I Would(n’t) die 4 U

Wish u were here.

The last couple weeks have been tumultuous around here. Not that Prince’s death affected me directly, but his life did. Around Minnesota, the unexpected death of Prince Rogers Nelson has been a sucker punch to many of us, no matter what level of fan. So we grieve collectively as a state. Yeah, it felt personal. I felt like I lost a friend. I can’t tell you how many times and places I’ve walked where Prince walked. I’ve been where Prince has been.

Pouring my heart and soul about my feelings on social media shines a light on an otherwise dark aspect of my life right now. It has been eye opening to the many dysfunctional relationships I have going on in my life. I find that as I get older I have less tolerance for some and more empathy for others.

So what strengthens a relationship and what breaks it? Is it, living through a series of tragedies? That depends on the type of tragedy and at what point it happened. Some tragedies bring some people closer, while others tear people apart.

When my mom died, I dipped my toe into the murky pool, testing the waters of whether I could find any connection with my remaining parent. Well, that question was answered quickly. Right away, my father made it clear that this was HIS loss, and that nobody else mattered, nobody else’s feelings mattered diddly squat, that was a fact. So I made a hasty retreat, learning at the tender age of 14 (my birthday was 2 weeks before my mom died), that I had to be very careful about who I trusted. Sure I had insecure thoughts, too. When he said, “Your mother CHOSE me, while you were just an ACCIDENT”, I learned to consider the source. Then I learned a lot more. Like, for instance, this is how Narcissistic Abusers talk to everyone. It’s not me. But, the lesson of being CAREFUL of who I trust, stayed with me.

A narc parent wants their child to stay in their preconceived role. For instance, when I was growing up my father wouldn’t let me listen to any music that he didn’t approve! That meant when I first heard Prince’s music, in the early 80’s, I had to keep it a secret. Like it or not, now, if my dad wants to be friends on social media, I will post my musical tastes, my religious tastes, political opinions, out there for him and everyone to see. Narcs hate this. Because they want you to eat what they eat, listen to what they listen to, like what they like, vote for their candidate, and go to their church.

To cope with the grief of losing my mom, it was Prince’s music that helped me through. I watched the movie Purple Rain over and over. Here was a man, who had overcome a painful past. He played a pivotal role in my healing, more than anyone I knew in real life.

The way my father scolded me, and lashed out when I played piano, suddenly I froze. I couldn’t play piano any more. I played jazz, ragtime, I was good, but my dad was jealous, or didn’t approve, I’m not sure what, but, after a while I was afraid to play.

In some ways your parent is your finest influence, but after a while, the parent has to let the child find his own views, likes and dislikes, and let the child tell parent about their views, or at least honor that the child is NOT an extension of them, that the child will make their own opinions.

Whenever I can get together with my son and hear his thoughts and opinions, which he feels free to express, I feel enriched. He is free to express himself without fear of rejection or condemnation. Just yesterday we spent the day together, which, I want to spend my last few days of freedom with friends and family who I am close to before I start my job. I felt so fortunate to hear my son’s opinions on the upcoming election, the current music he’s listening to, his favorite tv shows, and all the other things… sure he needs a lot of help right now. He’s not quite independent, he’s in this awkward stage between child and adult. I remember too well when I was at that age. It was a struggle, and then my narcissistic parent, and my sibling, decided to make it worse for me. I don’t think my brother did what he did on purpose, but he basically drove me batshit crazy. You could also say my NF didn’t do what he did “on purpose”, because I don’t think narcissists have an ounce of self-awareness.

In my junior year of college, while living at home, I met an exciting guy, who convinced me to move in with him, into an apartment in Minneapolis, where we lived among a collection of Minnesota musicians. It would have been a wonderful chapter in my history, if 2 things didn’t happen. One, my new boyfriend, turned out to also be a narcissist, who physically and emotionally abused me. The second, my NF viewed it as a time to “punish” me… this is what narcissists do, by the way, whenever you do something they don’t approve of. Which, this was the motherlode of doing something my family wouldn’t approve of. It would have been different if I had some tools to work with, but as it was, I never knew if I was the “accident” my father had mentioned, and I didn’t quite understand Golden Child vs. Scapegoat Child yet, but I was definitely being treated as the SG child at the time, so who wouldn’t want to get away? My dreamy new musician bf seduced me with promises of escape, glamorous escape. The sad part, I wasn’t making an escape. I was digging myself into a pit. I would say I was digging myself a grave, but it wasn’t a grave, I didn’t die. I just kept shoveling. It looked, on all outside appearances, as if I were on some great adventure.

The Minneapolis experience was symbolized by what happened in August of 1991, when we were carting musicians back and forth to recording studios in Paisley Park. I watched in horror through the window, as the drummer loaded the drums in the hatchback of my 1980 Honda Civic wagon, slammed the hatch down on his drum kit, shattering my window. I could see from my vantage point, the look of despair cross his face. But then, what he did next, was despicable, he didn’t take responsibility, he just denied he had anything to do with it! I said, I watched you, I saw you do it! I took them to Paisley Park again, and I enjoyed snooping around, and hanging out in a recording studio (I always secretly wished I was a musician), but then, my relationship was always tainted because no one helped pay for the window. I was a broke student, my wonderful exciting bf decided he was too special to find a job like a muggle. And my NF? He, more than anybody else, did what he could to make sure I was so deep in debt that I would practically never see the light of day.

Maybe what it symbolized if I analyzed it, here I was surrounded by all this wealth and talent, and I was sidelining myself, not respecting or believing in myself.  It wasn’t okay to sponge off me, and it wasn’t okay to be a doormat, and nobody could help me but myself. There was no magic ticket out of here. There was not a Prince to whisk me away.

In his music, Prince tried to champion women’s strength. So in the spirit of the song  Pussy Control, I finished my degree, I got a high paying job, and I told all the losers to kiss my ass.

Of course that’s not what they wanted to hear. Since I was no longer a doormat, I don’t bow to status quo, I freely express my opinions, I don’t give what I used to, I’m nobody’s ATM and I’m nobody’s fool, they all seem to suddenly hate my guts (haters). They only want you to be their version of what they’re comfortable with. So now, as I pour out my love for all to see, making tributes to my favorite Minneapolis icon, I feel the seething anger of my haters in the background, the narcissists, who tepidly comment and “like” my posts, but on the inside, wish I had fallen into that hole I dug. If they could have kicked me harder in the back, it would have been an easy grave. Too bad, you missed.

 

 

 

I no longer try to fit in

 

Mysteries have always fascinated me. Okay, if I go way back, first, it was the Ouija board. Followed by, horoscopes. Religion. Coincidence. Personality tests. Mixed in there somewhere was our relationships with food and nature. It feels like I am constantly peeling back layers. Even though I may stay in one spot for many days, I am on a path of constant discovery. Constant change. People fascinate me. They either say interesting things that make me think, or they say angry things without thought. The interesting ones, they either say things from a perspective I never would have thought of, or, they turn out to be a kindred spirit.

I’ve always felt like I was on a quest, but lately, new information has helped me in ways I never knew. First, a series of painful events happened. My husband had a stroke. One of our business partners embezzled from our company.  The Economy collapsed. Our insurance policy decided my husband’s stroke was a “pre-existing condition”. Some kids broke in to our house and robbed us. It seemed like we were getting kicked when we were down. We were broke, homeless, but not broken.

During this time of adversity, my best side came out. I was able to shed a lot of nonsense and focus on what was really important. Misfortune wasn’t done with me yet. At the same time I was experiencing excellent growth, I had two blows happen to me, that were so harsh, I didn’t think I was going to make it. Both of them had to do with jobs and betrayal. I knew I still had a long way to go. And maybe another harsh blow is right around the corner, again, who knows. That’s how it goes, life isn’t about having things always go your way, it’s about how you deal with it. Your toolbox. One of the things I touched on in my last blog, was how I am now learning to listen to my inner voice, more importantly, to TRUST my intuition. When you’re a child of a narcissistic abuser your ability to trust — especially yourself, is damaged. I searched a long time for a figure who would lead me down the right path. I love my husband to pieces but I was depending on him way too much. He had a stroke one year after we got married. Going “back” to work? My profession was in shambles. For one thing, I was a freelance artist. I had no work to go back to. I was never really employed at any one place for any length of time. All my former contacts, were tightening their budgets, or going into retirement. There wasn’t any work. There wasn’t any money. It seemed like there wasn’t any hope.

I decided to switch careers. While taking nurses training I worked at a few different places, at an office, or doing home health care. I knew I didn’t want to be a nurse. But not for the reasons most people think. I was hired at the school district office, by my “friend”. The best part of the job was that we all had to take what they called “Personality Training.” I found out I am an INFJ. I also learned, NEVER WORK FOR FRIENDS! lol. It’s like, all of these things are important, they help you deal with LIFE!

After that, I returned to painting. I am still convinced I can make a living with art. I believe anything is possible …

 

Myers-Briggs personality test: http://www.lifescript.com/well-being/articles/d/discover_your_true_self_with_the_myers-briggs_personality_test.aspx?utm_source=bing&utm_campaign=Connect+26+-+SEARCH&utm_content=0%3E10685%3EDiscover+Your+True+Self+With+The+Myers-Briggs+Personality+Test&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=myers+%26+briggs+personality+test&ef_id=Vfm2zAAAAS2x-Blp:20160407015945:s

 

A Solitary Practice

Few professions are as lonely as the creative, whether it’s painting, writing, or something else. Some of us do better with solitude, but it can be awful if it goes on too long. That is, writing is solitary – until the book signing. Art is solitary – until the gallery opening. For some introverts, socializing can be very draining.

Years ago I took a pottery class at the local arts center. I did pretty well. Balancing work, family and social life is hard for me, so it was nice to have a scheduled block of time dedicated to my craft. For the most part, while I like to socialize, I am mostly an introvert. Too many people around wears me out. The pottery class was mellow. My fellow classmates included retired people, a blind woman, and two gentlemen from a group home. The teacher showed me how to steady myself to keep the pot centered on the wheel, a skill that had eluded me in previous experience. I considered it worth the price of admission. My husband, saying he didn’t want to spend the $100 per month fee, bought me a pottery wheel and some supplies (ranging several hundred dollars). I never threw another pot again.

Classes are usually a great venue to get yourself motivated, to get out of a rut. Whether it’s art, or exercise. It’s much easier if you have accountability, at least to start with. Then, it’s up to you to keep up the momentum. After I set up my wheel and everything in the basement, my friendly neighbor asked, “Whatcha doin?”

“I’m having Pottery Friday.”

“Pot Friday?” she joked. I was tempted by her invitations to day drink and dish.

We were new to the neighborhood. My other female friendships weren’t in sync with my lifestyle. They were busy working full time, having babies, or both.

So, because I was leading a solitary life, I took her up on the invitation. I craved connection. At least two fatal mistakes were made: One, of not rescheduling my Pottery Friday, to say, a Pottery Monday or Tuesday. Which, in hindsight, is what I should have done. Two, I got in to the nowhere-rut of drinking with friends, and for me, not everybody, but in my case, drinking like that … kills my motivation every single time.

I won’t get in to all the details of what happened next but eventually we found ourselves moving out into the country. Turns out my husband is not a city person.

Imagine if you found out your favorite watercolor artist, the most famous artist in your state (in my case, Minnesota), was holding a workshop AT HER HOUSE. It was one of those rare moments where you know as it is happening, that this is the best thing you have ever done in your life. You didn’t have to wait to look back on it in hindsight. You knew right away, while it was happening, how special it was.

No surprise, the workshop was attended by retired ladies, or older housewives, who were members of a very elite watercolor society. Their watercolors were very feminine and precise, flowery. Not me. In contrast, I’d done commercial art and lowbrow. Fortunately, the artist teaching the workshop is not a fussy painter either, she is bold, captivating, and exciting. She paints opaque, and layers the shit out of everything. She breaks all the rules.

After that workshop, I kept up the momentum for a long time, painting every single day.

Over my many blogs I talk about friendship a lot, because most of the time I feel so out of place. What becomes clear are some themes, which, after experience you can see them for what they are. Are you doing what you need to do? Is your gift and talent special, does everybody have it? Is (the friendship) in your best interest overall or best interest right now? You might be like me, you take your artistic ability for granted sometimes. Not everybody has it, or is interested in, making pottery, or writing poetry. Finding that balance can be elusive. Not every poetry reading will recharge your batteries. Not every friend –artist or otherwise– is good for you to hang with. Friendships change over time, sometimes by the silliest things.

A friend of mine who is a glassblower, holds glass blowing parties. Another friend of mine, has people over to make ceramics. Art doesn’t always have to be a solitary experience. See, when you go over to their studios, there is creativity and productivity going on. In my case, I was drawn away from my studio, into the social world, where the non-creative friends, the muggles, wanted to be, doing what they wanted to do.

That still goes on every once in a while, to a certain degree. Not only from my friends, but my support staff — my husband, for instance. He probably pulled the plug too soon on the pottery classes. I wasn’t READY to do it myself on my own in the solitude of my windowless basement. I should have followed my instincts instead of listening to him. I don’t know how long it is going to take for me to just pay attention to my instincts. For the past few days I’ve been trying to blog about my experiences writing and illustrating children’s books and the distractions that come up. Mostly I sabotaged myself in moments of loneliness, when I was weak, so I am working on that. I am still that lump of clay sitting next to the wheel in the basement. I am still in work in progress. I’m trying to tame the beast. While the owl is a solitary bird most of the time, they do alright. In a select social circle of like-minded owls.

And then, she panicked

After my grandmother passed away it dawned on me, that I had to get my book done asap. No matter what. To motivate myself I had to conjure up every cliche’ I’d ever heard, waking up, repeating it like a mantra, pushing myself like my life was at stake! Demanding that I make time for it. Scheduling my days, clearing out my mind.

I mentioned my grandmother in earlier blogs, not only was the one who encouraged me to write a children’s book, but also, I had been helping my dad take care of her as needed, but that this was taking a toll, probably on both of us. She was quite elderly, and needed a lot of personal care.

Then our family had its biggest shock, ever.

My uncle, 10 years younger than my dad, was worried about my dad’s health. After all, he’d been caring for his mother for 15 years. Sometimes, after the person dies, the caregiver suffers a bit more than grief, sometimes they get ill, or even die. None of us expected what happened next. I certainly didn’t see it coming.

My uncle was the one who passed away.

He hadn’t even been the main caregiver, but he was providing my dad with emotional support. My dad called him almost every day. My uncle, who was a sensitive person, had been carrying a psychic burden for many things, not just my grandmother’s illness, but it went unchecked. My dad had been doing all the work of being a caregiver, but my uncle was unduly taking on the stress. And … stress will kill you.

I had always sent samples of my work to my uncle for critique. He was the witty creative one in the family. He said he was working on a travel blog, but he hadn’t gotten very far. He even went so far as to hire me to make illustrations. The news that he had passed sent waves of pure shock and disbelief through our family.

I rushed to get the book done. I published it in March, 2015. It was met with a small, but warm reception. Of course, that was when it dawned on me, all of the things that I hadn’t thought about. Or, I had thought about, but the reality of actually having to do it was different from only thinking about the possibility. I only had enough money to publish a few, then I expected if people wanted them, they would have to order them from Amazon, but that was expensive. In my haste, I had not thought through all the details of post-publishing. If I had been published traditionally, they would have sent me on a book tour, doing self-promotion, and they would have printed many copies.

Then, I received the “snarky” remarks from social media. People, who called themselves friends, wanted a free book. They asked when and where my book signing was going to be. I did raise funds, publish a quantity, and I held a very lovely book signing party (which I’ll describe later), and you know what? None of those people came. Don’t get me wrong, it was still a success! People came to my book signing. Just, not the snarky ones.

People came out of the woodwork. After you publish a book everyone will tell you their book idea, or tell you that THEY wrote a children’s book too.

When people found out I wrote and illustrated a children’s book, people would get real interested, for instance, the friends and not-so-friends who wanted me to illustrate their children’s books for free. The next few months became a codependents nightmare. Some people just would not hear No for an answer, and it cost me some friendships.

I thought of my uncle every day, and the regret I have is that he didn’t live to see it completed. Whatever your reason for writing a book, stay true to yourself, and do it for the right reasons.

 

The AWP Minneapolis Conference 2015 (in a nutshell)

If I had the last few days to do over again, here is what I would do differently, but this was my first time, so here are some highlights.

The 2015 Minneapolis AWP convention really began Thursday April 9. There were a few things on the schedule for Wednesday, like registration, setting up the book fair, and an awards ceremony for publishers. On the previous Sunday, the St. Paul Pioneer Press had devoted a page to all of the off-site activities, and it seemed there were as many off-site activities as on-site. If I had it all to do over again, I wouldn’t have had a bad cold!

I read the entire schedule and picked out my seminars. I had a few moments of serendipity, when you feel like the stars align just for you. The first, was when I chose what sessions I was going to, and added them to my schedule, I did this on my laptop. Then, I downloaded the App to my android phone. I logged in through google plus. At first my choices did not appear on the app and I had one of these oh-no moments when I realized I would have to re-add them manually, but then, when I sat down to do this, my schedule appeared! I read in the facebook thread that nobody else was able to get this to work, and that actually someone from AWP said that if you choose your schedule on your computer it will NOT appear on your app, which is counter-intuitive to me. Why not? It’s your account. There were doubters, who disbelieved me. I said, really, it happened. You can ask my patient husband who was sitting right there next to me when it happened.

The second, was, I saw the name of one of my teachers from 5 years ago appear over and over in the schedule. The fact I’d remember his name after 5 years is amazing enough! He was my favorite creative writing teacher, and taught me how to write prose (I’m still in the toddler stages!).

I arrived later than planned on Wednesday, I knew of two off-site events, one was a short story slam at Brit’s Pub and another was going to be an event with my former teacher I just mentioned. Registration was a process where you would approach a computer and print your badge. The girl next to me gave a very self-satisfied grumph when she printed hers out in half the time it took me. We were given a book bag filled with materials and that was it.

I stayed at my aunt and uncle’s place about 10 miles away. Much more convenient than the 60 mile drive back home. While I was going to attempt hitting some off-site action, my aunt texted me, asking if I was going to join them for dinner. Since I had mentioned, a few times, that I would just be staying over, but not be around for dinner, her question became more along the “I’m your aunt, I miss you, I am not asking I am telling.” And since I was a little under the weather anyways, I decided to give myself over to a childlike role & bask in the wonderfulness that is my family.

My aunt lives in this fantastic house. I hope to write about that one day. It does serve as the setting for Nuts to Al, in a vaguely-specific way, but there is so much more to this place, you would have to see to believe. It isn’t on the scale of, say, The House On The Rock, which is gargantuan, gaudy, and goes on for miles, but it might be a teeny-scale version of one of these major attractions, like, say, even the Winchester house. I would say, it would take a few more add-ons to be that much of a museum, but you get the picture. I always think of them like my own Addams family. I was given the room that has its own bathroom. It felt like I was staying in a hotel. Their entire house is decorated in the mid-century modern style. In a future blog I will take pictures and post them for the lovers of mid-century modern style. In this room she has displayed all her favorite paintings. The bathroom is decorated with metallic bamboo wallpaper. The shower wall has a metallic gold sailboat scene, much like the skirt I’m wearing (Above). I picked up that skirt in a high-end consignment shop in St. Paul. It is French. I absolutely love thrift stores.

The first night I slept like crap because, let’s face it, who sleeps well in a strange bed? I got up early and headed to Minneapolis. Day one: Thursday, of course, hitting rush-hour traffic, and some kind of gross rain-snow mix? Glad I don’t drive that every day.

Because I ran through the route the day before you’d think I would know what I was doing? Not so. I had to drive around and around, one-ways, and one-ways before finding the entrance to the ramp.

Thursday, I texted my friend Elissa right away, while standing in line at the Dunn Brothers. In the convention center, there was a Dunn Brothers, a little Greek snack bar, a couple of vending machines. The food vendor, the Mill City Grill, has the basic convention schlock: cardboard burgers, limp fries, dry chicken sandwiches, hot dogs (what can I say), and soggy pretzels. There were a few places called a bar and lounge where alcohol was served but I was not feeling up to that.

Anyways, the lines for everything were LOOOONG, and I kept wondering why don’t they let any food trucks sit outside, or why weren’t there food trucks, maybe it wasn’t that time of year? It was miserable the first day, raining and sleeting and then, even snowing. People were loving it, people from other parts of the country, were like, thinking this was such a novelty. I overheard one couple say that they had never even SEEN snow before, and I thought, that is pretty amazing.

Minneapolis never ceases to amaze, and I am proud of this city, because it is a cultural mecca, it is unique, I’m sure foodies love such a variety of restaurants.

Which is why, it flummoxed me, and was so disappointing to have such poor choices at the event. I stood in line for a water machine that was selling waters for $3.50, it wasn’t taking anything but $1 bills, and the people ahead of me gave up, and because I didn’t give up, the people behind me started giving me shit. I had a What is wrong with you people? moment, but it passed, and I KEPT MY GODDAMNED WATER BOTTLE, and kept my mouth shut.

Two of the seminars were on multimedia writing, one was from the perspectives of the publisher and another from the perspective of writers, and that was where my teacher Mark was speaking. Nice to hear those two perspectives. As a visual artist, I have been to the other side, workshops where the artist incorporates writing. Why does this continue to be such a perplexing topic? People are still confused if you are an artist and a writer. Unless you do comic books or graphic novels. Mark, is a dadaist. He read from his new book, which I bought, and I was thrilled, to say he is funny in a David Sedaris way, but I don’t necessarily want to compare him to David Sedaris. When he saw me he recognized me right away, he passed by the other women waiting to talk to him, came around the table, and gave ME a big hug! Nobody else got one! *gloat*

Other social media forms, Twitter and Instagram, are new to me, and I decided to tweet and post whenever I could, and I posted a few things to facebook, but mostly my facebook friends are people from school who are -I’m guessing- bored with the idea of a writers conference, let alone an actual writers conference, and I had my share of snarky comments (aka jealous lol). Since I didn’t have great internet connection (my phone kept telling me in big red letter that my passwords were being stolen) I used my own data, and by Friday, I had used my whole data plan, which usually lasts a month. I was pleased, however, I had a few of my tweets favorited and retweeted. What else can a novice ask for?

Elissa called me back when she got to the convention center, she was at the coat check, she said, and I practically bumped right into her. I have not seen her either, in five years, and it was great to see her again. At that point I just wanted to put myself on cruise control and go along with what she wanted to see and do for a while. It’s nice to have friends so you can give yourself a break from having to be ON all the time. We grabbed a couple of crappy burgers at the Mill Shitty Grill, without buns. She is trying to be gluten-free. It was a struggle to get forks. By the time we were done eating we were able to catch the last poem being read by one of her friends, to a crowded room with standing-room only.

She was excited to show me that she was published in a poetry anthology with some other brilliant Minnesota poets, including the Minnesota Poet Laureate. It was an honor to be included in this anthology. I was anxious to show her my book, which I self-published, and she had a lot of questions for me too.

Was it a mistake to bring a self-published book to this convention, if I was trying to find a publisher? The answer wasn’t clear.

So we visited the main stage of the auditorium where there were publishers on a panel addressing this very question. I was surprised when Elissa raised her hand and asked it for me! Yay for friends!

The woman in front of us, after the panel was convened, turned around, and said, she was a publisher, and that it would be better, at this point, to be calling the book I had printed a prototype. That the role of the publisher is their own creative input, in the choosing of the font, the pairing of author and artist, etc. Which, is all fine and good, but that the book, printed once on blurb, self-published by me, choosing font, layout, color, writing and illustrating the book, has been sent to Amazon, and therefore, considered published. And so it is, I am the publisher. Schematics? Quickly, Elissa produced her poetry and asked the publisher to give it a look, which, kindly, she obliged, and told my friend that this was not her type of poetry, and that she wouldn’t accept it, it wasn’t edgy, it wasn’t exciting.

This enormous room is filled with vendors at their booths and tables, lined up row after row, maybe over a thousand vendors, everyone selling books and merchandise, giving away pens, magazines, candy. An arm reaches toward me with a plastic cup of beer from his tap. It is the first beer I’ve tasted in weeks, and it tastes good.

I am overwhelmed by the amount of people and daunted by approaching each table. The intention with each approach is to discern whether or not you’d be a suitable match. Then ask about their submission guidelines, take away the information, and get to work.

There are no agents here, that are visible. The publishers here do have open submission guidelines. They are all small publishers and independent publishers. I am thinking that my training and background is more aligned with publishing. Why didn’t I know about this? Why didn’t I become a publisher? The thought quickly passes. I wouldn’t have wanted that! *Monkey mind*

There are so many of these tables, how do I find out BEFORE having to go from one to another, which one publishes children’s books??? It is like viewing goldfish at the conservatory, goldfish that you can talk to, but like goldfish, they all want to be fed. They are all gazing at you with their goldfish eyes and their searching lips, wondering where the food is, or in this case, your cash.

I did manage to connect with a few publishers who would be a perfect match, ones taking submissions for art and writing, and after a while, because there is only so much time in a day, I decided that will be a good start. There was one publisher, who used to publish children’s books, but have not in a long time, and they did not have any more answers to that.

In the evening, Elissa talked me in to going with her to an off-site event at the Icehouse. I’ve never been there before, but it’s right across the street from the Caravelle Restaurant, a Twin Cities institution as far as Vietnamese restaurants go, it has been our favorite for years, we consider the best Pho. The Icehouse is relatively new and their menu is considered American cuisine, but it’s nouveau to me.

The Icehouse hosted a reading by the writers who are published by Sleet, and the emcee started by introducing themselves as “Sleet at Icehouse!” climate-appropriate.

Elissa has an MFA from Hamline, and all of the people there, were also from the MFA program at Hamline, it was a full house already, we had an excellent view of the stage from the balcony. The couple next to us brought their 9-year-old daughter, who was constantly in motion, I don’t think that she sat still for a single second, until they brought out her birthday cupcake. The mom read a poem about her.

At that moment I felt this disconnected feeling, this feeling that I did not belong here at all. I am not a writer! am I? Symbolism was staring me right in the face. The more comfortable Caravelle across the street, yellow awnings viewed from my perch, represented my Art life. Here I was across the street, entertaining my writer within, the Icehouse represented my Writer life.

Literary and literally I was an outsider, a newbie. I did not go to Hamline with these other people, I did not get my MFA. Did I need an MFA? That was my next question, my question for Friday.

We were done with the Sleet readings, and it was later than I thought. Had we really been there for 5 hours? How could that be possible? I ate very sparingly, just a beet salad and a flatbread pizza, which was burnt by the way, with raw shrimps on top, I would say it was a FAIL. I also had a hot toddy for my throat. That was nice. My total bill came to $45! The salad was about the size of my forefingers and thumbs together making a circle, the pizza not much larger. That was my big night out.

I was exhausted. I’d been there since 8:00am. I dropped Elissa off at her car, and headed back to my aunt’s. I was embarrassed they were up, waiting for me, at 10:30pm. She just wanted to show me how to turn on the coffee maker in the morning.

Friday, I let myself sleep in, and have a leisurely morning. I felt like a princess! We watched the morning news just like home. My aunt made us scrambled eggs. I luxuriated in my coffee and juice. No standing in a long line! Ha! Suckers!

I rolled into the convention parking garage at about 11:30. I didn’t even think about lunch, but decided to give the Greek vendor a try. I ordered a hummus and pita. What I got were three postage-stamp sized triangles and a doll-size ball of hummus. Face it, I’ve had bigger appetizers on my Bloody Mary. It was $3.50! While eating, another writer shared my table. We visited. She came all the way to this convention from Denver. I felt the urge to confess my doubts, my doubts that I was even a writer, that maybe I was over-reaching. I didn’t really know why I was here, or why I was here for all of the 3+ days. Which is another option. People can attend on Saturday only.

Friday started out strong & I began to wilt around mid afternoon, growing more discouraged, even as the clouds broke and the sun began shining through the wall of windows and the translucent skylights illuminating layers of escalators carrying people to four levels of partitioned rooms, shuffling around the masses expected to total about 15,000 in attendance, and avoiding any other bottlenecks besides the long lines that persisted all day at Dunn Brothers.

Eventually, I decided to quit for the day, tempted by another text from my aunt and another invitation to join them for dinner. I told my husband, who was sick at home, croupy cough, one more night, just one more night! Of course, there were all kinds of temptations happening on a Friday night, the ballroom at the Hilton had dancing on both Friday and Saturday night, not to mention all the rest of the city, I was only getting bits and pieces about the night before and what I missed going on at First Avenue, only a few blocks away. The list of parties was endless! And me, with this croupy cough myself, tired and dragging! Who was this wimp, I wondered, barely recognizing this girl who was driving away from instead of toward the excitement.

Saturday lived up to its promise to be a better day. I’d gone to bed exhausted, sleeping better each night, running out of NyQuil. Once again my aunt’s songlike voice lulled me into enjoying the expertly scrambled eggs & black coffee done to perfection. I finally made it to the convention center, now an expert at the route, by the 10:30am presentation on the bookfair stage.

The topic was On Writing a First Book. The presenters had just recently published their first books and were here now talking to us from the stage.

Be grateful or the failure. You’re not ready until you’re ready.

Write to write, not for any outside reason.

DO THE WORK.

Check your ego.

It was interesting to me that all 5 of the panelists had been at the MFA program in Iowa. Four of them were grateful for the experience. It was difficult for all of them. The fifth panelist didn’t say she regretted it, but that she wasn’t too happy about it either. It was interesting to hear an honest opinion on what even being in an MFA program is all about, since I had considered it, only vaguely. I knew Elissa was in the one at Hamline and I had thought about applying. It’s a personal decision. It is an expensive route to buy yourself things like credibility, an excuse to write, and a route to being published.

You know you’re a writer when… ? When you’re not writing, are you miserable?

I’m going to conclude today’s entry here, which is too long already. I have more to write about Saturday, the rest of Saturday, which was magical, because we listened to a panel on fairy tales, and the moderator, who held a PhD in fairy tales, which in itself, is magical. In my next blog!

Holding the hard copy in my hands …

http://www.blurb.com/b/6041369-nuts-to-al?fb_action_ids=10205338310404987&fb_action_types=og.shares

I received a hard copy of my new book in the mail, and I am very happy with the way it turned out. I’m so thrilled, It looks exactly how I expected. The colors are very brilliant. Now I felt better about uploading it to the big monster Amazon. Next, take a picture of myself holding the book and post it as my status on FB. The response I got was overwhelming.

Later I got a message from one of my writer friends. She says, so, it’s self-published? Our conversation was very short. The reality of this situation is, it is 2015. Self-publishing should no longer have a stigma. Truth is, I didn’t even try sending it out anywhere yet, to get it published, reason being, I felt impatient. Here is how I feel today. I no longer feel the same pressure, and I feel like this is a sample I will use to take it to the next level. The next book I write, I will take the route of getting published traditionally.

A writer once told me, Published is published.

Self-publishing is way expensive. Originally I have it available only on blurb.com and it is just on the edge of being ridiculous. Now that it is on Amazon it’s even worse. They tack on some enormous fees over there! I understand everybody’s got to make money. Everybody, except me, the artist/writer/graphic designer. There are breaks for quantity, but I’m not prepared to spend about $5,000 on this particular book. Of course, I wanted to have a plushy toy made. Plushy toys are not cheap! (That hasn’t happened yet.)

I have many more books ahead of me. For one, I have an entire series, just about the apple orchard. I have many more books beyond that theme. This is just the start of something.

The distractions continue, but not the same out-of-control problem they once were. On a personal level, a writer/creative confronts their own demons of self-doubt. You’re your own worst enemy. While it is nice to have social media attention, it can cause anxiety. Writing/creating is a solitary profession and you have to find balance with your exposure to the public. If I put this blog in a nutshell, I have finally found my tagline. In my experience the writers/creatives I know; they qualify as basket cases of a rainbow of psychiatric baggage. Those are just the ones that I know. I have had to overcome a world of my own undoing to get to this point and nobody knows better than that, what a Herculean effort these past 20+ years have been. I am grateful if anybody understands or has compassion! In my next chapter, will I ever find my people? The elusive people they promise you will find, when you go to college? Since I haven’t yet, it means my life is labyrinthine. Some people follow a path and that becomes their new reality. In the labyrinth, a wrong turn, becomes another battle with a minotaur. I can imagine there are many more battles ahead. But for today, right now, will I let myself bask in the glow of just a little success, just for a little while?

We are friends in spite of me …

Over the New Year, we visited a friend in Phoenix. I was pleasantly surprised how well-read he was. Why? How arrogant of me. I read a lot, but never memorized anything past the “Shrek” movie. Here he was, reciting poetry!

There aren’t too many people I would impose upon and stay at their house without warning. Not because I’m a Randy Quaid, but because my usual suspects are “springers”. They lure you in with questions like, “What are you doing Saturday?” and then follow up with sweet promises. Usually by the time Saturday rolls around the plans have completely changed and the house is a hodgepodge of child-centric obligations. The kids, obviously having been fed some false information, will find no problem in coming up to you and extolling the non-virtues of drinking wine or beer.

Or you get the friends who operate in a constant state of emergency. Is there always some crisis or disaster, are you right there, at the ready, to come fish them out of a ditch or paint their house? It doesn’t matter how big or how small the favor: you’re only as good as the time you helped.

Feeling a little exasperated, I read a column by Sidney J Sheldon. In his prime he was the most popular and prolific columnist in the U.S. He said, a true friend is someone you put up with. I can say that is a better policy than dropping someone because you don’t like the way they drive.

You can still have standards, however, such as, if someone else’s crazy-making interferes with your health and well-being. Then you are just being a good friend to yourself. And memorize some poetry while your at it.