From PREP author Curtis Sittenfeld (a woman! who I hope to meet through a mutual connection!) in an NY Times essay I’m Y.A., and I’m O.K.:

“You write the book you want to write, and then publishing has its way with it.”

After learning some sad news last night, I’m feeling weird, so I thought I’d keep with the mood and post about something that’s been weighing on my mind. Writers Carolyn and Lisa See (mother and daughter respectively) are “Chinese American.” But you’d never know by looking at them.

(Seriously, when I first went to Lisa See’s Wikipedia page, I thought someone had put up the wrong picture.)

It shouldn’t bother me, and maybe “bother” isn’t even the right word, but it does make me feel… strange, to see these non-Chinese-looking women so clearly and easily labeled as Chinese American. Maybe it’s because I, who am half-Chinese, have struggled over the years with my own appearance and identity.

(Eyes too small. Face too flat. Pretty hair. Tall. (HAHA.) Too skinny. Not skinny enough. Can’t speak Mandarin. Don’t know traditions. Bad pronounciation. The only brown head in a sea of black at Chinese school. The only one of my friends learning pin yin instead of zhu yin fu hao. “La China” in Spain. Chinese among Americans, American among Chinese.)

Did these women struggle similarly? With one quarter and one eighth (I think) Asian-ness in their blood, can they really identify as Chinese? Can they understand what it’s like when no one would ever mistake them for being anything other than “white”? What in their body of experiences gives them the — sorry to use this word — right, to claim that heritage, the one that I am so tentative to take, because I worry that if someone were to challenge me on it, they might decide I don’t have enough evidence to support my stake?

I don’t know enough about them to come to any conclusions. All I have are questions. Questions that aren’t even really about Carolyn and Lisa See. It’s not personal. It’s just another reminder of all the issues I have yet to resolve within myself.

And none of it has anything to do with their writing either. From what I have heard, Lisa in particular is a fabulous writer, and I may go see her when she comes to Cincinnati to speak in a few months. (Would it be too weird of me to ask her some of these questions, in a non-offensive way? I’m really, really curious about her take on it.) Personal weirdness aside, I’m more than happy to learn what I can from them.

From a conversation between Carolyn & Lisa See:

Every writer has to be a little bit delusional about his or her work. We have to know it’s good. Even if we hate it, we have to know it’s good. Perseverance, stubbornness, has everything to do with keeping on. When I started writing, I was the wrong age, too young, the wrong gender–not all that many women were writing for a living then–and on the wrong coast, the west one. But you just have to put all that aside and go on working.

Though I hope never to amass so many things that I don’t want or need, I really enjoyed going to the World’s Longest Yard Sale last weekend. It was amazing to see what kinds of things people hung on to over the years, and fun to imagine what kind of makeovers I could give the old furniture (in the vein of design*sponge Before & Afters). And it kind of makes you wonder, what kind of junk will I keep for fifty years and then decide to sell on the side of the road?

While I’m not crazy about the one example in this picture, I usually LOVE old bottles and things made out of blue glass. For no good reason at all! Some day I want a mostly black and white room so I can accent it with blue glass pieces like whoa.

Also, Andy’s mom and I totally would have fought over this chicken — if it hadn’t cost $75.

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?

From an interview with Tobias Wolff, posted at The Bay Area Intellect:

Wolff talked a lot about his slow, arduous writing process. “Some writers seem, almost, to be a channel for an inspiring work that flows down from the sky…,” he motioned to the ceiling, “…and through them. Updike is that type.” He likened his own process to working with clay, sometimes shaping it and pounding it down to start all over. “But the stuff’s still there,” he said.

As for me? Yeah, not so much with inspiring work flowing from the sky. (I wish.) Nor with the clay, really. More like long, tortuous mornings and afternoons avoiding the sofa (naps) and the internet (amazingness) and the refrigerator (fatty fat fat), and instead forcing myself to hold a pen over paper, or poise my fingers over the keyboard, and make letters come out. Then make those letters form words, and the words sentences, and the sentences stories.

It’s not always pretty, but I guess it works?

God I hope it works.

1. Riley passed. Totally didn’t deserve to, but his trainer (Steve) is awesome, and we all agree he’ll probably deserve to pass legitimately in a few months.

2. I am about two seconds away from buying a Macbook Air on impulse. MUST. CONTROL. THE URGE.

Earlier this afternoon I met with Michael Griffith, a writer and professor of creative writing at the University of Cincinnati. (Side note: The UC campus is beautiful!! So much interesting architecture and beautiful lawns/lounge space. Definitely made me miss campus life.) Anyway, I wanted to ask Michael about writing in general, writing in Cincinnati, going for an additional degree (MFA or Ph.D.), and being a professor. I figured he might know a thing or two about all that.

His novel SPIKES and collection BIBLIOPHILIA both seem to have been well-received, and I liked the excerpt I read of the latter. But more important than his credentials, he was extremely friendly and willing to help me. We only got to speak for about forty minutes since he was meeting with Ph.D. students about their dissertations all afternoon, but he offered a lot of great advice and even his assistance in the future. I left with a mixture of happiness, warmth, and motivation surging through me.

I mean, sitting at Starbucks and talking with someone who’s doing what I want to do — writing, reaching out and mentoring fellow writers, (maybe) teaching, and somehow still staying involved with family — gave me this feeling that I can do this. I WILL do this. Even a complete stranger thinks so!

It was also cool that he knew of Hilary and Terrance.

A few times during our discussion I felt a little silly/stalker-like because I had looked Michael up online. (”I actually only took one workshop in my undergraduate career–” “From Joyce Carol Oates!” “Yes… How did you know that?”) But I didn’t want to go in knowing nothing and seem rude! Thankfully he was cool about it.

(Because I’m NOT a stalker.)

Speaking of JCO, I’ve been saving up a few excerpts, including one from her. In an interview with The Paris Review:

INTERVIEWER
What are the advantages of being a woman writer?

JOYCE CAROL OATES
Advantages! Too many to enumerate, probably. Since, being a woman, I can’t be taken altogether seriously by the sort of male critics who rank writers 1, 2, 3 in the public press, I am free, I suppose, to do as I like. I haven’t much sense of, or interest in, competition; I can’t even grasp what Hemmingway and the epigonic Mailer meant by battling it out with the other talent in the ring. A work of art has never, to my knowledge, displaced another work of art. The living are no more in competition with the dead than they are with the living . . . Being a woman allows me a certain invisibility. Like Ellison’s The Invisible Man. (My long journal, which much be several hundred pages by now, is titled Invisible Woman. Because a woman, being so mechanically judged by her appearance, has the advantage of hiding within it — of being absolutely whatever she knows herself to be, in contrast with what others imagine her to be. I feel no connection at all with my physical appearance and have often wondered whether this was a freedom any man — writer or not — might enjoy.)

The Paris Review also had a (more recent?) interview with Vladimir Nabokov, but now I am wishing I hadn’t read it (well, skimmed it) until after I finished reading LOLITA, because his arrogance and condescension was so off-putting that now I feel like not reading it just to spite him. But that would be silly.

I just won’t link to the interview instead. :P

Anyway, my meeting with Michael and my foray onto UC’s beautiful campus, combined with this magical weather (sunny, 80s, with a cool breeze), has made this a wonderful day. Tonight we have Riley’s last Advanced Training class, which means he will get the Canine Good Citizen test. Cross your fingers and hope he’s really, really tired, because otherwise he’ll be too darn hyper to pass!

Okay I admit, this story totally deserved to beat mine:

The Plainness of My Fall, by Janice Macdonald

I didn’t get into it (i.e., was indignant and doubtful) until Emmaline showed up, but then it totally swept me away.

Andy’s family is here visiting, so needless to say our schedules have been a little different than usual and I didn’t get a chance to post. But Sunday is the new Friday, right?

Anyway, not like anyone’s holding their breath or crying over my Foto Fridays.

So far it’s been a jam-packed weekend, including golfing, going to the World’s Longest Yard Sale, and hopefully not puking at King’s Island. But it started with the Reds game on Friday night, which the Astros won (WOOT!), and which also happened to be Fireworks Night at Great American Ballpark.

Now, I’ve seen some nice fireworks in my time, and as my dad likes to point out, um, all the time, our family comes from New Castle (PA) home to the world famous Zambelli Fireworks company, but we were recently cheated out of our July 4th fireworks show at Clear Lake (TX) when our boat’s motor wouldn’t start, so it was wonderful to get a chance to see some pyrotechnics up close and personal.

Even better: they were AMAZING. This clip is only 1 min and 30 sec of a 20-min show that was one of the best I’ve seen in a long time, maybe one of the top I’ve seen ever. (That list of tops includes the fireworks at July 4th in DC.)

There was your standard stuff:

There was the more distinct stuff:

And then there was the HOLY BAJEEZUS I’VE NEVER SEEN FIREWORKS LIKE THAT IN MY LIFE stuff:

Have YOU ever seen little red Y’s floating down from a firework that just exploded?

More photos and video at my Flickr account, if anyone’s interested.

A while back, Alex told me I had to read THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE. I looked at her like, What, you’re regressing back to our scifi days? Are we going to bust out with the Star Trek dolls — sorry, action figures – and play make-believe again?

Then she hit me over the head and said, No, you dope, I’m just trying to get you to read one of the most awesomest books ever.

Well, it went something like that anyway.

The book of course turned out to be fabulous — and not really scifi, although there is obviously time travel involved — and so when I stumbled across Writer Unboxed, I had to read their interview with the author, Audrey Niffenegger.

I figure writer’s block is a signal to stop working on something straight on and go at it sideways for a while.

I’m trying to put some order into my life, and not do everything for other people before I do my own work. It’s very hard to beat back the needs of other people, because taken singly, they seem so small and doable. Taken en mass they completely engulf me. So I am in the midst of attempting to make a new way for myself.

That reminds me SO much of myself, and the way I’m always dropping my own tasks to do what others ask of me. Work, parents, friends, Andy, Riley… (”Play! Let’s play! Take me outside! Wanna play?”) I always think, Oh sure, I can handle that, no big deal. And if it were just the one thing, or even the two, I probably could. But it’s never just one or two things.

It’s hard training myself to be more selfish — and more importantly, to not think of being “selfish” as bad. Really it’s more about focus, and priorities, and realistic expectations of self. I am not Superwoman, sadly. I am just me, trying to be an author.