My husband asked me today if there’s a distinction between “writer me” and “non-writer me”. Do I perceive them as different personas? Do I keep them separate in my mind?
The answer is “no”. Perhaps it is because I don’t use a pen name, or because I’ve been writing for so long. But I’m a writer and a college professor and a partner to one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. And a few other things as well. I don’t see a contradiction in any of them, which is disappointing, because I so love contradictions.
I would hate to think that some other persona of mine was getting the recognition for my hard work. Or sitting at my breakfast table. That would be disconcerting.
Today feels like Spring. At 9:24 in the morning, the temperature is 53 degrees and I feel like Spring is not far away. But this is a trap, one that February springs on us every year. Sunday’s weather will be a high of 38.
I don’t understand what it is about me that relishes snow and cold until Christmas, then wants it gone from my sight. Frightful weather outside in December is one thing, but in February and March? Go away! I’m dreaming of Spring. I’m dreaming of flowers (but even the lure of seed catalogs yields more broken promises).
It sounds like I’m having a war with Winter here, doesn’t it? Maybe not a war, but at least a tiff. I cross my arms and look down my nose at the lie that is this weather. Then again, I walk to my car in a lighter-weight coat. I see Colden Pond has melted and I dream of crocuses popping up by the Kissing Bridge.
I guess this is just human nature (rather than Mother Nature, who grants us this tantalizing glimpse of Spring). I’ll enjoy the weather.
The first thing I thought about when contemplating writing this is “What would Lil BUB do?” And I realize that Lil BUB would write this somewhat personal post that makes me look less than invincible. So, I will write it.
A cardiologist has recently diagnosed me with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. This means that my heart muscle has stiffened up and my blood flow has some backsplash. I have obvious heart murmurs. I have likely had it for at least two years, because there’s evidence of it in a stress cardiogram two years ago when the doctor had apparently missed it. It means that I get winded easier (but that could also be because I am big and out of shape). I’m being treated with a simple higher dose of blood pressure medication; it is irreversible, but we can keep it from getting worse.
Mayo Clinic, on their website, says that I will have almost as long a life as if I didn’t have it. Almost. That’s a sobering word, and it hints at an eventual demise not as pleasant as I had been hoping for. I’m 60, however, at the age when things like this develop. Other sources discuss other treatments for it in case it gets worse. Many of these are invasive.
I can’t quite grasp what I’m reading. Some sources (such as Mayo and my cardiologist, make it sound like it is not a big deal, while others make it sound dire. Mayo says most cases are familial, but my cardiologist says I would have lots of people dying young in my family if mine were so.
I’m not used to not knowing. I will talk to my primary care physician when I can get in, and maybe then I will understand. In the meantime, I will lose weight and take my hypertension medicine. But I feel fragile now, older, less certain of life.
But what would Lil BUB do? She would go on living her life with a joyous, silly smile.
Yesterday, I watched Lil BUB’s Celebration of Life on streaming media. Lil BUB, a dwarf feline and once the Internet’s cutest cat, died four years ago of an aggressive bone infection. Before that, she was a furry bodhisattva whose very pictures caused millions of people to smile. She appeared in pictures and video, a documentary, her own short-lived TV show, and in live appearances for charity (where I once met her. She really was a furry bodhisattva.)
Me, Mike Bridavsky (Dude), and Bub.
She was also an ordinary cat with disabilities. Her owner, Mike Bridavsky (otherwise known as “Dude”), said this himself at the memorial service. This little ordinary cat raised over $1 million for cat-related charities through Lil BUB’s Big Fund.
In other words, BUB, despite her size, was a Big Audacious Cat.
I felt inspired by watching BUB’s Celebration of Life. She could accomplish that much in eight years? I’m not as cute as she was, but I can remember to be as audacious. Did she shrink from taking new opportunities? Did she hide from recognition? Did she get daunted by potential failure? (Yes, I know, she’s just a cat. But she’s also a persona, it can be argued. Or a purrsona.)
When it comes to my writing now, when I’m afraid of promoting my work, or thinking of quitting, or discouraged by lack of recognition, I’m going to ask myself the question: What would Lil BUB do?
Every now and then a WordPress prompt compels me so much that I have to answer it. This one I couldn’t resist, and now submerged in it, I don’t know if I can do it justice.
What’s the thing I’m most scared to do? Knowing me, it’s something that will get me rejected. I still have a lot of baggage over rejection. Despite that, however, I have managed to survive 30 years of course evaluations, hundreds of rejections of my novels, and too many unrequited crushes. In other words, when I look at an opportunity for rejection, I dive right into it. It could be that this time I will not be rejected.
That brings me to daredevil stunts like skydiving, bungee jumping, and juggling chainsaws. First, I can’t juggle, so eliminate that. I have no desire to bungee jump, and I’ve experienced a controlled free-fall simulator. The only thing that will get me to do daredevil stunts is peer pressure, and I think I’ve aged out of peer pressure. I’m also a low-adrenaline person, so I seek naps more than thrills.
Back to rejection. There are things I’m scared of right now that fit under “rejection”. I’m afraid of reading my work aloud in front of strangers. I am afraid of selling my books at a real conference (but this is my Big Audacious Goal for the year). By facing the fears, fears become Big Audacious Goals. What’s the worst that could happen?
I’d like to own a writers’ retreat. I mean, it’s nice to go on a short trip to a hotel that has places to sit in the lobby, or a cafe with a cozy table, but I dream of having my own writing retreat for whenever I need it.
One example would be a camper I could park at the local RV park (at our neighboring Mozingo Park) and get away from it all sometime. A writing retreat camper wouldn’t be too big, but big enough that I could make coffee, take potty breaks, and nap.
Of course, if I’m dreaming, I might as well dream big. When I dream big, I think of a schoolie, or a school bus converted to a camper. These campers are long, and everything is fit into an aisle. I saw one for sale today, and it was selling for $80,000 down from $115,000. Maybe if we win the lottery.
Sometimes I just want a she-shed for the back yard. I can pretend I’m in a retreat, and I can go home anytime I like. Again, the price is prohibitively high and my yard too small.
So I guess I need to retreat into the office again, which is small and cluttered, but it’s mine.
We’re moving into the grey time, where the holiday red and green and tinsel are a memory, the white snow is muddied, and the new year is weeks old. The sun hasn’t shown itself in weeks and the days are still too short. Now is the time I want to hibernate until I start smelling the grass begin to perk up.
In an agrarian world, everyone would be resting this time of year, storing up for the busy three seasons (I think. I am not an anthropologist.) But this is not my world. I go to work and teach my classes, then (as in today) go to the brightly-lit Starbucks and work on writing.
Coffee helps my mood, as does accomplishment. And I give myself credit for every little accomplishment to boost myself. “Yay! I got up! Hurrah! I wrote 300 words! Yippee! I cleaned the toilet!”
I will persevere. If I get too depressed, I know to talk to my doctor. But: “Yay! I’m going to class!”
This has been the strangest first week of the semester, and the strangeness is extending into week 2.
A little background: I go on campus Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays during Spring semester. Monday has office hours and meetings; Tuesdays and Thursdays are when I teach and hold office hours again. (Another class is online and yet another conducted over email and meetings as it is the internship class).
The days I don’t go into work allow me to work on class plans, research, and internship site visits (which won’t happen for a few weeks). They allow me to do this, in addition, without dressing up for work (except for those internship visits.) I work, but I don’t teach. It’s a lot more relaxed.
As I mentioned last week, the university closed because of an energetic snowfall dumping 7 inches of snow over a 12-hour period. With students coming in from the countryside and plows unable to keep up with snow and wind, we canceled school for Tuesday. My first day of class was Thursday.
Four days at home followed this because Monday is Martin Luther King Day, and then I would be back to teach Tuesday. Except that my university is cancelling classes on Tuesday because of dangerous windchills, making my next day in to teach on Thursday again.
It feels strange having this much time outside of office, with the flexibility of work it creates. It’s equally strange not having face time with my students. I’m going to have to work on how to get the students caught up with class topics. But it’s not as strange as teaching under COVID, where I taught a semester online with no face time with the students.
So here’s to another couple days of working while playing classical music, drinking hot chocolate, and with bunny slippers on!
I envy those people who can assertively promote themselves — “Here’s my book and this is why you want to read it.” I have to push myself to promote myself, and my plugs are more like “Here’s my book and I hope you don’t dislike it too much.”
I don’t think I’ve written about Midwestern Female Syndrome lately. It’s a malady, almost completely among women, where one wants to be simultaneously perfect on the inside and mediocre on the outside so as not to draw attention. We berate ourselves for “only” a 95% on the exam and tell people we got an 85%. We say our work is “not bad” but tell ourselves it’s horrible. We can’t promote ourselves because not only do we believe we’re not good enough, but we don’t want the attention of being good enough.
Does Midwestern Female Syndrome actually exist? Not in the annals of psychology, although I almost submitted it to the Journal of Polymorphous Perversity. But I’ve seen enough students raise their hands over the years to make me suspect otherwise.
Now, time to wrestle with my inferiority complex. See you soon!
I’m taking an unexpected day from teaching at the university. Today was supposed to be my first class day of the semester (I teach Tuesday/Thursday and keep office hours on Monday). Instead, I am sitting at home listening to Classical Motivation and typing this in my sweats. I am enjoying a snow day, the dreams of children and teachers of all ages.
It feels strange to hype myself up for teaching only to not teach. I feel disorganized, although I can teach this stuff with my eyes closed. Though it’s nice to have an accidental break. And the snow is pretty.
I sit at my computer and write this blog, feeling ahead of the writing-related things I do. I have written character sketches for my two main characters for Kringle Through the Snow, so I’m closer to writing that book. (Next, break my procrastination. Or take a nap, because this day is a gift.)
Words Like Me 