Living Conditions

It's been thirteen years since I lived in my college dormitory. Living there was a great opportunity since I got to live in Manhattan in a relatively safe place for what amounted to about $200 a month. A ridiculously low price even then. A few days before freshman year started, my parents moved me in with some basic stuff, food, dishes, silverware, toiletries. My mother swept and mopped the floor while my father and I chose where to put the imitation wood and metal furniture that came with the room. This particular dorm had originally been built for nursing students. The dorm is situated in a part of the east side called "Bedpan Alley" because it's right near Bellevue and the VA hospital. The rooms were designed as small cells, about seven to eight feet wide, and about twelve feet long. By the door, there's a sink and a closet. Each floor has communal bathrooms and a communal kitchen. If it sounds dreary and institutional, that's because it is. Or was, I don't know what the dorm looks like now, but I have seen small air conditioners in the windows recently. Jerks. Where was that in the summer of '94 during the heat wave?

The dorm was cheap and convenient, but it was also kindofa hellhole. Definitely the kind of place you can feel good about living in only when you're a certain age. Let me put it this way, after moving me in, my mother never again visited the dorm. I don't think she liked seeing the conditions I was living in. Not that my folks had a lot to compare it to; I think I'm the only member of my family who ever lived in a dorm. At nineteen years old, I'm not saying I was completely cool living with insects and mice. Those things freaked me out, but not enough to make me live at home instead. If I saw a bug, I squashed it or sprayed it with whatever was handy. (I remember a particular incident in which I made a critter very shiny with Pledge before it ultimately expired.) If I saw a mouse in the kitchen--usually sniffing around whatever I was cooking--I banged on the counter with a wooden spoon to make it go away.

After five years in that dorm, I moved to an apartment in Brooklyn with some friends. It was cleaner, but there were still bugs to contend with since we lived upstairs from a restaurant. Many pieces of our furniture were hand-me-downs from our families. We also had some sidewalk furniture. Nothing matched, and we occasionally used the bathtub as an ersatz cooler when we had parties. The apartment was sweltering in the summertime. From there we moved to another apartment in Queens. Still with the sidewalk furniture, still with the hand-me-downs, still with ridiculous heat in the summer.  A studio in Los Angeles followed where I the only quiet study place for me was the bathtub. A studio has but one room and my boyfriend at the time watched TV a lot. Had no cable for a while, no cushions on my couch, and carpeting that got absolutely gross almost instantly. But who really cared? I was a starving graduate student and it felt perfectly right for me to be "struggling" in a tiny place, sitting on wood slats, and eating that terrible $.99 frozen pizza for dinner.

It was when I was in the next apartment that things started to change for me in my mind. This apartment had two rooms, and that was a huge step up. I could actually close the door to the bedroom and work in there. This apartment had a dishwasher--a terrible, barely-working dishwasher--but at least it dried the dishes well. I bought new furniture that matched. There was still that gross carpeting, which got downright nasty in the seven years I lived there, but I felt lucky to live in a place without pests, except for the occasional spider. I began to consider what was important to me in an apartment. 

The first thing that really changed was my tolerance for pests: I suddenly had none. Then I looked at the carpet and began to think that wood flooring would be so much better. I began to crave my own washer and dryer after years of lugging loads and loads of laundry down to the extremely inconvenient laundry rooms in my complex. I decided that my next place would have the things I wanted and I wasn't going to move until I found them all for a reasonable price. Luckily, I found such a place: hardwood floors, a washer/dryer, two bathrooms (that was a nice extra), and a dishwasher. Granted, this dishwasher still sucks, but I'm mostly happy with all of it.

Something weird happened in my current complex this week involving a guest and some alleged vandalism (long story for another time). It was handled pretty poorly by the management and it made me go on Craigslist to price other places. I thought that if there was a sweet deal, I might look into it. What I realized is that since I moved into the dorm almost eighteen years ago, my taste in accommodations has changed greatly. I'm older and I feel past the age where I want to sit on a couch I rescued from the garbagemen. I don't want to be rolling my shopping cart full of clothes down the street to the laundromat. If I saw a mouse sniffing around my pots on the stove now, I'd freak the hell out. I've become used to a certain standard of living that, while not super fancy, is decidedly decent. 

I hope that one day soon I'll have one of those kick-ass dishwashers that doesn't require any preemptive dish-scraping, and I'll wonder how I ever did without it. Perhaps, maybe twenty or so years from now, I'll be moving my daughter into some nasty dormitory hellhole, and I won't want to see my baby girl chasing mice away with a spoon. She'll roll her eyes and say, "Mom, would you stop being so picky? It's fine." And to her it will be fine. She'll just be grateful to be on her own, like I was once upon a time. It'll be enough. Putting up with the pests and the sketchy laundry facilities and weird roommates will be just fine because she'll be free. When you're nineteen, freedom is worth all of the gross inconvenience of a dormroom or a tiny first apartment. When you're my age, however, you want it all.

The Long-A** Journey into Jeopardy!

I just finished taking the online test for Jeopardy. I don't know how I did. I do know that I can remember about 20 of the questions I was asked (there were 50 in total) and of the 20, I tanked about half. It could be that I'm having an easier time remembering the ones that stumped me, but I don't know for sure. What I do know is that in the coming days my memory will start randomly spitting out more of the test questions--most likely while I'm about to fall asleep, and I'll have a better idea of how I did. I won't get an official grade for my performance; I won't get feedback of any kind. In fact, this is just the first of many steps to get on the show.

If I did well, and I'm one of the randomly chosen people (yes, some of it has to do with chance) from the "did well" list, then I go to take another test--this one in person. This can happen any time in the next year. The whole next year! If I ace in the in-person test, someone might interview me, and if I charm them ridiculously (you KNOW I will!), they might invite me to participate in a mock game to see if I can speak clearly and use the buzzer. Once I have successfully jumped through all the hoops, then, and only then will they invite me to be on the show. It might take two years or more if I have to take the online test again.

The practical upshot of knowing all of this hoo-hah about how the game works is that I watch the show differently now. Okay, my roommate can attest to the fact that I still yell all the answers out except for Final Jeopardy; for Final Jeopardy, you have to wait for the gap between when the music stops and when Alex reveals the answer. But now I look at the players differently. Now I know what they had to do to get on the show. (And frankly, I find it hard to believe some of them made it past the interview stage, but I suppose the Jeopardy people aren't necessarily looking for effervescent personalities.) Knowing this makes the occasional crash and burn all the more upsetting. If someone finishes in the red and can't participate in Final Jeopardy, that's a sucky ending to a long-ass journey. Likewise, if a contestant just can't find his rhythm and ring in--even though he seems to know most of the answers--it is indeed frustrating to behold. In fact, there are any number of ways someone's long-ass journey to Jeopardy! can end in tears, but is there more than one way you can leave feeling triumphant?

Yes, the winning money way. You can leave Jeopardy with your head held high if you win for multiple days and walk away with a wad of cash. I think you can be proud of yourself for fighting to the finish and being in the game the whole time, even if you ultimately lose. I'd really like to win for multiple days and walk away with some serious clams, but I would be even happier if I could do all that and 1) run at least one category, and 2) say to Alex, "I'd like to make it a true Daily Double."

But let's say the Fates are against you. Let's say you start Double Jeopardy in the hole, and then Alex reveals your nightmare board: for me it would have categories like "Obscure Geography," "Royalty of the Middle East," and "Calculus." Let's say you melt down and can't ring in, and if by the grace of God you make it into Final Jeopardy, the category is, "Business and Industry of China in the 1360s." What then? You bet the farm and go out swinging, I guess. Unless you think you can be the spoiler (if you don't know what this is, I can explain it). I suppose, though, that just being on the show will be an adventure, and even if you blow it bigtime in front of millions of people, you'll have a hell of a story to tell. It's not as cool as the 5-Day Champion Title and enough dough to pay off the student loans, but a good story is gold to a writer. And gold is worth something these days, right? Maybe?

So...in conclusion, it has begun. I took the test, and now I wait to see what happens. If nothing, I try again next January. I am on the road now, for better or worse. Was it Lao-Tzu or me who said, "The long-ass journey to Jeopardy! begins with an online test?" 

Please phrase your answer in the form of a question.

Randomness

When you are a writer, you notice the oddest things, and think about them for far too long. When your mind is at rest, if it ever is, you're constantly ruminating on ideas that aren't fully formed, wondering what might become the germ of a story or the quintessential detail at the core of a character. My neighborhood provides a lot of opportunities to notice the little things in life. The small blue flowers that grow under the fence of one house; toys in someone's front yard; the stack of mattresses just inside a curtainless window across the street; the dog that looks like Spuds Mackenzie; the deflated balloon on a cactus (I can't believe that actually happened, but my roommate from Phoenix says it happens all the time); the ridiculous number of doors on the big house on the hill.

In thinking about descriptions of places and things, I realize that I've been collecting little details for years. I don't have the best visual memory for layouts and big picture-type stuff, but I remember the little things well. I remember the mounted butterflies in A's bedroom. I remember the clean smell of laundry that always, always came from H's basement. I remember eating margarine on saltines at S's house. I remember boxes of envelopes (home business? I don't know) at E's house. I remember the toys strewn about the lawn of the house with the red door. I remember the taste of Fun Dip on a summer's day as Michelle and I walked home from the candy store. 

There's so much that I remember. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I challenge myself to think of something I haven't thought of in a while. Can I really remember where they kept the mats at my dancing school? Where was the piano in the very first classroom at my first middle school teaching job? How many times did I run the projector at that film series at the seminary? Pictures help jar these memories, as do reminiscences with parties who were there (many thanks to my sister who drew me the layout of the roller rink we frequented as kids), but it's possible to explore these places in your mind, just turning over details until suddenly there's some new tidbit you haven't thought of in years.

I suppose that I've already used a lot of these little bits and pieces in my writing. The protagonist's home in my first novel is based on the house of one of my childhood friends. The characters in that book go to a party at a house where I once went to a party. I remember these details and I change them to fit the needs of my stories, but I still remember them. Lu's locker combination (in my second book) is the locker combination I had in high school. Yes, I still remember it, but then again, I used that lock every day for four years.

I suppose the best physical descriptions I can come up with as a writer are not the ones that come fully formed out of my head. They are the ones that grow out of the things I've already seen, the blocks I've already walked, and the sounds and smells in my memory. Perhaps as I write more, I'll become more inventive with my descriptions of settings and of concrete things. Until I can invent entire worlds in my head (thanks for the high bar, J.K. Rowling), I'll rely on a growing collection of small details. Maybe, just maybe, the little yellow rubber fish I got for a dime at the arcade when I was a wee lass will become an important element in a story someday. Hell, maybe an entire series of novels will turn on this completely random object. I don't have a lot of things from my childhood, but I saved the fish for some reason. But even if I hadn't, I probably would've remembered it. I do that with random things, you see.

Agent Search Mania 2010

When I started this blog at the beginning of 2008, I had just spent the previous year trying to find an agent for my first novel. My first entries were about the search for representation, and ultimately, about rejection. I'm still trying to figure out how to revise that book to make it more marketable while still allowing it to retain its unique "charm," but that's another story. 

Last November, I finished my second novel, and although I'm still revising, I'm getting ready for Agent Search Mania 2010 or ASM-10. There are a few things that need doing, so let's talk about them. Since the two books I have written thus far are YA books, it's time I rejoined the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. It's also time I took stock of the publishing world's present state, so I went to the newsstand today and purchased some writing magazines to look up contests and to research agencies.

I read three such magazines today, and there are some really useful articles and tidbits there. However, I must say that when I read these magazines, I get anxious, itchy, and impatient. I always think, why am I reading about writing when I could be writing? Because although I think researching and preparation are useful parts of the process, I firmly believe that only writing is writing. Thinking, outlining, getting inspired, these are all wonderful, important things, but seriously people, only writing is writing.

And if I may add to the last thought something else, most of writing is re-writing. Sure, it's hard enough to get a coherent story on the page, but it's harder when you realize that almost nothing comes out of the pen or onto the computer screen perfectly on the first try. Once in a while, you may write a beautiful line that comes out even better than you planned, but those lines are rare. A writer mustn't be afraid of imperfection; a writer must work with it, day after day, and make the best of it.

I really like the last sentence I wrote, but I'll be the first to admit, I crafted a couple of versions of it before I was satisfied. Nothing was born perfect (except for my nieces).

Off I go, revising and sending out query letters and trying to figure out how to be a successful novelist. In the back of my mind, another book is brewing. I've made some notes, started outlining, but it's on the back-burner until the revisions are done. There is so much work ahead so I'll keep you posted.