Living Alone is a Skill

I was knocking around the Internet the other day and I found this quote from Elizabeth May’s Tumblr:

“Living alone is a skill, like running long distance or programming old computers. You have to know parameters, protocols. You have to learn them so well they become like a language: to have music always so that the silence doesn’t overwhelm you, to perform your work exquisitely well so that your time is filled. You have to allow yourself to open up until you are the exact size of the place you live, no more, or else you get restless. No less, or else you drown. There are rules; there are ways of being and not being.”

It’s from Palimpsest by Catherynne Valente. And every word of it is true. Painfully, gloriously true.

I live alone.  I love where I live and how I live. But it isn’t always easy, and there are times when I do have to work at it. There are times when I feel myself opening up larger than the place I inhabit; it’s a small apartment, and this isn’t hard. I feel myself getting restless, impatient for the next thing, whatever that is.

I fill my life with projects. Acting projects, writing projects. I never have a second that isn’t full of purpose, unless I want one. I’m never at a loss for things to do. This is a coping mechanism, sure. But it feels right. I wouldn’t replace it with a home centered around kids, a husband, family. That doesn’t change the fact that I love my family more than anything, or that I want a husband someday. But right now, my life is all about me: my own ambitions, my own dreams. I love it like that. I’m not the self-sacrificing type.

There are times when I wake up and it’s too quiet and I have to have NPR on. But there are other times when I’m coming back from a busy night out, and stepping through the door into my empty apartment is like slipping into a warm bath. It’s liberating and comforting at the same time. This place is my shelter, small as it’s becoming, and it’s mine.

Summer in New York: On Books and Babies

I love it. 

I love the heat. I love walking down the street in a tank top or a sundress, feeling the sun on my skin, feeling sweaty just walking up the subway stairs. I love Sangria at a sidewalk table, rooftop barbecues, and lazing around in the park. I love how the stifling heat of my apartment makes me want to get outside—rather than be a hermit and escape the cold.

This summer has been especially great for me because I’m thiiiiiis close to having my novel ready for agents. Another two weeks to a month should do it—and I couldn’t be happier. This is a huge change from a month ago, when I felt like I could never write anything anyone would want to read, had zero talent or ability, and should really just give it all up and crawl in a hole somewhere. I was in a seriously dark place.

My sister in law just gave birth, and I went up to visit the baby for a week. The whole time, I watched her and my brother take care of their beautiful new baby boy—feed him, rock him, read to him, and keep him happy every minute of the day, including late into the night. 

Now, I'm sure people who have actually been parents will roll their eyes to hear me say this--and tell me that writing a book is nowhere near as hard as taking care of a child. But I couldn't help being reminded of what that process was like for me when I was in the last throes of getting my book from messy wreck of a draft to something readable.   I cut out everything else in my life. I stopped going out. I stopped acting. All there was in my life was my novel, and paying the rent. I barely had time to shower.

I’ve written before about how my biological clock is attuned to cats. (I really, really want a kitten. Two kittens, actually. Maybe five.) I haven’t written seriously about how I don’t want to be a parent. But maybe that feeling in me isn’t as simple as negating something. Maybe it’s just that I’ve chosen another kind of parenthood. The kind that’s more about books than babies.This isn't to say that I think you can't be both. There are probably lots of people out there who balance it beautifully. I'm just pretty sure I wouldn't be one of them. 

I love my nephew, and I can’t wait to watch him grow up. I feel a little more relaxed around kids—my brother says I just need practice. I still feel solid and sure about my decision not to have kids. But I've come to see this as choosing a different kind of parenthood.  Some people are just creatively fertile. I hope I turn out to be one of them.

My Biological Clock

A little while ago I posted something on Twitter to the effect of this:

My biological clock is dysfunctional. It's making me long for a kitten. #BiologicalClock
— Jenny Williamson (@TheGenuineJenny) May 2, 2013

Yes, I meant it as a joke. At the time. But it’s actually true. My sister got a new kitten (ADORBS!!):

...And all I could think of was having a cat. I want a cuddly little warm body snuggled up next to me while I type. I want a purring little animal keeping my feet warm at night. I want the unconditional love and adorableness that only a cat can provide.

I never really wanted kids. Throughout my twenties, people always told me I’d change my mind. So far that hasn’t happened, and it’s getting to the point where if I was going to change my mind, it better be soon. 

But I did want cats. At least five. I wanted to have a mother cat and all the kittens. Some people pity crazy cat ladies; I always wanted to be one. It's not true my biological clock is broken. It's just attuned to non-human babies.

But I look at my life now, and it’s not set up for cats. For one reason, I travel too much. Like right now, while you’re reading this, I’m in New Zealand with my boyfriend—a guy who lives in Europe and gives me a great excuse to get out of town. A cat can be left alone for a week or so, but I couldn’t leave one for weeks or even months at a time.

Even if I didn’t travel so much, though, I don’t know that I would be able to have a cat. My apartment’s too small. There’s no good place for litter. And with rent costing what it does in New York, my life would have to seriously change—I’d have to either make a ton more money or decide to move out of the city—before I’d be able to move to a bigger place.

So for now, I’ll just have to live vicariously through Angel. Angel: this is my request for more Hobbes pictures up on the PostcardProject. I’ll get my own someday, but for now, I’m going to just pretend he’s my baby.

"So, What's Your Novel About?"

So the other day I was in a café. Quietly working along, digging into some revisions. There’s a guy, sitting at a table a little behind me. I turn around, thinking to stand up and go get a refill on my coffee, and I catch him looking over my shoulder, reading my novel.

He piped up. “Whatcha writing?”

Me: “Um. A story.” 

Him:  “Is it a short story or a novel?” (He tried to look around me at my laptop screen again.)

Me: “A novel.” 

Him: “Wow, that’s cool! What’s it about?”

I managed to mutter something about how I didn't really want to talk about it before scurrying away to another table. And to be fair, this guy was clearly not picking up on my cues. I was obviously very uncomfortable, and he kept pressing on. Not to mention he kept peeking at my laptop screen--I can't be the only person who thinks this is akin to casually standing under a stairway so you can peek up women's skirts. You don't go around peering at people's private stuff.

But atill, I was awkward. And I'm not really that socially awkward in general (although I definitely have my moments.) And I'm not reluctant to talk about my book to the right audience. I chat happily away about it in groups full of other writers and genre fiction fans--safe audiences. And I have a great elevator pitch. If called upon to talk about my book to an agent or a publisher, I would have no problem.

But I kind of have to know you're a safe audience before telling you the details. And knowing you're "safe" has nothing to do with trusting you or being close to you. It's more about knowing you're into that kind of thing. People who  aren't into fantasy or romance themselves typically don't question me about my plot beyond my most general answer. But sometimes they do. And it makes me extremely uncomfortable. I would say I don't know why--but I do. It's because when I do go into it in detail, sometimes the response goes something like this:

“Oh, you write fantasy? You mean like Twilight? I hated that movie.”

“Oh, you write romance? I heard there’s a formula every romance writer uses and all the books are pretty much exactly the same. Hell, my five-year-old niece could probably write a romance novel.”

“Oh, you write fantasy? You mean like elves and vampires and wizards and shit?” [Rolls eyes]

“Oh, you write romance? There’s no money in romance. You should follow me and my friends around and write a book about us. We’re hilarious. Here, allow me to launch into this long-winded and boring story to prove it....”

“Oh, you write romance and fantasy? Why don’t you write a real book? Like Truman Capote or J.D. Salinger.”

“Oh, you write novels? What have you written that I’ve read?…Oh, sorry, your stuff isn’t published yet? I thought you said you were a writer.”

Granted, these are exaggerations. Much of these types of responses are conveyed in undertone, not in overt words. But you’d be surprised at how insensitive some people can be—and how sensitive some writers can be about our work. At any rate, I have to come up with a better response to this question--one that allows me to deflect this question gracefully. Any suggestions are welcome.

Spring Is Here!

There's this movie, Limitless, with Bradley Cooper. The premise is that there's this pill that makes you smarter--not just book-smarts, either, but smarter in all areas of your life--in your relationships, in your work, in everything, you become a genius. In the movie, Bradley Cooper's character takes the pill and sits down to finish in a week a book he'd been working on for years, seduces his arch-nemesis with his amazing people skills, and gets rich through some kind of stock-market wizardry. There's some nonsense with organized crime and murder, but the point--the POINT--is that there could be this amazing pill that transforms you into the person you always wanted to be--the person you've kept trying and failing to be this whole time.

Say what you will about the movie itself--that is a compelling concept.

I have been in a bit of a #dark place lately. Mainly, it has to do with the editing process. I'm working hard to get my first novel into shape. In the past three months since Christmas, I felt like I had been trying to write novels all my life and felt so frustrated I wasn't better, stronger, smarter, and more-- more everything by now. I just kept feeling like I was hurling myself against the limits of my own talent and coming off bruised and battered.

I've never been that interested in drugs. But I would totally get addicted to the Limitless pill. I would move mountains, cut off limbs, sell my soul, whatever is required, to get my hands on some. I would even take a few awesome years of genius followed by decline. I would do it. Just so I could stop disappointing myself, at least for a while.

But spring is here--or at least it's starting, slowly, to feel like it. And I've been starting to come out of my dark place. At Genn's behest, I wrote an outline of my book as it stands now--and feel a renewed sense of purpose. I'm starting to see where the weak points are and specific things I can fix. And things are starting to look possible again. Even big, audacious goals. 

So welcome, Spring. I hope with you here, things will get better. I feel life improving already.

When He's Gone

I’m in a long-distance relationship. My boyfriend is French, and I live in New York. For the past three months, he’s been staying with me at my place. On Monday—the day this post will go live—he’ll go back to Europe.

This isn’t a post I could write on the day it’ll get published. So I’m writing this on the Saturday before he leaves, in a quiet second-floor café in Williamsburg, with the snow coming down outside. He’s sitting across from me, working on his own book (we’re both writers).

There is something incredibly sweet about being with someone, each of us engrossed in our own projects, but fundamentally together. I love being able to look up at him and share a smile over laptop screens. I love watching him absorbed in his work, and looking up to see he’s been watching me.

I know that today will go fast and Sunday will go faster and then, by the time this is published, he’ll be gone. I wish I could slow this moment down. I wish time was malleable and I could stretch it out right here, where I want to stay—in this warm place, in this unremarkable, perfect moment. 

 My boyfriend and I have been together for several years. We see each other for a few months at a time, and often we meet in far-flung locations. When he’s not here, I live by myself and set my own rules, and I love it. Our relationship isn’t conventional, but for us, it’s worked. Still, there are times when I wish that whenever we were together, I wasn’t so aware of how precious our time is, and how little we have.

When he goes, I’ll be fine. I’ll hang out with my friends in New York and I’ll Skype with my friends in other cities and I’ll throw myself into my work. I’ll buy some new shoes I don’t need and get a haircut and remember again how to relish the feeling of coming home to an empty apartment at the end of a busy day. I know how to make myself happy on my own—something I think of as a hard-won secret superpower—and I think that makes me better able to love others. But being able to live happily on my own doesn’t mean I’ll always want to, or that I won’t miss him terribly.