A couple of years ago when I was working as the Interim Development Director at a nonprofit, I was asked--as DoDs are customarily asked--to write a year-end appeal. To anyone who has ever worked in the field, writing these are a bear. It's tough to find new language to express the work a nonprofit does year after year; it's tough to appeal from a positive point of view (look at all the accomplishments we have!) rather than a negative one (think of Sarah Mclachlan's abused pet commercial--I can't even listen to her music anymore); and it's toughest, perhaps, to express the urgency of the request for support without saying "Now, more than ever."
Friends, I tell you now (more than ever) from the bottom of my heart: "Now, more than ever" is a non statement. Everything is always Now, more than ever, because the world is always in forward motion. Life will never not be Now, more than ever, so subsequently, you never need to use this phrase again. Throw it away.
I got on to thinking about Now, more than ever because I was reading through a client's fundraising materials and came across the sentence, "XX is the solution to some of the world's most pressing problems." I paused for a moment, because the sentence felt so familiar--more than deja vu: it felt like I really actually authored it, in this life, in this current reality. And I have, many times: I have written that sentence at about five different nonprofits throughout my career so far. And every time I wrote it, it was true. That statement--whether you are talking about the environment, poverty, disease, abuse, grassroots movements, systemic change--will always be both true and not true. True because there is no hierarchy of problems: you can say if the environment were to die then there would be no people anyway so that is the priority, but you could turn right around and say without a quality of life no one would want to live on the planet anyway so let it die. You could go round and round all day: there is no hierarchy of problems. All problems are hurtful problems that are in need of solutions. Therefore to use the sentence "XX is the solution to some of the world's most pressing problems," as a way to set your nonprofit apart--as the one Donor X should REALLY give her money to this year--is useless: there is no single nonprofit that has THE answer to the "problems" of the world. You can kinda throw that sentence out, too.
As a nonprofit worker, as a humanist, as generally just an empathetic person who wants the best for everyone, I have always wished that were not true. I have always--and I still do, somewhere--believe that there must be one thing, One Single Thing anyone and everyone can do together to make the world better. For a while I thought it was the environment; then for a while I thought it was ending poverty. Lately I have been thinking it is an individual's inner work.
I started to wonder: why are there problems in the first place? Because individuals, groups, dominant systems, and governments go around hurting each other, enslaving each other, excluding each other, and driving each other into desperation. My knee jerk when thinking this was--well then we must end abuse! But ending "abuse" doesn't end abuse. There's another question after this question: Why do individuals do these things?
You can say there is evil in the world and we will never be free of it. I believe that, but I also believe that is a cop out. There is good in the world, and good must be perpetuated, instead of evil, in order to change the world. But good cannot be perpetuated unless a human being also ceases perpetuating evil: every opportunity we have to perpetuate evil is an equal opportunity to perpetuate good. Therefore the question: why do individuals do these things is not a group question, it is a personal question, that can only be answered personally. And if answered honestly, then the choice between perpetuating good and perpetuating evil becomes clear. Do I push this lady on the train because she infringed on my space and didn't say sorry? Do I attack someone who betrayed me by causing them physical or emotional pain? Do I ignore people--all people, even that same guy out front of the Key Food every day asking for money--because I can't handle looking? I believe when we see these examples (and so many others) as opportunities to perpetuate good, we'll choose good a lot more often that evil--but we'll only choose it when we can see the choice that clearly. We need to do real, inner work to gain that clarity.
So than I was talking with my girlfriend and I said, "All that is fine and good, but I still can't justify asking someone starving, or shelterless, or physically suffering--whatever--to do their inner work! That's actually evil! There are other needs that must be met!"
And her brilliant response, which came out of my mouth but was only a thought in my head because of looking at her face and knowing she was listening to me, was, "we, activists, change agents, non profit workers, seekers, poets, ordinary folks--we are the ones that must do the inner work on their behalf, so that we can help realize a world in which they are no longer in pain, and thus can begin to do their inner work too."
Then we were quiet for a minute.
Inner work happens throughout a lifetime. There is no end to it. Inner work is like Now, more than ever: there's no one period of time in which we can say "we did our work" and be done. Life will never not be fully lived without inner work. And nonprofits will never not need Now, more than ever.
People don't want to hear the truth: that change is slow, and it takes time, money and daily measured diligence; that nonprofits need money every year even if they haven't rid the world of disease within a twelve month grant cycle; that sometimes the work seems futile, but that is usually just a matter of being able to back up far enough to see the big picture; that nonprofits are not a social justice ATM that you can deposit $20 or a million dollars a year into and feel your work is done. Changing the world means changing yourself throughout your life into the good world you want to see and not expecting some magic remedy to "fix you." It also means not passing the buck to nonprofits to do it for you, either.
That's the truth of nonprofits: they do their work, and serve people best they can, year in and year out, because the work needs to be done. It's rarely pretty, never quick, and sometimes really boring. But nonprofits--and inner work--are like having a car and needing to make repairs and maintenance on it every year, because it simply isn't possible to own a car that you will never not need to put money into.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Contemporary poetry has become a distant mountain I walk toward but never seem to reach
I used to love contemporary poetry. When I was first coming into poetry (1989) I drank new volumes of poetry by contemporary authors like they were waters from the fountain of youth. In fact, before moving to New York (which made me, sadly, have to thin my collection to only those poetry books I read again and again) I had four bookcases full of thin volumes of beautiful poetry. Because those volumes always made me feel like--regardless of the style in which they were written, or the personal perspective and experience on which the poet drew--the poets were searching for something, and the writing of the poem was the vehicle (and I was hitching a ride) to finding it. Not every poem or every poet I read seemed to find it, but every poet and every poem I read seemed to be searching for it, and that's what drew me in: knowing that others were searching too, and that they were doing it through the calculated articulation of verse. They were taking the problem of being human--which is ultimately a conflict between the body (identity) and the spirit (Agape)--and, using their minds like a fulcrum, tried to balance the tension with a few painstakingly selected words. And this exercise in intellect, identity, art, eroticism, and divinity gave me a feeling of fire in my soul. A feeling that there was a reason for living.
I think most fondly of Haunani-Kay Trask, Chitra Divakaruni, Audre Lorde, Li-Young Lee, Wayne Koestenbaum, Katha Pollitt, Carl Phillips, Cyrus Cassells, Franz Wright, Mary Oliver, Marilyn Hacker, Yusef Komunyakaa (and so many others)...many of whom are still writing (I thank God for them every day), and most still writing the kind of verse that speaks to me.
But the poems by so many of the new contemporary poets (post 2000, I guess--I'm not sure drawing a clear line matters) leave me flat. I want so badly to be pulled into them, but when I read them, I get an anxious feeling that I am reading a poem that is trying to look like a poem in which Something Greater is being sought. It's almost as if actually seeking a higher Truth, a knowledge of oneself and The Ineffable, has become a fashion. The result is I feel a distance when I read them--something I never felt reading contemporary poetry before--as if the poems are just simulations of "real" poems; like eating "Mom's home cooking" in a restaurant. Why should I expect contemporary poetry to spark a fire, or make me feel there is a reason for living, if when I read it I have an eerie suspicion, like Neo in The Matrix, that something isn't right? Maybe I'm just not contemporary anymore.
I am certain that I have changed and that this could be the cause of my not finding the fire in contemporary poetry--these writers are the future, they are the train to uncertainty, and like generations I once passed, it is now me staying on at the station. My aesthetic has not changed, and poetry has, and so no longer speaks to me. What then has poetry changed into? Or, perhaps more directly: once seekers, who, now, have poets changed into?
Much (too much?) has been said about the way technology is changing our lives. Almost everything we do is a simulation: watching reality TV, going to museums, texting, tweeting, facebook, blogs (yes, even as I write these thoughts they are no longer thoughts but simulations of the thoughts sent into a computer which is a simulation of the brain, a piece of paper), restoration projects (nothing can actually be restored, because that would mean erasing everything that has happened since its demise), botanical gardens--everything is a simulation of something else. Not bad--just not the Thing itself anymore. Everything is something new, something once-removed. So what does it mean to seek the Self, or a Higher Truth, in a world of appropriation, projection, replication, and simulation? Can we really see, or be seen, as real to one another? Subsequently, can our poetry seek what's real, or be seen as real?
And what really bakes my noodle is if my volume of poetry ever does get published, it will become a volume in the group of poets whose work no longer speaks to me.
*These thoughts have arisen because of recently reading a lot of contemporary poetry by very young poets as well as Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation. I should also add that The Matrix has been, since I first saw the movie with my good friend Kathy at Jack London Square Cinemas, my all-time favorite movie. Thirteen years later the thing still makes my brain explode.
I think most fondly of Haunani-Kay Trask, Chitra Divakaruni, Audre Lorde, Li-Young Lee, Wayne Koestenbaum, Katha Pollitt, Carl Phillips, Cyrus Cassells, Franz Wright, Mary Oliver, Marilyn Hacker, Yusef Komunyakaa (and so many others)...many of whom are still writing (I thank God for them every day), and most still writing the kind of verse that speaks to me.
But the poems by so many of the new contemporary poets (post 2000, I guess--I'm not sure drawing a clear line matters) leave me flat. I want so badly to be pulled into them, but when I read them, I get an anxious feeling that I am reading a poem that is trying to look like a poem in which Something Greater is being sought. It's almost as if actually seeking a higher Truth, a knowledge of oneself and The Ineffable, has become a fashion. The result is I feel a distance when I read them--something I never felt reading contemporary poetry before--as if the poems are just simulations of "real" poems; like eating "Mom's home cooking" in a restaurant. Why should I expect contemporary poetry to spark a fire, or make me feel there is a reason for living, if when I read it I have an eerie suspicion, like Neo in The Matrix, that something isn't right? Maybe I'm just not contemporary anymore.
I am certain that I have changed and that this could be the cause of my not finding the fire in contemporary poetry--these writers are the future, they are the train to uncertainty, and like generations I once passed, it is now me staying on at the station. My aesthetic has not changed, and poetry has, and so no longer speaks to me. What then has poetry changed into? Or, perhaps more directly: once seekers, who, now, have poets changed into?
Much (too much?) has been said about the way technology is changing our lives. Almost everything we do is a simulation: watching reality TV, going to museums, texting, tweeting, facebook, blogs (yes, even as I write these thoughts they are no longer thoughts but simulations of the thoughts sent into a computer which is a simulation of the brain, a piece of paper), restoration projects (nothing can actually be restored, because that would mean erasing everything that has happened since its demise), botanical gardens--everything is a simulation of something else. Not bad--just not the Thing itself anymore. Everything is something new, something once-removed. So what does it mean to seek the Self, or a Higher Truth, in a world of appropriation, projection, replication, and simulation? Can we really see, or be seen, as real to one another? Subsequently, can our poetry seek what's real, or be seen as real?
And what really bakes my noodle is if my volume of poetry ever does get published, it will become a volume in the group of poets whose work no longer speaks to me.
*These thoughts have arisen because of recently reading a lot of contemporary poetry by very young poets as well as Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation. I should also add that The Matrix has been, since I first saw the movie with my good friend Kathy at Jack London Square Cinemas, my all-time favorite movie. Thirteen years later the thing still makes my brain explode.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Not One to Believe in a Micro-Managing God, But...
Since the semester ended for me one week ago, I have been running. It has been a year since I ran anywhere (even to a bus), and about two semesters since I did any exercise other than climb the endless marble and granite staircases at the seminary with my heavy school bag, and sit down and get back up from the chair in which I sat while I read 400 pages a week.
As anyone who has ever ran or not ran and started to run again or run for the first time knows, it's hard. It hurts your lungs, it hurts your legs, it hurts your feet, oddly, it hurts your back and arms, and if you are getting up at six in the morning to do it, it hurts your feelings, too. It's hardest on the second and third times out, because you are sore from the first two times. And at 40 years old, I imagine the difficulty will persist a bit longer than the standard two-weeks-til-fit, because my body doesn't recover like it used to. Needless to say, inspiration (or desperation) and willingness plays a big part in getting me out there, because the rewards of this running will probably not be seen or understood until some point in July. Sigh.
At any rate, today was my fifth time out. So far, I had two plain old normal runs, accidentally ran with the lead pack of a half marathon for about 1k, and on another day, it rained on me and the wind was whipping. But all four times, I made it--and a little farther each time.
Well, today I woke up very groggy, with weird dreams and allergies rolling around in my head. It was a push to get out of bed. I knew the sun wasn't shining because it was darkish in the apartment, and I knew the weather forecast predicted rain all week (all week! come on!) but I also knew it wasn't raining, and hadn't yet, because the ground was dry. So I looked out the window, and studied the sky and wind, put on my running jacket and decided to go.
Of course, not ten yards down my block toward Prospect Park, it started to sprinkle. Ten more yards, and it was a downpour. It almost felt like flash-flood level rain: I was instantly completely wet, the curbs were rivers, the sewers puddles--and it kept on coming. But I figured it would stop--downpours never last that long--so I kept walking to the park. But by the time I got there, it had not stopped, the wind picked up and it seemed to be raining harder. I had my phone to play music and I started worrying that it would get wet and I can't afford a new one; by now I was completely soaked through all my clothes, my hair was dripping in my eyes, and I was carrying at least an extra pound of water in my socks and sneakers. Mind you, I only live two long blocks from the park--this all happened in .4 miles! So, disappointed, I decided to head back. It was just too much.
I was making peace with it as I walked a half block back, figuring that it would not be a complete loss: I have a lot of work to do today and I am also babysitting later, so I accepted it and headed home. I was up early and so would at least be able to get stuff done. Then the rain stopped. It totally stopped. I stood there for a second, waiting to see if it was a hoax. But it wasn't. The rain stopped. The ground started to simmer with humidity. So I went back to the park, stretched, ran my 3.5 miles, stretched, and walked home. Now there are thunderstorms replete with lightning and massive cloudbursts. It's kinda pretty out my window, if a little treacherous.
Now, I am not one to believe in a micromanaging God. I tend to believe that only the hubris of humans would allow us to think that God--creator of all--would spend its time hanging out around earth sticking its fingers in our every day business. I mean, after all, humans aren't any more important than any other atom or matter in the universe, so why would God spend all its time here, with us?
But this instance had me wondering: I mean, I really want to run, and to me, the running is more than just fitness. It is taking care of myself. It means putting the kind of long-term effort into my life that I often put into others'. It means loving myself a lot (remember how much it hurts to start running again). It is, in a way, a part of a spiritual practice--it gets me out of my head and into my body; I feel myself in the world, I become more present and aware and frankly, when I run, I talk to God in my head. I ask questions. I feel connected. So to go out at 6am is so much more than to simply map a run.
When I turned back because of the downpour, accepting the change of my morning, and the rain seemed to immediately stop, all I heard in my head was "Okay, okay, I was just testing you." As if to see how willing I was--to both run, and to accept that I am not in control. I felt as if HP (what I call God) was pushing me to see what I might take--to see if I would give up on my self-care and self-love and get angry and go home and stop running altogether (which I have done in my life more than once...just one small obstacle and forget it: I am very good at throwing myself under the bus.) After seeing both willingness and acceptance coexisting in me in the same moment, the rain ceased.
As I thought these thoughts I reminded myself I don't believe in a micromanaging God! There's no way God is doing this. God's got more important things to do--God is busy being All, being the Center! So I brushed it off, though the meaning I derived from the moment remains whether the hand of HP is in there dumping buckets of water on me or not: that rare moment of simultaneous willingness to love myself and acceptance to do it regardless if the plans change.
At the end of my run I was stretching my calves on a tree trunk. I placed my hands on the trunk and the damp, humid bark felt soft to my touch, and I had this moment where I felt like it wasn't my hands on the tree so much as the tree was holding me. I looked at my wrinkly hands against the gray bark and I held the tree back. I really felt that tree, and I loved it for just one moment. I loved it and it reminded me of those kinds of people in the world who seem to hold you even when they're not; even when all they do is be in a room with you, or in a world with you. That's what this tree was doing--holding me, even though it was not. That's what so many people do for me: hold me, even when they're not.
That's when I realized that, believing that God couldn't possibly micromanage our lives--and that it was hubris to even think it--was contrary to my believing that God is All, the Center: if God is All, then God absolutely can micromanage All of it, All the time: me, in my downpour, wars in the Middle East, climate change, our galaxy being pulled toward a black hole, the universe expanding. If I really believe God is All, then I couldn't say either way what God's doing or not doing, and the belief that we're (I am) too small and paltry to be cared for specifically by God is some old unconscious self-hate hanging around. The only hubris here lies in my thinking I know anything at all about HP, and what HP does and does not do. The only hubris here lies in my thinking I am unimportant--so unimportant that HP wouldn't spend any time on me at all.
The point is, it doesn't matter what I think. The truth is, HP is holding me even when it's not.
As anyone who has ever ran or not ran and started to run again or run for the first time knows, it's hard. It hurts your lungs, it hurts your legs, it hurts your feet, oddly, it hurts your back and arms, and if you are getting up at six in the morning to do it, it hurts your feelings, too. It's hardest on the second and third times out, because you are sore from the first two times. And at 40 years old, I imagine the difficulty will persist a bit longer than the standard two-weeks-til-fit, because my body doesn't recover like it used to. Needless to say, inspiration (or desperation) and willingness plays a big part in getting me out there, because the rewards of this running will probably not be seen or understood until some point in July. Sigh.
At any rate, today was my fifth time out. So far, I had two plain old normal runs, accidentally ran with the lead pack of a half marathon for about 1k, and on another day, it rained on me and the wind was whipping. But all four times, I made it--and a little farther each time.
Well, today I woke up very groggy, with weird dreams and allergies rolling around in my head. It was a push to get out of bed. I knew the sun wasn't shining because it was darkish in the apartment, and I knew the weather forecast predicted rain all week (all week! come on!) but I also knew it wasn't raining, and hadn't yet, because the ground was dry. So I looked out the window, and studied the sky and wind, put on my running jacket and decided to go.
Of course, not ten yards down my block toward Prospect Park, it started to sprinkle. Ten more yards, and it was a downpour. It almost felt like flash-flood level rain: I was instantly completely wet, the curbs were rivers, the sewers puddles--and it kept on coming. But I figured it would stop--downpours never last that long--so I kept walking to the park. But by the time I got there, it had not stopped, the wind picked up and it seemed to be raining harder. I had my phone to play music and I started worrying that it would get wet and I can't afford a new one; by now I was completely soaked through all my clothes, my hair was dripping in my eyes, and I was carrying at least an extra pound of water in my socks and sneakers. Mind you, I only live two long blocks from the park--this all happened in .4 miles! So, disappointed, I decided to head back. It was just too much.
I was making peace with it as I walked a half block back, figuring that it would not be a complete loss: I have a lot of work to do today and I am also babysitting later, so I accepted it and headed home. I was up early and so would at least be able to get stuff done. Then the rain stopped. It totally stopped. I stood there for a second, waiting to see if it was a hoax. But it wasn't. The rain stopped. The ground started to simmer with humidity. So I went back to the park, stretched, ran my 3.5 miles, stretched, and walked home. Now there are thunderstorms replete with lightning and massive cloudbursts. It's kinda pretty out my window, if a little treacherous.
Now, I am not one to believe in a micromanaging God. I tend to believe that only the hubris of humans would allow us to think that God--creator of all--would spend its time hanging out around earth sticking its fingers in our every day business. I mean, after all, humans aren't any more important than any other atom or matter in the universe, so why would God spend all its time here, with us?
But this instance had me wondering: I mean, I really want to run, and to me, the running is more than just fitness. It is taking care of myself. It means putting the kind of long-term effort into my life that I often put into others'. It means loving myself a lot (remember how much it hurts to start running again). It is, in a way, a part of a spiritual practice--it gets me out of my head and into my body; I feel myself in the world, I become more present and aware and frankly, when I run, I talk to God in my head. I ask questions. I feel connected. So to go out at 6am is so much more than to simply map a run.
When I turned back because of the downpour, accepting the change of my morning, and the rain seemed to immediately stop, all I heard in my head was "Okay, okay, I was just testing you." As if to see how willing I was--to both run, and to accept that I am not in control. I felt as if HP (what I call God) was pushing me to see what I might take--to see if I would give up on my self-care and self-love and get angry and go home and stop running altogether (which I have done in my life more than once...just one small obstacle and forget it: I am very good at throwing myself under the bus.) After seeing both willingness and acceptance coexisting in me in the same moment, the rain ceased.
As I thought these thoughts I reminded myself I don't believe in a micromanaging God! There's no way God is doing this. God's got more important things to do--God is busy being All, being the Center! So I brushed it off, though the meaning I derived from the moment remains whether the hand of HP is in there dumping buckets of water on me or not: that rare moment of simultaneous willingness to love myself and acceptance to do it regardless if the plans change.
At the end of my run I was stretching my calves on a tree trunk. I placed my hands on the trunk and the damp, humid bark felt soft to my touch, and I had this moment where I felt like it wasn't my hands on the tree so much as the tree was holding me. I looked at my wrinkly hands against the gray bark and I held the tree back. I really felt that tree, and I loved it for just one moment. I loved it and it reminded me of those kinds of people in the world who seem to hold you even when they're not; even when all they do is be in a room with you, or in a world with you. That's what this tree was doing--holding me, even though it was not. That's what so many people do for me: hold me, even when they're not.
That's when I realized that, believing that God couldn't possibly micromanage our lives--and that it was hubris to even think it--was contrary to my believing that God is All, the Center: if God is All, then God absolutely can micromanage All of it, All the time: me, in my downpour, wars in the Middle East, climate change, our galaxy being pulled toward a black hole, the universe expanding. If I really believe God is All, then I couldn't say either way what God's doing or not doing, and the belief that we're (I am) too small and paltry to be cared for specifically by God is some old unconscious self-hate hanging around. The only hubris here lies in my thinking I know anything at all about HP, and what HP does and does not do. The only hubris here lies in my thinking I am unimportant--so unimportant that HP wouldn't spend any time on me at all.
The point is, it doesn't matter what I think. The truth is, HP is holding me even when it's not.
Friday, May 11, 2012
No Market for a Gay Catholic Girl Coming Out Story
Here is the latest rejection letter for my book, which came this morning. The name of the press is withheld and I am grateful for the time they spent reading it. The title is also blocked out. It's a working title anyway.
I am trapped in a self-publishing conundrum. Feedback from presses (this one is only the latest; there have been four now) say my book is great, but they can't market it, thus no one will buy it so they have to pass on it. If I self-publish, I can market it myself, but everyone will think the book is not great because a press didn't publish it, so no one will buy it. So what is a writer supposed to do with the stack of finished books (two now) that "no one can market"? And is it really true there's no market for a Gay Catholic girl coming out story? In the middle of a national marriage equality debate, peaking religious homophobia, and an intense Queer youth campaign...is there really no market for a Gay Catholic girl coming out story? Are you really trying to say Queer religious/spiritual women and girls don't exist?
Seems to me what there's really no market for is someone who only has 297 "friends" on Facebook and doesn't have her profile publicly searchable.
I'm naive, I know, but I think what I hate the most is that I have to market myself--not just my book, but myself. I have to become a popular person on Twitter who says hilarious things Rachel Maddow wants to retweet, and on Facebook with ten thousand friends who are holding their breath on my every word. I have to take lots of interesting pictures of myself and post them on instagram with filters so I look cool and people will want to get to know me. I have to have a following based on soundbytes of information that make my outsides appealing to others, so they want what I have. I have to somehow invent myself as a kind of celebrity--then maybe these presses will be able to market my book.
I'm naive, I know. Maybe it is true that people don't read books anymore (though being on the subway everyday tells a different story--most people read). But I am a writer--I like to sit by myself in the corners of rooms, usually in a sort of dim light, with earphones in my head, tapping away. I don't want to go down the street smiling like a salesman trying to sell the product of me. I am not my outsides, and my outsides don't write books. I am not my first impression on anyone. I am not small talk (I can't even do this!), I am not "putting myself out there." I have a hard time talking in groups until I get to know everyone pretty well. I like to think before I speak (except to my girlfriend who gets all the venting--she's a lovely heart for listening). I am not skinny jeans and social butterfly and most delightful person in the room toward whom everyone is drawn. And I am okay with that.
I'm with a bowl of nuts in the chair at the far end of the room: come over and maybe we can have a conversation. I am walking alone in a cemetery, sitting on the couch at home watching movies. I like horses and dogs and prefer their company to people sometimes. I'm a writer. This used to be a profession that drew introverts likes flies to honey. But there's no room at all in the world for introverts anymore. If you are not outgoing, sociable, popular...people wonder what's wrong with you. If you don't charm and dazzle the pants off someone in an interview (e.g. make them laugh and think you are the most amazing sight they've every seen), you are automatically considered unqualified. Who cares that the job is sitting by yourself in a corner reading all day--a perfect job for an introvert--still the social butterfly wins the interview. Every day it gets harder and harder to be a quiet person in this world.
But I don't have a choice. This is simply who I am, and what it amounts to: a pile of finished, unpublished books, and more on the way. I have to say that I don't blame the presses--or anyone--for this problem. We are all "victim" and "perpetrator" to the culture of personality which does, and will reign supreme as long as the sale of products, services, and people remains the cornerstone of western society. The only solution is for all of us to become extroverts and celebrities, or in other words, fake it til we make it.
Problem is, if everyone stands in the same end of the boat, it will capsize.
Dear Ms. Fondakowski,
Unfortunately, we will have to pass on XXX, although it is well-written, with a smooth storyline and engaging characters. Two of the team remarked that the multi-faceted characters you've created so well engage the reader beautifully, and your flow throughout the novel is seamless, both in pacing and in interest retention.
We spent additional time trying to develop an adequate market approach for XXX, and came to the conclusion that we could not fit it in with our current direction title schedule.
Good Luck and thank you again for allowing us to review XXX.
I am trapped in a self-publishing conundrum. Feedback from presses (this one is only the latest; there have been four now) say my book is great, but they can't market it, thus no one will buy it so they have to pass on it. If I self-publish, I can market it myself, but everyone will think the book is not great because a press didn't publish it, so no one will buy it. So what is a writer supposed to do with the stack of finished books (two now) that "no one can market"? And is it really true there's no market for a Gay Catholic girl coming out story? In the middle of a national marriage equality debate, peaking religious homophobia, and an intense Queer youth campaign...is there really no market for a Gay Catholic girl coming out story? Are you really trying to say Queer religious/spiritual women and girls don't exist?
Seems to me what there's really no market for is someone who only has 297 "friends" on Facebook and doesn't have her profile publicly searchable.
I'm naive, I know, but I think what I hate the most is that I have to market myself--not just my book, but myself. I have to become a popular person on Twitter who says hilarious things Rachel Maddow wants to retweet, and on Facebook with ten thousand friends who are holding their breath on my every word. I have to take lots of interesting pictures of myself and post them on instagram with filters so I look cool and people will want to get to know me. I have to have a following based on soundbytes of information that make my outsides appealing to others, so they want what I have. I have to somehow invent myself as a kind of celebrity--then maybe these presses will be able to market my book.
I'm naive, I know. Maybe it is true that people don't read books anymore (though being on the subway everyday tells a different story--most people read). But I am a writer--I like to sit by myself in the corners of rooms, usually in a sort of dim light, with earphones in my head, tapping away. I don't want to go down the street smiling like a salesman trying to sell the product of me. I am not my outsides, and my outsides don't write books. I am not my first impression on anyone. I am not small talk (I can't even do this!), I am not "putting myself out there." I have a hard time talking in groups until I get to know everyone pretty well. I like to think before I speak (except to my girlfriend who gets all the venting--she's a lovely heart for listening). I am not skinny jeans and social butterfly and most delightful person in the room toward whom everyone is drawn. And I am okay with that.
I'm with a bowl of nuts in the chair at the far end of the room: come over and maybe we can have a conversation. I am walking alone in a cemetery, sitting on the couch at home watching movies. I like horses and dogs and prefer their company to people sometimes. I'm a writer. This used to be a profession that drew introverts likes flies to honey. But there's no room at all in the world for introverts anymore. If you are not outgoing, sociable, popular...people wonder what's wrong with you. If you don't charm and dazzle the pants off someone in an interview (e.g. make them laugh and think you are the most amazing sight they've every seen), you are automatically considered unqualified. Who cares that the job is sitting by yourself in a corner reading all day--a perfect job for an introvert--still the social butterfly wins the interview. Every day it gets harder and harder to be a quiet person in this world.
But I don't have a choice. This is simply who I am, and what it amounts to: a pile of finished, unpublished books, and more on the way. I have to say that I don't blame the presses--or anyone--for this problem. We are all "victim" and "perpetrator" to the culture of personality which does, and will reign supreme as long as the sale of products, services, and people remains the cornerstone of western society. The only solution is for all of us to become extroverts and celebrities, or in other words, fake it til we make it.
Problem is, if everyone stands in the same end of the boat, it will capsize.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
To starve, or Starve?
I never meet with my teachers. I am shy. I think there will be nothing to say. I don't know what I want from them. I get afraid. How do you have a conversation with a stranger? I don't know what I am doing in seminary. I suppose I want them to tell me.
I met with my teacher today though. I told her this and that. I said I don't know what I am doing. I said I felt too old to go into the therapy professions (because I would need ten more years of school to become an analyst). I said I was dying under the weight imposed by fundraising (my profession). I babbled because that is what I do in the face of a person who is just listening to me: I fill it with sounds coming out of my mouth.
And then I said, "Well, I'm a writer," and I babbled some more. And finally when I became wordless for a moment, she said "let's just cut all this other crap out: the only time you're talking where you seem lively at all is when you said you're a writer so clearly, right now, you are a writer."
Oh I want to believe it. My face fell--I could feel it. The shock of recognition.
I looked at her, and she said "but you have to eat!" Yes. And so the solution to the increasing pressure--her suggested solution--was to make writing the center around which all the other things are ordered.
Seems so simple. And yet, all my life I've made money the center. And by money, I don't mean the lap of luxury. I mean quite literally, ends meeting, and dinner and a movie once-in-a-while. But I did it for the sole reason that I sincerely believed without money, I would starve, or go homeless, and thus, would be unable to write anyway.
And somehow today, I see that without writing at the center, I will spiritually starve, and become untethered. At which time money cannot comfort me, because these needs are not meetable with cash.
So, to starve, or Starve?
I met with my teacher today though. I told her this and that. I said I don't know what I am doing. I said I felt too old to go into the therapy professions (because I would need ten more years of school to become an analyst). I said I was dying under the weight imposed by fundraising (my profession). I babbled because that is what I do in the face of a person who is just listening to me: I fill it with sounds coming out of my mouth.
And then I said, "Well, I'm a writer," and I babbled some more. And finally when I became wordless for a moment, she said "let's just cut all this other crap out: the only time you're talking where you seem lively at all is when you said you're a writer so clearly, right now, you are a writer."
Oh I want to believe it. My face fell--I could feel it. The shock of recognition.
I looked at her, and she said "but you have to eat!" Yes. And so the solution to the increasing pressure--her suggested solution--was to make writing the center around which all the other things are ordered.
Seems so simple. And yet, all my life I've made money the center. And by money, I don't mean the lap of luxury. I mean quite literally, ends meeting, and dinner and a movie once-in-a-while. But I did it for the sole reason that I sincerely believed without money, I would starve, or go homeless, and thus, would be unable to write anyway.
And somehow today, I see that without writing at the center, I will spiritually starve, and become untethered. At which time money cannot comfort me, because these needs are not meetable with cash.
So, to starve, or Starve?
Friday, May 4, 2012
Miracle
I took a class this semester called "The Journey of Development: Psychological and Religious." It covered the phases of one's life, and the typical characteristics and experiences one has in those various phases. It was as survey course, and it was heavily based in depth psychology and psychoanalysis, so there were some gaps, but one of the most memorable parts of the class for me was learning about the Life Review. It is a phase people go through when they become older adults and/or elderly--a looking back of sorts to gain a new perspective, to see how one's life fits into and forms one's current worldview. Sometimes it is a conscious act, but often it happens unconsciously, and our ideas and behaviors just begin to shift in preparation for the Ultimate Ending. But this kind of Life Review can happen at any time.
I accidentally (ne, unconsciously) had one a week or so ago. I was asked to share at a meeting in the Village and the topic was The Promises. Of course I felt like the promises were not coming true in my life, I had no experience strength or hope to share, and I was going to make no sense to anyone. Typical, right? But that is not up to me; I never plan my shares, because it makes me anxious and I would rather believe that HP will have come out of my mouth what other people need to come out of my mouth. So I went, and I sat in The Chair, and when the time came, I started talking.
At the time, I was a week away from eleven years sobriety--not a small chunk of time. I had been getting squirrely, restless, irritable, discontent: it's a phenomenon that happens around sobriety anniversaries, that I never really believed in--until of course it started happening to me. So when the secretary introduced me, what started coming out of my mouth is this stuff I learned about the Life Review in class.
More than any other year in my sobriety, this year I viscerally felt what it means to say "I only have today." In the throes of major life changes--moving to New York, seminary, being broke, being without my friends and support network, turning 40, and a new relationship--there were days when I realized how deeply a part of me my knee-jerk reaction to pain is, and that it never really goes away...it just gets dimmer and duller with time, sober time. Of course, my knee-jerk reaction to pain is to check out, which I had done with alcohol for a long time in my life. And my drinking thoughts were in sharp relief at times in this past year. Some days were such a challenge, it felt like a miracle to get through them. And as I sat there beginning to share, I felt how precarious eleven years is, and what a tragedy it would be to lose them.
Then I realized that's not it at all. I used to think the squirrely feelings were something like fear, or superstition--I have so much time, I don't want to lose it! But as I shared about the Life Review process I realized that what the squirreliness around anniversaries is really about for me is not the time I have accrued, but rather remembering the person I was, and being able to see the person I am now. It is not the number of days without a drink that matters, it is change in me, over time. And looking at that makes me uncomfortable, freaked out, amazed, and grateful. Can I actually step into this person I am becoming? It is such a big life--wouldn't it be easier to just give it up and go back?
Of course not; if I were to drink again, the changes in me stop, and do I really want to be that old, sad, lonely person I barely remember, or this one, who wants to live? So far, I choose life.
The last thing I shared about was remembering when I first came into AA and hearing people throw the phrase "cash and prizes" around. I thought about that phrase in light of the Promises. Nowhere do the Promises say anything about external stuff. The only thing they say for sure will happen, is that you will change inside. I have changed inside a lot, and while I can't be sure I am happy and joyous--and I am not sure that matters too much to me, I would rather just be ok--I am absolutely sure I am free: I am no longer captive to Guinness, MGD, or Forestville Wine, not captive to my emotions or feelings of victimhood, (I struggle with this one but know, too) I am not captive to other people's emotions, or feelings about me. I no longer retreat; I have begun to know what and who I love, and am seeking that.
Grateful for 11 years sober, and for all my friends and SF/OAK/SAC peeps who have helped me get here, and who keep me here.
I accidentally (ne, unconsciously) had one a week or so ago. I was asked to share at a meeting in the Village and the topic was The Promises. Of course I felt like the promises were not coming true in my life, I had no experience strength or hope to share, and I was going to make no sense to anyone. Typical, right? But that is not up to me; I never plan my shares, because it makes me anxious and I would rather believe that HP will have come out of my mouth what other people need to come out of my mouth. So I went, and I sat in The Chair, and when the time came, I started talking.
At the time, I was a week away from eleven years sobriety--not a small chunk of time. I had been getting squirrely, restless, irritable, discontent: it's a phenomenon that happens around sobriety anniversaries, that I never really believed in--until of course it started happening to me. So when the secretary introduced me, what started coming out of my mouth is this stuff I learned about the Life Review in class.
More than any other year in my sobriety, this year I viscerally felt what it means to say "I only have today." In the throes of major life changes--moving to New York, seminary, being broke, being without my friends and support network, turning 40, and a new relationship--there were days when I realized how deeply a part of me my knee-jerk reaction to pain is, and that it never really goes away...it just gets dimmer and duller with time, sober time. Of course, my knee-jerk reaction to pain is to check out, which I had done with alcohol for a long time in my life. And my drinking thoughts were in sharp relief at times in this past year. Some days were such a challenge, it felt like a miracle to get through them. And as I sat there beginning to share, I felt how precarious eleven years is, and what a tragedy it would be to lose them.
Then I realized that's not it at all. I used to think the squirrely feelings were something like fear, or superstition--I have so much time, I don't want to lose it! But as I shared about the Life Review process I realized that what the squirreliness around anniversaries is really about for me is not the time I have accrued, but rather remembering the person I was, and being able to see the person I am now. It is not the number of days without a drink that matters, it is change in me, over time. And looking at that makes me uncomfortable, freaked out, amazed, and grateful. Can I actually step into this person I am becoming? It is such a big life--wouldn't it be easier to just give it up and go back?
Of course not; if I were to drink again, the changes in me stop, and do I really want to be that old, sad, lonely person I barely remember, or this one, who wants to live? So far, I choose life.
The last thing I shared about was remembering when I first came into AA and hearing people throw the phrase "cash and prizes" around. I thought about that phrase in light of the Promises. Nowhere do the Promises say anything about external stuff. The only thing they say for sure will happen, is that you will change inside. I have changed inside a lot, and while I can't be sure I am happy and joyous--and I am not sure that matters too much to me, I would rather just be ok--I am absolutely sure I am free: I am no longer captive to Guinness, MGD, or Forestville Wine, not captive to my emotions or feelings of victimhood, (I struggle with this one but know, too) I am not captive to other people's emotions, or feelings about me. I no longer retreat; I have begun to know what and who I love, and am seeking that.
Grateful for 11 years sober, and for all my friends and SF/OAK/SAC peeps who have helped me get here, and who keep me here.
Friday, April 27, 2012
So sick of rejection!
A few days ago I received a rejection letter from an agent I queried more than a year and a half ago. The rejection was so apologetic, and so falsely encouraging, that I just rolled my eyes and deleted it. I had long written that submission off; in fact, I write off any submission for which I do not hear a response within in six months. I figure if they can't decide in six months, then I don't want to deal with that kind of bottleneck and/or indecision. Besides being condescending in that we, as writers, should be so gracious that they read it because they receive *so* many submissions (they get paid for this, and invite the submissions, so I really don't get why they have this tone of being so put out about it), they are conversely insulting us by expecting that our time should be suspended, we should be beholden, contingent; we should be happy to wait so long, as if we don't continue living, or writing, or trying to find a home for our work (and we don't get paid for this!).
I don't write to publish; I write because it brings me closer to understanding myself, and makes me feel incredibly connected, filled with energy. When I don't write, I fill up with an anxious, pent-up feelings that manifest in urges to act out: punch, scream, run. And I am not just saying this "because I have never been published." I have been published, and essentially, it does nothing to fulfill that part of writing for me--the part that gives me only good, good feelings, and calms the restlessness. But I am also a reader, and I want my work to be read by others--publishing is the means to this end. And so I try to carry on and keep my chin up, not let the rejections dim my love of writing. I know we all struggle with this; I also know the rejections can't take writing away from me, because it is so much bigger than rejections. But they do frustrate me.
Besides the 1.8 year-old rejection, I've been getting a different kind of rejection lately: one that is personalized, hand-written, and encouraging. These rejections (there have been three) are written in a tone that assumes my book will be published. The publishers have liked the book, and the idea, and seem to think it is only a matter of time. And yet, none of them wants to publish it themselves. So my question is: if they like it so much, but won't publish it, then who will?
I hate that the writer-to-reader equation requires a broker; some broker that makes a whole lot of money for nothing: neither the producer, nor the consumer of the work, the agent and/or publisher are middle-men who somehow own the public process of writing and reading. They have somehow figured out how to be the authority and validator of "good" writing. It really stinks, because their business model is based, not on connecting readers with writers, or on publishing "good" writing, but on forcing writers and readers to be a part of the process they own so they can make money.
I know small presses, vanity presses, self-publishing, and blogs/Internet have made it possible for writers to reach readers. You are reading this blog, after all, and this is great, no denying it. But few people will willingly pick up a self-published or vanity press book; small presses reach a very small audience (no one is buying my chapbook for sale on the "publications tab"); and no one who reads a blog is going to be willing to read a 250 page work of fiction in a blog format. The stats on this blog sort of reinforce that: shorter entries have more hits.
Point is, well, I am just disappointed and sick of the time-consuming, expensive, SLOW "business" process of publishing a book--as if writing it wasn't sweat enough; as if not getting paid wasn't sacrifice enough; as if having to have another job to pay bills while you wrote the book wasn't burden enough: we also have to deal with agents' and publishers' ungracious attitudes, unhelpful comments, slow response rates, and Generalized Disrespect Disorder for anyone they decide can't make them a shit ton of money.
Ok, done yelling. Apologies to every writer who has already written a blog entry like this, or who has experienced frustration and talked about it, and/or anyone who is sick of hearing disappointed writers belabor this process. And apologies to all small presses, regular presses, and agents trying to change the way this works, and bring books that people want to read to the people who want to read them. It's all going to be ok.
I don't write to publish; I write because it brings me closer to understanding myself, and makes me feel incredibly connected, filled with energy. When I don't write, I fill up with an anxious, pent-up feelings that manifest in urges to act out: punch, scream, run. And I am not just saying this "because I have never been published." I have been published, and essentially, it does nothing to fulfill that part of writing for me--the part that gives me only good, good feelings, and calms the restlessness. But I am also a reader, and I want my work to be read by others--publishing is the means to this end. And so I try to carry on and keep my chin up, not let the rejections dim my love of writing. I know we all struggle with this; I also know the rejections can't take writing away from me, because it is so much bigger than rejections. But they do frustrate me.
Besides the 1.8 year-old rejection, I've been getting a different kind of rejection lately: one that is personalized, hand-written, and encouraging. These rejections (there have been three) are written in a tone that assumes my book will be published. The publishers have liked the book, and the idea, and seem to think it is only a matter of time. And yet, none of them wants to publish it themselves. So my question is: if they like it so much, but won't publish it, then who will?
I hate that the writer-to-reader equation requires a broker; some broker that makes a whole lot of money for nothing: neither the producer, nor the consumer of the work, the agent and/or publisher are middle-men who somehow own the public process of writing and reading. They have somehow figured out how to be the authority and validator of "good" writing. It really stinks, because their business model is based, not on connecting readers with writers, or on publishing "good" writing, but on forcing writers and readers to be a part of the process they own so they can make money.
I know small presses, vanity presses, self-publishing, and blogs/Internet have made it possible for writers to reach readers. You are reading this blog, after all, and this is great, no denying it. But few people will willingly pick up a self-published or vanity press book; small presses reach a very small audience (no one is buying my chapbook for sale on the "publications tab"); and no one who reads a blog is going to be willing to read a 250 page work of fiction in a blog format. The stats on this blog sort of reinforce that: shorter entries have more hits.
Point is, well, I am just disappointed and sick of the time-consuming, expensive, SLOW "business" process of publishing a book--as if writing it wasn't sweat enough; as if not getting paid wasn't sacrifice enough; as if having to have another job to pay bills while you wrote the book wasn't burden enough: we also have to deal with agents' and publishers' ungracious attitudes, unhelpful comments, slow response rates, and Generalized Disrespect Disorder for anyone they decide can't make them a shit ton of money.
Ok, done yelling. Apologies to every writer who has already written a blog entry like this, or who has experienced frustration and talked about it, and/or anyone who is sick of hearing disappointed writers belabor this process. And apologies to all small presses, regular presses, and agents trying to change the way this works, and bring books that people want to read to the people who want to read them. It's all going to be ok.
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