Category: dayjob

Plans of Outstanding Proportions

Nova Ren Suma

September 29, 2007
I just turned in that manuscript. I am DONE.

And, soon, it will be October, and what I’m hoping to be a new outlook on life.

It will take effort to:
- Be positive.
- Be focused.
- Not be a workaholic at work.
- Write for myself and only myself with only my own self-imposed deadlines.
- Pick a novel and stick with it.
- (Get healthy on top of this, another distraction but one that is needed.)
- Turn down freelance projects though we could really use the money. So far, since making this decision, I have turned down just three, and none of the three were a good fit for me. It will be tough if I am offered something truly tempting. Or if we have trouble paying the rent again.
* * *

Yesterday I had the most wonderful moment of closure. In fact, nothing is closed any longer; new doors have come open. I had the day off from work (a “personal day”; I love the idea of fully paid personal days) and ended up meeting my previous boss for a drink. One drink led to three. I am not a drinker, but I like cider (with ice; thanks to my friends from Scotland for introducing me to that combo).

Saying that I met with my old boss on a weekday off from my new job sort of sounds like I’m cheating on my new job, no? Anyway, I met her downstairs in the lobby. I missed the building—and now MTV is moving in; can’t believe I missed that!—and we talked intensely for a couple hours. We like each other so much, and now that I no longer work for her I think we can have a real friendship. This meeting was a long time in coming. We didn’t talk or email for about three months after I had left. I think, I know, that she felt abandoned at a terrible time when she was understaffed, so I guess I was giving her space and maybe she was giving me space, but a couple of weeks ago she finally hired my replacement, so there is no going back now.

Yesterday, however, was the first time I saw her since my last day at the office. I am happy to report that she’s not mad at me. She seems truly happy that I was able to leave and put my life (and thus my writing) first. It means so much to me to have her support, especially knowing what a tough summer she went through having no one to do my job for over three months.

Leaving that job—such intense, unending pressure—was the first step. But you and I know that I have more work to do to change my life for the better.

Now is the time. It has to be the time. What other time than this?

* * *

But this post was meant to be about my plans. There is so much I want to write, I can hardly contain myself. I am making a list. The thing extends beyond the boundaries of time. It will take years to accomplish everything I set out on this list. I suppose I will have to tackle it one thing at a time. And sometimes I will want to take on things not even on the list, and at those moments I should follow the inspiration.

Also, in October, E and I will be traveling back to Ohio to see the campus of the college where we fell in love, and we might just be there to find out that the college won’t be closing after all. Please think positive for me, for my college, and for yourself. I have drowned in negativity too long. I want to stop being that person, if such a thing is possible.

Can you gut yourself of dire thoughts? I really don’t know. All I know is that I’ll try.
Saturday Struggles

Nova Ren Suma

February 24, 2007

I have a proofreading job that I left till the very last minute. I have the first draft of a short story I want to finish. I have a new book I want to read. Who will win this tug-o-war?

JOB: I realize I bore you silly, but I am due Monday morning and you are only on page 68. Are you demented? Pick up your red pencil and comb me for typos. I’ll give you a good one if you look closely enough.

STORY: I feel incomplete. My pages are so… inadequate. Don’t you want to tinker with my sentences some more, don’t you want to fill up my holes? Write me, please. My blank spot on page 10 is quivering with anticipation.

BOOK: I’m good. You don’t know how good yet, but believe me when I tell you: once you start me you won’t be able to put me down. You’ll devour me in one sitting. And, truly, don’t you have time for 115 pages of good prose?

It’s a conundrum.
Unforgettable

Nova Ren Suma

January 28, 2007

All this talk of stories and wishing on workshops (perhaps it’s just chatter in my head?) has got me lamenting the cold shoulder I’ve given one of my stories-in-progress. It really wants to be finished, and yet I had to put it aside for these recent deadlines.

I spent all weekend on a freelance copyediting project—I clocked in over 20 hours and now my neck burns. So the story didn’t get touched. Tomorrow is Monday and back to my day job—so the story won’t get touched. I have to write that spec chapter—and the little story, knowing no one, of such small significance I am writing this post instead of it . . . well, it won’t get touched.

I feel bad. I don’t want it to die on me while I’m out gallivanting around trying to pay the bills. So, until I can do something else, I am trying to find a way to keep the story alive and kicking. Maybe I could:

1. Print out what I have of the story so far and carry it around with me everywhere I go, even to (especially to) staff meetings.

2. Rest my head on it while I watch TV*.

3. Talk out loud to it when I’m on the elevator, or walking down stairs, or through the streets. If I’m lucky, it might answer.

4. Write the name of the story in my notebook like in junior high: Nova + Story Forever. Nova & Story. Story & Nova. Story Story Story Story Story Story all small and decorated with little stars and kissy lips and mascaraed eyeballs deep and twisting into the margin.

5. Repeat a line from the story in my mind until it becomes like an iconic song lyric that keeps replaying until I just can’t forget it and so MUST write it down in order to move ahead with my life.

6. Picture the main character sitting next to me, just hanging out until I have time for her, like a very persistent imaginary friend.

7. Keep the sentence where I left off on a sticky note and post it wherever I may be—like on my computer monitor or keyboard at work—or even in my pocket, against my hip, so I carry it everywhere, and rub it raw, and I forget I even have it… which might not help too much at all.

So, other busy-busy people, how do you do it? There must be some other more practical ways to keep an idea alive.

*Yes, I am busy, but I am very tired and sometimes I just want to watch TV.

Are you going to say that’s another reason I’m not writing the story?

Fine. How about…

8. Tomorrow, when I get home from work, maybe try not to turn on the TV.
Catching Up

Nova Ren Suma

January 27, 2007

That crash writing project left me reeling—I am very, very behind in posting here and reading all my favorite blogs. But what happened, you may wonder. Did I finish? I did. I did! So, yes, I would now like a lollipop.

In the past week, a scattering of things happened.

* A story of mine in a lit mag I admire!
One of my short stories appears in the latest issue of Small Spiral Notebook—an e-book of the issue is now available online until the printed copies are rescued. More info from the editor here. I hope you’ll consider supporting this incredible magazine. (And I’m not just saying that because they were nice enough to take my story, I swear!)

* More details on the crash:
So, somehow, with little sleep, many vitamin-C fizzy drinks, and intense drive, I made my deadline. The next night I had some extras to add in, and a few edits, and I made that, too. I would have expected to crash, literally, at this point—sleeping with abandon even through the alarm clock—but it was weird: I had caught a second (or third? or twenty-third?) wind. I wasn’t even tired anymore, just a little loopy. So I caught up on free episodes of Ugly Betty online, gazed intensely at the walls, fantasized a life near the Pacific Ocean, and went to bed as if it were any other day. Huh. I guess crash-writing isn’t so stressful after all. Good thing, because…

* Need a ghostwriter? I’m back.
I took a break, but after the crash project—same day as turning in the last little bits, in fact—I got asked to sample for another project. I have the spec assignment here, which involves watching some shows and reading some scripts to see if I can get the voice and then diving in for a sample chapter or two. I do hope it works out because I really like working with this editor. I’m also supposed to be sampling for something else; I might get the spec assignment next week. And why would I be doing this, after all I said about wanting to stay focused? 1) It pays. 2) It pays more—much more, when you add up the hours—than freelance copyediting. 3) There is something so incredibly fulfilling about seeing a book you wrote in print, even when your real name appears nowhere on it. I can’t explain that feeling. I mean, okay, the feeling is thousands of times better when it comes to the story in Small Spiral Notebook—nothing can compare to that. But since no book publishers are banging down my door begging to publish my real novel, I’ve got to do the next best thing. The challenge will just be finding a way to balance it with the writing that actually has my name on it. And I know it will be a challenge.

* A box of books on the floor of my kitchen.
Speaking of ghostwriting, two days ago I received a carton of novels I wrote, packed in a warped box filled with little styrofoam bits that smelled like someone’s cat. I picked up one of the books and sneezed. Still, I’m psyched to have them. Even if I have no one to show them to—except for my mother.

* And something to do this summer?
Also in the mail was an acceptance letter to a writers conference. I’m with W on this one–dying to go, but I can’t afford it—so I’m keeping my fingers crossed for any kind of scholarship they can offer. (This isn’t the one in Italy, though. Congrats, W!)

* Now back to the grind.
Just because I finished one deadline doesn’t mean I don’t have another. A copyediting project that was delayed for many months surprised me by arriving in my inbox, so here I am, two days to deadline, Webster’s 11th at my side, needing to stop this blog-updating and FOCUS. I won’t do a play-by-play on the editing, though. No “I’ve added a serial comma!” or “Typo #33!” I swear.

So all that was to say, this week was pretty decent. Now how are you?
Crash Writing (*Now in Real Time!)

Nova Ren Suma

January 20, 2007

A few days ago I agreed to write a crash freelance project. It is due next week, ideally Monday, but I asked for Wednesday to give myself a cushion in case I completely fall apart and start writing in tongues. The book will be 48 pages, but it will have photos, and it is an adaptation of something that already exists, so it’s not as bad as all that. This is possible. This is what freelance writers do, especially when they need cash for a new apartment. I am not crazy for saying yes. I am not going to mess up. I can do this this, I want this, I’m talking out loud to myself now, oh great. Really, I can do this. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah—I hope so.

…

Those ellipses above are me taking a pause between writing that introductary freak-out paragraph and this one. In that time—shown by the three little dots—I wrote 1 page. Huzzah, a page! Oh, and also I am getting a cold and sneezed appoximately 12 times. So, with this pace in mind, and with sheer devotion and breaks only to eat and sleep, I can finish this in, um, 45 hours and 540 sneezes. Wait. That doesn’t sound right.

UPDATE: About 4 o’clock, only on page 13, but tissues in good supply. How long do you think that line for coffee is, hmm?

4:51 pm: Page 14, head swimming, will make my way through the wind & ice home, try to write on the couch. Plus E is making soup!

And later: Stalled for the night; will reconvene tomorrow morning.

And the next morning: On page 18. So that’s, what?, just 30 more pages to go?

12:30 pm, Sunday: Just now hit page 22. Slowly, slowly it’s coming… Will someone bring me lunch?

Little bit later: Page 26. Just remembered protein bar in backpack. Think it’s two o’clock. Thoughts come only in staccato.

3:20 pm: Stuck on a sentence. I’m just sitting here, in the middle of the sentence, looking at it, knowing I have to shove some words in there. It’s an odd in-between place, the gaping middle of an unfinished sentence. I mean, where do I go from here? Oh yeah, I’m on page 27, but if I finish this sentence I can be on page 28.

3:23 pm: Did it. It took like 7 words. God, I’m pathetic.

3:43 pm: I just want to interrupt myself to say that I’m amazed at how long this takes—writing. Sometimes it floors me how many hours I’m at it and I look at the clock and I’ve only gotten this far? I AM ONLY ON PAGE 29, for real? I could bake a cake faster. I mean I can’t even really cook, but if I followed the recipe the thing would be half-eaten by now and I’d have crumbs all over my face.

3:44 pm: If you haven’t noticed, I think about food quite often.

4:39 pm: Talking about time moving quickly, a whole hour has passed. Now I’m on page 30. But in that time I wasn’t entirely working on page 29. Oh, I had page 29 open and I was making little spurts of attempts to work on it, but I got to playing around on Wikipedia, too, and I read all about Jonestown because there was a documentary about it on the History Channel last night—and I should say that this project is in no way related to Jonestown—and I look up at the clock and it says 4:39. Perfect example of how wasteful I am when it comes to time. In addition, as an aside, my fingers are very cold and that’s not helping with the typing.

5:02 pm: You know when you’re done but you can’t be done so you keep going? That’s where I am right now.

5:39 pm: I’m cheating. I’m a big fat cheater. I’ve moved ahead into the empty pages past page 30, just trying to note the events in order, plan out what I’ve got to do. Soon I will walk home. On my mind is the ticking of the clock and—if you must know—a great desire for homemade macaroni and cheese.

6:01 pm: Must. Leave. Building. I cannot sit in this chair any longer. I’ll find a new chair, at home, and sit in that. I haven’t given up for the night just yet!

7:09 pm: I am home. I am not writing. I am TALKING about writing. I am PRETENDING that I am going to write by putting the pages I am using for reference beside me and gazing at them absently. Soon I will pick up the pen (the keyboard) and start on the next page. Either that or I will eat dinner, which is tofu and broccoli in apple-sauce sauce over that good fluffy white rice, which I’m sure has a more technical name, but E’s the one cooking so he would know.

Early, early Monday morning: I’m back… still going…

9:30 am: Gotta head to work. On page 39… It’s going to be a long night tonight.
A Good Day?

Nova Ren Suma

January 13, 2007

I had a decent day yesterday—some might even call it a fine day. A good day? I’ll even say that.

But first there was panic. It was early, still dark out, and I was leaving to go write at Starbucks before work when, as usual, I went to reach into the little blue ceramic holder on the table to get my ring. We have identical titanium rings, E and I, his with my name inscribed on the inside, mine with his. When we’re not wearing them we keep them in this little holder, mainly because I tend to lose things and it’s good to keep an important item in one place. For over a decade we didn’t have any physical object to proclaim that we’re together, which I thought was good: I couldn’t lose it. Now that I’ve had this ring I’ve been paranoid about misplacing it ever since. In less than a year I have: 1) lost it in a glove; 2) lost it while drying my hands in a restroom and had to—I kid you not—search through the garbage to find it; 3) caught it mere seconds before it fell down a sink drain. So I suppose you can say it’s a miracle I’ve held onto it this long. I mean, shouldn’t we have gotten tattoos instead?

Anyway, so I reach in to the ceramic holder where it usually is… to find only one ring. I hold it up to the light to inspect the inside: it says “nova”—it’s his ring, not mine. So where’s mine? I immediately search my gloves; not there. I search my coat pockets; not there. I search the chair on which my coat is sitting; not there. I search my bag, the floor beneath the chair, the whole floor, the kitchen—because why not—I search my gloves again, my coat pockets again, my bag again. I start to panic. E is asleep in the bedroom. What will he do when he wakes up and finds out I lost the ring? It is not symbolic, I will not let it be symbolic, but I HAVE TO FIND IT, and now.

I think at this point I was muttering out loud to myself.

I realized I had to search the bedroom. I didn’t want to turn the light on and wake E, so where was the flashlight? I couldn’t remember. I stepped into the bedroom. How was I going to search in the dark?

Then a voice. E called groggily from high up in the loft bed: “What are you looking for?”

And that instant is when I saw the ring, a glint of light from the window showed it just beside me, on the gray dresser, sitting innocuously on a box. How had it gotten there? WHY did I put it there? I have no memory. But I grabbed it, shoved it on my finger, and breathed the deepest sigh of relief. “I found it,” I told E, but he had already fallen back asleep.

The day just went uphill from there:

* I walked outside into the mist—it must have just finished raining—and the lights turned to Walk whenever I approached a corner.

* The good barista was working that morning, she who makes the best mochas in the entire city.

* I found a spot at my favorite table.

* I started typing and out came lines and pieces of a new story. It came out all out of order, and I didn’t force myself to follow any rules. It was thrilling!

* At work no one called or emailed or came by to pressure me about some project or other that they needed and that my department was holding up. No one bothered me at all.

* At the local lunch place there was my favorite potato leek soup.

* And at the end of the day, I realized I had finished more work than I even expected. No longer were there huge piles on my table or in my inbox. No longer did I look across at the load of work waiting for me and feel that uncontrollable urge to hide under the desk. I emailed my boss to tell her to come by and see. The last moment of the day we stood there, gazing at the practically empty expanse of the copyediting table. “I’m so happy for you,” she said. She knows how stressed I’ve been. I kept standing there, shaking my head and smiling. “I feel like I’ve finally caught up,” I said.

So there you have it: I found my ring. I wrote. I had soup. I did all my work. Sometimes it’s the small things that make a good day.
2007 Denial

Nova Ren Suma

January 6, 2007

I am having a hard time facing the fact that it is 2007. I keep having these moments. Like I was crossing the street just before and I remembered how old I am and I stopped on the corner and I felt inexplicably sad. This is not where I expected to be in 2007. I did not expect to still be at this job. I did not expect to not have “made it” as a writer. By 2007 I was supposed to know what I was doing with myself. By 2007 it was all supposed to make sense.

It’s ridiculous. 2007 is an arbitrary year. My goals have arbitrary deadlines. Life is not about “making it.” I should take up yoga. I should shut up.

I know.

I know.

I know.

For about the entire span of 2007 so far, I have had a headache. Not a migraine or a pulsing throb in the temple or anything too, too painful, just this dull throb at the base of my skull like someone thumped me with a loose brick. Painkillers numb it for a little while—then it just comes back. Maybe I’m punching myself in the head when I’m asleep. That might be the case: I’m angry at myself. I didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t do the right things. I am stuck. There’s a voice inside my head that says: You Failed. I want to take a brick to it, smash it to little pieces so I can start fresh.

Forgive me, 2007. I’m not ready yet.