Ten Years Ago...

Ten years ago, I knew I wanted to be a novelist but I had never written anything even close to 100 pages long.

Then I wrote a 164 page creative thesis. After that, I decided High Fantasy wasn't really what I was meant to write despite reading it for so many years.

My next novel featured a twenty-three-year-old blogger named Paige, her younger sister Rory, and a foxy Fae named Adder Whitethorn. It was (gulp) 329 pages long.

I scrapped it and started again, completely rewriting everything but keeping the central characters and changing Paige's name to Maggie. It was 268 pages long. Then I rewrote it a few more times. Maggie grew five years older and slightly more jaded and bitter. Rory dropped out of most of the story because following both sisters on their parallel adventures just wasn't working.

Unfortunately Charlie, the kindly statue without a heart, did not survive. Don't worry, he's still out there, patiently awaiting his story.

And then, last year, after some wonderful advice and much thought, I decided to rewrite it again, almost entirely from scratch. Maggie dropped back down to 17 and wasn't quite so jaded anymore. Rory grew into the older sister. Adder continued goblin wrestling. Maggie continued blogging. I realized that the story had to be told in first person. Several voices were silenced.

Ten years ago, I wouldn't have been able to write the novel I'm writing. I knew how to immitate the sound of a novel, but I had no idea how to give it a heart. I'm still learning, but my current draft is 194 pages and counting.

And it's the best version yet.

Ten years ago, I had never lived in a city or even slept in one overnight. Ever. Since then I've lived in Stirling, Scotland (okay not exactly an overwhelming metropolis, but it has public transportation and it sure felt big to me at the time) and Boston.

Ten years ago, I had never left the country. Since then I've traveled to Scotland four times with a quick detour in Ireland. And yes, I do realize that next time I can afford to leave the country, I absolutely must go somewhere else. But it's so hard when I love Scotland so much.

Ten years ago, I thought I might want to work in publishing. When I graduated college, I elbowed my way through the door as an administrative assistant and was promoted to an editorial assistant position working on the bestselling grammar handbooks in the country.

I still don't think I'm all that good with grammar, but I'm a lot better than I used to be. And now I know how to use the Chicago Manual of Style, the MLA, and any grammar handbook you can throw at me. Just...don't test me, okay? Surprisingly, hunting down the answers to obscure grammar questions is not as fun as it sounds.

Ten years ago, I'd never had a boyfriend. Now I've been married for six years.

Ten years ago, I'd never been to a wedding reception. It turned out that the first one I attended was my own.

Ten years ago, the sickest I'd ever been was when I got pneumonia in sixth grade for two weeks. Then I got mono and was sick for four months. YES, I BROUGHT IT UP AGAIN. (Fine, I won't talk about my pee this time. I'll spare you that, at least.) And I learned that sometimes being married means relying entirely on your partner while looking the grossest you've ever looked in your life.

Ten years ago, I had never hurt my body. Then I messed up my wrist (paste up...it's a textbook publishing thing), ankle (a jump rope aerobics certification class. I should have stopped at kickboxing), and knee (turns out sometimes if you ignore something, it doesn't go away. It gets worse). I couldn't do much of anything for several years and I hated my body for giving up on me so soon.

Slowly, I worked my way back to healthy. Now I'm taking the same kickboxing class I took exactly ten years ago and I'm much kinder to my body. Also I don't use scissors. Scissors are evil.

Ten years ago, I had just started taking kickboxing classes. Since then I've become a certified instructor and I've taught classes from 5 - 100 people at Bates College, Boston, and Vermont.

Ten years ago, I had never been a permanent resident of any state except Connecticut. Since then I've lived in Massachusetts, Vermont, and Maine.

Ten years ago, I hadn't met Depression yet. Now we are sort of on-again, off-again. He never sends me flowers. Jerk.

Ten years ago, I could more or less count the number of times I'd been to the beach on one hand. The reason for this is that my otherwise practical parents sincerely believe that they have a curse that causes bad weather whenever they are less than ten miles from the ocean. But I had always wanted to live by the sea.

Since then I spent two years living just a five minute walk from the beach. I visited the ocean every day. I think Ms. Rumphius would be proud.

Ten years ago, I had never heard of Book Expo America or the Bread Loaf Writers Conference or Sirens. Since then I've worked at BEA for three years, audited Bread Loaf with author Margot Livesey, and attended Sirens twice.

Ten years ago, I knew I loved to write and I knew I loved stories but I didn't know if I had any stories to tell. Now I know I do.

Ten years ago, I didn't have cheekbones. This is still true.

Ten years ago, I was a twin. This is still true. This will always be true. Happy Birthday, Melissa.

A lot has happened in the last ten years. I wonder what will happen in the next ten...

The Coffee Survived...and That's All That Matters?

So, funny story...

But first: I am super duper paranoid about falling. Whenever it's icy out, I'm on hyperalert. Why? Because: 1. Falling hurts 2. I bruise easily and 3. Falling is really really embarrassing.

I've developed a strategy of short little steps and...well, it's this whole elaborate process. And it works.

But this morning I was criticizing myself about it because, you know, I have to criticize myself about SOMETHING at all times. I was saying, "Jennifer, you are so ridiculous! You are in boots and taking little ballet steps while that freshman over there is clomping along in converse sneakers like it's July. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO FALL. Stop being so paranoid about everything."

Fast forward to this afternoon. I go to get a coffee and an egg salad sandwich. I'm wearing my boots. As I'm leaving with my coffee in one hand and sandwich in the other, I notice a truck plowing the walkway in front of me. He's reversing and slamming the truck into the snow like he's seriously got to pee but he can't until he finishes clearing this area—the area where I need to walk.

I'm thinking, Okay, he saw you. He'll wait until you cross behind him before he backs up again.

Nope. As soon as I'm behind him, I hear the beeping noise. I picture him throwing the truck into reverse with the exact same level of precision I observed moments earlier and I figure if I don't get out of the way, I'm going to get run over.

I speed up.

And then I fall. On brick sheathed in an inch of ice, which had been hidden beneath the snow.

I fall so hard that it jars my body. I fall so hard that I still have a headache twenty minutes later and it is not going away without drugs. I fall so hard I can only anticipate the exquisite bruise just now developing on my poor, mistreated right butt cheek.

I think: 1. Did anyone see me???

(A: No. Phew.)

And 2. OMG now it's like a movie and I'm on the ground and the truck is going to back up over me and kill me and that is even more embarrassing than just falling.

Of course, as you've already surmised, the truck doesn't hit me. The truck is just sitting, waiting to back up. I'm pretty sure he had to put it in park for a second so he didn't pee himself while he laughed at my pain.

(Correction: Yes, someone did see me fall.)

My sandwich is salvageable but a mess. It's not until I'm almost home, however, that I realize my coffee is perfect. It's in a flimsy cardboard container (I needed a bigger size today than my reusable mug, okay???) and I just completely wiped out, yet not a drop was spilled.

That's when I realize: My subconscious sold me out—for coffee. That's probably part of the reason why I fell so hard—rather than put my hand down to catch myself, I held onto the coffee!! In that split second when I had to make a priority decision, I put coffee before my butt, and the rest of my body for that matter.

I have to tell you, based on the pain in my skull right now, it just doesn't seem worth it. At least my mom would be proud (and will, when I recount this to her). I'm sure she'll say something like, "That's my girl."

 **************
Funny Side Story: When I was in elementary school, we learned about how damaging caffeine can be on the body. I had observed my mom's zealous coffee drinking and was now seriously concerned for her health. I immediately went home and wrote her essentially an intervention letter begging her for the sake of her health and her family, to quit coffee altogether.

My mom read it and then she gave me The Look (my mom is famously nicknamed the "Velvet Hammer") and she said, "Jennifer. Listen: everyone has a vice." And I knew by that look and the tone of her voice that it would be best for the sake of MY health if I NEVER criticized her coffee consumption again.
**************


Seriously though, this jerk-face of a week can kiss my beautiful, bruised ass.

Monsters at My Door

scritch scritch scritch


Go away, monsters. You can't scare me.

scritch scritch...


Everything is fine. I am fine.



scritch scratch


It's January. No one is happy in January. It's cold and there are resolutions we're already failing to keep and not enough daylight so everyone's Vitamin D deficient or something.

No one is happy the week before they turn thirty.

No one is happy all the time. That would be impossible. I'm just not having a perfect week.

It doesn't mean you can come back.

It doesn't mean anything.



....



scritch


[Edit next morning: Last night after writing this post, I forced myself to go back and face my novel again. And you know what? I got some good stuff done and I felt better. So consider that 1 point Jennifer, Monsters 0. I just kicked the door shut IN THEIR FACE. I hope they stay away. We'll see.]