Today is the holiday I and my kin celebrate.
Whatever December holiday you call yours, I hope it is/was happy, warm, cuddly, joyous, pleasant, loving, and generous.
To you and yours.
Rob Whoville!
Twas the Night: Five Things I’d Leave Santa
When I was a kid we left cookies and milk for Santa and carrots for his reindeer. My cousin’s son asked if they could leave Santa chicken nuggets and chocolate milk this year because he’s probably pretty tired of eating cookies. One adult friend of mine suggested leaving Santa beer and pizza. I’d go with that.
But my cousin’s little boy had a good point: Santa is probably tired of cookies and milk. For all we know, he could be lactose intolerant by this point. It’s time to shake Santa out of his cookie boredom. So here are five treats that I’d leave Santa on a night like tonight.
1. Hot cocoa and brownies. A nice chocolate fix to get him through a long night of present delivering.
2. Steak and mashed potatoes. At some point, a guy needs something substantial on top of all of those cookies.
3. Pixie Stix and Mountain Dew. Because sometimes a guy needs something stronger than a chocolate fix to keep his energy up. Mainlining sugar and caffiene is the best next step.
4. Beer and chicken wings. I imagine Santa needs something adult from time to time. (Besides, I imagine by now that the reindeer pretty much know where they’re going and what they’re doing.)
5. Ginger ale and Pepto. He’s been eating all night. He’s probably got a massive case of indigestion by the time he hits Nova Scotia.
So, for Santa’s sake, what new goodies would you leave for him on Christmas Eve?
‘Tis the Season.
Writing–Writing Around December
Stephen King has said he writes every day, even on Christmas. I only wish I was as gifted. I don’t write every day. I tried, I failed, I found a schedule that works for me.
I’ve got a whiteboard in which I put a monthly schedule, four months at a stretch. For every month, I write down what I want to accomplish in that month. From there, I organize my projects further by writing in my day planner what I want to work on for a given day. Sometimes I can do this all at once at the beginning of the month; sometimes I go week by week. Either way, my projects get scheduled and I stick to that schedule (mostly). When it comes to short stories, I sometimes have a lot of things going on in one month. This helps keep me organized. I thrive on organization. It makes up for my declining memory.
The goal of this monthly system is to get things done and get a few days off. If I get everything done in a timely fashion, then I have a few days off at the end of the month to let my brain rest. The more efficiently I get my work done, the more time I have for resting and working on goof projects (projects that are purely for pleasure). The more I slack during the month, the less time off I have, if I get any at all.
For the most part, this scheduling system works out very well for me. December, however, is the notable exception. It’s the busiest leg of the Holiday Gauntlet and I always think I can manage my time better than I’m actually capable of and end up overscheduling myself, much to my disappointment. It’s no way to end a year.
This year I managed to wise up and gave myself a reduced schedule. So far, it’s working out very well. I’m accomplishing things without getting overwhelmed and stressed. Finally! The brains kick in and I do something smart!
With only one more item to go on my monthly writing to-do list, I’m taking this week off to enjoy the holiday and I’m doing it without guilt. Well, writing guilt, anyway.
Maybe one day I can work up to the writing stamina Stephen King has, but for now, I’m looking to end this year on a feel-good note and I’m good with that.
Stories By the Numbers
Ready: 3
Sent Out: 2
Rejected: 1 (“Erin Go Bragh”; the Universe wanted to prove the point I made in last weeks Writing Wednesday by sending me a “It’s not you, it’s me” rejection)
The Holiday Gauntlet
Every year I run the holiday gauntlet. I’m sure lots of people do it, but this isn’t about them; it’s about me.
The gauntlet starts with Thanksgiving. I attend dinner with my dad’s side of the family at my Aunt Jo’s. Some years I’m responsible for shuttling the nieces down, too. It’s a nice way to ease into the craziness that follows in the weeks to come.
From that point on, it’s a matter of wrangling presents, buying them if I can afford it or making them if I can’t, wrapping them, mailing them, piling them up with the rest of my Christmas paraphernalia in the corner of my room. This likely takes me until the week of the holiday because I’m lousy at coming up with gift ideas in a timely fashion, and if I do come up with something, then I tend to misjudge the amount of time I have to get it. Somehow, I always managed to squeak in under the wire.
My middle niece was cursed with having her birthday exactly a week before Christmas. My mom doesn’t put out any Christmas decorations until afterwards so she can have the day and of course, I’m there for it to give her present and enjoy some cupcakes. It’s like a warm-up.
The week of Chrstimas is probably my most dreaded week of the year. It’s the logistics of trying to squeeze in as many Christmases as necessary so everyone is satisfied (this happens when you have divorced parents, divorced grandparents, and traveling grandparents). One year, I ended up doing six Christmases in four days. It was a nightmare and I’ve resented Christmas ever since. Typically, though, I usually have no more than three. Last year, I only had two. This year I’m only having two. It’s like a vacation only having two.
Part of the headache of doing the Christmases is the traveling. A trip to my mom’s is usually no big deal, just a twenty minute drive. A trip to my Aunt Jo’s is about the same amount of time, but in the opposite direction. But there have been years in which I drove to my mom’s on the 23rd and 24th for Christmases and then on Christmas drove north to her house, picked up the nieces, drove south to my Aunt Jo’s, had Christmas, then drove north to take the girls home, then drove south to take myself home. The entire Christmas ping pong trip ends up being about 150 miles. It’s a lot of driving for a day full of food and presents and sometimes crappy weather.
Sure, other people drive that distance in a day. My grandparents pretty much have to in order to make their Christmas rounds. But, I think it’s more exhausting to drive it like a fish on speed trapped in a small bowl.
After the mania that is Christmas begins the slow cool down. New Year’s Eve is a raucous affair for a lot of people, but for me, it’s a quiet business of a marathon of some sort (last year it was Mystery Science Theater 3000) with some snacks, sparkling grape juice, and a friend or two. Nothing big, nothing drunken, nothing fancy. Just a quiet ringing in of the New Year.
My oldest niece’s birthday is January 11th and, you know it, I’m there for cupcakes (or cheesecake) and presents. It’s the last trip I have to make and by that point, I’m tired of driving 51 North.
The gauntlet ends on my birthday the next day, January 12th. My mom usually just lumps my birthday in with my niece’s, which has led to some interesting birthday cakes over the years. I can’t blame her. By that point, all of my friends and relatives are tired of celebrating things. Even if I had the energy to do anything special, I’d most likely be doing it alone. The last time I went out on my birthday, I was twenty-six and ended up puking at the bar, so maybe it’s just best I’m too tired to do anything anyway.
It then takes me until Thanksgiving to rest up for the next run.
This is why the people who love Christmas baffle me. I think of them like I think of people who enjoy running marathons; it’s hard for me to enjoy anything when I’m struggling so hard just to breathe.
Despite the craziness and my Grinch-like demeanor, I do enjoy the quiet, sweet moments with family and friends. And the food. And the free stuff.
Rob Whoville!
Five Gifts I Would Give (If I Could)
Last week I listed five gifts I wanted from Santa. As much as I like getting, I like giving, too.
Here are five gifts that I would give if I could afford to give them and if it were practical to do so. Don’t look for anything of substance here. You won’t find it. It’s not one of the things on the list.
1. I’d give the Pittsburgh Pirates a winning season. I’m not talking championship; I’m saying finishing things out above .500. I’m no Pirates fan, but it’s got to be miserable as a fan and a player to running on two decades of losing seasons. No one deserves to go through that (though there are some people I think should; doesn’t mean they deserve it, though).
2. I’d give everyone a white Christmas. The snow would only last a day and wouldn’t be on the roads so there’d be no travel problems. I think people in the warmer climates are missing out.
3. I’d give people a break from being self-righteous. I imagine it’s exhausting and they could use a vacation.
4. I’d give my old high school some windows so it wouldn’t look so much like a prison. Or I’d give it some razor wire so the prison look would be complete. Whichever would be better for the current students.
5. I’d give everyone an extra tomorrow so they could catch up on their sleep today. Sometimes you just have to pause and take a nap so you have the energy to keep up with life.
That’s my giving list. What’s on yours?
Writing–Rejection Subjective
One of my biggest obstacles to changing my writing from hobby to job was the fear of rejection. I don’t do well with failure. Even as a kid it gave me serious anxiety. I’d be so afraid of failing or making a mistake that I’d just freeze and wouldn’t do anything. Then once I was forced to actually do it and found out that even if I did make a mistake or fail, it wasn’t the end of the world and then I had no troubles.
Writing was no different. The idea of being rejected (and therefore, not good enough) stopped me cold in my tracks. It was the combination of entering contests (because in my head that’s not being rejected, it’s just not winning, and I can handle not winning) and reading Stephen King‘s On Writing that helped me get past my rejection fear.
The first story that ever brought me any kind of validation that I might be good writing was “Such a Pretty Face”. It won 10th place in the Genre category of a Writer’s Digest story contest. It got me 25 bucks, but didn’t get the story published (I did get to see my name in print in a magazine, though, and that was pretty cool). I was really proud of the acoomplishment and proud of the story. I then decided to try to get “Such a Pretty Face” published.
And that’s when I learned a valuable lesson in rejection. It’s a subjective thing.
Despite placing in the contest, “Such a Pretty Face” has been rejected six times since then. SIX! You’d think that 10th place showing would count for something. It’s a GOOD story. Someone told me so. I’ve got a certificate to show for it.
It was very frustrating to have one person say the story was worthy of a ribbon, but everyone else not think it was worthy of being read.
Of all the rejections I’ve received for “Such a Pretty Face”, only one suggested I make any changes to it. The changes he suggested made me realize that he totally missed the point of the story. And that made me realize that I was forgetting the human element of the submission process.
Not every rejection I get is because the story was bad. Sure, I’ve sent out stories I shouldn’t have and they were rejected for very good reasons. But some rejections left me scratching my head. Now I realize that maybe those form looking rejections might not have all been form rejections and maybe they meant it when they said these weren’t the stories that they were looking for.
It seems silly, but up until that point it didn’t occur to me that someone just might not like my story. I never thought that maybe it might not what they were looking for or they’d already seen too many similar stories lately or they didn’ t think the story fit with the publication as well as I did. Yes, until that point, I didn’t realize that rejection might not have anything to do with the quality of the story.
If you’ve read any of my other blog posts, it should be no suprise that I am this slow on the uptake.
So my attitude towards rejection has changed a bit. It’s still disappointing, but now that I know that it doesn’t automatically mean that my story is shit, the sting doesn’t linger quite as long. Getting back on that horse is quicker and easier.
And if it’s the last thing I do, I will see “Such a Pretty Face” published.
Stories By the Numbers
Ready: 3
Submitted: 3
Rob Whoville!
Ah, December. The time of year when people talk about goodwill toward men and showing the love and giving and sharing and lots of other mushy, squishy feelings we’re only fine with showing one month out of twelve. There are a lot of holidays that occur during December and most of them run with the same kind of warm fuzzies. Christmas (Jesus’s birthday version, Santa Claus version, and the combo platter), Hanukkah, Kwanza, Ramadan, Yule, Solstice, Festivus, and probably several more that I’m either forgetting or not aware of.
Though I celebrate Christmas (more of the Santa Claus version as I was raised by atheists and am now myself an agnostic of sorts), I no longer wish people a Merry Christmas. I don’t say Happy Holidays. I tell people to Rob Whoville.
Why?
Because people, while talking about the “true spirit of the season”, act out the actual spirit of the season which is, of course, MINE! These people who decry the commercialism, selfishness, and absolute material greed of the holiday season actually personify it all beautifully in a religious sense with their insistance that December only has room for one holiday and it’s theirs and theirs alone.
Love your fellow man, so long as he bids you the proper holiday greeting and celebrates the same holiday as you. Cry and plead to the masses about the lack of tolerance you’re getting, but not about the lack of tolerance you yourself are showing.
Well, I’ve got news for you, kids. Just because you don’t celebrate it, doesn’t mean it’s wrong and it doesn’t exist. That goes for EVERYBODY. If you’re going to preach the meaning of the season outside of Black Friday and door buster sales, then you need to be willing to practice it, too.
As I said before, there are a lot of holidays that are celebrated in December. There’s nothing wrong with wishing people Happy Holidays, just like there’s nothing wrong with saying Merry Christmas or Happy Hanukkah, or any of the rest of them. ALL OF THOSE ARE CORRECT. Even if you don’t celebrate the particular holiday, somebody does and it’s okay to politely acknowledge that. Your face will not melt, you will not spontaneously combust, and Santa will not skip your house.
It’s unfortunate that for all the talk about kindness and giving during the season, it ends up being only talk because to be truly selfless and kind would mean giving up being “right”. And laws knows we can’t be having with that.
So if simply expressing a season’s greeting is offensive, then I’m going for broke with my December motto. Why pick sides in this holiday “war” when I can create my own side and offend everyone? Sure, my motto might take some explaining, but I don’t mind that. Some things are worth explaining.
Remember, it wasn’t until the Grinch robbed Whoville that he learned the TRUE spirit of the holiday. Maybe people need to experience a little kind of larceny to really get it. Maybe they need someone to steal their pride.
Rob Whoville.
Five (Unreasonable and Frivolous) Things I Want From Santa
To get into the holiday mood, I figured I’d start where my childhood left off…with Santa. He hasn’t been to my house in years, but if he did, I’d ask him for some serious loot. Here are five things I want from Santa this year (don’t bother looking for world peace or anything too sentimental on this list; it’s all about me and it’s all about extreme):
1. A red 2008 Dodge Charger. Instead of decorating it with a bow, I’d rather the insurance on it be paid for five years.
2. An all expenses paid vacation to Hawaii and the money to spend to make it worth my while. I’d totally buy Santa a cool thank you gift while I was on the Big Island.
3. The various missing pieces to my Monkees music collection and tickets to their next reunion tour. Santa should encourage my Monkee love.
4. Every Vincent Price movie on DVD. Speaking of love, Vincent IS my Valentine every year. I should have every movie he’s been in at my disposal for February 14th.
5. Ted Lilly to play for the Cubs again. I miss him. Other people miss him. Santa wouldn’t even have to bring him to my house. Just deposit him at Wrigley Field on Opening Day.
It’s a list like this that really makes me sad that Santa doesn’t visit my house anymore. Oh, I doubt he’d bring me these five things, but he would bring me free stuff. And I love me some free stuff.
What outrageous, purely selfish things would you ask Santa for?
Writing–You Like Me! You Really Like Me!
Having a story accepted is as rare to me as being asked out on a date, but it’s pretty much a given that I’m more excited to have my story accepted than to be asked out, usually because the person asking me out isn’t someone that I want to date in the first place (but that’s another post for another day).
Toiling away, such that I do, pretty much in isolation because I’m terrible at networking and I’ve only got a few friends that are writers, selling a story becomes the bottom line for validation. Rejection is the rule of the day and I know I’ll see more of it than anything else. But, to open that email (or letter; I still do some snail mail subs that call for SASE) and read the words that I long to read, especially when I’m expecting rejection, is one of the most victorious moments in my short career. We’re talking fist pumping and saying, “Yes!” over and over like I just hit the walkoff home run to win the World Series. It’s the sign that I’m always looking for, the one that says that this isn’t just a hobby, that I’m good at this and I can make money doing this and most importantly, people want to read what I write. It’s that last one that boosts my ego the most.
The best part is that the feeling of jubilation and absolute victory hasn’t changed. Oh, maybe I’m a little more sophisticated in expressing those feelings (read: I don’t yell as loudly as I used to), but that warm, bubbly, my-day-has-been-made feeling is still the same. And I love it. And I can’t wait to put that feeling to the test with more acceptances to see if the feeling will ever fade or if it will only get better.
I look forward to doing this experiment.
Stories by the Numbers
Ready: 3
Submitted: 3
Accepted: 1! “Sentries” will be published in the Library of Horror anthology Fearology 3: Planting the Seeds of Horror
Late Bloomer Blues II
I wrote my first word at three and my first story at six, but I was twenty-eight before I fully committed myself to being a writer.
Oh, I’d thought about it over the years because I always wrote, stories, plays, and poems. But, I had a bit of ADD when it came to trying to figure out what I was going to spend the rest of my life doing because so many things have caught my interest over the years. Marine biology, meterology, acting, psychology, medicine, sociology. At one point, I considered them all. And I think the thing that frustrated my family the most was that I could have done all of them (though I don’t think I would have been the most successful actress because of my looks, or lack thereof) because I was smart enough to do any of it; I just didn’t have the attention span or the follow through.
My senior year of high school was the first time I actually made an attempt to be serious about my writing in the sense that I took a correspondence course on creative writing. It took a little over a year for me to complete and I got a nice shiny certificate in creative writing from it not long after I got my high school diploma, but I didn’t feel like I learned very much aside from the very important lesson that plot is a good thing and my stories could use it.
My first round of community college, I intended to major in English to work towards a degree in creative writing because that seemed logical. I’m a logical person and I think there must be logical steps to take to achieve goals and if I can find them, I’ll take them. Sometimes I’m terrible at finding them.
Majoring in English lasted one semester because instead of going back to school, I went to work. The next time I went to school, I was intending on majoring in sociology. The last time I went to school, I took every psyhcology course I could find.
It was the psychology courses that reawakened my desire to write (which had been squashed by a battle with depression and was slow to come back as I got my life back on track) because studying about these quirks of humanity made me want to write about them.
I started making time to write, started writing with the purpose to get published, started submitting my stories to contests and to publications. I got my first victory in 2008 when my story placed 10th in its category in a contest. That was the first time I really felt like maybe I had what it took to make a career out of writing.
And ever since then I’ve been kicking myself in the butt for not realizing it sooner. I feel like I’ve wasted time, especially when I see people much younger than I am land publishing deals or hear about some writers who’d been submitting their work since they were in their teens. I feel like starting my career at 28 puts me miles behind everyone else and miles behind where I should be.
Now every rejection feels like a setback that I should have suffered years ago and I’m too old to be dealing with it now. It’s like going through puberty years after all of my classmates. I feel so behind and I can’t catch up because in order for that to happen I’d need a DeLorien and a flux capacitor.
So until Santa brings me those things, I just keep plugging away, hoping to make up for lost time.
The late bloomer blues strike again.
