I want to remind my readers that I write books. I don’t mention that much.
I write romantic fantasy and fantasy romance. The difference between those is the emphasis; fantasy romance is mainly romance and romantic fantasy mainly fantasy.
The fantasy romance novels concern the Kringle Society, a secret society of Santas that infiltrate towns with good deeds. Quirky people fall in love and become involved in the community. You will find Santa scholars, Renaissance re-enactors, toymakers, college professors, and the occasional accountant among the people featured. These are sweet romances; ‘closed door’ in romance parlance.
The romantic fantasy novels feature an agricultural collective, what some might call a commune. The residents are hard workers; they are pacifists, back-to-nature sorts, and people who seek community. Add to the mix immortals, the earth-soul Gaia, and the possible demise of humanity, and you have a people with life-changing secrets hidden in plain sight.
My dream job, which should not surprise regular readers of this blog, would be an author. I am an author now; the difference would be that I actually received enough money from my writing to live on.
Making a living as an author is difficult, especially when one is an indie author. The indie writers I know who support themselves write romances and publish several a year. I will never be that prolific, although I’ve had years where I’ve written two novels.
The odds of my being able to support myself as a writer are infinitesimally small. The only way I will write full-time is after I retire. I have accepted this.
If I could un-invent something, I would un-invent weapons of mass destruction. I would just eliminate them from the earth. I would un-invent mutually assured destruction, the arms race, the nightmare of my childhood during the Cold War.
I remember reading a science fiction series where the premise of war was that the only weapons you could use were those that brought you to arm’s length from your opponent — in other words, swords and spears. With the books, this was to prohibit psychic warfare, but it makes sense to me. Weapons of mass destruction kill thousands, even millions of people while keeping one’s hands clean.
One could argue that this would eliminate all area bombs. I’m fine with that. If it gets rid of assault weapons, even better. I could get rid of all weapons, but I think hunting is a legitimate use of weapons (I am not a vegetarian).
What would war look like if we could get rid of looming threats? I hope it would be shorter. And less lethal.
Right now, I would eat any snack that came my way — even durian pudding! I’m hungry and I have to fast for a blood test, so I’m obsessing a little about food.
Not much to say here — I’m back to work today. Think of today as an inservice day, where I spend the morning in informative sessions and my afternoon in meetings. In other words, I will sit a lot.
I don’t know if I feel ready for this semester. That’s the question faculty all ask each other during the beginning of semester meetings: “Are you ready for classes?” And nobody ever says yes. I say, “About as ready as I can be” because some things one can’t prepare for.
What are my classes going to be like? Will I have a bunch of students ready to learn? Will my students read the book? Will they be prepared for class? These can make a difference in how well the class goes.
My classes are online, my schedule is laid out on my computer, and I’m about as ready as I can be.
It’s my last day of freedom, and I am going to use it to accomplish absolutely nothing. I’m going to store up on rest as if it was a rare commodity (which it is). I got all my work done on classes early and even have my schedule for my door prepared. (Oops, it’s not quite done; guess I have a bit to do).
This week will be easy; inservice and meetings tomorrow, followed by the next couple of days of work-at-home. The fun starts next week as we start classes.
I’m not ready for this!
Of course I am. I’ve been doing this for over 30 years. I got this.
I used to think I wanted to live a lengthy life. As a child, I joked that I wanted to survive to the US’s tricentennial in 2076, so I could help them avoid all the tacky memorabilia I remembered from the bicentennial. I would be 114 in that scenario.
Nowadays, I wonder if living that long would be tenable. I have some kidney damage from a medication I used to take for my bipolar, and I don’t know where that’s going to go as I get older. As it is, I am forbidden from all the good over-the-counter pain meds and a lot of the prescription meds. I’ve got a couple ‘wait and see’ issues in a couple of other places. I don’t want to live a long life if it’s only going to be pain and illness, unless it gives me enough wellness to write and visit with people.
I feel my mortality right now. I’m 61, and I know I will not live forever. I’m fine with it.
I believe we influence the path our lives take by our thoughts. Would I go as far as saying our thoughts cause reality? Realistically, no, but I can be superstitious. At the very least, I believe that my thoughts subconsciously affect my actions.
This comes to play in my writing career (can I call it a career?) I am afraid of people discovering my books. I have a walloping fear of being exposed as a fraud, of being called a bad writer, of people objecting to my sometimes controversial twists. There’s an entire list of lurking fears.
Could this be impeding anyone discovering my writing? As I said, I can be superstitious. It’s not consistent with the rationality of a professor, but I leave room in my life for the less-than-rational. Which means I have to do something about this.
I am envisioning a simple ritual, where I write all the things I’m afraid of on a good piece of paper with my favorite fountain pen, and then I burn it. Probably in the sink, so I don’t catch the house on fire. Do I believe this will work? It fits in the framework of the superstition.
I learned about mission statements as a professor, when an assignment I inherited was to make students write professional mission statements. The source I found said that mission statements should be short and explain what one wants to accomplish but not how. I use that definition still.
I believe in mission statements. I think it’s motivating to have a statement to look at that gives direction and inspiration. Unlike a motivational statement, a mission is tailored to the individual.
I don’t have a personal mission. I think this is a bad thing, because it means I drift from day to day, doing what I need to do. And in a way, I think that is true. Perhaps it’s because I’m over sixty, or because I don’t feel driven to do things the way I used to. Perhaps it’s because I’m being treated for bipolar. At any rate, I have no personal mission.
I do have a teaching mission and a writing mission, however. Maybe it’s because those are things I do rather than who I am. My teaching mission is togive people the ‘Aha!’ reaction. Notice it’s short and sweet and does not talk about how. It’s my responsibility to make the ‘aha’ part of how I teach. My writing mission is to make fantasies romantic and romances fantastic. As I write fantasy romance and romantic fantasy, this is an accurate mission, even with the wordplay.
I still think I need that personal mission. I don’t want anything trite or false. I want a catchy mission because I like words, or as a friend once said, “words like me”. Maybe something like to make my life an ‘aha’ experience. That’s close. Let me think about it.
I have only attended one university for my education, and that is the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
University of Illinois was an excellent school. I didn’t pick it because of reputation; I didn’t think that way as an undergraduate. I picked it because I visited Champaign-Urbana with my dad once and fell in love with the towns. Like in many other parts of my life, I fell into a good decision.
In academia, it is strongly discouraged to attend the same university for graduate school as for undergraduate. However, my undergrad was in a significantly different field than my graduate degree, so the intellectual stagnation of such a move wasn’t an issue. My undergrad degree was in Foods in Business, a food industry-focused major. My graduate degree was in Family and Consumption Economics, which is about people and their decisions about money. It involves everything from decisions people make about whether to move to take a job to things we can tell about a country by what they buy.
I was recruited into graduate school. I was taking family economics as an elective and fell in love with it. Family economics is a class about financial decisions a family makes, from who has the say in purchasing decisions to family job migrations to child support. After class, I asked the professor if there were graduate degrees in the field, and she escorted me down the hall to the department office and introduced me to the chair.
In the 11 years I spent at University of Illinois, I became familiar with its spaces. I ran across campus to get to my classes, napped in the South Union (with many others), drank coffee at various places in campustown, and moved into my own office in Bevier Hall eventually.
I went back to Champaign-Urbana a few years back, and I hardly recognized the place. The campus town now features tall buildings which give the streets a claustrophobic feel. They are filled with high-end apartments for students, whereas the undergrads in my time lived much more modestly. I do not feel at home there anymore; I could not take a nap in the South Union anymore, as the lounges have disappeared. The cafeteria is now a food court. I know it’s a natural thing to be disappointed in the places you once dwelt because of changes, but I didn’t believe it until I stepped on campus again. It had been over twenty years, however; time flows on.
Words Like Me 