Light Bulb Moment

I was able to change two bulbs in a bathroom fixture this morning.  The fixture was in an awkward position, and I had no experience with it.  I trusted that the glass would not fall on my head.

The act gave me such a feeling of accomplishment, I felt invincible for the first time in weeks.

Dreaming

At some point I know that when I close my eyes at night I'll stop seeing walkways of San Francisco.

At some point I stopped dreaming of Missouri when I came here.

Just waiting.

New Life

Two weeks in, and I've had time to start working on a routine.  Here's what I do in the new world:

• Monday and Wednesday mornings I ride with the sis-in-love to the library, where she volunteers.  I work on as much on-line writing as possible (you'll see why in a moment) and browse books;
• Tuesdays and Thursdays I walk to the library, two and a half miles, a mile of that without sidewalks.  I've written about that elsewhere;
• Wi-fi and cell phone service in this area are about par with Northwest Ohio.  I cannot get cell phone service in the Cove save for about an 18-inch square on my bed (which I am threatening to mark off with police chalk).  If I need to have a long conversation, I save it for when I'm at the library, and I call them outside in the picnic area.  My brother has wi-fi, but it isn't compatible with my Apple products, so if I want to get on-line in the apartment I have to use my 1 GB HP netbook and get on when my sis-in-love isn't on, which is rare;
• You'd think this reduced access would make me restless.  Not so much...I like not having the pressure of selling myself on-line 24/7.  It only irritates the crap out of me when I'm trying to do my new job, or wanting to listen to something on Spotify;
• Fridays I stay home and do laundry, vacuum Bob the Cat fuzz out of rugs and furniture, take out the recycling and trash, clean the stove, and generally revamp the world I live in.  I also do the dishes daily and keep my bathroom clean;
• Food.

Um, that last one requires a bit of narrative.  Bear with me--it's got a hopeful ending.

My brother and sis-in-love have created a distribution of the bills and groceries so that she could do go this lengthy amount of time without working.  (I should mention here that S does volunteer--Mondays and Wednesdays at the library, Tuesdays and Thursdays with the City of Carlsbad, and Fridays at the Senior Center.  This is commendable, but she doesn't job hunt much.  After being here two weeks I can almost see why if she limits herself to Carlsbad, but there are jobs in San Diego, many of which I have sent out feelers on.)  This distribution of bills is a compromise that puts the majority of the weight on my brother.  Keep in mind that S owns a property in Fresno and doesn't rent it out (although they are looking into that option).

This is a wary subject for me because technically they didn't have to take me in.  My brother offered, though, and the other option was to discontinue existence, so I can't say that this is such a bad option.  However, I don't know if everyone involved was onboard with the solution when it was offered.  Needless to say, when you're suicidal you don't want to hear how much you are costing one member of the party.  There were no outright statements--just how expensive everything is.  I starved myself for about four days trying to avoid the lectures, and then found out that regardless of how little I ate it was still too much.  There is nothing worse than being hungry, depressed, and a burden.

A friend from San Francisco sent me a care package, and she can't much afford it.  Someday, when I have more money than a five dollar bill in my wallet, I'll find a way to repay her.  But something else happened after those four days--something shifted in me.  The mace-faced girl who used to work in Oakland kicked in and sat back and watched the dynamic.  For you see, S does this penny-pinching with my brother, too. And while I don't want to interfere with their dynamic, I know that I have to find a way to let the miser-umbrella wash away.  So I'm eating again.  And no, I'm not stuffing myself to be obstinate.  I'm just eating enough to survive.  

Which is only what I deserve.

Fuel.  To write on.

The Knot, End of the Discussion (For Now)

Whenever I experience a change in my own habits, I tend to panic.  My subconscious says, "Nope, don't think so," and then I'm scrambling to figure out what the flip I really want, when what I really want I just established.

Since the advent of the novel, I have a problem:  I don't really want to read.  I can't wait to find out what happens next in my own story, so anything on-line, off-line, longer than a poem, smaller than a breadbox tends to be an obstacle.  (Hell, blogging tends to be an obstacle.  But I am here to record the truth of the matter, dear writer.)  Shut up, world, and let me see what the protagonist does now.

I know why I want to shut off the outside and just write:

• I'm afraid I'm going to lose this great story if I read someone else's; 
• I still have a whole bookcase of books not yet read.

Lack of work/life balance, that's all.  I still need to read; if I wrapped myself up in my own work I would be operating with a sense of hubris that is relative to that of a Yankee player or Top Gun pilot.  But by feeling this way about reading, I can come to a compromise; I no longer need to finish a book because I was dumb enough to buy it (even though it's bringing me down), and I no longer need to clean off a bookshelf in a month.  I've read down the stack to the point that all of the books from the floor are gone, everything's properly shelved, and if I stop myself in the bookstore with "hey Jo, you have enough books and your own book at home" then I can curl up with a book and stop clocking in at one hundred pages a sitting.

Unless, I'm writing, that is.

I'm grateful to finally be picky, and grateful to have a novel, strangely enough.  In the advent of no husband, no children, no pool and no pets, I'm grateful to have my version of a progeny, and one that I adore so freely, without having to learn about the subject matter from the ground up.

Write on.

Encrypted

I've been carrying a Moleskine journal with me more and more lately, a soft companion with no rules.  I clip a gel-writing pen to the cover, usually with some outlandishly-colored blood in its veins, and I sit in bars, coffee shops, bookstores (not for the faint of heart, that; staff may think you are writing in a book of theirs) and park benches, spilling the beans.  I sometimes get out my BlackBerry and take pictures of the evidence, and put it on Foursquare for geographic reference or on Facebook with a fat cookie or cake piece to get comments...and I do get comments.  For the sweets.

Rarely do I get compliments on Facebook for my writing.  I'm starting to wonder if it's because I write in cursive, and if the friends who follow me on Facebook can read something that isn't a downloadable font.

I'm a minority in the pictures of this subject.  I'm also a minority in my writing groups.  Often in a group of three to fifteen people I am the only one going analog.  I adore analog.  I'm truly myself with analog, free to stumble, run, swim or fly over the pages.

Sometimes, though, the pages represent time wasted eternal to an outsider.  "You go to so many writing group meetings," say non-writing friends, and even some fellow members.  "Is your bedroom overflowing with filled journals?"  No, but more because I am a slow writer, a careful writer, even in private.  I got my very deliberate cursive from a strict teacher in the sixth grade, who told me my handwriting was awful (it was legible), and that if I made a concentrated effort to improve it, then I would be accepted into her special class for something called Calligraphy, where I could dip a pen in ink and create fancy letters like the ancients.  Few kids bit at this bribe, but I was lonely enough then to bite at anything...sort of like I am lonely enough now to bite at any social networking site or technology just to find companionship.  With the calligraphy class I learned to change my handwriting (my fifth-grade handwriting and my seventh-grade handwriting look like two different people--I'm lucky I didn't have to sign things at that age), and grip the pen with such worry that two things happen when I write:

• You can't take my pen from me--the hand will come along for the ride;
• I cramp up about a page in and can no longer feel my middle finger at the tip.

I have been told to loosen up by other teachers, physiological medical professionals, even psychiatrists.  I've tried, but then the distinctive art is lost.  I would rather be in pain and combative when it comes to my writing than relax and lose the picture.

Occasionally, someone will shock me and be on my side.  I'm used to my handwriting, so the shock comes from seeing the beauty again from the outside.  There's a cafe in North Beach in San Francisco that has fallen in love, collectively, with my pages--I have been known to get free drinks with my letters.  I've written for charity without a laptop, contributing by the page, for the penmanship.  And occasionally someone in the writing group will see me prepare for the session and their jaw will drop on the table.  "That paper is unlined," they'll say, and point, as though I just hurled a submarine pitch and the ump called it fair.  "How come you can do that and the paper is UNLINED?"  Because I'm a freak, I think, but just smile to the inquisitor.  My control issues work FOR me in this department.

This afternoon I was skimming my news feed through Twitter and found this, tucked in amongst the baseball stats, Kindle Fire announcements, and publication pointers.  My favorite journal manufacturer is sponsoring a project to collect something that may be a lost art in just a few generations, and that art is HANDWRITING?  You mean at some point someone is going to need a comparable Rosetta Stone to decipher me?  You mean that I, the least hip person and probably not one of the smartest people on the face of the planet, is using something akin to Navajo spy messages or passing down an oral tradition in recipe?  

Or code?

And all of the apathy toward my life from outsiders, all of the things I'm not smart enough to see and all of the things I have to keep up with to be published and "liked," were washed away.  I have a gift.  I have the writing equivalent of the knuckleball, long lost to pitchers because they can't maintain control of it.  I can maintain control of it, in the knot between my fingernail and my hand.  I have the ball at the seams, and I send the curves flying, so slowly that the page thinks it can be hit out of the park, still swinging at something lost in the tomorrows.  Suddenly, I feel relevant, and...surprisingly precious to an unsuspecting world.

Write on...a lost art.

POP-u-lerr, Think of It As Personality Dialysis

Yeah.  I love musicals.

*****

Every Monday and Tuesday night, in some cafe in the City, me and a few of my closest fellow writers sit ourselves down, introduce ourselves, and then shut up for an hour and put our thoughts on paper.  We sit mere feet from the tracks of the N Judah line, on opposite ends of it, clanging bells and espresso machines and the chef's choice of either jazz tunes or KFOG visions peppering our gumbo of thoughts.  I am the one calling time so that the pens can fly and the keyboards click.  I'm wired.  I'm sitting with a band of writers and my last corporate mentor sits at the back of my brain and gives me a stern stare:  "Show me your discipline, your focus."

I can't write a word.

Then I tell myself, "Free up, we'll keep it in the journal.  You don't have to publish this one."  And I don't publish yet another one.  I don't share yet another set of words with the universe, either because I know it's not intelligent enough to warrant comments, or because the kind of comments it would generate would stump me.  Or, worse, I would assault someone just by publishing the piece.

So my writing comes out in small, furious, tentative slivers, barely a wisp of smoke from where I'm standing.

I'm sitting waist deep in a river of writers and dying of fear of my own shadow.  The Tea Party can publish treatises that would make Dick Cheney sing the Hallelujah chorus, but I'm afraid to ruffle feathers or lose the last of a few fragile friendships.  I can't seem to comprehend a friend supporting me regardless of my opinion, and yet others who I haven't seen in twenty years could not only express a differing opinion but tell me that as a writer I shouldn't have missed on something so obvious, and I embrace their opinion.  I don't consider any of my ideas mature enough to present, even when I've read all over the board on the subject matter and have written the resolve out in my mind.  When no one else has presented my side of the argument, I see it as a miss on my part, not innovation.  Hmm...if no one's invented the light bulb, it's because there's something wrong with wanting artificial light, right?

Then I explode with my opinion.  Case in point, my post on another blog about the BART protests.

I opened up that post with fair warning--I was not going to respond to comments on that post.  I was angry at two aspects of the world when I wrote that:  a) I couldn't side with the sloppy, ineffective and reckless approach of the protesters; and b) I am probably the most inarticulate person on Earth.  I love words, nuance, and a slew of other inconvenient aspects of literature so damn much that they stop me from being a good, and intelligent writer.

Not to say I can't learn.  I apparently do not know how.

On a daily basis I come to the typewriter angry, and entirely at my own responsibility.  I hold myself back until I explode, when I should be writing, should be falling, should be placing my foot squarely in my mouth, if for no other purpose than to learn.  I need to learn that making mistakes and writing those mistakes gives me permission to get it right next time.

And by "right" I mean in my own voice.  Not closer to the trend.  Closer instead to authentic for me, and closer to what my perception is.  If I don't trust the voice of my perception, then I am no better than those reviewers on Amazon and Yelp who are paid $5 a review to express praise they don't truly believe.  I'm preparing a recipe in which I hate the smell of the primary ingredient.  That could generate enough creative anger to last a (albeit shortened by stress) lifetime.

I realize I don't have to tear the door down with a battering ram.  While my goal is not to be popular or safe in my approach, it's also not to shock readers just for the sake of shocking them.  I'm no Madonna or Lady Gaga.

I have to write to discover.  No matter how unpleasant the outcome is.

Lastly, and probably the most difficult part to learn, is what to do about the comments, or lack of them.  I obviously have some unnatural phobia of apathy and criticism.  I often want an honest discussion and end up getting silence, total and yet vague agreement, or incredulous disbelief that I could be so wrong. My growth opportunity is in embracing comments for whatever form they come in, even if the trolls, strike, or if the post generates no commentary at all.  I need to strike boldly forward and have a self-discussion or self-critique ready, but not a self-censorship.  I doubt that my readership will grow beyond what it is now, but just in case my self-censorship and consequential outbursts are what is limiting my readership, I have to make changes.

And I have to ask myself:  do I want to be the resident expert, or do I want to be on a quest?

God, I love quests.

Social Writing

Probably the most difficult thing that I've had to get used to with the writing groups is maintaining a balance of social interaction with the craft. I've been with this group for four years and in nearly every session there are participants who show up late, show up with strange requirements, or show up thinking that we are going to talk through the entire session. The group is a simple one--write together on a project of your making for an hour. Still, writers come in expecting the social element, or critique afterward--what Natalie Goldberg wrote as the writer's affirmation. You want someone to pat you on the back for doing this for an hour. You want others to praise you just for showing up. But that's not going to happen. You need to come here to write with others, period. That's why the name of the group is "Shut Up & Write."

We do talk a little before and little after, which I think lends to the process for the people who return again and again. But for those who demand attention in that golden hour--I have to learn patience, every night. Yet, that patience is golden when they produce it in me. I feel as though I have been given my own affirmation.

Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway was injured in WW I, which gave him more than just a creative advantage--he had to stand up to write.

I could take a lesson from him. It's actually healthier for those with sedentary careers to get up several times during the course of the day and walk, or, if they prefer, work standing up for periods of the day. So I'm taking a tip from Hemingway at the moment and typing on my jewelry box. It's sturdy, it's a perfect height, and I need a reminder of good posture over the course of my day.

I don't need to lose weight. I need to feel better. Period.

*****

I belong to a group on Facebook called Writers on the Move, started by writer Christina Katz. So far most of my time in the group has been spent offering a thought here and there, reading the updates, but not doing much. I think by doing this I'm throwing away a gift horse.

I need to be more mindful when I read these posts in this group. This is about the only way that I can identify with Christina other than being a writer--I was recommended to her a few months back, but so much of her stuff is about motherhood it kind of got in the way of finding a kindred spirit. With the fitness AND the writing, however, I feel more of that kinship, and less of wanting to be a mother when I can't by one more networking center. It works, for now. I hope it keeps working, and while I don't skip the entries from the group about how the children are holding up the workout and the writing goals, I do give them the same amount of weight as my challenges. I'd like to think that's progress.

Write on...

How to Deal With Interruption

Since yesterday my sinus issue has become a full-blown cold, complete with a streaming nose and fuzzy thinking.

Perfect for a writer hoping for a progress beyond interruption.

I'm giving myself somewhat of a break by lightening my load to carry in my handbag. For two to three nights a week (and one day on weekends when I attended the writing marathons) I would carry two bags or stuff my regular handbag with so much stuff that I would hurt myself. That will end starting today. I'm packing a pocket Moleskine, free-writing instead of expecting great strides (I'm shooting for the big strides at home), and for reading I'm accessing the Kindle app on my phone. When meeting other writers is hard work, then writing socially has to be re-thought and the expectations reset.

I met with my brother yesterday and he asked if I was booked the rest of the week. Cancel my writing groups? This is important to me, so I didn't press it. I know they are free meetings, but they give me access to other writers, instead of imprisoning me with other coworkers.

Passion friends vs. friends via imprisonment.

I'm going to keep working toward that, regardless of the physical struggles.

Honing

I get tired of constantly starting over. It makes it hard to hone the sword.

Two weeks ago I spent a week in Carlsbad, which kept me away from most of my writing for that week, and then last week my dad was in the hospital, so even though I had time I felt I shouldn't be writing...

And Tuesday my brother is coming to the South Bay to stay through Friday. So I have to pre-write Tuesday's blogs and then drop them in the morning on Tuesday before I take off, taking me out of the loop on the blogs for the day AGAIN...

Hemingway used to say something about how no one will disturb you writing, but you have to set that up. My teacher Natalie Goldberg talked about making time for writing regardless, so that if an atom bomb goes off while you are writing, then, dammit, you'll go out writing.

THAT'S where I want to be. Going out writing when the atom bomb comes.

Oh, and I found out last Thursday how much I missed free-writing. Have to work that back into the schedule that I can't keep somehow.

It will improve. Without me having to be stubborn or cruel. If I can find a book lost in the environmental city, I can find writing again.

Write on.

Back to the Page...

Four days without structured writing makes Jo a bit grumpy. So we're back to the pages today. I'm also incorporating a whole lot more exercise in the picture, since I'm tired of having no energy all day long. That could be due to other physiological factors, but I'll give the exercise thing a try anyway. It has to be better for me than sitting around.

And...tomorrow my brother's in the South Bay, so not much writing will go down tomorrow, sadly, unless I pack the laptop with me. Tempting...

Write on.

Barriers

I'm overcoming two challenges today:

• The writing group I'm leading tonight at 6:30 pm is held about three blocks from the Mission office of the SFPD. If yesterday's protests in that area repeat, I may have a story tomorrow of "you should see the other guy." Or maybe I won't have a story tomorrow. Depends on whether I get bailed out or shot. (Seriously, this is the part of San Francisco I loathe and despise.)
• I have to write a sex scene.

Strangely, after spending three years working in Oakland, the thing I'm most scared of on that list is writing the sex scene.

Write on.

Back to the Paper...

I've been working in some rather unorthodox circumstances for the last week, as though I am holding my breath or hurrying through my writing so that I could go do something else.

Today is all about the writing.

I get to stay home, pull the old typing desk out of the corner and place it where I can look out the window, and work my way through all kinds of projects, that before San Diego, I was keeping perfect pace with. I have quite the list.

And my heart is finally calm, with no rush or flutter.

Write on.

Morning Pages

Each morning, when I first wake up and before I stuff my face for breakfast, I write three pages longhand, morning pages. The inspiration for it came from a book that a friend gave me last November by Julia Cameron concerning a writer's "diet," but I've read "The Artist's Way" when I first started reading Natalie Goldberg and other writing gurus, so I was already familiar with the concept. (The best explanation that I've found of morning pages can be found here.)

Sometimes, for stretches of days, I feel that the pages are useless. This past week, on vacation, I sort of resented them--they got me up early so that I could have the chance to finish them before family woke up and required my attention. And this morning, my first day back from vacation, I spent longer than usual with them because I wanted to get down to the "real" writing, like my blogs and short stories. Each sentence was torture. I thought, "Do I really need this?"

The thing is, if I don't do these pages, it's an emotional difference, like missing life-sustaining prescription medication in the morning. The first Saturday I was on vacation my brother was up before I could get to pages, so I put them off until the next day. Yesterday I didn't get to them until three o'clock in the afternoon. Both times I got angry--I felt like I had been denied something that was either strongly a part of me or necessary to my psychological well-being.

What is happening with the morning pages when I drag with them is I am self-censoring. I just have to spill them, no matter how crappy they sound or read. And I keep forgetting that. I write so much for the world to read now that I forget to save a little for me.

So we'll try again. Just one more day. :)

Write on.

From the Department of "Well, That Was Dumb"

I'm having one of those mornings where I got off to a weird start. I bought yet another laptop bag yesterday, and in the transfer of writing supplies to take with me to the library I forgot my pouch of back-up pens. I've Tweeted the fact, Facebooked the fact...I'm obsessed. This was supposed to be a writing session.

And it was. Just an on-line one, is all. I'm still working on adaptability issues, obviously. City writer, country writer. :) (Thanks, Robin.)

And for those of you following my bag count...I picked up this little gem at the outlet mall, Kenneth Cole, $17, AND it matches my current handbag. Oh, I'm such a girl.

I'm at the Carlsbad City Library this morning, the Georgina Cole branch, while Serena volunteers at the Senior Center. Yes, I could have volunteered with her. Yes, I was selfish about my writing and chose that instead this week. I'm used to the San Francisco Public Library, which isn't much different from this library at the satellite branches. The two biggest differences are:

• The librarians here are so friendly they greet you coming in, and they invite you to stay and read a while. "It's hot out there; you better stay put," was my instruction on Wednesday. I readily complied and read for two hours that day. (Had plenty of ink and I read the whole time--oh, for God's sake, let it GO already, Jo...) The San Francisco librarians are pleasant, but you have to get in front of them and make yourself known. I suspect that has to do with the second difference, below...
• About 30% of the patrons at the SF Public Library are homeless people, camping in the temperature control with free knowledge. I don't begrudge them that, although it lends an unmistakable aroma to a library in San Francisco that for the most part does an excellent job of keeping me from curling up with a book there. In this library there is just one homeless person, and none that I could find at the main branch over on Dove Lane. The homeless woman here seems disturbed but well-behaved--I imagine she doesn't want to be thrown out in this heat.

I love the Main Branch of the SF Public Library for it's grandeur, but I must say that I love these little libraries for their humanity. Today I had to journey upstairs for a vacant writing table, but Wednesday I got a table right by checkout, and got to talk to children. One little girl who I swear came up to my knee insisted on showing me the correct way to self-checkout (Tina Fey, Jr.), and another little girl passed my table and demanded that she wish me goodbye and that I have a good day. This friendliness seems consistent with much of Carlsbad--Mike and Serena's neighbors invite me over to their units and show me pets and renovations with relish, offer up sunburn cure-alls, and ask if I'm looking for a vacancy down here. They even nod in agreement about my love of San Francisco--"Oh, I understand, hon. Just saying you have a home here if you want it." At the cafe yesterday two people stopped to ask me about the library book I was reading, and if I was reading it for work. STRANGERS. It's like Mayberry meets Surf City.

Well that's enough writing for now...I'm going to finish that book I started on Wednesday and wait to see what the tide will bring.

Write on. :)

Rain, And Distractions

So I woke up this morning to rain, which made me grumpy. Ok, I was kind of grumpy already--lots of dishes in the kitchen today that I didn't need to do, but I do them every day so I did them today. Grumpiness out of the way, and then it rains. Grumpiness renewed. I was going to go to the grocery store today. No dice. Eating the last of my food.

Ok, mood reset.

The only thing I have to do today is write. When the holiday is over I probably have to go back to work--which means I'm going to have to do some crappy job that has nothing to do with writing, or nothing to do with managing or teaching...holy criminy, Jo, just STOP. I keep forgetting to take one day at a time. Yes, it's raining today. Yes, there were a boatload of dishes. But one frickin' day at a time.

I'll learn it. Just watch me.

Meantime, Giants have scored one against the Cubs and I'm getting my writing done. And I don't have to go to the grocery store.

Write on.

Follow Through

My most difficult challenge these days is trying to not to push other writers into discipline.

This is a particular challenge with the Meetup "Shut Up & Write!" meetings. I'm to the point where I am attending nearly every meeting, and in each one, whether I try to hide it or try to advertise it, it comes out that I'm a veteran of these meetings. Someone (or more than one person) ends up talking to me and asking me about my writing habits, about how to meet people in San Francisco, or confessing to me how they just can't get anything written.

I can relate. I have been there. I sometimes go there.

But at the end of the day, if you don't love to write as much (or more) as life itself, then bear in mind that it won't be good. It may take off. You may become famous. I'm reading a novel right now by someone who wanted to be famous. That's how the book reads, anyway. It's action-packed. It's all exotic.

It's a string of vomiting and sex linked by a train ride. I'm debating whether to stop reading it, because I'm hoping the second half of the novel will redeem the first half. I'm running a risk, though. It could just be more of the same.

That writer got lucky. I could love writing and write every day for all of time and not get published. The thing is, in the end, if that stops me.

It doesn't. So when they ask me for advice, I just say what my mother said, "Be patient." That's my stock answer. At the end of the day they either take it and write for the whole hour or the whole day (in the case of marathons), or they have better things to do or less want to write, and I see that come out, too.

My task is to let it go and not lecture them. Not everyone is cut out to be a writer. Even some of those who are published.

Write on.

Blank Day

As promised, I didn't get to write much yesterday--in fact, the only thing I finished was my morning pages. And that was completed on Caltrain.

Today may be better, but I'm not holding my breath. I have a lot of housekeeping to do today, and I don't want to execute self-defeating behavior. And there has to be time left over for physical activity occasionally. When I listened to Jane Smiley on Tuesday she talked about how she felt that authors need to fuel themselves with physical activity within writing activity. She rides horses, and her explanation was an answer to "How do you have time?" We tend to make time for what is important to us. The equal balance of intellectual and physical are important to Smiley, as it is to me.

That said, I have some writing to do before the next load of laundry comes out.

Write on.

Jane

Another close encounter with literature last night...got to listen to and meet Jane Smiley. Of her and Mary Roach, I would rather talk with Mary...Jane was a bit too college PhD for me. It was a treat to hear her though. I was most struck by her comment that she loves what she is working on now best, because it keeps her optimistic.

I was amazed that there was nearly no one there. This woman won a Pulitzer, and I didn't have anyone sitting on either side of me. Was Smiley amazed by this? She didn't reveal it if she was. I don't know why I keep thinking of writers as rock stars, when no one else my age seems to. Sad fact: at all of these events, I'm the youngest person in the room, by sometimes up to twenty years younger. What will happen to the culture in the years to come? I feel old and yet like a kid when I go to these things. I'm caught between two ages--go to an event that costs hundreds of dollars like an Adele concert or Stephen Colbert's political march in Washington DC, or go to see the authors who write the words I relate to? I wish I could be cool, but I can't.

In a minor shift, however, there is a cartoonist with the Bay Citizen who always seems to end up at these events with me, although I never meet him. He looks to be my age in his pictures, or maybe even younger. Suddenly, despite being surrounded by retirees, I feel youth in my choices, and it keeps me going back.

Write on.

An-tici-pa-tion...

It's a gloomy morning here in the Inner Sunset district of San Francisco, although God knows the sun is trying to burn through the fog. I am moving around the apartment, doing "knucklehead" stuff, as they would call certain tasks on "West Wing" that fell below the radar of POTUS. I got cleaned up, had my healthy breakfast, did one load of dishes (there were two loads in the sink, so I have more knucklehead stuff for this afternoon), paid bills, filed papers, and in a few minutes will get to the job search. I am doing knucklehead stuff for a couple of reasons: I do this garbage every Monday; and I am waiting for UPS to deliver a package. Last month I signed up for something called Lost Crates, where, once a month, the recipient gets a sampling of the latest and greatest in art and/or writing supplies, without knowing what they'll be. It's probably the last thing I can afford, but I was intrigued, just to see what it would be, to have the anticipation of looking forward to something akin to a care package, as though I was still young enough and still learning enough to get those.

It's been a couple of months like that, though...looking forward to Giants games, to the Treme tour concert, to the Woody Allen movie, all at discounts, and all unexpected. This package will be the last big event for a while, and then I'll have to create events of my own--maybe a new job in the traditional sense, maybe a story sold.

*****

For a long time I thought of Meetups as something formal, only operated by the truly sane and secure in themselves. The founder and original organizer of the Meetup series that I attend, "Shut Up and Write!" set the bar high. He's the perfect vision of manager/facilitator/mentor/motivator; when one of the group's members says, "Hey, why don't we have one in Berkeley?" his response is, "Yes, why don't YOU look into that?" This empowerment has created a spreading of the group throughout the Bay Area and continued it to New York City (with two groups there) and a new possibility now in Toronto. It's a great way to spread the word and the concept of the group geographically.

It's creating a bit of skirmish back here in the home turf, though.

Different organizers take different accountability for their groups, to be sure. The founder wants to make sure that every Shut Up and Write session is consistent, so that if you like Shut Up and Write you'll tell your friends, and either they'll come with you or go to a Shut Up and Write in their neighborhood. Keep in mind that the group has reached that level--this past week there were meetings in Berkeley, SoMA, the Mission, the Inner Richmond, and the Castro/Duboce Park area. I love that layout--I can finally go to Meetups close to me (for me, a Meetup that's close is one bus-line away from me), and I'm sure others find the locations that aren't close to me close to their homes or workplaces. It's a great idea. And so what if meetings fall on the same day as other meetings? It's still a great way to choose.

It's a great selection for everyone but one of the organizers, that is. Last week two of the organizers scheduled for the same time slot--one a long-established meeting in the Mission, one a first-time meeting in the Inner Richmond. Delightfully, the Inner Richmond is not only closer but in a library, so that I have a shorter commute AND I don't have to buy coffee and snacks to write. Surprisingly, the first-time meeting had more people sign up and actually show up than the long-established meeting, and I know from talking to that facilitator before that he was probably livid. He is a facilitator that does contract work, and he's in the middle of a project right now and doesn't come to his own meeting very often, but he hates it when other groups try to copy-cat or try to borrow the Shut Up and Write concept. I've always bit my tongue to keep from reminding him that we borrowed the concept from Natalie Goldberg.

I see this week, on Monday, that neither Wednesday group has scheduled. I can almost bet what has happened. Either neither one of the facilitators are scheduling, waiting to see if the other one will, or, they are both duking it out with the founder to see if this is ethical. Either way it seems a bit erratic--there's no Wednesday night meeting yet, and, if you want to grow your group, shouldn't you get a calendar up as soon as possible so that potential group members would want to make plans? Don't you at least want to LOOK stable?

All I could think of was Natalie Goldberg's final pages of "Long Quiet Highway," where she sat for peace in downtown Santa Fe every weekday from noon to twelve-thirty. She had been practicing Zen for years, and this wasn't a protest, it wasn't "partisan," it was just her way of dealing with the first Gulf War. I look at it this way--if I could write regardless, like Nat, then I'm grounded, I'm stable, and maybe others will join me. I'm thinking that they will be more likely to join me if I show up myself, but if not, well, that's their practice. Maybe it's time to establish a practice of my own, a Shut Up and Write of my own, to show up to regardless.

And it would be something to look forward to, without any doubt at all.