If you’re supposed to think out of the box, then why do you love The Container Store?

Well, I love The Container Store even as I note how absurd most of it is. I like any office supply store, too. Bookstores. Anything with paper and other square things.

But I’m wandering down the wrong aisle, because I read about these white boxes at art fairs where artists sell their stuff. I happen to use such a box.

art festival booth

Boring? Ordinary? Come over here and buy something because even artists need to make a living? With so many other things to look at in the world, how do you get a person’s attention?

What’s that quote about reaching for the stars?

As the clock ticks on to midnight, I write. That’s is my one New Year tradition. When the confetti falls and people cheer, I make sure my fingers tap across the keyboard as if this will make a difference. As if the writing gods will hear the tapping over all the other nonsense–noise makers, champagne corks, kisses, cheers, horns, prayers, cries–and they will wave their magic wands through the winds over my house and dreams will come true. Makes perfect sense.

What I really want to do is cut my hours at work. Imagine being able to write during normal waking hours! Imagine getting enough sleep. Imagine not trying to squeeze in writing, editing, querying, blogging, making art, reading, and keeping track of everything between the hours of 10pm and 1am. Imagine a paycheck cut in half and no one buying any art and not being able to pay the bills. The imagination will take you far!

What are your hopes for the New Year if you bother with that sort of thing? How much writing can you do in a year? What’s in your imagination?

But I don’t want to write about vampire teens…not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I may have nothing worthwhile to say, but literary agent Stephen Barbara does. For all you wannabe bestselling writers, read this.

I have been lazy. I need to get back on that query letter horse and ride until the beast collapses. Whining is for vampires.

Calling…

part of a card my mom made for her mom--these are four calling birds and my mom is the bird with blue eyes

A huge pile of my own fiction sits a few inches away from me. Rows of fiction actually published sits all around me. And I can’t think of one worthwhile thing to say.

Nonetheless, whatever you celebrate, may your celebration–quiet and alone or crowded and loud or somewhere in-between–be bright.

I hate your work.

from iCarly--my son's favorite show

The famous sculptor says to the aspiring sculptor his work “is amateurish at best. …They’re not good.”

The aspiring sculptor falls into despair. Gives up his art. Gets a regular job. Of course, by the end of the sitcom, the worshipped sculptor comes back to admit he was just jealous. The younger man’s art is brilliant. Maybe they could work on a piece together. Smiles all around.

This is an episode of iCarly. Spencer (pictured over there in his sculpture of a giant coffee) is Carly’s older brother and guardian. She had asked the sculptor to come see her brother’s art. She thought hearing compliments from his idol would be a great gift. But after the idol says terrible things, Spencer explains that he can’t pour his heart into something he can’t do well.

Every time that episode comes on, I wonder how I’d react if a writer I loved panned my work. What if Margaret Atwood said I had no talent or if she read my work and shrugged? If some unknown person insulted your work or if a friend didn’t like it, is that easier to dismiss? Could you find it in yourself to keep writing or would you put all the stories away?

Spencer is an aspiring sculptor. His sister, Carly, gets a famous sculptor to come see her brothers work.

SHOUT

Most people were shouting and waving signs. It was a rainy, cold November day and I was standing in front of the Texas White House. I had no sign. I didn’t shout. I held my umbrella.

One man had a bullhorn. He was tall and thin. Maybe in his 50s. He was part of the other side.

I don’t really like to go to marches and protests. No matter how I emotional I can get when talking to a friend about an issue, I can’t make myself shout in a crowd. I stand on the edge and kind of smile at the people I’m supposed to shout along with.

So, I stood in the drizzle thinking about the Texas Book Festival going on around the corner and if going to such events makes me a better participant in democracy or a silly person standing in the cold. And this man marched over to me, put the bullhorn against the side of my head, and shouted.

Pain shot through my ear. I jerked away, hands to my ears, and my friend beside me, all 4’11″ of her, pushed him back. They shouted at each. Their words were lost in the bells clanging in my head.

I’ve been lucky how nice people have been to me here on my little edge of cyberspace. But the more anyone puts herself out into the world, the more likely she will have someone shout obscenities or insults or, indeed, criticisms. This is not a new observation, of course. It’s on my mind because I’ve got query letters, an MFA application, and art I’m trying to sell… It’s like I want to be shouted at. And whatever it is I’m saying with my work, does it need to be said? Can it make a difference?

That November day protest didn’t make any difference except to my ears.

Rejection is exhausting. Pick yourself up. Dust self off. Put the best spin on it. Learn a valuable lesson. Keep going. Repeat.

Can cookies change your life?

I walked into the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. “Do you want to make cookies?” my mom said.

I was 14. “What?” A roll of cookie dough stretched across a cutting board.

She tried to look casual. “Well, I’ve never made cookies for you. And I thought I’d be a good mom and, you know, make some cookies. They’re just chocolate chip. And they’re not from scratch, but, you know, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“You don’t have to make cookies, Mom. I’m okay if you don’t make cookies.”

She nodded. “I know. I know. But moms usually do make cookies and we’ve never done that.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’d like that. Let’s make these cookies then.”

Have you seen the movie Stranger Than Fiction? I like this movie.

In this scene Ana asks Harold the kind of negative question that expects an affirmative answer, “I mean, after a really awful, no-good day didn’t your mom make you cookies?”

“No,” Harold says. “Store bought.”

And the viewer could believe that this is why Harold isn’t living his life. This is where it all went wrong. His mother gave him store bought cookies.

I can’t work, do chores, make art, write, and make cookies. Is my son going to grow up and say, “My mom never made me cookies. She was too busy writing.” I do, at least, read him bedtime stories. And then I sit by his bed and work on my novel while he falls asleep.

So, what are you not doing when you are writing?

Will you marry me?

dad at his second job--he once made one of these for his girlfriend

“We’re going to get married,” dad said.

“Sure. But you’re going to have to show me the marriage certificate,” I said.

He laughed. “You don’t believe me?”

“Didn’t you buy her a ring like five years ago?”

“That was a nice ring. It was on sale. We got a real good deal.”

“Yeah, Dad. You just send me a postcard.”

Dad had been asking his girlfriend to marry him since at least 1986. This conversation took place in 1995. In 1997 I got the postcard and the photocopy of the marriage certificate. They’re still married.

I sent out another query letter last week. This agent had liked my first novel. She liked the first 50 pages enough to ask for the entire manuscript. She ended up passing, but her letter was kind and encouraging. So, I decided to query her about my second novel. Maybe this time I’ll be attractive enough.

Unlike my dad, who for all his flaws has never had a wandering eye, I’ve got to look at others. Eventually someone will say yes. Right?

Are you querying any agents? How do you go about the process? Have you given yourself a timeline–if no one says yes by such-and-such date, I’m going to back to my day job. How often have you been rejected? How much rejection can you take?

Does your face hurt?

It started with a bite. A mosquito bite on the back of the leg that seemed like nothing at all. But then came the swelling, the reddening, the blackening. Then came the daily trip to the doctor to change the tube in the leg. The daily change of soaked bandages. The inability to walk without leaning against walls and pain medication. Super antibiotics. Night spent sleeping in a chair because lying down hurts. A heating pad and long soaks in the bath.

Every movement of the leg tears the muscle where the infection has woven itself. But eventually it heals, and there is a purple, twisted scar.

This is MRSA staph. I’ve had it on my legs twice, my arm, in my ear, on my scalp in three places, and now on my face. Only by now I recognize it before it turns black. Now I go to the doctor before it becomes a volcano. My hair falls forward just enough to hide it as long as there is no breeze.

Well, this may be the regular staph. I’ve had that too. But they didn’t cut it open this time to take a culture. I caught it early enough, so there is just bactroban and antibiotics.

It is under control today. Looks like bad pimple today and I’ll go to IF+D today to make art and meet people. Before I couldn’t stand the idea of meeting anyone with this mark on my face. Will people want to buy anything from you if you looked diseased?

Vanity is a terrible thing. My father used to say, “Does your face hurt? Cause it’s killing me.” My face does hurt, and I’ve gotten little work done.

How productive have you been lately?

Shoulder Pads and Other Surprises

a going away party

I think it started by accident. I don’t even remember who started, but my roommate, L., pulled a nursing textbook out of her bag and a shoulder pad fell onto the classroom floor.

The next day I was at the library when I found shoulder pads in my bag. Shoulder pads in pockets. Shoulder pads in the refrigerator. In glove boxes. Behind towels and in makeup bags.

I went through my closet with scissors to check every blouse and jacket. I had 18 shoulder pads. In the living room I stood on a chair to put the shoulder pads on the ceiling fan blades.

I wish I’d been home when L. flipped on the switch.

Readers like surprises, right? How do you know which surprises work? What is a book you’ve read with great surprises? When does a surprise annoy you?