Organizing Bounty

Every day, I write poetry, at least a thousand words in my current WIP novel, and a smattering of loose scenes, dialogues, plots, notes, and lines for as-yet-unrealized projects. In fact, I had a great idea for a meet cute a few months ago, but no story to go with it. Yesterday, out of the blue, I thought, “Obviously, the first third of the book will be epistolary.” And from there, the story unfolded as though it had been there the whole time.

Apparently, my increased focus and discipline on one project has opened the door for a bunch of creative ideas. I will, of course, accept them enthusiastically. It just means I have to be more selective with my time, and actually schedule the hours necessary to put these next two poetry collections together.

The first collection is one I’ve been thinking about for about a decade. Maybe 60 poems so far, maybe half of them needing revision. Another dozen ideas jotted down but not written yet. Is that enough poems for a book? Haha, it doesn’t matter! My editor doesn’t care. My editor just wants this shit done so she can move on to the next thing. (It me. I’m my editor.)

The second collection has just come together in the last two years or so, but the concept started taking a definitive shape last year around this time. It might have been Halloween exactly. The isolation of living where I do, where my best friend is my cat (I tell her frequently), combined with last year’s additional forced isolation made for some very nature-oriented and increasingly unstable verse. It will be fun to explore how to tell the story with them.

I’ve bargained with myself and have come to the conclusion that I will spend four full days focused solely on the first next poetry collection, as soon as I finish this novel’s “trash draft.” (As author Elizabeth May calls it, a shift in language that freed me from thinking the first draft had to be perfect and I could just write whatever I wanted and come back for an “actual draft” revision later. I’ll never be able to thank her enough, so help me out by buying her books too, I always do.)

Novel is now over 45,000 words. I think it’ll probably be over 70,000 when I’m finished in a few weeks, then it’ll be edited back down. I still love it, still want to spend every moment working on it. Actually, I’ve been getting really sad whenever I think that it’s almost finished, because then I won’t be creating it anymore. Beginning to suspect there’s something very unusual about me.

Acrobatics with Time

When my commitment to writing was reignited a few months ago, I had no idea where it was taking me. Apparently to over 40,000 words in a romance novel, to start, which would have been unimaginable to me five years ago. But now I crave that HEA, and when I didn’t see the story I wanted to read, I decided to write it.

Two things I’ve learned so far: first, I am very inefficient at writing sex scenes. Mostly because I’ll write a sentence and then cry, “ah, my characters, they’re so happy, they love each other, I’ll make sure they enjoy each other!” When the scene is written, all I can remember is how much I struggled to write it, though when I reread it, I don’t see any signs of my difficulties. In fact, it might look, maybe, easy? Did I wrestle for a week with a scene that now flows so well nobody will ever know how I bit my nails and looked for something to clean to distract me from writing it?

This brings us to the second thing I’ve learned. I never thought I could write a novel. Part of what makes me excited about this WIP is that it’s what I want to read, and part of actually getting it done is taking the time to sit in my chair and actually physically type it out. But the way I write it out is by tricking myself into thinking I already wrote it, and as I sit at the computer typing away, I tell myself I’m reading it, not writing it. That way, I always know what to type, because I already read it.

I don’t know how else to describe it, except that it’s very similar to the way I feel about burpees: the only way I can do them is by thinking in grammatical acrobatics. I tell myself the entire time, “I love that these will have been done.” I put my mindset into the future when the hard part is over and use it as an anchor for getting the hard part done in real time.

I’m sure that self-help books have a term for this. I’ve always just called it a shift, or a translation. Not anything profound, I think, though probably strange.

Brains are so weird.

Sometimes I Take My Own Advice

Years ago, I had a dream where I tried to be a writer. I mean a literal dream that occurred as I slept, not my lifelong dream of writing.

I stood in a white kitchen in a bright house with a vast, green backyard abutting a forest. The slant of sun said summer. Colorful stained-glass-style pieces of glasswork hung in front of the window, and my then-twenty-ish self reached out to touch one shaped like a corkscrew. On the counter was a pencil, inscribed with nonsense: “sentences-entences.” I asked the woman at the table what it meant, and turned to look at her.

The knowledge that she was older-me was, like most dream-knowing, immediate and had nothing to do with context clues. I guess she looked like me, but older. She wore ridiculously huge glasses, like old ladies in the 1970s, and she was surrounded by papers and books as she wrote.

“You can’t write a book until you’re 40,” she said. “You won’t have the life experience necessary before then.” It wasn’t unkind, but matter-of-fact. If I hadn’t known it was me, her delivery of this disappointing but logical fact would have been a huge clue. Young-me didn’t argue, but rather accepted it as fact and looked back out the window to the dragonflies darting in the sun. “Huh,” I breathed, pondering what she had said.

It was insight, not prophesy.

I knew it wasn’t a prophesy because if it had been, I would have challenged it. I challenged EVERYTHING back then. Especially if I thought they were criticizing me. So if it had felt like “You don’t have what it takes,” I would have woken up angry and ready to burn some shit down to prove her wrong.

Instead, it felt like solving a riddle: “Oh OKAY, I see it now.” Despite my tendency to assume the worst, I understood that it was a gift. I was giving myself time to experience things without feeling pressure to turn it into art, and time to practice my skills and read thousands of books and really build a base of knowledge and trials and errors.

Six months away from 40 and I’m 40,000 words into a story that will definitely end up novel length. And I fucking love it. I’m excited to write it, and doing so has taught me what works for me in terms of how to get my ass in the chair and put words on a page. Not only that, but I’m confident I can do this long term. I found my balance between inspiration and discipline, creativity and consistency.

I also feel pretty vindicated that old-me was correct and young-me was smart enough to listen. Not everything I dream ends up occurring, but, a troubling number of them do. Fingers crossed that the ones with alien invasions and my frequent, painful deaths stay fiction.

When Useful Tools Fail

Work never stopped for me.

In classic me fashion, I’ve been mad about it for an entire year, while also feeling begrudgingly grateful that I didn’t lose my job during a goddamn pandemic. I was able to work from home (I gave my boss no choice, I simply said “I’m working from home, I have it all set up already, didn’t need your input, email me pictures of anything important and mail me everything that isn’t time sensitive ok byeeeee!” and never returned to the office again [which ended up being my smartest decision yet, since everyone in that household got Covid just before Halloween and would definitely have infected me YAYY]), and we were able to get most of our usual purchases delivered, so the few times I actually left the house in my car was to go to the vet’s because, well, cats.

The phrase I’ve heard recently is “we’re not working from home, we’re sleeping at work,” and hooo boy, that gets right to the heart of it, doesn’t it? Until December, I was waking up at 6am, jumping on to work by 6:30am, taking a little break for breakfast, a little break for lunch, then jumping back on after dinner if I saw that something else needed to be done. In case you don’t recognize this as a problem, let me be clear: THIS IS A PROBLEM. More so because I realized that boss, who is the boss and takes home multiple times the amount of my salary, isn’t even keeping these hours. Then, he got Covid and I had to step up and do most of his work too, and sometime around Christmas I decided that this was an unsustainable situation. I believe the exact thing I said to myself was, “What the fuck am I doing?” then rearranged my daily schedule so I wouldn’t get burned out. Rather, I wouldn’t get more burned out than I was already, and possibly I could reverse the harm it was doing.

So, not only did work never stop for me in 2020, but I actually worked longer hours than I ever have before, even with zero supervision (helloooo, nerd!), and on top of that, I had to experience the entirety of social media having so much “extra” time that, like, bread flour was out of stock from everybody baking all the time??? Did that really happen? Like, humans, who were also laying low because of pandemic, took up hobbies like embroidery and peloton? Am I saying that right? Where in the fuck did they get those extra hours? People coming out of the Quarantimes now with six-pack abs and a second or third language and a hope chest full of embroidered linens. I’m coming out with an exploded electrical box, two dead relatives, a dead cat, two birthdays in quarantine, and the same crushing amount of student debt I had when this all started.

A lot of people had it worse than I did, and that’s why, despite my bitching about wanting “free time” to do projects or hobbies or whatnot, I feel incredibly lucky to even be alive at this point. But I’m a complex person and can feel both lucky and miffed at the same time. Second dose of the vaccine in a little more than a week, and maybe I can get on a plane this summer for the first break from work in a year and a half. I think I’ve earned it. I think we’ve all earned it.

Bad Luck Continues (Copy)

Work never stopped for me.

In classic me fashion, I’ve been mad about it for an entire year, while also feeling begrudgingly grateful that I didn’t lose my job during a goddamn pandemic. I was able to work from home (I gave my boss no choice, I simply said “I’m working from home, I have it all set up already, didn’t need your input, email me pictures of anything important and mail me everything that isn’t time sensitive ok byeeeee!” and never returned to the office again [which ended up being my smartest decision yet, since everyone in that household got Covid just before Halloween and would definitely have infected me YAYY]), and we were able to get most of our usual purchases delivered, so the few times I actually left the house in my car was to go to the vet’s because, well, cats.

The phrase I’ve heard recently is “we’re not working from home, we’re sleeping at work,” and hooo boy, that gets right to the heart of it, doesn’t it? Until December, I was waking up at 6am, jumping on to work by 6:30am, taking a little break for breakfast, a little break for lunch, then jumping back on after dinner if I saw that something else needed to be done. In case you don’t recognize this as a problem, let me be clear: THIS IS A PROBLEM. More so because I realized that boss, who is the boss and takes home multiple times the amount of my salary, isn’t even keeping these hours. Then, he got Covid and I had to step up and do most of his work too, and sometime around Christmas I decided that this was an unsustainable situation. I believe the exact thing I said to myself was, “What the fuck am I doing?” then rearranged my daily schedule so I wouldn’t get burned out. Rather, I wouldn’t get more burned out than I was already, and possibly I could reverse the harm it was doing.

So, not only did work never stop for me in 2020, but I actually worked longer hours than I ever have before, even with zero supervision (helloooo, nerd!), and on top of that, I had to experience the entirety of social media having so much “extra” time that, like, bread flour was out of stock from everybody baking all the time??? Did that really happen? Like, humans, who were also laying low because of pandemic, took up hobbies like embroidery and peloton? Am I saying that right? Where in the fuck did they get those extra hours? People coming out of the Quarantimes now with six-pack abs and a second or third language and a hope chest full of embroidered linens. I’m coming out with an exploded electrical box, two dead relatives, a dead cat, two birthdays in quarantine, and the same crushing amount of student debt I had when this all started.

A lot of people had it worse than I did, and that’s why, despite my bitching about wanting “free time” to do projects or hobbies or whatnot, I feel incredibly lucky to even be alive at this point. But I’m a complex person and can feel both lucky and miffed at the same time. Second dose of the vaccine in a little more than a week, and maybe I can get on a plane this summer for the first break from work in a year and a half. I think I’ve earned it. I think we’ve all earned it.

Bad Luck Continues

Obviously I didn’t list everything that has gone wrong in the past few months. Some of it would be overshare, and some of it I forgot because, well, read through the list and you’ll understand. Like, a few weeks ago, I cut myself on the hundred-year-old metal band around the bottom of a piano leg and had to get a tetanus shot. That’s right, I braved a public space to get a dang tetanus shot, and it was very scary and I was very brave to get it done. I also skipped telling you about all the major household catastrophes, but I’m about to change that because we had another one happen yesterday.

A month ago we had to get the house and roof washed because of algae/mold. The whole story is longer but I’ll just say it was a pain and not cheap.

A week after that, we figured out that the outlet in the basement kept tripping because the garage door was broken and causing power surges. Getting it fixed was more expensive than getting the house washed.

Yesterday afternoon as I was watching Golden Girls, I heard two loud bangs on the wall behind the stove. It sounded like someone whipped a softball at the side of the house. The living room lights flickered, but stayed on. The sound was from the general area of where the AC unit is on the outside of the house, and where the breakers are in the basement. I thought, “I’ve heard that noise before, I bet it’s just the breakers being tripped,” and shut off the lights and AC so the system didn’t have to strain to power them. Before checking downstairs, I was going to check outside to make sure everything was ok, but when I opened the door to the garage, the motion light wouldn’t come on, and the garage opener motor was dark. I shut the door and, for some reason, went to see if the fridge was still on. It was not. This was new.

Starting upstairs, I flicked every light switch to see what was and wasn’t working. The washer was off, stopped mid-cycle, with my clothes locked behind them and no way to open it. Throughout the house, about half the lights and outlets were working. In the basement, none of the breakers were tripped. Yet. No power. I called husband, who was able to leave work to help me. When he got home, he told me to see the side of the house.

Those two loud bangs I heard was the sound of our electric meter literally exploding.

The meter box door was blown off, the wires inside blackened. There were black streaks around the box and on the house exactly as depicted in Looney Tunes when someone blows up. It smelled like hot metal cooling.

The energy company sent people who said it wasn’t their responsibility, but they did shut off power to the entire house. We found an electrician who said even if he fixed it today, the energy company wouldn’t turn the power back on until it gets inspected, and nobody can do that until Tuesday. We were looking at four days without power.

If there’s one lucky thing that happened, it’s that the house didn’t catch fire. If there are two lucky things that happened, the second is that the electrician was able to find all the parts necessary and completely fix it, just as Duke arrived again and turned the power on without an inspection. Nine at night and we finally had power again.

Apparently there’s a cluster of wires coming from the meter box that goes straight into the ground, and those wires are protected by a tube. After ten years, the soil around the house had settled in a way that pulled the tube away from the box, which pulled the wires, which exposed things that shouldn’t be exposed, and made things touch that shouldn’t, hence, splosion. The guy replaced everything and it was more than three times as expensive as either of our other house catastrophes this month. But I have power and, most importantly, it’s safe now.

If any one of these things happened this year—the deaths, the household crises, the health stuff, the broken things—it would have been a more exciting year than usual. To have them all happen within a four-month span is, frankly, insulting. Karma has had its eye fixed on me firmly for decades, to the point where I’m punished if I even consider doing something morally ambiguous. But I’ve been better behaved this year than in my entire past, and all this crap has happened.

That’s why I fear that perhaps these many, many things are actually the best case scenario. I fear that, had I not made an effort to be even kinder and more generous lately, everything would be ten times worse. Without knowing which is true, I can’t decide how to proceed. Do I thank whatever powers have saved me from a worse fate? Or am I cursed, and have to work to break it? Last night I dreamt someone had cursed me and I clearly saw and destroyed the talisman they used to do it. But I don’t think that translated into real life.

I’ll of course keep a list of further disasters, and report back as necessary. I think it might be too much to hope it remains blank.

Four Months Later

I was going to title this post “Plague of Nations,” but that sounded so heavy-handed, and I just read an intense novel that depressed me even more, so I’ll simply mention that that phrase has been rolling around in my head, while leaving the actual title a mere account of passed time.

Toilet paper is back! For now. In the meantime, we got two different bidet attachments, and we have plenty of cloths and rags and socks and we know how to do laundry so really the tp situation was never as dire in this household as it was in others. My number one concern was always human food, which must be specified because the next concern in importance was cat food, both of which we have now, in abundance, thanks in large part to our weekly farmshare. I have pickled and frozen so many vegetables, y’all.

The Quarantimes have been very strange. For the first month, it was like an adventure, figuring out how to navigate new roles in new spaces on an ever-changing schedule. Setting up my WFH station with increasingly sturdier and more permanent fixtures as time passed. Then, in one week in April, our cat was diagnosed with kidney failure and given 2 weeks to live, my grandfather died, I had my wedding anniversary where the first thing that happened was our Alaska cruise to celebrate husband’s 40th birthday was canceled and the last thing that happened was that husband broke my favorite wine glass from Sweden and in between was a lot of little things going wrong. Was Mercury in retrograde? Who can remember? If you told me that Merc-Ret has been ongoing since early March and hasn’t ceased, I would believe you. Such are the Quarantimes!

I honestly don’t remember a single minute of May.

In June, all the shows and concerts we had tickets for that were postponed a little rescheduled to be postponed A LOT. I canceled a hair appointment because the salon wasn’t requiring everyone to wear a mask, then was told two days later that one of the stylists tested positive for covid. We canceled our dentist appointments and when they rushed to explain how they’re keeping clients safe, we said we hadn’t been feeling well lately and didn’t want to take a chance and OH how quickly they agreed that we shouldn’t come in!

A few weeks ago, our kitty succumbed to his illness, but we had three times as much time with him as the vet predicted we’d have back in April, so we’re grateful for that. It’s been very sad. And now today, JoCo Cruise announced that they’re moving the March 2021 sailing to March 2022 and I feel like an asshole saying this but the cruise being canceled might be the worst thing that’s happened so far in July? Listen. We’d been preparing for kitty to leave us for months, and his memory is going to stay with us for years. But JCC was the only vacation we had planned that wasn’t canceled (in the last year, 5 of my 6 travel plans have been canceled, and oh look now it’s ALL BUT ONE in a 2-year period), and it was the bright star of hope leading me through this terrible year. I may have had to wait 8 months from now for my next normal-feeling and fun endeavor, but at least I had a firm date, it was already paid for, and it was within a year. Now it’s a 20 month wait and, uhhhnnnnng, what’s even tethering me here anymore? Why shouldn’t I go full-on Yellow Wallpaper and just give in and be insane?

This isn’t a criticism of JoCo Cruise; I’ve been wondering the past few weeks if we should cancel our booking, since it doesn’t look like any of the government people in national leadership positions actually intend to, you know, lead. JCC made the right call and we’ll definitely be there in 2022, and I swear everyone is going to be partying like it’s the 1920s and we all just feel lucky to be alive. But those 20 empty months before that happens? Oof. It hurts, kids.

And it’s not like we can really commit to any kind of lifestyle change or other kind of goal during that time, because our knowledge of the virus and the risk-level of certain behaviors can change, and probably will change, a number of times in the next few years. That’s not to say we shouldn’t make *any* goals. I mean, I stopped eating refined sugar and my headaches stopped right along with them, for the most part. But much of my joy comes from travel, and planning that travel, and checking off the places I travel to on my goal list, so I’m staring down the next 20 months and it’s mostly empty and…what do I do with myself?

This is mostly a rhetorical question. I have some plans. I have some ideas for things that might end up eventually becoming plans. I have my job, and with the help of husband we’ve made it WFH indefinitely/permanently. I have the books on my syllabi and to-read list, and learning more Swedish for whenever this living hell of a decade vomits us on the other side and I can finally visit Sweden.

Four months later, and things are mostly worse, a few things stayed the same, and even fewer have improved. I also think wasps have moved into the grill. But I’ll look into that on Monday. I have time.

The Perils of Home

When I left the US to attend JoCo Cruise earlier this month, I didn’t realize I would be returning to chaos. The Sunday before I embarked, I even looked at my shopping list and said “Toilet paper’s written down, but I can wait until next week.” Haha no, past-Jackii, you can’t.

Despite being on a cruise, going through Port Everglades (which had several employees test positive while we were asea), and being crowded into FLL airport with a bunch of coughing, sneezing dummies who also just got off cruises, I was told to come into work on Monday, where I would be in close contact with three people in their 70’s.

I always get sick on cruises. On any trip, really. Honestly, I get sick if I go to the theater or an arena or a convention too, so, obviously something is wrong with me. After contracting some kind of terrible respiratory thing after last year’s JCC, I bought a face mask in preparation for this year. I was the only person wearing a mask at CVG on the way to Florida, and I was only one of three or four people wearing a mask on the way home. Every seat in the Delta waiting area in Fort Lauderdale was taken, and even the Skylounge was at capacity. There was no way to enforce social distancing; we were basically on top of one another.

I told work about this, and they weren’t worried. You see, if I didn’t come in to work, that meant that someone else would have to do what I usually do, and—for them—the very real threat of doing more work outweighed the mere potential of contracting the coronavirus, so I went in.

Thursday, I learned that the CDC put me at Warning Level 3 and I was supposed to stay home for 14 days following return from a cruise. Work did not like this, but agreed, and I left. On my way out, I was told to “try to come in Friday, since it’s the busiest day.” Friday is still within the 14-day isolation period.

We’re on lockdown now. We found toilet paper and distilled water, and our favorite local restaurants have begun delivering and doing curbside pickup. Lockdown is supposed to lift April 6, but I know I’ll be required to go in to work as soon as the CDC-recommended 14 days is over. I’d like to say that, in the meantime, I’ve been very productive, reading and writing. I would even like to say that I’ve spent this time playing video games. I have done none of those things. Not productive, but not playing video games. I’m not sure what I’ve been doing so far. I got a hydroponic garden and spend an obscene amount of time staring at the little seedlings, willing them into sprouts. That seems like the best use of my time, until life gets back on track—not back to normal, I know it’ll all change on the other side. But, back to a kind of routine.

Charging Rent for My Mindspace

I completed the goal of “1000 books read in 10 years” a few months ago, over a year early, but I’m still in Turbo Mode. I just breezed past book number 1800 on my “have read” list, 1700 ratings, and 600 reviews, and to misquote Hamilton, I’m reading like I’m running out of time.

It’s the result, in part, of Gail Carriger’s Great Parasolverse Read-Along: rereading the Parasol Protectorate, Finishing School, and Custard Protocol books in chronological order, ending with the final CP book coming out next month. I’ve also decided to read all of Shakespeare’s plays this year—one a week—and that would bring me through September if I wasn’t in the habit of reading more than one a week. (I have about 10 left but have already concluded that Shakespeare is another “problematic male genius.” Some of his work is beautiful and insightful, but a lot of it is sexist and racist as fuck and the greatness of the good stuff doesn’t excuse his contribution to the acceptance and perpetuation of oppressed groups. Being an adult means—as FremFreq eloquently says—being critical of the media I love. *shrug* But you do you.)

Last month, I reorganized my “to read” list into six sections.

Section 1: Stand-Alones

Stand-alone books listed in the order I added them to my list, further divided into sections small enough to read in a year. For example, in 2019 I’m going to try to finish reading all the stand-alone books I put on my list in 2011, 2012, and 2013 (originally about 30).

Section 2: Series to Finish

Series that have ended that I’ve read at least one book from. I’ll have to start over on a few of them, but there are only six series on this list and I bet I can finish them this year.

Section 3: Series to Continue

Series that haven’t ended that I’m in the middle of (Jane Yellowrock, Fever, Mistborn, etc).

Section 4: Series to Re-Read

So far there are nine series in this section, but that’s a very conservative estimate.

Section 5: Series to Start and Finish

Series that have ended that I haven’t read any books from.

Section 6: Series to Start but Can’t Finish

Series that haven’t ended and I haven’t started.

And honestly it’s the same pressure to complete things as my initial goal was, only organized differently. I’m definitely going to hit the annual goal of 100 books before the end of June. If I don’t make it, know it was worth it. All these books were worth it.

The Workload Doesn’t Change Just Because I Organize It

I completed the goal of “1000 books read in 10 years” a few months ago, over a year early, but I’m still in Turbo Mode. I just breezed past book number 1800 on my “have read” list, 1700 ratings, and 600 reviews, and to misquote Hamilton, I’m reading like I’m running out of time.

It’s the result, in part, of Gail Carriger’s Great Parasolverse Read-Along: rereading the Parasol Protectorate, Finishing School, and Custard Protocol books in chronological order, ending with the final CP book coming out next month. I’ve also decided to read all of Shakespeare’s plays this year—one a week—and that would bring me through September if I wasn’t in the habit of reading more than one a week. (I have about 10 left but have already concluded that Shakespeare is another “problematic male genius.” Some of his work is beautiful and insightful, but a lot of it is sexist and racist as fuck and the greatness of the good stuff doesn’t excuse his contribution to the acceptance and perpetuation of oppressed groups. Being an adult means—as FremFreq eloquently says—being critical of the media I love. *shrug* But you do you.)

Last month, I reorganized my “to read” list into six sections.

Section 1: Stand-Alones

Stand-alone books listed in the order I added them to my list, further divided into sections small enough to read in a year. For example, in 2019 I’m going to try to finish reading all the stand-alone books I put on my list in 2011, 2012, and 2013 (originally about 30).

Section 2: Series to Finish

Series that have ended that I’ve read at least one book from. I’ll have to start over on a few of them, but there are only six series on this list and I bet I can finish them this year.

Section 3: Series to Continue

Series that haven’t ended that I’m in the middle of (Jane Yellowrock, Fever, Mistborn, etc).

Section 4: Series to Re-Read

So far there are nine series in this section, but that’s a very conservative estimate.

Section 5: Series to Start and Finish

Series that have ended that I haven’t read any books from.

Section 6: Series to Start but Can’t Finish

Series that haven’t ended and I haven’t started.

And honestly it’s the same pressure to complete things as my initial goal was, only organized differently. I’m definitely going to hit the annual goal of 100 books before the end of June. If I don’t make it, know it was worth it. All these books were worth it.

So Many Books

Folks, it’s done. It may have been a redundant goal, to read 1000 books in 10 years. I might have read that many anyway. But here we are, a year and a month ahead of schedule, having read over one thousand books. I’ve spent so long on this project, slowly making my way, I was beginning tire. I’ll take a moment to enjoy a celebratory cake, but I’m already looking forward to my next goals. Onward!

My 1,000 Book Goal

In 2010, I decided that I didn’t read enough books. This was a foolishly incorrect observation based on not previously recording what I read in some sort of list, and—when I joined Goodreads—not reading the same volume of books as my peers. So, led by a desire to have physical evidence that I was well-read, and misled by a brief and laughable desire to make long-term goals, my number one priority became reading 1,000 books within 10 years. Starting with 2010, that would make my deadline for a thousand books December 31, 2019, 11:59PM.

Reader, as of December 31, 2017, I have read 930 books. I have two years to read 70 books. And I’ve already read 21 books in January.

It sounds like a lot. It is. But they’re not all long novels and textbooks. I read a lot of YA, poetry, graphic novels, novellas, short stories, etc. If the library has it available and I don’t think I’ll hate it, I borrow it.

And now that I’m fewer than 50 books away from meeting my goal, over a year ahead of schedule, I’ve made some decisions.

1. I don’t have to read a book a week. I don’t even have to read a book a month. I mean, I probably will, because I like reading. But I don’t have to feel pressured to do it. Not just the pressure of having a goal to complete, but the pressure of needing to keep up with what I think my peers are reading.

2. I don’t have to finish a book I don’t like. I CAN MOVE ON TO THE NEXT BOOK I WANT TO READ. This revelation blows my mind.

3. I can definitely keep my “to read” list under 300 books. It’s not under 300 right now, though. Last I checked I had 373 books on that list, according to Goodreads. I culled it when I added a book and the update said it was number 999 and I thought, “Oh man. That’s so much pressure. I wanted to read 1,000 books in 10 years and I’m fewer than 100 away from doing that and I have another 1,000 on my to-read list. Hmmm. How about nope?” Then I started deleting. It was a glorious feeling. I deleted entire series except the next volume of it I wanted to read. I deleted ones that were already on my wish list at the library. No need to double up. I deleted books that I was always told were “Classics” but I was uninterested in reading a story about another older white dude having an existential crisis triggered by a younger woman. Then, my list was down to under 400, and a huge book burden was lifted off my shoulders.

4. If I make something my #1 priority, I’ll get it done, with time to spare. I should probably appoint a new #1, and it should probably be “finish writing that damn novel,” but I have a feeling it’ll be something like “visit every continent” or “complete 5 cosplay costumes.” Hey, I read 950 books in eight years, I deserve a fun priority. At least for a little while.

"Swedes in Lowell" finally available!

My newest book, “Swedes in Lowell,” is finally, finally available.

I could tell you the complete story of how it started and how it took so long, but the short version is that, sadly, writing and creating books is not my primary source of income. Yet. I have hope that it may, in the future, but until then, the bulk of my waking hours is devoted to what’s known as a “day job” (or, “How I Afford Things”).

After nearly a year and a half of focusing on this project, I feel relief more than anything else. Sure, excitement, but mostly relief. Just a few more things to do, links to upload, announcements to make, etc., but then it’ll be really done and I can move on to my next idea.

I must tell you, I may not have anything else commercially available for a while. Next project is family-related and private, but promises to occupy all my time.

Also, if you’re not super into Massachusetts local history, and you don’t care about owning a complete collection of my works, I won’t hold it against you if you don’t buy a copy. While there are a few witty parts, most of it reads like either town meeting minutes or just lists of deaths and marriages. I tried to be true to the original author’s tone, and his purpose was to collect and distribute information rather than weave a story.

That being said, if you do read it, I appreciate it! I’ve tried to do right by you, reader. 

New Book Available September 2016

A year, a month, and a day.

That’s how long I’ve been working on this project, as a tertiary-or-lower priority. Looking back, if I had just quit my job and poured all my effort into it, I might have been done in a month. But I took a few detours and remained open to additional work that would improve the book, and so, finally, here it is.

I’m pleased to announce that by the end of this month, my translation of Olof Berntson’s “Svenskarne i Lowell, Mass.” will be available for purchase. If you’ve been waiting for more of my poetry, I am now filling you with disappointment, because unless you’re super interested in the Swedish immigrant history of Lowell, MA from 1857 to 1917 and love reading meeting minutes, I don’t recommend buying it. It was only on my tenth or eleventh pass at reading it that I began to appreciate it, and it’s my own damn history.

If you’d like to buy it anyway, just to support me, I understand and appreciate it, but please take my disclaimer seriously. I found two jokes in the entire book. Nobody’s cause of death is listed. The one time Berntson mentions a feud in a church, he merely calls it “sad times” and moves on to the next boring thing. I did this for my family first and have no expectations of it gaining any traction beyond my relatives.

One of the reasons it took me so long to get it together is that I kept finding more family history documents, and wanted to include all of them. Sadly, few of them can be published, so I had to decide within the last few weeks to publish just the “Svenskarne” translation as a stand-alone book. And I’m finally ready to release it into the world. 

Translating Century-Old History

  In some ways, preparing this translation is the same as preparing my poetry collection. I spend hours in front of the computer, pondering the best way to say something, realizing how little of the language I know (English first, and now English and Swedish). There’s joy in it, in creating and shaping, and there’s also frustration, and boredom from repetition.

            In other ways, it seems like their book-type-shape is the only similarity. I created every bit of my poetry myself, whereas in this Swedish book, someone else put in the effort to gather facts, figures, names, dates, and other bits of historical accuracy. Creative writing vs history. First language vs a mish-mash of terrible Swedish. A book that requires an open mind vs a book that requires an index (what have I gotten myself into?).

            I keep adding to it, too. First I was just going to translate it, publish it so the fam can actually read our history. Then I thought I’d include an appendix with all the family history from its publication date to present day: every birth, death, marriage, every occupation, and even though it began as a small thought, the more I research it, the more I realize it’s about twice as much work as the original author put into it. And if there’s an appendix chronicling more current history, certainly there should be an appendix with photos and the like: portraits, business cards, post cards, letters, etc. Extra blank pages in the back, so everyone can write in whatever happens in the future. And possibly not-so-obviously, an index.

            Unsurprisingly, I expect to think of several more ideas before this thing goes to print. Not because I’m searching, but because apparently when it’s your destiny to do something, the fates won’t let you do it half-assedly.

            This project’s growth has forced me to push back the publication date again and again, but I hope I sound confident when I say Damn it, this thing’s gonna be available by July, so help me. So I might as well give it a late-June bookday, like my previous work. Publishing one book a year seems like a respectable pace. 

Writing 400 Reviews

I'm writing on the eve of creating my 400th review on Goodreads. Since it isn't my job to review books, I can't say that they're consistent. Some are just one word (and when that's the case, that word is usually "Nope"), some just a paragraph, and others require a more thoughtful and in-depth exploration. And, as I've rated over 1200 books, it seems that only every third book affects me enough to warrant sharing my thoughts. 

One reaction that took me too long to learn is stopping. Not so long ago, I would force myself to finish every book I started. I have to be honest: it didn't make me a better person. It would only make me miserable. Since then, I've applied this "stopping" to other storytelling media that fails me. Including (and here's where I lose people) The Walking Dead, Game of Thrones, and Doctor Who; a dozen comic titles; and several podcasts. That's not to say I won't ever return to these stories. They simply failed to meet my standards over a period of time, and I moved on to other things that did meet my standards. 

So now when I'm in the middle of a book I hate, I stop. My "to-read" list includes almost 1,000 books, and I'm thirty: I just don't have time to waste on things I don't like. If I have the next Jacqueline Carey up on deck, why would I force myself through another 200 pages of something I've been rolling my eyes about since page one? Instead, I'll reward my good taste with abandonment of that which annoys me, and pick up something I know I'll like, if not love. 

I have no review goals in mind. Unlike my "1000 books in 10 years" reading goal, it doesn't matter to me how many I review. I saw my review counter at just under 400 and thought, "Damn. That's a lot of books to talk about." Maybe I'll make it a centennial thing and revisit this topic at 500. If I'm not too busy reading, of course. 

Poem-A-Day

Throughout the process of getting The White Stairs ready to publish (and publishing it, etc), I've continued my 2015 resolution of writing at least one poem every day. I've fallen a bit behind, but I always catch up, so that on any given day, I don't owe more than a few poems to myself. It began as an exercise to keep myself writing, to get into a habit, and to expand my poetry base. Today is day 166 of the year, and since I've yet to write today's poem, I have completed at least 165 poems this year. 

They're not all gems. Some are limericks, haiku, other short forms that don't have names. I have a few I'm very proud of, and I have many that will never be read by anybody but me (until I die, at which point Hyperform has been charged with publishing everything, even the crap, because I'm dead, so what do I care?). Generally I see potential in one out of every seven or eight. 

This dedication is usually good. Hell, I have almost 200 poems from this year alone. But I don't write just poems, and don't want to write just poems. Poetry is, for what it's worth, what I do best. Besides sleeping. I'm excellent at sleeping. 

So there are times when I want to set aside the poetry and write more of my sci-fi thing that doesn't know what kind of thing it is, or my fanfic (shut up; my writing, my choice), or filling in the holes of that unfinished novel. But I don't. Still--poetry. This year, at least. And hey, I got a book out of it already. Must be doing something right. 

The White Stairs is published, dudes

When I was younger and liked writing stories or poems just for fun, sometimes I'd write one a month. Other times, they'd descend in swarms and I'd find myself the proud parent of forty, fifty poems from an hour of boredom. Then I went to school for it. 

I can only guess that I was accepted into my writing program because I had at least some promise. I don't think my alma mater would have invited me in if I had zero talent. I mean, obviously they wanted money, but I'm sure reputation has weight too, and they probably wouldn't want anyone to read my terrible work and say "Can you believe they gave her a degree? Guess they'll give 'em to anyone that pays. Strip them of their accreditation!" 

So let's agree that someone thought I had talent. Gosh I feel all warm and fuzzy now, comforted, and...well, I just ate a chocolate chip cookie so I suppose that could be this feeling. Anyway, talent: I had that. But in that collegiate setting, listening to successful writers, the first and most important thing I learned was discipline. Talent makes a hobby. Discipline makes a career.

I'm not talking about ridiculous, instant success. Every person measures success differently. At school I was told, again and again, that the "professional" of "professional writer" means you get paid for it. That would mean that, if I spent three hours a day doing complicated and technical computer stuff and earned a living from it, but at least seven hours of the day was devoted to writing, editing, and reading, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. That would mean that, if I wrote that often and produced really amazing stuff but I wanted people to read it for free, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. Talent, discipline, distribution, and an audience, but because I'm not paid, not "professional". That would mean that the author of a really awful--but published!--book was a professional writer, but me with my passion was not. 

I just don't buy it. 

I have no problem calling myself a professional writer. Part of this is because I have a difficult time caring about what random people think of me. I'm fine receiving constructive criticism from educated sources with similar or better talent and passion, and I listen to those people because I want to learn from them. But to say I'm not a "real" writer because I measure my success outside a box someone else constructed is a joke. 

I write every day. I edit every day. I read every day, to explore new forms and topics and lifestyles and just learn new things. I care about what I write. Every day, even if I'm tired or sick or exhausted or busy or just want to lie around watching BBC dramas and eating popcorn. That's the discipline that I learned at school, that's what changed my habits, and that's what changed how I see myself as a writer. It was a hobby when it was a whim, and it became a job when I started treating it like one. Sure, it's more difficult, but it's also worth it. 

Besides, I measure my success first by whether my poems actually kill anyone, and so far, I can tell you, all of them have successfully not caused death. It's hard not to get big-headed when you're batting a thousand. 

What Makes Writing More Than a Hobby

When I was younger and liked writing stories or poems just for fun, sometimes I'd write one a month. Other times, they'd descend in swarms and I'd find myself the proud parent of forty, fifty poems from an hour of boredom. Then I went to school for it. 

I can only guess that I was accepted into my writing program because I had at least some promise. I don't think my alma mater would have invited me in if I had zero talent. I mean, obviously they wanted money, but I'm sure reputation has weight too, and they probably wouldn't want anyone to read my terrible work and say "Can you believe they gave her a degree? Guess they'll give 'em to anyone that pays. Strip them of their accreditation!" 

So let's agree that someone thought I had talent. Gosh I feel all warm and fuzzy now, comforted, and...well, I just ate a chocolate chip cookie so I suppose that could be this feeling. Anyway, talent: I had that. But in that collegiate setting, listening to successful writers, the first and most important thing I learned was discipline. Talent makes a hobby. Discipline makes a career.

I'm not talking about ridiculous, instant success. Every person measures success differently. At school I was told, again and again, that the "professional" of "professional writer" means you get paid for it. That would mean that, if I spent three hours a day doing complicated and technical computer stuff and earned a living from it, but at least seven hours of the day was devoted to writing, editing, and reading, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. That would mean that, if I wrote that often and produced really amazing stuff but I wanted people to read it for free, I wouldn't be considered a professional writer. Talent, discipline, distribution, and an audience, but because I'm not paid, not "professional". That would mean that the author of a really awful--but published!--book was a professional writer, but me with my passion was not. 

I just don't buy it. 

I have no problem calling myself a professional writer. Part of this is because I have a difficult time caring about what random people think of me. I'm fine receiving constructive criticism from educated sources with similar or better talent and passion, and I listen to those people because I want to learn from them. But to say I'm not a "real" writer because I measure my success outside a box someone else constructed is a joke. 

I write every day. I edit every day. I read every day, to explore new forms and topics and lifestyles and just learn new things. I care about what I write. Every day, even if I'm tired or sick or exhausted or busy or just want to lie around watching BBC dramas and eating popcorn. That's the discipline that I learned at school, that's what changed my habits, and that's what changed how I see myself as a writer. It was a hobby when it was a whim, and it became a job when I started treating it like one. Sure, it's more difficult, but it's also worth it. 

Besides, I measure my success first by whether my poems actually kill anyone, and so far, I can tell you, all of them have successfully not caused death. It's hard not to get big-headed when you're batting a thousand. 

Things you may find here

I thought having a food blog would be fantastic. I’m at the point in my culinary experience that I can eyeball measurements, confidently substitute ingredients, and skim recipes before inventing my own methods. Hyperform (spouse) continues to be impressed by my one-handed, stir-fry/omelet flip (though as we discovered last weekend, this success doesn’t extend to vegan pancakes. Not enough binding ingredients to prevent it from falling apart and on the burner, pan handle, floor, my foot, the Monsters, etc. mid-air). But that blog sounds like a lot of work and really, I just adjust other people’s recipes, and it’s an affinity but not a passion. Pass.

Then there are the Monsters, those fluffy felines that provide a steady stream of story fodder. I don’t doubt there’s an audience for a cat blog, but I can’t justify being the one writing it. Also nope.

Just my writing endeavors? So that, in addition to the work I put into the craft, I now have to deconstruct the how and the why and the what on a regular basis? Way to kill a dream, blog.

So. This will be like my phone calls to my mom or friends. Random stuff, varied interests, sometimes talking about my writing but just as often ranting about blue jays or cheese. Maybe I’ll even have some structure to it, like my Monday entry will be about writing. I like structure. But sometimes I have a hard time sticking to a schedule. That sounds like a topic for a future blog post!