At many times–especially when I’ve got my whole foot in my mouth–I’ve wished for a rewind button for life. When Liam and I are having a great time, sometimes I wish I could press “pause” and hold onto the moment forever. But should we ever wish for an erase function? Oh wait… there was a whole movie about that. One of my favorites, by the way:Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. If you haven’t seen it, you should.
For the most part, there’s nothing I’d want to “erase” from my past. Even painful times have been part of the journey. But there are random bits of trash clogging up my brain. Like this horribly gruesome movie I accidentally watched with Arnie, several images from which I still can’t get out of my head, including a fetus in a bag. (Squeamish folks, steer clear of the film Horsemen.) I’m also pretty sure I could do without knowing that there is a black market for breast milk. (Who’s buying? Hint: It’s not people feeding babies… Think creepy fetishists…) There are some things you just shouldn’t look up online.
I guess I’m stuck with this stuff. Probably it’s no more likely that I’ll get a delete button than that I’ll find an external hard drive for my brain on woot.com. Darn.
A picture of my grandmother working in her yard. This has been in my writer’s notebook for a long time to remind me to forgive her and remember her more generously..
Today I remember—and try to redeem—my not-always-loveable maternal grandmother, Martha Jean Schock.
My grandmother had drawn-on eyebrows and a permanent frown. She was tall and cast a long shadow when she walked past the hall night light. She hated being dressed so much that she’d stay in her cotton nightgown all day. Even when she doled out the occasional compliment, her voice kept its “don’t bother me” edge. But her hands were soft. They painted watercolor barns with the man on the TV art show and spread seeds for the cardinals and robins in the backyard.
While Grandma sat in her recliner for hours sucking on her Winstons and watching TV, I’d sit on the arm of her chair and examine her hands. The brown spots that dotted her knuckles made me think of speckled eggs, and her skin felt like tissue paper under my fingers.
Some eight years ago this week, she died in a car accident. The funeral home people rubbed her terrible last moments off her face and penciled on a kind expression that didn’t quite fit. They couldn’t do anything about her hands except arrange them like bruised fruit over the upside-down bowl of her stomach.
I imagined that if I opened her palms, a little more of her spirit could wriggle free from her body.
But I didn’t do it. I was eighteen and angry; the hurts that she had caused my mother and my family were still too fresh.
Now, I remember other things, like the way she made things grow and how she told me I was a writer, that I had written things she’d always wished for a way to say. I know other things about her life now, too, like how she was left to fend for herself and her siblings, how there was no one to tell her why she was bleeding when she got her period, how she never got to finish high school, how she wrote my grandfather’s papers for him when he was in college, how she lived in the shadow of a locked door at the end of a hall.
Now when I think of my grandmother, I think of how well she did considering the burdens on her heart. I think of how badly she wanted to open her hands to the world even when she had them clenched shut. I think of happier memories and hope that the force of my remembering makes her feel a little freer.
“Productive” and “procrastination” may seem like words that don’t belong in the same time zone, much less the same sentence, but actually purposeful procrastination lets me squeeze out more productivity than I could otherwise manage with my maxed-out brain cells and schedule.
Question: when does folding the laundry seem like a lot of fun?
Answer: when you should be working on your PhD reading lists.
Question: what makes scheduling school visits and signings a blast?
Answer: doing it instead of reading another 100 pages of Proust.
Question: who likes to rinse dirty cloth diapers?
Answer: Ashley, when it means she gets a five-minute break from grading papers.
Question: how do you enjoy grading student work?
Answer: by using it as a “treat” after harder labor, like reading literary criticism.
Question: when is it a good idea to stop working and play with Liam?
Answer: ALWAYS!
Okay, I think you get the idea. So the trick here is to schedule tasks so that when you take a “break” you are really doing something productive, just productive in a different way. I also keep a running list of acceptable procrastination tasks that I can do for 15-20 minutes if I need a change of pace. At home, these include quick cleaning jobs or reading a book with Liam. I can also take a 15-minute walk (exercise is way better than a sugary snack for boosting energy levels in my mid-day slump), answer an email, or write a blog post.
It’s probably a sign of my uber-dorkiness, but this strategy makes me see folding laundry or grading essays as a treat or a break. For me, working this way keeps me from resenting all the little tasks since they “rescue” me from other brain-busting work for a bit.
How to keep the procrastination from taking over your productivity? Set a time limit for the break from your main task so that you don’t stay gone too long.
Jamie Hutchinson (a former professor) teaches a seminar.
Some of you were sure I was lying about having dropped out of high school back in my second round of two truths and a lie here. But as I told you in this post, the following statement is completely true: I dropped out of high school at 16 and never went back.
I can already hear my former students at Chávez and a chorus of “WTF?! My English teacher was a dropout? I knew teacher standards were low, but seriously…!”
The whole truth is that I dropped out of high school at 16 to go to college. Okay, so you thought I couldn’t get any nerdier. But I just did.
I spent my first two years of college (from age 16-18) at Bard College at Simon’s Rock. Yeah, you’ve heard of early colleges, and they’re all the rage now, but it used to be seen as this whacky idea. (What? No prom? NO PROM?!) After I left my high school, it was straight college, no dual credit or anything of the sort.
Also, I’ve just got to say: Simon’s Rock was THE FIRST college designed exclusively for younger students. It continues to be an amazing and unique place for students who are ready to get serious about ideas a little earlier than their peers.
The price tag is pretty terrifying, but there’s financial aid as with any college or university, and there are a number of major scholarships, including some that cover the whole cost of tuition. A story for another day: how my middle name got me one of these full-scholarships against all the odds.
A page from my writer’s notebook where I’m digging into Alan.
Here’s a game I sometimes play to think about what’s going on with a character. I ask myself, “What does [insert character’s name here] want?” Then I write down what I think they want. Then I say to myself, “Now, come on, what does he really want?” Then I write that down. I keep going until I dig down and down and down to something raw and strange motivating the character. I think about what I need to know about him or her that he or she doesn’t even know.
This exercise also got me thinking about the kind of secret logic behind Alan’s sweetness to Marisa. Here’s my drawing from the same writer’s notebook entry:
I don’t know where I’d be without my writer’s notebook.
Today, a round-up of my reviews of graphic novels. (BTW, every time I type “graphic novels” I have a momentary flash of paranoia. “Graphic novel” sounds so…. naughty. Like I’m blogging about soft porn or bodice-ripping. But, no–I’m blogging about novels in which images carry a critical part of the story.)
The story here is quiet and small in scope–changing friends, having a crush on a teacher, realizing that the Wicca coven meeting you wanted to go to doubles as an AA meeting. But in the world of teen experience, the book’s events represent a kind of turning-of-a-corner that is anything but small in its implications. The drawings have more movement than those in most graphic novels, and my favorite lines of the whole book are the ones that Skim scratched out (but that we can still read). For example: “ I didn’t know what other people would think about my answer… It’s a stupid question.”
This book offers a gripping portrait of a man’s experiences in Nazi-run Poland’s ghettos and concentration camps as well as an exploration of the relationship between that man and his American son (the author). In reading this, you sense the degree to which “survivors” of the Holocaust did not, in fact, survive intact. It’s also quite moving to watch the efforts at intimacy (by both son and father) that are made so difficult by the scars of the war.
I read this all in one sitting and really enjoyed it. I’m used to black-and-white graphic novels, so the color was refreshing. The be-true-to-yourself-and-your-culture message was a little too direct for my taste. I also found myself feeling more distant from the story, maybe because there are three separate stories that eventually come together, and you end up spending less time with each of the characters as a result.
In this post last week I started another little game of Two Truths and a Lie. What was the lie? It was…
(1) I had a secret rivalry with my older brother.
This was KIND OF a trick because our rivalry was never much of a secret. My brother Justin’s awesomeness often spurred me on to apply myself even more, and I almost managed to “beat” him a time or two (for example: although he’s four years older, he only graduated from college one semester before I did).
But this is also false in a broader sense because, while there might still be a playful rivalry between us (especially when we break out the games at family gatherings), when it matters we are each other’s biggest fans and supporters. The rivalry that flared back when we were tweens and teens is now a fierce friendship. (By the way, Justin gets all the credit for everything that’s right about my website. Without him, I’d probably still be trying to figure out how to plug in my laptop. Check out his awesome design work and services at 314pies.com.)
One thing I think about when I imagine Liam (someday) having a sibling is the importance of kids having different areas of strength or talent. I’m sure Justin and I would have been insane rivals if it weren’t for the fact that he was always more interested in math and science while I loved languages and literature. We both got excellent grades in all subjects (and I took all the advanced courses he did to prove that I could do just as well), but we each had “pet” areas.
And what about the truths revealed in the post? The truths–that I dropped out of high school at 16 and at one time wanted to live in a trailer–have their own stories. I promise I’ll tell all one of these days before long…
What Can’t Wait is dedicated to every one of my Houston scholars. Abrazos!
It’s here. It’s here! The official release date for What Can’t Wait. I need an overcoat with a million secret pockets to stow all the gratitude I’m feeling. Or maybe a Miss (Mrs?) America set-up where I can toss my gratitude out like confetti in a parade. Instead, I’m going to post the acknowledgments page for What Can’t Wait. Because without the help I’ve been blessed with, I never would have found out that for me, writing is what can’t wait. Thank you all.
Acknowledgments
I owe a great professional debt to my agent, Steven Chudney, and to my editor, Andrew Karre, both of whom have been gracious guides to this most cautious of travelers.
This book would not exist without the many remarkable students I taught at Chávez High School. They told me about the book they wanted to read, and I tried to write it. In particular, I’d like to thank those who commented on early drafts: Krystal Chávez, Diana Alvarez, Karina López, and Jessica van Ravenhorst.
Although they are now “grown,” the kids who had me for 10th, 11th, and 12th grade are still cracking jokes, doing SSR, practicing scholarly habits, and terrorizing the halls in my memories, especially Edith Barrón, Veronica Carbajal, Cínthia Carcamo, Baltazar Díaz, Pedro Galindo, Veronica García, Jonathan Guevara, Whitney Horton, Charlie Machado, Melissa Martínez, Rey Mejía, Alicia Perrett, Alejandra Quijada, Roxann Rodríguez, Kristy Solorio, Yuridia Treviño, Eric Vitales, and Jarol Wadel.
A special thank you to the D-house boys who read this book to the end and then told me that it was the first they’d ever finished. (Don’t worry, J and M, I won’t blow your cover.)
My gratitude also to Linda Sue Alsup and the Greater Houston Area Writing Project for teaching me to share my writing with students; to Jane Eixmann and the librarians of Houston ISD, the Houston Public Library, and beyond; to Laura Furman, John Trimble, Karen Joy Fowler, and the many other mentors who took my writing seriously; to the members of OWL and to all the readers whose feedback helped shape the novel; to Alisa and Mushu for walking the writer’s path with me every week.
Thank you to my El Paso family for telling stories and making tamales and pozole with chicken. Thank you to my Houston family, Sarah and Shelley, for a friendship that nourishes me and makes writing possible.
Thank you to my mother, who has always told me, “It’ll be a crime if you don’t write a book;” my father, who has his eye peeled for a Pullet Surprise; and my brother, Justin, who never misses a thing.
Thank you, Arnulfo: you are the one who keeps me running, writing, and living with a joyful heart. Liam Miguel, your smile writes its own books; thank you for giving Mami time to write hers.
Are the Naomis of the world especially sensual? I ask because I just noticed that the name “Naomi” is “I moan” backwards.
If I were to have a character named Naomi, I don’t think I could resist making something out of this. Names are so important, as are parents’ reasons for naming. I had a classmate growing up named Eric Cire. Did his parents intend for his name to be a palindrome? Or did it just happen?
But back to Naomi, whose name declares “I moan.” The woman in this picture fits what I imagine for my Naomi. She has a mischievous sense of herself, not a showy sexiness but a quiet sensuality that runs under a good-girl demeanor.
Naomi, are you trying to sneak into one of my books?
So this is one of my lists of possible titles for What Can’t Wait. Lots of clunkers here, but that’s part of the process.
How did I finally choose the title? I did a lot of title-generating exercised, asked friends for their opinions, studied titles that I like, and thought long and hard about what a title should do and how it should relate to the story.
Lulu.com is a fun tool for analyzing the potential success of a title, which I did use when I was thinking about titles. Part of what I like about Lulu.com is that you actually have to analyze the parts of speech in the title. That might throw some people, but my English major came to my rescue (three cheers for grammar)!
LuLu Title Scorer listed the likeliness of bestseller success (really the similarity of the title to the title profile of books that have been a success in the past) as follows:
What Can’t Wait: 44.2%
Mariposa’s Flight: 76.9%
Borrowing Tomorrow: 79.6%
Simple and True: 26.3%
Hang On: 20.1%
Hard Road from Houston: 26.3%
Clearly lulu.com was not my top authority, because What Can’t Wait ended up being the winner even though it didn’t get the highest lulu score. Of course, lulu can’t tell you if a given title is a good fit for the novel you’ve written; a great title is not so great if it doesn’t go with the story. Naming a book = hard work.
