…the who cares girl…

I ordered this on Amazon recently for something like 10 cents.Tom Robbins has a way of writing that forces me to have a big ol’ lesbian crush on him.

I have bought several books on writing, some good, some bad, some just boring. This one–just boring. At first glance, that is. Perhaps I just wasn’t in the mood.

I’m still on the lookout for a female non-fiction writer that I enjoy as much as David Sedaris. Still haven’t found her.

I’m still deluded enough to hope that it will be me, someday–after I find a really good editor and after all this memoir fervor dies down. Right now memoirs are popular, so to me that means it’s a bad time to put out a memoir. Especially after all that James Frey bullshit. Who wants every detail of their memoir tracked down obsessively and then snottily proclaimed, hey, you exaggerated that! Well of COURSE I exaggerated that, I’m a fucking writer, what do you expect?

In other news, one and a half donuts just made their way into my body, and now I feel nauseous. Today’s goal is to find a new gallery for us to visit, because I am in dire need of seeing some art up close and personal.

Look into my eeeeeeyes. Now buy a painting. DO IT.

I have officially ran out of ginger ale and cookies, so I will be forced to go to the grocery store today, drat. Oh well, it will be a good excuse for me to try out the Prescriptives foundation that just arrived on our doorstep, YES.

“So that’s what fifty dollars worth of make-up looks like,” said the Boy, eying the tiny bottle.

“Thirty-nine ninety-five,” I corrected him. “Anyway, this will last me forever. My last bottle was half this size, and I bought it before our wedding, and there’s a little left…”

“So…a year and a half?”

“That’s a really long time for foundation!” Now I was shouting.

“Why are you getting so defensive?”

“I…don’t know.”

Because thirty-nine ninety-five seems outrageous to me too, and I’m feeling guilty about it? NEVER MIND! What about the 80 dollars I just spent on blue suede mary janes? Justification: they were 30% off! SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER!

The Boy returned from his ski trip yesterday fully intact, with no major wounds/injuries. He didn’t have much to say about his trip to me, but later last night he was on the phone with his mother and all kinds of details about the trip came spilling out, including some talk about his brother-in-law’s current book tour.

“Hey,” I said when he hung up the phone. “How come you didn’t tell me any of that stuff?”

“You’re not interested in skiing.”

“Yeah, but the book tour stuff. I want to hear about that.”

He told me about all the good things his brother-in-law’s agent is doing for his career, and unfortunately I reverted to my least favorite emotion: jealousy. I want an agent. I NEED AN AGENT!

I’m compiling a list of names, getting ready to slut myself out. The worst I can hear is “no”, right? I’m not afraid of rejection.*

* I say that now, but just wait! The whining will be intense.

I talked to my parents on the phone last night and my father, shockingly, actually asked about the book. On his own, with no prompts or anything. I told him it’s in the “editing stage”, and that I am currently researching the difference between sending your manuscript to an agent first versus an editor versus a publisher. There are a lot of options out there, but thankfully I can narrow some of them down because 1. I’m a first timer (many agencies won’t even talk to first time authors), and 2. it’s a YA novel (“young adult”), and many publishers don’t handle YA novels. Well and also 3. it’s going to have some illustrations, but I’m not terribly concerned about that yet, mostly because they’re all at the pencil stage now.

Yesterday I worked and then spent some time editing my book, some time working on a new puzzle, some time taking self-portraits (may as well take advantage of the husband not being around), and some time researching agents/publishers. That’s it, my whole day. No painting. Apparently I can only handle one type of creative outlet at a time, because I’ve had zero interest in painting the past few days, even though there is a Louise Brooks painting waiting to be completed.

Today’s goals are outside activities with the girls and to consider what to do with my sewing machine sitting on the kitchen table–I either need to use it (I’ve been thinking about a kicky little skirt) or put it away, the presence of the untouched machine makes me feel guilty.

on overcoming creative block

Three fur-covered creatures exploring nature at the park yesterday.

It’s been so warm and sunny this past week.

There were more people at the creepy little park this time, but no one ventured out past the paths into the wooded area except us.

Posing awkwardly next to a tree.

I always have to bring my purse along, for holding camera/lipgloss/gum/poop sacks/meh/mer.

Someone on Flickr commented that my “gum shoes” might be “risky” in the “woods”. Ha ahaaa. This same person commented on our camping photos from last summer that I should look out for “bears”. I commented back that I LOVE bears, and by bears I meant fat, hairy gay men, but I suspect he didn’t get it. And that’s okay.

We went out in search of a hammock yesterday to one of those huge super sports shops. I bought some tiny purple 2 pound weights, the kind for elderly people, and the Boy bought another Kettlebell, because he’s pretty sure it’s going to make him all toned and muscular (we’ll see). They had a rack of hula hoops for children and I hooped briefly, hoping to awe the various heterosexual mens moping around the store, but nobody seemed particularly impressed. Heigh ho.

No hammocks. They even had an aisle labeled “hammocks” (which I pointed out, in an accusatory tone, to two different salespeople), but no hammocks in stock, the fuckers. And no I’m not crazy for needing a hammock in February! It’s totally warm outside! It’s like 60 degrees!

The Boy is going skiing today, and I am going to beat the dogs and vacuum the floor and organize my fabric collection and paint my nails and work on my craptastic novel, which my mother is excited about.

“You’ve always been a writer!” she said on the phone yesterday.

“Yeah but I’ve never tried to publish anything,” I said. “That’s different…”

She thinks that the rejection will make me stronger, and of course it will, I’m just not sure I’m mentally prepared yet. Nor do I have to be. The book has been sitting around for years, after all, rotting in my parent’s basement, why should I rush to publish it now? Plus all the illustration is going to take time. Because there’s no way I could publish a book without pictures, no waaaaaay.

“We write because we can’t not write. We want to make music out of our breath; we want to be under the power of an art that toys with us and could destroy us, but which allows us to get a glimpse of what’s real. I suppose we publish for any of a number of reasons. The best reason is for community. When we publish a poem or story that makes a connection with someone, there’s a kind of magic at work that is essential to human beings. People publish for vanity, for money or for fame, but to reach out through space and through time and touch another person is all the reason I need. That’s a gift other writers have given me, and I like to think that I’m returning the favor.”

- from writer Gary Young. Read the rest of the interview here.

HELLO SAILOR, originally uploaded by the weirdo.

How to move to San Francisco

best hair ever, originally uploaded by …the who cares girl….

“Honest writing always makes people nervous, and they’ll think of all kinds of ways to make your life hell. One day a long time from now you’ll cease to care anymore whom you please or what anybody has to say about you. That’s when you’ll finally produce the work you’re capable of”.

From: “The Forest for the Trees: An Editor’s Advice to Writers“, an excellent book about writing/publishing that I’m currently reading.

The above quote is dedicated to Raymi (and all bloggers who dare to bare) (anything at all!).

Because if you blog for your mom, or your friends, or your love interest, or your ex, or your ex’s mother (hi Janey!), or worst of all, for the “general public” (ugh!), you’ll quickly realize that YOU CAN’T PLEASE EVERYONE.

You can even try to please everyone for a little while, but that’s when your writing starts sucking. And it gets boring.

I pose this question: if you aren’t writing to please yourself, what in the hell are you writing for?

Or who?

it’s just what I do, originally uploaded by …the who cares girl….

From “The Adderall Diaries“, by Stephen Elliott.

Stephen Elliott explains why he writes.

The Boy attempting poi while Bearcub looks on.

I don’t seem to have the obsessive urgency to practice the poi like I did when I learned hooping a year ago, but that’s okay. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a motivating event. Last year Burning Man was the motivating event for learning to hoop and sewing costumes and staying emaciated and um…well, I certainly received several chemical tans as well. Ew. Lord.

I bought myself “Putting Your Passion into Print” so I can figure out what to do with this book I’m working on. The book stresses that even if you choose to self-publish, you still HAVE to get an editor. I hate paying people for things that I think I can do myself. Of course I always think I can do everything myself, until I’m proven wrong. Horribly, pathetically wrong.

Maybe I could find an editor who would be willing to edit my book in exchange for a painting? That would be sweet. How much do book editors charge, I wonder? More than psychiatrists? Jesus, I hope not. Ugghhffddssssss.