anticipating the crazy.

Okay....there was quite a hiatus there. I am back in New York - just got here today. I have two new roommates, both from Australia, and they seem really nice. We're all students at the School of the Arts, so this should be interesting. I can't say that it's great to be back - it's hot as hell here, 2 small bags of groceries cost me over $50, and the thought of paying money to do laundry is ripping my heart out. BUT, that being said, I went to the School today to visit a friend of mine who was working in the Writing office, and ran into two other friends. My one friend snagged me a CU SoA tote bag - and lord knows, I can never have enough tote bags. Plus, it's my 100k tote bag. I deserve it, I think. :)

Classes start Tuesday and I already have 120+ pages to read for workshop on Tuesday, plus get my own submission ready. And figure out what I am submitting for the thesis anthology. The anthology that agents and publishers get. argh. I am ready to get back on a schedule, though. I also have a part-time writing job, writing "best of" reviews/articles on places in the city. Ironic, no? And hopefully continue to work for Healthline as needed.

I do feel more at ease than I did last year, which is to be expected, I guess. There's still that self-imposed pressure to DO SOMETHING, BE SOMEONE, PUBLISH LOTS OF STUFF, but at least I know what to expect this year. I am anticipating the crazy.

winding down.

So. I leave Chapel Hill on Thursday to go to my dad's house for a few days. I'll hang out there, pick up some clothes and books I left at his house last year - including my Naot, since I feel guilty for wearing Birkenstocks. We might head to North Myrtle Beach for a day, but who knows. It will be a nice end to my time down South this summer.

The main reason I came to NC was because I desperately needed to get out of the city. It is not good for me to be there, nor is it healthy for me. It can be a lonely, uninviting, isolating place, especially if you've gotten used to a friendly community. I needed to be in open spaces again. In unpretentious environments. Somewhere where I didn't feel self-conscious every time I walked out the door, or sensorily assaulted walking down the street. I needed to return to myself, if that makes sense. Did I miss the friends I made in NY? For sure. I missed them a lot. But it was also nice to just kick back and relax here. I came down here to work and to write. I did both, although less than I'd intended. I got to read a lot. My moods were rocky, I will admit. Whether that's something personal or whether that's just part of a writer's temperament, I'm not entirely sure yet.

But as an MFAer at Columbia, can I (guiltily) tell you that it is SO NICE to be somewhere where people haven't heard of Karen Thompson Walker and her 7-figure advance for her debut book? Where people don't know Junot Diaz or could care less about the new Richard Ford book? There is something refreshing about that. There is something refreshing about a place that takes the NYT book reviews with a grain of salt, but takes pride in displaying North Carolina writers. The lack of pretention is like a cold spray of water on a hot day. I know that when I get back, I will be just as anxious as everyone else, about Thesis Workshop, what the future holds after this year, whether I will ever sell a book, and who in our cohort will make it big. I feel the pressure already, probably much of it self-imposed.

I didn't get to eat ice cream at Maple View, sitting outside on the porch in the rocking chairs, but that's okay. I got to sit outside Southern Village's Weaver St and see my co-op worker friends there. I got to have drinks and dinner with my old coworkers and will be doing that this week again. I had coffee with my running coach, who has become a dear friend. I've spent a lot of time alone, for various reasons. I think it was good for me. Writing can often be a solitary pursuit, and after living in NYC, where you can be lonely but never alone, it was good to actually be alone.

And to end my time in the South, when I get to my dad's, I will be eating the Trifecta of bad-for-you Southern food: CookOut, Sonic, and Bojangles. Gluten be damned - chicken biscuits, hushpuppies, Cheerwine ice cream floats, and other Southern-fried goodness, here I come. Don't worry, I'll take pictures.

life choices.

I don't usually follow this celebrity gossip, and try to refrain from being snarky or judgemental, but I've been reading stuff about Diem Brown, the former MTV Road Rules competitor. And you know, it's stirring up some really strong, conflicting opinions. At the age of 22, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and they removed one ovary and several lymph nodes - if I'm not mistaken, I think it was Stage II. In June, she faced a recurrence of the disease. When she went public, she made a comment on Twitter, saying  she "didn't realize ovarian cancer could come back." Does anyone else find this odd? Didn't her oncologist tell her there could be a chance of recurrence? I mean, that's what follow-up visits are for.
So she is 30 right now, and unmarried, and has already frozen eggs. She is curently postponing surgery and chemotherapy to undergo one more round of fertility medicine and egg harvesting. She feels very strongly about having a biological child, and is willing to take the chance at the risk of delaying treatment.
Okay. I certainly, most definitely understand the desire, the inborn instinct to want biological children. It is so powerful. I'm 31, and it is always on my mind, that my time is running out. But, I also wonder if she'd be so adamant about having a biological child if adoption were seen differently in society. So often, people say they want "their own" children. Adoption or biological, it's *still* "your child." Adoption is too often seen as a back-up, or second best. I don't know. Ovarian cancer is a killer. Is it worth delaying treatment for the chance of having a biological child? Of course, only the individual can make that decision. It's an individual choice. We fought for the right to choose, after all.

But I cannot help but think, what the fuck are you doing? I don't know. If I were diagnosed with a reproductive tract cancer, I would do everything I could to survive, or give myself the best chance or survival. If it meant not having biological children, I'd be fine with adoption. I can't take care of a child, biological or not, if I'm super sick or dead.

I have a friend who had lymphoma in her early twenties, putting her into early menopause. After she got married, they hired a surrogate with a donor egg, but she miscarried. So what did J do? Using her husband's sperm and a donor egg, they implanted a fertilized egg into J's uterus. And she gave birth. Is the child any "less hers" because it's not J's egg? Of course not.

There are many, many ways to become a mother. Is having a biological child worth your health or survival?
That's for you to answer.

more lit snobbery.

So.....litsnob post #2. Sometimes I am amazed at people today. And maybe this is just me - someone who reads probably way too much - but if you work in a bookstore, especially an independent bookstore, you should probably have a wide knowledge of books, no? Especially important ones? I was in an indie bookstore here (not the one I used to work at), and a girl went up to the counter and asked for "Things Fall Apart." The clerk was like, "Things that fall apart? Who's the author?" The girl corrected the clerk, but didn't know the author. I had to stop myself from saying "Chinua Achebe." Sometimes I am not so controlled and jump in when I hear a person not remember an author. It's like instinct for me. But it's like.....I don't know. If you're making books your life, know your books. Or maybe I just want to own a bookstore and read for the rest of my life.
Of course, there was no helping the lady that came in and - I swear to G-d, this is what she asked - said, "I'm looking for a book...the author usually writes short stories but this is a novel....I can't think of her name." Yeah.

In other news, I'm reading a book that is actually challenging me - David Mitchell's "Cloud Atlas." I've been trying to slog through the first part since the end of April. I just got through it today. The first part, not the book. It's an experimental, mixed-genre book that I'm not sure how I feel about yet. But it's not an easy read, which I appreciate. I have stacks of books surrounding me right now, including an ARC of Zadie Smith's upcoming novel, NW, as well as the collected stories of Flannery O'Connor. Part of me just kinda wants to hole up for the rest of the summer, order in meals and read, read, read.
But then there's the little thing called a thesis I have to think about. Yeah. And the nonfiction book seminar at the J-school in the spring. argh. Exciting stuff, but it also gives me a stomachache just thinking about it.

If G-d's not a tar heel, why is the sky Carolina blue?

Finally, more than halfway through my stay here, I am feeling more at home here in Chapel Hill and starting to write again. Maybe it was a bout of existential anxiety/depression, maybe it was just typical Type-A adjustment time. Whatever it was, i'm glad it is ebbing away. Yesterday was a perfect, "I love Chapel Hill" day. Beautiful clear blue sky, not too hot, etc. I went on campus for a little bit, drove around...as beautiful as Columbia is, UNC's campus....no comparison. But of course, they're very different. Perfect example of why I love it here: I was at Caribou Coffee, and I asked the lady sitting next to me if she could watch my stuff for 5 minutes, as I was just running to the restroom. The place was fairly busy, with students doing work, and she said yes. I went up to the women's restroom door, knocked, and tried to open it. The door wouldn't budge. So I went back, and when I sat down, another girl turned to me and said, "That door tends to stick a lot, it's really hard to open, you might want to try it again." And just as she said that, a guy stood up and pushed the door open and looked over at me. I got up and laughed, and was like, does everyone know about the sticking door? He laughed and said, "Only the regulars."
Or how I was at McIntyre's, and we were all making fun of "50 Shades of Grey," and a customer joined our conversation and mentioned how interesting it was, the differing viewpoints and opinions between the 2nd wave and 3rd wave feminists. Which started a whole new conversation.

I was driving down Franklin St yesterday, remembering the first time I drove down that street, five years ago. Hard to believe that I had no idea how this place would get into my blood.

In other thoughts, there's that whole "book snob" and Steven King thing that went on. If you haven't read it, here's the LA Review of Books piece. This is a salon.com piece, supporting King. Now, full disclosure: I've never read a fiction book by King. The only thing I've read of his is his nonfiction book, "On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft." Which I thought was very good. This debate is exactly what I mean when I say literary versus commercial. This is what I mean when I say Columbia is literary. And while I agree with some points in the LARB piece, like how much of what is published is just really poor writing, I found the article to be really pretentious and obnoxious. I mean, we all have our tastes. This guy loves David Foster Wallace, whom I find to be incredibly pompous. I just didn't see the point in lambasting King and touting his booksnobbery. Who the fuck cares? Read what you want to read. You can't read Great Books all the time. Sometimes you need something light. Sure, we all buy The New Yorker and carry it around, and maybe - maybe - some of us even read it. I know the only time I really read and enjoy it is when Jerome Groopman or Atul Gawande writes something. But I also just as easily love Vogue and US Weekly and Garden & Gun.
Which made me wonder.....as MFA students, are we inherently book snobs? Are we being taught to be so? How does the definition of "literary" evolve, and what writers today are in the midst of changing it?  Why does my program not offer any courses on YA writing or genre writing? (also, side note, why is there a lack of Southern literature/Southern writers? I mean, Hurston, Welty, O'Connor, Faulkner....but that's a whole other blog post). Lots to think about.

Reading: On the Road (The Original Scroll) by Jack Kerouac; The Boy in the Moon by Ian Brown
Listening: The Decemberists, Eisley, Guster, Chris Pureka, Neko Case

growing pains.

So. Slowly.....verrrrrry slowwwlly, my writer's block is getting smaller. I've been pushing up against it and have managed to at least get ink on the page, which is more than I've been able to do most of the summer so far. I have been reading a lot. And good writers read. A lot. (Columbia believes this, too, which is why our reading lists are so crazy). It's taken me a bit to really get settled in, and I think I'm only really starting to get back to "normal" here. Up until now, i've almost felt...out of place, oddly. I've made the boundries of my life here very small, and haven't done many of the things I wanted to. I think I needed to establish a routine and just get back in the groove. I went to an indie bookstore here in Chapel Hill the other day to sell back some books, and the girl there remembered me, that I worked at McIntyre's. (We had gone to dinner with the Random House reps and authors last July and had a wonderful night). She remembered my name and asked how my program was going. I was stunned that she remembered. But that's what happens here. I got into a long conversation with the coffee guy at Weaver Street about the pro-choice buttons on his apron that said "I (heart) Pro-Choice Girls" and "I (heart) Pro-Choice Boys." People remember "regulars" and so forth, and it's just really nice. It makes me feel good that I can walk into Fleet Feet or Weaver St or B&N or Flyleaf, and be remembered and able to have really great conversations. It makes me feel like I belong here. That I have a life. But in several weeks, I am leaving again....and the cycle of adjusting will repeat itself in New York.

For better or worse, I've been feeling very "artist-y" lately. I went to the Bead Store on Monday and made my own version of the Tibetan Prayer Beads, since mine are in NYC. It's kind of like, while you pray or meditate, you hold the beads and roll them. I imagine it's sort of like a rosary? Although I'm not really sure what you do with a rosary. I collaged a composition book, like I used to do, and have just been a bit more...relaxed than I usually am up North. Not as tightly wound.

In other news, does anyone know anything about arthritis? Ever since late April, it's come and gone, this aching in my wrists, where I need to bend them and roll them, almost stretch them. Same with my arms and fingers. I'm sure I look ridiculous flexing and bending my knuckles, but I have to. Is this arthritis? Or simply aging?

Books I've Read Lately 
A Good Hard Look by Ann Napolitano. This is a novel about Flannery O'Connor, the celebrated Southern writer. I've only read her nonfiction, oddly, since she's best known for her fiction, but I loved this book. By the end of it, I was thinking that we would have gotten along well if I'd lived back then.

Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend by Matthew Dicks. This book comes out in August, and is told from the viewpoint of a 5-year old imaginary friend of an 8-year old. The 8 year old sounds like he is autistic, and eventually, he is faced with danger and only his imaginary friend can save him. Wonderful book that really was whimsical and well-written. I think it'll appeal to readers of all ages - older readers will get more out of it.

In my pile: Faery Tale by Signe Pike, A Million Little Pieces by James Frey (yes, THAT book), A Mango-Shaped Space by Wendy Mass....and tons of others. Definitely using this summer time to cram as much as I can into my head, book-wise.

Listening to: The Decemberists, Birdy, Eisley, Neko Case

neverending writer's block.

It's almost mid-way through summer (actually, for me, more than midway), and I have to admit I have been suffering from the worst fucking case of writer's block. Aside from the medical writing for work, I have not really written anything new since classes ended. I wrote 6 pages of complete and utter shit. That's about it. When I go to Starbucks to "write," I pull out my Moleskine (yes, I am that cliche) and pen, write some sentences, scribble them out, chew on my pen cap, stare into space while listening to my iPod, write something more, then cross it out again. I end up closing my notebook and opening up a book instead. So I guess there's a slight upside to all this: I've been reading a lot. Faulkner still remains unfinished, as does Adrian's novel, aaaaand Cloud Atlas.....I admit, I've been reading a lot of YA. Sigh. I don't know. My concentration isn't as good as I'd like it to be right now.

And, ever since going back to gluten-free, pizza is like crack. Everyday, I'm tempted to go on PizzaHut.com and get a thin and crispy pizza with breadsticks. A few times, I've fallen off the wagon, and like any addict, felt sick and remorseful the day after, vowing never to do that again. But it's sooooo good. I actually imagine how the pizza will taste. And smell. It's a bit ridiculous.

Here's to hoping it gets better.

tote-ally.

I'm sitting here watching "You've Got Mail," and reminded how much I love, love, love books. Like I could really ever forget. When I was in high school, a great Friday or Saturday night was often a trip to Borders or B&N with a friend, staying out until they closed, laughing and talking and reading books with friends. In college, we also would go to Starbucks during the summer.....smoking clove cigarettes with iced chai, rambling about things we thought we knew so much about. In many ways, not too much has changed in those respects. All throughout grad school, friends and I would go to Starbucks or some other coffee place and talk about our lives and things we thought we knew about and what we thought we wanted. We still do. Post-workshop, when many people in most programs go to the bar, some friends and I would either go to Vine, a yummy sushi place, or to Starbucks, to decompress.

Anyway. Lost my train of thought. Books. I love Chapel Hill, but in the indie bookstore department, it can be lacking. McIntyre's, where I worked, is wonderful and amazing, but not in Chapel Hill and not open too late. Flyleaf is good, but I don't really go there that often, I'm not sure why. Something is just not as warm as McIntyre's. I think because many times whoever is working there isn't really super-personable, unfortunately. But Manhattan, now that's a great place for indie books. McNally Jackson, BookCulture (formerly Labyrinth, which it was when I lived across the street from it), Strand.

Strand Books. I am so intrigued by them. They're downtown, in Union Square. It's huge, for those of you who've never been there. The smell of paper and leather and old books is everwhere in the store. The last time I went there was in early November. I remember what I was wearing that day. Mainly because that was the day that my aunt was taken to the hospital. It was, as my dad said on the phone that day, "The beginning of the end." When I left the store I saw that I had multiple missed calls from him. I had gone there before meeting my friend M for a writing afternoon. There's a cute coffee shop right across from Strand with yummy macarons and coffee and friendly people.
The Strand has used books, new books, and everything in between. They sell Moleskines, Out of Print tees, totes, souvenirs for tourists, etc. It's a huge, dusty, musty, warehouse. The employees are surly hipsters who are usually too cool for you and are frustrated because their Comp Lit degrees and MFAs have enabled them to work for minimum wage. But that's okay, because you kind of still want their jobs anyway. I remember leaving the store with something like 12 books, a pen and a tote for less than $90. Their tagline is "18 Miles of books." As my family knows, taking me to a place like that means I can spend an inordinate amount of time there.
But really, for all the touristy stuff, I love their tote bags. Because who DOESN'T like totes? Who DOESN'T need totes? Especially living in NYC, where you carry your life with you at all times. But they've gotten a touristy rap. Which makes me sad. Because they're strong and well made and really cute. I have two. But I feel like I can only use them when I'm NOT in nyc. A McJ tote, fine. The Independent Booksellers of NYC tote? I use all the time. A BookCulture tote? Seen everywhere around Columbia. But something about the Strand tote makes it too touristy. Sad face.

waiting.

This summer has been weird. I haven't written anything new since classes ended. I haven't worked on the freelance project as much as I'd expected to be able to. I mean, I work daily, but not to the extent I thought I would. Maybe I overestimated my expected prodicutivity. Which is so ironic to me because I still haven't been paid. Yup, working since end of May....and no paycheck yet.

I thought I'd be able to keep up my fast reading pace of 2-4 books a week at the least. Hasn't quite worked out that way. This malaise is so pervasive. Maybe the heat just feels extra oppressive. Maybe this ridiculous, unrelenting insomnia since moving down here has just disturbed everything and thrown my life off. Part of me just wishes it was the end of August already so I can get back to my routine. Maybe I'm just waiting for a breakthrough.

capturing cancer.

I've become quite the Netflix aficionado lately. My friend with whom I'm staying in NC has the whole Netflix on TV thing, and after not having television for so long, I admit, I've overdosed a little bit. Rewatched the whole series of "My So-Called Life?" Yup. Also watched 45 episodes of "Intervention" - great for insomnia, FYI. Watched movies and documentaries, etc. I saw one today that knocked the breath out of me. "Two Weeks" is a movie starring Sally Field, and I vaguely remember wanting to see it when it came out, but then I forgot about it. I venture to say no one's really heard of it. It's about 4 siblings who return home to their dying mother, which they think will only be a few days on hospice, but ends up being two weeks.

Well, wouldn't you know. Sally Field plays a woman who is dying from ovarian cancer. It was like watching a slightly altered version of what my family went through the last two weeks of December. Most movies don't capture death or dying very well. They gloss over it, they make it tidy and neat. Not this movie. It was spot on, from the hospice nurse doing her jobs, to Field puking in a plastic bucket because of the bowel obstruction, to the bodily signs of dying like arching your back, talking to deceased relatives, and reaching out into the air. Even the (mostly unsaid) conversation with the hospice nurse about the use of increasing doses of morphine to expedite the dying process was extremely realistic. The hospice nurse giving the pamphlet about the stages of active dying, and the "timeline." The siblings' reactions to dying and grief was well-portrayed, from the daughter going to the bookstore and getting all the information she could to disseminate it to her family, to the youngest boy being standoffish to hide his fear. The dimmed lights in the bedroom of Field, the music playing, the blanket over the body bag as the stretcher is wheeled out...even the plaid flannel pajamas - these all were in my aunt's experience, as well. What got me was the toast they had after she died. We did the same thing, around midnight, since it was New Year's Eve. 

But what it really captured well was the odd state of limbo one finds oneself in while a family member is actively dying. It is easy to forget that the world is operating normally outside the house. And to be blunt, there's a lot of waiting around when someone is in the last stages of dying. They sleep more and more, and when they are somewhat conscious, they're often really drugged up. There's only so long you can sit by their bed and talk with them. So you find yourself watching television. Or starting to comb through stuff. Or making inappropriate jokes about the situation that would probably horrify anyone not involved. 

It's much less dramatic than movies often show, and that was captured perfectly in this movie. But I think the most accurate thing was the scene when the oldest son goes into his mother's room after she's died, and she's lying there in the bed. He takes her hand and says that even when she was comatose, he still felt like she was there, like she was listening - but he doesn't feel anything now. He's right. You'd be surprised at the palpable lack of life energy there is when someone dies.

It's funny that I happened to watch the movie now, because something happened the other day that really hit me. So, I don't know if I've posted this before, but my aunt had a B&N card, that gives you a discount. All I'd do was give her phone number to use the card. I've used it for years. Well, the day of her funeral, I was at B&N and wondered if she still had it, and it's good until September. So I've been using it. And for a brief moment, things are normal. Well, the other day, I went to get coffee at B&N and was told that the phone number isn't in the system. I insisted she was wrong, since I'd been using it down here when I write in their cafe. She never found it and I left, all pissed off. Well, I go there again and this time, the cashier is a guy who REMEMBERS me from when I lived here, when I'd be there several days a week, doing my freelance writing. He knows I use the card, so when he couldn't find it either, we were both stunned. He asked if it could be under anyone else's name, and I mentioned my cousin. He plugged it in, and whaddayaknow. It was changed the previous day. And for some reason, this really bugged me. I called my cousin, and he said it'll be renewed again, and to keep using it with his phone number, but still. I was annoyed that he couldn't have just kept it the way it was. 

Anyway. Why are you still reading this? Go watch the movie.


ADDENDUM: I'm watching the movie "Griffin and Phoenix", about two people with cancer who fall in love. Amanda Peet plays the girl, and her character says her cancer "started in her ovaries and now it's everywhere." Well, for someone who is in her last months/weeks of cancer, she looks fantastic. Thin, no sign of a bloated belly, she's eating in restaurants, great skin and hair, able to function fully in life....THIS is the kind of movie I was talking about before. So not realistic.