I am an associate professor of human services at a regional Midwestern university. I am also a writer of fantasy and romance, hoping to get traditionally published. I have one husband and am owned by four cats.
I have posted in my blog for 200 consecutive days. I have learned something from the process, mostly that if it weren’t for the post topic prompts in WordPress, I would never have written in my blog for 200 consecutive days. My mind doesn’t have that many topics to write about, especially in a busy semester.
I have also learned that the badge that I get daily: “You’re on a 200 day streak on Words Like Me!” is a far better motivator than I had guessed. Gamification is real. The tyranny of this little message drives me to post another day.
I don’t know how much longer I am going to write daily. I feel sometimes like I have nothing to say, or that people don’t care what I’m saying. Writing is a lot like that, though, sending words out into the world not knowing what impact, if any, they will have. On the other hand, 200 days is an awesome streak, and who wants to ruin that?
It has never occurred to me to write an autobiography. I don’t have a hook, or a reason people would want to read it. I’m not famous or infamous. I don’t have an exceptionally inspiring or tragic story, although I have overcome a childhood of abuse and bullying, and live successfully with bipolar disorder. I am pretty ordinary.
What I do have is joy. My day is filled with small joys — talking to people, being silly with my husband, playing with my cats. Nothing to write a memoir about, but joy is my natural state and my story.
The first sentence of any novel, any memoir, any written document is important. It grabs the reader and pulls them in. So my first sentence would have to be about joy. Something like:
‘When reflecting on my life, what stands out are moments of joy, with a feel that settles on me like a silver mist.’
I’ve concluded that my writing is not commercially feasible (traditional publishing) because it’s too short for fantasy. At 70,000 words on average, it’s not long enough for agents to be interested in it. It would be short enough for romance, but my writing is really fantasy (or to be more accurate, magical realism is more likely) which is not written short. However, I write tightly and don’t need all those words.
If I’m not selling in indie (self-published) markets, it’s because I can’t get enough traction with marketing. I have tried several things, and none of them seem to work. I feel like, if I wrote romantasy (heavy on traditional romance, lots of spice) I’d have a better chance, but I don’t feel moved to write about those things. I have a niche, but I can’t seem to get introduced to those people.
The saying “Do what you love, the rest will follow”? It does not seem true in my personal situation. I write because I’m possessed with ideas, and what possesses me is shorter novels. People have told me I’m a good writer. I think I’m a good writer.
I’m just trying to convince myself to keep writing, even though I don’t have a readership. It’s a hard sell, because I don’t do things just for myself; rather, I look at what they produce and whether they’re useful. Right now I am starting a garden; I don’t grow the seedlings for their own sakes. I grow them because they’ll give me food someday. My books will never give me food, and I have to figure out whether that’s okay.
I want to ban a word from general usage — ‘family’.
Hear me out. I’m not talking about the word family defined as people who are related. I’m not even talking about found family, where we surround ourselves with people we love. Those are both legitimate uses.
I would like to see ‘family’ in the business sense eliminated. Businesses these days don’t have employees, they have family. Colleges have family. The word is used to denote closeness, kinship, a homey feeling about the institution or business, especially from the workforce side. It feels good working for a family who will be there for you.
Which works right until layoffs. Then people are thrown out of the family without any support. The metaphor breaks down. “Did we say family? We’re a business and hard decisions need to be made.” The business is only family when it works in their favor to increase morale. Layoffs in academia are particularly brutal, because those laid off often have to stay until the end of the school year, surrounded by people who are no longer family. I have seen layoffs, and they make a mockery of workplace as family.
I would eradicate the business use of the word ‘family’ for all those who have been thrown out of their workplace.
I don’t do do-it-yourself. Or rather, I do sometimes, but the project often becomes complicated due to human error. My error.
One of the DIY projects I had many years ago was to redo the bathroom in my house. Not even an ambitious project, just painting the room and installing a ceiling vent fan that worked.
First, the ceiling fan. I stood on the rails of the tub with my tools in pocket and the hardware, juggling a phone because my dad was coaching me on installation. My dad, an electrician, told me I didn’t need to throw the breaker and could do the installation as long as I was careful. I was looking for the live wire, and the plethora of wires I was faced with didn’t correspond to what my father told me — there were too many, and what does this black wire mean? My dad told me to test them by tapping them together, so I tapped the black ones together. A big *snap* resounded and a fireball drifted past my face. “That’s the live wire,” Dad said. “Good to know, Dad.”
Then came the part where I was to paint the room. I decided on a gold sponge paint, which would liven up the pale cream of the walls. Sponge painting was very popular at that time. So I painted the walls with the help of a chair to get to the high places. I had gotten to the point where I had to paint the ceiling right over the bathtub/shower. I had one foot on the tub and one on the chair, not realizing that when I put pressure on the chair, it would move. The chair indeed moved, and I ended up doing the splits and then falling off the chair. Nothing much hurt but my pride.
These days, I do not do home renovation projects. No need to wonder why.
Daily writing prompt
Describe a phase in life that was difficult to say goodbye to.
Living in my home town was a particular sort of hell. I had only one friend, and we didn’t have much in common. I was no longer being bullied (much) in high school, but it was still a lonely, aggravating time.
I attended the University of Illinois for 11 years — four years of undergraduate and seven of graduate school. It took me a couple more years to get out of graduate school because of a pesky car accident in the middle of the process, but I didn’t mind. My college years were some of the best of my life.
My undergraduate years were the years of discovering myself, of finding out there were others like me out there. I was a quirky person with lots of enthusiasm and nerd credentials. I did not do well in a small town high school where I was the only one like me, but in my undergrad I discovered a D&D group I fit in with. I found other friends on the PLATO computer system. I started having actual escapades with my newfound friends.
Graduate school was when I came into my own. I discovered a peer group of people, an eclectic bunch, who spent every Saturday night together watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and hanging out. We celebrated holidays like May Day in medieval costume with probably the only portable May pole in the world. We were quirky as heck and I loved it. We were close enough that sometimes we got into arguments with each other, but that was good. It felt good to have a bunch of people I felt close to.
When I left to go to my first faculty job in upstate New York, I knew I would miss these people terribly. We had a packing and pizza party to commemorate our leaving (I was married at the time) and a couple of us drove toward New York the next day.
In New York, I was 900 miles away from my people. I survived, though, with the help of some new friends I made. I spent five years out there, making a new world for myself. Without those years in Champaign-Urbana, however, I would never have known how to.
It’s bitterly cold out, with a windchill of -25. Our university has a late start this morning, with nobody coming in till noon today. That’s right in time for my classes, which are all in the afternoon today.
I don’t like days like this. I like my routine, and if my routine gets disrupted, I wish they’d disrupt it all the way and give me a day off. I understand where they’re coming from — losing half a day of instruction is not as bad as losing the whole day, and the temperatures are going up (to a -15 windchill). Just because I function well with a change in my routine doesn’t mean I like it.
Right now, I am burned out on writing. Nothing I write seems interesting; everything feels like a slog. I am swamped with negative self-talk that tells me I can’t write. I avoid writing. I have no ideas that possess me.
I miss my flow activity. I miss my desire to make something good out of a pile of words. I miss writing, but not enough to muscle through my negative feelings.
I want to do nothing today. Absolutely nothing. I want to store up the nothingness so that when I go through my busy week, I feel rested and open to whatever the week throws at me.
It’s hard for me to do nothing. I will end up doing something, even if it’s reading Quora all day (a waste of time; I would probably accomplish more by napping). I will check on the plants in the basement and, if I feel bored enough, I will possibly write. That’s the only thing that gets me writing these days — absolute boredom, and my writing is desultory and not flowing.
If it were possible to store up sleep, I would take a nap. But napping will keep me awake at night, and I can’t afford to miss my lifetime sleep.
I will end up emulating the example of my cats, who do nothing for hours a day. Right now, Chloe is laying on the arm of my chair, cuddling up against me. I could certainly do worse.
My teenage self was traumatized. A childhood of irregular parenting, threats, and molestation will do that to a person. So will bullying at school. I had experienced all, and I became convinced of my unworthiness. It didn’t help that I was overweight, highly intelligent, and hopelessly awkward.
High school was a little better, with a reprieve from the bullying. I didn’t have any close friends, but at least I didn’t have active enemies. And I discovered extracurricular activities, like theatre and choir, and I did well at them. Still, it was a hellacious time for me. High school is filled with popularity contests (I was the polar opposite of popular), first loves (mine was unrequited), and future plans (at least I had that down — I wanted to go to college more than anything).
I survived high school, and then I went to college, where I finally found people like myself (nerds). I never felt like I truly belonged anywhere, but I found places where I fit in. College changed my life.
If I had my teenage self sitting in front of me, I would tell her that things will get better, that high school wasn’t life but a road block to get over. The high school experience isn’t real — going to prom with someone didn’t mean true love, and even true love dissolved in weeks (except for my unrequited crush, who married his high school sweetheart). The popularity will fade and have no meaning in one’s life. There are things that matter more, like finding one’s true self and navigating the world. I would be tempted to give her one glimpse of her future life, but I wouldn’t do so, because I want her future to be a surprise to her. A pleasant surprise.
Words Like Me 