But he don't fall down.

OK, I rallied. Found three new agents last night, two with whom I can establish tenous (even not-so-tenuous) connections, and will spend tomorrow morning sending queries to them all. This novel is good, and it is true to me. I am not a snide, smartypants, Brooklyn whiz kid. I write caring novels about good people in tough situations. The kind of love to read. I have to believe that others might too. Stand up, dust off, walk tall. Happy Monday, all.

Weeble Wobble

Tonight I received my first rejection. This newest round of showing my neck is in service to my new novel, The Tree Museum, for which I've just sent a round of 8 query letters to agents. Two agents--as I knew they would, due to friendly author connections--agreed to read it. To my stomach-churning joy, a third agent emailed on Friday morning saying she'd like to read it as well. Tonight, she said "No."

It's hard. I mean, I'm well aware that this life of mine requires a thick skin, and I think I have one--I told Matt that I'm like a weeble wobble where rejections are concerned. Even a short one like I received tonight--friendly, but curt--can be considered a blessing if I twist and turn it long enough. But it still hurts. This novel--every novel every dreaming novelist writes--is a precious, precious thing. It hurts to have it turned away.

So I'll seek out more agents (there are still 7 great ones in play) and send more queries, and keep believing in this novel, for as long as I can. And if I stop fighting for it, I pray it will be to make way for the next one. I've got some ideas. I don't stay down.

Sliding Doors, Permanently Closed

Two weeks ago, I decided not to accept a position as a College Writing instructor at my alma mater, American University.
This was something I thought I'd never do. So much of my self-image these years is based on the idea that I am a writer, a thinker, a person who chooses the creative, honest path over the easier(?) path of a traditional 9-to-5 job.
And yet, when I was surprised by the job offer (a job I'd applied for a year ago, and been rejected), it felt like a revalation. I could have this job. I could do this work. I could be a professor and teach! And yet (once again), I felt sick rather than elated. I felt defeated rather than empowered.
I didn't know why I felt this way.
In all honesty, I'd decided to say "yes" to AU's wonderful, gratifying offer--Matthew had even picked up our dinner tab in anticipation of "having to do a lot more of this" when I took the serious academic pay cut--when I walked into Kramerbooks Bookstore & Cafe to meet a friend. There, instead of looking for a new novel, I found myself unable to do anything but think of how I "should" be looking at non-fiction, and how I "needed" to be thinking about how I might teach it, rather than simply reading the work for myself. I found myself very upset-almost shocked. In my current work situation, I have far less self-defined time, but I do have plenty of creative energy left over for my own fiction.
I tabled the decision for a day, and found that my desire to teach is to teach creative writing in a workshop program. Honestly, truly.
So I said "No."
It was the right decision. After much deliberation and somewhat heartsick self-evaluation, I came to the decision that College Writing is not what I want to teach. (How's that for a passive construction?) I don't want to teach College Writing right now. There. Difficult words to say.
I don't want to teach College Writing.
But who does that leave me to be??

Our Dumbledore?

Two seemingly unrelated events occurred this week that have somehow merged in my head.

The first made worldwide headlines: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE IS GAY. Now, I first read this seemingly juicy tidbit in my local gay newspaper, The Washington Blade, and Rowling's quote actually ended with a laughing nod to "fan fiction." So I assumed, wearily, that once again a joke was being made at "our" expense. No one else seems in on it, however, so I'm wondering whether she was serious? Certainly, the passages being quoted ad nauseum suggest that there's some gay there if you're willing to ferret it out.

That bemusement at the world's willingness to reimagine a so-recently created and so beloved character gave me hope. It seems very few people have any real issue with the possibility that Dumbledore was gay.

My friend Kenny (and here we shift to item #2) would have found comfort in that. He was that little ferret in many ways--always looking for the gay in things. The thing about Kenny Hill, however, is that he also always looked for the joy. Yes, he got angry (when warranted) and yes, he might have been a tad too loyal to divalicious show tunes for my taste, but he always, always, saw the possibility and the hope in the way the world reacted to our lives.

So it's a sad day today as well. Kenny's vantage point, an AOL-based website called queersighted, fired him last week. (They actually laid off over 2,000 employees in yet another massive, bottom-line-focused restructuring, but still...) He sent his last blog post today, and the follow-up postings express a kind of confused bewilderment. "But the site was so good.... "

Queersighted and its "gayest editor ever" Kenny took on anything and everything gay, or gay-adjacent. And it approached it all with joy. Something Dumbledore was also able to do. Maybe that's a special kind of magic. Maybe there's something to that first story after all.

Genius

I'm 20-odd pages into THE FOUNTAINHEAD by Ayn Rand. I say 20-odd because this is a novel I never thought I'd read. I'd also assumed that reading it would be a terrible chore, a terrible bore. So I'm thrilled that, 20-odd pages in, I love it, and can't wait to read more.



I assume most of us know the joy of discovering, and slipping into the embrace of a new novel. For me, it's a ritual regularly repeated: within moments of finishing a book, my heart adds a slight triple beat and my fingers flex in anticipation of breaking open the pages of another set of lives, another story, another author's vision for the world.



I tend, however, to read whatever catches my eye. And as I said, I've been avoiding Ayn Rand for almost 5 years now, since my sister dropped the heavyweight novel--said to be the more "accessible" of her classics--at my door. So why Ayn Rand, now?

My perusal of the bookshelf last night followed a reading I'd just attended at the D.C. Jewish Community Center. Shalom Auslander, a comedic tragedian of NPR-snark, spoke of writing his latest novel (FORESKIN'S LAMENT), and the works he reads for inspiration. Names like Roth, Vonnegut, and Aristotle dribbled like grating pebbles from his lips. I often find myself worrying this question: Why do I often find writers of such acclaimed genius so terribly unpleasant to actually read?

I was taken aback. I read good fiction. I have a bent toward "book club" fiction, admittedly: There's nothing like a Kingsolver novel to offer astute reporting and characters you wish you could meet. I'll put THE HOURS, HOWARD's END, and BEL CANTO into that category as well--fiction that is at once thoughtful, artfully executed, and enjoyable. Sometimes I feel guilty for desiring that last bit: enjoyable. Like that's a bad thing.

Still, I'm thrilled that I've taken the leap into Rand. I have suspicions that her reputation as a haughty genius might be deserved. And, fingers crossed, I'll be able to swim her bracing, open-water, nighttime sea.

I also wonder, will it shame me into shoving more inspiration into my own work this week?

Monday Monday

Monday morning, and work is not calling my name.

Instead, I'm realizing that, once again, I haven't worked on my novel in days. I did manage a (hopefully) inspired half-hour last Wednesday night, in which I finally wrote the sex scene between Warren and Evgenia, his Russian mail order bride. That was a necessary breakthrough, and one I've been avoiding for a while.

But since then I've avoided the page. Why? I've got pages of notes ready to put in to play. I finally have the answer to the Warren/Evgenia resolution-riddle. I know a lot more about what makes Cole and Chigger tick.

But I'm afraid of it.

Afraid that, now that it's time to stop writing and start deciding, all the decisions I think I'm ready to make will be wrong. That by choosing to move this character here, or letting that character decide to go there, the whole tenuous house of cards will fall down. A friend--a reader--said to me yesterday, "that must be paralyzing." And suddenly, it was.

Now, of course, at my office, I'm ready to write. Not the brochures and reports I'm supposed to be working on--that I'm paid to do, but the novel that's sitting in my backpack, ensconced in my laptop, 3 feet to the right of my desk. Tonight was supposed to be writing time, but I'd forgotten that I have plans.

Am I disappointed? Bereft? No, I'm relieved. It's another chance to put off making those decisions. Another opportunity not to decide. What am I afraid of? Can I even get it wrong? And: does any body but me even care? That might be the scariest part of all.

Raison D'etre

I started the blogging "process" without a clear plan of the reason for beginning a blog. Is my goal simply journaling? Am I writing about movies? Books? Writing? What?

In the last few days, I've wanted to comment on my own developing novel, the fact that we didn't watch HEROES last night, our trip to--and participation in--the Miss Adams Morgan pageant on Saturday night, and how much guilt I feel for (a) not writing more, (b) not being interested in my new writing class, (c) not calling my Dad, and (d) not being as fully engaged with my neice and nephew as I could be. (Matt's mad at me for that last one, and very sweetly protective. Still, I do wish I was making more time for them despite this hectic life.)

It reminds me: When I first quit my job, almost 9 years ago now, to try my hand and writing and move to the beach, I worked hard to rewire my own mentality. Specifically, I eliminated the word "should." I figured (or read, I'm not sure) that "should" was an invalid construct. By simply replacing it with a two-tiered mental process, guilt and inaction could be defeated.

It works like this.

"I should spend more time with my neice and nephew."

Now, replace should with can or can't.

Clearly, despite how crowded life feels, it is technically within my power to see more of them.

So: "I can spend more time with my neice and nephew." (Had the answer been can't that would have been nice and clear too.)

Now the question becomes, will I or won't I?

And the powerlessness goes away.

My answer to the new question--will I spend more time with them?--must be "Yes." So now it's merely the matter of finding out how.

A call to my sister is in order. A temporary raison d'etre!