Music and my past

Music brings my mind back to the past.

The ’80s Singer-Songwriter playlist plays on the stereo, and I realize that it was almost 40 years ago that I was starting college, and Springsteen playing “Hungry Heart” makes me remember that I was curious once, walking into local stores in Campustown and browsing for things I had no money for.

I was hungry for experience. By myself, usually, because I didn’t understand why I needed other people to go explore. I was an introvert even then, but I didn’t understand it. I didn’t seek out music, but it found me in the shops, in the computer lab, in pirated tapes from my friends. I followed my boyfriends to concerts — I remember listening to the Ramones in the most acoustically unsound building on the U of I campus, and Jethro Tull — where did I see Jethro Tull?

Later, when I gave up on boyfriends and made friends, we listened to local Irish and bluegrass music. A local music “pusher” turned me on to Gaelic pop and Handel’s Water Music. The radio still played on through, and I soaked it up like osmosis.

In a way, I hate reminiscing, because I want my focus to be on the present. I’m not done exploring yet, just because COVID keeps me cooped up. I do intense searches on the Internet for my writing, and for my latest hobby, sourdough bread baking, and for all the little fact-grabbing. I have not studied anyone’s psyche (the intense focus of a crush) lately, and I’m not sure I want another one of those at my age.

I hate the fact that I just used the phrase “at my age” — I want to be young again, but with the knowledge and the calm with which I meet life now. This is impossible and a waste of time to wish for. So I will let the music tear my heart out, and I will build a heart of calm in its place.

Fighting a little downer

I have time to write now. The class edits I had to make to get my class ready for the semester are done. I’ve finished my summer class.

I think, however, I’m getting depressed.

It is a depressing time. No getting out and doing a writing retreat or going to a concert. Worrying about going back to school in the fall. Constant worry, with a lot of subconscious attempts to reassure. Most people don’t die, I tell myself.

What are my options?

1) I need to take time to quit thinking about school. It’s three weeks till classes start.

2) I need to write. Even if it’s taking a short story prompt and working through it.

3) I need to get outside, even if it’s just sitting on the porch swing.

4) I need to play with my little gremlin — er, kitten. She’s playing parkour off every surface in my room — including me.

5) More Poirot in the evenings — we’re only on season 4.

6) Coffee. Coffee reduces depression.

But I need to write.

A Perfect Moment

I think I have experienced a perfect moment.

My husband and I have just had coffee and breakfast, and we are both sprawled on the bed (fully clothed). I am typing this entry on my computer while Chloe the kitten tries to climb up my lap desk, and Richard the husband surfs on his phone. Outside, the dark sky and occasional thunder sets a cozy mood.

I have had very few perfect moments these past months. It’s like the COVID virus has been a constant unwelcome guest. Even in our relatively sheltered county (until the students come back), cases have doubled in the past two weeks. In a month, I go back to teach with reduced class sizes; maybe that will save me from the virus. I fret about students who refuse to wear masks, because I feel pretty powerless to enforce the rule. I worry about the sheer numbers of partying students who won’t practice social distancing.

I have been sleeping more lately, and that’s the sign of depression looming. I monitor my thoughts and contradict thoughts that might send me spiraling.

So perfect moments are few and far between, but maybe that makes them all the sweeter.

Sorry for the absence — the kitten has been monopolizing my time.

I’m sorry I haven’t been here the past couple of days. I’ve been absolutely smitten with Chloe the kitten. It’s been about 9 years since we’ve had a kitten in the house, and the other three cats are middle-aged to senior citizens (ages 9-13).

Chloe is a bundle of fearless zoom-zoom energy, with baby claws and teeth and a tendency to play with all of them out. She’s a little purrbucket. She is an angelic con artist. In other words, she is a kitten.

As you can see, she is a kitten.

I’ve had to do a lot of babysitting with Chloe. She’s been living in my room, as have I, keeping herself busy and in trouble while I’ve been keeping her out of trouble. She’s met the other cats and they already hiss at each other, and I have to keep her out of fights where she’s sorely mismatched.

I’m also getting class stuff done, because my classes are going to be seriously flipped. Each class will be split into three parts, and only 1/3 will be going to class at any given time. So more work is online, and the in-class sessions will be hands on.

I need to start writing again! I think it’s been a week and a half since I’ve written. I’m rethinking my relationship to writing after writing my manifesto, and so far I have not been making time for it. I think it’s time to write a short story rather then rewriting the novel until further notice.

Have a nice relaxing Sunday!

Our New Kitten!

This is Chloe, the new member of our household, adopted from our local Humane Society. She’s an 8-week-old tortoiseshell who has revealed a quirky personality thus far. She makes a variety of noises including squeaks and purr-chirps. She’s in oral fixation mode, which means she chews on fingers and toes (and her teeth are SHARP!)

She is currently living in my room because I want to introduce her to the other cats slowly and keep the other cats from eating her kitten food. The other cats have been a little hissy at her, but they’re hissy at each other, so no surprise there.

Her belly is one big orange striped patch, unusual for a tortoiseshell. She doesn’t mind having her belly rubbed, but she hates being picked up.

I’m looking forward to watching her grow up. I’m also looking forward to her not biting my fingers.

A Writing Manifesto

I will write for myself regardless of how and where my resulting work will be shared.
I will not doubt my imagination.
I will not judge the quality of my work by where it’s published, how many copies it’s sold, or how much I’ve earned.
I will hone my craft for the sake of improvement.
I will write from joy rather than from duty.

Too much of not much

It’s deep summer, the time when I don’t do much of anything.

Except put my classes together for fall, which includes voiceovers of all my lectures so we can spend our one day a week in-class doing hands-on things.

And try to get some plot confusion sorted out in Gaia’s Hands.

And rewrite my other query letters to implement what I learned from an agent.

And grade some internship stuff.

In other words, I’m doing a lot for not doing anything.

Setting up for Fall semester

Today I have to start setting up for fall semester. I don’t normally do this till about the first of August, but I have to record some lectures because the students are only coming into the classroom one day a week (1/3 of the classroom each class day.)

Instructions for the classroom look like this:

Be prepared for the class to go online at any time in case too many of your students (or you) are quarantined.
All students and faculty will wear masks if students are less than six feet apart. *note: I’m making them wear masks even if they are six feet apart, because the rows are stacked on each other.
We will have seating charts for contract tracing
No handouts/papers because of potential contamination
Classrooms will be deep sanitized every night
Faculty/students will sanitize rooms between classes
No more than one student in the office at one time/appointments required/Zoom preferred

There’s probably more here, but this is what I got out of the email from my department head. I don’t like the idea of going back into the classroom, but I’ll prepare for all possibilities. We shall see.

Rewriting a Query Letter

Saturday has me fixing my query for the next book to go out, the revised Apocalypse. An editor gave me advice to run my query through Manuscript Academy, where I had a chance for an agent to read, review, and suggest in a ten-minute review what needed to happen with it. This cost $50.

My reviewer, Caitlin McDonald, gave me a sound review and the advice that I needed to expand my discussion of the book to three paragraphs. I didn’t realize that — as long as I keep it at one page, I can do more with it.

Here’s wishing me luck. Hope springs eternal.

The Rainbow Bridge

Right after I thought Stinkerbelle was rallying, she had a major seizure and we had to put her to sleep. She was in pitiful shape, I see now, and we would never have been able to restore her to health.

I’m pretty stoic about things. I don’t know if that is a good thing. I only get weepy when I think about the Rainbow Bridge, and I think that is because I would rather be at the Rainbow Bridge with all the cats than in the traditional conception of Heaven.

The Rainbow Bridge is a celebratory realm, where cats and dogs frolic, unravaged by age, illness, or neglect. They wait there for their owners, and then join with them as they walk up the bridge to Heaven. I would love to reunite with Cream Puff, Sandals, PJ, Kismet, Sasha, Opalina, Kitty, Belvedere the Kitten, Snowy, and Stinkerbelle. Yes, I am a crazy cat lady.

But once we make it to the gates of Heaven, what happens? I stand at the gates waiting to be judged and found worthy or unworthy. My poor cats are stuck waiting with me, which means they’re probably chasing each other. And what if I’m found unworthy? I’m cast into Hell and the poor cats are left bereft.

If I make it there, the Bible says that we get into Heaven with all the other souls to perpetually sing Hosanna with the heavenly choirs. What in Heaven’s name (I did that on purpose) is that all about? Unless I am stripped of all that is human, that’s going to be really boring. My cats are going to be really bored, I think, and will need toys.

The Rainbow Bridge, on the other hand, sounds like a perpetual picnic with gallivanting pets and grassy meadows, presumably without chiggers and mosquitos. I could dwell there forever, petting kitties and doggies and talking to the occasional macaw. I think I’d stay there.