ninaherenorthere.com

I knew if I waited around long enough, a job would fall into my inbox. All it took was a little email OCD with the refresh button. About 2pm on a Wednesday, I received a tip-off about the opportunity. An email, resume, and phone call and by that Friday I had a short-term contract for a 3 day a week job lined up. I started work this week, from home. I still haven’t met my boss.

I got the job on account of a recommendation and because I’d done the exact same job before. Once, during the era of my dotcom serial layoff spree, a company found my resume on Craigslist and hired me. I was too busy partying with my unemployment checks to even refresh my email on a regular basis, but there’s something about already having done the job that gives employers full confidence in you.

As for my recent hiring, I know the exact moment during the interview when I secured the offer.
Interviewer: And you like doing this?
Me: I like doing this for work.
Interviewer: Good answer.

Some companies will only hire you if you express your undying love for the job description as well as the organization. But my new job is temporary and the truth is, nobody sane would enjoy doing it. Prepare to be bored out of your mind.

I’m changing the company name and the details of the project so I don’t get fired before seeing my cubicle. (Keep your fingers crossed for desk dividers and a smidge of privacy.) Now that I blog, I’m no longer concerned about upsetting people when/if a memoir of mine is published. It takes years from the writing for an actual book to hit the shelves, but this post will be live in a few minutes and could have me out of work before morning.

So, today, for work, I revised survey questions regarding a service where you can buy your movie tickets online. Questions like: Was the ticket kiosk where you expected it to be? Were you charged additional fees? Rate this service on a scale of 1-5? Would you recommend this service to a friend?

Sounds easy right, and of course, it is, but in that excruciatingly painful kind of way. Like, there are meetings about the project in which people debate over the most minute details and in order to make my employer think I’m doing my job, I contribute to the debate my thoughts on the order of questions, consistency, clarity and other dumb crap that is beyond inconsequential. Then a lot of documents start to fly around, version 1 and 1.1, and the business stakeholder keeps writing and rewriting the copy, even though this is my job, and if he sends me another version, I have to do my version over, but who cares since this is what I’m paid for; it is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing all day. If I could just take thirty minutes to eliminate the awkward sentences and passive voice constructions, then I’d have way too much time to kill.

It’s just my first week and maybe it’ll get interesting. You know, like when I get to write complex user error messages, something more challenging than “Please enter a number 0-9.” I spent a good fifteen minutes today deciding when and how many times it is appropriate to use “please.” I’ve found that the business folks love to overuse please. They are trying to be courteous, but sentence after sentence it comes off as sycophantic.

Isn’t this tragic? Listening to me get all caught up in error messages and survey copy. I’ve already done it, sold my soul to the corporate devil, convinced that my devil is one of the better ones, homosexual-friendly or philanthropic or something, and I’ve spent enough time writing instructional copy for online banking applications that I now think writing movie ticket surveys is a step up. Obviously, this is only my first week, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sleep at night doing this kind of work. It’s not harmful, at least I don’t think so. But it sure is wasteful. It’s wasting my life. Hopefully, the ch-ching ch-ching of my mind’s cash register will lull me to sleep.

After Friday at the San Francisco Writers Conference, Day 2 and Day 3 felt like a sequel along the lines of The Next Karate Kid. So rather than feign my own interest and produce a dull post, I’m going to be brief. Or at least try.

An Interesting New Website: Red Room, “the online home of the world’s greatest writers.” It’s some type of social networking site aiming to bring authors and readers together. This might mean a forum for authors to collectively self-promote. I hear Amy Tan wrote her very first blog post. Is that exciting? Regardless, after my first brief site visit, I’m intrigued.

A Cool Person: Jane Ganahl, co-founder of litquake, long-time journalist, author of Naked on the Page: the Misadventures of My Unmarried Life, and author liason for Red Room, surprised me by being one of the few presenters at the conference I sorta wanted to be friends with.

Advice I’ve Already Heard and Still Hate: Platform, marketing, publicity, platform. You must have a web presence. Blog. Participate in the interactive community: post comments, comment on comments. Most of the annoying advice came from Kevin Smokler, a public speaker who packs a punch, a guy with a quote for every occasion. He’s also a likable fella, even though I’m not into inspirational speakers; they all remind me of evangelical preachers. Throughout the conference, Smokler held fifteen minute consultations for $50 each (he donated all the money to conference scholarships), which means his going rate is $200/hour? He really must know his stuff because his entire schedule was booked up with one-on-one conferences.

Another Interesting Website: Booktour: Where Authors and Audiences Meet. Kevin Smokler founded this site and promotes it as a revolutionary all-encompassing list of literary readings. The readings are searchable by author and location. Even people in rural Mississippi can find out when John Grisham is coming to the local Borders.

Most Embarrassing Moment: Pitching an editor at Random House/Broadway Publishing. I thought the Editor’s Round Table was an event where a group of people sat at a table with an editor and asked questions about publishing, then rotated tables. I sat at a table with a sign for the editor at the biggest house at the conference. Why wouldn’t I?

Well, as it turns out, the point of this event was to pitch this editor. Okay, sorry, despite what editor Christine Pride said, I do not believe she looks at unsolicited, unagented submissions. Anyways, I was second in the circle. Yes, we did this in a group setting, and about thirty people crowded around the table waiting for the next chairs to open up. A timer was placed before me. I more or less read a piece of scrap paper that will eventually become the first paragraph of a query letter. Pride smiled sweetly and said her house isn’t interested in transgender themes; they already published a book with such themes this decade. Shucks. I did hear that the book, She’s Not There, is quite good, and I heard the author, Jennifer Boylan, read at Writers With Drinks last week. She’s a better writer than I am, but I think there’s room for two of us, just not at Broadway Publishing.

Least Embarrassing Moment: I helped an elderly man in a wheelchair during a couple of breakout sessions. When I finally said bye, he replied, “Thank you, son.”

Event I’m Happy I Missed: Speed-dating for agents. The line to enter the conference room snaked through the whole lobby. The event was broken up into 3 hour-long sessions. Each person had three-minutes to pitch an agent (one-on-one at least). It was the first time I felt bad for the agents.

Conclusion: I’m cured! My desire to work in the publishing industry is crushed, just as I hoped it would be. I can’t pinpoint exactly what did it–the people, the conservatism, the business aspects, the fear of working on books and projects I hate (many of them), or if it was seeing agenting and publishing for the reality not the fantasy. After this conference, all I want to do is ignore concerns about publishers and agents, avoid other writers, close my door and write.

Below are some highlights and lowlights from my first day volunteering at the San Francisco Writers Conference on Friday.

Creating Spiritual Alchemy by Putting Spirit into Words: My first assigned session. My duty was to keep time by raising placards at 10 min left, 5 min left and STOP. I introduced myself to the speakers. Then Andrea Hurst, the moderator, reiterated my duties: “He will hold up the signs.” It’s going to be one of those days, I thought. Not that I mind passing as a guy, but surrounded by women in sweater turtlenecks, sheer floral blouses, hankerchief scarves, and blazers from Talbots, I knew I’d get lots of double-takes in the women’s bathroom.

Eric Brandt (Exec Editor at HarperOne) told us, “Jesus books always sell.” Reverend Alan Jones ranted about the commodification of spirituality. During the Q&A, a person asked what to do about the fact that her book could reach many people, but unfortunately the subject of spirituality made their stomachs turn. Stop proselytizing? Everyone left believing that she can write the next Eat, Pray, Love, which means I’ll see many more spiritual memoir submissions at the literary agency in which “a moment changed my life and opened my heart to the peace and wisdom in the universe.”

The Right Word at the Right Time: Or dialogue 101. In summary: use dialogue to characterize and move the story, no “chit-chat,” fictional dialogue isn’t real dialogue, no adverbs, and use only the tags “said, ask, and reply.” The speaker, Sheldon Siegel, a charismatic Jewish corporate lawyer from Marin County reminded me of my dad, if only my dad wrote courtroom thrillers. He told the crowd that it’s okay to open a book with dialogue. This means I’ll be reading many more “commercial fiction” submissions in which I cannot tell who is speaking, where the characters are, and what is going on until the third page.

Lunch: As a volunteer, I wasn’t invited. But there were empty seats and so I got free food: creamy orange bisque soup that could’ve been lobster bisque without lobster; mashed potatoes, broccoli rabe and salmon; cheesecake and coffee. Score. From the speakers: Kevin Smokler quoting Eleanor Roosevelt, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Daisy Maryles, editor of Publisher’s Weekly, rattled off statistics like, 200,000-300,000 books are published each year. There sure are an awful lot of unread books.

Q&A Session with Nonfiction Agents: With no more volunteer duties, I attended this by choice. In a packed room, I even had the balls to raise my hand. The moderator (agent and conference founder Michael Larsen) sensed my balls, made eye contact and said, “The gentleman in the back.” I stood and asked about the necessity of a book proposal for a hybrid of personal narrative and reportage. Ted Weinstein, a local nonfiction agent, said I could probably get away with proposal, rather than having to write the whole thing first, the standard procedure for memoir.

The session had the quick pace of an auction and the best question came from a guy who asked: “If I have two books, one a memoir about being a gay bullrider and the other about gardening, do I need two separate agents?” The answer is: the “gay bullrider” book sounds more viable than another gardening book in a saturated gardening market. The other answer is that agents are not looking to sell individual books, but build careers. Of course this means more query letters at the agency from people offering their careers by saying, “I have five novels and an idea for a trilogy, all with screenplay potential.”

I also learned from Kathryn Sands (agent at Sarah J. Freyman) about the genres: faction, reality fiction (aka post James Frey creative nonfiction—ouch), stunt memoir, and chick non-fic, but Sands doesn’t believe in categories. She described knowing she has a good manuscript by having a “dowser” moment. Her body starts shaking and she can’t wait to share the info. I recommend slipping her some muscle stimulants along with your manuscript.

From Idea to Contract: Agent Ted Weinstein on the business of book publishing, or the Ted Weinstein Show: a salvo of advice and aphorisms recyclable at any writer’s conference. “We work for money, we live for acknowledgements.” “Oprah has done more for books than any other human being.” “My agent’s an asshole. My asshole.” “If you’re coming to us for feedback, you’re making a big mistake.” “It’s the role of the West Coast agent. We’re like Lewis and Clark to the rest of the world.”

After the session, I got in the front of a long line of people to speak with him. I introduced myself to him, described my project, and received the standard “send it to me,” as well as a decent, but somewhat cryptic piece of advice.

The Gala Party: I had not expected to stick around for the schmoozing. The one thing I didn’t mention so far is that throughout the day I met other volunteers, several writers, and former USF classmates. I bumped into a random friend and received a few introductions through the agents I read for. So, by the time the party rolled around, I wanted my free drink and actually had people to schmooze with. Many strangers introduced themselves and everyone offered recommendations for agents and books to read, as well as helpful tidbits from their own lives. Some say that “Writer’s Conferences are institutionalized discouragement,” but I think they are expensive group therapy. For the most part, I did a good job of not mocking people in my head. Especially since many of them are published authors and I’m not.

My best move of the day occurred when the bartender turned around. I snagged an extra free drink ticket poking out from the coffer. In a room full of writers, that qualifies as smooth and I received a round of high-fives from my new friends and a glass of wine that would’ve cost $8. I stuck around, chatted some more and was one of the last people to leave the hotel.

The words prequel and sequel are helpful when I’m about to indulge in anything. To avoid the hedonistic implications, I often have dinner the prequel and dinner the sequel, as well as dinner. I also do prequels and sequels to Sunday, because doesn’t everyone want Sunday the sequel instead of Monday?

The SFWC is the San Francisco Writers Conference, which is coming up this weekend. I’m overusing the acronym to avoid Googleability, which makes me the world’s only blogger who doesn’t want a bigger readership. I can just see someone Googling the conference for directions, finding my blog and booting me off the volunteer squad before the damn thing starts. I’m being particularly ridiculous because I attached this URL to my bio on the volunteer page, which means that I basically invited and encouraged those I’m in fear of to visit this site.

The SFWC is three days of speakers, breakout sessions, Q&As with agents and editors–a smorgasbord of networking opportunities with infinite possibilities for self-promotion. Don’t leave your business cards at home! There is even a horrific-sounding event called “speed dating with agents.” Participants with sweaty palms stand in long lines, waiting for their three minutes to sell an agent on their manuscript. Agents practice looking interested so the participants stop shaking and stuttering. Or so I hear. The truth is I tried lesbian speed dating once and it will be a long time before I go near any speed dating again.

I’m vaguely interested in the keynote speakers: Clive Cussler, Tess Gerritsen, Daisy Maryles, and April Sinclair. (If you are interested, these speaking events are open to the public at $10 each.) My volunteer duties, as I’ve simplified them in my head, consist of introducing and providing water for the moderator and keeping time at five breakout sessions over three days. My assigned sessions cover spiritual writing, technology, blogs/podcasts, building literary community, using dialogue. There are a bunch of other sessions I’d like to attend in my free time about pitches/queries, magazine/internet writing, getting paid to write your book, and one with the intriguing title, “What do editors do all day.”

There will be about 300 attendees, 40-50 volunteers, and 80-100 speakers; I’m sure I’ll feel out of place amongst them all. I get this sense that for unpublished authors this is a big chance to make the connections that could one day result in publication. I don’t have any high hopes for meeting an agent or editor to advance my career. I’m just excited that it’s in a fancy hotel. I’m also excited because the whole thing is about books–writing, editing, promoting, marketing, and selling them. While a lot of writers I talk to dislike the “book business” part of the process, I find it fascinating. I love book talk, even when I think the person talking is not too bright. So, in my cynical way, I’m looking forward to the conference. Maybe I’ll even have something substantive to say about it.

I’ve been goosed, as in published. Not as goosed as a former classmate of mine, George Dohrmann, who sold his nonfiction book about youth basketball to Random House for what must be a six-figure advance. My piece in Lost Magazine is 500 words and did not come with an advance. But I’m not complaining. This guy is a Pulitzer Prize winning Sports Illustrated journalist and it was only a matter of time before his book found a publisher. I just didn’t expect it to be the week of my itty bitty publication, which will no doubt be listed right below his achievement in my MFA program’s weekly bulletin.

But since this is my blog, I’m going to focus on my “thingy,” which isn’t so much a story, or flash nonfiction, as it is a scene with the theme of loss. It’s called “Transportation.” It was called “The Old Man and the Bicycle” (for lack of a better title), but it’s in this section of the magazine, below the fold or visible only by scrolling down, called Departments, so I guess my “thingy” falls in the department of transportation. Makes sense since it’s about a bicycle. But there’s something about the heading of Transportation that makes me expect a bus schedule below.

Some of you might recognize my “thingy” from the earlier version posted on my defunct bike travel blog iamawinner.net. I wrote the original over 4 years ago. That is how long it takes me to polish 500 words. 4 years. I did work on other projects during that time, but little is published, proving that I turn out approximately 125 quality words a year. I’m trying to up my speed. Last week, I worked on a 600 word travel article assignment and it only took about 18 hours. Keep in mind it hasn’t been accepted yet, and if there wasn’t a deadline, I would’ve worked on it for years.

Why does it take me so long? As two editors have pointed out to me lately, I “overwrite.” I add in excessive descriptions and unnecessary adverbs. I explain my motivations and describe my feelings and generally treat the reader like a big bozo who can’t understand what is going on from dialogue and action. And sometimes I try too hard to be funny. From my bicycle thingy, the words “crotch,” “ass,” “tampon” and “sexually” were all edited out, and not by me.

Some writers might call what happened during those 4 years from original to final, revision. One of my teachers liked to tell a story about either Kafka or Proust (he always used those two examples) who when asked about his work for the day said that in the morning he wrote one sentence, and in the afternoon he erased it. Another teacher told his class that he had 29 versions of his faculty bio. He contemplated bringing in the 29 versions but decided against it, telling his class, “It’s one thing to soil your underwear and another to bring in the soiled underwear.”

I think part of my recent “overwriting” problem has to do with school. I can analyze a paragraph in enough detail to write a three page paper on it, and so when I write a paragraph, I want to show off everything I learned. The other problem is I still hear all the squeaky vermin voices of workshop: what’s your motivation? what are you feeling? what does it look like, smell like, taste like? When I answer all those questions, I overwrite. Yeah, yeah. It’s all part of the whole educational process; I have to learn everything before I can forget it.

But really, I think it is just incredibly hard to balance the overwriting with underwriting. As long as I’m on a USF kick, I recently read The Descendants, by Kaui Hart Hemmings. The novel is an easy, quick read, partially because there is a lot of dialogue, and the timing and pacing of the scenes are so well done. The author never says too much, but says just enough for you to infer the rest. Reading her novel is like running down a road with breaks in the pavement that you don’t notice are there; your body leaps naturally over them. The whole time I read the book, I wanted to call it “simple.” It’s the kind of book one might read and think, I can do that. But I know this is not true. Because it took me 4 years to write one decent scene. Since it might take another 4 years for the next scene, you should probably read this one.

The Superbowl was as moving as an episode of Friday Night Lights, and the only reason I didn’t cry when the Giants won is that no music from Explosions in the Sky played in the background. Even Kristina, who is just starting to get a handle on the basic premise of the football–four opportunities to go 10 yards–conceded that the game was exciting. Afterwards, she asked me why I wasn’t happier about the Giants victory.

I stood and screamed when Eli Manning scrambled into history and David Tyree’s helmet seeped glue. I showed Kristina the goosebumps that pricked up on my arms after Plaxico Burress caught a TD pass with 35 seconds left in the game. The play of the Giants was almost strong enough to make me wonder if there is a God, but no need for me to investigate, Plaxico thanked God for me. As for the tears, they formed in my eyes and would’ve fallen had it not been for the interruption of a car commercial. But I’m not sure if happy is the best word for my emotions.

I long ago stopped being the kind of sports fan to bang on my chest at the sight of an opposing team’s fan. I do not care about NY vs. Boston or East Coast bragging rights. I no longer desire the escapism of endless hours of games and looping reruns of SportsCenter. I do not have friends or family on or affiliated with the Giants. I watch sports, no, I love sports for the inspiration.

My brother is the most inspiring of my sports heroes. And like Peyton Manning, I have watched my little brother win a championship ring, except I didn’t have a ring of my own, and I watched from wet bleachers not a skybox, and the game wasn’t the Superbowl, but the Div III NCAA lacrosse championship. My brother’s big play as the goalie, like Eli’s miraculous completion to Tyree, came at the end of the fourth quarter. An opposing attacker had a fast break, a one-on-one advantage against him. My brother stepped up to meet the speeding attacker, mirrored the attacker’s cradling stick, stood his ground and kept his pool skimmer up to block what should’ve been an easy goal. His stop signaled the final momentum swing that led his team to a victory.

This moment was on my mind before the Giants won the Superbowl. My brother is going through a tough time now, and he recently went to visit his college lacrosse coach. The coach told my brother that he wasn’t the best lacrosse goalie, but that he always played his best when it counted most. There’s something inside of him. Reporters have asked my brother about his poise, and usually his answer sounds something like this, “I don’t know, man. In a tough game, you have to step it up. You can’t think about the goals scored against you. You can’t get down on yourself about the past. You just need to believe in yourself and play hard. I couldn’t have done it without my teammates.”

My brother’s coach also explained that the reason he pursued a career as a coach is that the obstacles he faces are similar to challenges outside of sports. Athletes learn the importance of accountability, teamwork, practice, strategy, mental preparation, but there are still factors that no coach, person nor human can control. I’m not sure if the two of them diagrammed a play for my brother to get through his tough time, but in the Zen of their jockspeak, they were talking about sports as metaphor for life.

This certainly isn’t a new concept, but one that I seemed to have forgotten. As of late, my pessimism has gotten the best, or rather, all of me. And I do blame my mother for this. My mother who sat next to me during my brother’s championship game, squeezing my hand and repeating. “They’re gonna blow it. They’re definitely going to blow it.” And it was my brother, wearing his Tiki Barber jersey during the Superbowl and probably injuring innocent bystanders when the G-Men won, who believed in his team the whole time.

Expecting the Giants to lose was not a crime. Everybody expected them to lose. They were the underdogs. My reasons for caring about the Giants are based on little more than the Lawrence Taylor jersey and Giants helmet of my youth and my connection to the New York that I came from, but will never called home. The reasons are not enough to make me “happy” about the win. All of my excitement about the game ended with one second left when Pats coach Bill Belichick walked off the field and Tom Coughlin was doused with water. But the feeling I’m left with is made from the things we can control, like hard work and preparation, as well as things we cannot, like luck. It is hope.

I’m in the middle of a standoff with Gold’s Gym. I’m not sure if they know about our battle, but regardless, I’m holding my ground. Yesterday, I canceled my membership. For several weeks prior to that, I’d been walking by and not going in, avoiding both working out and making my decision to leave official. Lately, I can’t bring myself to use the cardio machines, and I haven’t been in a pumping iron mood, and the spin classes are held at the nicer SOMA branch, which is never as convenient as it should be, and despite loving the Castro one near my house because it is the gayest gym in the universe, the stretch room smells like foreplay and the gay men who grunt into their lunges just aren’t self-conscious enough.

But my decision has little to do with the merits of Gold’s Gym. This is about money. I have been paying $49/month for the gym for almost 2 years. Most of my friends, who never use the gym, pay $39/month. One friend, who also never uses the gym, said that she signed up for $25/month, a discounted rate because she left 24 Hour Fitness a few blocks away. For $25, I could continue to belong to, but never go to, Gold’s Gym.

A couple weeks ago, I made the mistake of telling a Gold’s salesperson about my $25 friend, trying to use this as leverage. Gold’s did not lower my rate, but the salesperson did offer to raise my friend’s rate. Then I asked the salesperson about lowering my rate because of “financial hardship,” which the Oakland YMCA used to do for me. Nope. Then I asked about canceling, but I couldn’t do it. I was afraid that no gym membership would be bad for my psychological and physical well-being. When I’m unemployed, I often attempt to minimize expenses. And not always for the better. I’ll let myself go without a gym, therapist, and fun activities, while subsisting on PB & J and library books, while believing that I’m less depressed than I would be if I had a job.

Kristina suggested I bluff with Gold’s. She meant cancel my membership and state my reason as “the rate is too high,” instead of begging for a scholarship. I’m not good at bluffing or haggling. I never understand irony. And I’m gullible. Because I am literal and honest, and I expect others to be, too. I waited until it was no longer a bluff to cancel because the rate is too high, but the truth.

The salesperson immediately offered to drop my rate to $39 if I could commit to a year. I didn’t bite. Then, she offered $29/month if I could pay a $100 upgrade fee and commit to a year. This is when I had to restrain myself. Basically, her “offer” translates into a monthly rate of $37.33, which is $1.67 a month less than the $39 rate, and Gold’s would be getting $100 from me immediately. Perhaps you’re not following, but this is a bad deal.

The gym deal rip-off pisses me off more than any other rip-off. I understand that with most deals, there is some type of discount for buying or committing more at once. Like, sign up with Sprint for a year and get a free $200 phone. Or buy a 4-day ski lift ticket and save $3/day. But signing up for a gym for a year and paying $100 up front to save $1.67 a month is really infuriating. And the salesperson always acts as if she doesn’t know such a thing is a crap deal, because she usually doesn’t. I have on occasion done the math for the salesperson and said something obnoxious, like, “You do realize you’re asking me for a hundred dollars now, so I can get what amounts to a free Big Mac at the end of the year.”

I’ve been a jerk, and now I don’t argue with the salespeople who sit at desks in the corner of the weight room, and I only argue those who have offices with four walls and a door. The real problem is I’ve belonged to too many gyms and have had too many salespeople “waive the initiation fee” after “talking to a manager.” And I’ve joined too many gyms that don’t have membership pamphlets, but have a “deal of the week,” in which a salesperson writes a number on a piece of scrap paper and then tries to convince you he’s doing you a favor.

Anyways, at Gold’s I asked the salesperson to waive the $100 upgrade fee to drop my rate to a doable $29/month. She didn’t go for it. And now my membership expires on March 21. It’s a long way away. She told me I can change my mind before then. But I’m hoping she changes her mind about the upgrade fee before then. This is a matter of principle. It’s me against all gyms. I will not back down.