Will You Be My Friend?

It's hard to make friends as a grownup. I wish I had more friends in San Francisco, but I know it takes time. I do have some awesome friends here, but people are busy and my fear of the BART system keeps me from traveling to the East Bay. I gotta get over that.

How do you make friends in a new place?

I read somewhere that loneliness is often higher in more populated places. Mostly because people feel anonymous in a sea of faces. Quantity does not equal quality. Never having lived in a city before, I feel hopelessly uncool when I traipse about town. There are a lot of cool people here. Or maybe I just feel super uncool in comparison. Can they tell I'm from the suburbs? Do they know I eat casseroles?!?

While I'm pretty outgoing, I get nervous going to public events alone. Like a poetry reading, for example. Most people will go there with a friend. What am I supposed to do, walk up to people and say, "Will you be my friend?" Awk.ward.

Remember when you were kids and a new student came to your class and all the kids would rush to be best friends with them first? Ok, maybe that only happened to me. In the third grade I moved to a new school district in the spring, so the kids in my new class were pretty bored with each other. A new student coming in was a novelty. Everyone want to be my friend! When a new kid moved to the neighborhood, you'd just knock on the door and ask if they could come out to play. Even in grad school, everyone was in the same position: in need of friends.

It would be nice if it were that easy. Still though, I am a good candidate for a friend. I'm fun and I ask good questions. I like things like beer and poetry. Often simultaneously, but that's not a requirement. I like lots of things. Settlers of Catan? Awesome! Chinese dumplings? Delish!

In other news, I found a blog that is specifically about my neighborhood in San Francisco. It's called Haighteration. Isn't that cool? I will venture out to some of the neighborhood events soon, try to knock on some doors, see who can come out to play.

Changing Education Paradigms

This week, Sal and I have had some powerful conversations about education. He comes from a family of educators and artists, something that I love about him. I have a degree in Education, specifically Elementary Education, and was trained in the constructivist model, which is a learning theory that posits that humans learn through experience. We learn by doing. With a definition as simple as that, you might be tempted to respond with a snarky "no duh!" However, teaching using a constructivist approach is more difficult than one might imagine; it is antithetical to our experiences as students and to the entire structure of our educational system, which is based on a model of training workers for jobs (which is a simplistic summary, I know, but it's true).

I've been thinking a lot about teaching, learning and writing, how they intersect, how they overlap and how they bolster each other. I'm going to share my thoughts and ideas here. I encourage you to participate in the discussion.

To kick things off, I will share with you this animated video of a lecture by Sir Ken Robinson, an expert in creativity and education. Most of what he says in this video I already knew, but it was so powerful, I actually cried afterward. Because my first response was hopelessness. I thought of my students, my classroom in Pittsburgh, and I worried for them. Our world is so broken.

But I woke up this morning determined to start a dialogue with myself and hopefully with you, blog reader, about what we can do to make our world less broken. Maybe even word toward healing.

 

Seriously? Seriously.

I'm grumpy tonight.

I was up until 2:30 last night, unable to sleep, worrying about jobs and life and OMG I'M THIRTY and when was the last time I showered? Yeah. So then I was way too tired to go hiking around Muir Woods with my BFF and her family, who are in town for a wedding. So I stayed home, tried to work on my job stuff, revise some poems. I focused on Weave, did some reading. Finished up work for my last class.

I'm up again. I know I won't be tired for a while. If I try to lay there next to Sal, I'll just feel my heart start to beat out of my chest. I'll hear all the things I say to myself during the day, except all at once, in shouting voices.

I get pissed off when people don't take writing seriously.

Writing is work. Good writing. Sometimes we get lucky. We have that inspiration that strikes us like a big, fat, bolt of creative lightning and we run to the bank with that fucker. We take that shit down to the river and baptize ourselves in the ease of it. Or we should. Maybe when we first start writing, we know it's our medium. It feels easier to us than to our peers. But eventually, we all get herded toward one another as we get older. Some of us drop out of the pack because it's not easy anymore. It's grueling. It's late nights, avoiding sleep, three days without showers, where are my benzos? and thank god for whiskey.

I get pissed off when people take themselves too seriously.

There is this culture of irony and strangeness and distance in writing. I wrote a sentence. It's weird. Look at my weird sentence. Isn't it ironic? No. It's not. It's lazy. It's uninteresting. Where is the depth? Where is the connection? Where is the concerto? Where are my benzos? Yeah, we get people who like to put up a front, be cool. I've just never been cool. Like, I'm so uncool, it's pathetic. But I work hard. I write hard.

But then I get pissed at myself for taking everything too seriously. Every. Effing. Thing.

It's becoming clear to me that I will most likely work at the mall if I don't get my shit together this week. I will explode if I don't write a good poem soon. Mediocre even. Soon, I will eat breakfast for dinner and lunch. I'll sleep through breakfast. This is my life. Waking up and avoiding anything that might make me anxious until bedtime. I work in between. I take breaks. Boy I'm tired. But not tired enough to sleep yet.

Literary Roundup: Online Lit Edition

I've been submitting a lot lately, which means I've been reading a lot too. Particularly online journals that I never seem to have the time to read. Well, I have the time, but not right kind of time one needs to read. When I'm on my computer, I have multitasking time, but that's not the right kind of time to have for reading delicious literary works.

The latest issue of Corium was posted last week. I'm absolutely in love with this very short fiction piece by Elizabeth Wade. My prognosis? Lovely + Superb. And "clavicle" is my new favorite word.

I found this cool lit mag through my friend Kayla Washko, who's essay "Unlosing Your Virginity" was published on Paper Darts. Not only is this essay hysterical, the editors also create original graphics to go with the pieces, which give the site a playful look and feel. I'm really digging on their aesthetic.

Nicelle Davis' poems over there are excellent, specifically her second poem "My Two-Year Old Son at the Five-Year Old Girl’s Birthday Party," which makes good use of an extended metaphor. So often extended metaphors beat the reader to death, but the bird images are just enough here. Nice work.

Since I've got the attention span of a two year-old, I rarely make time to read fiction. Especially when I'm in the midst of submission-reading for Weave. However, while checking out decomP's latest issue, I took the three minutes needed to read "Wasps" by Kristi DeMeester and I was glad I did. Great texture to this story. It surprised me at the end. I like when that happens.

Sweet has a beautiful and funny essay by Brenda Miller called "Our Daily Toast." Read it and find out why Miller won a Pushcart. I also loved these poems from Nin Andrews in their latest issue from January.

Finally, I dug up this poem from > kill author's issue one archives. Thank you, Nicole Elizabeth. I took piano lessons for six years and never really improved, so imagining pianos falling from the sky was nostalgic, sad and a little gratifying.

Bitch Bitch Bitch

I love me some Bitch. I've been a subscriber for years. It is an important, vital voice among the cacophony of media noise. They are also committed to print publishing. Bitch is proof that feminism is alive and relevant. Feminisms are alive. We all need to hear from them.

"Feminism is for everybody." - bell hooks, activist and author

They are having a subscription drive and need to meet 1500. They only need 200 more to go.

I want to buy a subscription for someone who has never read Bitch. I'll just trust you on this one. If you've never read Bitch, the first person to comment gets a gift subscription. Once I get the comment, I'll contact you via email. Be sure you leave me some way to contact you in the comment.

Acceptance Rates and a Fleeting Case of Woe-is-Me

UPDATE: Quite literally 20 minutes after post this blog update, I received an acceptance. Apparently all I had to do was complain publicly. 

I hesitate to complain on my blog, mostly because I think a lot of writers end up in "woe-is-me" patterns that only invite more woe. Today though, I really need to whine a little and hopefully gain some perspective in the process.

The year 2010 was a pretty great one for me, publishing wise. I received my first publication in April, and after that they poured in. I even had a week where six poems were accepted by four publications. The year kept bringing more joyful acceptances until the very end, which concluded with three acceptances on New Years Eve. The total for the year was 17 published poems in 13 journals; my acceptance rate was around 27% for the year. Go Laura.

Because of that success, I decided to submit to harder markets in 2011. I also made a goal of 100 journal submissions by the end of the year (to date, I'm 11 behind). I have received four fantastic acceptances, for which I am truly grateful. I love that those poems are out in the world. I love the journals they are published in. But as it stands, I haven't gotten an acceptance since April and I think the standards that were set up in 2010 have ruined me for 2011. Last week I got four rejections. Form rejections at that. Blerg. Current acceptance rate for 2011: 7%.

At least I have a pile of solid poems to edit.

I sent my chapbook manuscript to four contests earlier this year. Three rejections later, I'm holding out on this last one and, when that is rejected, I will do some reorganizing and re-strategizing. I'd like to just get on with it. Do you hear me, Chapbook Contest I submitted to in February? (yes, I know it's not that long ago, but I'm impatient). 

I'm also going through the demoralizing process of job hunting. I spent all of July in a tail-spin from a cross-country move and constant bouts of panic and doubt about my professional qualifications. I barely sent out two job applications. Now I'm scrambling because the fall semester starts in the next two weeks and of course I'm hearing crickets. CRICKETS. Well, I did get into one adjunct pool. That's reassuring. A paycheck would more comforting though.

Today I got notice that my AWP panel was not accepted. I know I'm in a bad place when I can't even go on Facebook because everyone is posting excited updates about their panel acceptances. I hate to admit it, but I sometimes compare myself to others in my field and then think "why not me?" Especially when I see writers younger than me having huge successes. Because the thing is, I don't begrudge them their success; I love it. I celebrate it. But when I go a long while without some kind of vote of confidence, it's easy to turn green green green with envy. And I can't help but wonder if I'm doing something wrong.

Then I read this Dear Sugar column about jealousy and I humbly remember more than a few good things.

I earned an MFA in 2011 (or I will in a couple of weeks, officially). I won the Best Thesis Award for poetry. That was really awesome. I have a pile of good poems that will hopefully turn into solid poems once I get to editing them. I got to participate in a pedagogy forum at AWP this year with some incredible educators and the latest issue of Weave has received an amazing response. Sales are up. We had our largest reading period to date. I am reading my poetry with some stellar writers in the East Bay at the end of August.

But even more importantly, I have incredible friends and family. I'm healthy. my friends and family are happy and healthy. I am finally in the same city as Sal. My best friend is having another baby (this one still gets me). My other best friend returns from South Africa this week (Casandra, I have missed you more than I missed breakfast sausage when I was vegetarian). I am loved and I am lucky - so lucky - to have all the people in my life who give me love.

My rate of love-and-acceptance for 2011: off the charts.

Moving Stuff from A to B

My partner, Sal, is a software engineer. He's actually a robot scientist. He worked for NASA. He now works for Google. He's so smart. I love him.

Sometimes I will ask him what he is doing. His response is almost always, "Moving stuff from A to B." It's striking how often that answers is appropriate. Whether he is organizing files (moving data), programming (moving electronic data), or cleaning (moving dirt), he's moving something. From place A to place B.

Today he showed me this weird/awesome website about Cuil Theory. What is Cuil Theory, you ask? Well, it originally was just a joke about how ineffective the Cuil search engine was:

The idea was to lampoon the terrible search engine capabilities of the Cuil search engine, while providing a functionally stimulating idea about the interrelationship between tangential things.

There was some online nerdy math talk about it and they agreed that, "One Cuil = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation."

It then drank the blood of the interwebs and became amazing. It is strange and surreal and awesome and this kind of science-like formula for coming up with the most bizarre world possible. Times fifty hamburgers falling down the stairs twice and then swallowed whole. Are you lost? Good. Because I'm a hamburger. Seriously, go read the page. And also this online discussion. I'm soon going to turn this weirdness into fun poems. And by fun, I mean Cuil.

Where was I? Oh, moving stuff. So today I spent pretty much all day moving my stuff. I woke up and finally organized my bookshelf. It now looks awesome AND I can find the book I want. Plus, one shelf begins with a Science Education text book from my undergrad days and ends with a complete anthology of Shakespeare. I feel like John Cusak's character in High Fidelity.

I also organized my files, paid bills, put things into envelopes. Soon the United States Postal Service will move many things from A to B, A being San Francisco and B being Pittsburgh, among other places. Thanks, USPS. You are helpful.

Other stuff I moved today: office supplies, clean dishes, poems. From old boxes to new boxes, from the dishwasher to the cupboard, from my computer to an editor's computer, respectively.

In other weird math news, does monogamy = vegetarianism? Mayhaps.

Here are some pictures I took of all the stuff I moved from A to B. I hope you like them.