When my daughter Bliss was little, Target used to sell sparkly jewel-encrusted red shoes that reminded me of the ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz. Every time I went in the store I would look at them and think how thrilled she would be if I bought her some. But then I'd think, Don't be frivolous. That's ten dollars, or whatever, that could be spent on something more practical.
A hundred times I looked at them, a hundred times I never bought them.
Eventually Bliss got too old to be delighted by such things as ruby slippers from Target. And then one day I realized that I would never in my whole life have another little girl to buy them for.
Moral of the story: that's ten bucks I should have spent.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Belated Good Idea
The Sewanee Writers' Conference is about to crank up again. Last year's conference seems like yesterday in that I can still remember every detail of every room I entered, etc. I'll just come on out with it--I didn't have a great time at Sewanee. I did find it a valuable experience, just not in the ways I expected to. Anyway, I don't feel like going into all that, I was only going to mention that I was struck by an idea today, approximately one year too late.
I was reading a book by Margot Livesey, who was on the faculty at Sewanee last year, and I was thinking that I guessed she and my own workshop leaders, Jill McCorkle and Tony Earley, would all be convening again pretty soon. And I thought, wouldn't it be neat if the story I took to be workshopped last year had been published since then. I'd mail Jill a copy and she'd get it after breakfast one day, on that table in the dining hall where they leave your mail.
And what made me mad was that if I'd had this brilliant thought right after I came home last year, I could have made it happen. The thought of Jill McCorkle picking that package up from the mail table would have been inspiration enough for me to actually submit the thing to the requisite four million places until somebody took it.
Instead, what really happened was that I procrastinated for months before I FINALLY revised it in light of the comments everybody in the workshop had made, and then one day in a burst of energy I had about ten copies made of it, and then I dumped them on my office floor where they've been gathering dust ever since.
I'm not sure whether to say that the Sewanee workshop dampened my enthusiasm for the story I took, but I don't know that I'd ever care to participate in another. I dislike dissecting the work of others--I always have, even in literature classes. And I'm afraid it's been detrimental to me to picture a roomful of people dissecting mine.
Before, when I sent out a story, I imagined a lone editor reading it (sometimes, I know, only a paragraph) and either tossing it on the "not my taste" pile, or continuing, liking it, maybe fighting to get it into an issue of the magazine. Now I'm afraid that the workshop--the one and only workshop group of my life--will stick in my head forever like a Greek chorus muttering. Passing judgment.
I think it's one of those life situations where I was happier when I knew less.
I was reading a book by Margot Livesey, who was on the faculty at Sewanee last year, and I was thinking that I guessed she and my own workshop leaders, Jill McCorkle and Tony Earley, would all be convening again pretty soon. And I thought, wouldn't it be neat if the story I took to be workshopped last year had been published since then. I'd mail Jill a copy and she'd get it after breakfast one day, on that table in the dining hall where they leave your mail.
And what made me mad was that if I'd had this brilliant thought right after I came home last year, I could have made it happen. The thought of Jill McCorkle picking that package up from the mail table would have been inspiration enough for me to actually submit the thing to the requisite four million places until somebody took it.
Instead, what really happened was that I procrastinated for months before I FINALLY revised it in light of the comments everybody in the workshop had made, and then one day in a burst of energy I had about ten copies made of it, and then I dumped them on my office floor where they've been gathering dust ever since.
I'm not sure whether to say that the Sewanee workshop dampened my enthusiasm for the story I took, but I don't know that I'd ever care to participate in another. I dislike dissecting the work of others--I always have, even in literature classes. And I'm afraid it's been detrimental to me to picture a roomful of people dissecting mine.
Before, when I sent out a story, I imagined a lone editor reading it (sometimes, I know, only a paragraph) and either tossing it on the "not my taste" pile, or continuing, liking it, maybe fighting to get it into an issue of the magazine. Now I'm afraid that the workshop--the one and only workshop group of my life--will stick in my head forever like a Greek chorus muttering. Passing judgment.
I think it's one of those life situations where I was happier when I knew less.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Career Move?
I am developing such a collection of hoochie shoes that I'm thinking about starting a website for foot fetishists. (That's just a joke but believe you me, if I thought I could make a living at it...)
Ya like these? I do. I wish the zippers were silver, but I still like 'em.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Still Sick
Five days later, I think I'm worse. Still coughing, sneezing, sniffling, and generally unable to breathe right. Throat feels OK sometimes, other times like I swallowed a razor blade. But most unpleasant are the earaches which sometimes decrease my hearing so much I feel like I have earplugs in. Also, I've barely slept.
Now for a tally: How many bowls of chicken soup have been made for me? How many times has my husband soothed my fevered brow or favored me with a sympathetic glance? How many times---in SPITE of the fact that he ADMITTED reading the previous post---has he so much as seemed to notice my proximity to the valley of death? You guessed it. ZERO.
But how many times has he said, "Did you start the laundry?" Approximately 4,927.
Now for a tally: How many bowls of chicken soup have been made for me? How many times has my husband soothed my fevered brow or favored me with a sympathetic glance? How many times---in SPITE of the fact that he ADMITTED reading the previous post---has he so much as seemed to notice my proximity to the valley of death? You guessed it. ZERO.
But how many times has he said, "Did you start the laundry?" Approximately 4,927.
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