I thought I'd recovered from last week's sudden end of the semester of teaching. But no.
Now I'm not sure if it's Duke withdrawal or caffeine (too much or too little.) In either case, my head, if not my spirits, is light.
I suspect caffeine. My wicked near-constant sweet iced tea habit.
Speaking of which-- I'm in the process of reading a book called The Soft Addiction Solution. Pardon the cliche, but it's an eye-opener. Not that I don't know about my harmless calming strategies: the nights with trashy magazines, the tea, the crossword puzzles even at red lights. What's new to me in this book is a way of reclaiming some of that time for conscious life, not through deprivation at all, but through a focus on something more inspiring.
Of course I ate chocolate cookies while I was reading about this. Nonetheless, I see a door opening before me in this book. I like the fact that it doesn't suggest giving anything up.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query tea. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query tea. Sort by date Show all posts
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Cause of Recent Bad Mood Discovered
Well, it turns out that sipping sweet tea (caffeinated) from fast-food establishments from early morning until late night is not good for the mental health.
The amount of tea had sort of crept up on me. I did know that I was buying it by the gallon.
It took a doctor to tell me that caffeine is a depressant and undoes the good that serotonin-encouraging drugs do.
By the gallon!!!
And so on Tuesday I went off the stuff. I cut down to a modest cup of home-brew in the mornings...and no more. Practically cold turkey--in keeping with the holiday.
The transition hasn't been as bad as I'd expected: I wake up with a headache, take a couple of Tylenol and then in twenty minutes I'm okay. At some point, the headaches will likely stop.
In the meantime I've discovered faintly-flavored water. Pas si mal, as the French say. Not so bad.
And I'm relieved to discover the ridiculously simple cause of the blues that kept threatening to recur.
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The amount of tea had sort of crept up on me. I did know that I was buying it by the gallon.
It took a doctor to tell me that caffeine is a depressant and undoes the good that serotonin-encouraging drugs do.
By the gallon!!!
And so on Tuesday I went off the stuff. I cut down to a modest cup of home-brew in the mornings...and no more. Practically cold turkey--in keeping with the holiday.
The transition hasn't been as bad as I'd expected: I wake up with a headache, take a couple of Tylenol and then in twenty minutes I'm okay. At some point, the headaches will likely stop.
In the meantime I've discovered faintly-flavored water. Pas si mal, as the French say. Not so bad.
And I'm relieved to discover the ridiculously simple cause of the blues that kept threatening to recur.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
New Year's Resolution Update
Okay, it's only two weeks into the year, but anything after the first week can be a wobbly moment.
My resolution I summed up at the time as To Defuse the Resistance. And my plan of action was to meditate twice a day, ten minutes each. (explanation on earlier post.)
In short, meditation is to help me to get past the obstacles to where I want to be, on all fronts.
So far, I've been doing the meditating. That's big. And I actually got around to buying a kitchen timer last night. (I'd been peeking at the clock up til now.)
And I attribute to the meditating (and getting great feedback) the fact that I've had one significant breakthrough in revising my novel. I'm very happy about that.
On the other hand, I'm still deep into the sugar habit, Mickey D's Sweet Iced Tea and the birthday cakes in my freezer that I'm still methodically polishing off.
If I had to choose, I'd rather things go well with the novel, but the fact is, I could choose to well on both.
How's it going with any resolves or goals of yours?
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
My resolution I summed up at the time as To Defuse the Resistance. And my plan of action was to meditate twice a day, ten minutes each. (explanation on earlier post.)
In short, meditation is to help me to get past the obstacles to where I want to be, on all fronts.
So far, I've been doing the meditating. That's big. And I actually got around to buying a kitchen timer last night. (I'd been peeking at the clock up til now.)
And I attribute to the meditating (and getting great feedback) the fact that I've had one significant breakthrough in revising my novel. I'm very happy about that.
On the other hand, I'm still deep into the sugar habit, Mickey D's Sweet Iced Tea and the birthday cakes in my freezer that I'm still methodically polishing off.
If I had to choose, I'd rather things go well with the novel, but the fact is, I could choose to well on both.
How's it going with any resolves or goals of yours?
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Following Bliss--Down the Highway
Driving to work one day this week, I found myself following the most delightful "trailer" I ever saw.
My cellphone photography while driving on Interstate doesn't do it justice, but maybe you get the idea. It's about the size of a large pup tent, has potted plants on either side of the door and a lace curtain at the window. Likely inside there's a nice little library, a couple of reading chairs that convert to a bed, chocolate, and hot water for tea.
It's not every day you see an Alice-in-Wonderland cottage rolling down the road. Just think of all the interesting things we could see rolling down the road if we got a bit outside the norms.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
My Bold Bonus Life: 10
The first day of the second half of my bonus life in New York felt like four different days crammed together. Yesterday was:
Gallery-hopping.
Doll clothes.
Meeting with book editor.
Evening haircut that felt like a Japanese tea ceremony.
And then today turned out to be a half-day. Time has been funny that way in this extra life.
Yesterday morning I started with the galleries, the cluster of them in the 57th street area. Clutching a torn page from a magazine guide, I found that finding each one was part of the adventure. The first gallery, curiously named Haunch of Venison (you'd think it was a rock band), turned out to be upstairs in the same building with Simon & Schuster, publisher of my first novel, Revelation. Huge erotic paintings formed a major part of the show: tangles of pink limbs based on photographs of moments in the life of the artist. In another room was a sound sculpture made by the amplifications of the faint noises of a foot bridge, with a weirdly fascinating video of vibrating cables. I loved the music of the bridge -- a strange sort of wind chime.
Four other galleries forming a similar melange. One of the highlights in an exhibit on privacy was called Privet: a wall lighted from within made of green glass shards. A hedge forbidding and beautiful.
While I was hunting for these art spots, I happened upon a collection of a radically different sort: The American Girl Place. You may have heard of this doll that has become a cultural phenom. I had read about it, and the American Girl emporia that have become pilgrimage sites for pre-teen girls and their mothers.
I was never big on playing with dolls -- I feel disloyal to Cuddles and Jane as I say that. But I've always liked miniatures. And this store for me was a museum of intricate and detailed miniatures: the customizable and child-like dolls in their bazillion different outfits and settings. And then there were clothes for children to match those of the dolls; a girl could get a photographer's outfit (short loose jacket, serious working pants, and a beret) for herself and her doll.
Aside from the fascination of the miniatures, I was interested in seeing what a pro-girl-power message was conveyed. Be brave, be a leader, pursue your interests, follow your inner star. So valuable for girls of this age.
In the afternoon the meeting with a book editor: I pitched several ideas. She liked one, was interested in a proposal, but first wanted me to increase my blog traffic.
A much more complex and mysterious undertaking than writing a book.
The meeting felt relaxed and fine to me. But I felt wiped out afterward, wandering around in the heat in stupid high heels. I also realized I hadn't had my daily caffeine and it was too late in the day for it.
But an oasis lay ahead: I had a 7 p.m. appointment for a haircut. It was with a student at a high-end salon; a $10 bargain I'd discovered in The Cheap Bastard's Guide to New York City. I'd badly needed a trim at the time I got this apartment-sitting invitation and, in the flurry of getting ready, forgot about this detail.
The salon on E. 55th was Shige Kosuda and the hairdresser's name was, as I understood it, Santoshi, a lean young guy with thick black hair. He conducted my haircut in a stylized manner that felt like a quiet, almost religious ritual that went on for a full hour and included a neck and shoulder and scalp massage. As you might imagine, I enjoyed this. And felt completely restored. Here is the haircut.
Mid-evening, I went back to the apartment and slept sixteen hours. I started my day at 5 p.m. today. This is the half-day I'm talking about. I couldn't believe I'd slept so long. But I woke up doubly restored.
Spent the evening in the West Village, had supper at the White Horse Tavern, haunt of many writers in the 50s and 60s. My friend Dan Wakefield, author of New York in the Fifties among many other books, had asked me to hoist a pint there for him. I stopped in and hoisted a chicken pot pie and a Sprite. (Food report: the pie was excellent, but no bigger than a cupcake).
Then to a musical that's part of the arts festival, Fringe NYC. I didn't love it, had had enough at half-time and slunk out, though I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Somehow, the story just hadn't engaged me. It was about this novelist....
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Gallery-hopping.
Doll clothes.
Meeting with book editor.
Evening haircut that felt like a Japanese tea ceremony.
And then today turned out to be a half-day. Time has been funny that way in this extra life.
Yesterday morning I started with the galleries, the cluster of them in the 57th street area. Clutching a torn page from a magazine guide, I found that finding each one was part of the adventure. The first gallery, curiously named Haunch of Venison (you'd think it was a rock band), turned out to be upstairs in the same building with Simon & Schuster, publisher of my first novel, Revelation. Huge erotic paintings formed a major part of the show: tangles of pink limbs based on photographs of moments in the life of the artist. In another room was a sound sculpture made by the amplifications of the faint noises of a foot bridge, with a weirdly fascinating video of vibrating cables. I loved the music of the bridge -- a strange sort of wind chime.
Four other galleries forming a similar melange. One of the highlights in an exhibit on privacy was called Privet: a wall lighted from within made of green glass shards. A hedge forbidding and beautiful.
While I was hunting for these art spots, I happened upon a collection of a radically different sort: The American Girl Place. You may have heard of this doll that has become a cultural phenom. I had read about it, and the American Girl emporia that have become pilgrimage sites for pre-teen girls and their mothers.
I was never big on playing with dolls -- I feel disloyal to Cuddles and Jane as I say that. But I've always liked miniatures. And this store for me was a museum of intricate and detailed miniatures: the customizable and child-like dolls in their bazillion different outfits and settings. And then there were clothes for children to match those of the dolls; a girl could get a photographer's outfit (short loose jacket, serious working pants, and a beret) for herself and her doll.
Aside from the fascination of the miniatures, I was interested in seeing what a pro-girl-power message was conveyed. Be brave, be a leader, pursue your interests, follow your inner star. So valuable for girls of this age.
In the afternoon the meeting with a book editor: I pitched several ideas. She liked one, was interested in a proposal, but first wanted me to increase my blog traffic.
A much more complex and mysterious undertaking than writing a book.
The meeting felt relaxed and fine to me. But I felt wiped out afterward, wandering around in the heat in stupid high heels. I also realized I hadn't had my daily caffeine and it was too late in the day for it.
But an oasis lay ahead: I had a 7 p.m. appointment for a haircut. It was with a student at a high-end salon; a $10 bargain I'd discovered in The Cheap Bastard's Guide to New York City. I'd badly needed a trim at the time I got this apartment-sitting invitation and, in the flurry of getting ready, forgot about this detail.
The salon on E. 55th was Shige Kosuda and the hairdresser's name was, as I understood it, Santoshi, a lean young guy with thick black hair. He conducted my haircut in a stylized manner that felt like a quiet, almost religious ritual that went on for a full hour and included a neck and shoulder and scalp massage. As you might imagine, I enjoyed this. And felt completely restored. Here is the haircut.
Mid-evening, I went back to the apartment and slept sixteen hours. I started my day at 5 p.m. today. This is the half-day I'm talking about. I couldn't believe I'd slept so long. But I woke up doubly restored.
Spent the evening in the West Village, had supper at the White Horse Tavern, haunt of many writers in the 50s and 60s. My friend Dan Wakefield, author of New York in the Fifties among many other books, had asked me to hoist a pint there for him. I stopped in and hoisted a chicken pot pie and a Sprite. (Food report: the pie was excellent, but no bigger than a cupcake).
Then to a musical that's part of the arts festival, Fringe NYC. I didn't love it, had had enough at half-time and slunk out, though I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Somehow, the story just hadn't engaged me. It was about this novelist....
Friday, August 17, 2007
Part II of A Mid-Atlantic Turning Point in My Writing
(This is the serialized story of a writing crisis/career decision that took place on a crossing on the Queen Elizabeth 2, prior to publication of my novel Sister India. I came out of it with more resolution and courage in my writing. Part I was published last week.)
The ship set sail at midnight; my husband Bob and I joined the other passengers crowded along the deck rails. With the feel of New Year's Eve, we watched the long Manhattan skyline slide past, the lighted towers of the World Trade Center, the Statue of Liberty with torch alight.
...Then to the cabin, which looked exactly as I wanted it to: in the style of the golden era of liners earlier in this century. The walls were wood-paneled; there was a dressing table with a round Art Deco mirror, a spray of blooming orchids. I could settle in, wrap up in one of the QE2 bathrobes we found in the closets and, at some point, take out my stack of manuscript. Pure indulgence: this was being a writer the way it would be if Lauren Bacall were playing the part.
First day: the sky bright, the wind brisk. The swells rolling past were an even blue, whipped at the top into whitecaps. Some young Italian boys were playing deck tennis with a couple of American girls. The ship had the feel of a summer morning in childhood: step out your cabin door and play. People were shopping at the shipboard Harrods, taking the waters in the lower deck spa, sitting before PCs in the computing class, listening to the chamber music quartet. Outside the ship's library, readers had settled into armchairs along a long sunlit corridor that looked out on the water. I walked, tried to see everything.
A lunch of cold lobster and fresh pineapple, followed by creme brulee. Bob was downstairs in the weight room working out; I drank a second cup of tea, looked out at the water. The manuscript I've brought is my memoir of a winter I spent in India during an outbreak of Hindu-Muslim rioting and bombing. It's a strange hybrid book: nonfiction, structured like a journal, yet written in scenes like a novel. My agent sent the first eighty pages to several publishers who rejected it, saying: "What is it? Where would you shelve it?..."
I'd thought after I published my first novel Revelation that everything would become easy. It hasn't. Market niches and "big" mass market books are a larger factor in what the major houses publish now. Perhaps more important, my own style of writing has, in fits and starts, gradually changed. After so many years of matching anybody's style, from Cosmopolitan to The New York Times, and doing it almost reflexively, I find I can no longer count on myself to whip out a few pages the way someone else wants it. It's a change that scares me: writing is the way I've always made my living.
The ship set sail at midnight; my husband Bob and I joined the other passengers crowded along the deck rails. With the feel of New Year's Eve, we watched the long Manhattan skyline slide past, the lighted towers of the World Trade Center, the Statue of Liberty with torch alight.
...Then to the cabin, which looked exactly as I wanted it to: in the style of the golden era of liners earlier in this century. The walls were wood-paneled; there was a dressing table with a round Art Deco mirror, a spray of blooming orchids. I could settle in, wrap up in one of the QE2 bathrobes we found in the closets and, at some point, take out my stack of manuscript. Pure indulgence: this was being a writer the way it would be if Lauren Bacall were playing the part.
First day: the sky bright, the wind brisk. The swells rolling past were an even blue, whipped at the top into whitecaps. Some young Italian boys were playing deck tennis with a couple of American girls. The ship had the feel of a summer morning in childhood: step out your cabin door and play. People were shopping at the shipboard Harrods, taking the waters in the lower deck spa, sitting before PCs in the computing class, listening to the chamber music quartet. Outside the ship's library, readers had settled into armchairs along a long sunlit corridor that looked out on the water. I walked, tried to see everything.
A lunch of cold lobster and fresh pineapple, followed by creme brulee. Bob was downstairs in the weight room working out; I drank a second cup of tea, looked out at the water. The manuscript I've brought is my memoir of a winter I spent in India during an outbreak of Hindu-Muslim rioting and bombing. It's a strange hybrid book: nonfiction, structured like a journal, yet written in scenes like a novel. My agent sent the first eighty pages to several publishers who rejected it, saying: "What is it? Where would you shelve it?..."
I'd thought after I published my first novel Revelation that everything would become easy. It hasn't. Market niches and "big" mass market books are a larger factor in what the major houses publish now. Perhaps more important, my own style of writing has, in fits and starts, gradually changed. After so many years of matching anybody's style, from Cosmopolitan to The New York Times, and doing it almost reflexively, I find I can no longer count on myself to whip out a few pages the way someone else wants it. It's a change that scares me: writing is the way I've always made my living.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Boldly Taking a Day Off
Been overworking for about a year. This morning I woke up, knew I didn't have a deadline or an appointment today, and decided against doing anything terribly productive until Monday. (Email and blogging don't count)
So I'm having Ferris Bueller's day off. Husband Bob has been rambling about with me; he's half-retired and already had the day off. We've poked around in Carrboro, the Paris of the South: thrift shops, used books, a camera store, a bead store (he was patient), a run through McDonald's for sweet tea, now the Chapel Hill Library. Soon a Mexican hole-in-the-wall restaurant (the Fiesta Grill, which seats 13) that's supposed to be amazingly good. (There's nothing like warm gooey cheese in my estimation.)
Probably Bernanke will announce early next week that my taking a day off is yet another sign of the receding recession.
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So I'm having Ferris Bueller's day off. Husband Bob has been rambling about with me; he's half-retired and already had the day off. We've poked around in Carrboro, the Paris of the South: thrift shops, used books, a camera store, a bead store (he was patient), a run through McDonald's for sweet tea, now the Chapel Hill Library. Soon a Mexican hole-in-the-wall restaurant (the Fiesta Grill, which seats 13) that's supposed to be amazingly good. (There's nothing like warm gooey cheese in my estimation.)
Probably Bernanke will announce early next week that my taking a day off is yet another sign of the receding recession.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Self-Management
This morning I began an experiment with a new system of my own devising.
I think the matter of "managing" one's self well is pretty much central to everything, not just for freelance writers facing totally unstructured time. Seems to me that a personal management policy applies to every decision anyone makes: whether during "work time" to dig into the novel-in-progress or file tax receipts; whether, at lunch, to get the side of slaw or fries; even whether to give money to a particular panhandling homeless guy. None of these are no-brainers.
Here's my new system: I face each decision with two guidelines. 1) What do I feel like doing? 2) What choice would be "doing right by myself?" I don't get into an inner debate, I just bring these two questions into consciousness and then act.
I started this morning. The noticeable changes so far are that I ate a healthy breakfast and lunch. No fast food at all. And no quart of my beloved Mickey D's Sweet Tea, as is my usual custom. I don't feel deprived at all. I have no regimen I have to stick to; if lard feels like the right thing for supper, then that's what I'll have.
This new system is a blend of two I've tried that don't work: do what I want to and do what I ought to. Neither one of these alone takes me to a very good place. "Ought" leads me to fury and rebellious excess. "Want" leads me to leave off exercise, vegetables, meditation almost entirely.
Some months ago, at the start of the New Year, I announced here that I was moving to a new system which I think of as Act Like You've Got Some Sense or Follow the Will of God. This has worked better than others. And this new approach is simply a way of divining "the will of God." And it doesn't require sense of me all the time. It doesn't require anything.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
I think the matter of "managing" one's self well is pretty much central to everything, not just for freelance writers facing totally unstructured time. Seems to me that a personal management policy applies to every decision anyone makes: whether during "work time" to dig into the novel-in-progress or file tax receipts; whether, at lunch, to get the side of slaw or fries; even whether to give money to a particular panhandling homeless guy. None of these are no-brainers.
Here's my new system: I face each decision with two guidelines. 1) What do I feel like doing? 2) What choice would be "doing right by myself?" I don't get into an inner debate, I just bring these two questions into consciousness and then act.
I started this morning. The noticeable changes so far are that I ate a healthy breakfast and lunch. No fast food at all. And no quart of my beloved Mickey D's Sweet Tea, as is my usual custom. I don't feel deprived at all. I have no regimen I have to stick to; if lard feels like the right thing for supper, then that's what I'll have.
This new system is a blend of two I've tried that don't work: do what I want to and do what I ought to. Neither one of these alone takes me to a very good place. "Ought" leads me to fury and rebellious excess. "Want" leads me to leave off exercise, vegetables, meditation almost entirely.
Some months ago, at the start of the New Year, I announced here that I was moving to a new system which I think of as Act Like You've Got Some Sense or Follow the Will of God. This has worked better than others. And this new approach is simply a way of divining "the will of God." And it doesn't require sense of me all the time. It doesn't require anything.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Which Would Be the Bold, Brave, Right Decision?
I'm hooked on sweet fast-food iced tea. One large one a day.
It used to be two, and I successfully cut back to one.
The reason for this moderation is that caffeine is for me a bit of a depressant and an anxiety builder.
My remaining one large cup can still muddy my skies a bit. And I keep drinking it anyway.
The obvious wise choice would be to drink only a small one or quit altogether. But a lot of the time I'd rather drink the tall one and risk the 2 or 3 hours of being a little more jumpy and overcast.
That's a lot of time to maybe not be at my best. And I don't seem to care enough to do anything about it. So, Ideal Self, what are you going to do about it???
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
It used to be two, and I successfully cut back to one.
The reason for this moderation is that caffeine is for me a bit of a depressant and an anxiety builder.
My remaining one large cup can still muddy my skies a bit. And I keep drinking it anyway.
The obvious wise choice would be to drink only a small one or quit altogether. But a lot of the time I'd rather drink the tall one and risk the 2 or 3 hours of being a little more jumpy and overcast.
That's a lot of time to maybe not be at my best. And I don't seem to care enough to do anything about it. So, Ideal Self, what are you going to do about it???
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Fury and Fears About Healthcare
At tea this afternoon after my regular weekly writing group meeting, I suddenly understood why rage has been breaking out at meetings to talk about health care.
The Anger
I'm sure you've read about people showing up at these discussions packing heat, and seen the pictures of snarling and pushing participants.
This afternoon at our cafe table, four close friends--all well-educated, well-informed, and fairly temperate--got pretty hot on the subject and the thing is: we AGREE about healthcare reform. But we had slight variations on what must be included, or what model should be allowed or not allowed to become a new system. But safe to say: we were thinking about 96% the same.
So if we could get as stirred up as we did, then I can understand how people with radical disagreements can get very upset. And how people can let themselves be inflamed by bizarre rumors. And manipulated into bug-eyed fury.
It's because basic safety is involved.
Death Anxiety, The Fear of Death
What we're talking about isn't mere financial corruption or tax increases or better schools. It's staying alive. And staying whole. And protecting our young and our old.
Some of the rumors going about are simply insane, and I'm not even going to further spread them by repeating them. But people worried about basic safety for themselves and their families can get crazy pretty quickly. Especially if helped along by political forces that stand to gain by their anger.
When I was living in Varanasi doing my research for Sister India, rioting and terrorist bombing broke out there and shut the city down for two weeks of curfew. The sides there were Hindu vs. Muslim. Never mind that Hindus and Muslims were living together in harmony most of the time through much of the city. But political agitation stirred up violence over symbolic acts, over what an outsider might see as a trifle. Each outbreak then set up a chain reaction of retribution.
(When I set out for India, I didn't expect such fights and living under curfew to become part of my novel, but inevitably they did.)
It's easy to say: go easy, listen to all sides, remember that this is your neighbor who also wants reliable healthcare.
Such restraint is very hard in practice. I do know that inflammatory rumors help no one and can do extraordinary harm.
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The Anger
I'm sure you've read about people showing up at these discussions packing heat, and seen the pictures of snarling and pushing participants.
This afternoon at our cafe table, four close friends--all well-educated, well-informed, and fairly temperate--got pretty hot on the subject and the thing is: we AGREE about healthcare reform. But we had slight variations on what must be included, or what model should be allowed or not allowed to become a new system. But safe to say: we were thinking about 96% the same.
So if we could get as stirred up as we did, then I can understand how people with radical disagreements can get very upset. And how people can let themselves be inflamed by bizarre rumors. And manipulated into bug-eyed fury.
It's because basic safety is involved.
Death Anxiety, The Fear of Death
What we're talking about isn't mere financial corruption or tax increases or better schools. It's staying alive. And staying whole. And protecting our young and our old.
Some of the rumors going about are simply insane, and I'm not even going to further spread them by repeating them. But people worried about basic safety for themselves and their families can get crazy pretty quickly. Especially if helped along by political forces that stand to gain by their anger.
When I was living in Varanasi doing my research for Sister India, rioting and terrorist bombing broke out there and shut the city down for two weeks of curfew. The sides there were Hindu vs. Muslim. Never mind that Hindus and Muslims were living together in harmony most of the time through much of the city. But political agitation stirred up violence over symbolic acts, over what an outsider might see as a trifle. Each outbreak then set up a chain reaction of retribution.
(When I set out for India, I didn't expect such fights and living under curfew to become part of my novel, but inevitably they did.)
It's easy to say: go easy, listen to all sides, remember that this is your neighbor who also wants reliable healthcare.
Such restraint is very hard in practice. I do know that inflammatory rumors help no one and can do extraordinary harm.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Santa Claus Hat, Artcar, Goat Meat
In the oatmeal-and-Internet cafe where I am taking my breakfast this morning, a man sits one table ahead of me in a rather elegant serious-looking Santa Claus hat.
He's about thirty, lean, dark and grizzled. The pile of napkins and tea detritus in front of him indicate he has been here for a while, by himself. He is otherwise dressed in a hiply outdoorsy way: layered T-shirts and a down vest.
What worries me is that it took me about ten minutes to notice that the guy has on a Claus cap. I wonder if I'm in a fog and not noticing much and how much of the time this is the case.
And I wonder why he decided to throw on red velvet and faux ermine this morning.
*Is it just the sort of thing he naturally does: it's who he is.
*Is he a late-blooming sociology grad student monitoring reactions (don't think so, he blinks a little too much)
*Did he do it as one of his personal experiments with overthrowing convention
*Or because he is full of the Christmas spirit
*Or because he feels rakish and daring with that fur band around his ears, showercap style
*Did he do it to meet people (an older man in a knit cap, chatty and opinionated, has just sat down at the next table and engaged him in conversation. They shake hands. They both look happy and relieved.
*Is it a signal I haven't heard about?
I suppose someone might have asked the same questions about why I painted morning glories on my car. Answer: I'd always had an irrational craving that way and didn't examine it too closely. And, it didn't feel eccentric, it felt normal, with a twist of delight.
The two guys across from me are both visual artists, I now hear. The older one, black, garrulous, is articulate. The younger white stubble-faced one listens and says, "Holy crap, man!"
What I'm searching for, I think, is what distinguishes an odd gesture that's a natural extension of oneself in a particular moment, from a what-was-I-thinking move.
Did I mention that my beloved husband surprised me with 80 pounds of goat meat for our 25th anniversary on Monday? (I don't cook, don't eat much meat, tried goat once in 1978 and found it so-so.)
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He's about thirty, lean, dark and grizzled. The pile of napkins and tea detritus in front of him indicate he has been here for a while, by himself. He is otherwise dressed in a hiply outdoorsy way: layered T-shirts and a down vest.
What worries me is that it took me about ten minutes to notice that the guy has on a Claus cap. I wonder if I'm in a fog and not noticing much and how much of the time this is the case.
And I wonder why he decided to throw on red velvet and faux ermine this morning.
*Is it just the sort of thing he naturally does: it's who he is.
*Is he a late-blooming sociology grad student monitoring reactions (don't think so, he blinks a little too much)
*Did he do it as one of his personal experiments with overthrowing convention
*Or because he is full of the Christmas spirit
*Or because he feels rakish and daring with that fur band around his ears, showercap style
*Did he do it to meet people (an older man in a knit cap, chatty and opinionated, has just sat down at the next table and engaged him in conversation. They shake hands. They both look happy and relieved.
*Is it a signal I haven't heard about?
I suppose someone might have asked the same questions about why I painted morning glories on my car. Answer: I'd always had an irrational craving that way and didn't examine it too closely. And, it didn't feel eccentric, it felt normal, with a twist of delight.
The two guys across from me are both visual artists, I now hear. The older one, black, garrulous, is articulate. The younger white stubble-faced one listens and says, "Holy crap, man!"
What I'm searching for, I think, is what distinguishes an odd gesture that's a natural extension of oneself in a particular moment, from a what-was-I-thinking move.
Did I mention that my beloved husband surprised me with 80 pounds of goat meat for our 25th anniversary on Monday? (I don't cook, don't eat much meat, tried goat once in 1978 and found it so-so.)
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Sunday, December 07, 2008
Chocolate With Tam at the Umstead
An unexpectedly uplifting experience yesterday:
I went to "tea" with five friends, as the guest of one of us, photographer Karen Tam. We were celebrating a combo of birthdays and Christmas. Tam took us to the Umstead, a still-newish hotel at Research Triangle Park that has been years in the making. It's extremely well-appointed and it's expensive.
So we dressed up. That alone can feel ennobling, if you spend a fair amount of times in jeans and Uggs before a computer screen.
And then, here's what really got me. Every detail there was so well done that it made me feel like doing everything better. It's a remarkable experience to be somewhere, however briefly, where everything is done as well as humanly possible.
The armchairs, the proximity to the fireplace, the pastries, the hot chocolate, the way we were treated -- wow! And the thing is, it wasn't even all perfect at first crack. The first round of hot chocolate wasn't hot. Ardis, who is bolder than I, mentioned this. The lukewarm chocolate was whisked away and a woman in an elegant black suit came out and apologized and we were then elevated to the rank of visiting queens. (It's always inspiring to see someone turn a glitch into an opportunity for an even better performance.)
I came away feeling more full of purpose, more capable, and (amazing in combo with the other two) more relaxed.
This is the way outings and vacations are supposed to work, and this one was only three hours.
Me and the buds had good time talking too. We do this three times a year; some of us have been friends for 39 years, others only about 35. We shrieked less than usual and were very grown-up in keeping with the fancy setting. Though we did each wear one of Jan's 1940s hats with feathers and veils.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
I went to "tea" with five friends, as the guest of one of us, photographer Karen Tam. We were celebrating a combo of birthdays and Christmas. Tam took us to the Umstead, a still-newish hotel at Research Triangle Park that has been years in the making. It's extremely well-appointed and it's expensive.
So we dressed up. That alone can feel ennobling, if you spend a fair amount of times in jeans and Uggs before a computer screen.
And then, here's what really got me. Every detail there was so well done that it made me feel like doing everything better. It's a remarkable experience to be somewhere, however briefly, where everything is done as well as humanly possible.
The armchairs, the proximity to the fireplace, the pastries, the hot chocolate, the way we were treated -- wow! And the thing is, it wasn't even all perfect at first crack. The first round of hot chocolate wasn't hot. Ardis, who is bolder than I, mentioned this. The lukewarm chocolate was whisked away and a woman in an elegant black suit came out and apologized and we were then elevated to the rank of visiting queens. (It's always inspiring to see someone turn a glitch into an opportunity for an even better performance.)
I came away feeling more full of purpose, more capable, and (amazing in combo with the other two) more relaxed.
This is the way outings and vacations are supposed to work, and this one was only three hours.
Me and the buds had good time talking too. We do this three times a year; some of us have been friends for 39 years, others only about 35. We shrieked less than usual and were very grown-up in keeping with the fancy setting. Though we did each wear one of Jan's 1940s hats with feathers and veils.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
House Guest Heroism
I think it takes a fair amount of the ordinary daily kind of boldness to be or to host a house guest.
Not everyone feels that way, I know. (My office partner, for one, is ever keeping visiting actors or musicians or exchange students for weeks and months at a time without even thinking to mention it at lunch.)
But for those several of us who retain any shred of worry about being fully known or (worse for me) the possibility of imposing on someone, the house guest business does take some gathering of nerve.
The last couple of days, Husband Bob's best buddy from his youth has been visiting from Wenham, Mass. A painter, George Wingate has an art show at nearby Guilford College. Hanging with George has been delightful. Imagine if the hyper-articulate and thoughtful Wm. Buckley had been liberal and better-looking. George is fascinating to talk with. I was very sorry to see him go.
At the same time, I always feel that I, and anyone faced with the state of my towels and Bob's insistence on reusing tea leaves, deserve some sort of human relations merit badge. It's good practice for larger negotiations.
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Not everyone feels that way, I know. (My office partner, for one, is ever keeping visiting actors or musicians or exchange students for weeks and months at a time without even thinking to mention it at lunch.)
But for those several of us who retain any shred of worry about being fully known or (worse for me) the possibility of imposing on someone, the house guest business does take some gathering of nerve.
The last couple of days, Husband Bob's best buddy from his youth has been visiting from Wenham, Mass. A painter, George Wingate has an art show at nearby Guilford College. Hanging with George has been delightful. Imagine if the hyper-articulate and thoughtful Wm. Buckley had been liberal and better-looking. George is fascinating to talk with. I was very sorry to see him go.
At the same time, I always feel that I, and anyone faced with the state of my towels and Bob's insistence on reusing tea leaves, deserve some sort of human relations merit badge. It's good practice for larger negotiations.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Kneejerk Argument
The opposite of being awake and present in my life is falling back into the same old arguments.
I just took part in a minor verbal skirmish in my writing group. My friend Christina, the other actively religious person in the group, and I got into a polite but insistent conversation about how much of the belief of the Gnostics was based on doctrine and how much on the experience of the believer.
Now, that's likely to be a large yawn for most readers.
Not for Christina and me. We marshalled our facts and a hefty dictionary, and neither of us budged in our position.
It ended fine, with both of us where we began. We moved on to tea at the neighborhood Whole Foods, and to subjects of more general interest.
But now I'm annoyed with myself for heating up the burners under that subject once again.
I do know what it's about: I have a still-belligerent preference for personal experience over received wisdom. Which is to say that I fall into the category of "cain't tell that girl nuthin'." Or want to, anyway.
Apparently I'd also like to believe that others in history have felt the same way.
I'm fine with that. What bugs me is the feeling I got during the conversation that I was starting to behave in a preset manner, that I'd yielded in-the-moment responsiveness to a pointless old routine.
I find it damned hard to stop that reflexive feistiness once it starts, and it's such a waste of steam.
I just took part in a minor verbal skirmish in my writing group. My friend Christina, the other actively religious person in the group, and I got into a polite but insistent conversation about how much of the belief of the Gnostics was based on doctrine and how much on the experience of the believer.
Now, that's likely to be a large yawn for most readers.
Not for Christina and me. We marshalled our facts and a hefty dictionary, and neither of us budged in our position.
It ended fine, with both of us where we began. We moved on to tea at the neighborhood Whole Foods, and to subjects of more general interest.
But now I'm annoyed with myself for heating up the burners under that subject once again.
I do know what it's about: I have a still-belligerent preference for personal experience over received wisdom. Which is to say that I fall into the category of "cain't tell that girl nuthin'." Or want to, anyway.
Apparently I'd also like to believe that others in history have felt the same way.
I'm fine with that. What bugs me is the feeling I got during the conversation that I was starting to behave in a preset manner, that I'd yielded in-the-moment responsiveness to a pointless old routine.
I find it damned hard to stop that reflexive feistiness once it starts, and it's such a waste of steam.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The Long-Running Writing Group
On Thursday afternoons, I meet with my writing group, led by novelist Laurel Goldman. I've been in this group a few months shy of 25 years. As you might imagine, the conversation has strayed from writing a time or two. Also, we have tea afterwards at the Whole Foods grocery across the street from Laurel's office.
In a writing group, there's a higher value placed on total honesty than in other relationships. I want to know any possible negative a reader could come up with about what I've written, so that I can decide how I want to deal with it.
For one of the group to have a critical thought and hold it back would be malpractice.
In marriages and other relationships, total revelation of every negative thought is not required or even desirable, at least by me.
Yet I find that having a group of friends/colleagues with an agreement for full response--positives and negatives--is extremely interesting. And it's excellent practice in being diplomatic and unsparingly direct at the same time. We don't necessarily practice this skill in our commentaries on each other's personal lives, but the habit does persist and we're pretty damn forthcoming in all our talks.
It's one of the great things in my life, this ongoing conversation. I wonder if at the end of my life, I'll look back and think that the group was the point as much as the books were.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
In a writing group, there's a higher value placed on total honesty than in other relationships. I want to know any possible negative a reader could come up with about what I've written, so that I can decide how I want to deal with it.
For one of the group to have a critical thought and hold it back would be malpractice.
In marriages and other relationships, total revelation of every negative thought is not required or even desirable, at least by me.
Yet I find that having a group of friends/colleagues with an agreement for full response--positives and negatives--is extremely interesting. And it's excellent practice in being diplomatic and unsparingly direct at the same time. We don't necessarily practice this skill in our commentaries on each other's personal lives, but the habit does persist and we're pretty damn forthcoming in all our talks.
It's one of the great things in my life, this ongoing conversation. I wonder if at the end of my life, I'll look back and think that the group was the point as much as the books were.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Jury Duty!
We showed up at 9 a.m. at the courthouse, half a courtroom full of varied individuals. The man sitting beside me, Sean, was an art director maybe in his late 30s.
In front of me were two black women who seemed to know each other. A lot of men in shirtsleeves, not a single tie. One 65ish woman in a tres svelte suit and a killer good haircut. A tired-looking blonde girl within days of having a baby. A very tall lanky young fellow with a Dutch name several rows ahead. (I know his name because he was one of the nine mildly stunned when their names were drawn, not for the trial of the day, but for a year-long appointment to the Grand Jury which meets once a month.)
At about 11 a.m. we were dismissed for three hours for the court to do preliminary business. I worked on my novel--minor changes on hard copy in pen--first at the hip, granola-ish General Store Cafe (caramel apple cake and decaf) and then when the Council on Aging started pouring in for their lunch meeting, at Hardee's (medium-sized sweet iced tea, if you must know; could have done worse.)
At 2 p.m., we all returned and filled the pews again. All of us on time, nobody skipping town. The judge Narley Cashwell, who'd done an impressive job of being clear in his explanations without being condescending, then dismissed us. The defendant, charged with assaulting a policeman, possession of drugs, etc., had decided at lunch to plead guilty. The jury pool erupted in applause at the news.
While it was an interesting little adventure in, for me, a different town than usual, none of us really longed to be there, it seemed. We were all taking time away from something else.
My point: we have a bold system of government that relies on people showing up, I do know there'd be trouble for anyone who didn't, but trouble is not always a deterrent. Our system really does rely on any and every person. I know it makes mistakes, but still... It made me kinda proud to see it again, genuinely democratic, in action.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
In front of me were two black women who seemed to know each other. A lot of men in shirtsleeves, not a single tie. One 65ish woman in a tres svelte suit and a killer good haircut. A tired-looking blonde girl within days of having a baby. A very tall lanky young fellow with a Dutch name several rows ahead. (I know his name because he was one of the nine mildly stunned when their names were drawn, not for the trial of the day, but for a year-long appointment to the Grand Jury which meets once a month.)
At about 11 a.m. we were dismissed for three hours for the court to do preliminary business. I worked on my novel--minor changes on hard copy in pen--first at the hip, granola-ish General Store Cafe (caramel apple cake and decaf) and then when the Council on Aging started pouring in for their lunch meeting, at Hardee's (medium-sized sweet iced tea, if you must know; could have done worse.)
At 2 p.m., we all returned and filled the pews again. All of us on time, nobody skipping town. The judge Narley Cashwell, who'd done an impressive job of being clear in his explanations without being condescending, then dismissed us. The defendant, charged with assaulting a policeman, possession of drugs, etc., had decided at lunch to plead guilty. The jury pool erupted in applause at the news.
While it was an interesting little adventure in, for me, a different town than usual, none of us really longed to be there, it seemed. We were all taking time away from something else.
My point: we have a bold system of government that relies on people showing up, I do know there'd be trouble for anyone who didn't, but trouble is not always a deterrent. Our system really does rely on any and every person. I know it makes mistakes, but still... It made me kinda proud to see it again, genuinely democratic, in action.
If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Deadly Serious Career Planning
Here's a writing assignment guaranteed to clarify your goals in your art career and in every thing else: WRITE YOUR OWN OBITUARY. I gave it a try and I promise you, it is immodest.
MY FAKE OBIT:
Nobel laureate and bestselling novelist Peggy Payne, 3-time winner of the National Book Award, died yesterday at the age of 122, at her home after a brief illness.
An outspoken advocate for self-actualization Payne also wrote a number of nonfiction books, including a much-loved biography of painter Elisabeth Chant.
Her books combined her explorations of the supernatural and paranormal with her travels in exotic and enticing locations, including India, Ireland, Greece, Brittany, and the city of New Orleans. Her work has been published in 42 languages. She continued to travel and write and lecture, and to work with other writers, until weeks before her death.
Most of her novels were made into movies and a script she co-authored received an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.
Born in 1949 in Wilmington, NC, to Margaret and Harry Payne, she lived in North Carolina throughout her life. She and her beloved husband psychologist Bob Dick celebrated her hundredth birthday on a round-the-world cruise on the QE2. To the end of her life she maintained a close relationship with her family and friends, continuing to have tea with her writing group each Thursday she was in town.
In the second half of her life, she amassed great wealth and created a foundation to support artists, inventors and start-up businesses in imaginative undertakings.
Having wrestled with obsessive-compulsive disorder in her early years, she achieved in her fifties a state of inner peace that she considered her greatest achievement. Her explorations of the supernatural led her to ecstatic experiences of God and to an intimate connection with spirits.
She is remembered also as an enthusiastic gossip, a fan of old rock and roll, a magazine junkie, connoisseur of thrift shops, slapdash gardener, sometime clothes horse, and reader.
The Duke pep band will play at her funeral.
MY FAKE OBIT:
Nobel laureate and bestselling novelist Peggy Payne, 3-time winner of the National Book Award, died yesterday at the age of 122, at her home after a brief illness.
An outspoken advocate for self-actualization Payne also wrote a number of nonfiction books, including a much-loved biography of painter Elisabeth Chant.
Her books combined her explorations of the supernatural and paranormal with her travels in exotic and enticing locations, including India, Ireland, Greece, Brittany, and the city of New Orleans. Her work has been published in 42 languages. She continued to travel and write and lecture, and to work with other writers, until weeks before her death.
Most of her novels were made into movies and a script she co-authored received an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.
Born in 1949 in Wilmington, NC, to Margaret and Harry Payne, she lived in North Carolina throughout her life. She and her beloved husband psychologist Bob Dick celebrated her hundredth birthday on a round-the-world cruise on the QE2. To the end of her life she maintained a close relationship with her family and friends, continuing to have tea with her writing group each Thursday she was in town.
In the second half of her life, she amassed great wealth and created a foundation to support artists, inventors and start-up businesses in imaginative undertakings.
Having wrestled with obsessive-compulsive disorder in her early years, she achieved in her fifties a state of inner peace that she considered her greatest achievement. Her explorations of the supernatural led her to ecstatic experiences of God and to an intimate connection with spirits.
She is remembered also as an enthusiastic gossip, a fan of old rock and roll, a magazine junkie, connoisseur of thrift shops, slapdash gardener, sometime clothes horse, and reader.
The Duke pep band will play at her funeral.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Southern Dishes for Southern Authors
Technically I'm a Southern writer, but I don't write about the South in the rural way that is usually associated with Southern writing.
My feeling is that there are many kinds of Southern. In fact, we've had towns here for a long time. And I like writing about places like India, anyway. The research gives me a good reason to travel.
Still, I've lived in North Carolina all my life and when it's time to break for lunch, I most often go to the nearby K&W cafeteria for Southern vegetables cooked the simmered-with-fat way I grew up on.
Today was a particularly good day at the K&W. My office partner, author-artist Carrie Knowles, and I celebrated her birthday there. The menu?
I consumed:
fried broccoli
lima beans
watermelon
sweet potato pie
sublimely sweet iced tea
Carrie celebrated with a slice of pudding-y chocolate pie with a fluffy white topping.
Some years ago I attended a small dinner for a visiting author, the wonderful short-story writer Lorrie Moore, of NY and Wisconsin. It was one of these Southern affairs, and dessert was a mammoth, meringued piece of lemon pie.
A half hour later, Moore was upstairs in the auditorium reading a short story to a sizeable audience, when, apparently to her surprise, she came upon a section of the story that was very witty and ironic on the subject of a similar meal, including a daunting piece of pie topped by a snow bank of meringue. She winced. I snickered and glanced around for my fellow diners.
A funny moment. At the same time, that was an excellent piece of lemon pie. So was today's sweet potato "tart." Good fuel for this afternoon's literary output. I recommend it to anyone.
My feeling is that there are many kinds of Southern. In fact, we've had towns here for a long time. And I like writing about places like India, anyway. The research gives me a good reason to travel.
Still, I've lived in North Carolina all my life and when it's time to break for lunch, I most often go to the nearby K&W cafeteria for Southern vegetables cooked the simmered-with-fat way I grew up on.
Today was a particularly good day at the K&W. My office partner, author-artist Carrie Knowles, and I celebrated her birthday there. The menu?
I consumed:
fried broccoli
lima beans
watermelon
sweet potato pie
sublimely sweet iced tea
Carrie celebrated with a slice of pudding-y chocolate pie with a fluffy white topping.
Some years ago I attended a small dinner for a visiting author, the wonderful short-story writer Lorrie Moore, of NY and Wisconsin. It was one of these Southern affairs, and dessert was a mammoth, meringued piece of lemon pie.
A half hour later, Moore was upstairs in the auditorium reading a short story to a sizeable audience, when, apparently to her surprise, she came upon a section of the story that was very witty and ironic on the subject of a similar meal, including a daunting piece of pie topped by a snow bank of meringue. She winced. I snickered and glanced around for my fellow diners.
A funny moment. At the same time, that was an excellent piece of lemon pie. So was today's sweet potato "tart." Good fuel for this afternoon's literary output. I recommend it to anyone.
Friday, May 19, 2006
What to Write About?
(This post is a handout for a panel I'm on, Saturday, May 20, at Peace College in Raleigh, for the spring conference of the NC Writers Network. Instead of actually handing out these sheets, I'm placing them here, for anyone who might be interested.)
Find The Writing Topic To Inspire Your LASTING PASSION
*FOLLOW A LEAD, no matter how flimsy. If something about a piece of green glass or the memory of a coffeehouse in Krakov has an uncanny appeal, free-associate on paper. Let that take you where it will.
*Understand that SMALL DISTINCTIONS MATTER. What we wind up passionate about is very particular. So pay attention to those distinctions. You may not care about Egyptian history, yet be drawn to know everything about the pharaoh Hatshepsut. Is it the tea or the rose on the teacup that touches your soul?
*Before you go to sleep, tell yourself you’re going to DREAM of what you’re most called to write. The moment you wake up, write down every detail you can recall, whether the dream seems to have any value or not.
*NOTICE: What do you spend most of your time thinking about?
*WHAT WOULD YOU WRITE, if you couldn't fail? (somebody else wrote this line, don’t know who)
*Without looking, PUT YOUR FINGER ON A WORD in a book. Write about that word and what it evokes for you. Do it several times, perhaps over a period of time, then look back at any themes or images or phrases that recur.
*Write and write, following where WHIM takes you, all the while keeping the writing to what is experienced through the senses. They’ll get you to the good stuff.
Find The Writing Topic To Inspire Your LASTING PASSION
*FOLLOW A LEAD, no matter how flimsy. If something about a piece of green glass or the memory of a coffeehouse in Krakov has an uncanny appeal, free-associate on paper. Let that take you where it will.
*Understand that SMALL DISTINCTIONS MATTER. What we wind up passionate about is very particular. So pay attention to those distinctions. You may not care about Egyptian history, yet be drawn to know everything about the pharaoh Hatshepsut. Is it the tea or the rose on the teacup that touches your soul?
*Before you go to sleep, tell yourself you’re going to DREAM of what you’re most called to write. The moment you wake up, write down every detail you can recall, whether the dream seems to have any value or not.
*NOTICE: What do you spend most of your time thinking about?
*WHAT WOULD YOU WRITE, if you couldn't fail? (somebody else wrote this line, don’t know who)
*Without looking, PUT YOUR FINGER ON A WORD in a book. Write about that word and what it evokes for you. Do it several times, perhaps over a period of time, then look back at any themes or images or phrases that recur.
*Write and write, following where WHIM takes you, all the while keeping the writing to what is experienced through the senses. They’ll get you to the good stuff.
Monday, January 16, 2006
6 More Hints on Arts Marketing
*When you're having a booksigning or an art opening or some other career event, figure out who the people are whose presence would mean the most for your career. Write those people A PERSONAL LETTER of invitation, perhaps in addition to including them in an mass e-mail.
*LEARN ABOUT THE PERSON YOU WANT TO REACH, his or her interests and accomplishments, how you can fit into what that person is doing, what mutual friends or contacts you might have.
*COUNT ON A LOT OF REJECTIONS and setbacks in marketing, just as most of us do in the process of doing the work. Part of the day's work and the progress is getting the inevitable rejections. These are a step forward.
*OTHER ARTISTS' SUCCESSES show where there may be an opportunity for you. Find out how they did it, and how you can adapt that approach for yourself.
*In sending out UPDATES ON YOUR WORK, limit yourself to twice a year, and don't send announcements about your very small victories. You might save some of your mailing list, in announcing a book release or a long-running art show, until you have a good review to quote.
*COMMUNICATE YOUR PASSION about your work to the person you want to interest. Show your excitement and say what has drawn you to this project, what it means to you.
These ideas are brought to you from the Creative Capital seminar on strategic planning for artists, which I've been carrying on about for weeks now.
ADDENDUM: The picture is the view from my desk (isn't my office building wonderful?)with the glass I mentioned in my last post. Note the COBALT BLUE color. Every time I reach for this weak iced tea, I'm reminded of my novel and my goals for it.
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