Sandra Tayler's Blog, page 120

Mothers Day

Today is Mother's Day. Mostly I am ignoring this fact because I don't want to be required to have a good day. I also have no desire to require my family to provide me with one. If the day happens to be good, I will be glad of it. If otherwise, then additional guilt does no one any good. The deep irony of Mother's Day is that a day has a better chance of being good if it is not overburdened with expectations.

That said, I'll be calling my mother and Grandmother. I have no idea if they've adopted the same zen attitude toward the holiday that I have this year. (Some years I do care, others meh.) It is a small effort from me to call them, I know it will make them happy, and I love to talk to them anyway.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Ups and Downs

Up side of the day: I actually worked on some of my projects.

Down side: My evening has been stomped upon by my child's poor homework planning. The emotional stew has chased away all the blog thoughts which I hoped to spin into something interesting.

Sigh.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Part Time Therapist

I am not trained in psychology or the techniques of therapy. These things are interesting to me and I have done a significant amount of reading on the topics, but I can not claim true expertise. And yet I play the part of therapist on an almost daily basis. I talk Kiki through a resarch paper, not only the work itself, but also the behaviors and feelings she exhibits as she tries to deflect and avoid. Kiki is champion at fomenting arguments between us when she has work she does not want to do. Yet at 15 she is able to see herself doing it and often stops herself. This self awareness is a skill she has developed over years of self-analytic conversations with both Howard and me.

I nudge and prod Link into awareness about the social consequences of choices he makes. We talk about friends and frustrations. I watch Gleek run fast and frantic, quick to anger. Then I find a quiet time when we can talk through the buried fears and sadnesses which drive her forward. Gleek likes talking about feelings, she'll stay up for hours rehashing the same things over and over. Then I need to disengage and let her sleep. (It is almost always at bedtime.) Some of the emotions will still be there in the morning, most will not.

And then there is Patch. In the past couple of years he has gotten less focused attention from me because most of his emotional needs fit so smoothly into our standard operating procedures. It was easy to know when he needed time to talk, he'd start crawling into bed with us at night. He's older now and things are different. He doesn't react in the same ways that he used to do. He's started feeling sick at school and calling to come home, except he's not sick. I believe that he is being honest in his description of symptoms, but there is no infection involved. The truth is that he has buried feelings which need to be sorted. Having an upset stomach at school may be the new form of crawl into bed with mom and dad. I need to find a quiet time when we can dig into his thoughts to figure out what is unsettling him. I've already got a laundry list of probable causes. His best friend is moving. He's going to switch schools next year. The school work is boring and he's figured out how to skate by on it. The culture at the school is not ideal for him. And he's just turned 8 which coincides with certain brain developments. All of my 8 year old kids ended up sitting in my lap and talking through fear of growing up/death. A good therapist knows where to dig.

Then of course there are Howard and I. Between us we have a boat load of fun anxieties and neruoses which can provide hours of fun self analysis. I spend a significant amount of time watching my own brain processes and trying to figure out what is going on in there.

I once had a friend pose the question "If you didn't have the job you do now, what do you think you would be?" Therapist is on my list of possible answers.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Kiki and the Research Paper

Kiki is having her first close encounter with an MLA formatted research paper. In traditional student fashion she read piles of interesting sources and kept track of none of them. Then she discovered upon writing the paper that half of her research was not applicable and needed to be replaced by completely different research which branched off of the applicable research. Unfortunately she was out of time, so instead of making a beautiful and well-supported paper, she had to cobble together what she could from the pieces she had. All of this went with a sound track of "This is hard, and boring, and I don't like it." Yes honey. I know. Get it done anyway.

On one level it was highly amusing to watch Kiki wrestle with the strict structures of an academic research paper. I remember those struggles so well. I made the same mistakes. Unfortunately when I tried to help Kiki jump ahead to the cobble-together stage of essay production she kept getting frustrated with me. She was angry and frustrated with the format because she did not understand it or the reasons for it. I look at her assignment and the shape of it is so clear, so simple. I can comprehend it whole. For Kiki the assignment is all muddled and confusing. Not surprising really. I was near the end of college before I really comprehended how to research and why research papers mattered.

A part of me looks at Kiki's assignment and thinks what an amazing research paper I could write now. I would draft early, go back to my research, draft again, and dig far down for primary sources. The beauty of the form and the importance of correct citations seem clear to me now. I'm unlikely ever to do it. I do not need more projects. Also I suspect I would discover that at their heart most research papers have far more muddle-through and cobble-together than academic researchers would wish.

In the end Kiki learned valuable lessons about research format. She learned that when she goes off the beaten path for a topic, she makes more work for herself as she tries to figure out how to make that topic fit the assignment. She learned that sometimes getting things done takes precedence over making them perfect. Most of all she learned how to get the thing done even though much of the work is tedious. And she has begun learning all of these things at a much younger age than I did. I call that a win.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Brief Thoughts on Formal Clothes

On the Sunday after Prom, many of the young men and women who attended wear their formal attire to church. I love this tradition. It lets the clothing be worn more than once. More importantly, it lets me have the chance to look closely at the beautiful dresses. Kiki paid more attention this year because she is two weeks away from being 16. In the not-too-distant future she may be one of the girls in a gorgeous dress. I think she was also primed to pay attention because I've been asking her opinion on the dresses that I am altering. A long-buried part of me is very glad that my life now contains excuses for me to wear formal dresses. The first of these events will arrive on Saturday when Howard and I will attend the Whitney awards gala. The Whitney awards will be quite relaxing since we're attending to be able to applaud our friends.

It feels like I have more profound thoughts on deliberately dressy clothing, but my thoughts keep slipping away from me. This probably means I should stop trying to write and instead put children to bed.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Projects in Process

Stepping Stones book project:

I opened up my book project today for the first time in over two weeks. It feels like it has been longer because my brain has been working double time in the interim. I spent a couple of minutes reorienting myself in the project and figuring out where I left off. Everything about it felt stupid. I could not find any sense of inspiration or flow. I allowed it to all be awful and pounded out some words anyway. I have only one more essay to re-draft, then a bunch of data entry for the hand-written edits in the margins of the print-out. So close, yet not quite done.

Pretty Dresses:

I have now removed all the bits which did not fit my vision for what the dresses will eventually be. Evidence of this feat is strewn all over the family room floor in the form of tiny bits of thread. Gleek was fascinated with the project and did some of it for me. Next comes the more fearful parts. Seam ripping can be undone, cutting can not. However I can not shorten sleeves without scissors. That part will have to wait until I have a few hours available. Nylon chiffon frays badly if the edges are left raw for very long. (I feel cool for being able to attach the right name to the fabric. I know lots of fabric names and lots of fabric textures, but I would badly fail a mix and match test. I intend to fix this as my project continues.)

Raising Children:

My most important and long-term project. I didn't do anything critical on this today except feed them at intervals and dole out a band aids or two. Sometimes it is nice to have a day when they're around, but I'm not much required.

Cleaning house:

No progress today.

Gardening:

Ground covered in snow, wind cold. No progress.

Schlock books:

I can't do anything else on EPD until we get page proofs late next week. I've sorted images for the next 4 books. I'll do preliminary layouts starting on Monday.

Critiquing:

Between my writer's group, a friend putting himself through an intensive short story writing course, and another friend posting chapters to be read, critiquing has turned into a project. I'm almost caught up with short story friend. Might finish that later this evening. The others I'll get to.

Blogging:

1 post today. You just read it.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Tulips and Dresses

Yesterday was sunny. It was the only truly lovely day we've had in about a week and a half. During those same chilly gray days I was swamped with work and stress. But I'd sent off the book files and they'd arrived. Howard had departed for his convention. The kids were all at school. For the first time in almost a month I had a day to claim as my own. I intended to use it touring the Tulip Festival at Thanksgiving Point. I dressed in the springiest shirt I own and bounced a little as I descended the front steps. Then my cell phone rang. It was Patch complaining that his stomach didn't feel good. Motherhood responsibility settled back on me like a wet winter coat.

I managed to have a good day despite the rearrangement of my plans. A friend kept me company and we had a really good talk for hours on end. But I mourned the loss of being free to do whatever I chose. The sadness returned full force later in the afternoon when Patch fessed up that he had not really felt sick. I know that experimenting with deception as a method for manipulating the world is developmentally appropriate for an 8 year old. I just wish he'd picked a different day. So did he once he saw how sad I was about missing the gardens. Neither of us could give the day back to me.

This morning was gray and blustery, much too cold to enjoy walking in a garden. But the book was still done, Howard was at his convention, and the kids were all off at school. I claimed the day as mine and headed to Decades Vintage Clothing in Salt Lake City. Browsing through fabrics, colors, and styles feeds some of the same portions of my brain which enjoy flowers. The primary purpose of the trip was to find a formal dress. I searched Decades for dresses last year, but nothing was perfect. This year I wasn't looking for perfect. I was looking for a dress I could alter. I was looking for dresses that filled me with thoughts of what they could be with only a few changes. The store was full of dresses like that. I browsed, tried on, and spun plans. Eventually I came home with three. None of them are presentable at the moment, once they are I'll write up whole posts about how I made them so.

It was a lovely day, partly for the dresses, but mostly because it was completely mine.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Taking a Spin in the Hugo Happy Fun Anxiety Barrel

In a recent blog post, John Scalzi described being nominated for a Hugo award as taking a ride in the Happy Fun Anxiety Barrel. I read that and I laughed out loud because it is so true. I am in an odd place in relation to the Hugo awards. I am not the one nominated. It is not my work out there for scrutiny. Except that it is. What ever happens to Howard also happens to me. If he gets on an emotional roller coaster, I am along for the ride by default. This is one of the things about loving someone that is by turns wonderful and hard. Also it really is my work. I spend as many hours on Schlock Mercenary as Howard does. Mine is supportive work rather than creation, but I still care deeply about it.

This is the third time we've been nominated for a Hugo. This is our third year in a row we get to ride in the barrel. We knew about this nomination two weeks before it was announced publicly. For two weeks we felt light, happy, honored. It was particularly fun that we got to share the joy with several close friends who were co-nominated with Howard for Writing Excuses. Then the full nominee list went public. My first look at the list was a quick scan for familiar names. There were many, and I rejoiced. Then I focused on the two categories where Howard is nominated. My stomach just about sank to my shoes. There was no way we could win. Ever. Not against those amazing people. And I was sad, because I feel like Howard's work is worthy of a rocket ship trophy. I know the fact that he made the list means that lots of people agree with me. I know I should be able to bask in the glow of nomination, but I remember. I remember what the award ceremony was like these past two years and I can't deny that I care about winning. It would be so nice if I didn't. I try very hard not to care, which is something of a paradox really. I try to train my brain by chanting "It's an honor just to be nominated." It is a good mantra, because it is true.

It is the quavering between possibilities which causes the trouble. If I could abandon hope completely, then the glow of nomination would be plenty. At the moment of seeing the list, hope is quenched. But then from some dark corner of my brain a small thought sneaks onto the stage. "maybe this year it is our turn." It is a strange little thought which assumes that the concept of "turns" has any application to the Hugo awards. It doesn't. The Hugo award is a gift given by the voting fans of the World Science Fiction Convention. They may bestow it where ever they wish regardless of who has had it before. Knowledge of this leads to the neurotic post-Hugo-loss funk. Coming home and going back to work can be very hard if one spends too much time thinking about how one was not worthy enough. It is a patently ridiculous set of thoughts. The nomination itself is evidence that others found the work worthy. And yet these self doubting thoughts are even more difficult to eradicate than the sly hopeful thoughts in advance of the award ceremony. It is as if the award ceremony transforms the hopeful thoughts directly into self-doubt. Knowing this, I try to stomp out all hope. Yet hope persists and I find myself made anxious by every hopeful thought I detect. The only defense I have against the anxiety is to not care. Which brings me back to trying very hard not to care. Round and round I go in the barrel.

Sometimes I spin in a different direction as well. I genuinely like many of the people with whom we share a category. I love and admire their work. I want to be delighted and happy for them when they win. I had that once. When Phil and Kadja Foglio won in 2009, I honestly felt nothing but delight and relief. The worms of self-doubt came later, after we returned home. Unfortunately my mental landscape regarding the Hugos has become more self aware since then. Other emotions will be present as well as delight. Then there is the horrible/hopeful possibility that we might win. This would obviously make us very happy, but it would also mean that these other people whose work I admire have to suffer through the transformation of hope into self doubt. I don't want that for them any more than I want it for us. Yet I wouldn't wish any of us off the nominee list. Because being nominated is truly an honor and a joy. It is a validation of all the hours of hard work. I want to have that. I want these people I like and admire to have that.

Mary Robinette Kowal once wrote a marvelous post about auditions and rejections. In that post she said:

Granted, every person is different, but for the most part the mentality going into an audition is that it doesn't matter. I mean, you want it. You want it badly sometimes, but there's this mental adjustment you have to do in order to survive the audition process…I'm a normally rational person, around auditions I get very skittish and superstitious about jinxing things by talking about it. As I said, my brain is not rational about this. There's this whole variety of things that I have to do to convince myself that the results of the audition don't matter when, of course, they do… Just don't wish me luck for an audition. It will make me think about landing the part. It will make me hope. I can't afford that.

The emotional arcs and mental hi-jinks that Mary describes are spot on for my Hugo mind state. The primary difference is that the polite wishing of luck is actually positive for me. I can say thank you and move onward knowing that this person counts in the score of people who believe the work is worthy. I tuck the kind thoughts into my pocket and use them later to deflect the inevitable barrage of self doubt. What is really hard is when friends or fans give detailed and logical reasons for why Schlock Mercenary or Writing Excuses ought to win. Also hard is any sort of analysis which explains why the other nominees have an advantage. I know these analyses are part of the fun for Hugo voters. They love to get in and argue for their favorites. They love to crunch numbers and talk probabilities. I don't want to spoil the fun, but I don't want to see it. Faced with an analysis of our Hugo categories, I want to shout the Han Solo line "Never tell me the odds!" These sorts of analysis feed and multiply the hopeful thoughts. Too many hopeful thoughts accumulated together can make me believe that we are somehow entitled. I don't want to be that person. Howard does not want to be that person. And neither of us want to be swamped by despair when all those hopeful thoughts are transformed into self doubt.

Mostly we're trying to think about other things between now and August. Fortunately we have many things planned. We have plenty of things to focus on besides our ride in the Happy Fun Anxiety Barrel.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Full Stop

It was 11:30 yesterday morning when I clicked the final button to upload Emperor Pius Dei to the printer's FTP site. My computer threw up a progress bar which told me it would take 23 hours to complete. A full day of uploading time, and nothing more for me to do but wait. I had dozens of other projects waiting on me. I had plenty of things to do. Instead I stopped.

Stopping was not a conscious choice on my part. At first I jittered about trying to get things done, but it was all scattered and fractured. The deadline fear which kept me moving at top speed for the past week had vanished. The only thing I could do was watch an extremely slow progress bar. I actually did that for awhile. Or rather my eyes watched the bar, my brain went larking through fields of thought without bringing a thing back. When I attempted to gather thoughts, they slid away from me and vanished.

Usually when I achieve that level of mental burn out, I give up and watch television episodes for awhile. Except my preferred method is streaming through Netflix, which uses the same internet connection through which I was trying to upload. I ended up buying a very fluffy book for my kindle instead. It was the literary equivalent of a sugar wafer cookie, filled with sweetness, sameness, artificial flavors, and prone to give me a headache if I get too much. I switched over to Enchanted April, which I discovered free in the kindle store. It is a story about women in gray and rainy Britain who escape for a month to a castle with warm breezes and wisteria in bloom. While there they discover things about themselves which they can take home to make their lives happier. The thought of lounging in a chair near blooming wisteria sounds lovely to me. It sounded lovely two decades ago when I first saw the movie based upon the book. That lovely thought led me to plant wisteria along my back wall. It has not bloomed yet this year. The weather has been too cold. When it does bloom, I need to remember to lounge next to it in a chair. Then I could close my eyes and pretend I'm in a castle. I've barely started the book, but I look forward to the escape it represents.

This morning my computer tells me that the upload will take another two hours. Fortunately my brain is in better gear today. It began composing a blog post. Or rather it began throwing ideas at me. This is the topic, and this should go in, also this, and this, and that. So now that the kids are off at school I need to sit down and assemble the loose notes into a coherent train of thought. Perhaps by the time I'm done the upload will also be done. Then Howard and I will go out for a celebratory lunch date.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.

Poised on the Brink of Printing

I am currently exporting all the pages from Emperor Pius Dei (EPD) out of InDesign and into a PDF. This process will take 20 minutes during which I can not be working on editing. I'm snatching the break like a drowning swimmer grabs a life preserver. I know that in a very short while I will be out of the water, but I'm still holding tight.

This morning my desk had a printed copy of EPD which was sporting a forest of paper tabs. Each marked something for me to fix. It was the fourth time I'd faced a forest of tabs. Set 1 was from our copy editor. Sets 2 & 3 I generated for myself by paging through carefully until my eyes could no longer focus. Set 4 was provided when good friends, family really, came over for a proofing party. They gleefully marked anything they could see which might have been the slightest bit wrong. Which is exactly what I told them to do. They were my spotters-of-wrong-things. I paid them in pizza.

I stared at the multitude of tabs this morning and nearly cried. My brain and eyes are so tired of this book. I went to work anyway and soon discovered that the majority of the tabs indicated things which only took me seconds to fix. They were all the kind of thing that the average reader is unlikely to ever notice, but which I would feel bad if I left. In under an hour I mowed the forest flat. It was much easier than the previous sets of fixes.

Next I export to PDF (waiting on it now.) Then I page through the PDF on a last error check. Then I export and upload to our printer's FTP site. At that point I am done until the first proofs come back for approval. If you had asked me 10 days ago, I would not have believed we would be shipping files this week. I expected mid-May and it had me panicked about getting books before the Summer conventions. If you had asked me last Thursday I would have said "maybe by April 30th." Howard worked amazingly fast. 40 margin art pieces in five days. The test printing, two rounds of it, took a single day instead of three. (Yay Alphagraphics). My work all went faster than my previous estimates told me to expect. I half expect the FTP process to be miserable to make up for all the good fortune.

Mirrored from onecobble.com.