Never underestimate the bus stop.

On Saturday, the first day of the art festival, the shuttle bus stopped near my booth. My booth was all the way at the end (or beginning?) of a long line of booths. 190 artists, after all. The bus drop off at the entrance near me keeps traffic flowing. I sell more art on Saturday than I sold during the entire festival last year.

Last year, my booth wasn’t second to last of the long line of booths. Last year, my booth was off to the side, down this offshoot of five booths. I chatted with the artists next to me about how to get people off the main drag. I told myself not to feel slighted. Somebody had to be there, and we were near the music and food.

On Sunday, this year, the city makes the festival stop shuttle drop offs at the entrance near me. I don’t hear why, but I feel the effect. Traffic crawls. Many people give up that long walk and turn around several booths earlier. On Saturday, I sold my first piece at 11am. Sunday, I sell nothing until 4pm. The festival closes at 6. Every person who walks into my booth, I say, “I really want to thank you for making it down this far!”

I tell myself not to feel slighted. Somebody has to be at the end of the line. And I was selected to be in the festival. That’s no small thing. And I did sell more art than last year. Not a lot more, but more. And I talked to a lot of interesting people. Not one single person was rude.

It seems that no matter how much success you have, you always want more. Whatever it is that you imagine right now as success, if that imagining came true, do you think you really would be satisfied?

I was here.

Well, I was at this festival selling art, but I missed this (because my booth was so far away). Anyway, I love these people.

When I’ve recovered from the crazy exhaustion of festival madness, I might have something to say. For now, though, just dance.

Made you look! Ha-ha. Just kidding.

The art festival begins at 10 am Saturday morning. All day I’ve been running around trying to be someone who knows what she is doing and driving a truck that used to be owned by a drug dealer. (That’s a story for another day.)

I have taken moments to check comments here (thank you cell phone). And while I’m too tired to write thoughtfully on much of anything, I did get some feedback on my writing! Exciting and terrifying at the same time.

A huge thanks to every person who took time to read even a tiny portion. And to you who took time to read the whole thing, and comment, wow. You’re incredible. I’ve been worried that someone wouldn’t read it and worried that someone would. Of course. And wanting and not wanting comments. And thinking that no one would read it even though I asked and put the work out in cyberspace.

One of these days I might stop being ridiculous.

In the meantime, I want to mull over some things, and so I’ve changed the status of most chapters. Really, if I’m going to have something out there, I want it to be better. Now I see how it can be better. So why leave it out like is it?

I’ll rework it. I’l try again. Stay with me. Please.

I don’t like you & I’m not going to share.

I read two short stories today. My intention was to take a few days to read these stories (in the same magazine but by different authors), but the stories pulled me in and I had to read them to the end.

They must be good stories if I wanted to find out what happened.

But I don’t want to tell you what they were. I don’t want to call anyone and say, “Hey! You gotta read this.”

They were the kind of stories that made me double check the authors’ names for gender. Suspicions confirmed (male!), I checked the contents for more names. (Several males. A couple females.) I hate checking though. I want to read a story and not care. I want to check the name because I want to find more by that writer. Do you check the writer’s name? What are you looking for in a name when you do?

I don’t believe that having more of one gender in a group automatically means sexism. My first thought on finishing each story was on how I disliked the characters. All the characters.

Maybe the problem isn’t the editors picked more men. Maybe the problem (for me) is that they pick stories with so many unlikable characters.

Not that characters have to be likable. But I’m into the third story and I don’t like the guy in that one either.

Is the problem me?

Does a good story mean you want to read all the way to the end? Should you want to share the story too?

You mean there’s more?

You might have read the first chapters of Drowning Karma. You might have liked them. If you are so inclined, I’ve posted the rest of the story. The novel won’t be there forever, but you’re welcome to it.

I want to say that the story is a bit… a bit… hmmm… I’ll keep it to myself. You’re welcome to draw your own conclusions.

As always, thanks for stopping by.

You’re a lousy writer!

Russell T. Davies

You might have noticed I like Doctor Who and Torchwood, both brought to the world by Russell T. Davies. I have Davies’ book A Writer’s Tale, which I loved reading. I’d invite Davies to dinner any day.

I’ve also read these words online to describe Davies’ writing: hack, schmaltzy, shit writer, lousy writing, and sexist tropes. Oh well. No one is perfect.

No matter who you love, someone is going to think the one you love is lousy. No matter who loves you, someone is going to think you’re lousy. Why let that hold you back?

Yesterday, I listened to a story from On the Media about why there are more male then female commentators, pundits, and news sources. While I don’t want to be a pundit, I think they made points that could apply to women novelists. Okay. Novelists. No? Okay. Me.

Some folks are too afraid to say they are good. Russell T. Davies said that you have to be arrogant to be a writer. You have to believe in your story enough to demand money for it. He’s talking TV, of course. This story is so good millions of people will watch it so go get a director, actors, locations, special effects…for my story. David Simon of The Wire fame probably doesn’t apologize for having an idea. Hey, I was sort of wondering if you might be, you know, if you have time, might be interested in reading this little thing I wrote, and of course, I realize it still needs some work, but I’m sorry if I’m bothering you…

Should women be more arrogant?

Connect the Characters

If I hadn’t agreed to go to a party in Haskovo, Bulgaria in 1994, I might not be married today. For that matter, if I hadn’t decided to go to Indiana State University instead of Bowling Green, I might not be married today. My husband might be married to someone else.

There is a scene in When Harry Met Sally when Carrie Fisher’s character warns Sally that someone else could end up married to her husband. So, that woman, who is she married to instead? What other children might have been in the world?

In an episode of Doctor Who, Donna Noble is able to change a past choice, and the Doctor dies as a result.

I started blogging a few years ago and so met you. Well, in that Internet sort of way.

Where am I going with this? It is like when I start a story and have scant clue what the character will do next. I just keep asking, if she does this, what will the other characters do in response?

This may be why my plots go all over the place.

What choice in life brought you and your writing to where it is today?

Do you hunger for reality?

Writers, go read this interview with David Shields about his book Reality Hunger: A Manifesto and let me know what you think. If you prefer, watch his interview with Stephen Colbert.

Has the novel died on you?

I Could Go Anytime

Just wanted a favorite song today. Life is unpredictable. Go write.

Anytime lyrics

I see a dog upon the road
Running hard to catch a cat
My car is pulling to a halt
The truck behind me doesn’t know
Everything is in the balance
Of a moment I can’t control
And your sympathetic strings
Are like the stirrings in my soul

I could go at anytime
There’s nothing safe about this life
I could go at anytime

Find the meaning of the act
Remember how it goes
Every time you take the water
And you swim against the flow
The world is all around us
The days are flying past
And fear is so contagious

But I’m not afraid to laugh
I could go at anytime
There’s nothing safe about this life
I could go at anytime

Anytime (come without warning)
Anytime (it could be so easy)
A walk in the park (or maybe when I’m sleeping)
Anytime (see the clouds come over)
Rain or shine (I make you so unhappy)
Lets make it right

I feel like I’m in love
With a stranger I’ll never know
Although you’re still a mystery
I’m so glad I’m not alone

I could go at anytime
There’s nothing safe about this life
Make it so easy to fly in the night
I could go at anytime
I could go at anytime

Appears on the album One Nil

My Purpose

I've altered the photo because I'm not comfortable posting something too clear. This is a school potluck.

Her hand clenches and unclenches near her chest. She pulls hair back behind her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Marta. I can not take the test.”

My bag is heavy. My hands are full. “Oh? Okay.”

“I’m sorry. You know, yes? I’ve got an appointment. It is my back.” She frowns. “Test is Wednesday, yes?”

It is the lunch break and I’ve got to prepare for the next class. “I hope you’re okay.”

She nods. “But I can’t take the test.” She fusses with her hair again.

“It’s okay, Y. My class isn’t meant to add stress to your life.” I can tell she is anxious. I think of how she edits and edits her paragraphs until she is the last student to turn work in. “One more minute,” she always says, scribbling furiously.

“You can turn it in later, Y. It’s okay.”

She shakes her head. Her finger is on the word I’ve corrected in pink ink. “A minute,” she says.

So now I say, “Y. My class isn’t meant to add stress to your life. If you can’t take the test, don’t take the test. Take care of yourself, okay?”

She smiles. “Thank you, Marta. You are kind.” Her body seems to drop slightly. She seems relaxed.

“No, no. Y. This class is here to help you, not stress you out. It’s fine. Don’t worry about the test. Okay?”

She smiles and nods. Her fist clenches and unclenches. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you Monday?” I ask. I’m not ready for my next class. I want to buy cookies from the vending machine.

She nods and I walk away. I don’t think about that test until four months later when Y. kills herself and I have to tell my class that a classmate is dead.

I sent out a short story the yesterday. I’ve got an idea for another story. I’ve got thousands of words to go through and figure out what I can salvage into more short stories. I’ve got magazines, web sites, books listing where to send these stories.

I expect to be rejected. That’s okay.

The publishing world does not exist to add stress to my life. It is there. I can participate or not. Why should rejection from people we know nothing about mean anything?

I write. I can’t control how the world reacts. A big embrace or shrug. I’m not going away until I’m dragged away.

You?