Well, this is it.

I'm not quitting again, just moving. Please update your blogrolls and subscriptions. I'm now at sarahwagneryost.blogspot.com. Stop in and say hello.

Here's some of why I'm switching over:

Writers are preeminent voyeurs. We peep into the secret lives of our characters, whether they’re real people, or imagined characters in a work of fiction. We watch them in the bedroom, see them during their moments of crisis, of bad behavior; we witness their pettiness, their dreams, their hope. I love that. For a long time writing was a mysterious thing that I barely believed even happened. I could never understand how writers could stand it. I wasn’t sure I believed they really liked doing it because I certainly didn’t. Still, I’ve always been allegiant to stories. I’m a regular reader, always have been. And then I started wanting to create the experience of connection I get from books. You know that feeling when you read something so true that it literally freezes you for a moment? And then maybe you lay the book down on your chest and revel in it? That moment, that truth, that connection, that is what I love. And I want to create that. Even when I wasn’t actually writing, I wished I was.

I’ve read so many accounts of the rituals writers go through, hoping that maybe if I could emulate their ritual I’d get their drive, and ultimately, their success. Trying to wrap myself around another writers process was my ultimate procrastination.

One morning while culling several newspapers for essay markets, I realized I needed a place to organize the information I was finding. I also saw that I had a crazy amount of info about markets, resources, etc and I wanted to find a way to pass it on to other writers. Thus, the new site. I hope it will becomes a collaboration between us, that you'll also pass on what you know and that we can support each other in this crazy making field of story creation. I'm tired of trying to navigate this by myself, aren't you?

Fame

This morning I recorded a testimonial for KMUW's pledge drive. I'm so glad to have gotten to know the lovely Luanne Stephens. Her real name is Lula Power. That, my friends, is a kickass name. My Lula was the first Lula she'd ever met. And she's the only Lula mine has ever met.

I left Jordan and Lula at home, curled into blankets on this dark, drizzly day and drove to the station where Lu confidently interviewed me. She assured me she'd edit out the ums and ahs, she'd give me a chance to rerecord stuff and I would come out sounding good as pie. I knew she'd ask me why I like NPR, so I'd gotten my answer ready. The narrative bent. The story. It's the news, but the story of the people. I considered emailing her for a list of interview questions I could get started on but Lu was so confident that it would be fine, so I didn't. I didn't want her to know I needed to prepare, either. I wanted to waltz in, declare my NPR love eloquently and then sail out, back to my life of leisure as a writer, momma, snuggler.

This is sort of how it went:

Lu: Tell me what you had for breakfast so I can get a read on your voice.
Me: Banana, toast, coffee, pseudophedrine.
Lu: Ah, the breakfast pseudoephedrine. I had the breakfast cliff bar.

See? She's great. Putting me at ease, agreeing with me, talking back and forth like we're both capable women.

Then:

Lu: Why do you love NPR?
Me: The narrative bent. It's the news, but without the fear-mongering, crisis focus. It's the story of the people in the news.

Good enough, right?

Until:

Lu: Can you give me an example of a story you heard recently that struck you?
Me: um, no.

Lu continued to prod me, to offer up examples of stories that might have been.

Me: um, no. I can't think of anything.

I was blankety blank. Then, I sort of remembered a story, but what was the name of the book? blue something and it was on Talk of the Nation. No, maybe it was on Diane Rehm. It was about those brothers, those geniuses? And the one killed himself? And they referred to David Foster Wallace, another genius who killed himself? And they were saying that being a genius isn't enough to make you happy?

My God, I should have emailed for a list of questions.

Lu: Once I was walking down the hall and a story came on that made me stop. I looked over and Jill's hand was frozen on her mouse. And someone else was also frozen, a tear running down her face.

I thought that must be fantastic to have that experience in the midst of others.

Then Lu considered asking me to record a call to action.

Me: Pony up, bitches!

Which I'm sure was edited out.

Inspiration Board

It's a quiet Sunday morning, my favorite time. Lula's sleeping already, Jordan's at work, David's away. The house is quiet except for the coffee pot sizzling and creaking because I just brewed a pot of vanilla chai. This is the first sustained quiet I've had in a while and it's very nice.



This morning I made an inspiration board. I wanted to make something that would give me daily reminders of my goals and what's important. It's so easy to get mired in the details and the daily whatevers and miss the boat. We'll see if looking at something every day for a while will keep me closer to the path towards what I want. I wasn't at all sure it would work because I'm not visually stimulated. Once I got going, though, it made me happy to hold in my hands physical things that inspire me. It doesn't surprise me that most of the items are words, not pictures.

On my board (clockwiseish from top left):

1. me in my grandma's arms. I feel so loved in that picture.
2. a postcard from Olaiya. On the back it says Happy Spring! It reminds me that I love her.
3. me teaching. yes, that's a cigarette hanging out of my mouth while I hand papers back to my students. This picture makes me feel hope. And anarchy.
4. goals I wrote in a fit of aimlessness. I wrote them on the back of a loan application at the bank while waiting for my change to be counted. They're the same goals I have today.
5. writers who inspire me right now.
6. a book recommendation from Father Tom Weston.
7. a sonnet by Kim Addonizio.
8. my fortune: You are a lover of words. Someday you will write a book.
9. a card from my brother and Tala. This makes me feel compassion.
10. a picture of me hopeful (and thin) at the beach on Tybee Island, Georgia.
11. post its.

More:

Here's an interview at the inspiration board blog with Laurie Bertrand of Liquid Paper. Look how lovely and careful her board is. I love the combination of color photos with muted drawings.

And here's an older version of Molly Wizenberg's inspiration wire.

I love this idea. This is way more texty than most inspiration board photos.

Writing Machine

(photo by jetheriot)

I'm no sure how I feel about typewriters. They're all the rage, for sure. They're old fashioned and they look nice. The keys do sound satisfying click-clacking away.

My Mac keys are soft and white and a little too small or close together or something. I'm always making mistakes, slipping off the keys, slamming into the next, missing whole portions of words. I wonder how it would feel to type out a manuscript on a typewriter. You'd have to be more careful drafting than I am with my bazillion revisions. I wonder about feeling the story taking place underneath my fingers as I click-clack at the deep set keys. I like the idea of those hefty keys beneath my fingers as I birth a story.

Also, Lula and I've been reading Click-Clack-Moo: Cows That Type for a while so I've got the staccato rhythm of the story in my head. Click clack moo, click clack moo, clickety clack moo.

Here's Angry Chicken on refurbishing an old machine.

Sfgirlbybay on typewriter pretties.

People First

A few nights ago, Jordan watched me post to this site and asked me if I was writing about her. That post wasn't but plenty have been. She asked me to read her one so I picked this diddy about finding out she'd been smoking cigarettes. I read it out loud to her, my story about her, about my confusion and not knowing how to handle it, about the two of us needing a little rest.

She moved in with us last week. As she and I sat together in our living room at 9:00 on a school night I saw just how far we'd come from that night to this one.

We talked about how we both felt that night when the smoking came out. I had imagined that she felt busted and defensive and fucked up. I think I was probably right.

I told her I wasn't mad about the smoking, but her choices make me sad. She wants to do things that feel good now and they seem like good ideas for now but she'll be left to live with the consequences for a long time. I know. I've been there. I lived through some craziness, mostly unscathed, but little pieces of myself are chipped away because of some of the things I did. And some of other people have chunks missing from where I rubbed against them with my selfishness and righteousness and carelessness and my ever loving need to do it my way, usually volatile and drunk.

It felt surreal to read her my perspective and then use it as a basis for conversation. I know she heard what I said. She dismissed it, didn't acknowledge I was necessarily right, but I wasn't trying to convince her anyway.

I don't ask Jordan's permission before I publish. I don't think she minds that I write about her as long as I'm kind. When she asked me to read to her though, it made me really aware of what I'd written. Would I want her reading everything I've said? If not, maybe I shouldn't have published it. How much to say about one's family, particularly ones children, is a hotly debated topic and I don't have an answer today, but I will tell you, as allegiant as I am to stories, people come first and I don't want to hurt them for the sake of art.

The Giant

Here's Lula with my step-dad before he died.

I used to love the novelty of his Gigantism. He had carnivalesque features and a deep and loud laugh to match his unique looks. He died in January of complications of living in a body too big to work. You can read my essay about him at The Morning News today.

and on and on and on

David came home early from work one day last week because there just wasn't work to do. Hello economy meltdown! Since I didn't have my first massage until 3 I had planned on using the day for writing endeavors.

Like getting new tires. Which I really have needed for a long time and I had planned to read while I waited. I was reading so I can submit a review/profile of the author when I finish. See? Working. But then Olaiya called and then Jordan's mom and then Juanita. Then I came home and there was my baby, my Lula who I was getting ready to leave for a weekend for the first time since she was born and I already missed her.

I sat with her while she had lunch and then I read to her and then I went back to my book. Except first I had to check my email for the 42nd time about the story I had submitted the day before. Yes, I know that one day is not, not, not long enough for any sort of response. And then I brewed some hot tea. And then I went to the front porch with my computer. Checked email again, did a blog post and then read chapter 2 of my book. Oh, in between I talked to my mother.

And then I decided to drink more tea, move inside and there was David witnessing all of my flitting around. By 1:30 I had two chapters read, one blog post written, email checked 64 times. I told David why I was reading; I explained that it had a purpose and wasn't just for fun. He doesn't care, but you know, it's embarrassing to me how much I'd been running around without getting very far and I wouldn't have noticed how wasteful the day had been if he hadn't been watching.

Have you ever tried a time inventory? Where you logged your activities much like you would a food journal where you write down everything you eat? What other ways can we become more conscious of how we spend our time? Share your tips in the comments.