My first article submission (OK, not the first first, but the first one in a long time) rolled out today, and I'm gonna throw up! Keep your fingers crossed for the next 4-12 weeks that Chick Lit.: Making a Feminist Statement finds a home. In reality I know it's highly unlikely that I'll get anything published until I make approximately 400 failed attempts. This is the first in a long line of requests for my readers to cross all crossable body parts.
I haven't worked on the book much for the last couple of weeks. I use my workout time every day to think about the plot, and I've decided that I'll probably have to scrap the four chapters I've worked up so far, keeping the better bits, and rework things. It gets off to a slow start, and that's the last thing that a first book can get off to. I've figured out a way to start off with more of a bang (there's a pun there, but you won't know until you read the book) and still work in the material I've already got. So, to make myself feel better, I'm really not scrapping my material...I'm redistributing. Ahh, yesh, much better. My ego is happier now.
On a totally unrelated note:
My mom was talking to our neighbor that lived across the street at our last house (the house at which the formerly beautiful Bradford pear tree now looks like a radioactive stalk of broccoli). Her grandson attends the junior college where I teach, after a year away at UT-Arlington, and he was asking what my last name was. She told him my name, blah blah, and he said he wanted to come introduce himself because he's "heard that I'm a great teacher and really fun." I told Mom to tell him to come by. I always love meeting admirers, and maybe he'll spread the word and my summer classes will make. Woot! Joking aside, it made my day much better and makes me think that maybe I'm doing some good. I've felt a bit slothful this semester, but maybe I did OK after all.
On another totally unrelated note:
I've rediscovered my complete obsession with David Gray (guitarish, folkish singer on Dave Matthews' ATO label). I went through a whole David Gray phase in college....sophomore year, I believe. I was an art student at the time, and I remember spending hours (meaning at least 7 at a time) in the studio working on still life drawings, paintings, weird pen/ink/coffee wash pieces. I ALWAYS had my headset with me to drown out the mutterings of the yuppie idiots that surrounded me (very rich school, remember...Hummers everywhere, and take that however you'd like). Most of the time there was a Dave Matthews, Shawn Colvin, Nickel Creek/Tracy Chapman/mix, or David Gray CD playing. They were just the right tempo to get me worked up but not so worked up that my hand would fly off. There was something (and still is) so seductive about getting completely enamored with a work of art in progress. I would lose track of time, I would listen to the CD 5 times without realizing it, I would exhaust myself completely, but it was the closest thing to ecstacy I've ever experienced. I still get something very closely akin to that feeling when I'm writing or doing a number of other intellectually challenging things, but nothing compares completely to art.
A piece of the song I've been listening to for the last several nights at bedtime:
Standing at the door of the pink flamingo
Crying in the rain
It was a kind of so so love,
And I’m gonna make sure it doesn’t happen again.
You and I had to be the standing joke of the year.
You were a run around,
A lost and found.
And not for me I feel.
Take your hands off me, please
I don’t belong to you, you see.
Take a look in my face, for the last time.
I never knew you., you never knew me.
Say hello, goodbye.
Say hello and wave goodbye.
CD: Davey Gray
Book: Deal with It!, by Paula White
In my head: Ativan dreams and migrazone longings.