Them Kicks Is Like Buttah

There's nothing like a brand new pair of running shoes to motivate me to get off my ass. I started a new pair yesterday and the difference is amazing-- less impact in my knees and hips, more spring in my stride. It helps, too, that the weather has been crisp and sunny.

The National Marathon is this weekend, and while I won't be running in it, with my new shoes getting me out the door every day I won't feel like a total loser watching all the athletes zoom by.

Now if only new trainers didn't cost a hundred bucks...

Buckling Down

I know, I know, hearing about dreams is boring. But last night I actually dreamt that the partial manuscript of my novel was being workshopped! Many people in the class thought it was about religion (which it's not), and they even took a vote on whether I would finish it. (Just over half said yes.)

The stuff of nightmares.

It's time to get cracking.

Attack Cat

Since I don't have a regular table in my studio apartment, I eat all my meals on the couch. Usually if I eat cereal, my cats are all up in my grill, trying to get at the milk. About five feet from the couch is a window that I leave open most of the time, and just outside this window is a small tree (variety unknown though I would guess some sort of stunted maple) where various bird families hang out, mostly mourning doves and another smaller dull-brown bird. When the cats sit on the ledge by the window, the birds on the branches are only another two feet away through the screen.

The cats go nuts.

This morning, the birds were so distracting that the cats stopped paying attention to the cereal I was eating and instead crouched perfectly still, ears at attention, to watch the birds. And then like two possessed undead, their jaws began to twitch and they made soft clicking noises that attracted return calls from the birds.

The cats' mouths were moving super fast-- the first time I ever saw them do this, part of me wondered if it was a seizure symptom. It got to the point where one of the cats had to stop and rub his paw across his cheek, their mouths were clicking of their own accord for that long.

Can you imagine your natural hunting instincts just taking you over like that? Yes, I know, people's bodies react really strangely to fear and lust, etc. But what's happening to the cats is the equivalent of passing somebody hot on the street, stopping in your tracks and making strange grunting noises with the back of your throat, all without your control. In a way, that would be awesome-- not for the recipient, of course, but for you-- your body would express your desires whether you wanted it to or not, and just by expressing them, would likely achieve much more than we humans, with our innumerable fears and doubts, do on our own.

Just think if you could harness that power for job interviews, competitions, everyday decisions: so many people claim not to know what they really want, and even when they do know, they often neglect to go after their desires. If this were automatic and your body's reaction committed you to things, there would be a lot less deception, confusion and holding yourself back.

Then again, there would be a lot more embarrassment, too.

Cook-ie, Cook-ie!

Did you know that chocolate chip cookies weren't invented until circa 1935? Can you imagine living in this world without them? Sometimes when I feel miserable (such as when writing the novel seems slow and horrible, like coaxing a tapeworm out of my leg), I think about how lucky I am to live in the era of c.c.c. (the Triple C!).

Chocolate chip cookies = pure heavenly bliss.

It's the salt and the brown sugar that make them so damn good. I know because in the midst of extreme cravings, I have often made them without certain ingredients. All white sugar chocolate chip cookies just aren't the same.

I feel like there's some kind of cheesy lesson about the benefits of diversity in that. I'll let you parse it for yourself.

Things I'm A Sucker For (#1 out of 168)

I love books with notebook-paper covers. I don't mean that the cover is actually made of notebook paper. I just mean covers that incorporate the thin blue lines into the design.

The two that I have right now are Lorrie Moore's Birds of America and a book of writing excercises called Now Write! I thought I had more than this (at least five), but I think I'm remembering books from elementary school, specifically at least one Babysitter's Club book (perhaps the Babysitter's Club notebook, where you were supposed to record your own babysitting engagements?). I admit that many more books for children twelve and under have notebook-lined covers than do those aimed at adults.

But why?

As much as most people claim to have hated school, I bet that once they've been slaving away at a job full of drudgery for a certain number of years, the nostalgia alone would cause them to pick up the notebook-covered book. And it would work very well for self-help, where pretty much every title requires the reader to keep some sort of journal or list. Just looking at a sheet of blank notebook paper inspires the setting of new goals, the possibilities of a fresh start:


Maybe that's just the writer and list-maker in me.

Coming in at a close second to notebook-cover books are those with simulated handwriting on the cover. A good example is Vivian Gornick's The Situation and the Story. I think Possession might fall into this category as well. There seem to be many more adult books with handwriting on the cover than plain old notebook lines.

Warning: sometimes these can get a little sappy, especially if it's cursive writing meant to imply a love letter. They can also involve ironic, reminiscent bubble or pencil-drawn characters meant to evoke notes passed in high school (think the logo for the movie Juno).

Due to its ability to attract the immediate attention of anyone who went to school in the 80s or 90s (now kids just text), this technique is starting to become ubiquitous and therefore "played out."

Captain Chai

In the sober, well-intentioned 90s, a whole culture developed around coffee and coffee shops. At the same time, environmental consciousness increased throughout the country. A cartoon show called Captain Planet tapped into the latter trend. The five members on the Earth-saving team led by the eponymous captain represented different elements of life, each integral to a healthy, balanced planet: earth, fire, wind, water, and heart. In times of trouble, the teammates would chant their powers and then shout "With our powers combined..." The implication was that together, they could achieve anything.

Chai latte is awesome for the same reason that Captain Planet was awesome: it's a mixture of the three integral elements of life (caffeine, sugar, and milk), all in one hot mug.

It packs a punch, all right. The only other substance with a similar kapow is chocolate, but they serve different circumstances-- chai is helpful for times when you need energy, chocolate for when you're feeling more relaxed.

I only started drinking chai when consuming caffeine became integral to staying awake at my old office job. Chai latte was a beverage I could feel good paying for at a coffee shop since ostensibly it requires some talent on the part of the barista, unlike plain old tea.

This turned out to be a boon socially, as well. While I rarely used to visit coffee shops on my own, I found myself "stopping in really quick" with friends, practically all of whom consume multiple cups daily. Once I discovered chai, I didn't have to stand there empty handed while they sucked down their steaming beverages.

Now I'm addicted to the powerful burst of energy chai gives me. Sometimes I have to keep myself from whispering into my mug, "With our powers combined..."

The Years Do Roll On

Today I decided to put off writing by doing a little house-cleaning. I started with the basics: dishes, sink, toilet, laundry. Since I have to use coin-operated laundry machines, I decided to handwash some handwashables in the freshly cleaned bathroom sink. I pulled out my Woolite, and lo and behold it had turned a dark brown color, like Coke before it's carbonated.

Of course I poured it into the sink and washed my bras anyway, but the whole time I was calculating how long it had been since I last used Woolite. Not in this apartment, and not in the house I shared last year, so it must be from the house before, which puts us at 2006 at the latest. But likely 2005.

Then I considered that it could have been even earlier. I might have bought that bottle of Woolite when I lived in Manhattan (2003-04).

The deeper question underlying the discovery of my brown Woolite is this: Am I really old enough to have carried around a bottle of Woolite for four years, through at least as many moves? I mean "old" in the sense that I've been responsible enough to handwash my "delicates" and obtain the proper cleaning supplies to do so. I also mean "old" in the sense that I have become so immured in my things that when I move, I just take everything along without editing any of the contents. Either way, what does this bode for my future?

Only one thing is certain: when I leave this apartment in June, my boxes will be one bottle of molasses-colored goo lighter.

Daylight breaks.

Isn't it great when you wake up to all the Hollywood intimations of a good day: sun shining, birds chirping, eyes opening of their own accord? Not when you sit down to the computer to work on your soon-to-be Pulitzer-prize-winning novel only to discover a rejection email.

Emailed rejections leave so much less room for hope. I mean, at least with a slip of paper, you get to see whether they wrote a bit of encouragement or signed their initials, or, on the far end of the spectrum, bent the corner of the slip stuffing it into the envelope posthaste so they could get your crappy story out of their life.

An email reveals nothing.

Unless, of course, it is one of those ones where the editor gives you vague feedback that makes you feel almost worse than getting a form rejection. But then you feel almost worse than getting a form rejection.

The normal email rejection is quite coy, refusing to reveal whether it is sent to every poor schmuck that submits accounts of their dreams from the night before or only to the "next tier"-- those whose stories the journal actually took seriously for a second before some unknown factor made them frown, or yawn, or cringe. I've found myself searching through backlogs of emails for the previous rejection to compare the wording. And it's pretty much always the same.

Since it is much easier to click on an automated rejection email than to go in and type a few words directed to the individual, it makes sense to assume that fewer stories warrant an abberration from the form rejection. On paper, however, editors will sometimes scrawl their names, and occasionally even a quick "thanks!" Maybe this allows them to give more hope than is necessary, but I live off that hope like a vampire lives off of blood.

So far, the online submission format is leaving me anemic and thirsty.