today, a slight cool-down from yesterday's temperature of 99. This is not normal Washington weather. I even have sunburn lines on my feet from the tops of my flip-flops. Dad and Cyndi came down to help. Cyndi took Kiomye off for some this-is-so-great-I-don't-remember-all-my-toys-are-being-sold-off fun while Dad and I hid in small shivers of shade and tried not to be rude or cranky to the customers that braved the heat.
Most interesting thing sold today: A box full of practically depleted spray paint cans and WD-40 that I meant to throw away a week ago. price: $2.50
Funniest thing overheard at garage sale: Everyone I know is getting pregnant. Suze said just by simply sitting on the left side of the church I'll be next.
Most popular item at sale: Artist's book of photo of naked men and women leaping, stretching, reclining. To be used for figure drawing. Picked up and flipped through by 90% of the men and 50% of the women. price: Marked at $2, but no one bought it. When my friends came over later, I just gave it to one of the guys, who was delighted to have something new and exciting to show the guys back at his psych ward.
(not kidding)
I'm going to have another sale tomorrow to get rid of the final cra... quality items that didn't make the "ship to Japan" piles. The forecast is for a cool 81 degrees.
Please God, make that a reality.
to Christy - everyone wants that leather chair. Dad already had dibs on it. Almost all my furniture is gone. I'll let you know if anything survives.
Not quite so jaded anymore
My experience at the writing conference improved dramatically on Saturday. I was so jaded and overrun by my terrible cold that I just stopped caring about everything. This worked wonders on my “pitch”. I was calm, relaxed and sociable. Big improvement.
I had a meeting with an editor from Ballantine (big New York publishing house). This was a group meeting. There were four other writers at the table. She told us upfront that she usually will only accept new work through agents and doesn’t solicite writers directly. She told us not to feel badly if she didn’t ask to see our work. Fine. Whatever. I didn’t care anymore. When it was my turn to speak about my work, I was so smooth and conversational. I didn’t try to “hype” it or give the Hollywood pitch. She was very interested. I related the bad reactions I got from people because my book is a collection and she was quick to say that collections are gaining popularity, especially with young people my age. She asked me to mail her my best stories and to send her the first three chapters of my next book when I have them completed. She didn’t ask anyone else in our group to send her anything. Kick ass! Suddenly, I was in a much better mood.
I would have written about this sooner, but it’s been a crazy week. We’re packing up the house and sorting all our worldly belongings into ship or sell piles. Kiomye is highly traumatized by the whole process. She cried when we sold our washer and dryer, for chrissakes. I can only imagine the tantrum she’ll throw when we sell her bed and old toys. Matt is in New York visiting Randy. I’d like to be angry with him for skipping out on me and leaving me alone with this big mess, but I can’t because I’m the one that got the dates wrong and bought his tickets for this weekend. Doh!
Down and out at the Sea-Tac Hilton
So, this weekend I'm in Seattle at the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association conference. I'm going to workshops and get to have meetings with agents and editors. I don't think I'm having fun. I'm the only one there under forty (no joke) and everyone is interested in genre writing - like sci-fi, romance, mystery, thrillers. I met with an agent and as soon as I mentioned I had a collection, she told me they don't work with collections and didn't want to hear what the book was about. She then went on to tell me I should try taking writing lessons. WRITING LESSONS! She didn't even look at my work. Later on, I had a meeting with an editor from a small literary press and he was at least interested in my work from our discussion. He also said that no one buys collections, but that he wanted me to mail him a couple of my best stories. I guess that was positive. Sort of. I'm cranky and not inspired. I hate all the business side of writing. Really. It's so desperate and shameless. All the focus in the workshops and lectures is on making your writing marketable. Depth, meaning, artistic passion are all just footnotes. Really, it's better if you have no artistic values as they just get in the way of your marketability. Blah. Yes, there are a lot of crappy books out there, but now I'm more amazed at the fact that there are a lot of good books out there. How did they (and their authors) survive this messy business?
This possum was living under a tarp on our porch. As you can judge by its sharp teeth and beady eyes, we decided it was not a toddler-friendly neighbor. We needed to remove the little beast. The process neccesitated numerous call to my mother, calf-high boots and a sturdy mop handle. It's been two days. The rodent has not reappeared.
Matt poised for battle.
We never fight. Really. Honest.
Heading out...
Jenny getting gorgeous.
Bathroom stall discourse on womanhood, Bush's lack of WMD and Jimie's penis. The woman at the bar with the velvet chocker is married and oh God how this music infects me, makes me crazy. wanna dance. wanna move. wanna yell. One more glass of red. Lock me in the stall. I'm not fit for public consumption and the bass won't quit and the horn keeps licking me up can't stop my pen. Low base notes whisper about
get another glass of red, hold my pen as I clap and oh crap I have no resistance. And I must remember that the woman at the bar with the velvet choker is married because that chain is around my own neck and my love is a thousand miles away and I feel that bass and that red and I am red and pent. I cannot stop the ink, my mind, my red blood flowing. I did not ask for this susceptibility. Jazz. Blues. What it is. It is and I am blue blue notes and red, forgive me love. I cannot be what I am not. I cannot be not impressed. Not impassioned.
Blues man says:
I was headed to New York to be a star, but I got drunk so they kicked me off in Chicago. Thats okay. The flow and the music are good. Woman writes on the bathroom stall:
I love Bocky and I want her in my life and world. Love, Caitlin. Loves quick curves of the pen make me
Woman says:
Hey, Pammy, gotta go. Jimmy sez move and I gotta work when the sun comes up.
Then the horns again. And when I clap I cant help but clap to a beat and forgive me if I cant dip and sway because my body is paralyzed by my leaping heart. Oh how I am rendered an imbecile, sobbing in my booth next to my dearest friend with the tanned peach skin. I need to step outside and breathe, but dare not call attention to my weakness. The other drones sit and sway and do not cry so why should I? I need to relieve this pressure but there will be no relief, no little death for me. So I clasp my hands together tight until they burn. I need a shotgun, a bolt of lightening, a falling piano. Oh please, give me my little death and let the light clear away this heady desire.
That woman doesn't like me
My first reaction to negative criticism of my writing is anguish. I’d like to say that I’ve reached a stage where that’s not the case, but I haven’t. My emotions move quickly to defensiveness and superiority. Yes, I realize that none of my first three responses are constructive.
My first critical, knowledgeable critique of my book from someone who has no investment in my success (vicarious or otherwise) was mixed – at best. She said some of my pieces were obviously very “young” and others were really strong. She thinks it would be very ambitious of me to try to sell
Anticipation. Ambitious. She used that word a lot, with a little smirk on her lips. I haven’t even told her my plans to take over the world yet.
I am hurt. I hate to admit it. I wanted her to sing my praises. Didn’t happen. So, I started to doubt her judgment. She likes the stories that I regret writing. She shrugs off the stories I find most powerful. She doesn’t like when people write about writing. I write about writing.
Her review wasn’t all bad, it was just mixed. I had a very hard time hearing the positive remarks after being cut down so much. She said this book would embarrass me later on - not what I say, but the skill of my writing. I think I’ll save that judgment for myself, thank you very much.
My ever encouraging and supportive husband told me that she and I obviously have different tastes in writing. He said that the fact that she likes the stories that I don’t means that my stories are therefore 100% likable. I like his logic.
I know that in the life of a writer I will have many people give negative reviews of my work. I don’t even like everything that my favorite authors have written, despite how brilliant that I think most of their work is. I just wish it didn’t hurt my feelings. I do feel young, just like she said. Dammit.
Girls gone wild in Chicago
I’ve been on Hiatus.
I flew over to Chicago to visit beautiful Jenny. We rocked that city up and down, inside and out. It was fabulous. We pretended we were jet setters, and that Chicago was really New York and that we could afford the fancy clothes we bought on the Magnificent Mile.
High point:
The Green Mill. Franz Jackson on Saxophone and vocals. A dark curvy booth with slick cushions that our bare legs slide across. Al Capone used to come here. Did he sit where we sat? Did he drink red wine, like me, or cocktails, like Jenny? Outside, our high heels twisted and turned on broken concrete and we headed back to her car, laughing all the way.
High point:
The man we met at the hotel bar was from South Africa. This is a country I have read about and dreamed about. I had a thousand questions for him. Was the country really like Bryce Courtenay portrayed it in
The Power of One? Is Johannesburg still dust and heat, or is a cosmopolitan city? How big is Cape Town? Where do all the ex-pats live? How can he stand to be away?
He indulged me with talk of politics. He pointed out that many American companies are, in fact, South African companies. (Miller AND Budweiser) He said that an entire series of BMWs is manufactured in South Africa, and while America tries to cover that fact, other countries, like Japan, advertise it freely. He talked HIV and prescription drugs. He talked about how shortsighted our media is. He prefers Italy to America. All very interesting.
High Point:
I got the first massage of MY LIFE at a spa downtown. I’m a true believer. They dressed us in luxurious robes, served us cool tea “elixirs” while giving us a footbaths. They sedated me with new-age harmonics and flickering candles, slicked my body up with oil and sent me to heaven. I swear. It was incredible. My masseuse (my new favorite person in the world) recommended that I get a massage at least every two weeks as I have “tight spots” that need to be dealt with. Sage advice, indeed. Jenny treated me to this indulgence. I am forever in her debt.
High Point:
The bed we slept in at the Millennium Knickerbocker Hotel. Soft, crisp cool one billion thread count sheets. I never understood the whole craze for good sheets, I’ve always bought my on sale at Target or K-Mart. Now I understand. Jenny and I slipped off our sandals, got in bed and swung our legs back and forth just to feel the silky smoothness against our rough tired feet. (Three days of shopping can really wear a girl out.)
Because I love Jenny, and we don’t get to see each other very often, we of course had some drama. It’s strange how even though we haven’t lived in the same city for years, my move to Japan suddenly seems like a really big deal. Sure, we can handle being a thousand miles apart, but three thousand? That’s a lot to ask. Life is picking up steam. We hold tight to each other because each woman is running so fast down her path. We have different paths. The best we can hope for is that they continue to cross, hopefully in equally luxurious settings as this last weekend. I think our next rendezvous should happen in Paris. We shall see.
Kiomye and I had fabulous fun today. I had to take her to my school today to get some errands done. She rode around on my shoulders and styled my hair in new and interesting ways. Kiomye has three public personas: painfully shy, screaming demon spawn, and super fun charming angel. Today she decided to play out the super fun charmer side of her personality - much to my delight. She kept asking me for kisses on her nose, then giggling and ducking. When we had to wait twenty minutes for my transcript, she stood on the bench and sang "Row Row Row your boat" and her version of the alphabet song ("W, 8, A & Z") for all the secretaries.
It's shots like this that give me a glimpse into what she will look like when she's older. I'm mesmorized by this little girl.
Kiomye and I watched the Wizard of Oz for the billionth time this evening. It's a little bit scary for her, which means I get to cuddle with her - a rarity. As you can see, I have seen this movie a few too many times and it doesn't pack quite the same thrill for me that it used to.
Matt and I rented A Streetcar Named Desire last night. I needed a Brando fix. I'd never seen this movie, but I liked it even more than I thought I would. It was fun to see the French Quarter, it reminded me of the little apartment Matt and I shared, especially with the wooden shutters and the delapidated rooms. The Quarter really does make life feel that mellow dramatic.
The Writing Life
So, I'm trying to pursue this whole "writer" thing. It's ridiculously difficult. I have yet to be accepted into any journal or magazine that I wasn't in some way connected to, despite my professor's frequent assertions that I shouldn't be having any problem getting published. I know other fabulous writers developing their talents who say they wished they submitted as much as I did and that they really need to get on it. So, to kill the mystery of the submission process, I am posting some of my rejection letters. Now, keep in mind that these are merely the few I recieved via email, and so were easy to copy and paste onto my blog. I'm not including the huge stack of little slips with very similar sentiments.
Some people keep their rejection letters, all of them. I thought is was an amusing thing to do, something to chuckle at once I "make it big." Forget it. It's depressing. I'm throwing the damn things out. I don't want to look at them anymore. But, before I destroy them forever, I thought I'd save this sampling for prosterity. Note the flattering language editors use to soften the blow of the rejection. Yeah, not empty at ALL. It's also funny when they don't even bother to use my name. I am simply "contributor."
From The Village Rambler:
Dear Kelsye:
Thank you for your submission "Thank You Mrs. Woolf"; we appreciate you sharing your work with us. Your manuscript was given careful consideration, and we regret that it does not meet our editorial needs at this time.
I hope you'll consider trying us again.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Oliver, Editor, The Village Rambler Magazine
From Swink:
Thank you for submitting your work to the Lying, Cheating & Stealing theme issue of Swink Online. It is with no small amount of regret that I write to inform you that we are unable to include your submission.
I ask that you please not take this as a condemnation of your work; we received an enormous number of submissions, and due to factors both concrete and intangible, such as space constraints and a search for work that fits within the context of the issue as a whole, we were limited in what we could accept. At a different time, our decision very well may have differed. So, please keep writing, and also feel free to submit to us again in the future.
Thank you again, and all our best in your continued endeavors.
Regards, Jeremy Horelick
From FriGG
Dear Ms. Nelson:
Thank you for submitting your fiction to FRiGG. We're unable to use your work in 2004, so we're returning it to you. Because we receive many more submissions than we can publish, invariably we must return many well-written stories.
We wish you much success in finding a placement.
Sincerely, Ellen Parker, Editor
From The Pedastal Magazine
Dear Kelsye:
Thank you for submitting your work to The Pedestal Magazine. We enjoyed reading it but regret that we cannot use it at this time. Please feel free to submit other material to us at a later date.
Thank you for your interest in The Pedestal Magazine, and best of luck with all your literary endeavors.
Sincerely, The Editors, The Pedestal Magazine
From Nidus
Dear Contributor,
Thank you for your submissions to the University of Pittsburgh's online literary journal, nidus. Due to the amount of quality submissions we have received, we were unable to publish your work.
On behalf of the staff at nidus, we wish you the best of luck placing your manuscripts elsewhere.
Please consider entering our fiction contest.
Sincerely, Don Strange, Fiction Editor, nidus
From Glimmer Train
Dear kelsye,
Thank you for letting us read your work. We will not be publishing "The Exchange", but we enjoyed it and would like to see more.
Ref#: 70195
From Mensa Bulletin
Kelsye --
Thanks for your submission. Unfortunately, we stopped accepting submissions for October on the 15th. The magazine is nearly complete at this point. However, with your permission, we'll hold onto it for consideration for a later edition.
Dick Hodgson
Communications Director
Huge Projects For Fun and... well, More Fun
I just finished Ayun Halliday’s
The Big Rumpus. This was a fun, quirky book about a creative, intelligent woman trying to create a stimulating, satisfying life for herself while also being a full time mom for her three-year-old daughter and infant son. Very funny. I love Ayun. She lives in the middle of New York, she started her own zine, she can write well, she makes shocking statements about what she sometimes thinks about her charming little hellions. She makes me a little bit less crazy. Thanks, Ayun.
Her book was also interesting as I could find out some of her process for creating a zine. My friend Yulya (another Greener) and I are starting a literary magazine. While we both love zines (Yulya even produced one for over two years), we’re aiming to create something a little more glossy. Right now, we’re using
McSweeney’s,
Bitch and
Adbusters as our inspiration models, with a little bit of
Mother Jones thrown in as well.
This is a monstrous project. We don’t predict to have our inaugural issue done for over half a year. We’re trying to finagle interviews with Amy Goodman (of
Democracy Now) and Arundhati Roy (author of
The God of Small Things). This is both because we worship these women and because their names on our cover would be pretty impressive. We’re also seeking out fiction and visual contributions from other writers and artists that make interesting work.
Yep. It’ll be great.
How could anyone resist this man?
If I could, I would be the next Godfather. Although, I realize it might be harder for me (as a petite female euro-mix) to command the same respect. I don't think I can claim even a drop of Italian blood.
The Godfather has fallen. Marlon Brando died yesterday at the age of 80. This man was amazing.
