Caren Gussoff writer. geek. bon vivant. dot com

Of all the states I have ever lived in, Washington may be the most kind-hearted—and the most misguided.
One of the first bills to hit the docket in the 2010 state’s legislature was a proposal by the honorable Democratic State Sen. Rosa Franklin of Tacoma to change the language the state uses when referring to at-risk youth…to “at hope” youth.
Seriously. Read about it here:
“Democratic State Sen. Rosa Franklin, South Tacoma, says negative labels are hurting kids’ chances for success and she’s not a bit concerned that people will be confused by her proposed rewrite of the 54 places in state law where words like “at risk” and “disadvantaged” are used.”
OK, fine. We play nice. We change the wording in 54 places throughout state documents to the tune of $3500.
$3500.
This made me rant and rave and scream for a bit. Then my palms started sweating. In my mind, this nice, kind-hearted lady wants, truly, to help these kids. I know that her intentions are kind. But in my mind, rather than waste legislature time (which costs money) and waste $3500 on changing wording in documents no one ever reads—take that 3500, purchase 10 rebuilt computers from rePC or another local reseller, and start up a computer program at a community center, teaching kids the computer skills they would need to go to college or become more competitive in the workplace. 10 rebuilt computers in a community center open for 4 hours after school 5 days a week could serve ~10 – 30 students per session, up to 150 students per week.
I dare someone to tell me that this would not do more for assisting at risk, disadvantaged youth more than talking about them in sweet innuendos.
Help people by HELPING people. Get the resources into the community, not the dusty documents that refer to the community—which will do nothing other that maybe earn this nice, kindly older lady another term representing Tacoma.
I was at risk, disadvantaged. I didn’t care what you called me, what the state called me. If I was even AWARE of what they called me, that is—which I pretty am well sure I had no clue. I cared what my mentors called me and I cared when my parents were involved and encouraging. I cared when someone took the time to help me build my skills and my self esteem. That’s what got me through high school, to college, then even into graduate school. Then, ultimately, into a life where this seems SO OBVIOUS.

So. I’m starting a novel. I am of two minds about it:

• One, I’m really, really excited. The novel concept grew organically from the last short story I completed, mostly because I fell in love with the characters and became pretty convinced that the concept and world could be a bigger one than I was able to capture within the confines of the short story. There are definite advantages to working on a novel as well—novels are, realistically, the best  (although far from guaranteed, as evidenced by my own first novel as well as the experiences of countless other novelists) way to be able to make a living writing. Also, I really, really hate starting new stories—a personal quirk of mine, becoming a fiery ball of intolerable anxiety as I struggle to find an entry point into my next idea (if I have a next idea, that is).
• Two, I am absolutely dreading being ensconced in a novel. It’s like being in a new relationship. You need to be able to enjoy the honeymoon period while remaining somewhat clearheaded about the fact that it is a long-term commitment that will have ups and downs (and as many of one as the other). It’s also a time gamble, which frightens me to a certain extent—what if I dedicate two years to this project, forsaking other projects along the way—and it sucks? I mean, that sounds truly lame to say, but it’s a very real worry—not that there aren’t things to learn from a failed project, but because it’s a deliberate choice that regardless of the outcome, I must take responsibility for, good or bad.

I think I will continue to write short stories*. I am a short story writer, primarily, always have been, probably always will be. But here—I have smashed the bottle of champagne over my own head to christen the journey. My blog: now with 100% more novel bitching!

*in fact, got two pieces of awesome short story news this week. My very scary entry into the Worst Possible Cover Letter Rant Contest at Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) took first place and will be published in the Fall. And, my SF story, “Games,” will be in Z.S. Adani and Eric T. Reynolds’ Destination: Future anthology. More details soon.

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.

The fair and lovely Eden Robins recently reminded me that I have a horrible habit—one that springs forth from a good place, but is nonetheless a horrible habit—of saying yes to things before I fully think through whether I can logistically and sanely handle one more thing on my plate.
Lots and lots of my friends have mentioned this to me over the years–Jamie, Suzanne, my husband–and I fully acknowledge that I do it, completely swear to watch the tendency, clear my decks–then slowly, surely fill it all up again.

I know why I do it. It’s partly joie de vivre, partly not wanting to disappoint anyone, partly an insatiable curiosity about everything, and partly a fear of dying unsuccessful and unfulfilled. However, I am turning 36 (insert interrobang here) in 4 days and I have to be an adult about it sometime.

So, hear this, world and loved ones. I can juggle 4 balls well, 5 balls without dropping too often, 6 is pushing it. 3 is bliss while 7 is a dirty lie.

I now have all the balls I can handle (heh): writing, Brain Harvest, working on 4Emphasis (job), looking for a steadier job (me and everyone else), occasionally freelancing, and now the start of the EDGE program*. You’ll have to go sell crazy somewhere else. I’m all filled up for now. See me again in 6 months.

* which means other things have to fall (or be “flensed,” to semi-misquote Cory Doctorow) away. These apparently include a bunch of crits I’ve promised to do, anything vaguely resembling a social life, volunteering at 826 Seattle (which I do want to do sometime), learning German, keeping up with online people as much as I’d like, returning phone calls in a timely fashion (although I will try harder at that. Really.).

Thanks to National Haiku Day, “snow madness,” and the existence of Thaumatrope, I’ve finally broken down and am now officially a twit. You can follow me, if you’d like.

I promise completely mundane and/or cryptic 140 character updates that will overlap with neither my blog nor my facebook page.

I’m not very good at waiting. For anything. Never have been. It brings out some sort of OCD tendency I know I directly inherited from my mother that causes me to do things like click refresh on my email repeatedly and check my bank balance every half hour on the hour. I also have a tendency to want to talk about the same topics over and over even beyond their threshold of interesting for anyone.

I have so many things that are out there, somewhere. Stories I’m waiting for responses to, things I am waiting to bounce into my lap, opportunities I know will soon present themselves but have not yet shown their faces.

Oh, I have a lot to do in the meantime—I am pretty much doing something from the time I wake up until the time I eventually try and lie down to sleep (which usually involves popping up a few times to check on things like my email and my bank balance before the Klonopin/Ambien cocktail kicks in (I TOLD you it’d be a difficult six months, right?).  But I have a very big issue with the whole “being in the here and now” moment. My mind has been six months in the future. In six months, things will look very different than they do right now. That’s what’s keeping me so busy from wake to pass-out. All this tapping refresh and obsessing is like some kind of demented way to mark this time passing.

But what all this has me thinking about is a quote from Chuck Palahniuk’s Invisible Monsters, which is weirdly keeping me fine with the tapping and the refreshing and the circling around things and the waiting:
“The best way is not to fight it, just go. Don’t be trying all the time to fix things. What you run from only stays with you longer. When you fight something, you only make it stronger.”
Crap, that man has taught me a lot, both in person and in his books.

I am not fighting this. I am Caren’s perverse urge to roll with not being able to roll with things.

Process is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately–because I’ve realized in the past three weeks that I have no process. Well, not yet.
And this terrifies me.
Before you dredge up any sympathy for me, I’ll admit up front that it is my own fault. For twelve years, I bobbled quite un/happily in the warm and familiar waters of literary fiction. I had my thing and my go-to moves and, in a sense, I was quite comfortable with my thing and my go-to moves. Comfortable, but kind of freaking miserable.
Yeah, I produced some books and some work, much of which I’m proud of, and have managed to keep myself just published enough that I could call myself a writer without giggling or eye rolling. But I never nudged out of obscurity or, more importantly, produced more than one piece a year (or thereabouts).
A few things fell into place for me last year, and I began reading more and more speculative fiction. I re-fell in love with SF (I was weaned on Asimov and Heinlein and Poul Anderson), and decided to be an unrepentant genre-switcher. And, as often happens when you make a wish or a public declaration, the wild opportunity to attend Clarion West came barreling at me. I jumped on that bull, and rode it, sometimes barely holding on, for six weeks.
Best thing I’ve ever done for my writing. Ever.
But now, as the dust clears and my bruised ass heals, I realize I’m now solely responsible (again) for making anything happen again.
Well, duh, you say, and I concur. Duh.
Clarion West is six weeks of intense writing in a wondrous bubble where everyone wants you to succeed, ultimately, and all you have to worry about is producing a story a week, critting your classmates’ stories, and maybe, getting around to washing those yoga pants you’d been wearing all week long.
Out of the bubble, for what–almost a month?–I’ve been flipping around like a fish. A non-writing fish. A non-writing fish who is torturing herself for flipping and not writing (and especially since this counter is still.at.zero ).
I finally sat myself down for a long. Honest conversation, and the consensus my flipping fish self and I came to was that I swore a solemn oath to myself pre-Clarion West to set ablaze all my pre-existing blocks, habits, opinions, comfort zones, and ego about writing. I did that. And while I was there, I filled that now-void with all kinds of good and useful knowledge about all the things that had been wrong with my thing, my go-to moves, and only producing one thing a year. And I used the Clarion process of insulation + panic to produce a story (sometimes, they were really more “stories”) a week.
But now, back in real life, I have to find my real life process because the Clarion process, when competing with job(s), husband, family, friends, the information overload of my beloved internet, cats, sleeping, cooking my own damn food; t goes over like a pregnant polevaulter.
Terrifying.
So, this is a documentation of the process of finding a process. Step one is admitting you have no process. Step two is to quit flipping like non-writing fish who is torturing herself for flipping and not writing.
I’m at step two.five: conquering the fear (remembering that the fear is always step two.five no matter what).
I can see step three in the distance, but I’m not there yet. It’s both freeing and humiliating to admit that I can *see* step three but am clinging to this whole process about process. I can see step three; I hope I’ll get there this week.
What’s step three (you may ask)?
It’s to jump back into the messiness, the uncertainty, the demented but irresistible cacophony of voices…and you can’t see the bottom. It’s just to show up and do it. It’s to quit caring whether it’s good or bad or if anyone will care. Step three–just jump. And yell, Wheee! when you do it.

Oh, abyss. I’ll be there soon. Pinky swear.

(whee.)