365 days of being a writer: day 286

I can't really count this as a writing credit, but what started as a little joke between a few friends on my Facebook page got some press today, which was exciting.

Today was my first day to commute downtown. I will say that I got one of my three goals for the day done. And also, I need to rethink the evenings. It is hard to write here after work. There are usually two TVs going and a bunch of food. If I go straight to my room, I'm anti-social. If I don't, I lose steam.

I'll work on it. Tomorrow, I take the second of three steps toward getting my eyes fixed. Scary? You betcha. But also so so very exciting!

365 days of being a writer: day 285

I worked on what I hope is my final re-write of the hummingbird essay. As I was going through, I focused on making the connections between the separate sections a little less vague. I spelled a few things out, because I forget to do that often. I also sent a follow-up question to one of my sources, here's hoping she responds in time for me to submit this thing one last time before summer.

The following interlude has almost nothing to do with "being a writer": Since it still counted as birthday weekend, I took in what was left of my to-sell-books and a pile of to-sell-CDs and DVDs to a local record/bookstore. They gave me an incredible deal and I picked up two more books from my reading list, a couple that weren't (Short Cuts, Dubliners, and The Road) and several movies (Short Cuts, Blade Runner, Run, Lola, Run, Ghost Dog, Life Aquatic and The Squid and The Whale). Who wants to come over and talk about short stories and watch movies?

Even though today was technically a holiday, I still got in a walk, did a Spanish lesson, and worked on my writing to-do list for at least 45 minutes. Let's call that WINNING.

365 days of being a writer: day 284

Happy Birthday to me!

I spent the afternoon at a bookstore: found a book by my one of next year's professors, and one by next year's visiting essayist. I also grabbed a disappointing magazine and a journal I want to get into at some point.

The disappointing magazine will remain nameless, but it is a "writer's magazine"--and yet, it is so full of vapid, basic advice (such as, 'need a market for your writing? try researching!') and with such a focus on marketing that it sort of breaks my heart.

And yet, how can I be ready to make this my career if I am not willing to accept that there is hustling and sales involved? That's sort of how art school killed being an artist for me. I really want the work to speak for itself. Is that unrealistic?

365 days of being a writer: day 283

The apartment is clean, the keys are handed in to the landlord. I don't live downtown any more. I was sad yesterday and couldn't sleep. It was a good little apartment, and a nice enough neighborhood. Already, I miss my commute, the coffee shops, at least one of the nearby neighbors.

I sat down tonight and wrote myself a cheesy letter. I will be turning 38 in the morning, or in a half an hour. I congratulated myself, gave myself some homework for the next month. Here's a summary:

* I gave myself permission to cut the Demand articles for the next month.
* Instead, each weekday morning, I will go on a 30 minute run/walk.
* Each evening, after work, I will come home and write for 45 minutes
* After writing, I will do 30 minutes of Spanish homework
* Weekends are free.

I'm trying this for a month, because living at my parents house can be like a writing retreat (granted, with a job in the middle of each day, but that's for the money--making the debt disappear).

This kind of structure has worked for me before, I think it can again. I'll let you know in a month.

365 days of being a writer: day 282

All day, loading a truck with too few people, then unloading it. Then loading it, then unloading it.

I feel like I am a terrible writer for not making the time to write today or yesterday. But I suppose I'll go with Tired Writer and try to do better tomorrow.



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365 days of being a writer: day 281

Everything was packed and the only thing written was a long rambling poem across a dozen boxes.

Boots & Coats
Bunch of Random SHIT
Immediate
MISC
Halloween and Kitchen and Tools
Sewing
Stuff from Bedroom
&c, &c

Tomorrow, we ride (across town)


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365 days of being a writer: day 280

No post last night as I packed up almost everything but the kitchen sink.

There are things I don't need that I can't let go of: an old box of pictures, an old box of drawings and paintings from art school, old boxes of little art works. Letters from you and me. Remember letters? I kept most of them. They are crammed in an old card catalog box. There's that box of old diaries and that book I painted all over when I had my first ever show at a gallery. Alex Lilly drew a steak in it and I was so happy.

I also hate to throw away utilitarian objects: rubber bands, twist-ties, paper clips. How much time has been wasted hunting for a paperclip to finalize that submission? Or a rubber band to loop-suture one thing against another?

I still need to pack my clothes and bathroom and there is a box worth of stragglers in the kitchen.

These are the things I will have for the next two months:

• Spanish books
• Giant thesaurus and some grammar/style books
• Reading list books
• Fibery works-in-progress: two sweaters, a pair of socks, arm warmers for a friend, shawl, and afghan
• Running/yoga gear: heart rate monitor, night light, visor, belt with pocket, mat
• Laptop, external drive, mouse
• Two notebooks
• Clothes, jewelry, toiletries

Those are really all the things I need ever, right? So what's with the ten million other boxes? How the hell did I fit 8 boxes of kitchen stuff into the world's smallest kitchen?

How can I ever let go of all those pictures, letters, paintings? Should I?