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Hopelessly Devoted to You, WIP

It’s been ten years since I started writing Dindi.

I’m in even worse shape than Susanna Daniel, who wrote on this a while ago in Slate.

This means that the time from my novel’s conception to its appearance on store shelves adds up to a staggering 10 years. An entire decade. Between, I graduated and spent a year on fellowship (during which I wrote a lot but only half of it was any good); then there were the teaching years (during which I wrote very little, hardly any of it good); then there were the Internet company years (during which I barely wrote at all).

Stiltsville is in good company, which is reassuring. There are oodles of novels that took a decade or longer to write—including some famous examples, like Junot Díaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Díaz spoke in interviews about his own decade of active non-accomplishment. He said that five years into the process, he decided to give up on the novel and start a graduate degree (in what, he didn’t say). He said his life improved: no more torture, no more fights with his fiance. Oh, Junot, I thought when I read this, I understand! Still, something pulled him back, and another five years passed, and then he was finally done.

…The thing is—one-day-at-a-time is the most painful way for active non-accomplishment to happen. It’s the psychological equivalent of death by a thousand cuts. A painter I knew told me once that she’d reached a point when she said goodbye to painting, much the same way Junot Díaz considered doing—she said it was the kindest, most generous thing she’d ever done for herself.

… I woke one night in the midst of a minor panic attack. It wasn’t unusual for me wake in the night, anxious and scared—and I always knew the source of the panic right away. But it was rare for my heavy-sleeping husband to wake at the same time. And instead of reassuring him and letting him get back to sleep, I told him the naked, humbling truth. I told him that if I didn’t finish my novel, I thought my future happiness might be at risk. He wiped his eyes and yawned and said, “OK. Let’s figure out how to make this happen.”

Oh, WIP! (Wipes tear from eye.) I dedicate a this song to you.

(Bad karaoke begins.)

Guess mine is not the first heart broken,
my eyes are not the first to cry I’m not the first to know,
there’s just no gettin’ over you
Hello, I’m just a fool who’s willing to sit around
and wait for you….

My head is saying “fool, forget him”,
my heart is saying “don’t let go”
Hold on to the end, that’s what I intend to do
I’m hopelessly devoted to you.

But now there’s nowhere to hide,
since you pushed my love aside I’m not in my head,
hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you,
hopelessly devoted to you.

Stop Calling Me, Newspaper Phone Spammer!

For nostalgic reasons, we received a print newspaper for a long time after we bothered reading it. Finally, we tired of putting unread newspapers straight into the recycling and cancelled. Ever since, the newspaper has been phone spamming us three to five times a day, begging us to renew. My mom, who cancelled the same newspaper, found that they continued to charge her credit card for months afterward.

Finally, frustrated after months of this phone spam — we asked them politely and officially to stop calling us several times — I answered the phone by snapping, “There’s this thing called the internet. Look into it!”

Not really fair to the phone jockey at the call center, but I was super annoyed.

The discussions I saw about the move of Dorchester to epublishing were all negative, as if moving to epublishing were a sign of shame and failure. I guess, if it was brought on by financial difficulties, that’s true. But I wonder if we aren’t seeing the beginning of a process that is already unfolding for newspapers, a cascade of falling print sales that will force publishers to move to digital. Dorchester might be a canary in a minefield.

I would rather Dorchester move graciously to epublishing than call me during breakfast, lunch and dinner begging me to buy their books.

Not. Goofing. Off.

I’m not goofing off instead of writing. I’m SOCIAL NETWORKING.

Instead of writing.

Damn. I better get back to work.