Writers, real writers

     I had chemo yesterday and I feel like poo, don't feel like thinking about it, so instead I'm thinking about people who inspire me.

     I had the pleasure and the pain, late Thanksgiving night, to run across the New York Times 100 Notable Books 2008 list. Pleasure because, obviously, it's a list of books I've either read and loved/admired or hated and possibly admired, or books I might love or hate. (I stop reading a book pretty quickly if I don't at least admire the writing.) Pain because it was late, I was exhausted, and couldn't stop following the links, googling the authors, and updating my wish list. Although I often disagree with the NYTBR, reading it is like having a discussion with other like-minded, book-obsessed people: always stimulating. I was heartened to discover that many of the books that made the 2008 fiction/poetry notable list were debuts. Maybe I'm mis-remembering years past (or, more likely, failing to remember at all), but it seems there is a bumper crop of first novels, story collections, and poetry books this year. Nam Le's The Boat has been on my list since it came out last spring. (Also, bonus, he's brainy and gorgeous.) 

     I could go on for days about books I hope to read, but the broader point of this post is to acknowledge the authors who manage to write at all. I am reminded constantly how hard it is to write, never mind to write well. I can come up with a thousand excuses to procrastinate; many a successful effort is cataloged in this blog. Drafting this novel of mine has proven to be more of a struggle than I'd expected. Not the actual writing so much, which I enjoy and comes easily, but the ass-in-the-chair aspect of it. I'm good at improvising, so I trust myself to follow the characters and come up with a compelling story. I'm good at writing (I think) on the sentence level, and even on the chapter level. But because I've never tried a novel before, I don't know if I'll be any good at the entirety, at finishing -- and I get lazy quick when I'm not certain I'll succeed. (See: Algebra I; high school; disaster.)

     I'm impressed with the other writers in my novel workshop. They are writing. They are not afraid of the mess. They are real writers.

     I admire my instructor, who has written a dozen novels and has an extraordinarily loyal readership. He is a real writer. 

     Likewise J. Robert Lennon and Rhian Ellis, both authors, both steeping in fiction (teaching, running a book store), both blogging about writing, reading, and publishing at the smart and thought-provoking Ward Six. They are real writers.

     Poet Seth Abramson, a current Iowa Writers' Workshop student, has recently won some high-profile accolades for his work, and his first book is coming out next spring. Seth is a real writer.

     I admire my friend Lily, whose first novel has won or been shortlisted for awards and fellowships, and is now being shopped around by an excellent agent. (Lily also started submitting short stories to journals just a few months ago, and already has met with success. Go, Lily!) Lily is a real writer.

     And just today, I read that my friend Valley just completed the first draft of her first novel. An Anne Lamott-style shitty first draft, according to the author. I seriously doubt it's shitty; I know it's thrilling for Valley. It thrills me, and I haven't read a lick of it. But Valley makes her living as a writer and book reviewer. Valley is a real writer.

     I've always made my living as a writer, too -- journalism, then (God help us) the more lucrative and much less substantial advertising. Still, while I think of myself as a writer, I don't consider myself the type of writer I want to be: a writer of fiction and poetry. A novelist. At the moment I feel like a tourist, a dabbler. It's not because publication eludes me; I know that publication doesn't amount to authenticity. It's that I don't have that ass-in-the-chair ethic yet, and I don't know that I'll ever have it. I write when it's fun for me (i.e. easy); I write when there's a deadline (i.e. out of fear). If left to my own devices, however -- I know my own propensity toward laziness -- no matter how much I want to say I have written a novel, I doubt I'd have the discipline to do it without prodding. Saying I am writing a novel is painful and embarrassing, because I feel like a poseur. It feels disrespectful, somehow, to make a claim on that sacred territory.

     I don't know what the fuck I'll do when I'm finished with my degree and have no one expecting twenty pages of me every couple of weeks.

     Meantime, cheers and great thanks to the real writers who help me, for the moment, keep the faith.

     

     

Steroid psychosis

     What a week. I had chemo on Friday morning, then gave a reading Friday evening. The reading went exceptionally well -- I felt calm, comfortable, and the story was well-received by the 75 or so people in the audience. Very energizing. Then I came home and slept, hard. M's parents came by yesterday and, unlike the immediate aftermath of most Topo Gigio treatments, I was perky enough to hang out with them for a couple of hours. That's major progress.

     You'd think the fact that I'm getting a slightly lower dose of chemo than before (which actually adds up to a higher amount over three weeks) is what made the difference, but you'd be wrong! We also ditched the Decadron, a steroid that helps quell nausea and, incidentally, didn't anyone tell you this?, just a little tip, can bring on the batshit crazies in some huge percentage of patients. When I told Dr. J a couple of weeks ago that for three days after chemo, the world seemed about to end, he immediately suggested we drop the Decadron. But it was the infusion nurse who snapped it into perspective for me and M on Friday: "Steroid psychosis! We see it all the time with Decadron. Google it when you get home." 

     So. While I'm thrilled to know that the source of my... how you say... emotional delicacy was a pre-med, and apparently a non-essential one at that (no horking at all without it, phew!), I find myself in a familiar state of dismay over having lost all that time to crying; over freaking out my family; over assuming, as I often do, that nothing can be done and I must take my lumps. A long-term cumulative effect of sliding health, trauma and chemo -- and I've had "a helluva lot," as Dr. J never fails to remind me -- is fuzzy memory. So I don't recall being out of my mind with Decadron when I was on Gemzar or cisplatin (or whatever it was) last year. M does remember it; when he googled "steroid psychosis" this morning, he said it all looks very familiar, and I am not alone.

     One of my favorite shows on the teevee is "House," as I've mentioned before. Part of what I love about it, aside from the consistently complex characters, is that the medical cases always present the physician's paradox: how to save the patient without killing the patient? I guess the fish an oncologist is frying really are that big; the smaller ones (what's a little psychosis in the grand scheme of things?) don't seem worth mentioning.

     The week overall: a net gain.

Procrastinating

     Well, putting it off will bite you in the butt every time. 

1. I've put off paying bills this month, and -- woopsie! -- Comcast got so testy they disassembled the series of tubes that connects our house to the Interwebs. (I'm writing this from campus.)
   
2. I've also had great success this past week putting off the novel writing. So much so that I have a chapter due tonight for Workshop tomorrow... and as is apparent, I'm blogging instead.
   
3. I have piles of emails to go through. 
   
4. I'm wearing superstylish ca. 1997 jeans because I've made such a project of laundry it just seems too, too much. I don't even have to schlep it anywhere; we have a lovely washer and dryer in a huge laundry room on the second floor of our house. Literally, it takes three minutes to get a load going. Too much. 
   
5. Ancillary to Point 1 above (am I using that word correctly?) is that I have put off sending a chunky October invoice on a freelance job. Getting paid would certainly make paying bills less stressful. 
   
6. Now that the election is over, M and I are in negotiations with our souls over whether to ditch cable TV. Part of what makes that idea palatable, in addition to the savings, is that pretty much everything is available for free viewing on the Internets. That is, as long as one pays the Comcast bill on time. Also, we have not actually sat down with the Comcast bill to see how much money we would, in fact, save because, um, it's a bill, and I'm putting off looking at bills.

     Feh.

New plan

     I had a good appointment with Dr. J today. Good in that he was all, Sure, let's try that! Sounds good! I told him I thought the blood counts crashing a few weeks ago was an anomaly and he agreed to an accelerated chemo schedule. Instead of every other week, we're going for three weeks on, one week off (which apparently is the protocol for Topo Gigio). Cutting back on the Decadron (steroid) to try to smooth out my crazies. And the physical exam was OK, i.e. soft, smooth belly, no apparent -- what? -- lumps? Yik. Anyway, I am more confident when we're aggressive.

     I'm still in pretty persistent pain but my outlook is more hopeful. And I got a swell birthday card from A today, with drawings and declarations of love for Mama. And a cool, original Modern Library edition of Absalom, Absalom! from my sweetheart M, an appropriately Southern gothic choice under the circumstances. And cards and calls and treats from friends and family. Nice day.

Oil pastels

     After a rocky weekend, I've perked up considerably this afternoon. A and I are hanging out in the front parlor -- there's a beautiful glow from the changing leaves outside, and lamplight against the orange ceiling -- while M bakes bread and makes chicken stock and beef stew. I hear the football game on the TV. Very cozy. A has decided to mount an art show after Thanksgiving, and is inspired by the fall colors. She is using oil pastels to sketch trees. She says she prefers them to crayons, which are "baby," and to regular pastels, which are too chalky and smeary. This is some little artist we have here.

     It felt good to get out a little this afternoon. A was playing with some friends across the river, so M and I got some coffee and walked around the neighborhood while the sun was still out. Now, it's cloudy and cool and just beautiful.

     Busy week ahead; I hope to hang onto this good energy.

Chemo today

     M is going with me this morning for what I hope will be an efficient infusion. My faith in this drug continues to wane because I am not feeling better, I'm feeling worse. Pain is more of a constant than an incidental, and eating reliably causes increasing discomfort. I'm getting to the point where I just don't feel like doing much of anything; going to campus is a major deal even though it's only ten blocks away. Just getting myself into the shower and walking a block to Starbuck's is now something I negotiate with myself every morning. Unless my feet are out in front of me, I'm uncomfortable, so staying in bed seems reasonable. That's not good.

     Next Thursday we meet with Dr. J to see where we are and make adjustments. A year ago when we saw him on Nov. 13, he made the glorious suggestion that we stop the cisplatin, as it seemed to have done its thing. Much celebrating. Next week, I'm afraid he's going to come at me with Fentanyl patches and the news that we've exhausted our chemo options. 

     I'm nowhere near ready to hear that.

Already doing the right thing

     Can a Web site change a nation? Of course not. But it can start to change some minds, win over dissenters, and pull people together toward common goals.

     Barack Obama and Joe Biden have launched change.gov -- and the site's inclusiveness follows through on Obama's election night pledge to listen to everyone, especially those who disagree with him, and to be a President for all Americans. It invites visitors to share their ideas and their stories, and to participate in government. It is comprehensive and beautifully designed and right on time.

     I am so down with these guys. I know they're going to make mistakes, but man are they good.

     

Did Bush bust my artistic ability?

     Blogging over at the excellent Ward Six, author J. Robert Lennon considers the positive effect of an Obama presidency on his own ability to write fiction. JRL's startling observation is that for the last eight years, Americans -- and American artists -- have toiled and ultimately faltered under the weight of a political ideology that displays roiling contempt for the very people it purportedly serves. 

     I've always been well aware how deliberately the Bush administration has run counter to my personal morality, and have indeed been steeping in an ugly brew of anger. I have considered the corrosive effect the Bush/Rove contempt has had on the constituency as a whole (the national mood). For some reason, I have never applied it to my personal psyche. I don't know that I feel as directly affected as JRL seems to feel, but I think he has a point: if there's been a collective impact, it has to have been borne by individuals. And it's going to show up in art, and perhaps in the creative impulse, or lack thereof.

     At the least, JRL has raised the possibility for me to blame any troubles I've had writing in the last few years squarely on the sloping shoulders of George W. Bush.

     Will writing fiction become less burdensome for me under Obama? I don't know; I guess it depends on whether I find greater motivation in repression or liberation. I think this blog proves I'm pretty damned motivated by my anger. The word "spew" springs to mind. And apart from the current whackjobs in the White House, I have plenty of things to fear and doubt. 

     Sure, I hope writing gets easier for me. If it doesn't, though, no matter; I'll take Obama's promise of hope and optimism and sure-footed leadership, for my little daughter's sake. For the first time since I became a mother five years ago, I feel I am no longer inadvertently imperiling my (Chinese-born) child by raising her in a careening, rudderless nation. That's worth all the stories I can write in a lifetime.

WEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PRESIDENT OBAMA

Will gladly say so long to this kind of fun

     As though we need further proof that SaPa is a dipshit or a snake, or both: after voting in Wasilly this morning, Palin was asked whom she voted for. She demurred.

     Either she has the reasoning ability of a preschooler, or she voted for felonious Internets titan Ted "The Tube" Stevens. 

     Psst, Gov'nor! I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours. 

     My own experience was easy-peasy. Small line, helpful -- even cheerful -- poll volunteers, no trouble with the touchy touchscreen, and now I'm sipping free Starbucks. 

     Hopie and Andy are coming over tonight to watch the returns. Virginia polls close at 7:00, and I just read on Pollster.com that we won't see any of those super-reliable exit polls until 5:00 or later. Maybe I can get some writing done today.

     Happy, happy election day!

     

So proud!

     It's raining and chilly in our Virginia town this morning, but the voting lines are long. M took A to our polling place at 6:15, and they were done by 7:30. M said the people in line were upbeat and excited, and that A was so well-behaved that people commented on her composure. 

     I expect the wait to extend throughout the day, so I'll walk up the street as early as I can after a 10:15 business call. There's a Starbucks on the corner where I'll wait in yet another line to claim my free cup of coffee. 

     I go all weak-kneed over the displays of patriotism and love of democracy that come out, despite the ugliness, on election day. Very moving, very inspiring.

     Very determined to send McPalin back to Arilaska.

     VOTE!

Frayed nerves

     Jumping out of my skin today.

     You?