Actually matters

Everyone who's had to sit in a room with my while I do a paper knows I question my writing ability more than I tout it--and I tout it a lot. What happens is that I look forward to a paper but dread the grade, because what if someone doesn't like it? I expressed this fear last night when speaking to Maureen Dezell, formerly of the Boston Globe, and Tim Lemire, of this book, which I want a lot. They both stared at me and said, "If you are ultra sensitive, journalism or writing is not the right field. You will always be criticized. The trick is to figure out whose opinion actually matters and who's just crazy."

One of my professors, one who I have an inexplicable and inappropriate crush on (way older! what am I thinking!), handed back midterm papers today in alphabetical order. Except my name was not called, and I started to worry that it was either that horrible that he needed to talk to me, or I had somehow forgotten to hand in the paper, despite my distinct memory of printing it out in blue ink. He'd held mine until the end and said quietly as everyone filed past, "Molly. Really, really wonderful. Top-notch stuff."

So, suck it, brain.

-- 07:48 PM

Something in the way

It usually takes me quite a bit of deliberation before I do anything, but within the span of about 2 seconds tonight I decided that I would go home for the weekend. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because it's Halloween weekend and I don't like Halloween anymore. (Actually, I quite like Halloween in the way it's supposed to be, with kids and costumes and all that. But I cannot go trick-or-treating anymore ["Yes you can!" No I can't, I wouldn't even enjoy it.] and I don't like parties, so Halloween will be gone from my life until I have a baby. That baby is going to have awesome original costumes and eat donuts from a string on the ceiling.) It's also Homecoming weekend, so maybe it's that I don't want to be around that. Maybe I plan on surprising my mom when she comes home. Maybe I just want to get my winter coat because it was cold today, or maybe I want to buy a new coat but I probably should have gotten it in a season when it was on sale and what kind do I want anyway?

I don't think I'm going home because I'm sad, because I don't even think I'm sad right now. My body isn't acting like I am. I'm moving around, my face feels fine. I even enjoyed walking outside and thought of a nice sentence when I passed a squirrel with not one, but TWO crab apples in its mouth. But suddenly, since 5:30, the words that come out of my mouth have been slow and brief, and then they were saying, "I'm gonna go home tomorrow." Suddenly I was calling my dad, and suddenly it was decided.

I think I'm going home to write.

-- 09:32 PM

No way, this is BOGUS, man!

Prof: "Anyone know what this is?"

Stupid 1 and 2: "Fishy!"

Me: "Jesus Fish."

Prof: "Who said that?"

Me: "I did."

Prof: "Awesome. Are you a--?"

Me: "Seinfeld fan? Yeah."

Prof: "Awesome. The rest of you know what this is, right? Right? A Jesus Fish?"

Stupids 1-30: *nothing*

WHAT KIND OF WORLD IS THIS?!

-- 12:13 PM

Sluggo went down to Georgia

"You know, I'm sure you'll appreciate this, but we are never getting divorced."

"Oh good."

"It is just so boring around here."

"Dad, she's been gone like seven hours."

"Yeah, but I got the cats to take care of--Cozmo is starting to like me which really weirds me out--and the fire alarm went off earlier so the dog was going crazy trying to fit under my chair, and it's just so boring here."

"Well, that's good to hear. I'll write that down, I'm recording this conversation as we speak so that next time she starts crying randomly after a homerun..."

"Yeah, without that it's just boring. I miss that Sluggo."

-- 03:29 PM

There's no world for tomorrow if we wait for today

I've got four big midterms coming up, but sometimes I get in these research modes. Searches for apartments I don't need, design items for the house I don't own, jobs I won't have for two years, schools abroad I can't decide between and won't be able to decide between until I see an adviser but I don't have time to see an adviser so I just kind of keep going over the same information, make-up that's too expensive but I bookmark anyway. My roommate can attest to these things where I just sit down and put off all my more pressing work (three books by Friday! start reading please!) and devote all my attention to some aspect of my future. Today, and most often, it's the prospect of being poor.

As stupid as it sounds, I liked that Kathy Behan said today, "I have some bad news. You're all going to be poor." Because there, stop telling me otherwise, this is not an irrational fear, it happens to most people in the writerly world. She spoke to a small group of us at the Career Center about her experience as a copywriter, freelancer, and now editor. Right off the bat she informed us that the average salary of a freelance writer is $11,000. IIIIII think I make that in tips at my café. She also said that New York City is publishing mecca. IIIIII'm pretty sure I hate New York and will never ever live there. She said that you have got to get it out of your head that just because you graduated from a top school does not mean you will go to the top positions right away, that you have to be willing to be subservient and do really menial things, and the self-righteous part of me doesn't have time for that, but the other part that has seen me work my magic on countless adults figures that I might actually make my mark a little faster.

When we went around the table, I avoided the whole "I'm an English major and want to go into publishing" route, because everyone who said that got a nod. I said, "I'm also English, and I've always wanted to work at a publishing house, but more as an editor than a writer."

"Really? Why is that?"

"I just like grammar more. I worked for my school newspaper and I much preferred going over other people's work and polishing it than sitting down and plugging away at something."

"That's great. You will be invaluable. Writers are a dime a dozen, but it's astounding how few know where to put a comma. If you've got that skill, you're good."

"I also did an internship over the summer in marketing," I added. "And it got me looking more at the web design aspect of all of this, and I was wondering if that was--"

"Oh, absolutely. So many publications are moving onto the Internet for various reasons. You have two very good skills to work with. They are really needed."

I think I've always kind of known this. In my whole pursuit of web designing, I kind of knew (with the help and prodding of my boss Kim) that this would be a really good thing to have. "You think that this stuff you do for me is simple," she tells me every time, "and for you it is. But you have no idea what kind of market there is for people like you. You know how to communicate with people, Molly. You know how to explain to me what you're doing so I get it. And you make beautiful things. People like me really need you."

The desire to be needed is an entire other avenue that I should investigate one of these days, but for the time being, I'm too wrapped up in my future and the hope that I will be happy with my job and be able to live comfortably. Pat and I always talk about money, because it's a precarious issue to bring up in our house, and we've both decided that we will be okay when we don't have to worry about making extraneous purchases now and then. Fortunately for him, he's going to be a billionaire with his profession, where as I am possibly dooming myself to Starving Artist, the title I've always wanted to avoid. So I've come away from this talk a little less terrified of growing up than I thought I would be despite the salary figures and Devil Wears Prada horror stories ("That movie is 100% true") she threw out, because I learned that my inclinations have always been on the right track. The editing, the designing, they could get me somewhere.

The only issue I face now is that she recommended that everyone have a portfolio of published clippings. Aside from my enlightening article in tenth grade on a writing program at Emerson College (one that the stupid editors cut off with their stupid program and then Crosby blamed it on me and we got into a big fight for like a year!), I've got nothing. And now, clearly, something has to be done. I'm terrified of being published--I dish out criticism very well but Lord do I hate taking it. But what else am I going to do? Walk into offices and say, "I can write. Trust me"? (The same way I did when I tried out for a comedy troupe last year, couldn't think of a joke to tell, and said, "I don't understand, I thought I was already blowing you away with how funny I am?" which gained an appreciative chuckle at best and no callback?) I've had a very smooth year, and I'm afraid to disturb the waters, but I need to. I need to go to newspaper meetings, literary journal meetings, I need to DO something. I've been writing writing writing, and I've rewritten over one hundred pages for a novel I've worked on for years, but I can't just go into a place and say, "It exists, but you can't see it because I'm too shy to share." Things don't work that way, and I know that they don't work that way.

The best way to deal with my anxiety over this is to think whoa, there is so much cool stationary I could use for a really nice portfolio. Out with the bad.

-- 08:53 PM

One of my roommates during Catch Phrase

"Umm okay, he rides a bike, he has cancer--"

"E.T.!!!"

Edit: OH, and I totally forgot this one as well, by another roommate's boyfriend:

"Okay, she was blind and deaf--"

"Helen Keller!"

"What? No... Ohh, no, no, wait, she led the underground railroad movement."

"Harriet Tubman!"

"No! Stop! Ugh, okay, a Fenway hot dog."

"...Frank? Anne Frank?"

"Yes, God. What the fuck did this girl do?"

-- 09:31 PM

No one sticks up for the History Channel though?

P: "The History Channel for me was momentous. When they announced that... I mean, I ran downstairs in my pajamas... ran to the Christmas tree... No really. The History Channel was going to be amazing, especially for me because--you may not know this about me--but I am a history teacher. And then all they showed was stuff on the Nazis. Which, sure, that's interesting, but after a while you get tired of Hitler. And in November they do the JFK stuff, but for Christmas, it's Hitler. And then, when they run out of Hitler, it's other stupid stuff. STUPID stuff, like the history of power drilling. And the history of sex, because everyone is going to watch that. My God, History Channel. It's almost as bad as the Food Network now."

S: "HEY."

P: "It's true."

S: "Are you kidding me?"

S: "Ace of Cakes?"

P: "Ace of Cakes is good."

S: "And Iron Chef!"

S: "And Giada!"

P: "Rachael Ray."

S: "Oh."

S: "Well, yeah."

P: "I wrote to Dunkin Donuts saying that I will not buy anything more from them until they get Rachael Ray out of my face. I am eight years old."

-- 04:35 PM

Meedly Meedly MEEEEEE

After hearing Coheed's new song "Gravemakers and Gunslingers," I understand what it's like to be a meathead. It makes me want to scale a wall with just my feet because my hands are too busy shredding. Once I'm done going to the doctor, I am getting back on that bike and I am getting PUMPED.

-- 09:58 AM

And I am going

Since I seem to be a big rambling mess of comparisons these days, we can continue the trend with my First Weekends Home. Last year:

I've been improving since last Sunday because Grammy told me to stop trying to make friends, stop focusing on it so much, and I did, and it was so much easier to just forget about that. And then I come home and I wouldn't have been surprised if, when I walked through the door, there was confetti and noisemakers and a big flashing neon arrow that said YOU HAVE NO FRIENDS.

This time around, all I could talk about was how happy I was with my friends here. Every story I could think of, the random 5 o'clock in the afternoon ice cream binges, the Wednesday night ANTM/Gossip Girl/Cash Cab After Dark, the Harry Potter marathons to celebrate no homework, the blanket making, the going to dinner WITH SOMEONE every night. At the same time, I was entirely happy where I was at home. My bed was comfortable, Church was familiar, Water St. breakfast was delicious, work was fun and profitable, football was tedious but comforting, steadying the ladder for my project-ambitious mom was exciting, and apple crisp to end a Sunday night in October was perfect.

It cooled down this weekend, and it rained, and it was grey, and usually that equals BIG BAD HEADACHE AND BIG BAD GO FUCK YOURSELF I WISH I WAS DEAD, because everyone knows that autumn is the worst season of them all (joke: I realize I am in the minority, but I stand by it). But for some reason, when I woke up this morning with Moses curled up on my stomach and the sound of water dripping off leaves, I tried with all my might to come up with some sentence that would succinctly capture the way it felt right. Instead, I've wound up with just another too-long entry.

But it's all right, because even if I can't be as cool as I was in 2004 with my quick and witty captures of life, at least I can get in a car at the end of a weekend and not force it to pull over because I'm crying so hard. This morning when Jaylynn dropped me off at the train station in Cordage Park, where it was raining and the buildings are all decrepit, the plunging nervousness that comes every time I go was only due to my worry that my plastic bag would break and ruin all that yarn, rather than the fear of what horribly forced conversations awaited me at my dorm. I could be anywhere. I'm versatile. I can go anywhere.

-- 07:23 PM

"An Encounter"

"OH!"

"Oh!"

"Wow, I've read this a million times and I never even noticed that!"

"I can't believe I missed that!"

"Do you think... I mean, am I reading way too far into this?"

"No, no, definitely. That is absolutely something Joyce would put in, he never puts anything in that doesn't mean something."

"Hallo, folks, what have we got so far?"

"Uh. We think we understand it."

"Do you? And what do you understand?"

"Well... we think... obviously the old guy's a pedophile, but we think the narrator might... like it... some definite homosexual undertones..."

"Could you point to where in the text you're finding these?"

"Maybe... okay, maybe I'm reading too far into this, let me know if I am. But... So the creep says, 'Do you guys have any girlfriends?' And Mahony's like, 'Yeah, tons,' but the narrator's like, 'No, I haven't had any.' And then... the narrator's just sitting there together with the old guy, and they're just watching Mahony chasing a cat... a cat...."

"Aha. Yes, and you'll find some definite questions of sexuality throughout Dubliners, as I said before. The old man without a doubt is a pedophile."

"Yeah, but... haha... so then Mahony is chasing the cat then..."

"Right. I absolutely agree."

"...Uh. Yeah. Are we on the same page with the cat here?"

-- 01:18 PM