I've Seen the Future...

And it is now.

Actually, I like the cliched line from all those fifties filmstrips: it's the kitchen of the tomorrow...TODAY! I just Skyped (may I use that as a verb?) with my friend Cat, and not only did we chat, but we used the video feature and saw each other! And not only did I see her, I got to see her three-week-old adorable baby! It was just like that scene at the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey when the guy calls home and talks to his daughter via picture phone! It was the phone call of tomorrow (except there were no phones involved whatsoever)...TODAY!

When I was about 10 years old, I wondered what life would be like "in the year 2000." I'd correctly done the math to calculate that I would be 26 in May of 2000. I figured that medicine would have cancer licked by then. I thought we'd have more done in outer space (Challenger was still two years away at that point). I'm not talking colonies on the moon, but a more regular schedule to and from space. I wasn't good at swallowing aspirin, so I was hoping that we'd have hyposprays like on Star Trek. Would we have video phones? Natch. Those sleek-looking cars of the future? Of course. So I was surprised that in 2000, the "car of the future" seemed to be the SVU, not the wind-resistant sporty thing people always said it would be. 

But here we are in 2010. Suddenly, that sleek little car of the future idea seems to be making a comeback. Have you seen that tiny little Volkswagen that will sell for $600 in China? Check it out. Looks like the car of the future to me. And just today, I video chatted with my friend. I know Skype's been around for a while, but on my last computer I needed a separate web cam and it was a real pain in the ass. Now, I just click and the camera that's mounted into my computer does the rest. Feels like I'm there!

We haven't quite fixed cancer yet, have we? Sure, treatment is better and more promising, and we now have more options than ever before, but that miracle "cure for cancer" hasn't materialized the way my 10-year-old self assumed. There's no miracle cure for weight-loss either. Nothing stops Alzheimer's in its tracks. So it kinda feels like the challenges of humanity are still there in very recognizable, very physical ways. We still have to eat right and exercise to lose weight. We don't have mechanical kidneys on a shelf to implant into people on dialysis. And ah yes, Space, the final frontier. We have a space station, but it's not for people like you and me. Space is still for elite astronauts only. You know how I know? There's no mall up there. There's no Target, no Kohl's, no food court with Panda Express or Pizza Hut/Wing Street up there.  Clearly, it's not for the masses yet.

But I'm not totally disappointed in the future. I know for a fact I'd get very motion sick in Zero-G so I wouldn't have an appetite for hot wings up there anyway. And my 10-year-old self never foresaw the internet. That's changed my life a lot, and I never saw it coming. Now there are 3-D TVs on the way to the market! I totally called that in 1984! In the final tally, I suppose I'm pretty happy with the way the future has gone so far, but I still hold out hope for those miracle cures and awesome space stations. 

I'm not doing much to help the cause, I suppose. Maybe I should have become an M.D. instead of a Ph.D. Nah, I'm in the right business. So while those other minds are thinking of ways to make the future amazing for everyone (and make good on those predictions I'm still waiting for), I'm going to celebrate the present in a very old fashioned way: I'm going for a walk.  

The Hardest Thing You Ever Did

What was it?

Did you give birth to a child? Did you hold the hand of someone you love while they were dying? Did you sacrifice something incredibly precious? Did you walk away from something you knew was bad for you?

There are dark moments in life. Really difficult things. And not just life and death stuff either, but bad jobs that you have to keep because you need to eat every day, or months of floundering when you just can't seem to get your head out of your ass. Surviving cataclysmic moments or enduring long periods of something soul-degrading, either one can be The Hardest Thing (THT).

So think for a minute. Decide what it might be.

And now think about the effects that thing has had on your life, good and bad.

And now realize that you are still alive, and you either a) have enough free time to read this, or b) have a job (lucky you!) from which you are stealing time to read this. That "hardest thing" is likely behind you. You can look at it from here and say, "I did that." "I endured that." The funniest thing is you may have no idea HOW you got through it, but you did. THT sucked when it happened or when you did it, and you knew it sucked at that moment, but you survived anyway. You didn't just throw up your hands and say, "I give up." You probably didn't have much of a choice anyway. So you shut up and you forged ahead and you came out the other side.

THT is a powerful thing. It's probably not a good memory, but it pays every once in a while to look at it. Why? Because it shows what you are made of. It shows you are tougher than you thought you were. It shows you have more energy than you thought you did. More charm. More guts. More resourcefulness. It can help you get through a bad day or a bad week by reminding you of what a badass you really are. It can shrink today's challenges down to nothing. Hell, if I did THT, I can certainly handle today's presentation. Folks say life is made up of the little things--and THT was certainly a BIG thing, but remembering THT can help you navigate the little things with ease. After all, car trouble, overtime, and bad weather are nothing compared to THT. Annoying, yes. Soul-shattering? Probably not.

So when it appears that life is acting like a spoiled brat, look back over your shoulder for a minute and take 60 seconds to look at The Hardest Thing You Ever Did. Then, with renewed energy, turn your face to the future and press on.

Getting a Job with a Ph.D.

I can't remember the exact date when I got it into my head that I wanted to go "all the way" with school. I know that I started a masters very early on because I did BA and MA concurrently. I think I took my first graduate class when I was all of 19. I know in my last two years at Hunter that I actually auditioned for a doctoral program in choral conducting at UCONN. That program would have given me a D.M.A., Doctor of Musical Arts. It probably would have also given me an ulcer. Luckily, I did not get accepted into the program, and I had to reassess what I really wanted to do, in and out of school.

My masters degree concentrated in vocal performance, but I knew that I didn't want to be an opera star. I actually started with a masters in history, but I discovered that I could sing so I thought I should really work the performance angle while I was still young. Turned out to be a great decision, considering that my livelihood at present depends greatly on what I learned as a masters student. After that, there was three years of hell in the New York City Public school system before I finally followed my dream of getting a Ph.D.

But where did this dream come from? Why did it suddenly become so damned important to me? I recall an incident at Hunter that happened after I graduated. There was a concert at Lang Recital Hall (I think that's what it was called) and afterwards, I was standing around chatting up the other attendees. Professor D. came over to talk to me and asked me how things were going. I told her about teaching seventh grade and how it sucked (I probably used the word "challenging" or something suitably euphemistic), and how much I wanted to move on to a doctoral program. That much I already knew. I figured the only way out of the hell of teaching middle school was getting another degree.

To my great shock, Professor D. discouraged me. It's not worth it, she said. You won't be able to find work, she said. You're going to struggle and starve to get this degree, and end up with nothing to show for it but tens of thousands of dollars in debt. 

I'm sorry, what?

I've never had anyone discourage me from more school before. But for some reason it didn't throw me. What came out of my mouth next was the real surprise. I thought I was about to make a joke. Perhaps a mocking sort of joke at the highfalutin reasons why people stay in academia. "But, Professor D.," I said. "I really want to make a commitment to scholarship." Ha ha. Okay, so it's not a knee-slapper, but it also turned out to be TRUE. It wasn't until I said it that I realized how true it was. It was like my brain had been thinking about this without letting me know, planning this behind the scenes, maybe when I was sleeping or watching movies I'd already seen. And my brain waited for a moment when I would least expected it to pop out and yell, "SURPRISE!!!!"

I wanted to learn more, even if it meant having a Ph.D. and driving a cab (and God help my passengers because I have the worst sense of direction ever). I wanted the knowledge and the expertise and I was stubborn enough not to care about the practical aspects of how to live during and after the degree-getting. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!! Luckily, I got jobs teaching college. Right away. Before I was even finished with my degree. And it was everything that I hoped for: students who were interested in the subject, who didn't try to kill each other with box-cutters, who were there because they wanted to be. I started a full-time teaching job exactly one year after I graduated. I am in the minority. It worked out for me. Granted, I still have my massive student loan to pay back, but I have a means of doing it, i.e. a job. 

It doesn't work out for a lot of people. Some never actually finish because it's a huge undertaking, especially the dissertation. And if you work full time to support yourself, or if you have a family, it's that much more difficult to find the time to put it all together. If you do finish, you might be able to find a job in the middle of nowhere--certainly nowhere near where you are--and that might not be so hot if you have a bread-winning spouse who needs to stay HERE for work. 

There are thousands of ways for it to go wrong, and I didn't give a crap about any of them. I made a commitment to scholarship. It's probably the only thing I can still commit to. Hey, hey! *rimshot* But seriously, folks. I've made a contribution to my field, published articles and given papers, and that was exactly what I wanted to do. What I still want to do.

There's been a lot of stuff written recently about the "Big Lie" in academia. The Big Lie that an advanced degree allows you to write your own ticket. You can't. Not really. You are at the mercy of a lot of things out of your control. If colleges and universities have hiring freezes because of the economy, there are no jobs to be had. Period. Nothing is a guarantee. Is it worth it anyway? It was for me. Even if I didn't have a job, I doubt I'd regret being Doc G. But that's me.

In the twelve years since that fateful conversation, I thought a lot about what Professor D. said to me.  She told me about the Big Lie. She told me what was likely to happen, what the odds were. I don't think she had any doubt I'd get the degree, but she knew the real challenge would come afterwards. You can control your own work towards the Ph.D., but you can't control job availability once you're done. I heard what she said, of course. This is woman who wastes no words. To my great astonishment, however, I was willing, eager even, to make all the sacrifices necessary to get the degree and a job in academia (or suffer without one). I don't know if I will ever again experience that kind of singleness of mind and purpose. Or if the world will ever again cooperate so fully to help me achieve my goals.

All I know is that it is done, and cannot be undone, and for that I am eternally grateful.

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.