Semi-Transparent Walls

The other day, S and were talking about a situation I’m involved in, and without thinking, I used some absurdly long, fairly obscure word to describe my behavior. She looked at me blankly for a second and then we both burst out laughing. Having a large vocabulary does not mean you always need to use it. Because, frankly, you sound like a toss-pot if you do.

But this links slightly to a strange feeling I’m having about my professional life right now.

There was a time when I felt like I was on top–I was around people who got me, I knew what I was talking about, and folks could come to me with questions that I felt I could answer in some kind of accurate fashion. We were on a par.

But now, I feel like a minnow surrounded by whales. And not just regular whales either. Prehistoric sized whales. With horns and wings and halos.

 

The horned whales of success

 

And this isn’t only at University. I mean, at University you’re bound to feel like that because you’re learning, right? So you’re not necessarily supposed to know everything. But I admit, I feel rather at a loss there too. “You haven’t heard of author X?” “How can you not have read author Y?” Or sitting there while the group around you laughs at some literary or philosophical reference you have no clue about. It’s daunting, and I admit, it feels somewhat defeating.

How will I ever be as smart as these people? How will I ever figure out how to move forward in the profession like the people around me have?

And I’m also surrounded by a rich, varied and lovely collection of writers and publishers. And the same thing happens: references to people or books I’m fully unaware of as the room titters away. Folks talking about issues author X faced and how they would deal with them. People who walk around the room blowing air kisses at one another’s cheeks and nattering about the old days as I stand against a wall because I know…no one. Do I introduce myself a bit? Sure. But even then I can see the person’s eyes looking past me as awkward pauses clearly indicate someone else would be pretend smooching his face and asking about his domestic details.

Am I really that uneducated? That unworldly? How do I possibly catch up when I don’t even know where to start? How do you enter a community of people in a professional environment when you’re just the unknown outsider? Will I ever become the respected go-to, or will I forever be the mediocre lackluster wall-leaner? At what point do you become less ‘upwardly bound professional’ and more ‘irritating boot-licker’? Why do I feel the need to be as good, to do as much, to be a horned and haloed whale too? Why do I feel inferior because I’m not?

At the moment, I feel like a pretender. I’ve built a facade with peeling paint and semi-transparent walls. Any minute, someone is going to figure out I’m just that dirty little city rat with delusions of being the noble stallion. I’m far, far outside my comfort zone, and wondering just how far I can go before realizing there’s no ground under me after all, and those watching were always shaking their heads, knowing I was never going to make it because I didn’t have any foundation under my dirty bare feet.

Song: Last to Know by Pink

Book: Difference and Repetition by Deleuze

 

A Girl’s Story

Once Upon a Time… 

There was a little girl. She didn’t have a lot of friends, though she never knew why. No one teased her or called her names, no one bullied her. They just kind of stayed away. She developed a small few friendships that stuck for pretty much her whole life.

So, instead of hanging out with friends, she found other interesting things to do. She walked the neighbourhood with the old woman who salvaged cans from apartment building dumpsters and played soccer with that lady’s grandchild. She rode her bike to the corner store and back, though she didn’t have any money. She kicked the soccer ball against the wall with the mailboxes as fast and as hard as she could, liking the rattle of the ball striking metal. She walked out into the desert with a book and spent the day lounging on a warm rock like the lizards around her, reading the sun below the horizon.

And she spent time with her grandmother and her aunt. Her grandmother liked to be thought of as sexy and always simpered when a new man was nearby. Her aunt was independent and sarcastic, and she always took the girl to the horse races with her and let her bet two dollars on any horse she wanted. They taught her to play backgammon and bet with pennies.

The best times were the holidays. Her mom and her aunt and her grandmother loved the girl very much. Holidays were full of food and drink (too much drink) and music and games. Decorations were everywhere. Christmas brought huge trees and presents nearly as big.

There were no friends about for most of these events, but that was okay.

The girl grew up. She moved. And moved. And moved again. Her aunt and her grandmother passed away and she felt their loss keenly.

She moved away, across the ocean. She married a new family, a big family. Her mom had a small new family too. The girl made new friends, people who invited her places, who wanted her around. Thanksgiving didn’t exist in the new country, and she missed it terribly; she missed dinner full of silliness and food and alcohol and bowls full of unshelled nuts with a nutcracker and grandmother’s pumpkin pie and yams.

So the girl had a holiday dinner anyway, with new friends sat around a table eating the strange international foods. She served yams, and mashed potatoes and pie. She was thankful, and she remembered her family, and whispered silent prayers to them all.

The girl is thankful. For a life filled with love, a partner who supports everything, interesting people, challenges and people who care. For diseases kept in check, for friends always ready to go for coffee or to the theater.

For the whole kit and kaboodle, really.

How about you?

Book: Medea by Christa Wolf

Song: So Close to You Right Now

Just follow the arrows

My life has been non-stop since the beginning of June. 

I’ve taught a six week editing workshop, I’ve had repair men out to fix my washer and my dryer four times (each), both of which broke down the same week.  They still aren’t fixed. One sounds like it’s trying to escape my kitchen, because I refuse to stop using it.

 I’ve been laid off.

I’ve been editing against deadlines I’ve allowed to become too tight. I’ve had long conversations with unhappy authors.

I’ve been marketing, designing, contacting, booking, ordering for the book event in August. I’ve sent hundreds of emails, designed and ordered give-aways, written articles, developed a blog for the event, made friends through contacts, contacts, contacts. Designed the program, printed the program, contacted sponsors…etc.

We went to the Olympics on Tuesday, came home Wednesday, I’m editing Thursday and Friday (washer guy coming on Friday), I have my final lay-off meeting on Friday morning, I’m dropping the books off at the club on Friday night, and the two-day book event starts on Saturday.

Monday we’re driving back North for the Olympics.

Tuesday we’re driving home.

Wednesday we’re going to the Olympics in London.

A few days at home, and then we’re off to the coast to attempt camping. In a tent. In the wettest summer we’ve had since cavemen, apparently.

And then two weeks after that we leave for Florida.

I’m not really sure how to get the things done I need to get done. Like my PhD work, of which there’s been none since June, and which I need to have done in September. Before we leave for Florida. There are also two novels that need to be fully edited and ready for copy by September 1st.

I need to replace the job that laid me off.

There are also those new relations to continue relating to.

Buried. Totally buried. By good stuff, yes, without a doubt. But buried nonetheless.

I can’t wait to see how this turns out, as the saying goes…

Sam and I on the BBC, at the Olympics. USA v North Korea, Manchester.

Song: My Give a Damn’s Busted

Book: The Lighthouse by Virginia Wolfe

Blog: BSB UK Event Blog (lots of good blogs by the attending authors)

A Lifetime of Reruns

Routine.

We all have one. We get up, scratch, stumble to the loo, brush our teeth, check for new zits, find the least wrinkled thing in the closet and get dressed in the dark so you have an excuse, flop into the kitchen and grab a candy bar for breakfast before heading out to drudge your way through work. Then you come home, fling off your shoes, microwave your dinner, pick the bits that missed your mouth off your shirt, eat them, balance your dish on the tower of mouldering dishes in the sink, shower, and fall asleep in bed with reruns of Southpark lighting up the bedroom walls.

And do it all again the next day.

So my question is this:

What motivates you? What keeps you going, what makes you focus on your passion, what makes you strive for more? To be more? What keeps you from the soul crushing routine I’ve described above? What makes you want to learn about new things, or try new things?

Is it self-respect? Is it adrenalin? Is it the need to show other people? Is it a narcissistic desire to be the best, ever, at everything? Or is it because it brings you inner peace?

So tell me: what juices up your life, and what does it inspire you to do? You tell me yours and I’ll give up mine. (There’s a reason I’m asking…)

Song: Valerie by Amy Winehouse

Book: Trumpet by Jackie Kay (seriously. Frigging amazing.)

LGBT Book Fest 2012

I am very excited about this…

Bold Strokes Nottingham 2012

Lesbian Book Fest, Last Day

Shelly Thrasher, reading from her upcoming novel

Radclyffe, listening

Karis Walsh

Karis Walsh

Radclyffe

Sandy and readers

Joanie

Jane Fletcher and Joanie B

Justine Saracen

Lisa Girolami, taking in the sun

Kim Baldwin and Xenia Alexiou

Rebekah Weatherspoon

Sandy and readers

David Matthew Barnes

Carsen Taite

Yolanda Wallace

Lisa G

Rad and lady statue

LT Marie

Rad

Jane Fletcher and Joanie B

Readers

Readers

The final day was quiet, warm and full of good reading. Everyone has gone their separate ways this morning, and it will be another year before we see the BSB family again…

Lesbian Book Fest, Palm Springs, Day 3

Aside from my own vlog interview, which you can find here, below are some more pics from the Bold Strokes Book Festival, Palm Springs 2012.

An Interview with Yours Truly (a Vlog, actually)

So, I read from my story, For All Eternity (out of Women of the Dark Streets), on Thursday. It went well, and I was reasonably happy with it.

After, I was interviewed (or vloged) by BSB’s Carsen Taite.

Go here to watch the video: http://boldstrokesbooksauthors.wordpress.com/2012/03/03/vic-of-all-trades/

S taped my reading too, but I can’t get that to load. I’ll see what I can do.

Hope all is well.

Palm Springs Lesbian Book Event-Pics Day 1

Where blagging stops and life begins…

The house is pretty much clean.

The lamp timer is set.

The neighbors have the house keys.

I *think* I’ve printed/downloaded/emailed everything that needs to be printed/downloaded/emailed.

The fridge is emptied of all things that could grow furry legs and push open the fridge on their own. (Though something will still smell to high heaven when we get back, as always).

So, as I sit here waiting for my beige, watery porridge to cool down, I leave you with a pre-flight blog:

Q: When does the time come, if ever, that you stop feeling as though you’re blagging your way through, and you realize that you are, in fact, doing it?

*Note for my American readers, from Urban dictionary.com: 

blag:
	convince another person that all the stuff you just made up is in fact true and worthy. caught in a tight spot, Harry blagged his way through the conversation and somehow got the job.

When do you feel like you can say, “I’m a writer” or “I’m an editor” without feeling like if that person digs, they’ll find you’re totally not “a writer” or an “editor.” That you might write, or you might edit, but you’re not actually one of those who actually do.

When do you feel like you’re authentically living as a creative person?

A. While showering, which is where I often have my most profound thoughts (okay, yeah, profound might be stretching it), I decided that for me, it’s a combination of two things:

1. I’ve written and edited something I’ve been paid for. Somehow, getting paid for it makes it official. And it puts my name in books and magazines and such, and somehow that makes it official too. (Maybe that should be another bullet point, but I’m combining for brevity. See? Editor.)

2. I believe it. I believe, whole heartedly, that it’s what I do. Because it’s what I love. That silly other stuff just pays a bill or two. But writing and editing is my passion, and its a passion I focus enormous amounts of time and attention on.

This means that on Thursday, when I’m sitting on that panel of professional writers, who have written books, (and several of them at that), reading my little story, I can be confident that I have a right to be there too. I hope they won’t be laughing behind their hands, wondering what the editor is doing reading. But I don’t think they will. Because they all started somewhere too.

How about you? When you tell people, “I’m a …” do you feel authentic doing it? Or do you feel like you should be saying something else? Sometimes we say we’re ‘an accountant’ when what we’re dying to say is, “I’m a stunt pilot for the Hollywood Small Person Association.”

Song: Rock the Cradle of Love by Billy Idol

Book: The Heroides by Ovid