Handymen

About three years ago, right in the middle of messy renovations in my house, I wrote a story in anger as a reaction to the crap I'd been dealing with from contractors and other tradesmen either working in my house or trying to secure work in my house.

There was the smelly guy who stole my utility knife, tried to convince me that my roof was leaking (it wasn't), and was taken off the job by his boss because he was "unqualified," before being reassigned again after missing the three days I'd taken off work. He wanted to work at night. He was fired.

There was the plumber who "accidentally" left items at my house so that he would have to come back for them later. He would sit in his van in front of my house from time to time, just watching. He didn't get past the "estimate" stage because it was all just too creepy.

There was the contractor who "forgot" a court date on the same day as my job so he didn't show up.

There was the guy who called me hon. He also left a few things at my house so he could come back for them. To date, that has never happened.

And then there was the guy who was a friend of another guy who worked on my place. This one was an equal mix of condescension, creepy inappropriate flirting, and angry political ranting while trying to sell me carpet. He also left a sample board at my house though I was clear that I wanted none of the selections he assured me were the ones I "needed."

So I wrote about it. Except, in my story, it isn't the single woman alone in the house that should be afraid of these guys. The story opens with blood soaking the upstairs carpet. A lot of it.

I didn't think about that story again for a long time. In the interim, I've had many good, decent people working in and on my house. I finished a kitchen renovation that took nearly 10 months. It's amazing! But when I saw a call for fiction submissions for "the monster within," I thought of this story. I pulled it out, dusted it off, and sent it over without much expectation.

The editor sent me a reply. Not a rejection. A reply.

She asked for some light revisions - a little less backstory, a little dialogue tweaking - which I did willingly before resubmitting. It was accepted immediately.

I'm a published author!

Not what I expected from this story, certainly, but I'm all for happy moments coming from less happy inspiration. If you are curious, the ebook anthology is available here. The print version will be released in 2017.

So next time you are FED UP, write that stuff down. It might bring you more than catharsis.

Civil Discourse in Highly Charged Times: Try On My 8.5s For a Few

I don’t mind that we disagree sometimes. I really don’t. If you say, “I’m concerned about immigration or allowing refugees in the US because of some things I’ve read about its impact in other countries. I want to know more before I feel okay about that.” I’d probably say, “I want to know more about that too. Show me what you find.”

Then it becomes an opportunity for us to examine an issue and learn more and maybe we find some common ground. Or not. But if we approach it like this, even if we disagree or we don’t feel the same way, I can still feel okay about our conversation.

But sometimes when sharing your concerns, I don’t hear it like this. I hear:

Muslims rape and kill people.

Black people hate cops and shoot them at BLM protests.

Protesters loot.

Rape culture isn’t real and persecutes white fraternity boys.

And I get upset. And I can’t have a conversation about that because:

Individual people rape and kill other individual people. Sure, there are some cultural differences that belittle women in general, but that has less to do with religion than control and it happens everywhere, including here. Right here. By people who look like us, were raised like us, and sometimes by the very people who did raise us.

And, if there was an environment where rape was somehow more acceptable, would we immediately want to assist any woman or child who needed to escape that? Wouldn’t we want those kids to grow up somewhere we don’t condone that treatment?

Protesters weren’t burning CVS stores and beating people, rioters were. Rioters are opportunists and will do it at rallies, protests, natural disasters – anytime they think the police are busy elsewhere. It has nothing to do with the protest except setting. Protesters marched and protested every day of the Freddie Gray trials without incident. Peaceful protests are a constitutional right. Harming people or property is not and is not okay.

Rape culture is real even if it hasn’t affected you. It’s not a punchline. It’s not about to diminish either if a presidential candidate can say “I just grab them by the pussy” and is cheered instead of prosecuted. The poor and unfair treatment of others is real.

Imagine this for a moment:

You are pulled off an account that you set up because your boss thinks the client might respond to someone more handsome or younger or less “ethnic” or more Christian. The account goes to someone else, and maybe they are even a good employee, but they didn’t bring this client to the table, you did.

You are “uninvited” to an event after work because you don’t attend church regularly and someone with “no grounding in faith” might not behave appropriately with work colleagues and embarrass the company in some way.

You are removed from the list going to a cool conference because you are unmarried and your colleagues are uncomfortable with traveling with an unmarried person. Surely you will act inappropriately or even if you don’t, people will talk about it and appearances matter.

You get talked over in meetings, and by people who understand less, but think they know more because you are just a dude. When they do let you speak, your ideas are either called “too aggressive” or “uninformed” because of associations they have with “male traits.” Or your ideas are appropriated by others and you are not mentioned. They may not even realize that they do it because it happens so often. Like yesterday.

You meet a girl at a bar and she’s really flirty. You are polite but when she pushes you or gets grabby, you decline her invitation to “go somewhere.”. She then makes you feel unsafe to the point that you have to call a friend to come get you or ask the bouncer/manager/cop to escort you to your car. You hope she doesn’t follow you or have a gun. (Multiply this by 100 and sub in ANY location, including work)

You have to be careful that you don’t get drugged, even by an acquaintance, when you are out, because it’s happened to your friends. You start to watch out for other guys just in case. You can’t accept when someone buys you a drink if you didn’t watch the bartender make or pour it because t isn’t safe.

You regularly have members of the opposite sex show you their genitals and make lewd or violent comments. No one does anything about it. They regularly holler obscene or frightening things as they drive by or you walk past where they work.

You know that you expected to have sex or “make out” when dating someone new if they have bought you drinks or dinner. If you do not want to, sometimes they get angry and threaten you. You have learned to watch for that anger and sometimes are too accommodating to stay safe long enough to get away. (Multiply this by 200)

Your genitals are grabbed by strangers without your consent. Yes, it happens. It’s happened to me in the last year. It’s not a hypothetical.  And that’s not counting the “accidental” butt grabs, the hands sliding between butt cheeks on the way to the restroom, the breast grazes, the “it’s crowded” full body feel-ups, and all the verbal stuff. It’s continuous and it happens to every woman I know, all the time.

It’s brushed off as “boys will be boys,” but it’s not okay.

This is real for all women. Individual women. Women that you know, that you date, that you raised, that you love. All women. But that doesn’t mean that we automatically hate men. We don’t blame the entire sex for behavior by individuals, but we are sensitive to it. We cannot condone excuses for it. We can’t encourage it or turn a blind eye to it. It’s not okay. We want to be reassured that the men in our lives aren’t these guys; that they don’t identify with these guys. We want to feel safe. We want to be valued as a human being. We want to let our guard down.

So when I hear that rape culture is a media thing or that the victims are the boys, the athletes, the honor students, I can’t. I just can’t.  The girls (or boys as applicable) being victimized are just as human. Just as worthy of basic human consideration.

These things have happened to me and I like to think that I am more careful than most. I surround myself with people I trust. I don’t currently attend high school or college where this is rampant. I work in a professional job. And yet it still happens to me. Not by groups or ethnicities or religions or political affiliates – these are individual people taking advantage of situations to intimidate or demean or attack or scorn another individual. I don’t know how to fight that except to be kind to others as an individual.

If you have a better idea, I’m open to hearing it. But let’s remember that we are talking about real human beings. Once we become comfortable devaluing a group of “others” it becomes all too easy to devalue anyone. And we should be better than that.

Here's a great article by Gretchen Kelly: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gretchen-kelly/the-thing-all-women-do-you-dont-know-about_b_8630416.html

Renovation Archaeology

I'm at it again. Early in the spring, I tore out my kitchen. Actually, I tore out my kitchen,  the pantry, a powder room, and a closet, opening the space into an adjoining useless room. Basically, I leveled a third of the first floor. I had to. The old kitchen was so cramped, I couldn't walk into it with groceries in both hands. I couldn't have the fridge door and the oven door open at the same time. It was walled off from the rest of the house and too small for more than one person. Thanksgiving dinner preparation should have been a Food Network reality show. I'd never be able to sell or rent my house to a sane person without upgrading.

I've been stalling. Most of the rest of the house has been renovated. After this, I'll just have one more considerably smaller project. The other rooms had been altered many times by owners before and I was mostly tearing out office-style drop ceilings and bad wall coverings, and installing mouldings to match what must have been there before. No one had really touched the kitchen though. The powder room and the closet were add-ons by some do-it-yourselfer of yesteryear. There were several layers of flooring and wallpaper, but previous efforts had been cosmetic.

 

 There is nothing "surface" about what I've already done.

 

People called me crazy. Many told me that they could never do what I've done. Everyone believes that I've taken on more than I can handle. Even me.

I'd like to tell you that demo feels good. And I suppose that it does at times, but mostly this has been a cycle of fear, feeling overwhelmed, perseverance, getting reassurance, and digging in again. I am in no way qualified to tackle this project! But I can't afford to have it all done for me, nor can I go it alone. So I got help - professional help. (at long last!) A very competent contractor, plumber, electrician, carpenters, drywall hangers, and a tile expert. The tasks that terrify or baffle me are commonplace for them. We are a team. And we will get this done. Together.

Sometimes, there are little surprises along the way. Little things that keep us engaged - committed to completing the work ahead. This week, we found a card behind a baseboard. From a laundry - in 1927. Our own tiny archaeological treasure.

 

 As it happens, I've finally started the process of putting stuff back in the kitchen. Last week, it was the floor. I can no longer stand in the kitchen and see into the basement through old pipe holes. I can walk in there with bare feet, at least until work starts up again. It's a start and I'll take it.

I like to think that I got my "fuck it, let's do this" attitude from my mother.  I've seen her take a circular saw to a wall to make a pass-through from the kitchen. She and my stepdad sailed around the Caribbean, vising new places, gaining experience and new friends along the way. They built their own shelter on an island in Panama. She certainly has a few large endeavors under her belt. She's currently assisting her husband through cancer treatments, having managed their relocation back to the U.S. practically overnight. No doubt she often feels overwhelmed, afraid, unqualified, and yet she perseveres because she has to. What is the other choice?

She's not the only one, I'm afraid. So many others face seemingly insurmountable obstacles - tasks so large as to seem impossible. An unexpected diagnosis, a reduction in force, an accident, a crime, a disaster. Just this morning, many neighbors in Ellicott City woke to devastation from flash flooding last night. The photos are mind boggling. It would be easy to quit in despair, after all, these situations are clearly too much for one person to handle. But none of us - no one - is alone. We are among professional help everyday. They are our family, our friends, our colleagues, our friends. Sometimes they are our doctors, our nurses, our counselors, our confidantes. Each of us carries our own unique experiences, our own expertise. Be sure to share it when the need arises. Be generous if you can. So many are plugging away at a task too large for them, one baseboard at a time.

Professor, Teach Thyself!

I dig teaching creative writing. I wish I could do it full time instead of tagging it on to the end of my workdays like a reward for making it to five o'clock. But this is my reality right now. To keep myself from feeling like the cliche - Those who can't, teach -  I find ways to make myself write stories along the way. The last one was as an example for my students, so they could see a draft, then see me tear it apart and put it back together, considerably shorter and more coherent. And then I used it to show how workshop would play out if I had been assigned this story to markup and return to its author.  Does this sound like an excuse to write? It was. With two jobs already, a house continually under construction (this summer, it's a kitchen remodel), and no one else who will agree to mow my lawn or do my laundry, it's not easy to justify shutting out the world and scrawling lines like I could when it was homework.

But I recognize that I must make the time, so writing contests are currently providing me the sense of urgency/anxiety/fear of failure that I need to crank out pages. I have little desire to revisit old stories. Part of this is the fear that, having sat alone in the dark for some time, they will have transformed into terrible stories that no one should have to read, like the story equivalent of those leftovers in the back corner of the bottom shelf in the fridge. I have no idea what's in there, but I'm sure I don't want it.

I'm worried that my novel will start to get fuzzy around the edges, too. I'm afraid to reread it. That hasn't stopped me from considering a title change for it, though. If I get around to the next batch of agent queries, I may test out the new one and see if it makes a difference.

Not long ago, I met with a literary agent at CityLit - a literary festival in Baltimore organized by a fellow UT alum. As instructed in advance, I prepared my pitch, with printed copies for both of us, and worked out my 15 minute spiel. The woman had no intention of hearing a pitch however, and instead, marked up my printed copy and gave me advice for structuring a query letter. Hardly helpful as I teach my own students how to craft query letters. To say that I was disappointed would be ignoring the frustration and anger that I managed to hold back like Hodor lest she suddenly blurt out, "This is the most interesting novel pitch I've ever heard! Sign with me right this second!"   (Apologies if that last Hodor bit is a spoiler, but seriously people - get up to speed on your Game of Thrones!)

So, it definitely feels like the deck is stacked, and not in my favor.

Over the holiday weekend, I abandoned Dave to his meat-for-grilling procurement at the local frou frou grocery to visit the Starbucks several doors down in the same shopping center. It was, after all, double star rewards day Monday and I function better after a good iced latte. A young man sat on a bench just outside the door, looking somewhat despondent. On my way out, coffee in hand, I saw that he was still there. He looked to be on the verge of tears. I had to stop.

I asked if he was okay and he said no, very quietly, almost a breath. I asked how I could help and he said no one could. I sat down. Dave would figure out where I was. I thought about how many people had passed this kid (he was probably 19 or so, but the older I get, the harder it is for me to guess ages) without speaking to him or "seeing" him.

He looked like he needed someone to see him. He was dressed in pressed khakis, a button down shirt, and "job interview" shoes. A black backpack was next to him on the bench. He was clasping and unclasping his hands and looking at the sidewalk. This boy was in despair. I spent a few minutes talking to him, learned his name, told him mine, and let him talk. He was looking for a job, and his success or failure in this effort might determine if he would be able to continue living at home. He'd had an argument with his mother. Heated words had been exchanged and he'd said she wouldn't care if he killed himself.

This boy felt like even his mother wouldn't care if he was gone.

I thought again about how many people must have passed him coming and going for their morning coffee and I took his hand and reassured him. People did care. They did. But we all get in this lane we create for ourselves to stay focused on what we need to do and sometimes it's hard to see beyond the edges. As it was a holiday, I doubted that he would get anywhere with his job search, so I recommended that he give himself the day off and start fresh in the morning. I hugged him and told him that I believed in him and that he should believe in himself. I wish I'd gotten contact information so I could follow up, because after I climbed into Dave's car, tears in my eyes, and told him about this young man and what he'd shared, I continued to have this pit of fear in my stomach for him.

This week is the final one in my current creative writing course and as I encourage reflection, share resources, and pass along encouragement to my students, I think about this boy. Sometimes, we all need to be heard. Sometimes, we all need to stop for a few moments and listen. Sometimes we need to tell others that they can push through, that they have it in them to go where they want, do what they want, be what they want even if it feels like the deck is stacked against them. I believe it when I tell my students. The least I can do is to try to believe it when I tell myself.

Ch-ch-ch-changes: Post-MFA Life

So I had this idea that once my program was done and, of course, my novel too, that I would be on my way to publishing greatness after a few well-worded emails and query letters. At the very least, I believed that I would replace all my writing-for-school time with writing-for-me time.

How cute.

Most of my writing these days consists of transforming a bulleted list of dry statistics or some last-minute drastic organizational changes into an exciting feel-good memo to the masses. Creativity indeed, but not exactly what I had in mind as I slogged through grad school. And certainly not an avenue for my sarcasm gene if I want to keep my job.

I haven't sent a query letter in ages, so that's on me. I have been hoping for miraculous news from Ellery Queen or Alfred Hitchcock Magazine and stalling with the "moving on" part. Sound familiar? It's definitely time to revisit the list and send out another batch. Also, I've been (unconsciously, I promise!) ignoring my friends who have wonderful publications and might consider one of my stories. Time to get back out there!

I know that sounds like dating advice - it's not that different, really, though I only know one or two who managed their dating life via spreadsheet or other tracking tool. You know who you are. For the record, this level of organization is inspiring in its raw drive for results! I'll endeavor to channel some of that energy into my quest for publication. Soon. I promise.

I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to teach since last summer, so a good chunk of time was dedicated to fitting in my online classroom training around my day job which was then followed by ACTUAL teaching via said online classroom.While I love that I can check into my classroom in the morning before I get ready for my day and periodically afterwards, I find myself in there way too much - like early days of Facebook too much. And there are no real days off. Romantic weekend away with my boyfriend in Virginia wine country? Totally in my classroom grading discussion posts while he's in the shower or getting coffee or waiting for me patiently. Same for every weekend, holiday, and evening. He's a good sport.

It's great to see my students engage with the material and grow. A few have surprised me with their perception and skill. The rock stars definitely make the effort easier. When I feel like the material isn't enough to convey what they need to feel empowered to complete their assignments well, I make a short video. I'd love to teach in person, but the thought of trying to squeeze in classroom time right now is just not possible. My boyfriend would leave me, my dog would never forgive me, and all my hair would fall out from stress and sleep deprivation. Not good.

So, as I encourage my students - mostly working adults - to dig deep, I guess I have to as well. I turned my light back on for one of those middle-of-the-night story epiphanies last night. I'll keep that pad and pen handy and hope those bursts of maybe-brilliance continue. I'll review my submission list and send out some more work. I'll write some new stories.  I'm making no promises to go back to the gym or cut out ice cream, but I think I can commit to some greater focus on my writing life. It's as close to a resolution as I'm inclined to get and hopefully the beginning of a new kind of professional life. One that I write for myself.