Caren Gussoff writer. geek. bon vivant. dot com

I’m officially FUCT (like it? I just thought of it)–a freelance, urban, cat-owning thirty-something.*

Wow, the weekend’s over already.
I’ve mostly avoided the internet. Barely checked email, did not twitter (twat?), no Facebook.  I did almost no writing, either.
Instead, I celebrated Frank’s birthday, ate salted caramel ice cream, hung out with Jamie, watched movies, hung out with my husnamd, read, ate pizza, hung out with my dad, knitted, read, walked around, started a volunteer job with the Puget Sound Blood Bank, and did some vital and painful deep cleaning.
By upbringing, I’m a bargain shopper and a hoarder. By nature, I am a purger. This causes an interesting internal, semi-annual struggle.
I am very talented at shopping. It is something I am very, very, very good at.
But for a long time, I’ve dreamt a pretty simple dream: only own things I like, use, and that fit me.
I mean, I’m not an ascetic. I so want to own more than a sarong and a rice bowl.
It should be pretty simple, right? Don’t buy or accumulate anything that I don’t like, will use, or that doesn’t fit.
But, this is not how my life has worked at all.
I buy or accumulate things I am unsure of, think I might need, or for some mysterious reason, find too great a deal to walk away from. Then these things never get used, and twice a year, those same things get bagged, tagged, and sent back out into the world. It’s stupid and wasteful. It stresses me right the fuck out.
But I did a mini search and destroy in the bedroom and chest of drawers. So far, I’ve tossed out/placed into thrift store pile/recycled:
• a makeup bag full of makeup, some dating back to when I retired from burlesque dancing…in 2004. Ugh
• a lawn sized garbage bag full of stretched out/faded/worn through/incorrect size, shape, color clothing, beyond even being downgraded to pajama status
• a drawer full of expired medicine–an entire drawer. Seriously
• a stack of books I will never read again (I buy a lot of used books and take out from the library. My home bookshelves are really misleadingly empty. I try and only keep books I love, refer to, are signed, special to me, or know I will read again)
• 3 good sized trash cans of paper–drafts, junk mail, who knows
• and at least 2 candles made more of dust and cat hair than paraffin. I think they were candles. Maybe they were soap. Ick

Now, I also indulged in today’s thrift store 50% off madness, but I did only buy a few things I actually needed: jeans, a tee shirt, a pair of very sensible ballet flats, some books…except for a very strange, very heavy, 70s copper pendant that has a creepy mermaid on one side and a creepier Viking ship on the other. But it’s really small. I swear.

*sigh*

And here comes Tuesday.

When I was a child, my dad was a Star Trek guy (I’ve referred to this before. He loves the original series and shakes his head in disgust at my preference to The Next Generation). Anyway, I have lots of happy memories attached to Star Trek and all the movies from the original series, and some of those more vivid memories are from Wrath of Khan. Adios, Khan.

I finished a draft of my academic-vampire story starring Nikola Tesla. It’s very uneven, even for a first draft, and as yet, untitled. I swear, I think I have to start with a title and then write from there, rather than try and pull a title from a draft. If I don’t start with one, I never find one I am happy with.

Eileen Gunn will be teaching and reading verrrrrry soon.  I can’t afford to take her class, but I will definitely attend the reading. Here are the details from Leslie and NWMediaArts:

Eileen Gunn Workshop for Writers – Wit and tragedy: writing the savagely funny story
Sunday, January 25, 2009 10:00 a.m. — 4:30 p.m. at Richard Hugo House Cabaret 
1634 11th Avenue Seattle, WA
See nwmediaarts.com for registration information or call Richard Hugo House at (206) 322-7030

Eileen Gunn Reading and Signing
Monday, January 26, 2009 at 7:00 p.m. at Richard Hugo House Cabaret 
1634 11th Avenue Seattle, WA 
$5 Donation

I finally hammered out my resolutions for 2009, which, although it is merely 14 days old, is not sucking nearly as much as 2008 (it is my year, I guess–the year of the ox). Anyway, here are my lofty resolutions:
Write something.
Write something that doesn’t suck.
Write maybe another thing that doesn’t suck.
Write 50 things that do suck, but whatever.
Limit my “I suck sooooo bad” thoughts to less than 25x/day
Submit the things that don’t suck and keep them in rotation until I conquer the world (or get at least a few more semi and pro pubs)
Spend more time on writing, being social, and meeting people and less time watching “Rock of Love Tour Bus”
Finish secret project which I will announce here when it is no longer secret (mysterious!)
Eat more fruits and vegetables

I’ve looked and studied all the information for the Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk. As much as I’d like to do it—I think I could commit the time and energy—I think the huge financial commitment it requires comes at a bad time for me. Plus, every time I mention it to anyone and ask if they’d do it with me, they politely say no.  So, I am hanging that idea up for “some other” year.

Also, Cinnamon Toast Crunch is the greatest cereal ever made.

1. Your new favorite band, Blackbird Orchestra, is playing a show this Friday at the ‘Vouz. You really should come. It’s cheap, they are really awesome, and my husband’s BFF is the lead (plus, he’s hot and single*):

2. This year is the year I need to get into shape, and since I am such a list-making, goal-oriented, need-to-win kind of bleeding heart, I was thinking doing the Breast Cancer 3 Day would be a really good goal to train for. The Seattle 3 day is 60 miles from September 11 – 13, 2009. I wouldn’t do this alone, so I implore–(so soon after resolutions have been made)–does anyone want to commit to doing this with me? For real?

* He is going to throttle me for mentioning that. But whatever. He is.

An incredibly good couple of days. Really. I just need a couple of hundred hours of sleep now.
I spent the weekend, as planned, with Pam, Maggie, and Chris R. Love them so much. They listened to me rant about Steampunk and helped me develop what I hope will take off as the newest sub-genre (with a hearty nod to Connie Willis, of course): PLAGUEPUNK*

We were also lucky enough to be invited along by Leslie (of Clarion West and NWMediaArts) to tag along on social time with Charles De Lint and Ellen Datlow. They were both really kind and easy to talk to. Charles giggled at my earnestness—and even a few of my jokes. I, of course, got him to sign my battered copy of Mulengro, because, well, OF COURSE.

More SFF spotting: Ted Chiang and Neile Graham.

Charles’ reading was really more of an entire-freaking-evening of entertainment. He read a wonderful novella, “Yellow Dog” (available only from Sub Press, I believe) and played guitar/harmonica and sang. I was waiting for a chorus line. It kicked ass.

I spent most of yesterday getting to know my first client at my new day job. She’s a wonderfully funny woman, very verbal, with a long litany of developmental disabilities. I’m excited to start working with her, although I can tell she’ll be quite a handful.

I then came home, zonked from the weekend and my day, so my Chris and I sat around and watched as many terrible horror movies as we could before passing out. I think we managed five. Two of the better ones were Hard Candy (which is more of an arty thriller than anything and not without its problems. Worth watching, though, just for the solid tweak of your expectations) and Devil’s Rejects (which I’ve managed to not see all this time, although I saw House of a 1000 Corpses in the theatre).

I’ve also begun a personal experiment, in conjunction with NaNoWriMo, and inspired by my good friend Shane Hoverston (who got it elsewhere, and so forth and on).  I am going to try and take 120 minutes every day and document what I get done, writing-wise, because keeping track of words is utterly useless in general for me (aside from NaNo, of which word trackage is the point). Thing is, some days, I wind up not writing many words, if any, but have spent time reading non-fiction or doing research or something…but then I wind up feeling like I have done NOTHING because I can’t empirically prove tangible results. If I take 120 minutes (not necessarily consecutive minutes), budget them into like, oh, 60 minutes writing/drafting  and 60 minutes writing/research, directed writing related activity—and physically keep track, I think I will get more done and feel like a better person. And! I decided that the days that I actually accomplish this (today was the first I got in the full time), I am tossing some small change or bill into a jar just for me for a prize (I’m still totally broke and shit, so we’re talking like 50 cents here). But it will add up, sometime. Eventually.

Of course, if (optimists in the audience will say when) I sell a new story, that would go into this magical pot of mystery prize awesomeness too.

*I have been reading up, actually, on the black plague and medieval technology. This was a far more progressively inventive time than most folks realize. I see vast untapped possibilities here. Watch for it. Plaguepunk will be the nextbigthingOMG1111111111, and you read about it here.

Resurfacing after a crisis-induced “vacation” from all things real life is absolutely and utterly overwhelming. ZOMFG. Emails, phone messages, projects where I can’t even find the threads I dropped to go on said crisis-induced vacation…I don’t even know where I am today. Do I just wipe the slate clean and just pretend all that’s piled up in the last week doesn’t exist? I really want to. Just looking at this teetering pile, literal and figurative, is giving me palpitations. It’s like a big version of the anxiety attack I get when I neglect my RSS reader for a few days and there are like 5 gazillion new posts and I have to hit the panic button and mark them all read because I am half-paralyzed with dread.

This is illustrative of why I have to be a compulsive list-maker. The minute one thing gets out of hand, I feel like everything gets out of hand and it’s all-of-a-sudden-way-too-fucking-much.

That makes me sound like a delicate flower, yes? I’m not. Pinky swear. I just can only juggle, like, two balls at one time. I’m better when I juggle one. Just toss it up and catch it, toss and catch. I’m totally envious of people like Cory Doctorow, who is plugged in and performing 50 tasks simultaneously. I try and wind up in a big, sticky, horrifying mess. Like this one.

What I have managed is to get some writing done. Not a ton or anything, and probably not super-inspired genius level stuff, but enough to keep my self-esteem at a healthy level. Look, see?

It’s about the sitting ass-in-chair. It’s been easy because said crisis has had my ass in a chair often and for sprints of time. I’ve been working like this: hard for an hour, then stop. Hard for 30 minutes, then stop. Over coffee for 15 minutes, then stop. While waiting on a line for 20 minutes, then stop. I’d like to see what I am capable of once things settle a bit and I build up endurance to work for a couple of hours at a time (hello, NaNoWriMo).

I have also managed to get four rejections within 5 days. All personable, friendly, even encouraging in places. I don’t mind rejections at all. Never have, although I know many good writers who still get a bit tender at them. What’s new for me is my new blast-‘em system. As soon as a rejection comes in, that story goes out again, within 48 hours. Never done this before…having at least 4 stories out at a time and working on churning (grinding? Slowly squeezing?) out new work.

I’m trying to decide how many rejections are reasonable before trunking a story. I have no idea. Should it depend on the story? On how much I like it? Or some other criteria? I’ve got a handhold on the writing process again, which involves not romanticizing the whole thing like it’s a magical cabal I need to remember the correct incantation to gain access to. Now, the whole submitting thing. It was way easier when I wrote one solicited thing a year. Now, I’m groping around and trying to figure out how high the walls are with my eyes closed. *bump, bump* Toss, catch.

Since getting home from Clarion West, all I’ve done (figuratively) is shuffle around, stare at things, and scratch my belly. Part of that is the shock of readjusting, part of that is exhaustion, and part of that is unadulterated self-indulgence.
I’ve come to understand that while I like to view myself as a free spirit who struggles against any imposed structures (blah blah blah), in actuality, I need a schedule and deadlines and pressure in order to get anything besides shuffling, staring, and scratching done.
So, in that spirit, I’d like to write a total of 75,000 words before the end of the year (not one thing that’s 75,000, although I’m awfully curious how I would fare doing something like NaNoWriMo and just churn out 50,000 words in a single month. I’m actually planning to do it this year just to say I have and get a jump start…but this goal is on top of that).

What about you? Have any goals you want to state publicly in order to shame yourself into action?