Whew

Survived the weekend, mostly with the help of three and a half hours at the spa. We stayed at a beautiful cabin that is a part of the mega resort Wilderness Waterpark. It really is a great place for families, and fall is a great time to go because it is quiet. I don't think I could have tolerated it if there were thousands of screaming children and long lines for each ride. A cabin full of kids just about put me over the edge as it was. Now I am back in my quiet home office, with the dog and Food Network. Sigh.

As far as my thesis goes, I have lost any interest in it. That's bad. I am tweaking it, playing with word choices and sentence structure. But I can't seem to care about the characters anymore. It's like having a friend who talks about the same things over and over when you see them. I've heard what these people have to say already. And I've stopped caring. This is really not good.

My action plan is to spend a few days reading good short stories and books with the hope of being inspired. I just finished Drown. Any suggestions?

This is no Breakfast at Tifffany's

I did not leave my meeting with my advisor in tears. I did not crawl into a corner with my thumb in my mouth. I only drank one cup of coffee. It was the size of my head, but still…

In general, it was good meeting. The only surprise was that Susan feels that the collection of stories, which are meant to function as separate short stories about two separate sets of characters, works better as two novellas. I think I hate that idea. I don’t know. I have taken the last couple of days off from thesis, trying to let the conversation sink in. Novellas? All I could think of was Hispanic telenovellas.

I know that is not an accurate connection. I know about Kafka’s and Joyce’s novellas, among many other worth-while works. I don’t know. It’s a strange feeling, thinking you are creating one thing and being told you have created something else.

I get the message though. As stand-alone short stories, several do not work yet. I can live with that. I have two months to make it work And I will, I will make it work (she said, channeling Rand.)

In the mean time, I am off to Wisconsin Dells for a long weekend with Husband’s family, which includes nine grandchildren. Nine kids and 300 water rides. For three days. Please keep me in your prayers.

Sell crap- check

If you've missed me this past week, it's because I have been in my garage. Cleaning, sorting, and sign-making led to a weekend garage sale to beat all garage sales. We rocked. Like Christmas time at Rosedale, people just kept coming and buying shit. I mean, stuff. Teeny tiny microwave from husband's old apartment, gone. AC unit weighing a little more than a baby elephant, gone. Leather jacket from 1987, complete with Bon Jovi-like fringe (I kid you not), gone. Ah, the joy of cleaning house. In the process I also met many of my neighbors and got the inside scoop on the goings-on. Who died recently, who has wicked fights on their back deck, whose children required nightly police interventions. I know it all now. I am in the loop.

Now my attention has shifted from my garage to my thesis. Yeah, remember that little project? I meet with my advisor tomorrow and I am anxious/excited/ill to my stomach. She will have comments on my first draft. I will drink lots of coffee and listen to her while trying not to twitch too much. I will also try not to cry when she is done, and then I will go home and start over.

I love my advisor though. Read her book, The Grass Dancer. It's lovely.

The Joy of Pain

Previously, I had posted a list of things that scare me. Rand, being the positive chap that he is, asked that I next consider listing things that inspire me. That was a great idea. Except that when I thought of it, I realized I had not felt inspired in a long time. Which is a problem, considering that I am supposed to be deep in the middle of thesis work.

This brought me back to a question I have been grappling with for years. It has been a topic of many discussions over the years, but I don’t feel any closer to an answer. So I will post it here, my dear friends, for you to ponder and possibly respond to.

Does contentment kill the creative soul? Do we need angst in our lives in order to create?

I have done my best work while under some sort of emotional stress. And deadlines don’t count. Heartbreaks seem to produce the best quality of material, but frustration and anger are close seconds.

Some personal pains are, at times, too much to bear and do not produce work until we have had time to heal a bit, steep in those emotions for a while. Like Voix’s great work on her past relationship, some fires need time to burn out before they can produce art from the ashes.

During these types of discussions, I usually present the likes of Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway and Vincent Van Gogh as evidence that true art can only flow out of a life filled with booze, women, and self-inflicted wounds to the head. These tortured souls died too soon and left for the world the fruits of their madness. What will I leave behind? A fat dog and a well-equipped kitchen.

In general, immediate torment has worked best for me. Break my heart and I will sit down and write about it in poignant detail. I will spend days in a haze of crazed typing, fueled with coffee and tears and emerge exhausted and fulfilled. But allow me to live in peace and tranquility and I will morph into a mute housewife, loving life and producing absolutely nothing of value. Which is preferred? I honestly don’t know.

Good junk

Today I got a spam email from "Jesus Currie" which I thought would make a great band name.