Fancy Party

The loveliest of cocktail parties was held on the veranda in the foothills overlooking the University. Hors d'ouvres were passed around, glasses of wine and beer were handed out by the dozens and everyone seemed to be having a millingly good time. I had some fun--more than in the last days. The agent from yesterday asked me if he was helpful, I basically said, no. It's too hard with 20 pages and 20 minutes to be helpful, I said. Then someone came up and asked if he'd "hustled" anyone. He said a couple of folks. Ouch. But, I of the massive delusion decided he was just being trying to look cool to the asker and in fact had hustled no one.

I'm working on compartmentalizing the business part of writing from the rest of my life, but it's slow going--especially when the safety net years of graduate school have almost passed and I need some substantial publication, not just journals, to really say I have anything like a career. I also wonder if I'm a genre slut and if this makes me a better writer or just opens me up to more rejection. My lovely friend Jeff says, you would be a dilettante, if you didn't do all three well. What a sweetheart. And Lynn who reminds me that there is more than one agent in the sea. And Julie who props me up by promising that she'll be reading the great review in New York Book Review and that she'll send this agent who lost out a copy of the published book and the review. Erik asked, who does he represent? I read him the list of his clients. We didn't recognize any of their names. Erik said, see?

See why I can't leave graduate school? What would I do without the kindness of my friends?

Manuscript Consultations

I met with an agent, today during the Writers at Work conference. I often wonder, why is this a privilege? Thirty minutes of criticism on a work that's taken six years to complete. He said some very nice things and had some simple suggestions for fixing the first 20 pages of the novel (which is the part I sent him.) If he'd received the manuscript with the first 10 pages as the beginning, he wouldn't have taken it, he said. But, he said, if he'd received it and it began on page 10 he would have wanted to read on and on. OK, then, so, why not ask to see the whole thing, sans the first 10 pages?????? Read on and on, I should have said. Should I have asked, may I send it to you after I rework the beginning? But, he suggested no such thing to me.

He also made some other simplistic suggestions, like make all the chapters equal length, that made me think he wasn't right for my book. But still, if he said, I would have loved to read from page 10 on, and said I love the writing and I love these characters, why not ask to see the whole thing? Why the subjunctive? Change your tense, I wanted to say.

Ah well, perhaps it's just the nature of conference consultations--they come completely guarded against desperate wackos. Though this process may well make me a desperate wacko.

In general, this conference is turning into one of my least favorites. While I like most of the faculty, I feel disconnected from the whole thing--like I wasn't really invited, let alone that I helped to organize it. I think it's the pregnancy oversensitive thing.

I'm going to try one more time to have fun and go to this fancy schmancy cocktail party. If things turn around, I'll do more later this week. If not, I may not go back--even though I really want to see Crystal Williams read on Friday night.

Writers at Work

It seems amazing the people we can get to come to our conference in the middle of June in the middle of Utah. Orientation for Writers at Work Faculty was tonight and everyone is just so generous and kind--maybe because the people who agree to come to Salt Lake during their summer break are already predisposed to kindness. Sometimes, I feel after the conference, that they leave saying "ah, those hicks" but for the most part I think we manage to impress them a bit. And I'm impressed by how genuinely happy they seem to be here--Carol Houck Smith and Peter Steinberg and Carol and Dick Frost and Crystal Williams and, as always, Kevin McIlvoy were all so gracious. I'm not sure why I don't expect them to be--maybe bad faculty at other conferences and programs--but even the Prima Donnas are finally gracious--if you leave them alone for a bit.
So the conference is long and a lot of work, but, just like the garage sale, hard work and missing time I should use to write, apparently not only won't kill me but I will actually find it to be quite a bit of fun.

New Career

My sister Val and I had so much fun at our garage sale (and made pretty good money), that we've decided to open a business. We like to talk to strangers. We're kind of pushovers when it comes to bargaining--a dollar? Sure, a dollar's fine. Heck, why don't you just give us fifty cents--but the best part was sitting about with our friends as others browse through our castoffs. The things we sold most were books--and more of Val and my good books than my aunt's shlock. How great was it to realize EVERYONE still reads--they just want to spend 3 paperbacks for a $1 instead of $14 for 1. OK. I can live with that. I think we sold over 200 books and contributed to the reading pleasure of at least 100 people.
So, with that in mind, what kind of store should we open? We think a bakery/lunch place (that serves tiny, par-boiled vegetables)/coffee shop/bar/bookstore. But perhaps we should narrow our focus a bit.....Still, we had a great time, met a lot of great folks. Now we jsut need to figure out how to prolong the joy.

Garage Sale

I've undertaken a terribly bad project. I'm having a garage sale on Saturday. I have only the slightest idea how these things work--put a bunch of stuff that I don't want or need, stick some random prices on things. I have furniture and books and clothes but I think what people really want is bric-a-brac that might be collectible ala antiques roadshow. Still, if you have any ideas about how to make a truly successful sale, let me know. And if you want some beautiful books or some fine furniture, stop by.

Deserts

Considering that I'm from Utah, I spent very little time in the desert. My parents took us to the Grand Canyon and to Zion, but even that may have been a combined trip. We went to Lake Powell twice, but that's the desert-undeserted.

Now, because Erik and his mom are desert-lovers, I get to go to the Red Rocks almost every season. Although I love it best in winter, I'm lucky to have met it in all its seasons.
I'm reading Ed Abbey's Desert Solitaire for the first time. I had avoided it for a long time--primarily because I thought, how much description of red and rock can I take. But I should have had more faith in Abbey as a writer and a storyteller. He's a master.

So, when I read in the Tribune earlier this week-June 2nd, that oil developers want to start drilling the shale in the desert again, I mentally screamed a loud no. In the late 70's and early 80's my dad's job was to research the viability of squeezing oil from a stone. Some progress was made--the engineers and their big land movers and stone-squeezers moved into Vernal-- but then the price of regular gas went back to normal and the boom went bust. My dad went back to researching other kinds and ways to drill for oil.

Now they've got new technology. Now, with the price of oil high again and the bottom of the big reserves almost visible, they're going back in. New and improved ways to heat the rock so hot that it practically just pumps itself into your gas tank.
Besides the lunatic amount of energy it takes to heat the shale to give up its oil, the fact that they're spending money to find more fossil fuels so we can burn more carbon and make more greenhouse gases makes me crazed. Why can't they spend that money and brainpower and energy to make a energy resource that doesn't promise to end the planet, let alone destroy the desert from which it comes?
Oh, I'm going to go buy a Hummer and hurry this whole climactic apocalypse up. Plus, think of all the desert I could visit then....in cool air-conditioned comfort.

Rain

The rarity of Utah rain is what makes it so great. Even though this has been the rainiest spring I can remember in Salt Lake--not Portland comparable--but still, wet and gray, the minute the clouds come, I'm thrilled to death. 6 and a half years of drought makes every drop seem like rescue. Plus, you can sleep in. You have a good excuse to avoid gardening. The gray hides the crevices of dirt in the house so you don't feel so compelled to clean. The sound is good for writing.
The only grim thing is that the dogs are looking at me like I'm killing them for not taking them for a walk. But the last time I walked Cleo the dog in the rain, I came home with even my underwear soaked.
And it's still Utah. I'm not about to dig up the old Portland Gortex.
So even though it's raining on Memorial Day, I'm happy. I get to type all day, maybe do a load of laundry and not feel guilty for sucking down the reservoir, and go to a barbecue tonight where the porch is fully covered and the mosquitoes will be so drenched they'll be too heavy to bite or fly.

Posting

I'm going to have to turn myself into Blogging Anonymous. As I was speaking to Dr. Write earlier, I used the phrase "blog you later." This is a sign that perhaps I need to rethink my priorities. For instance, it used to be:
Wake up. Feed cats. Let dog outside. Get newspaper. Read Op-Ed columns. Read rest of paper. Take a shower.
Now it's:
Wake up. Check email. Check blog. Check other people's blogs. Shoo the cats off the computer. Let the dog eat the paper.
It must be because I started this in the summer and lost all normal human contact. I must take up a sport. Perhaps prenatal yoga. Or lunch.
I've found it difficult to blog and eat. I've taken to eating food with only one hand --trail mix and apples, granola bars and slices of cheese. Beware of cutting cheese single-handedly. I also eat handfuls of lettuce instead of salad.
Perhaps to start my Bloggers Anonymous program I can begin by cooking food. With both hands.

Crises

Last night, when Erik got called in AGAIN at midnight, I thought about how much time I spend in crisis mode. Early pregnancy is nonstop worry. Applying for fellowships. Finishing novels (I still think of things I should add to the novel--the word "quenelle" in the food, a speech by Simon post "realization," Mr. Heraldson saying "Simon sure is one for Damsel's in distress," Vastar telling more stories while Quinn lies comatose...... . Applying for jobs. Traveling. Wondering will I ever write a poem I like again ala the Darwin poem? Will wolves move to Utah? Is my neighbor across the state a pedophile? Will I be able to teach AND stay awake? Money. Money. House. Remodeling. Will the tomatoes get planted? Will the Cialis spam ever cease? (I do want to please my wife, I really do, but...) Will Erik come back from Vernal ever? Breaking news has become anaethma at my house.
I don't mean to imply that crises are bad. In fact, I'm sure I somewhat thrive on them. Living is that crisis energy running through everything. But my nature is fear and worry and I always have to counter that with some more optimistic balancing perspective. Fear is paralyzing. So I look for ways to incorporate the crisis into something positive--hence the writing, I suppose. As if you can transform the energy from one thing into another.
My little sister Paige got car-jacked last night--her car, her wallet, her purse, her books, her i-pod are all gone. And on a teacher's salary, she must replace all this. Our family has a tendency to just deal--get the insurance check, buy a new car, wonder what one could have done differently....
I hope something good comes out of it (which is my optimism speaking), but I can't imagine what (which is my cynicism speaking).
Here's a cynical statement. And I swear I'm not in as bad of a mood as this sounds but : I've decided pessimists are the happier people. They don't worry because they already know that everything will turn out crappy. If something good happens, they are pleasanly surprised. Optimists are eternally disappointed. I'm working on being more of a pessimist but I just got the Life of Brian song stuck in my head--"always look on the bright side of life."
On to crisis number 8 of the day: What to make for dinner.
Perhaps it's time to hand of these major issues to the pizza delivery man.

Foods of summer

Strawberries and nectarine and icecream cones and raspberries and popsicles. But the tastes that remind me of my summer years as a teenagers, tanning with foil and babyoil on our unbearably hot redwood deck are oscar meyer smoked ham and crystal light iced tea. I think this may have been one of my first "diets." I also think I watched General Hospital a lot that summer.
What a difference a decade makes. Now I make myself eat a handful of lettuce BEFORE I eat the overly salty, overly processed slice of ham. And instead of ham I have a morningstar farm sausage patty. I'm waiting for the ice cream truck. But the sound of The Entertainer is not forthcoming.
My point is--I'm not very good at feeding myself. I like to cook for other people, but when I'm alone, trail mix and cheerios are all I can think of.
Perhaps when the tomatoes start producing I can at least combine enough ingredients for a caprese salad. Except the basil is mysteriously absent from this year's garden.....

Dogs in the New World

As I just commented to Dr. Write's blog--Global Warming is here to stay. An extreme heat warning has been issued for Southern Utah, Nevada and Arizona. Isn't it always extremely hot there? Not in May, one presumes.
But here in the Northern Regions, it is not soooo hot. My sister Val and Erik and I all combined forces and planted tomatoes and got the swamp cooler running. Strangely, Erik only worked 16 hours yesterday, so he had enough energy to weed and plant today too!
I took Dog Dog for a walk. The black, She came back too hot. So out came her wading pool. We filled it with cold hose water. She tried to eat the hose. She tried to dig through the bottom of the plastic, sprinkling the whole water with her joyous kicking. She rolled side to side and then ran the yard's perimeter and jumped back in.
Yeah! It's summer. (I prefer to spell "yay," as in "gleeful exclamation," "yeah," but if you all have any opinions as to the spelling of "yeah," let me know. Glen Scott Allen, who taught at fiction at Reed in 1991 after getting his PhD in Fiction from the U--who knew, I once thought, that the University of Utah had a Creative Writing Program? Who knew people got their Doctorates in Creative Writing? Anyway, he didn't know what I meant when I wrote "yeah" in a short story. Although in that case, I think I meant "yah" as in "yes." Hm. Maybe my preferences are murkier than I suspected.)
I plan to spend the rest of the day Quarterly Westing, which means I'll be missing the hot. Let me know, dear world, if there's any more flooding.
http://www.kutv.com

b.t.w. Laura Bush looks hot in a veil.

Poetry Readings

The ethics of poetry readings are complex. And I call them "poetry" readings even though people read aloud in all genres--but there's something poetic about the way one has to perform their verbal acrobats on stage, in front of friends and strangers.
Some self-imposed guidelines:
Read brief.
Read loud and clear.
Go to other people's readings, not just my own.
Read as interesting and funny a piece as I have, even if it's not that funny--it's fun for me and fun for them.
Invite people out for drinks after even if I'm not drinking.

I LOVE reading. It's one of my favorite things to do. I'm sadly going to get pigeon-holed as the Darwin poem reader because I like to read that long poem best. But regardless of what I'm reading, there's something so generous about people giving up Lost or Star Wars or Dinner to come see me read. And, for all the readings of my friends I've missed, I'm sorry for all the dumb reasons.
Speaking of reading for friends and family--I love reading in front of people who are kind and know my work and who love me no matter what. However, reading in Evergreen in front of 45 strangers was exhilarating. I was nervous but SO pleased that the audience was receptive and interested and had enthusiastic, and relevant, questions to ask. After that reading, even though it was in front of students who may be more generous than other audiences, I decided that reading really is the truest venue for delivering one's work. Publishing is so private. Who knows who reads what you wrote, even if it's in a great magazine?
The only time your reader is more invested is in a workshop environment. And that's fun but not nearly as much a presentation.

nik 

Ranking

I'm alive. No crabgrass death for me. No, I'll die a slow death of deferred promise in debtor's prison. Now that Bush has signed the new bankruptcy bill into law, the poor house will no longer be a metaphor. All this is about the job I may not have next year. I'm pretty sure I have the opposite of the midas touch--everything I touch turns to pennies. Not even full-copper pennies; regular old nickel-plated ones. For instance, I found out I would only be paid half as much in May as I had thought. This is fine, since Erik worked 42 hours overtime in Las Vegas. But still, I'm turning into a money pit. We'll blame the baby. Now is a good time to start.

I was also looking, happily for Quarterly West and for most of my publications, at http://www.jefferybahr.com/Publications/PubRankings.asp I think his justifications for his rankings are ethical and interesting, but I doubt Missouri Review is less renowned than, say, Callalloo. But long-runningness plays into the rankings, which explains a lot of his partular system.
What are magazines I'd give some of my pennies to get in to?
Tin House
Southern Review
Harpers
The Canary
Hotel Amerika

Why these? They seem so elusive & cool. I'm hoping the Drunken Boat picks up one of my poems. They're weird AND cool.

And, last rant, related to this post only via the massive amounts of crabgrass that I lamented first: Why do people think sunny weather is "good" and rainy weather "bad." It's so prejudiced. Jeff Chapman and I were discussing this dumb weather categorization. I say, to be contrary, that wet, cloudy weather is best--it's darker so you can sleep in, there's more water for your plants, driving is more fun, and it's better for your skin. And it's cooler. I'm in a bit of a panic about how hot it's going to get.......

And for that matter, perhaps crab grass is just grass should be left to grow.

Of 3 a.m. and crabgrass

Erik got called in last night at 3 in the morning. He had to report in for regular work at 6 a.m., so instead of coming home and waking me up twice--he slept on the couch at work. Little did he know I was awake, waiting for him to get back, hoping he could get at least another hour of sleep. Still, I went back to sleep at 5 and slept until he came home to take a quick shower. O'Henry-esque moment in our relationship.

I'm off to conquer whatever crabgrass I can. I'm conflicted. It will break my back to dig it all up but I can't spray--for all the pollutants it would put into the general atmosphere as well as in my body. But if I look at it one more day, I'm going to scream. Plus, it's encroaching on where I want to plant my tomatoes.

If you don't hear from me again, imagine that I'm out back, collapsed under shovels, wheelbarrows, and gloves, having been bested by a carnivorous batch of weeds.

The fact that one can make it from the Avenues to the SLC International Airport, pick up a Misty Renee friend at 5:10, drive to the Red Iguana, wait five minutes for a table, order margaritas and mole, pay the bill by 6:30 and have said Misty back at the airport by 6:40 for a 7:25 flight makes Salt Lake a fine place and record-breaking driving a fine talent.
Driving across town is less pleasant. I drove twice to sugarhouse today and hit every light red--1st South through 17th. You would think Rocky would fix this for me--all that waiting is bad for the air. But with the rain, I suppose no one cares about how many PMs I'm idling into the air.

Erik's work requires that the photographers drive Chevy Suburbans or equally gas guzzling monstrosities. Plus, they need to idle their live trucks constantly to keep their battery power optimized. Mini-generators, these beasts.

All of this is by way of saying, if we (and by "we" I mean people who know what sort of disaster we create) can't get it together to stop spewing toxic chemicals into the atmosphere, who can?

Erik, as the unofficial photographer of the apocalypse--landslides, floods, flying locusts, raining frogs--will be the first to recount the End Times. At least the environmentalists and the fundamentalists agree on something.
More on thislater.

Blogs

I owe all my interest in blogging to Mary Anne Mohanraj http://www.mamohanraj.com/
We knew each other at the U of U, but I only started reading it after I saw her at the MLA conference in December. Her blog is the exemplar of all good blogs--It has day-to-day news, deep thoughts, historical perspective, humor and, most important, she is willing to reveal stuff that is personal while maintaining a sense of privacy. I'd like to follow in her path, but I a) commit typos, b) have boundary issues (and therefore may reveal too much or too little c) find blogs interesting right now but tend toward peripetetic interests d) may use words like peripetetic incorrectly e) may make really dull posts.

But, I'm willing to give it a whirl and join the blogging universe.
Here's my plan:
Write what I did today.
Muse on said doings.
Commit to the otterbutt paradigm (to be defined later).

So, today, I revised novel for the millionth time.
I successfully got Bret Lott to come for the Writers at Work conference in 2006.
Erik and I went to my sister Val's for dinner--she invited my grandma, my aunt shelle and my mom for dinner. She made delicious lamb chops and greenbeans and potatoes. We played Shrek Monopoly with my nephew Cameron and Erik and I tortured our niece Lily by changing her diaper AND her outfit. We gave up and handed the baby off to Val. She promised it gets easier.

Then, I came home to start my blog and Erik went out with his KUTV Channel 2 friends to the Bayou. I was invited but decided hanging out with partner's work buddies is easier with a glass or six of wine.

Now I'm watching the news and am thrilled by the rain. I want it to flood. If people are in the flood path, they should get out of the way. After 7 years of drought, I want the ground to be drenched (these selfish natural bits are part of the otterbutt paradigm).

Speaking of otters, the department of wildlife released some otters in Escalante after citing some specious evidence of their being at one time native. Though I think the Dept. of Wildlife is full of it, I plan to head down for a camping trip to see if I can find them.