Sunflower

Why I Do Not Belong to a Writing Group

I have belonged to exactly two writing groups in my life, and I have been writing since elementary school (a Star Wars fanfic and a largely plagiarized book on astronomy).

 The first was in college. I took a creative writing class with Wendy Barker . She had a fanatical following among many of her creative writing students, but I found the class off-putting and I was not the only one. I’m not going to defend anything I wrote and shared during those painful meetings, but I had a friend who wrote a gripping story about a woman who had an abortion (it was a thinly veiled account of her own experiences) and I remember the complete disinterest that the acolytes showed for it.  I must admit also that I was not impressed by Dr. Barker. My one clear memory of her was sitting in the hallway outside her office having shown up for a scheduled meeting with her and waiting for 30 minutes or so while she and an acolyte shot the bull in her office, door open and aware that I was waiting. In short, I never heard any genuinely useful feedback in that class. That and the poetry voice that many of the students used when reading their work convinced me I was not in the right place. 

You know the poetry voice. It’s the voice that strives … with highly artful … inflection … a rising tone … and meaningless … pauses … to imbue ordinary thoughts … with great … philosophical … depth. I hate it. It’s so false and, ironically, robs words of their power. It cheapens honest emotion. The poetry voice is a major reason why I avoid public readings and writers’ groups. 

The second writing group I was in was the San AntonioWriting Project . This was, overall, a much better experience, but the focus here was making us into better teachers of writing. And, honestly, I found the experience very uncomfortable because I do not like reading my work out loud in a group setting.  And that’s on me. On several occasions I was asked to reread something more slowly and louder because I had been in a mad rush to get it over with.  I did get good feedback, honest critique, from some of my fellow participants, and I loved having a designated time in which to write. It made me produce which was good because I am a lazy writer much of the time.

I guess, in a sense, I’ve been a member of another writers’ group. As a fanfiction  writer (former fanfiction writer?) and a beta reader I have gotten much better feedback from fellow writers than I ever did face to face.  The brutal honesty of some of my fandom friends and the knowledge that they had gone through my writing line by line really did improve my process and my output.  This group has the added benefits of being online and asynchronous so it wasn’t a matter of setting aside a particular time to meet. And I never have to read my work out loud to anyone. The only downside is that this group really only functions well when it comes to fanfiction.  Many of us write original fiction but, at least for me, it’s more difficult to put the original fic out there and have it go through that rigorous process.

I have tried a few times since then to start a writing group, but people are busy, people are probably afraid I’ll read with the poetry voice, people are shy, and people just aren’t interested.

 And I have toyed with the idea of joining an existing writers’ group … but I have so many trust issues when it comes to opening my inner self up to other people. I am a very private person when it comes to the things that matter most to me.  My writing is intensely personal, probably the most honest expression of who I imagine myself to be. The idea of sharing that with a random group of strangers makes me feel sick. So, no, I probably won’t be joining a preexisting writing group.

The Subject Today is Love

The Saturday before Christmas, my partner and our friend Gudrun and I had a great day. We ran errands, ate lunch out, and came home to bake Christmas cookies and listen to silly Christmas music. It was a warm day, so we had the backdoor open with the screen door shut and we could see the dogs looking at us every now and then as they heard us or smelled our baking. As daylight turned to dusk, I went into the backyard to give the dogs their dinners and Scooter, the older dog, was lying completely still.

To be honest, I knew immediately that he was gone. But I went over and stooped to pet him, to make sure he wasn’t just asleep. But he was dead. When I petted him, it was obvious that he had just died. He lay there as if he had gone to sleep. 

He wasn’t terribly old, but he was a huge dog and he had had fairly major medical problems his entire life. Lately he had really slowed down and, even though he still ate his dinner and welcomed attention, it was obvious that his medicine for joint problems wasn’t strong enough anymore. We had decided that after Christmas we were going to take him to the vet, and I think we both were steeling ourselves to be told that it was time to let him go.

I went and got my partner to let her know.  The little dog followed me, confused and starting to be upset at this change in the routine. I won’t go into the whole story, but it took a while for us to figure out what to do. Gudrun was the one who called the vet’s emergency number and found a 24 hour vet clinic that could take his body for cremation.

It took all three of us to carry him to the car. Gudrun volunteered her car because it was the largest and drove us there. She hugged me when I started to cry (several times). She was the support we both needed at that time, when we were so upset and not able to think clearly. I’ve always known she was a good friend and, once again, she proved it that night. 

Foe several days the little dog looked for Scooter all the time. He cried. He didn’t eat. He clung to me. But gradually, with lots of attention and encouragement, he has started to get used to this new world. 

Scooter knew how to shake hands. He had beautiful white teeth. He loved to have his belly rubbed. He howled whenever there were sirens nearby. He was gentle and sweet but very imposing-looking. His paws were bigger than the palms of my hands. When he was younger I took him to the vet every Saturday for treatment for mange.  He was a tiny puppy when we got him and I could carry him around, and then he got so big that his head was as big as his whole body used to be. When he was crated, he barked the house down. He loved water and loved getting in his water trough and having water poured over him. We called him Fly Boy because he attracted flies and was always having to wear anti-fly medicine. He was a beautiful, beautiful dog. 

Ever since he died, we find ourselves telling Scooter stories. We tell stories the same way we tell stories about human family members who have died. 

To me, love is not an abstract thing. It's something you do. It's service to those you love and who love you.

My Black Friday

On Black Friday we went to the Peace Fair at the Esperanza Peace and Justice Center. It was so crowded that I couldn't stay very long, the jostling crowds of people who were pressed up against me from all sides were just too much, but we did get a little shopping in. I bought two things. One I can't really discuss because it's a present and there's an off chance the recipient might see this. I'll just say that it's handmade and I talked to the person who made it. I told her who I wanted a gift for, what kinds of things that person liked, and where that person would use/display the item. Between the two of us, we settled on the best possible choice.

In the outdoor area, I was looking at knitted hats and beaded bracelets, and my partner V gravitated over to a young guy who had no customers at his stand. He was selling small paintings he had made. I went over, too, and the other three people we were with stopped by as well. V engaged him in talking about his art, and I asked her, "Would you like one of his paintings?"

She said yes, so I had her pick one out, and I bought it. It's a painting of an anthropomorphized moon, but it's not the usual Loteria card moon which makes it unusual. As we were finishing up the transaction, other customers started drifting up to see what was going on, so hopefully he made some more sales.

Both of these encounters were very satisfying and mutually positive experiences, so unlike what many people experienced at the malls and big box stores (if the news is to be believed). I like meeting the person who made an item, especially when it's a gift. I like buying local. And I like spending my money with an organization that is truly queer friendly. I visited a link off twitter this morning that took me to an article about supporting gay friendly businesses like Target on Black Friday. Well, I do go to Target and yes, they do have a better record than some other businesses. But at the same time, they had workers coming in on Thanksgiving Day to work which I disapprove of. In this economy, workers at stores like Target and Wal-Mart don't have a lot of choices - either work during holidays or lose your job. That's exploitation.

The Esperanza Center, however, has a long history of providing real, authentic support for the queer community, for women, for people of color, for working class people, for the poor, and for other marginalized communities.  I feel much better spending my symbolic Black Friday dollars there than I would've at Target.

I bought two more things on Black Friday, both of them bad but in service of good. I bought gas so I could drive to the hospital to see my mom (and dad). And when my dad texted me and told me the cafeteria was closed so all he had eaten was a candy bar and a Dr Pepper, I stopped at Whataburger and bought him a meal. Because he loves Whataburger and he was hungry and he needed some pampering. So those are both bad things in that they are bad for the Earth and the environment, but they were necessary and I don't feel guilty about them at all.

What did you buy?

My Heart Races

Last night as I was driving home from the hospital after dark, I got to the last busy intersection before you turn into the neighborhood where we live. As I sat at the light, I could see a small white spotted dog that was a bit portly walking around between the cars on the opposing side. The drivers were all honking (At him? At each other to warn each other, 'There's a little dog here - look out'? At oncoming traffic as we sat there in the dark waiting for the light to change?) and I watched the dog meander with growing concern. We have a slightly portly white spotted dog and, even though it didn't really look like him, I was suddenly seized with this wild fear that it was him. That the little dog had gotten out and was wandering the streets.

The turn light flashed green and I decided to drive home and see if he was in the yard before I went out and flung myself into traffic. Our house is a minute or so from this intersection, so I could be there quickly. I pulled into the driveway, hurriedly grabbed my bags and tissue box and laptop, and I rushed into the house and then out through the back door.

Even in the dark I could see his little white face looking at me through the fence. The other dog is pitch black so I had to get closer to see him, but he was there as well. They were safe and very excited to see me for the first time in two days. 

I could feel my heart racing.

In the hospital we sat in the room as the nurse gave my mom a sonogram, and we could hear her heart pumping, the noise filling up that small space and overwhelming all comforting conversation. I had listened with a mixture of dread and relief. A normal sounding heartbeat, not to be taken lightly since my dad had rushed her to the emergency room due to chest pains, but at the same time such a fragile sound.

My happiness in this world depends upon such fragile things.

On Tuesday my mom had cataract surgery. She had been dreading it because her first cataract surgery, several years ago, had resulted in a detached retina and much impaired vision in one eye. The surgery went well and she had a follow up appointment Wednesday. On Wednesday morning as I was prepping food for Thanksgiving, my dad called me to tell me they were at the hospital. He had taken her to get flowers after her appointment and she had complained of chest pains. She was at the Heart Hospital in the emergency room.

As a kid I always wondered how people knew what to do in family emergencies. My parents always seemed to just know how to handle midnight calls from hospitals and other shattering experiences. But I am discovering that you don't know - you just do the best you can and somehow get through it.

I am writing this from the great unknown. I am learning how to do this. My mom is hopefully going to get good news from the doctors today and will hopefully be able to go home. And I am adding a new layer of worries over the layers I always carry with me.

I Wear Black

My custom Converse

Because even though I wear mostly black (does anyone else remember that editorial about why we all wear black that was at the end of an issue of Spin magazine?), I do like bright colors and patterns and silly stuff like that. My closet is a sea of black, but the shoes are colorful; my sock drawer is a riot of patterns and colors, as is my underwear drawer.

I don't wear these shoes often because they're a pain in the ass to lace, but when I need cheering up they generally help.

Holiday travel

Picture from my great aunt's college yearbook

This is the first time in my entire life (I think) that I will not be making a long road trip for Thanksgiving. Up to this point, holidays were cut with the dread of making 3-6 hour car trips to a relative's house and then back home again at the end of the holiday. I enjoyed the holidays and I enjoyed seeing relatives and I miss them more than I can describe, but I am so happy that I don't have to make that trip anymore. Instead, I can spend the days bookending the holidays with my partner and the drive is a mere 30 minutes to my parents' house.