Holiday Ends
Today is (I think) the last day of Holidailies, which is a bit of a relief. I’m planning to take a short break here, a week while I’m in Oregon visiting my parents and another week to recover from flying all over the country. Then I’m hoping to be back here posting once a week, maybe more on occasion, but I don’t want to aim for more for fear I won’t do any.
I managed a post for every day of holidailies, even if it wasn’t posted every day (I think I missed one day, but started a day early, so it evened out) which totals 32 days (including this one) in a row of blog posts. I realize this isn’t an enormous accomplishment, but it’s what I set out to do, so I’m happy to have finished it. I’ve also managed to get some (thought by no means all) of the holiday things done that I needed to do, so it’s not as though everything dropped to the side so I could get the blogging done, something I’ve been known to fall into in the past. A few things dropped to the side, but I think nothing important. I got several batches of chex mix baked for gifts, two glitter bottles finished for Ender, the wave bottle finished (thought not sealed) and two drawings done for Matt. Again, none of these things are especially epic on their own, but they are all the sorts of things I often mean to do, and don’t get around to, so I’m happy, and optimistic about my goals for the year.
If you missed my 2011 wrapup here are my goals for 2012:
1. Find time to do something creative at least a few times a week.
2. Submit a short story to magazines.
3. Re-write chapter 1 of novel.
4. Create dummy for picture book, and 2 finished pages. Submit picture book to publishers.
5. Create one simple (even if entirely useless) iPad app.
There are several other cascading goals, and better defined goals, that come from the ones above, but those are a good target for me at the moment, and I’m feeling pretty good about them at the moment. I’m starting out by giving myself small (very small) daily goals such as getting a sketch done, or spending an hour doing some editing. Re-focusing my efforts in this (these) direction(s) should help get me back into doing what I want to be doing, and what I need to be doing. I think daily blogging has been a good step stone for that, and helped me get some of my thoughts organized.
I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season and enjoyed holidailies. Off we go.
Giveaway Winner
I did a shirt credit giveaway December 19. The winner is Sherck with the suggestion: “Stare at it until you can see the Magic Eye picture (I swear it’s there, and I can’t believe they would put that on a onesie).” Sherck, I’ll get in contact with the shirt blanks company when I get back from Oregon (in about a week) and figure out how to get you your $25 credit then. This is my first giveaway with an outside company, so forgive me if I fumble a bit.
Naming Ender
Matt and I debated about giving Ender such a loaded nickname. Forget the fact that Ender Wiggin killed two children (in self defense) before he was 12, and forget that he unknowingly committed mass xenocide. (If you have no idea what I’m talking about, a summary of Ender’s Game should help.)
Ignoring all of the acts he was tricked or pushed into committing, there’s still the problem of (the character) Ender’s own experience: his childhood didn’t exist, and once “freed” from the training of killing buggers he spent the rest of his life trying to absolve himself of the guilt of that war. He is never at any kind of peace until he marries Novinha on Lusitania some… 3000(?) years later, and that is a half-peace, under shared guilt and the weight of disaster.
It’s not something anyone would wish on a child, and names are nothing if not wishes for our children. Look at the most common meanings of names: beautiful, lucky, joyous, strong.
Except the character of Ender is not just the sum of his actions and experiences. He’s the most compassionate bad-ass imaginable. Oh, and a genius besides. And everyone he comes in contact with can’t help but love him. These are far from bad things, even if they are the very traits that get him into Battle School, and more importantly, the traits that pushed him to the top of Battle School, and ultimately made him responsible for winning the Bugger war.
We played with other nicknames. When I talked to him while I was pregnant, I usually called him “Ollie.” It’s funny, it seemed automatic at the time, but now Ollie is a totally different being: Ollie was the fetus and I can’t imagine this baby being anyone but Ender. Of course he could decide he hates it when he gets older, but fortunately Olivander lends itself to all sorts of nicknames. These days I’ve given up on telling people Ender is “short for” Olivander, because generally it just confuses them.
Matt and I both loved the name Olivander, but we weren’t settled on it. I’d thought of the name Ender independently, but wanted to give our baby a name with some meaning aside from a literary character, and Ender, as far as I know, has no meaning beyond the literal “one who ends,” which is not the most auspicious of meanings for a baby. As a nickname though, it’s an entirely different matter.
We were listening to the audiobook of Ender’s Game, and all its sequels, on a series of long trips. Matt had read Ender’s Game before, but not recently enough to remember it. I’ve read it so often I have bits memorized (which isn’t actually unusual… that is true of many of my books). As we got to the end of one of the books, Matt said, “couldn’t we name him Ender?” He was half joking. I grinned at him and pointed out that if Ender could be a nickname for Andrew, surely it could be a nickname for Olivander. I think we were pretty much decided after that.
When you think about it, any interesting literary character probably didn’t have a wonderful time of it- otherwise they wouldn’t be interesting. Misery and conflict is what makes a story. If we have a wish for our children, it would be boredom, and if naming our children were granting wishes, we would never name them for literary characters. No one wants their children to have adventures.
Naming isn’t wishgranting though, it’s giving. And if we are giving Ender anything from the character Ender, I hope it’s a taste of future, of things that seem impossible, of everyday beauty and love. Maybe the knowledge that nothing is ever as simple as it seems, and a bit of healthy distrust for authority. Independence but not loneliness, responsibility but not guilt. And especially a sense of open possibility.
Mostly though, we named him Ender, because it’s awesome. We can only hope he thinks so too.
All Your Fault Heather
I sign all my emails like this:
Meagan <<>>
I didn’t have a lot of friends in high school. I was the weird girl who made creepy drawings and painted all the theater sets. Looking back, I think there were more people who might have been my friends than I realized, but at the time, I felt very alienated at my school. Fortunately, there was fencing.
As of last fall, I have been fencing for half my life– I started when I was fifteen years old. It was an important time for me, I was feeling lost and a little hopeless.
Fencing was transformative. I was around adults that treated me as an equal which is of HUGE importance to a teenager. My senior year, the coach, Paul, gave me a job as an assistant teacher/coach for a home school program. It wasn’t just the extra money (and I can’t remember how much it was, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t much) it was the realization that my contribution was important, that I was actually of value. Of course there was the physical fitness aspect, I can’t claim to have ever been truly svelte, but I was healthy and athletic by the time I left for college, and my doctor told me my lung tests were good enough that he wouldn’t have known I had asthma. I gained a sense of accomplishment, with two or three placements in finals of low level national tournaments, and, the summer before college, my first ever first place finish. Thanks to the generosity and tolerance of my parents, I was able to travel all over the country for tournaments and fencing camps. In fact, that’s how I first got to see Notre Dame’s campus, frigid but beautiful in January of 1998. Fencing was probably what got me into Notre Dame too, or at least it certainly wasn’t my grades, which were decent, but not good enough for ND.
Without a doubt though, the most important thing fencing gave me was friends. My first boyfriend was a fencer, and while the dating part didn’t really work out, he was my best friend for several years. A handful of other teenaged boys in Eugene were friends to hang out with and play video games and learn calculus from. And because Eugene didn’t have many fencers that traveled to national competitions, Portland fencers stepped up as a second family, as de facto teammates, cheering me on, coaching, advising, when I ought to have been all alone.
In college, fencing launched friendships for me, teammates becoming social circles, automatic invites to parties past freshman bashes and acceptance for my quirks and many oddities.
My first female friends as a teenager were a couple fencers from Portland: Heather and Leah. Both were younger than me, Heather by a year, Leah by two or three, but perhaps because I was a bit immature, they felt like a natural peer group. With Heather and Leah for the first time since elementary school, I would frequently laugh to the point of tears, usually over incredibly stupid things that could never be explained the next day. I felt completely relaxed with them, and never felt that I had to prove anything. I ENJOYED being with them, rather than feeling that I needed to fit some persona.
Which brings me back to my email signature.
I started emailing, on my Dad’s account, when I was a junior in High School. Heather was my first correspondent. She signed her emails like this:
Heather =)
I thought that was pretty cool. I had never seen an emoticon before, and it actually took me a few emails to figure out it was supposed to be a smilie. At first I just thought it was a cool bit of graphic typography. And, in the way of teenagers, I wanted to imitate it.
I came up with: “<<>>”
It was meant as a pure aesthetic statement, and if anyone asked, I figured it looked kind of like an eye. This seemed appropriate to me, since I spent much of my time drawing eyes and some of my finished pieces had eyes as focal points. I had also kind of, but not really at all, been nick named “watcher” by a senior at my high school when I was a freshman, for my tendency to stare them to the point of discomfort if they tried to haze me. So eyes were important to me.
But yeah, mainly I just thought it looked kind of neat, and I wanted to have something cool on the end of my name like Heather did.
I continued to sign my emails that way through college, worrying a bit that it might be unprofessional, but persisting nonetheless. These days, I don’t even think about it, the <<>> is entirely automatic. On the rare occasion that I send an email that seems too serious to include it, my signature feels naked without it, and for the most part I’ve stopped excluding it, even if the email is important and to a stranger.
It has no more meaning now than it did when I was sixteen. No one has ever asked about it. Which is just as well. If they did, I’d have to admit, that I’ve been signing my emails with <<>> for 14 years for no better reason than I think it looks kind of cool.
So long for now,
Meagan <<>>
Completion
My mind’s closet is overstuffed with unfinished ideas. There are inventions, drawings, furniture designs, stories, business plans, clothing concepts and half sketched websites. Cyberspace alone hosts a sad little graveyard of my abandoned projects, be it a webcomic or a writing community or a handful of sites that never got past the under construction page. (Every single one of those links is a website I “started.”) A peek back at my Big Box of ADHD post from 2009 shows a long list of things I thought were top priorities, but three years later, I’ve only finished one or two. Sometimes this feels like a moral failing.
I’m not wonderful at finishing things. Since I was small I’ve had the tendency to bound into projects too big for me, then to get distracted before getting traction, or once I’m well entrenched but lose interest, or, best of all, when I’m ALMOST done but can’t quite bring myself to seal the envelope. Most often of all, no matter how excited I am, I never even start.
I did Holidailies for the first and only time in 2008. I thought it was a little hokey and was embarrassed to advertize my participation, but I managed to post every single day. In fact, 2008 was a good year for completion for me. The wedding, while it would have happened whether or not we’d finished all the preparation, was the first time I was mostly responsible for putting together something so large and having it actually happen. Mainly due to the kindness of friends, but hey, it happened.
The most significant thing I finished in 2008 was my novel, Lost Child of Summer. I haven’t found a publisher but there is something magical about finishing a novel. Even if it’s the worst piece of hackery ever produced (and I don’t think it is) completing a novel makes you feel like you can do anything. Makes me feel like I actually CAN follow through on my thoughts if I’m careful.
I guess I haven’t been careful enough. I haven’t had much luck with completion since 2008. There are always excuses and distractions, and I just never seem to get around to doing what I mean to do.
The Plan was always for me to be a work from home mom. Matt and I, looking ahead, figured I’d take a couple years and get a freelance career going, get some illustration work here, some writing jobs there, and maybe crafting on top. Side projects on the side. Yes, it’s scattered, but I just don’t seem to aim and fire in one direction. Then we’d have a baby, and another a few years later, and I’d slow my work for a while, then pick it back up as I could.
Only those couple years passed, and now I have a six month old… the best excuse ever. And all those intentions are exactly where I left them.
I love being a mom. I am enjoying Ender like I’ve never enjoyed anything. It’s enough to keep me happy, but it’s not enough to keep me satisfied. It’s not just that there are so many things I could do… it’s that there are so many things that I’ve wanted to do. It’s pretty obvious that it can take effort and determination to do something you don’t like to do. What is less obvious is how much effort and determination it takes to do something you DO like to do.
So this year, I thought maybe a good start would be to do Holidailies again. I am sick of looking at last year’s resolutions and saying, no. Not one. Ender is getting to the age where he takes somewhat reliable naps, so it’s time to make some use of those hour long chunks. I’ll post every day for a month, and then at the end of the month, maybe posting once a week won’t seem so unlikely. Maybe drawing will be less of a chore. Maybe I’ll finally revisit my short stories and novel.
Maybe I’ll remember that I’m capable of completion.
Escape from Shmoopocolypse 2010
Or, “If Shmoocon 2010 was a Zombie Movie.”
It’s taken some time, and a whole lot of therapy, but I think I’m finally ready to talk about what happened.
Everyone’s heard of the great “snowpocalypse” in DC a few months back, the snowstorm that covered the east cost this last February. Most people don’t realize that this story is a government hoax; hiding something much darker than snow.
It did snow that weekend. Matt and I drove carefully into town, eager to attend Shmoocon, DC’s annual hacker convention. We checked into the hotel and brought our bags to the room. We were disappointed with the view, but nothing could dampen our enthusiasm for the convention. We scampered downstairs to the convention center, innocent and happy as ripe strawberries. Matt’s Utilikilt flapped merrily, alarming the other guests. How could we have known that our carefree time would soon come to an end? No one could have predicted it.
We went to see the keynote speaker, not a thought in our heads beyond computer p0wnage and chocolate tastings. Caught a session on cyborgs, with a deeper look into modern brain surgery. I think it was this focus on brains, and all the busy brains at work, that brought them.
Hanging out in the hotel restaurant during lunch break, one of the hackers started acting strange. More strange than usual for computer geeks I mean. Reader be warned: consuming a few too many Great Lakes Beers may push you to try things that are not wise. Our friend Tom Eston was lucky to escape with his life.
Matt and I left the bar, only a little uneasy, but we quickly realized things at the convention were spiraling out of control.
The government run media didn’t make up the snowstorm entirely. When we got to the doors, snow surrounded the building like trigger happy Blackwater mercs. There was no way out. Inside, hotel doors were exploding with groaning, staggering hackers. At first I thought they were drunk, normal enough at ten AM on a convention weekend, but then Larry Pesce took a bite out of poor Paul Asadoorian and I realized it must be more than normal hacker hijinks.
A crash and a sprinkling of glass made me look up. Fists smashed through the skylights, mindless of the cuts. Snow thundered down along with several battered people. They fell three stories to the atrium below. Then they got back up. That’s when I knew something was very wrong.
We hid behind a malfunctioning ATM machine for a while. I rocked in place, refusing to acknowledge what was happening. Eventually I had to accept the truth. ZOMBIES. We made a break for it.
In the first conference room we met friends: Tom Eston– still shaken from his close call, and Chris Clymer– oddly mesmerized by the corpses slumped in the audience seats. Jack Nichelson and his wife Kim. But our entrance awakened new monsters. These were quickly dispatched with typical hacker ingenuity but time was running out.
We had to find a way out of the hotel, out of DC.
From one end of the hotel to the other we fled, meeting blocked doors and drooling ex-hackers. The floor was littered with body parts, blood splattered the walls. Each turn brought fresh foes, but finally we had a moment of peace to think.
Matt remembered our hotel room. Our lousy view.
Minds on escape, we rushed to the fire stairs. I fumbled with the hotel key, terrified that another zombie would find us exposed.
Luck was with us. We spilled into the hotel room, sped to the window. It was alright. No zombies had found the roof yet, and though the snow was quickly piling up, there was room to climb out. Just.
Fortunately, all hotels in DC have helipads, and the helicopter keys were in the ignition. Chris quickly read through the manual we found beneath a seat and Tom took the controls.
Hanging out the open doors, Kim and I got a great view of the city, but the ride didn’t last as long as we might have hoped. “We’re out of gas!” Matt screamed over the roar of the rotors. I thought we were going to crash, but Tom managed to bring us down safely inside the panda enclosure at the National Zoo.
A panda sunk its claws into Jack’s leg. Let me tell you, those things aren’t as cuddly as they look. We got him away from the panda, but the injury slowed him down a bit so we had to help him up the wall. Then we had to climb the outer fence as well because the zoo was closed “due to snow.” A likely story. Once we were outside it was obvious the zombies were not just in the hotel. Scenes of masacre lined the streets. Before we could run from the zoo gates, we saw several zombie orangutans gnawing on some poor sap’s severed arm. Seeing the infected animals made me hope the panda that got Jack wasn’t tainted as well, but I didn’t mention my fears.
We needed transportation. There were a few lost souls wandering the streets, but it was clear they wouldn’t last long. We wouldn’t last long. We kept low, hiding behind any cover we could find.
Zombie packs roamed the streets, and a few times we were almost seen. The zombies were slow, but we knew their groaning would alert other groups. We saw the national guard through the trees, but we didn’t dare try to signal them, for fear of giving ourselves away to the hoards. Finally, we found hope:
An abandoned Bobcat with snow treads was idling a few blocks from the zoo. I tried not to think of what might have happened to the previous operator, it was enough that we had found our salvation.
It was difficult to fit all six of us in that little Bobcat, but we were so glad to see the last of DC (Doomed City) we didn’t care.
If only it really were the last. Like a bad Jerry Springer, the infernal city kept pulling us back in.
Every time we hit the highway, we found our Bobcat grinding back into the center of DC. On our third circuit, it was starting to get dark. Kim let the machine slow to a stop. “What are you doing?” I demanded. She ignored me.
“Tom!” Kim pointed through the Bobcat’s grill. “Isn’t that…” we looked up ahead to see a small figure crouched behind a statue of Nathan Hale. “It’s your wife!”
Before we could stop him, Tom jumped from the Bobcat and sprinted to the dark shape. We followed cautiously in the rising shadows, but as we got closer, I saw that it was indeed Tom’s wife, Jill. She didn’t move as we approached her, but clutched her arm. It oozed blood through the bandage she’d fashioned from a Smithsonian banner.
Tom stopped abruptly feet away from her, staring. “Are you bit?” he asked. She started to speak but couldn’t make noise. Tom wrenched forward, grabbing her about the shoulders and shaking her. “ARE YOU BIT?”
Jill cried out in pain as her arm shook. “No!” she managed. “I got cut climbing out of the basement of some building in Adams Morgan. Thank God I had a chainsaw to get through the glass.”
“Thank God!” said Tom, and held her tightly. They had a tenderly shmoo-pey scene which I’d prefer not to dwell on. Then Tom gently removed the Smithsonian banner and replaced it with a tourniquet made from his jacket sleeve. “Let’s go,” he said, pulling Jill to her feet.
I shook my head worriedly. “Just one problem,” I told him. “Bobcat won’t run with seven.”
“WE’LL MAKE IT RUN!” he said.
When we turned back to the Bobcat, we realized it didn’t matter how many it could hold. Two zombies, perhaps drawn by the sound of the engine, were stumbling around our faithful machine. Behind them, another zombie tried to claw its way into an abandoned car. At the sound of Tom’s yell, they all looked at us.
Matt said, “Run!” but Tom shook his head. I looked at Jill and Jack, both still bleeding from fresh wounds and realized he was right. We could never make it. The zombies lurched toward us.
“Good thing I have this,” said Tom, and he pulled a Molotov Cocktail from his coat pocket. “Who’s got a light?” Matt pulled a metal lighter from his kilt pocket and tossed it to Tom.
I stared at the Molotov Cocktail. “Where did you-”
“No time!” said Tom. He lit the rag and threw the bottle, not at the zombies as I expected, but at our trusty Bobcat. It exploded like the forth of July, and after a wave of heat and noise, the streets were blessedly empty.
For a time.
It was only a few minutes before the sound of the explosion brought others. We could see black forms walking jerkily in the snow at the end of each street. We stood in the snow, shivering, wondering what to do. Below his kilt, Matt’s knees got goosebumps.
“There!” said Jack, pointing.
I don’t know how we missed it before. An undamaged Humvee sitting right in the middle of Constitution Avenue. We ran to the car, looking nervously over our shoulders.
“I’m so glad I brought my double sided lockpicks,” said Matt, shoving his picks into the doorlocks.
“Hurry!” I urged him, but he had the door unlocked in seconds. Chris climbed into the driver’s seat and quickly hot-wired the Humvee while the rest of us tumbled in. We ran over four of the zombies with scarcely a bump.
Otherwise, leaving DC was no easier in the Humvee.
The roads were chaos. Cars drove in every direction and as before, we found ourselves irresistibly drawn back to the center.
“We’ll have to leave the main roads,” said Jill as we swerved down Pennsylvania Ave for the fifth time.
Chris nodded and smashed the Humvee through the cement fence. I winced at the noise, but the car rumbled on, unconcerned.
Zombies looked in at us stupidly as we ran them over. Their bodies were as slippery as the snow.
Once we left the main roads, we were alone in the darkness and DC seemed to relinquish its hold. The trouble is, we didn’t know where we were going.
Matt looked for a way out on his Android, while I tried my iphone, but whatever way we took we seemed to keep hitting dead ends.
In the back, Jack groaned, and I glanced back at him. He looked a tad grey. I bit my lip, and met Matt’s worried look, but we didn’t say anything. Chris tightened his grip on the wheel and drove.
Slowly we got further from the city, and we saw fewer and fewer zombies the more we drove. We continued finding bad roads, but we just turned around and continued.
Around midnight, our road trailed off into a corn field. Chris pulled the car around sharply and we heard a sound like a shot. The car shuddered. My shoulder slammed into the side, painfully. “The tire,” said Kim. “We must have hit a nail.”
We looked at each other. “We haven’t seen a zombie for hours,” I said.
“I’ll get it,” said Jack.
“What about your leg?” asked Kim.
He shrugged her off. “I’m fine.” I think he knew already, what we all knew. More grey than ever, Jack hopped out of the car (really hopped, that leg wasn’t fine at all) while Kim watched fretfully. The tire came off easily and we all waited in silence while Jack jacked up the Humvee. He was just tightening the final nut when the zombies started out of the corn.
“Get back in the car!” said Kim. “Jack!” He looked at her and smiled, shrugged.
He hefted his tire iron. “Come on you bastards!” he yelled. “Let’s see who’s Left 4 Dead tonight!” Jack waded into the melee swinging. They must have finished him in the end, but not before he splattered a bundle of zombies in the snow. We drove off before it was over, knowing there was nothing else we could do.
We made it home eventually. Since that time, Matt, Tom and Chris have dedicated themselves to zombie research. After two months of hard studying Matt got his PhD and Chris finally earned his MD, while Tom spent his time stockpiling one of every weapon there is.
Next weekend, at Notacon 7, the three of them will give a presentation on Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse. Be there. Because believe me, whatever the government says to the contrary, it’s coming.
Please take a minute to appreciate the sacrifice off Jack Nichelson who surely lost his life while taking some of these photos, tire iron swinging. Also, a moment of silence is in order for Jess Rudolph of the Confused Greenies, an unwitting test subject.
Quick Vote Note
Obviously I’ve been neglecting my blog terribly, but I hope to be back with some drawings and an actual real-live post this week. Meanwhile…
Frozen, a post I wrote back in October, was nominated as one of the best “Just Posts” of 2009 in the category of Political/Legal Social Justice related to Sexuality. The post is about a woman who was kept from the deathbed of her life partner (along with the couple’s children), and more broadly, about same sex marriage. It’s one of the more difficult things I’ve written, only because I wanted to write something that might actually speak to people who were against gay marriage, rather than just preaching to the choir. That means pulling back from many of the things I was tempted to say. Biting comments feel good, but don’t encourage dialogue. In the end I’m not sure it mattered, since I doubt anyone who was against same sex marriage made it to my blog to read it, but I’m pleased and honored that people who have read it found it worthwhile.
If you’d like to vote for it you can do so here:
or here:
My post is “Frozen” (a certain lack of focus) by Meagan, in the 3rd category. There are lots of great posts over there, so it’s worth the trip even if you don’t feel like voting.
Fan Girl (me)
On Sunday, Matt and I went to see Neil Gaiman reading at Cleveland Public Library. Amazingly, this event was free. I mean, I would have paid to see Neil read, but free is fantastic. Our libraries rock.
Anyway, Matt is wonderfully supportive of my fan-girl-ness. It probably helps that he is also a big fan of Neil Gaiman’s writing and comic books.
I wasn’t sure what to expect in terms of crowd. I figured either, yeah, it’s Neil Gaiman, so they’ll be lining up around the block (this is what actually happened) or this is Cleveland, so no one will find out about it, and there will be fourteen people in a huge auditorium yelling, “we love you Neil!”
There ended being over a thousand people, all radiating happiness and hero worship. Neil’s fans are an odd assortment of hippie-craftsters, goths, metal-biker types and general misfits, most of which are much friendlier than they look. The book worm connection probably helped. Matt, who is usually by far the social one in our pairing, accused me of being a social butterfly for once.
It’s just easier to talk to people who are a bit batty over fantasy and such. Cult audiences are so much fun. Also, yes. A real bat got into the building, which seemed fitting.
Neil is super friendly, which didn’t surprise me, but he is also rather adorable, which did. The grim visage he carries around doesn’t really translate in person.
We got to hear the first ever reading (I think) of Odd and the Frost Giants, a short novel he wrote for World Book Day, which I’d never even heard of until yesterday (the day, not the book, but actually, I’d never heard of either).
Apparently authors and publishers put out 100 page books for free, children are given book tokens and get to choose from (I think) 9 books. I’d never heard of it because it’s the world OUTSIDE of the US. Shame, it sounds like a good idea.
Neil and his undead army. Actually they’re Oberlin students, and I had a brighter picture, but I liked the zombie look.
There were enough people that not everyone fit in the main room, which I think held about 700 people.
Another few hundred peopel were shuffled into an overflow room across the hall, where I suppose they watched on TV screens. Still more were turned away entirely. Matt and I got there just before noon, and managed to get great seats in the middle. During the question and answer section, Neil made sure to gett a couple questions from the overflow room, which was cool of him. He also took a few questions from kids, (there were quite a few in the audience) including “do you remember signing a girl’s foot in Portland?” which was pretty entertaining.
He got a standing ovation, which is predictable these days, but I’d say he actually deserved it, which is less common. He’s a fantastic speaker, and of course most of his fans already know he’s a wonderful reader. I’ve listened to his audio books before, but I was still sort of amazed at his vocal range with characters, particularly reading Odd and the Frost Giants. I really did feel as though I were a little kid again, listening to the bear voices in a faerie tale. Afterwards he signed books and possibly feet.
Actually he’s a saint. He signed for everyone that wanted something. I’m not sure what time he left, but Matt and I finally made it out with our signed books at about 6 pm, and I know Neil was supposed to leave to catch a plane at 4:30. So yeah. Saint.
In high fan-girl fashion, I drew Neil a picture, hoping I’d have a chance to give it to him. I’d planned to draw something from one of his short stories, but I couldn’t settle on anything so I ended up doing a caricature of Neil. As he put it: “Oh it’s me! Beekeeping! With a 3 headed Cabal!” So I think he liked it, even though my friend Jack told me I was being creepy.
I made his head too big, and the dog’s body is a little confusing (but I suppose it would be) and actually the front dog head looks like a Corgi, which Cabal certainly is not. And don’t even ask about the futuristic bee hive.
I wanted him to be grabbing something out of the air, and I eventually settled on star anise. I tried to think of what an idea might look like, and this seemed like a good representation: half seed, half star.
His cloak of course is a nod at the Sandman‘s getup, and I was trying to make his hat look a bit like Odin’s cap, but honestly that’s pretty much what beekeeper’s hats look like anyway, so I’m not sure I succeeded.
It was an amazing day and I got to give Neil my drawing, and we got some books signed, and hear part of a new story, and get a teaser about what he’s working on now, and generally hear him talk about what he does and what it’s like. It was an unbelievable way to spend a day, especially sharing it with Matt. Even if I didn’t get to eat more than a cookie and a half between waking up and 7 pm dinner. I’m still a bit giddy, and emotianlly drained from being giddy all day yesterday. Totally worth it.
IT’S ALIVE!
Well it’s been almost forever since I updated here, but I hope to get back to regular posts now. I think.
What’s happened since my last post on March 26th? The biggest news is on the whole degree front. Maybe I shouldn’t put this in writing until I have the diploma physically in my hand, but I’ve finally graduated. I have my MFA in English, Creative Writing. I am NO LONGER a student. At least not officially. I suspect I’ll find reasons to take occasional classes still, but I’m not worrying about completing everything.
Along with nine other students I gave my graduation reading on May 2nd. Matt tells me it went well, but for me it’s all a bit blurry as I was mildly terrified. I’m not a fan of getting up in front of people, something I suppose I’ll have to overcome soonish. Fortunately, the section I chose was full of dialogue between characters who were either angry or afraid, so my voice shaky actually worked out pretty well.
I read second which was a relief since I didn’t have to wait long. The section I chose was a scene where the faerie king visits my main character’s home… this is the only part of novel that references an outside faerie culture and it has very little connection to the rest of the story… which is why I chose it. This allowed me to read without having to explain much since the section stands alone, more related to future books than the current novel. It’s also one of the more intense sections.
Once I was able to relax it was fun to listen to my classmates. I’d actually never met several of them, while a few read from manuscripts that that I remember from workshops.
I’m now working on a final revision of my novel, to get it ready to send off to publishers. I’m optimistic. I’m also trying to get some art together for chapter breaks, so I have at least a demonstration to give publishers when I send in the manuscript, but I’m not at all sure about that. Most writers are not artists. It could be a selling point, but I’ll have to find a publisher who sees it that way, rather than writing me off as amateur.
In other important news I changed dentists and my mouth no longer hurts. So good.
The only other things of possible interest I can report on are a day camping trip for my brother’s birthday and a trip to Washington. I’ll go into details later, which will give me incentive to post again, and with any luck, get me back in the habit. Lots of pretty pictures, coming soon.
A Pause
Well, we’re on the way to Michigan. Or Dayton. I’m really not sure at this point.
The plus side is that we’ll be back home on the weekend, and then in town for at least two weeks. With any luck, traveling will even out after that. Matt and I are both worn out.
I had my thesis defense yesterday, and I passed (*phew!*) so I will receive my MFA in May. My novel still needs probably one good overhaul, then I’ll be ready to start looking for publishers. I’d also like to get a few good chapter illustrations to send off with the manuscript.
My mind kept slipping to Sheila during and after the defense, which made the day a little bitter-sweet… but mostly sweet. I wish I’d emailed her in October when I finished the first draft, I wish I’d sent her a card, and most of all, I wish I’d invited her to my wedding even though I didn’t think she’d be able to go. But I know she’d be happy for me today, and I know she was pleased with what I was writing back at the start. I felt her triumph as my thesis comittee discussed the success of my most difficul character: the one Sheila insisted I get right.
I am starting to get myself together in terms of goals. In addition to polishing the novel, right now I’m concentrating on updating my art portfolio so I can start sending out samples. My technique has improved since I graduated from ND, and I think at my current level, I have a reasonable chance of getting work. I’d also like to start revising some of my old short stories, which I haven’t so much as glanced at in 2 years, or even *gasp* write new ones. If all goes according to plan, I can get myself back into a reasonable work schedule. At home.
For now, stuck in the car, I’ll leave you with a photo. I bet you’re sick of pictures of the road, so here’s one of some crabs:
Writing is Weird
Yesterday I edited approximately 130 pages of my novel. This is good, since I was getting a little worried about finishing by the end of the week (my new fake deadline) but it’s also sort of weird.
The day before that, feeling like I put in about the same effort, I edited about 30 pages. In fact I always feel like I’ve made leaps and flights of progress only to discover I’ve only managed a chapter or two. It seems strange that movement can be so unpredictable.
Some of it might just be attitude, or more accurately, momentum. Today I hit a good stride, so I was excited to get BACK to work each time I stopped for a break. I went into editing fast and easily.
Still, that’s a pretty big gap. I think another part, the large part, of the difference comes from the makeup of the novel itself. The beginning of the novel went more quickly than I expected, making me think the whole editing process wouldn’t be too much of an ordeal. Then it slogged along for ages. I edited over a third of the book TODAY.
That is much less odd when I look at the bits I was editing. The first few chapters, the parts I flew through first, were edited and re-edited every time I tried to write, because starting out, I needed to re-read everything to get a start. The absolute beginning was written last, after I had the whole story laid out before me. Likewise, the ending, the last third I edited today, was mostly written when I had a clear picture of my story to work from. I knew the details, the character motivations, the plot obviously, and the little tidbits I needed to throw in for consistancy. This was all automatic, and as I wrote, it let me focus more on the language.
So it’s not surprising that the middle was the rough part. The middle is what I wrote when I had only the fuzziest idea of what was happening. I had a story, but no actions, those I had to make up as I went along. Characters were developing, not developed. Details changed constantly.
I’m feeling good right now, not only because I’m fresh off a day of success, but because I LIKE it. I LIKE my novel. This sounds obvious, why would I write it if I didn’t like it, right? I keep thinking I’m sick of the damn thing, then I pick it up and realize I still love it. I get exhillerated when I come to the end, I’m moved by the lead up scenes in the middle. I’m drawn in by my own beggining. I hope this means it’s good, not that I’m just totally self absorbed.
I’m not quite done yet. Editing is finished, now I have a few scenes to add, to fill in the holes I realize I’ve left in the story. To make slower patches run better. To make it something people might want to read. Wish me luck.
*Images are from my BFA thesis at Notre Dame, drawn from the story before it was written. The whole series can be seen in my gallery.