Saul Good and Co.

Metal Health Will Drive You Mad

Milestone alert: I got my first rejection from a literary agent. It was kindly worded, but still a hard pass. I'm not getting down about it though, it's actually kind of exciting because it symbolizes that my journey to publication has officially begun. This is part of it. Ask me again how I'm feeling after 10 or 20 more no-thank-yous, but right now it's galvanizing. Makes me feel like a real writer. I'm still confident that someone out there will "connect with the writing on a heart and gut level," but if not with this labor of love, then maybe the one I'm working on right now. I'm not ready to give up on the manuscript that I'm pitching though, I'm way too invested in the characters and story. Onward, onward, onward.

I feel like time is moving faster than ever, the weeks blurring right by, and it's disorienting. I'm once again trying to walk the line of staying informed while reducing my news and social media intake as much as possible because I've gotten to a bitter and despairing place and I don't really like anyone and so that's sign to ease off and tend my own metaphorical garden. Oh, and a spring and summer of live music beckons - let's try not to COVID this up everyone! 

That's all I've got for now. 

Golden Apples of the Sun

I am still cruising on a wave of inspiration, which is arguably preferable to a wave of mutilation. In order to keep it going and not psych myself out of putting in the work every day, I've been experimenting with the "Pomodoro Method," which basically means I set a timer for 25 minutes, sit down to work, write, etc., and when the time is up take a break and do something else. Sometimes I surprise myself by wanting to keep going, sometimes it feels like the longest 25 minutes in history, but the idea is that 25 minutes is manageable. I can do anything for 25 minutes, theoretically, and the amount I get done in that time isn't really the point, it just works for me psychologically to make this appointment with myself. It doesn't feel so daunting to commit that time, and I find it's productive more than it isn't. I highly recommend this method, particularly if you are a procrastinator (I'm in procrastination recovery right now but I'm aware I could backslide at any moment). 

Otherwise, everything else churns on. It's kind of sort of spring, which can be a life-affirming time to live in New England. My kid is going to 12 next month which is bananas, if you ask me. I've spent more time at my office this week than I have in a long time and it's been good-weird. Just trying to keep my head up in these times when you can't let go and be too comfortable in any state of mind, just trying to feel good without anticipating the drop of that motherfucking other shoe.  

The dining room of my workplace is a really good backdrop for an old-timey portrait. I think the yoga pants and wrinkled top really make the whole thing, like maybe in 100 years all the portraits will look like this, a true representation of our pandemic era.

Exactly Where I'm At

I am in the midst of a creatively explosive period in my life and I can't really say why. I reckon it's not in spite of, but in reaction to everything being shit. When there's not much you can do besides observe and wait and let your fear eat you alive, something's gotta give and if it gives in a positive direction, who am I to question it? 

 

I decided I needed something else to work on while I wait to get my first book rejected by agents, so I started brainstorming about a new manuscript. It went from concept to character bible to pretty complete outline over three days - nothing has ever come together so quickly for me, and I'm super jazzed about jumping into the first draft. 

 

I've been practicing guitar a lot, too. I'm still objectively terrible at it, but that doesn't matter to me (maybe it matters to my neighbors but too bad). I'm actively making art, against the odds, and even if it's crap art, it beats the hell out of  despair. What a novelty for something to feel purely good. I know it won't last forever which is why I need to be in it, appreciating every second. right now. 

 

Happy St. Patrick's Day, I hope you're eating or drinking or wearing or being something green. 

 

Notes from the Middle

There's a suffocatingly large list of important and devastating things going on right now, yeah? Sounds to me like a perfect opportunity to ruminate on my pointless tiny existence!

 

I was recently obsessing over the Winter Olympics, particularly figure skating, like I do every four years, and (as I also do every four years), I was thinking that I missed my calling in ice dancing. Like, if only I'd had the resources or whatever, that's a path I could have taken. And then I laugh, because what makes me so sure that if things were different  I could be the one out there nailing the twizzles and footwork elements? Delusional thinking. 

 

The rude truth is that I'm not... great at anything. I'm fair at a bunch of things, but I have few natural aptitudes or have I worked at many things long enough that I could imagine someone saying, "wow, you're really good at that." I've narrowed it down to just a few things: despite so much evidence to the contrary, I do believe in my soul that I'm a good writer. I'm good at my job in a way that comes from doing it and evolving through it for 25 years. I'm a good parent to my child because I know him well and even when I fuck up I'm leading with love and his best interests and I'm proud of that. I'm quite good at trivia, which is of dubious value. Other than that... I come up blank. My brain used to be my vanity, but the longer I live the more I think 1) I'm not as clever as originally assumed and 2) between age and the endless pandemic, I'm losing whatever smahts I did have. It's distressing. 

 

Like I said, I'm just ok at a bunch of things. I'm not particularly athletic or dextrous or strong, but I'm able-bodied and can run for miles without stopping and hold up my body in crow pose or headstand and I have rhythm enough to be considered a good dancer. I'm not very adept at games that require quick thinking, but I'm meh at them and I think if I only practiced or had more patience I could be. Still I'll probably never get around to trying Wordle. I'm not remarkable in the ways that I suck at things either, I guess I just hover in that sweet spot of mediocrity. 

 

It's ok, though. I'm loved. I have a decent personality. I care about people and doing things for the greater good, to make the world better. I'm not very brave, but I'm not giving up on that aspiration. I believe I am kind of kind, kind of funny, kind of interesting here and there. I'm a dabbler, a tourist, a messy person with a lot of love in her heart, a writer without a room of her own. I'm getting to know myself, and maybe someday I'll be great at being a person who knows who she is and lives unapologetically, but with humility. If I only ever blaze a trail of meh through the past, the present, the future, and mostly I'm at peace with that. 

 

While keeping to my wheelhouse, I recently submitted two agent queries for my current manuscript and I hope to submit two more this week. I'm trying not to lose confidence in my work in the meantime, to stop second guessing and let it be, and be confident in knowing that, if nothing else, everything step I take isn't wasted. Everything I go through on this journey can only make my writing stronger.  Make me stronger. Thanks in advance for being there while I figure it out. 

 

 

 

Happy Half-Price Candy Eve

Oh, hi Valentine's Day. As you know, I'm meh on the non-candy aspects of this holiday. The first Valentine's Day that Mike and I were together, I was in another country and he managed to get flowers delivered to me which is pretty damn impressive in those pre-internet days. After that first one we just sort of agreed that Vday wasn't really our thing. No judgment on any way anyone else wants to observe the day or not, it just doesn't jive with either of our love languages. When we remember to write them we exchange cards, and we always do a little special something for HR, but otherwise it's a day like any other. This year we actually had plans, because the timing worked out just right, to go on a daytime date while our kid's at school and we're both working from home. Nothing fancy, just the pub where we're regulars, but I was looking forward to it and then I remembered that this is the week our work schedule changes so here I am in the office and not eating fish and chips with mah husband. No big, as it was more of a general date than a Valentine's specific one anyway, and now I have something to anticipate later in the week. All that was just a lead-up to describing the best Valentine's Day of my life, a day I knew was special as I was living it. I even wrote it all down to remember it, but I never shared my awesome day  before now because of COVID paranoia, basically. 

Last winter, like everyone else we know, we were burned out on life so we formed a pod with our best good friends and decamped to an Air BnB in Florida for a couple of weeks for a change of scenery and a chance to be outside. We were all working remotely and our kids were in virtual school on the verge of February break so, with a not-insignificant amount of caution and second guessing (at this time Mike and I were the only ones even half vaxxed because of our jobs) we bought the cheap tickets, knocked wood, double masked, and relocated for a spell. It turned out to be great, and nobody got sick, but we didn't really advertise our travels because we were still uneasy about the whole thing. Anyway, the first Sunday we were there happened to be Valentine's Day. And it went like this: 

We woke up to dolphins swimming in the canal behind the house so we took our coffee to the dock to watch. It was warm enough to be barefoot, in shorts, and that alone was a balm for these cooped-up Northerners. My friend and I took an intense and awesome Zoom yoga class. I spent the rest of the day lounging by the pool, drinking mimosas and reading cozy mysteries while my dear ones moved easily in and out of my consciousness. There was steak on the grill in the evening, and a game of online trivia that we played together. No presents, no overtures, just a super awesome day spent with people I adore, everyone in a happy groove.  The anatomy of a truly magical day is never going to be the same for any two people, but there's some insight into mine. My tastes are simple and evergreen: books, delicious food and drink, personal space but with the option to let people in at will. Seeing a favorite animal in the wild didn't hurt, but that was just a surprise variable. Valentine's itself had little to do with the perfection of that Sunday, it's a coincidence that it was a holiday, but it's still one I'll always remember.

This year, well, see the difference below. 

Anyway, here's to good days, may you recognize them when they are happening to you. 

Writing About Writing About Writing

Happy February!

I'm sick of writing about myself, I think I've worn that out over the past few entries, but since it's what I know the most about it's kinda hard to avoid. Anyway here I am, writing anyway, tapping away just for the sake of writing and taking pleasure in it, just setting my brain free. You may assume that's how I always go about my blogging but it's not. I like to have a central idea or theme, at the very least. Today I'm letting go and seeing what happens. Not everything needs to be useful, but I do find this to be a useful experiment from time to time. No matter how it turns out, hey, I've written something. Hesitation leads to inaction and only compounds that stuck feeling, and I've had enough of that for the moment. It feels kinda rebellious, in a retro way, making me think of old stream-of-consciousness exercises we used to do in beginner writing classes in undergrad. Ah, I miss school every so often. I just read a book set in a graduate MFA program and even though the novel painted the program in a self-deluded and slightly sinister light (and I already have a Master's to boot), I was like, yeah, sign me up for two years of workshops and solitary torture. What a sicko.

In any case, it feels good to make time to stretch out my mind and rattle its contents around. The outline for Book 2 in the series I'm working on has begun. It's slow going, I don't actually know how to do an outline, but I'm winging it and I have to say it's quite fun to make a list of what you want to happen to who and when. Knowing myself, it'll all completely change and someone will probably die when I get around to filling it in, but right now it's like, hell yeah, I can't wait to write THAT scene. 

On that note, ish, here are five books I read recently that I thought were particularly recommendation worthy:

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin 

Harlem Shuffle by Colson Whitehead 

Plenty by Hannah Howard

Bunny by Mona Awad

Any Way the Wind Blows by Rainbow Rowell.

All quite different, all quite brilliant. I'll close just by saying, by demanding, by imploring: always, always read. Read anything, plus read the books they're trying to ban, and pay attention to what makes the list these days - sure there's a handful of clutch-the-pearls sex content or whatever that parents are up in arms about, but the meat of every list is made up of Black authors and authors of color. It's deliberate and it's fucked up. Be an intellectual freedom fighter and fight for these voices they're trying to silence and READ. That's all for now. 

Seasons of Dawn

I observe a traditional 12-month calendar because I’m part of the world, but I realize that personally, a year is not really broken into months or winter/spring/summer/fall but instead it's made up of six distinct periods. To wit:

January - I'm generally a mess for the entire month, blinking my way into the New Year and not holding myself accountable for making any big changes.

Badass/Thriving Period- I tend to get my shit together by the beginning of February and cruise through the next few months on a combination of stable routines and keeping it cozy at home. This is when I typically make my goals, for example, by May I’m regularly running 5 miles or whatever and I’ve logged a lot of writing hours.

Vacation summer - July through mid-August is a series of getaways, beaches, family, fun food and flowing drinks. Brains go out the window, and pretty much everything else with 'em, with glorious abandon.

FML summer and false fall - when vacation is over, the hot and humid weather overstays its welcome and I descend into fitful, crabby malaise. Probably don't touch or talk to me, and don't expect too much. 

Good fall - this occurs around mid-October and marks a brief return of exhilaration and productivity along with crunchy leaves and my beloved sweaters.

The Holidays - Halloween through New Year's. Basically vacation summer, but cold. And repeat. It's helpful to be in touch with one's own phases and patterns, I've gotta say.

I swear I even smile sometimes (usually in phases 2, 3, 5 and 6), I'm just bad at capturing it.

Dork Everlasting

Some of you who know me from way back know that I took guitar lessons in the early 2000s. I was already in the better-late-than-never stage of my life at that time, and when I made the decision to get started (with all that optimism and, more importantly, that sweet, sweet non-child-having free time I took for granted) I was happily on my way  to acquiring something I've always wanted: musical talent. Well. I took weekly lessons for about a year, and definitely learned some basics. I wasn't a quick study, but I felt like I was making progress, and was pretty sure that I'd get the hang of it until 1) my teacher got a new gig and stopped teaching, 2) I never got a new teacher, 3) I lost the motivation to practice, and 4) my cheapo acoustic broke right in half. The point is, the musical talent never showed up, but the potential never actually went away, I just let it go. The other day I woke up really wanting to play again, and so, because I can, I'm getting a new guitar.

Nothing is promised, not one more second, I am inordinately aware of this, especially, er, well you don't need me to go into detail about what's special about these times. In the wake of my guitar resolution, I was doing the math on my existence and it turns that, due to factors such as my particular genetic makeup, the odds favor that I haven't yet reached the halfway point of my life. Yeah I'll be 50 in a few years and I'm middle aged no matter how you look at it, but so? That's still so much potential time. Time to learn guitar. Time to get my book published and to keep writing. Time for so many adventures and experiences and why not? Because I'm not young anymore? How dumb, what a shame it would be to lose out because I've been brainwashed by Youth is King culture. 

I wouldn't go so far to say that I'm aging gracefully, I don't think the word "grace" applies to me in any way shape or form, but I can extend grace to myself. I intend to age joyfully, and that includes being loving to myself, even my changing body and face. I don't begrudge anyone doing whatever makes them happy, and I haven't sworn against any eventual procedures or interventions because you never know, but due to my contrary nature and having lived long enough to question the standards of what makes someone acceptable in our society, I just don't want any part of it. The diets and the botox and the fillers and the desperate clinging to a game that nobody wins. I want beauty standards to be different, I want that for us. I want physical appearance to matter less, I want that for all of us. I'm getting older and that's great! I celebrate getting as old as I possibly can, and I know it comes with a ton of downsides (health and quality of life is obviously a consideration) but I have my own list of upsides and even putting aside the passions I have yet to chase, I have my kid and my niece and nephews I need to see grow up. I'm betting on my FOMO being powerful enough to add at least five years. 

Whether I even want to see what comes next in this deteriorating hellscape is another matter altogether, but for its own sake, I think growing old is a privilege and I'm ready to be the ornery arthritic guitar strumming fuck next door who will probably still be writing sex scenes and everybody will just have to deal with it. 

This is my hopeful post for the year, don't spend it all in one place.  

Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss

Well Crappy New Year to you too! Every day I wake up is a victory in itself, but once I get past that segment of my gratitude practice I'm a grumble bear. Don't poke me. Actually, ACTUALLY, it's not that bad if you like time warps. We're back to hunkering down in our comfy clothes with our comfort foods and reading and bingeing Netflix and lighting candles making the best of it circa March 2020. It's not like coziness isn't my top priority in general, it's just that I want to choose that hygge life. It's a drag having it forced on us again for fear of our lives. Whatever whatever, we got through that and we'll get through this. I wrote this entry one year ago today and you know the wild turn that day took so I'm not going to jinx anything by getting publicly excited or hopeful about anything. I don't dare, ok? We're here, hello, that will have to do. 

In the first entry of last year I set a few goals, a big one being, "This year I am going to get my damn book published and finish a draft of the sequel." That did not happen, obviously. All is not lost in that arena however, as I got a bunch of people in my life to read and give me feedback on my current manuscript and I did learn a lot about the query process and did a ton of research about agents. The next few months, now, are dedicated to sending out queries to literary agents, and while I wait to hear back, finishing a basic outline of the second book. I don't usually employ an outline when I write, but read a bit of wisdom that said if you're going to write a series, wait until the first book is set in stone before you write the second in its entirety because changes might be made to the first that would seriously affect the sequel. I just need to be writing something, is the point. And that's all she wrote for today.

Now Bring Me Some Friggin Pudding

Hi, how's everyone? Suffocating under an avalanche of existential dread and despair? Me too! Is that the human factory setting now? 

I haven't been writing at all, in any way shape or form. It's a fallow period, both because work is keeping me super busy (in a good way) and because, well, see: first sentence. I have a plan to force myself back on track in the new year, and I tend to be diligent about following through on these types of plans but right now I'm letting my brain slip into holiday mode, or at least vacation mode for a few days. 

Despite everything percolating in the worldwide shitpot, I got hit with a wave of Christmas spirit on my drive into the office this morning. "Feliz Navidad" came on and I was cozy and drinking some good coffee and thinking about how HR's winter break starts in a few hours and I got this warm feeling, sort of giddy and content at the same time, and I allowed myself to feel hopeful and excited for the first time since... I mean, I put up my tree after Thanksgiving and I've been chasing that elusive feeling to no avail. All the bad and heavy stuff is still here, but it was so nice to have it pushed out to the edge of my consciousness, to get a hit of pure joy, if for five minutes. 

I still don't know what's happening moment to moment, so I'm doing my best to take them as they come. Stay safe, everyone. Sending you all a shot of joy and love, on me.