Ah Summer, How I'll Miss You

The days are getting shorter again. Labor Day is this weekend. Tomorrow is the first day of September.

Summer is officially over, I guess. Sigh.

How did I spend my "summer vacation"? Let me count the ways...

I turned 31 in Honduras, and celebrated by walking around atop Mayan ruins in the town of Copan. Later, off the island of Utila, I snorkeled in the clear blue Caribbean sea. I saw a sea turtle, and I didn't get eaten by a shark. My brother taught me to play poker, and one night he and I stayed up late with a girl from Holland, a girl from England, and a boy from France, playing poker with matchsticks as currency. Another night, there was a pounding rainstorm that shook the hostel where we were staying, and I went to bed that night looking at the bright full moon rising high over dark, violent waves.

Back in California, I went to the beach a couple times. I did a lot of nothing on weekends. As often as possible, I spent time in the sun.

I went to San Francisco, and attended the wedding of a good friend. I visited other friends I haven't seen in awhile, and enjoyed laughing with them and catching up on all their news.

I made appreciable progress on learning a Beethoven sonata, and wrote several articles for the local newspaper.

I went on a few dates, here and there. I did not fall in love, but I thought about it.

I read books, some of which I really liked. Tijuana Straits by Kem Nunn was one of these, and Lying Awake by Mark Salzman was another. There was also Kissing in Manhattan, and various short stories. I got through a big chunk of a novel called The Discovery of Heaven, but I haven't finished it yet.

Sometimes, I'd go for a walk in the evening. I breathed in the scent of roses in the gardens of neighborhood homes.

Yes, on the whole, I'd say I had a pretty good summer.

How about you? What did you do? Don't be shy, please. I want to know.

Oh California, Stop Your Wining!

In the midst of all the upheaval and terror and catastrophes and turmoil that faces each one of us in these increasingly troubled times, I am just so relieved that I live in a state that has its legislative priorities in order.

Unbelievable

An interesting item today, on a blog called Practicing Writing. Apparently, one of the books on President Bush's summer reading list is Albert Camus' The Stranger.

I didn't even know Bush had a summer reading list.

To be honest, most days I have a hard time picturing him reading a newspaper, let alone a major work by one of the most famous French existentialists, so I guess this is good news--the President of the United States, reading real literature!

Now if only I could believe it.

But I'm willing to admit I'm a snob when it comes to literary matters, and maybe my skepticism is born of the fact that I just can't stand the thought of our president, who has trouble stringing together two coherent, complete, intelligible sentences in unscripted sessions, making his way through the entirety of a well-known 20th century novel that I myself have never read. It's embarrassing! Now I'm all annoyed, because I will have to read the book. And I had enough stuff on my summer reading list already!

Besides, I don't like French existentialism! It just seems so boring. Boo.

Thanks a million, Mr. President.

P.S. If you're interested in finding out what other books are on the Presidential reading list, go here.

I Think My Subconscious is Trying to Eat Me

Well, it is all becoming more and more real, the looming return to formal studies. My master's program begins this November, and I have already received assignments—two books to read before the semester starts, and a minimum of 15 pages of prose fiction due by september 27.

None of my stories is even 10 pages, of course. Which means I have to come up with two to turn in. Gah.

The questions lurk continuously at the back of my mind, where I toss them the occasional kibbles-and-bits of tentative self-confidence to hopefully shut them up and quiet their ravenous growls, which, when they are particularly hungry for a taste of my vulnerable ego, takes the shape of biting words that end up sounding something like this:

"Who told you you could write? How did you get into a master's program anyway? What were you thinking? Did we mention your writing sucks?"

It is not a pretty place, my subconscious. Stay away, is my advice. I usually do.

But I was talking about the MFA program.

So, here's how it works. In nNovember I will go to the campus for 10 days, for the residency part of the semester. The rest of the semester will be conducted in a long-distance, independent study format, with me doing the assignments from home and sending packets of writing back to an assigned teacher every three weeks.

That way, I get to keep my full-time job. Which means that in addition to working 40 hours a week, I'll also be studying/writing for 25.

Now, I'm not very good at math, but I'm pretty sure those numbers added together translate into an equation that can be summed up in english as follows: I won't be sleeping alot for the next two years.

The campus is in Kentucky. I don't know anything about Kentucky. I know they have lots of horses there. And blue grass, which I think is pretty cool. (Out here in California, of course, we have to pay lots of money just to have ours be the normal, boring green.)

Oh, and I also read somewhere recently that the Kentucky Derby (which, by the way, is held in Kentucky--another Kentucky factoid for you!) will start selling mint juleps that cost $1000.

Hmm, how strange. I keep getting off topic. I was talking about the MFA program.

Right. So, these packets of writing that get sent back and forth every three weeks through the course of the semester are supposed to be a mixture of material undergoing revisions and new material. They are also supposed to include 1-3 critical essays, based on the 8-10 books we are supposed to be reading. And did i mention that the writing packet is expected to number about 35-40 pages? Every three weeks?

I think I mentioned it. At least the last part.

Um, yeah, so I'm a little stressed about the whole thing, as you can probably tell. But I think it's a good kind of stressed. Like the excited kind.

Although I haven't entirely made up my mind about that. Because that would involve a trip to the subconcious. And after writing this post, I just don't think I have any more kibbles or bits.

Dying to be Married?

Ok, so most days I'm actually pretty ok with the single life. Then I have to read a story like this one in the New York Times, and I end up heaving a heart-rending, pitiful sigh.

Check out this quote:

Researchers surveyed more than 80,000 Americans and found that people who never married were 58% more likely to die during the course of an eight-year period than their married peers. (emphasis mine)

I actually had to read that paragraph twice, I was so aghast. Who would have thought that my life depended on finding a mate? I mean, besides me. Er, not that I think my life depends on it, per se. Or at least, I didn't.

Until now.

Gives a whole new meaning to the "til death do us part" part of the wedding vows, doesn't it?

Oh wait. It actually doesn't. Well, hmm. Never mind.

Er, moving on...

Then, I laughed at this thoroughly inadequate clarification from a Dr. Richard Kronik of UCSD, who "suggested that people who are healthier are more likely to marry, and that marriage itself does not reduce risks." (emphasis mine)

Oh, great. So in Dr. Kronik's mind, maybe I won't die sooner than my married counterparts, but I'm probably ill.

Somehow, I'm not comforted.

(I wonder if some of us get so worked up about not being married when we, just for example, read the results of studies like this that we make ourselves sick and THEN die of heart disease induced by stress, thus justifying the statistics.)

And How About A Side of Anger Management to Go With Your Drink?

I know it's kind of the thing these days to be concerned about North Korea and Iraq and Iran and all, but I have to say, lately China is actually starting to worry me a bit. Or maybe a lot.

I mean, first there was the recent and rather alarming rise in the popularity of voodoo dolls, of all things. Then I stumbled across this little blurb in the August 18 issue of The Week:

A new bar in China allows patrons to blow off steam by physically assaulting the staff. The Rising Sun Anger Release Bar in Nanjing employs 20 heavily muscled waiters whom customers are free to punch and scream at with no fear of retaliation. Should beating up a waiter fail to relieve a ustomer's anger and tension, counselors are on hand to dispense life advice.

Well, it is definitely a fascinating idea for happy hour: "Hey, let's head down to Rising Sun and yell at the waiters! Then we'll get a drink and have some counselling. It'll be fun!" But it does beg the question: why are people so angry in China? And how high is the turnover at the Rising Sun Anger Release Bar, anyway? (By the way, I think that's an awesome name for a bar.)

I wonder if Rising Sun waiters would come to the bar on THEIR days off, and yell at the other waiters, and beat them up, in order to blow off their rage at being yelled at and beaten by customers? Vicious cycle, anyone? (Which would be an awesome name for a drink at the Rising Sun Anger Release Bar.)

And what the heck are these advice-dispensing counselors supposed to do? I mean, doesn't most "life advice" include concepts like, "Don't hit people or lose your temper"? Are they anger management counselors? Because that would be pretty funny. Talk about conflicts of interest.

Whining About Writing? Or Writing About Whining? You Decide!

I have just spent the last half hour or so--maybe even more, my sense of time has been impaired by one glass too many of a rather passable syrah rose--trying to think of something interesting to write. It's been far too long.

And, judging by the amount of creativity not flowing at all through my brain at the moment, it's going to be a little longer. Dang.

Of course, since I am currently in the throes of a particularly fiendish bout of writer's block, I went to my email inbox this morning and found a note from the administrator of the creative program in which I am, to my own continuing surprise, enrolled and which starts this November. And after reading, I nearly died. Of shock. And deep, abiding alarm. Allow me, if you will, to share the pertinent Excerpt of Doom which caused such a gut-wrenching reaction:

We are still making some final revisions to the MFA Student Handbook, so we won't be able to email it to you until late next week. In the meantime, I want you to have the attached pdf, which is an abbreviated version of the handbook and includes information that probably most concerns you right now. For example, the Worksheet (which is your piece for the residency Workshop) is due Wednesday, September 27. (emphasis added)

What? I have to turn in a story BEFORE the program even starts?? By September 27??? Why, that's less than 100 years away! What am I going to do?

Where are those four Apocalyptic horsemen when you actually need them?

Er, wait. I think I know.

Ok, so there are more important and terribly horrendous things going on the world begging for the attention of humans and Rapture theologians alike than my whining inability to come up with anything to write. I admit it, fully and completely. But I'm still going to whine. Why? Because that's about all I can do! I can't think of anything to write, remember?

Hey, a thought just occurred to me. How come I never get whiner's block? I mean, that's something that I'd actually like to have. It's something that could actually do me--and my patient, patient readers--good.

Which, of course, is exactly why that is the one thing I will never, ever struggle to overcome.

So typical, really.