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.

A Few Things I've Learned From Zombie Movies

This weekend, I went to see World War Z and it blew my mind. I loved the book. The film was a real departure, but I still enjoyed it a lot. I’m a huge fan of the genre and I’ve spent hours talking to friends about what we would do if. (Especially when we watched the trailer for WWZ we saw last year. Between the squealing we may have laid bets over who would survive the longest.)

But, this post isn’t exactly about World War Z or those plans. It just got me thinking. And even though you think you know what I was thinking based on the title of this post, I can assure you, this has little to do with how to survive the apocalypse and everything to do with everyday life.

And we’re still not talking survival.

Zombies themselves have a lot to teach us about how we get through things, get ahead of things, get behind things.

First of all, and this was hugely important to my morning: How to get in.

Hey, Guys? Can someone let me in?
The weather out here's for shit.

What the “in” might be is variable. For me, I had a really hard time getting into the office suite this morning. And that’s part of where I had this particular revelation. As I was trying to turn the key in the door (and getting nowhere), I found myself banging my head against the glass. Much like the early zombies in World War Z, or the solitary zombie in so many other movies that the protagonist just doesn’t see on the other side of an unblocked window, sometimes you’ve just got to break through it with whatever means you have. A head is a very effective method. You have a bony plate there thanks to your early proto-human ancestors. Use it. Of course, the parasitic wriggle to get your body through the glass is just flair on the part of WWZ zombies. But, go with what works.

And, if banging your head doesn’t work, try this: Get help from your friends.


 



We are out of brains. Seriously. All we've got is a moldy cauliflower.
Come back tomorrow!

This may seem like a very Beatles reference, but you really do get by with a little help from your friends. Whether it be two or three or a full horde, sometimes it takes a number of us to overcome the barrier of what is going on in life. In the case of getting into my office, I didn’t need brute strength or overwhelming numbers, but a single person with a bit more finesse and finger dexterity helped. Also, I regularly forget my key, so this option is generally the one I usually look toward. A good friend with a key of their own and a sweet tooth is better than a good memory sometimes. As long as I remember to bring cake.

To a zombie, anything is surmountable.



We can do this, guys! It's just a wall!

There is no “when God closes a door....” When there is no door, a zombie just climbs the walls. Or, breaks them down. Whether resourcefulness or sheer stubbornness, they’ll get there, generally before you do and be lurking in the dark. Waiting. Like a creeper. Barring yourself in doesn’t help. They’ve got all the time in the world and even when they don’t, they use their heads or get help from friends. Believe me, there was a moment this morning I thought about breaking down the door. And, then I used my head. ;)

For something good, go the extra mile.

 



Have you tried the brains at this place? They're DELICIOUS!

I don’t know if you’ve seen Warm Bodies, (I thought it was HILARIOUS!) but this is a key lesson you can hear from the z-spective in why brains are awesome. And they must be awesome. In every movie you see them shambling mile after mile, never tiring, never stopping -- rarely decomposing -- all looking for one thing. Brains. If it means that much to you, be the zombie. Keep going. For me, there have been crazy things I have been willing to go an extra mile for as well as the more mundane. But, I thought it was worth it. So, whether that be a treat from your favorite bakery or that opening night ticket, that hard to find book or that friend that just lives a wee bit too far: shamble on, zombie. Shamble on. This morning? Breakfast. Most important meal of the day, people. Don’t get between me and that first meal. Or, any meal for that matter. You will get bitten.

There is never such a thing as too late or too early.

It's the weekend! Who left that alarm clock on???

You never know when zombies are coming, right? They’re just on the move. They’re on a mission and sometimes they may be dormant, but they’re still there. And they’ll keep coming. Day or night. Be there. My cat’s got this one down like a champ. He is there at three in the morning when I blearily stumble to the bathroom. He’s there at seven when I’m scrambling to get out the door for work. He’s there when I shamble through the door at night. When I’m home at noon with a head cold, he’s there. Regardless of time and schedules, he's there, demanding to be fed. I’m still working on that level of persistence myself. But, my boss assures me that someday I will also have that much focus on work. Even if it shakes my marriage. Four in the morning is never -- apparently -- too early for an email. Or, to look for a response. (Gad, I hate Monday Morning email checks. Maybe I should make it my mission to go looking for some coffee.)

I hope you have a good Monday and enjoy whatever it is that kicks you out of the coma. I’m going to get buckled into what I’ve got going on here, but maybe -- if you’re interested, and let me know in comments -- I might tell you more about what I’ve been learning from zombies of late.

In the meantime, shamble on.

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.