Quote of the Night: “Passion Is Not Mania” (So We’d Better Go Back on Our Meds)

I went to the “Art of the Pitch” panel at the Grad Center last night, which featured an agent as well as editors from major mags including The Wall Street Journal, New York Magazine, and The Paris Review. I’d heard much of their advice before, which isn’t a bad thing – it’s always good to hear it again, and it’s comforting that the game hasn’t changed that much.

Tips included don’t exaggerate your pitch (“This book/article idea will change the very nature of life itself! And I do mean biochemically!”); make sure you’re familiar with the magazine before you pitch (“Vogue readers will love my article on cattle manure refineries!”); and put a fresh spin on your topic. (“Save money by making your own cottage cheese!” surely hasn’t been done before. Perhaps with good reason.)

The advice that stuck with me the most was about focus. They all agreed it’s important to become an expert on your subject, and the narrower the slice of that subject, the better. You might want to write about money or relationships, for example, but a lot of people want to write about that. (Though expert status regarding relationships seems a bit, uh, out of reach. But maybe that’s just me.)

Since a lot of people want to cover those subjects, you need to figure out your angle, the subset of that larger topic you can write about with authority. That’s what will get you a yes from an editor.

It got me thinking about life in general. I joke that I’m becoming more unemployable by the minute, but I’m only half kidding. What I do well and what I want to do are shrinking by the day.

The strange thing is, the narrower my world becomes, the more life expands. It’s as if by shedding those things (or relationships) that don’t feed my focus, the resulting space fills up with more of what I want and need. The more I let go, the more yeses I get.

What do you think?

But If Your Goal Is Removing a Brain Tumor, I'd Say Set the Bar a Little Higher

230 pages, 71,000 words, and 3 million seconds of doubt later, I’m done with the first draft of the memoir. Let’s honor my achievement with a moment of silence.

Now. Make me a margarita.

Ha ha! I’m afraid the margarita has to wait, because a) I’m writing this at 8 a.m., b) drinking one’s breakfast sets a bad example for the students of my morning Intro to Creative Writing class, and c) I’m not actually the lush I’m made out to be, despite that unfortunate video on YouTube.

But hoo boy, am I happy. The draft is far from perfect, and good lord does it need a lot of work, but for now, it’s good enough. What happens next is my advisor reads the manuscript and gives me detailed notes, then it’s my job to revise it from good enough to better than good enough. I’ll even go out on a limb and say I’m shooting for decent with this first revision.

2010: The Year of Setting the Bar Low.

Seriously though, what about you? Do you have a goal you’re not hitting because you’re attempting perfection, when you really need to get it good enough for now? Because you can get it better than good enough a little later?

Or, I Could Include a Mouse Who’s an Inspector

Spring semester officially starts today, so as a warm-up for what’s likely to be four months of briefer blog posts, here’s a website recommendation:

“Curious Pages: Recommended Inappropriate Books for Kids” (Thanks to Very Short List for the tip.)

The commentary is hilarious – the labels are particularly brilliant – and it makes me think I should switch from memoir to children’s books. That would be more fun, don’t you think? Because if the books on this website are any indication, I could still get away with talking about sexuality and bad dads, as long as there were cartoon pigs.

Enjoy the weekend, everyone.

Also comforting? Flannel Sheets and Arrested Development Reruns, But Those Will Have To Wait

This weekend I finished the penultimate chapter of the memoir. (I’m a writer. I’m allowed to use words that don’t sound like what they mean.) It was such a satisfying moment that I immediately ate a bunch of dried mango and danced around my apartment, and after hooting my joy to the walls for probably longer than my neighbors thought appropriate, I poured myself a celebratory glass of Chardonnay.

(You can only imagine the celebrating that will happen when I finish the whole book. I’m wearing a helmet from here on out, just in case.)

Finishing that chapter was far more satisfying than I expected, considering it wasn’t the chapter from hell, nor was it the final chapter. That one I need to start today. Which presents its own special challenges, since I don’t actually know how the book ends.

Ha ha! I mean, I know how it could end – it is my life, after all, and I’ve been awake for most of it – but I’m not sure what the best ending is for this particular telling of my life. I have an idea, but I’m not sure how to get there.

No matter. I’m going to make some tea, open the Word doc, and see what happens. I remind myself: Motion → direction. And that’s comforting.

In Other Words, The “Shut Up and Shop” Magnet on My Fridge Is Meant to Be Ironic

Regular readers know I’m a big fan of living below your means. Earn more than you spend, bank some then leave it alone, don’t go crazy with housing, and quit buying stuff you don’t really need. (Yes, fellow Americans, this includes 3G phones, Kindles, and, gasp, even TVs. Want, sure. Need? Come on.)

So I was interested in Philip Brewer’s review of Daniel Brook’s The Trap: Selling Out to Stay Afloat in Winner-Take-All America on Wisebread.com.

Read the whole review, which gets into Brook’s more controversial ideas, but here’s what most interested me:

Brook talks a good bit about the limits of frugality as a way to do whatever work calls you. Many of the examples Brook uses are people whose work requires that they live in a big city:

- Activists who need to live where there's a critical mass of others with the same vision.
- Social workers or community organizers who need to live in the community that they serve.
- Creative types of the sort who can't just do their work by themselves the way a writer can — filmmakers, dancers, actors.

It's possible to live frugally even in a big city, but living very frugally requires not only luck and flexibility but also a level of constant attention that makes it hard to focus on the work that was the whole point.

I just landed another part-time job as the Advising and Tutoring Coordinator for the English Department at Queens College. (Witness my checkbook doing cartwheels of joy through the living room.) The job starts in two weeks, which means that if you pile my three part-time jobs together, I’ll be working full-time while I’m finishing grad school and writing the book.

I’m certainly not the only one with this kind of schedule, and am so, so grateful for the work. Really. But I’m sure I’ll soon be pining for my slower, simpler Taos life, where I was able to pay all my bills as a freelance writer. No stress required.

But then I wouldn’t be in New York, meeting new people, learning new skills, and practicing what I’ve learned, all of which are making me a better writer and teacher.

But then with all these opportunities, I’ll have far less time to devote to the writing, which is why I came here in the first place.

Also, none of this is forever. Part of me thinks I may keep up this crazy pace for a few years, then head back to Taos. But another part of me thinks I could be here for good, and both seem like great options. I also know it’s too soon to decide, but the conundrum interests me.

Which is more important to you: Opportunity or time?

Not an Option: The Ghost or the Ship

Confession time: I got no writing done this weekend. None. Because really, who has time when there’s serious frolicking to be done? And if there were any post-frolic time left, who could possibly get any writing done when that time was needed to recover from said frolicking?

I used to be a disciplined person. Really. But I’ve been in party mode since early December, and I don’t know if you’ve looked at a calendar lately, but we’re now more than halfway through January. Meaning my “I owe myself a celebration/frolicfest/slack day, because I worked hard last semester, and it’s the holidays!” excuse is long past its use-by date.

This morning, between bouts of self-loathing, I’m thinking about reader Destiny Kinal’s ass-kicking from last week. Specifically these words:

What have you sacrificed to write? What DIDN'T happen? What do you owe and to whom for the privilege or writing seriously? A child you didn’t have, a career you forfeited, time with a beloved?

Despite the persistence of the Having It All myth, it just isn’t possible. I don’t get to party all the time (unless I looked as good as this) and still expect to get the book written, much less have it be any good. Because good work requires sacrifice, and frankly, all I’ve been sacrificing lately are brain cells.

Since I’m all about the baby step I’ve decided to make small sacrifices first, so I actually have a chance for success. Here are two changes I’m making, starting now:

- No movies or reading until I’ve done my work for the day. No more “just this once” bullshit. Writing first, entertainment second.
- No more going out during the week; save socializing for the weekend. I’ve got to tone down the partying in general, so no more late nights. Period. Sleep and a clear head are critical for the work I’m trying to do. And I can’t worry about what I’m missing – my friends will still be there on the weekend.

That’s it for the moment. Nothing huge, nothing ultra-taxing, though I think those two changes will go a long way in getting me back on track.

What about you? Is there something you should give up?

Also, Moppet Moussaka, Stir-Fried Small Fry, or Toddler Tetrazzini

Remember when you were a kid and you were sure the boogeyman was about to burst from your closet to carry you off to some crazy monster’s potluck, where the entrée du jour was Small Child Stroganoff? And you were so scared that you pulled the covers up over your head and held your breath, in the hope that the fanged, hairy, wild-eyed boogeyman wouldn’t notice you and you’d avoid an untimely, and likely painful, death?

That’s what I’ve been doing with the memoir.

In my case, the boogeyman was what might be the most painful event of my life, and you know, fine, we all have painful events in our pasts, but in my case, it’s central to the book I’m trying to write. And not only was I not sure I’d be capable of writing the event well, I didn’t want to write it at all because it meant I’d have to relive said painful event, and in my case, even revisit the email that sealed it. Because I have the email taped into a journal, and I knew that looking at those words in Courier font would surely bring up a flood of emotions I’d been content to keep locked up in my own personal boogeyman closet.

But then I thought, Get over it and look at the damn email. Because really, how bad could it be?

Turns out, pretty f*ing bad. I haven’t cried in a long time, but I cried then. For myself and my family, for how many years I’ve spent caring what one selfish, cold-hearted man thinks.

(Doesn’t this make you want to run right out and start your own memoir? Whee!)

Once the tears stopped, I retyped that email verbatim into my manuscript. Then I finished drafting that section, and told myself it was okay to not read it again until I was ready to revise. And even though I feel like a big baby because of all this – especially in light of what’s happened in Haiti, for example – it felt good to cry, and even better to know that the remaining chapters won’t be as hard.

Which I’m starting today. The boogeyman is banished for now.