Attack of the Acronym

I've been submitting state applications at a pretty steady pace for the past two months, and I feel like I finally have it down. There's a learning curve just like anything else, of course, and a few friends have given me some very helpful advice, but it's really been like having to learn a whole new language, between the government-speak of the job descriptions and duty statements, not to mention the alphabet soup of SSAs, SSMs, AGPAs, SOQs and KSAs... OMFG...

It occurred to me that being frustrated at what seemed to be willful obfuscation was getting me nowhere fast. I needed to adjust my mindset and look at the process like a puzzle, a cryptic code to be cracked. I was, after all, dealing with words. So the game took on a new pattern: search the job listings, read the descriptions to find what looked like it might be a good fit, tweak the application and résumé to align with the duty statement and submit. And repeat. And repeat again. Each time I run down the checklist and think, this one is ready to go, and hit submit or drop an application package into the mail, I experience a sense of satisfaction that has nothing to do with the fact that my efforts may eventually land me my next gig. It's about solving the puzzle. It's about persevering and figuring it out. But I don't think I can add "state-speak" to my skill set under Additional Languages...

This is My Escape

I was talking to a friend the other day about writing fiction vs. writing non-fiction. I'd asked if a piece she's currently working on is a story or an essay. She said, "Oh, it’s non-fiction. I don't do fiction." We went on to discuss the motivations for different kinds of writing and it struck me that while I've written plenty of non-fiction, including newsletter articles for my last job and pieces for Yuba-Sutter Community Magazine, fiction is my comfort zone. It's an escape mechanism for me, as I like what happens in the worlds I create much more than what goes on in this one, especially lately. (What the hell, 2016??)

But setting aside the insanity that is the current political climate and the horrendous hits the music world has taken this year, I have to admit that I've always used fiction as an escape, from the stories I made up as a child, to the painfully awkward pieces I wrote as a teen, to my first novel. And I'm reasonably sure that if you were to ask ten different writers what fiction is to them, you're likely to get ten different answers. Carrying on with that train of thought, ask ten different readers what fiction is to them and get as many different answers.

Fiction might be dismissed by some as lightweight, or less important than non-fiction, especially if it isn't "literature," but I contend that a piece that's meant to entertain and offer a temporary respite from the woes of the world can also educate, enlighten and offer insight into the human condition.

And Then...

Sometimes you make plans—big plans, for big change—and everything comes together without incident. But sometimes, the Universe says, "Really? Think again..." A little over a month ago, I thought I was going to sell my house and move into a neighborhood I was keen to get into. In fact, I'd accepted an offer, and then a half-hour after digi-signing papers, I went into a company meeting wherein my colleagues and I learned our company had been sold and the new owners were going to close the office. Um...okay, so I wouldn't be selling my house, or moving, I'd be looking for a new job. <sarcasm>Fabulous! I'm so good at that!</sarcasm>

Now that I've had time to truly digest this turn of events, dust off the resume, deal with severance paperwork and file for unemployment, it's really sinking in how different this experience is from the last time I was in this predicament, an unfathomable almost ten years ago. When Tower was sold to a liquidation firm and we were all ousted, I had no idea how to be unemployed. I was completely freaked out about, well, everything. How would I pay my bills? Would I have to subsist on ramen? And the emotional element...I'd lost not only my livelihood, but my extended family and community as well. I spent far too much time alone and worrying, growing ever more depressed by the job listings I was compulsively pouring over every day. I'm still not sure how I resisted the impulse to throw my computer out the window upon seeing "Human Directional" (yes, that’s what they call the guys who wave signs around on street corners) under "Marketing jobs recommended for Denise."

Older, and hopefully at least a bit wiser this time around, I intend to do pretty much everything completely differently. No more searching job listings for three hours every morning. No more self-imposed exile because I think I shouldn't burn the gas. I know I do better with structure, so I do in fact have a daily schedule of sorts, but along with the job search, it includes time for bike rides, lots of reading and writing. I'm also volunteering at the Sacramento Food Bank & Family Services and the Friends of the Sacramento Library Book Den which has been great fun so far. How can shelving books in a warehouse for four hours make me so happy? In the wise words of a friend, "Once, therefore always, a bookseller."

I don't know how long it will take for me to land my next gig, but I know it will happen. I knew that intellectually last time, but this time I know it emotionally too.      

A Place for My Stuff

Nothing makes you take a good look at your possessions and consider embracing a minimalist lifestyle like contemplating a move. I don't mean the basics, like furniture or clothing, but the things we all accumulate, which seem to multiply exponentially the longer you stay at a given address. I've been cleaning out closets, trying to decide what I really need, while wondering how on earth I have so much when I thought I was already pretty much a minimalist. Add my book habit to the mix and, um...I have an awful lot of stuff.

Book junkie tendencies aside, I think Mr. Carlin was on to something, even before rampant consumerism became such a thing. Why do we allow our possessions to define us? What is it that makes us think an amazing personal library or prestigious art or music collection speaks to our character or what kind of people we are?

Doing a thorough spring cleaning or a pre-moving junk toss always reminds me of a book I purchased for the Tower stores many years ago, called, Material World: A Global Family Portrait. If any of us were to pile all of our possessions around us outside our homes, how would we feel? Proud? Surprised? Embarrassed? (And how much would be tossed prior to the exercise?) Is this just what happens in a consumer-driven culture? I read an article a few years ago, in which the author advised spending money on experiences rather than things. Good advice that I've tried to take that to heart, but looking at my possessions, and contemplating packing every last one into a box, moving and then unpacking them, tells me I have a ways to go. More experiences, fewer things. More living, less collecting. As long as I have a place for my important stuff...

Tell Me What You See

People-watching is always an enjoyable activity, but it's a particularly useful one for writers. (As is eavesdropping, but that's a topic for another post). This past Friday night, I was in Nevada City to see my favorite local band, Saint Ashbury, play at Cooper's bar. Watching people interact in bars is pretty fascinating anyway, but small town bars filled with locals? Gold mine.

My friends and I arrived about 20 minutes before the band was due to go on and as we stood near the stage chatting, an older guy of indeterminate age walked by. He was balding, but his long white hair touched his shoulders and he had a long white beard to match. He was wearing a t-shirt, spandex exercise pants and white athletic socks, sans shoes. The woman I was talking to smiled at my raised eyebrow, and whispered, "That’s J_____.  He went home to change into those pants so he can dance tonight." Apparently J is a regular at Cooper's, and dance he did, by himself, with a lady friend roughly his age, and any woman who happened to be on the dance floor, including me. Amusement at his outfit aside, I started watching J be in the moment and enjoy the evening. He was content just to listen to the music and let it move him. His stockinged feet slid around the old wooden floor and he was in heaven.

I also met a couple who'd gotten married at the county court house earlier that day. The woman was dressed like most of us in the bar: sweater, jeans and boots. But the man, he had gone all out. He was wearing a vintage suit, complete with a white shirt, skinny tie, a fedora and black and white wing tips. I didn't ask, but was dying to know if she had attended their ceremony dressed as she was while her groom had pulled out all the stops.

People-watching is great fun, especially in cities like San Francisco or New York, but there's something inherently sweet about the eccentricities found in the small towns in the foothills. There's a delightful lack of self-consciousness, and I had the sense that no one--including the woman who was around my age and way over-dressed for a hole-in-the-wall bar on a rainy night--was trying too hard or thinking too much about how they looked. They were just out to have a good time on a Friday night.

Will J, the dressed up woman or the newlyweds (or some iteration of them) appear in my writing at some point? It's entirely possible. If we pay attention, real life shows us things we couldn't possibly make up. Power to the people...

A Billion Stars Look Very Different Today…

2016 hasn't been very kind to the entertainment world so far. David Bowie. Alan Rickman. Glenn Frey. What is going on?? The web is packed with celebrity tributes and remembrances, and of course Facebook is full of posts expressing grief over the loss of these artists whose work touched so many lives. High-profile celebrity deaths seem to neatly divide people into two distinct camps: those who don't understand mourning the loss of someone you've never met, and those who get it. (Guess which camp I'm in).

Not to take anything away from Mr. Rickman, who was an absolutely brilliant actor, and by all accounts I've read, a stellar human being, but losing a musician, especially a multi-faceted, brilliant artist like David Bowie, or an architect of a classic sub-genre like Glenn Frey, hits harder and cuts more deeply. Growing up listening to someone's music can influence everything from who we choose to hang out with to the way we see the world. I'll wager that most of us can name at least one musician or band that we absolutely feel spoke to us, for us and about us, (especially during our teens and early 20s).

It's difficult to quantify the impact of an artist like David Bowie. I keep reading words like "visionary" and "genius," and while appropriate, they fall short. Glenn Frey, a kid from Detroit with a gift for writing songs became an integral part of the 1970s Southern California sound. Their art is their legacy, and the music remains, but the loss is all too real...and the stars do look very different today. Thank you for all the incredible music, gentlemen, and the peaceful, easy feelings you inspired. 

Promises Kept

Reading a new book by a favorite author featuring returning characters is like getting together again with old friends. It just feels...right. I've been a fan of Robert Crais since my early days at Tower Books and have therefore been hanging out with Elvis Cole and Joe Pike for quite a long time.

One of RC's great strengths is his ability to keep his signature characters fresh, and reveal a bit more about them in each book. The Promise, the 16^th novel in the Elvis-Joe series, brings Scott and Maggie from Suspect into Elvis and Joe's world. It's risky to mess with a successful franchise, especially one with a large fan base, but Crais pulls it off. The Promise really is one of those books you don't want to put down. (No, I will not use the term, 'unputdownable,' even though Dictionary.com claims it's a word). I finished it after midnight.

My theory as to why RC's books are so successful is that his characters touch something in all of us. From Elvis' wise cracks and Pinocchio clock making up for his lost childhood, to Joe's sunglasses hiding the pain in his impossibly blue eyes, to Scott's efforts to repair what's broken within, and even Maggie the German Shepherd, who understands that pack comes first, i.e. take care of your own, we can all relate on some level. And we want very much for each character to triumph over adversity and find what they're looking for.

A good novel draws readers in, makes them form emotional attachments with the characters and creates a personal interest in the outcome. The Promise does all that and more.