On Spending My Birthday in the ER and then Wondering What the Hell is Up with Being Thirty-X, Anyway May 26, 2012
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing, Life, Musings.Tags: aging, birthday, crappiness, depression, Escargot, failure, health, hospital, Life, MFA program, success, the thirties, thirty-x, writing
5 comments
Last week my thirty-xth birthday happened. I’d planned to spend the evening swilling wine and slurping buttery escargots with a mound of friends and then hearing Kevin Lovejoy tickle the ivories. Instead, I spent my birthday in the ER.
Yeah. It was the crappiest birthday ever. I mean . . . let’s hope, right?
I don’t actually want to talk about it in detail, not because it’s depressing or traumatic (though it is), but because talking about my health problems is such an old person thing to do, and holy shit, I’m thirty-x. How did that happen? Thirty-x? Just last year I was thirty-w, which did not sound at all old. Thirty-w sounded fun and care-free and flirty. It sounded like a little too much wine and and like someone who might have a daub of glitter on her chin.
But thirty-x? Thirty-x sounds like frown lines. Thirty-x sounds like gluten-free bake sales and a mortgage payment (which I don’t have) and crepe-y inner elbow skin (which I kind-of do). Thirty-x sounds like having to buy a new roof, it sounds like sensible shoes and vitamin supplements. In short, it sounds like no fun at all. And that’s exactly how it started out: a mega-bad time in the hospital, alternately puking my brains out and shivering as ice-cold chemicals trickled into my veins while some geez in the room next door harfed up a bucket of phlegm every twelve seconds. And let me tell you folks, those chemicals they were giving me in no way made up for the escargots. People always make jokes about how good the hospital drugs are, but they are nothing compared to a bottle of really good wine and something soaked in butter. Period. (more…)
A Poem for Eunice May 24, 2010
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing, chickens.Tags: chickens, Dead Chicken, Fat Eunice, poetry, writing
5 comments
Found out this morning that one of my (former) chickens has died. Though it was their surrogate caretaker and not me who found her, I have happened upon my share of dead hens. You’d think it would get easier, that a person would get used to it, but it’s always the same sick feeling, the same amount of unexpected awfulness. Here is a poem I wrote about the experience.
Dead Chicken
When I came out I saw feathers and stillness,
The once-neat wings open and askew.
Lying on her side, not moving, not illness
Even from a distance, I knew;
I didn’t have to see the blood.
Yet where was the beast who was not feasting,
Who killed for sport and not for food?
I ran and prayed that she was breathing
That she might be saved or at least soothed
That I might chance to follow violence
With gentle words and gratitude
As she moved from life to silence.
I knelt beside her; I was too late.
Her eyes were blind as beads.
Don’t cry, I told myself, ’tis Nature’s trait;
Killing is a common need.
I was warned not to love her, it was good advice
For she was herself but a beast
But the heart is a rebel and love is its vice
Hens or whores—it loves what it pleases
And always pays the price.
EDW
05/24/10
For Eunice.
If You Can’t Say Something Nice… April 15, 2010
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing, Life.Tags: books, if you can't say something nice, Life, negativity, positivity, self-help, The Happiness Project
9 comments
A couple of months ago, my mom gave me a book called The Happiness Project, by Gretchen Rubin. I’m almost finished with it, which is kind-of surprising because I only read about 50% of the books people give to me. Giving someone a book is a bit like giving them a pair of underwear: you have to really, really know a person well to select reading material that won’t give them mental wedgies or unflatteringly cut into their fat. If you’ve given me a book I haven’t read, don’t feel bad; I only read about 50% of the books I check out from the library, too. My reading motto is: Life is short. Why waste time on a lame book when I could be getting a Heart Shiver?
That being said, I’ve really enjoyed The Happiness Project. In it, Rubin chronicles her year-long endeavor to increase her happiness and appreciation for her life by engaging in various activities and personal challenges. Each month has a different focus. November was about changing her attitude by making a conscious effort to not be negative. Here’s an excerpt I especially liked.
It is easy to be heavy; hard to be light. We nonjoyous types suck energy and good cheer from the joyous ones; we rely on them to buoy us with their good spirit and to cushion our agitation and anxiety. At the same time, because of a dark element in human nature, we’re sometimes provoked to try to shake the enthusiastic, cheery folk out of their fog of illusion–to make them see that the play was stupid, the money wasted, the meeting was pointless. Instead of shielding their joy, we blast it. Why is this? I have no idea. But that impulse is there.
That got me thinking. How often do I do this? Like everyone else on the planet, I hate being criticized. Criticism has its place of course, but it can be overdone. Most of the time, its just someone’s unsolicited opinion, and seldom has little to do with anything that’s truly good or truly bad. Being around a consistently critical person can be real drag–and (ironically) I am often very quick to point out this flaw in other people. I do this to my husband all the time.
Several times throughout the book, Rubin talks about how her realization that it takes effort to be happy and cheerful, that focusing on the positive is a choice, and that focusing on the negative really only makes thing worse. I’ve always heard that happiness is a choice, not a feeling, and I love to bust out that aphorism when someone else is grousing. But I’m not sure how often I practice what I preach. I don’t want to give people the impression that I’m difficult to please, but more importantly, I don’t want to be difficult to please. Because when you’re easy to please, there are more things in the world that please you.
Since I love coming up with challenges for myself, and in the spirit of The Happiness Project, I’m going to try not to not say anything negative for the rest of this month. What do I hope to gain from this exercise? Well, since I really hate it when other people are negative, I don’t want to be a hypocrite, or to be guilty of holding others to a higher standard than that to which I hold myself. I also want to lead by example. And, finally, I want to feel happier, more cheerful, more aware, and more grateful. It will require a completely new approach to how I talk about things. For instance, instead of saying, “This new toothpaste I bought makes my mouth taste like industrial tile cleaner!” I’ll have to say “I really liked the taste of the old toothpaste. I think I’ll go back to it.”
I think it will be very hard, and I will probably fail in the next five minutes. This is going to be awesome! AWESOME, AWESOME, AWESOME! (I feel better already….)
UNESCO World Poetry Day March 21, 2010
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing.Tags: poetry, the cat and the moon, UNESCO, W.B. Yeats, World Poetry Day
5 comments
Hello, and happy World Poetry Day to all of you! Wait–what? Don’t tell me you forgot! Never fear- I’ve posted a poem for here just in time for you to take part in the fun! Below is W.B. Yeats’ poem, The Cat and the Moon. I just read it here for the first time, and now I know why people name their cats Minnaloushe. I love the odd rhythm of this one. It reminds me of just how cats move: one minute there is a smooth cadence to their steps, and then they unexpectedly stop short, and twitch their ears.
The Cat and the Moon
Y.B. Yeats
- THE cat went here and there
- And the moon spun round like a top,
- And the nearest kin of the moon,
- The creeping cat, looked up.
- Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
- For, wander and wail as he would,
- The pure cold light in the sky
- Troubled his animal blood.
- Minnaloushe runs in the grass
- Lifting his delicate feet.
- Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
- When two close kindred meet,
- What better than call a dance?
- Maybe the moon may learn,
- Tired of that courtly fashion,
- A new dance turn.
- Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
- From moonlit place to place,
- The sacred moon overhead
- Has taken a new phase.
- Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
- Will pass from change to change,
- And that from round to crescent,
- From crescent to round they range?
- Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
- Alone, important and wise,
- And lifts to the changing moon
- His changing eyes.
Image borrowed from this site.
Pulitzer, Shmulitzer March 9, 2010
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing.Tags: American writing, authors, awards, books, Culture, Life, Pulitzer Prize, writing
8 comments
"Woman reading by candlelight" by Peter Vilhelm Ilsted
One of my goals for 2010 was to read all of the Pulitzer Prize-winning fiction novels. When I told the lady at the library, she practically saluted me for embarking on such a noble literary endeavor. It’s fun, of course, to impress the nice old ladies at the library. But the real reason I had undertaken such a challenge was to educate myself; I was determined to not merely read the novels, but to study them, to dissect them in order to extract the nodule that is the essence of great literature. What was it, I wanted to know, that made these novels stand apart from all the other great-but-Pulitzerless novels I’d read? After all, Carson McCullers, one of my all-time super-favorite authors, never won a Pulitzer. She was a U.S. citizen, and wrote, magnificently, about American life. Which as far as I can tell are the only real criteria. She was even a little tragic, which also seems to be an unspoken criterion. Toni Morrison, one of my other all-time super-faves, has won a Pulitzer and a Nobel.
Then I looked at the Pulitzer Prize website. Turns out that the Prize isn’t some honor bestowed like a complete surprise onto an unsuspecting genius. Instead, you have to apply for it. All this time I thought the Pulitzer was like a beam of light that shone down once a year from Heaven’s Library onto the sacred skull of that year’s Chosen One. But it’s really nothing more than a big ol’ fancy contest. Which, for me, explains a lot. (more…)
Nothing to Hide, Part II March 8, 2010
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing, Musings.Tags: beauty, Culture, Lent, makeup, Miss America, Thoughts, writing
2 comments
Yours Truly, sans makeup
So, you might remember that for Lent I decided to give up wearing makeup and also to write every day. So far, it hasn’t been too bad, although I may as well admit that haven’t written every day. It’s hard, folks. Really, really hard. I have a problem with self-discipline, see. Especially when I spend all day copy-editing (technical, dryish) manuscripts, which is how I generate el dinero. Pretty much the last thing I want to do is sit back down in front of the computer for another hour or two. Also, I haven’t been particularly inspired. I know that’s lame, and also just an excuse. I’ve never heard or read any writing advice that says Only write when you feel like it, or when you know that you’re going to produce something really fantastic. In fact, all advice is pretty much the opposite of that. Which is Write all the time, every day, even if you don’t feel like it or are stuck or think your writing super-sucks. And that, folks, is so, so hard. Or maybe I’m just lazy.
In some ways, the whole not-wearing-makeup thing has been a good experience. My skin has been able to detox a little bit, and is maybe a little clearer. Although I’ve also been drinking a lot more water since I know I can’t rely on concealer to cover up blemishes or circles. Getting ready to go anywhere takes less time (although it only took me about ten minutes to put on my makeup anyway), and it somehow feels honest, like This is my face, this is how I really look, no tricks here. Surprisingly, no one has said to me, “Are you okay? You look tired/like you’re not feeling well,” which I halfway expected. On the other hand, I can’t say I’ve come to a place where I feel just as attractive without makeup as when I’m wearing it, even though my husband keeps telling me how great I look. Also, I feel like I’ve been trying to compensate for my naked face in other ways, such as making sure my hair looks really good instead. The whole idea was to shed my vanity and focus on my inner beauty and sense of specialness as a person, and to learn to derive my self worth from who I am, not how I look or how others perceive me. I don’t know if I’ve accomplished that. Numerous studies have shown that being attractive gives a person certain advantages, but it can also be a crutch. One need only watch this video for an example of a very pretty woman whose intellect and creativity have been woefully underdeveloped. I know the vid’s old news, but it’s a classic case of someone who’s pretty, so she never needed to be anything else.
Still, I like to be able to look in the mirror and think, “Yay!” And that hasn’t been what’s going on for me this Lent. It’s not that I think I’m hideous or anything, it’s just that a little rouge and mascara go a long way towards making me feel good about myself. I kind-of hate that, but so far foregoing makeup hasn’t changed it. Overall, I don’t know if this will be a particularly enlightening Lent. It’s not over, of course, and I intend to stick with it. But I’m conflicted: next Saturday I’m supposed to go to a punk-rock themed costume party. Should I wear makeup for that since it’s not really about being pretty but about being part of the festivities? I haven’t decided.
No One Helps Those Who Help Themselves Except Those Who Help Themselves. February 18, 2010
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing, Life.Tags: determination, Life, religion, thoughts. crisis of faith
12 comments
Well. I found out today that I did not get into the graduate school of my choice, which means I also did not get a fellowship, which means I have to get a “real” job so that I can pay rent and buy groceries and all that. Pretty much ruined my day. My mom and dad gave me a really nice bottle of wine for Christmas, and I’d been saving it to celebrate my acceptance and the dawn of a wonderful new life filled with promise and rainbows and the financial support of a respected institution. Now, I’m drinking that wine for no reason at all. I’m wearing a dirty sweatshirt. Also, I don’t think I believe in God anymore.
No, I’m serious. Maybe it seems a little melodramatic to experience a crisis of faith because things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to. But isn’t that what a crisis of faith is? You stop believing because it all just suddenly seems so stupid and pointless and superstitious. See, I really thought I was going to get in. I really, really believed it. It wasn’t just wishful thinking, or an attempt at manifesting my own reality through the sheer magnitude of my belief, but God gave me signs. Not just one sign, but several. Or so I thought. But it turns out I was just superimposing meaning on a bunch of random, unrelated nonsense. Which is how everything religion-oriented suddenly seems to me. If there really is a God that loves me and wants me to have a wonderful life, if, as Paulo Coelho suggests in The Alchemist, the Universe is conspiring to help me achieve my dreams, then I don’t see it. It’s a romantic idea, and I’ve always been a sucker for romance, especially if it’s metaphysical in nature. But in the end it’s just a crippling waste.
I know there are those out there who would say that God works in mysterious ways, that when He closes a door, He opens a window (and why is God a He?). They’ll tell me that some day I’ll look back on my life and be glad I didn’t get into this school because I’ll be able to see all the wonderful goodies God had in store for me elsewhere. But that’s stupid. Of course my life is going to go on. Of course I’ll be able to look back on it and see how things would have been different and I might have missed out on something really wonderful if I had been admitted to the program. That’s just cause-and-effect. Bad stuff happens. Good stuff happens. It doesn’t mean anyone’s in charge.
Except me.
And the only thing I’m really in charge of is my own mind. I can choose to move forward, to give that school the finger, and decide I don’t need ‘em, I already know everything I need to know. I can decide to educate myself. I can decide to give up or to never give up. I can wallow in despair and decide their rejection of me says something significant about my worth or ability. I can decide that having to work in an office or a grocery store makes my life a meanignless waste, or I can bite down on myself until I’m bleeding determination and write books anyway, like Chuck Palahniuk. Someone recently told me that Palahniuk wrote in twelve-second bursts while working on an assembly line.
It’s my life. Mine. I’m not wasting any more time waiting for heavenly handouts.
Publishment! December 15, 2009
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing.Tags: America, Culture, Life, prize, success, This I Belive, Thoughts, writing
6 comments
Check it out! The essay I submitted to This I Believe has been published on their website! I found out last night, which was only a few hours after I submitted my portfolio to grad school (to get my MFA in Creative Writing). Before I posted the much-agonized over writing sample in the mail, I prayed and asked for a sign of my success. The This I Believe email announcing the selection of my essay for their website was sign number two! (I’m not telling you about the first one because it’s between me and the Universe).
Look out world, here I come! (Better shine that Pulitzer, y’all!)
If Words Were Dollars, I’d Only Be Middle-Class October 13, 2009
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing, Life, Musings.Tags: GRE, Life, school, Thoughts, vocabulary, woe
3 comments
I thought I’d take a moment to update this all-but-forsaken blog so that my readers- those faithful few who haven’t abandoned me for my infrequent posting- might be enlightened as to the reason for my delinquency: I’m trying to get into grad school. And that means I have to have an awe-inspiring, lyrical, genius and thrilling-on-the-molecular-level 30-page writing sample. Naturally, all my creative energy is being funneled into it.
On top of that, I’m taking the GRE next week.
And I didn’t start studying until today.
This dictionary is big enough to kill somebody: Me
I know, I know. That’s what I get for being arrogant and self-assured. Hubris, I think they call it. Anyway, I’m not even bothering with the math part because I’m trying to get in for creative writing and they are only going to look at my essays and verbal scores. Words, schmords, I thought. Words are my thing. Rapacious. Salacious. Dearth. I got it covered. Up until today I thought I was a human dictionary. Or a thesaurus at least. I was even going to include something about it in the “Personal Statement” portion of my application materials. Some people collect Beanie Babies, it was going to say. I collect words.
But this afternoon when I slid the GRE prep disc into the computer, I learned that my prized collection is woefully incomplete. The most troubling thing is that the words I lack are words I’ve heard before: Divestiture (which the dictionary helpfully defined for me as “the act of divesting”). Sedulous. Craven. Words I should know, but don’t. Words I’ve read before but was too lazy to look up in the dictionary. (I have one of those enormous pedestal dictionaries, but no pedestal. I balance it on top of a speaker.) And now, that laziness is costing me.
On top of forgetting to eat- which happens when I’m stressed- (In fact, right before I wrote this post I realized all I had eaten for the entire day was a doughnut. So then I had two bowls of soup. And another doughnut.) I may have developed a new compulsion (or obsession) of looking up every single word I come across whose definition I don’t know. I’m either punishing myself or hoarding. Only time will tell.
So, dear readers, if you don’t hear from me for a while, know that I have only divested myself of blogging duties for a brief time while I sedulously forge ahead with my preparations, however bad they make me feel about my penurious vocabulary. To do otherwise would be craven as well as unwise.
My Favorite Writer Hates Me January 16, 2009
Posted by EDW in Books and Writing, Life, Rants.Tags: books, creepiness, Humor, Life, Thoughts, writers, writing
8 comments
I would never do this to Joshilyn Jackson.
So, I’ve now read TWO books by Joshilyn Jackson, and have also been reading her blog, Faster Than Kudzu, which really cracks me up and also makes me think, “Gee, if I knew Joshilyn Jackson in real life, I’d probably really like her and we’d be friends, and we’d go out for nachos sometimes.” Except for one thing: Joshilyn Jackson apparently hates me. I have made TWO comments on her recent posts and NEITHER one has showed up on her blog! The first time it happened, I thought, oh, maybe she overlooked it by mistake, I’m sure she would never just NOT include my comments. But it happened again, and it can only mean that she has deliberately decided to OMIT my remarks. Which is like, way mean. Especially since the comments I made weren’t creepy. I totally didn’t even say anything about the Joshilyn Jackson voodoo doll that I cradle lovingly in my arms at night before kissing it gently on its brilliant little noggin and drifting off into Dreamland, where I AM Joshilyn Jackson, with best selling novels and groovy phraseology popping out of me. In fact, I absolutely abstatined from even mentioning the fact that I am currently a smidge obsessed with her. I didn’t even try to be clever or cute. I just said, you know, I like your blog, yadda, yadda, thanks for posting the tips for writers. Maybe she read my last post about her and was like, “Woah, that chick is creepin’ me out.” If so, THIS post is probably going to seal the deal. For eternity.
I’m going to go sit in an empty bathtub and drink myself into a puke-tastic stupor now.
REJECTED! By Joshilyn! Ouch, man. Very ouch.
