Oh, Sunday. It isn’t always true, but today is a blissful day of nothing needs to be done. So obviously, my best plan was to get up and stand at the stove to make 8000 pancakes. That’s ok, because I’m still in my pajamas. 9 in the morning, in my pj’s with saltwater mixing for tomorrow’s water change, I must be dreaming. My back tells me I’m not.
It’s also Man Child’s last day at home before he heads back up to school for *whee* his last semester of college.
On my way home from taking the girl to her art class yesterday morning, I took some photos. For the first time, it occurred to me why I set so many of my stories at this time of year. Let’s face it, late winter in New York–not sexy or invigorating, not pretty or enticing. The dominating colors are gray and gloom. The season of train delays and wind tunnels, when I walk with my head down, hood eliminating all peripheral vision and calculate the odds of getting clipped in the head by a chunk of ice falling from a building.
A good time of year for hibernating, spending the day without getting dressed, thinking about what we do and why we do it. Because I have this ridiculous compulsion to make up characters and write them down, it dovetails nicely with the introspection.
Yes indeed, I do have a new character who’s been knocking at the back of my brain. At the moment he’s barely more than raw, a yummy mix of foolish and ludicrous. I may have to bring him forward soon, see how he can take shape.
For now, I have filthy-New York-in-February photos for you. Enjoy. And have a pancake while you’re at it–since I took this photo 20 minutes ago, my kitchen was apparently invaded by pigeons, and there aren’t many left. I’m going back to my beach house in Hawaii fantasy.
I suppose if you look really hard, a theme could be found on my bookshelf.
When we moved into this apartment, I packed away many of my books, and donated many more. These are what’s left–not including cookbooks.
Followers have been listening to me whine about my writing (non)life, and my plan to take stock and move forward. One of the ideas I was playing with was the thought of self-publishing short stories in groups of three or so. Since I knew less than zero about self pubbing, I asked on the writers’ board. I now know about zero, just enough to confirm that I am indeed too lazy and too broke to pursue self publishing at this time. I’ve never done much in terms of submitting my short fiction. Most have never been subbed anywhere, the few that were sent out once and then filed away with the inevitable rejection letter that arrived a mere 9, 12, 15 months later.
Apparently my sanity plunged along with this week’s temperatures, so I sent off stories to literary magazines, complete with crappy cover letters. What the hell do you write on a cover letter when you’re unpublished and have nothing to say about yourself that ties in with said stories in any way? “Mrs Fringe here, checking in with ovaries o’ steel.”
Why steel? Because I will only submit to markets that (potentially) pay. Doesn’t have to be a lot, doesn’t have to be The Paris Review (no, I didn’t send anything to them), but it is my work. I’ve seen a lot of quotes go past on my Twitter feed recently, having to do with art and writing for the pure love and satisfaction. Most of these quotes attributed to writers who have reached some measure of success, naturally.
Nope. My words are mine. I spend time, I edit, I pace, I obsess, I rewrite. They’re work, and if I don’t value my words, why/how would I expect anyone else to do so? If I meet someone and mention that I walk dogs, and they then ask me to walk their dog, it’s understood that this will be a paid walk. It has nothing to do with whether or not I love dogs. I can just imagine it, if you really loved animals, you’d be completely fulfilled picking up my dog’s shit in the rain, just for the love of it, and be thankful for the exposure. The reality of this philosophy is that my already slim odds of having a story accepted go down significantly–there aren’t a whole lot of paying lit mags, and they regularly publish prize winning, bestselling authors. All self explanatory as to why, though I write and have written shorts on a regular basis through the years, I’ve rarely subbed/queried them.
I expect my sanity to return with the projected rising temps. I hope.
And because it’s Friday, a few tank photos, white balance adjusted.
Enjoy your Friday, Fringelings. And when it’s last call tonight, tell your bartender drinks should be on him, for the love of it.
The room I grew up in looked like Walt Disney had projectile puked in technicolor. That was more than a bit much, but I guess it had an influence. I do love color. Not so much in the clothes I wear, but for accessorizing, and surrounding me in the apartment. Just surprising pops of pretty. Fatigue surprised me last Friday Night Madness with the above bracelets. Aren’t they cool? They’re made of paper, an idea that I absolutely love.
It’s gray and blah outside, I swear the light snow coming down is slush. I just got back in from walking Little Incredibly Dumb Dog, where she cowered and shook her way down the block, unable to determine what was more terrifying–the super driving his little snow plow alongside us, or that horrible cold wet stuff under her feet.
But it is Friday, I’m looking forward to Friday Night Madness tonight, and I’m trying to get myself in the right mindset to grocery shop while staying within budget. I can’t complain, because I got to the fish store the other day and got a few new critters for the tank. Reefing can be a very expensive hobby, I stick to the cheaper fish and buy small, small frags. They’ll grow into larger, full colonies–patience is key in this hobby anyway.
I got a pair of fish I wasn’t planning on, a little more aggressive than I wanted. But when I saw the orange lips on that solorensis wrasse, and he had a mate with him, for an amazing price! I absolutely could not resist. I’m sharing photos of them below, happy with the livestock but unhappy that I still haven’t been able to figure out the best settings on the white balance when taking these photos. The LED light make everything appear very blue in the pics, no matter how I try to balance the settings of the actual lights. Still, take a tank tour with me, enjoy my pretties, creepy crawlies, and colors!
From the Peace Fountain (artist, Greg Wyatt) in the Children’s Sculpture Garden-St John the Divine
And take hope with you, while you’re at it.
Why yes, I do kind of feel like the above. I mean, he’s just one piece of a sculpture representing the conflict between good and evil, but there he is, upside down–defeated.
My temptation? Still dreaming of literary offers, believing it could happen. The American way, right? Don’t give-up, never accept defeat, blah blah blah. If you work hard enough, success will come your way. Except when it doesn’t, in which case you accept defeat gracefully, shake your opponent’s hand, and try harder next time. Otherwise, you’re a loser–capital L. A quitter. Here’s where it gets tricky: because the general advice is never give up, unless you have delusions of grandeur. In which case take your pill, and sob quietly by yourself in the corner.
In order to pursue any art form though, you kind of need those delusions, just to try. Just to have the big brass ones to say yes, others will want to see me perform, read my words, view my paintings, my photos, even pay a dollar to do so. If you’re a follower here, you know I’m trying to figure out where my line is, how to shift my goals and what they could/should be shifted towards, how to accept defeat with grace. A downward mobility of expectations, if you will.
Because it has to be time. I can tell, because when I went to the store the other day, the young woman behind the counter gave me a great big smile when I got to the register, and announced it was “senior day.” That’s right, 20% off all purchases for seniors. Hmmm. 40,000 years old and countless miles? Check. Senior citizen? Nope. I wasn’t offended, probably because of my experience writing fiction. I’ve put a lot of time into thinking about perspective, point of view, who would notice what and who would think what, to have characters ring true. 18-20 year old woman? Not seeing a whole lot of difference between 40,000 and 65, especially when the woman standing in front of her has hair that’s more salt than pepper, no makeup, and bags that store a ten year sleep deficit under her eyes. So no. I wasn’t shocked by her assumption. Besides, 20% off toilet paper that’s 40% overpriced. Thank you dear, now get off my lawn.
Then there was a thread running on the writer’s site, about critiquing–the value of, giving up, and several fun and generally silly derails. Interesting to me (though the thread was slanted towards query crits, which are not my thing) since I’ve remained in that “What do I know?” state of mind. So I asked those who’ve been at this a long time without tangible (and measurable by others outside the writing community) success, their thoughts on giving up, when it’s time, etc. And am as confused and dissatisfied now as I was before the thread. I still believe my writing is good enough. I just don’t believe it’s going to “happen.” I don’t see my writing as a hobby. My tank is a hobby. Cooking, for me, is a hobby. Taking pictures, for me, is a hobby. My words? Not a hobby. See? Delusions. And hubris.
One kind and smart friend wrote a thoughtful response. A phrase that he used has stayed in the forefront of my mind. “There’s an opportunity cost for everything.” That’s reality. My time, energy, and resources are finite. Because writing isn’t cooking dinner, or baking a dessert, all to be enjoyed by family and friends. Writing is hours and hours of solitary work, time when I withdraw from family and friends to pay attention to imaginary characters and lives that exist only in my own mind. Time when I don’t get the laundry done, walk an extra few dogs, cook a nice dinner, pay attention to Husband, or figure out what’s really going to be next for me in life. Please don’t misunderstand me when I say this, I’m not crying about how difficult it is to write. It isn’t nothing, I don’t just sit down and vomit out 350 pages in two months and call it a novel–but it isn’t scrubbing public toilets or working in a coal mine, either.
I should grow the fuck up, accept that in the eyes of a young girl I’m a senior, on a crowded train I’m now offered a seat by a well mannered young man about half the time and I appreciate it. When I was a little girl, I was certain my real mommy was a princess who would show up to rescue me from the evils of sitting at the table until I finished my dinner, and I would grow up to be Laura Ingalls Wilder–except I’d live in a beach house, instead of the prairie. I gave up the princess fantasy long ago, and the 80 gallon saltwater tank that holds center stage in my living room is my beach house. Maybe it’s time to truly accept and be okay with the fact that people won’t be reading my words for generations to come. Except, of course, for what I have posted and will continue to post on the blog, because the interwebs R 4evr.
I think he’s beautiful, in all his lumbering majesty. Husband disagrees. In fact, I’m pretty sure Husband often thinks my eyestalks also veer in different directions, when the subject of beauty comes up. I don’t know what it is that makes me think someone, or something, is beautiful, but whatever it is, I have different parameters than Husband. Discussion a couple of weeks ago:
Me, “Remember that woman we met the other day? Isn’t she stunning?”
Him, “What, who?”
Me, “You know, that one with the black shirt on and the smile.”
Him, “Oh, I know the one. Wait, what? Beautiful? If you say so.”
and then he gives me the sidelong hairy eyeball, and checks to see if I’m feverish again.
We don’t always disagree on what and who is beautiful (we agree about our children), just usually.
I mean, I look at this little face and smile, what’s not to love about a cartoon character come to life?
Blenny
It’s all subjective, right? Yah. That’s what they tell me. People, sea critters, fiction. I’m a quirky old gal, no doubt. Those quirks color what appeals, and I guess for me, beautiful equals interesting. But different people find different things interesting.
I’ve been feeling frustrated these past few days. Mostly due to nothing happening with the writing, blah, blah, blah. Every so often, a well meaning someone will ever-so-gently suggest I try writing something else. This usually involves an awkward, pregnant pause, and then the phrase, “mainstream.” Or for the bold, “marketable.” I have nothing against mainstream. I read and enjoy quite a bit of popular fiction. But it isn’t the way my mind works. And when and if I’m indulging my fantasies of earning a dollar from my writing, what the hell–I’m going all the way with what’s beautiful and interesting to me.
This morning I was in the shower, thinking about wanting to feel other than crappy, and I thought well, I can post another story here on the blog. I may not have representation or a publishing contract but I have Fringelings, some of whom like my stories. And I’ve got this one I particularly like, where I believe I got it right. I thought so when I wrote it, and of those who have read it, more than a couple agreed. I wondered, why haven’t I posted it before? Then I remembered I had planned to sub it to lit mags, in hopes of publication. This thought was immediately followed by visions of a slew of new rejection letters, because obviously a gal can never have too many of those. So then I thought hey, I can start my own lit mag!
Between my lack of credentials, lack of contacts, lack of funds, and skewed vision of beauty, it’d be a guaranteed success, no? After all, there are at least 2, 3 other people in this world of seven billion who share my tastes. Sigh. I need a new plan.
I’m watching and re-watching this video, loving the way she presents herself here.
And for those who might enjoy a more “mainstream” beautiful tank photo,
Happy 2015! My immune system seems to be taking the year off. A very snuffly and low key couple of weeks. I did leave the neighborhood a couple of times with Art Child and Nerd Child, found a few bits of my old remembered New York through the new glass and steel skyscrapers that continue to pop up everywhere.
What have I been doing in between blowing my nose and thinking about blogging? Catching up on reading. The other day I finished a novel that stunned me with its beauty.
In contrast, I also found myself at *gasp* a shopping mall a couple of weeks ago. I hate having to go to malls, I swear the air is a toxic mix of plastic and tranquilizer dust. But I suppose it was worth it, because I now have two pairs of jeans that fit and don’t have holes, and when we walked through the parking lot I saw this.
I wonder if he felt the same sense of being in the wrong place.
Which made me think of this song, an old favorite:
Buddhist proverb. I don’t think that’s a direct quote from Buddha, but it fits where my head is/has been nicely. I’m trying. Trying to make peace, find my peace with where I am right now. I’m getting there. Part of getting there for me involved taking a step back from querying and writing fiction. Both things that bring me most of my highest highs and lowest lows, but not a whole lot of serenity. “This sentence is perfect–I’m ready for my O. Henry award.” “I’m never, ever going to get through this scene, all the words are poop smears.” “OMG! Agent SoandSo requested the manuscript, whee!!!!” “Oh, the despair! Agent MucketyMuck never responded to the requested manuscript. Not even a response to a nudge…I’m, I’m…not even worthy of a fuck-off, you suck.” (For those writing friends who want to remind me rejections are for the work, not the author, I’m not referring to rejections, or agents who take a long time to respond. I’m referring to agents who never respond, to material they requested.)
When your natural state involves letting your imagination run with “what ifs” for stories and characters and worrying about what tomorrow will bring in life, forcing yourself into the here and now isn’t so easy. Sometimes though, it’s necessary.
This is step 1.
6:30am, yesterday morning
And of course, getting the tank together.
No really, the rituals of making RO/DI water, mixing salt, very soothing.
Powder room is just a euphemism for fish room, isn’t it? Of course you can still use the bathroom, honey. Just don’t touch anything.
By today I should have my Thanksgiving menu completely planned, and begun shopping. Not a clue what I’m making yet. I intended to look through my cookbooks and start a shopping list this morning, but when I woke up, I saw this.
Fuzzy, but it’s one snail cleaning the shell of another.
It’ll be a small table this year, I’ll figure it out. Tuesday, when I remember the holiday is two days away and I haven’t so much as bought cranberries.
Massage is over, back to work.
I’m working on it, this finding my peace. Feeling withered, sure–but there may be some blooms to come.
I like things, it’s no secret. I even like stuff. But what. the. fuck. America? The insanity known as Black Friday wasn’t enough. Ok, I’m not a Black Friday shopper, but lots of people are, I’ve known several who find it fun, and a few who see it as a type of sport. Now more and more stores are opening on Thanksgiving. Shop, shop, shop for more shit you don’t need and no one wants while you’re in your growth-hormone-laced-turkey stupor, so there won’t be any pesky common sense to get in the way. A couple of days ago I saw a clip on the news about a mall in Western New York that will be opening at 6PM on Thanksgiving Day (and I’m willing to bet if there’s one mall doing this there are more doing the same)–and any retail stores that choose not to open will be fined somewhere in the neighborhood of $200 an hour for every hour the mall is open that the store isn’t. Apparently these fines are somewhat common, written into lease agreements at many malls across the country. Opening on Thanksgiving Day, though, that’s new(er).
What is wrong with us? These big box retailers are the pimps driving BMWs with flashy rims, and we the consumers are the black-eyed, split-lipped prostitutes shivering in the cold and dirty slush waiting for the bus at 5AM. I don’t know that I think Thanksgiving with its false myths of blissful Pilgrims and Native Americans singing Kumbaya together over pumpkin pie is so sacred. But it is supposed to symbolize something, a day to reflect on who and what we have, enjoy our friends, families and communities, what our society is and what it stands for. If you’re a cynic like myself, your immediate thought is of the big money involved in those Thanksgiving Day football games and the gluttony encouraged on TV screens across the nation.
This is New York, city of convenience. Public transportation, grocery stores, drug stores and restaurants being open 24/7, 365 days a year is nothing new. I used to work in social services so yes, I have worked every holiday. I’ll even admit I didn’t hate it. In fact, it was lovely, and those holidays affirmed the work I did mattered, because these were human beings I worked with, not diagnoses, and workers and clients had a good time cooking and eating together. Sure there was always someone who would decompensate and need to go to the ER right before I was about to go off shift–but that’s why I was there, why the work was meaningful if not lucrative–and good God, draining doesn’t begin to cover it.
That said is why I’m very aware not everyone can or should have the holiday off. Social services, medical services, residential treatment services, police, firefighters, public transportation, emergency crews available for public works, these can’t all lock the doors and turn the cell phones off. Sometimes the service provided is more necessary than dinner with Cindy Lou Who. But buying the latest video game console? The perfect sweater for an ugly sweater contest? Really, that can’t wait until the morning? People who work retail are among those who can least afford to take a stand and say “I’m not coming in to work on the holiday,” yet they already see their loved ones least, since they work evenings, nights, and weekends.
I posted last week about my city adventures in the Met and St John the Divine. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, these great enduring works of art–hundreds, some thousands of years old, still revered, still relevant, artists and works still remembered. This being the case, why are artists (visual, actors, musicians or writers) still treated with contempt, as if what they offer society has no value, unless, of course, they’re hugely financially successful? Or dead. Maybe I’m just a flaky mush but I went back to St John yesterday, to bring my godson and Art Child and spend time again with “AMEN: A Prayer for the World.” And I was moved, on the verge of tears again from the works of these modern artists from disparate cultures, an exhibition about respect and understanding, our shared humanity.
Husband works retail. His store is closed on Thanksgiving, but if they decided to open, he would grumble, I would bitch, and then he would go to work. Because rent. Maybe the saleswoman helping you find the laptop you want this Thanksgiving is a mom who is paying a babysitter more than she’s making for the day because the regular sitter is with her own family, or the daycare is closed. Maybe the cashier is an artist who thought he was going to be able to spend the day sculpting. Maybe the floor manager is just fucking tired and had hoped for a day off before the insanity of Black Friday began–because yes, she does have to be back at the store at 4am the next day. The executives who decided the stores should be open? They’re home. Or on vacation. Maybe they’ll stop in and benignly thank the peasant workers for their service. They’re most certainly not trying to figure out how to cook, clean up, offer a holiday experience for their children, beg for child care, calculate how they will pay rent/mortgage/utilities and then go stand on their feet and smile politely for 14 straight hours.
I received this solicitation in the mail the other day. I don’t have much, but I think I’ll write a check.
and drop it in the mailbox on Thanksgiving.
We each have a voice in this country, as individuals and as a greater community. Our voices are heard when we vote, and at this point in our consumer-based society, I believe our voices ring out most clearly through our wallets. People can tsk tsk all they want. The only message being conveyed if you shop on a holiday is that it’s a good, profitable idea for the stores to open, and the people working don’t matter. I’m asking the Fringelings here in America (who don’t have to work on the holiday) to speak out by staying out of the stores on Thanksgiving. Read a classic novel, listen to music, plan a trip to a museum, watch It’s A Wonderful Life. Use the day to make a statement about what you believe matters. Unless you have to work.
I had something specific in mind for today’s post, but I seem to have lost it. By the time I took this photo, I had already been awake for an hour, and this was five hours ago. Actually, I first woke at 4am, when my phone gave a little brrrring to let me know I had a message from WordPress. After my alarm went off and I had a cup of coffee in hand, I checked the message, thinking someone from a different time zone had left a new comment. Nope, it was just a notice letting me know Mrs Fringe had had a spike of views and activity. Not earth shattering, but more than usual. Ok, thank you! Now I see I’ve had quite a few more hits than usual over the last several hours, and can’t figure out why. I had a brief moment of oh! maybe I’ve been Freshly Pressed again! Nope. My stats aren’t showing that someone linked a post, no new comments, I have no clues.
And I’ve been busy. Very busy playing with my rocks
Turns out using mortar to hold rock together isn’t as easy as it looks.
And making water. S-l-o-w-l-y. Water has to be specially filtered for a reef tank, so as not to kill the (future) corals and invertebrates. That super-duper make reverse osmosis deionized water is an agonizing process. Most of the water runs right back down the drain, and the RO/DI water pretty much dribbles out. I’d have to have another tank to test my theory, but I’m fairly certain I could spit and fill the tank at the same speed.
The evaporation rate may cancel out the fill rate.
Most of my writing buddies are gearing up for NaNoWriMo now. I don’t do NaNo, it just isn’t how I write. I guess I’m like that filter, spits and spurts rather than a steady stream. Unless it’s an agent or editor lurking and viewing my old posts, in which case, rest assured I will produce at whatever pace is requested, because I’m trampy that way.
I’ll leave you with a song that was playing in the grocery store this morning, that I hadn’t heard in way too long.
For those of you who aren’t reefers, the backbone of most reef tanks is live rock. Sounds crazy, I know. Live rock (and sand) serves as the biological filter in a tank, it’s what coral reefs are formed from–basically the skeletons of long dead corals. The rock itself isn’t live, but the beneficial bacteria and microscopic organisms that live in it are. It’s also very expensive. For this tank, I chose to go with reef rock that isn’t live, but “dry.” All those nooks and crannies in the rock are helpful, providing more surface area for the bacteria to colonize. It will take longer for the tank to cycle and be ready for livestock, but it’s a much more budget friendly option, and I will “seed” the dry rock with just a few pounds of live rock and many pounds of live sand.
I ordered 50 pounds of this rock, expected it to arrive today. Surprise! It came a day early. My intercom phone rang yesterday, the guard telling me I should come get my package. Of course this happened after my back was humming from doing a few loads of laundry, and right before I had to leave to pick the girl up from school. The gloom and rain of the day just added that extra something. I assumed it was a small package, yanno, the two ounce heater, maybe the hose for siphoning water. This guard is getting up there in years, and tends to get a little ummm, stressed, if you don’t come and take your packages right. now. I thought my back was humming after laundry? Bwahahaha! I couldn’t even look at the fucking box to open it until this morning. But now I have, and I had to immediately begin taking pictures because I’m a geek.
I spent last night and this morning thinking about the tank build and my writing. Both are intense, bring me peace and joy and angst and tears. Both endeavors I can and do lose hours in, often walking away feeling upside down and inside out. And I wondered, should I not have started this tank? I have people who seem to genuinely love my writing, several of whom have encouraged me to self publish. I could have put the money I’m putting into the tank into self pubbing Astonishing. Except it wouldn’t be enough. I write, and I self-edit what I write, but I’m no editor. I’m also not a graphic artist, able to design a book cover. Nor a computer savvy gal, able to convert the file into something readable on Kindle or Nook. Nor a marketing expert, able to get it out there. All things that need to happen if you’re going to self publish. If I’m ever published, trade or self, I want it done well.
It’s funny. Astonishing is magical realism, not a genre that’s popular or clearly defined in the adult market. Seems like many have their own definition and expectations for it. Maybe I should define it as written surrealism, instead of magical realism. Or hyperrealism, based on responses I get in regards to my characters, based on those ordinary people we walk past every day, who are extraordinary in the impact they have on each of us, shaping our lives. That’s what I love, whether I’m writing, reading, or reefing. Those small moments, how every creature–regardless of how many celled–affects every other around them, causing growth or a crash, it almost doesn’t matter.
mrsfringe 