I went to this page to support a friend; I was pleasantly surprised to get a good story, too.

Madeline DeGrace’s Fundraising Home Page

I’ve only met her a few times (including once in Spain!) but even in those brief meetings I could tell that Marci’s mom was as wonderful and strong as Marci says — if not more so.

And how could I not like someone with the same first name as my first novel’s protagonist?

Tonight I dropped Andy off at the airport because he is spending the next week in Germany on business. In truth, I’m lucky: thanks to his summer intern Raunaq, he had to cut what was originally a two-week business trip in half so that he could be here for Raunaq’s final presentation and evaluation. Thank you, Raunaq! (Who doesn’t read this blog, I’m sure…)

Anyway, I thought this would be easier than last year’s one-week trip to Germany, because now we have Riley, and the BlackBerry (free international calls!), and Netflix. And I guess is is easier. But it’s still not easy. However stupid that is.

(Yes, I know he’s coming back, and yes, I know it’s only a week. Facts and feelings are not always aligned, you know?)

To stave off the loneliness, I watched a couple episodes of Hannah Montana, the last half of 10 Things I Hate About You, and all of Monster-In-Law. (Mmm, Michael Vartan…)

Then I went back to the thing that got me through my whole only-child-hood, the thing that made me never feel lonely growing up: reading.

So continuing my earlier post about letters from established writers to us young hopefuls (as published in Atlantic Monthly), here are a few excerpts from “To a Young Writer” by Wallace Stegner (the guy who founded the creative writing program at Stanford University):

For one thing, you never took writing to mean self-expression, which means self-indulgence. You understood from the beginning that writing is done with words and sentences, and you spent hundreds of hours educating your ear, writing and rewriting and rewriting until you began to handle words in combination as naturally as one changes tones with the tongue and lips in whistling. I speak respectfully of this part of your education because every year I see students who will not submit to it—who have only themselves to say and who are bent upon saying it without concessions to the English language. In acknowledging that the English language is a difficult instrument, and that a person who sets out to use it expertly has no alternative but to learn it, you did something else: you forced yourself away from that obsession with self that is the strength of a very few writers and the weakness of so many. You have labored to put yourself in charge of your material; you have not fallen for the romantic fallacy that it is virtue to be driven by it. By submitting to language you submitted to other disciplines, you learned distance and detachment, you learned how to avoid muddying a story with yourself.

How often the writing of young writers is a way of asserting a personality that isn’t yet there, that is only being ravenously hunted for.

… how love lasts, but changes, how life is full of heats and frustrations, causes and triumphs, and death is cool and quiet. It does not sound like much, summarized, and yet it embodies everything you believe about yourself and about human life and at least some aspects of the people you have most loved. In your novel, anguish and resignation are almost in balance. Your people live on the page and in the memory because they have been loved and therefore have been richly imagined.

Because the past couple of months have been extremely hectic and stressful for Andy at work–and because I, you know, do stuff–we’ve decided we should take a relaxing vacation together, just the two of us, no animals, no family.

So of course we spent all of last night banging our heads against the walls trying to figure out where to go, how to get there, what to do, and how much it will all cost.

Relaxation, here we come!

And in a complete change of direction, tonight I couldn’t be happier. After a long, productive day at work — during which we also had a jewelry sale, whaaaat? — I left early to meet up with friends and strangers alike. Together we planned fun/educational/inspirational community events, and then we went to the Black Finn to unwind and eat great food! Now I’m chilling in bed with my little Choo Choo Train (because he CHEWS, get it?!) and realizing that hey, life doesn’t get much better than this.

(No matter what you look like.)

Tonight for some reason I am hit with all my insecurities. I am not what I would call an overall insecure person, but every now and then I have a hard time dealing with my physical appearance. That’s pretty much the only thing that I ever really get insecure about, at least regarding just myself. (Relationships are a whole different story.)

Maybe it’s because I don’t doubt myself in other arenas that I “must” be plagued by my appearance. Maybe it’s because I’ve just asked myself to have an incredible amount of confidence in myself — enough to literally impoverish myself, to quit my job, to put all my eggs in one basket: writing. Maybe it’s because I’ve been brainwashed by society or my parents or whoever else is available to blame. Maybe it’s because I really am not all that pretty.

Does it even matter why?

[sigh]

I’m sure I’ll regret posting this tomorrow, but tonight, I just need to get it off my chest.

I want to be beautiful. I want to be sexy. I want to be well-dressed. I want great legs, a toned stomach, and a nice butt. I want a stronger jawline. I want men to stop when they see me. I want women to be jealous. I don’t want to wonder if I’m one of the best-looking people in a room; I want to know that I am.

And I don’t want to have to put much effort into any of it.

Hahaha, I’m so reasonable, right?

I don’t know where all these desires came from, or when, or why. When I was younger, I wasn’t really concerned about this stuff. I may even have been a little vain. Every boy I liked eventually liked me back (although usually not at the same time). All my family friends said I was pretty, and you could tell that they meant it. I ate anything and everything, and I never gained a pound. I guess I thought it would always come that easy.

Actually no. It wasn’t always easy. In middle school, I swore not to shave my legs until high school, because some guy had made fun of my friend for her leg hair, and I was determined to prove that he was wrong. In high school, I refused to see a dermatologist, because I wanted to prove that I was stronger than my pimples, that I would always be more than just a face, pretty or not. In college, I took pictures of myself mostly naked to get more comfortable with my body. Even today, I sometimes catch myself thinking I should skip a meal to lose some weight, and then I kind of mentally slap myself because I know starvation is not the path to happiness. (Quite the opposite, in fact.)

Just so no one thinks I’m a horrible or delusional person, I’ll say that I am well-aware that I’m fairly lucky. I have good genes and decent metabolism, and I’m not ugly. I know that. But sometimes, like tonight, it’s not enough.

Nights like these, I try to remember the few really good moments that I have and hold on to. Like that time on the bus when those two girls asked that guy who he thought was pretty, and they pointed to themselves and he said no, and they pointed to a couple other girls and he said no, and then they pointed to me, and he paused, and he whispered, Yes. Or that time my friend told me she kind of hated how no matter what I wear, I manage to look cute. Or that time he looked at me and told me I was a goddess.

I don’t have a good memory, but I remember these things.

But the times I have felt truly beautiful have been few and far between, and often things happen later to color those memories, to make me feel like maybe my self-perception was wrong. Like someone telling me my makeup looked trashy. Or someone telling me the top I was wearing makes my boobs look saggy. Or someone telling me I have a big butt.

I don’t have a good memory, but I remember these things.

I guess ultimately the problem resides within myself. Oh sure, the people whose opinions matter most to me could probably do a lot to help me stay strong, but the truth is, beauty is subjective, and apparently I don’t meet my own criteria. How do I change that? How do I look at myself through the same eyes as those I set upon other people? Or is it that I should be looking at myself with different eyes?

How do you change your definition of beauty to necessarily include yourself?

If anyone has the answers, I’m all ears.

The decor8 post that I quoted on Tuesday also contained this little nugget:

We tend to judge others for the roles that they take on as adults, [but] it is not up to us to direct the life of another person. We can only be a good example and be the change we want to see, not force others into a role we think is best for them.

I started to write this big long post about judging and being judged and all the issues I’ve had with both of those things in the past. But then I realized, it doesn’t really matter what happened before. What counts is what happens now.

.

I think that to be a good writer, you have to be fearless. You can’t worry about whether or not someone is going to judge you or be upset about something you wrote. If you did, you could never write the truth. You’d always be skimming the surface, never delving into the depths of real human character or emotion.

The truth is not always pretty, but often it is the ugly things in life that teach us the most.

.

I’m not there yet. I am not fearless.

But I’m working on it.

Riley has asked me to amend the title of my previous post to read “To two of the three most important men in my life.” However, about fifteen minutes ago I was taking him out for his nightly walk when all of a sudden a round of fireworks were set off at a church festival a few blocks away. I was extremely excited and called Andy to tell him to come outside and watch. Riley was extremely terrified and ran around in circles as if Bigfoot were chasing him to catch and cook for dinner.

So I’m sorry, dear pup o’ mine, but until you are a little more man and a little less crying cowardly tail-between-the-legs baby, the post title will have to remain the same.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! And happy birthday, Andy!

I could get really mushy about these guys, but I’ll spare everyone and just link to this great Father’s Day article that Andy sent me, written by his favorite columnist of all time, Rick Reilly.

Recently things keep coming up every time I want to blog, jolting me out of whatever mood I’m in and making me rethink whatever I’m about to say. For example, yesterday I was going to blog something happy (I can’t even remember what it was anymore) and then I received a phone call that totally turned the day on its head. Without discussing the contents of the call — because part of the call involved my getting yelled at for divulging too much to people — let me just say that I am a good secret-keeper, and I try to be a good friend and listener, but I have my limits, and when I have the kinds of concerns that I currently have, I AM NOT KEEPING YOUR SECRET. But that does not give you the right to talk sh*t about my mom.

Ever.

Then today I was going to post about how much fun I had last night going out with girlfriends from work and seeing the Sex and the City movie — more on that awesomeness later — when I received a notice that my (short) short story “Chasing Trains” had been rejected by the editors at the Boston Review. Here’s the feedback:

Good writing, but ending seems a little much.

We look forward to reading more.

Doh.

It’s not bad, but it’s also not a request for publication. And I was a little surprised by the comment about the ending, seeing as that was more or less the point of the story. Or maybe more accurately, it was the seed that germinated in my mind and inspired me to write the piece. So I guess I’m a little attached to it…

Sigh.

But it could have been worse — like, “Holy crap, woman, you really think you’re going to be a writer? HAHAHAHAHA” — so I’m actually feeling pretty encouraged. And even if that last line is a canned response, I’ll take it! Because goodness knows I’m not done submitting to them.

–

(Now for the originally scheduled awesomeness.)

In keeping with my inability to like things that other people like, I never really got into Sex and the City. Too much sex, too much pink, too much hype. And way too over-the-top clothes.

So after I blindly accepted my coworkers’ invitation to join their Girls’ Night Out, and then a month later asked what we’d actually be doing, and they replied, “Going to see the Sex and the City movie!” I have to admit, I hesitated. Did I really want to pay the outrageous theater prices to see SATC when I could see Kung Fu Panda instead? Was the possibility of getting to know my coworkers better worth suffering through two hours of crazy fashion and penis jokes? (YES.) Couldn’t I be doing something more fun and productive at home instead?

Okay, first of all, note to self: SHUT UP, SNOB.

Second, SATC rocked.

I’ve only seen like 1.5 episodes of the show, but I had no problem getting into the characters’ lives or personalities. The opening montage established their background info beautifully, and the actresses were so convincing, even when they were borderline caricature, that I felt like I was watching parts of their real lives. I think the best aspect was that the movie ebbed and flowed naturally, the way life does, and it spoke much more to the friendship between the four women than to their relationships with (stupid) men.

And Jennifer Hudson had an adorable cameo role!

In order, these were my favorite moments:

(Partial spoilers from here on out — including the link later — so beware!)

• #3:
  Carrie’s impromptu fashion show in her closet, during which the other three girls voted “Take” or “Toss” on each item. Mostly hideous clothes, but such a cute little scene of their fun friendship.
• #2:
  Carrie and Big in bed teasing each other about library books and glasses and other inane, real life-y things.
• #1:
  Charlotte screaming, “No. NO!” at Big right after Carrie beats him with her bouquet. The emotion on Kristin Davis’ face literally brought me to tears. In that moment, she wasn’t Kristin Davis pretending to be Charlotte. She WAS Charlotte, defending her best friend from the man who broke her heart.

Seriously, a great movie. Probably not for guys (unless they want to get laid), but for girls who feel passionately about their friends? It’s a must-see.

(If you’re more conservative, you should be prepared to shield your eyes from the nudity. Oh the nudity.)

Based on how much I love this movie, I’m considering watching all six seasons of the show. But, to ensure that Andy won’t kill me for it, I think I’ll treat it as a reward for meeting my writing goals once I go part-time. Like, an episode a day as long as I write at least X hours or at least X hundred words. That’s fair, right?

I thought so.

One last thing about SATC, and then I’ll shut up: I think it’s hilarious that the movie references a book that everyone now wants to buy even though it doesn’t exist. Too bad they didn’t say it was written by me!

Dear Universe,

Is there some kind of rule, like, we’re not allowed to have all our sh*t together at one time? Because sometimes it seems like you are monitoring everyone and going, “Oh, you fixed that part of your life? Here, then let me mess this part up for you. You need more to do. More challenges! They build character.”

Frankly, Universe, I’m a little tired of building character right now. Couldn’t we do it, like, a few times a year, instead of continuously? Or could you at least cut me some slack for a couple weeks? Because I’d really like to get up after sleeping for eight hours and feel rested. And I’d like to look forward to my day, instead of wishing it were the evening already so I could just go home and curl up with my dog and a good book. And it might be nice not to worry about whether or not everyone can see the tears I’m desperately trying to hold back. Yeah, that’d be lovely.

So, Universe, if you could work on that, I’d really appreciate it. Let me know what you’d like in return, and I’ll do my best.

Thanks so much,
Kristan