What’s Next?

A writing group serendipitously sprung up on Facebook the other day. It includes a few of my writer friends, each from a different strata of a past or current life. A friend from childhood whom I met when I was 11 years old in the church parking lot when we both were ditching church. A friend I met at age 19 when I was obsessed, in a musician envy sort of way, with the band her boyfriend was creator of. A writer dude who used to be in a cult-popular local punk band and lived on my street briefly before moving away. A dude who reads in the same literary circles I read in and is friends with a number of mutual friends: writers and punks and musicians. A Russian friend who is a total female rock star writer blowing up the literary scene in the Bay Area. A friend who I met when we read at Lip Service West together, and who I often bump into while loitering at an Oakland coffee shop seemingly everyone we know either hangs out at or works at.

The group started when one of these friends tagged me in one of those posts where you tag a number of people, you know, those posts you usually ignore. The game was that you had to look on page 7 of your manuscript and transcribe 7 sentences to post on Facebook, and then tag 7 other writers.

I was bored, and sick, so I pored through a bunch of my crappy writing to find a story that was actually seven pages long. I had to go back to my early twenties, when I was going to San Francisco State and studying Creative Writing. I tagged some of my writer friends, and the thread became super entertaining as they all posted excerpts of random stories that were either tragic or hilarious in a disturbing way. Then one of my friends said the thread, which got to over 90 comments long, was making her want to start a writing group.

So we did.

I went off about the ebils of Facebook a few weeks ago. I had decided to disconnect from it for a while, went all crazy on it in my rants. It helped. A couple of guy friends asked me if I had deleted it because of some dude. Wouldn’t they like to know.

Anyhow, I got a necessary pause and when I came back to it, I learned to let go of the outcome, to use it like a tool. I now observe everyone’s awesomeness without getting caught up so much in comparison and envy. I have given up (mostly) on expectations of any specific result from others, instead focusing on what is cool about it for me. If I share things with people without making it too personal, writer and musician discussions abound. Connecting to friends of friends, learning more about family, finding awesome music and bands…the pros outweigh the cons for me right now. Who gives a who who thinks what about who.

My whole philosophy on this upcoming year is, instead of trying to find out the purpose of MY WHOLE LIFE, to ask myself, “What’s next?”

I was talking to a musician who had just gotten back from tour. She was floundering a bit, because the tour had been her goal forever and now it was over. “I don’t know what to do with my life!” She said.

“What’s next?” I asked her. Baby steps.

Instead of comparing myself to others seemingly further along the path than me, the myriad of friends I have who are currently touring or have multiple books published, instead of letting the green-eyed monster consume me…just bloody DO something already. Take action. Don’t stew. Move along. There’s no time to be jealous unless it propels me along on my path, spurs me to action. If I want something I feel I can’t have, what can I do to obtain that thing, if it’s possible for me to obtain? Can I at least try?

There is no room anymore for being grouchy or sulking, playing a victim or blaming anyone else for my success or failure. There is only room for growth.

So…

What’s next?

write

Not Quite Dateable

I recently located a video of a reading I did earlier this year at the Layover in Oakland for East Bay on the Brain, a quarterly reading series. I read a piece called “Not Quite Dateable.” It’s serious in the beginning, but wait for it. There is humor.

How do I feel about reading my past debauchery out loud? Well, I am not unlike thousands of other writers and musicians who share eviscerating personal details to a very small audience. It’s my story. I can’t pretend my story doesn’t involve some questionable, embarrassing behavior.

My main point in sharing is the whole hinge of being a caring human being. I share because I felt alone when I went through all my antics, and I really want other people who have done similar things to not feel alone.

Every little drop in the bucket helps with these performances. It’s all baby steps forward. And yes, I do worry I will attract some neurotic psychopath who will use all my personal details against me as has happened to me in past life. Truth is, I’ve been seasoned by sociopaths, so I know the ropes now. Since I’m comfortable with my past and I’ll likely not ever work a 9 – 5 again lest I implode or spontaneously combust, I’m not worried future employers will be able to hold my confessions against me. And frankly, I don’t care. I spent a lot of years trying to be this perfect person, and it’s impossible to be a perfect person. I give up!

I am me.

So yes, here’s another personal story I read in public. I plan on many more to come!

East Bay on My Brains

Just wanted to shout out about this reading tonight for East Bay on the Brain at The Layover in Oakland. I’ve checked out the line up (yup, I’ve googled you) and it’s going to be a good one!

I’ll be reading a normal piece for me, a non-fiction tale of debauchery about dating while attempting sobriety. It’s funny. And it’s a bar. You can drink if you drink, although I won’t be drinking, but don’t think I’m judging you if you do drink. I’m not that kind of person. You drinker you.

I’m excited to be reading at this event, because hey, I grew up in the East Bay, and that used to not be a cool thing to say, specifically when I lived in San Francisco (where the hell is the East Bay?). I’m third generation East Bay on my Dad’s side, actually funny I ended up in the city he grew up in. Kind of funny. I really miss Oakland, to tell you the truth, and wish I hadn’t moved out of Temescal before it got all expensive and über hip.

Otherwise, I’ve been down with the sickness, the ill disease going around for those who flew on a plane home from Waikiki, still feel like I got the shit kicked out of me by the Grim Reaper: “I’m not quite ready for you yet, Bean, but I’m gonna give you hell for having some fun in Hawaii.”

Like the following famous poem:

Compensation

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears

–Emily Dickinson

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to what I’ve been doing all week: updating my facebook and spying on friends with my iPhone will I lay in bed and feel bad.

Stole this from Ms. Juliet. So funny.

Enough Books to Boggle the Mind

Today, I am going to talk about books, and the abundance of books I see working at the library.

As many of you know, I am a freelance writer, creative writer and a musician, but I also work at a county library part-time, because ever since 2008, having one job is simply not enough.

In spite of what the news is telling us about how much better it all is, things are still tough for many.

At the library, I am usually attempting to research teen books or teen programming ideas, or am helping people research homework, books and information at the reference desk. Or, often, I’m helping people do something like log in to a public computer or open an internet explorer browser, because libraries are a huge resource for people without internet access.

Sometimes, though, we get short staffed, and I help with checking in books that patrons from other libraries have requested.

I love doing the router. When I go out in what we call “the stacks” (or what people used to call the stacks) to pull requested books off the shelves, I stumble across books I never would have found on my own.

I always wondered about farting dogs and what adventures they might have. No. No. No.

Which is why I usually end up with 20 – 30 books checked out at any given time. A habit I am trying hard to curb, because as soon as you forget to return one book, the fines add up. And yes, county library employees do also have to pay fines. Yep.

Books and books and books and books. And more books.

Sometimes, when I am checking in books, I look at the book jackets, doing “research” for something we called readers advisory. The funnest part of my job is suggesting favorite books to other people. Or used to be the funnest, before I realized how varied people’s tastes are in general. What I like, they may not like. Regardless, I learn a lot from reading book jackets.

First, there are a lot of books out there that I am simply not interested in. Romance, westerns, most mainstream formulaic mystery. I get to see the latest literature, teen books, children’s books, magazines. Often, the books that intrigue me the most are memoirs and non-fiction books.

Looking at the bios of many of these authors, I realize that a wide, wide variety of people write books. And there are a plethora of subjects to write books about.

A plethora you say?

And often, I think about my own writing and what kind of book I want to have published (memoir, certainly, or collection of witty essays a la Anne Lamott, my hero). And then I wonder why I can’t be holding a book of mine someone has requested.  Then I remind myself that this is because I haven’t yet finished writing said book. And then I don’t have anything else to say to myself, so I read more book jackets and author blurbs on back covers.

When I worked in a publishing company, I sometimes wrote the blurbs for our books. This was for women’s themed books and travel books. I was never required to read the book before I wrote copy for the book jacket. It was mostly a synopsis my coworkers gave me, or that I garnered from the press release. This is pretty standard. Often, the book jacket is written by someone who didn’t even read the book (argue this if you are the exception, publishing employees!). So if you use the book jacket to ascertain what you will find inside of a book, often, you may be missing out on a good book.

On top of that, it’s hard to choose which books to read these days. Often, because there are so many, it’s trial and error. There are so many books out there. Sometimes, with all the editor pitching I have to do for my freelance work, which also involves reading magazines and assessing the proper markets for my pitch, I am already overwhelmed with daily text and ideas. Then, when all of these books cross my path, I start having more ideas, and sometimes, I simply get overwhelmed, and start to ponder if having this much information always at our hands is helpful for civilization.

I was reading an article on the KQED website, Mindshift, the other day, called Doomed or Lucky: Predicting the Future of the Internet Generation. Many old school professors are discouraged, thinking these kids are going to be ADD monsters because they can’t sit still. Some scientists are positive that they will only be different, perhaps better, that future generations will be able to move seamlessly from work to home life, via streaming technology, that they will adapt well.

And I also stumbled across a manifesto Seth Godin wrote on the entire school system in general, how it was originally created because child labor laws prevented companies from using child labor, and so school was set up to create good factory workers, but since our current society is changing, because production and factory jobs are not so much the future, maybe we need to rethink the school system structure. Kids sitting passively for eight hours while a teacher lectures is not the future of education, if we’re smart. (His book, Stop Stealing Dreams, is free here.)

I think I’m straddling the middle of technology taking over. I grew up without so much of the computer life, but then in my teens, computers started becoming more the norm. And slowly, it has crept in. When I got back from a year of school in Jamaica, after years of being a vagabond on and off, I remember being put off by the sight of my parents and little sister constantly staring at computer screens. My mom wanted to gift me a laptop for my 18th birthday and I freaked out, told her to get me dishes, something more practical. I wanted to be fit, outside, writing by hand, not glued to a screen.

Shows how much I knew. Now I’m glued to a screen most of the time. As are many other people.

But books, let me steer this conversation back. Books–whether ebooks or paper books, I don’t care–are still here. They are still thriving. People are so doomsday right now about books, they come in and tell me that the future of books is horror, empty shelves, etc. I do not agree! Have you read some of the statistics on books lately? (google “books not dead” or “the future of books”) Books are abundant, whether in physical book form or ebook form, and people still buy them. And they certainly check them out from the library.

There are so many ideas out there. So many books. So many people writing books. The good news is, that gives us writers a chance of success, especially in the non-fiction market, depending on what your expertise is.

The bad news is, sometimes you simply wonder, do we really need a new book on this thing? Really? Do teens really need another fantasy book? Do adults really need another meditation book with Buddhist undertones? I’m not saying these things are bad, it’s simply overwhelming the amount of everything we have right now.

There is no hope of me reading them all in this lifetime, as I’ve learned from talking with our elderly patrons. One person was talking to me recently about trying to read Faulkner. She was probably about 80. “It’s so hard to get through it! I need a dictionary for so many of the words. But I want to be able to tell people, yes, I read Faulkner, if only one book.”

Good luck with that, I told her. I’ve got stacks and stacks of books on my own shelves I haven’t read. And here I am checking out more books all of the time, scanning and skimming them daily. It’s enough to make the mind explode!

Why Do We Go There Part II (Why I Go There)

I am notably a little slow on the uptake. I read Joe Clifford’s response to my post Why Do We Go There, titled, Why Do We Go There (And Away We Go) when he posted it about a week ago, but it’s taken me this long to elaborate on my first post, to which I’ve been planning to add a part two.

In his reply, he disagreed with my reasoning in Why Do We Go There, stating that for him, and perhaps for many other writers who write about dark pasts (specifically, in his case junkie lit writers), it’s a feeling of being the scum of the earth and a need for attention, no matter if it’s negative attention, any attention will do.

Continue reading

Dooce.

I love this blog.

“These are perhaps the most outrageous pair of shoes I have ever owned, even more so than the mid-calf blue combat boots I bought on Portobello Road in London during the Fall of 1996. But they are also now my favorite shoes and not just because of the magical color or please-come-screw-me heel. I wore these for over ten hours yesterday and not once did my feet start aching or threatening to secede from my body. I bought them last weekend at the local SLC Aldo, and I think because they had been put on the shelves that morning they haven’t even appeared on their website yet. Before anyone thinks I’m shilling for Aldo I should point out that I also picked up a giant black purse that was on sale while I was there, and the buckle is so unwieldy and warped that it has cut my right arm to the point of bleeding over seven times. And I’m sitting there at the doctor’s office this morning trying to get some prescriptions refilled thinking that she’s going to take one look at my forearm and go, right, you don’t have thoughts about wanting to hurt yourself, DO YOU THINK I AM BLIND. So here’s my recommendation: don’t buy purses from Aldo. Especially when you’re going to be asking a mental health professional for some more Prozac.”

Lol.

Hot Climates. The Grass of Life. And Other Such Nonsense.

When walking on the tertiary plains of life, covered in grass, one is bound to get a couple of grass stains. No matter how philanthropic, misanthropic, eloquent, savvy or tyrannical one may be about avoiding such matters, life is bound to knock you on your knees, leaving a pee-green spot on your trousers.

And thus, when I am walking up and down the streets of this fair city, I am careful to walk on the sidewalks, and not on the grass.

There may be a fair bit of preamble in my repertoire as of late. Forgive my forays into verbal plumages. I am reading a Tom Robbins book and I cannot help but be mind-numbed yet filled with an odd increase in vernacular. My tirades are now fringing on the inane, although, they ever were, and my mind is lost in the pyramid head of the indian savage who put a curse on Switters in Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates. I forgot how much Tom Robbins pleases me, yet leaves me going what the hey-ho whazza?

His writing style is reminiscent of literary knowns, mixed in with some Palahniuk (though way before his time, Robbins was clacking away on his keyboard) Tom Wolfe, Douglas Adams, and nothing of this world, all stewed in a fictional reality not unlike the vestibules of your mind on a mescaline trip in the middle of the amazon jungle.

Hey-ho Whazza is damned skippy. And with this, I will ponder whether or not to indulge in the eclair my coworker gave me, or the red velvet cupcake I was inclined to add to my lunch purchase this afternoon at Bette’s To Go. Perhaps neither. Perhaps I will recline on my found green faux-leather couch with the dog and return to the plot of Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates, and wonder what the hell am I reading? Am I in some neo-hippy CIA ensconced anarchistic afterlife perusing the parody of my own tail or merely holding an orange book fiercely while I strain my gray matter trying to find definitions for words I have never perambulated upon before.