Hilarious #HoustonProp1 polling moment = not so funny the morning after election

Here's me in a ladies room. Welcome, deviants!

Voting early in Houston’s bond election last week, my husband and I ran the gauntlet of electioneers outside our polling place, including two guys who held up cap-shouting yard signs: “NO MEN IN THE WOMEN’S BATHROOM! VOTE NO ON PROP 1!”

Skewing Houston’s Equal Rights Ordinance (HERO) as the “Bathroom Ordinance” was the latest ultra-conservative pitch for preserving their sacred right to hate on LGBT folks. The ordinance in no way authorizes men to use the ladies room. None of this is about the ladies room. Or the men’s room. It’s about the straw man’s room.

One of the guys said to me, “We appreciate your vote, ma’am. We’re working to keep you safe!”

“Who’ll keep us safe from the bigots?” I said. He gave me a grin and a big thumbs up, not understanding.

I waited in line, cast my ballot to support HERO and headed out to meet Gary in the parking lot. As I came down the sidewalk, the same guy said, “Thanks for voting, ma’am. We’re standing up for your rights!”

I’m not usually one to mix it up like this, but... condensed version:

Me: You’re standing up for my rights to use the men’s room?

Him: (looking confused) Well, no. Because you’re a woman.

Standing my full five-eleven to his five-six or so, I spoke in the lowest alto I could muster.

Me: That’s right. I’m a woman. And the fact that I was born with a penis doesn’t mean I wasn’t born a woman.

Him: You… nah-uh. You do not have a penis.

Me: Not anymore. But that’s really none of your business.

The second guy laughed nervously and said, “C’mon. She’s jerking you’re chain.” But that first guy—fish in a barrel. He instantly went to code orange.

Him: You’re not a woman. You’re a pervert!

Me: A minute ago I was “ma’am” and you were ready to defend me.

Him: If you were a woman, you’d have bigger breasts. Look at you! You’re almost as flat as I am.

Me: So now I'm required to have large breasts to use the women’s room? What's the minimum cup size? What if I’m a woman who’s had a mastectomy? Or what if I’m just a hippie chick who doesn’t wear a bra? How do you plan to enforce this policy if you can’t tell the difference?

Him: God can tell the difference!

Me: So God is supposed to monitor the ladies room? Like he doesn’t have enough to do?

Him: If you’ve got a penis—

Me: That would definitely come as a surprise to the guy standing over there. (I indicated Gary, off-sides laughing his head off.) Especially since he watched me give birth to his babies.

Him: You did not have a baby if you—if you had a penis… if you were born... that’s… yeah, you’re real hilarious, lady. You’re sick! You want men in your bathroom with you!

Me: Right. I want men in the women’s bathroom. That’s really what this is about. And yes, I am fairly flat-chested. But I could get bigger breasts installed if I wanted to, and you’ll always be a dumbass.

I flipped him off as we roared out of the parking lot with the top down, and I laughed so hard, Gary had to rush me to the nearest ladies room. I thought it was hilarious. But this morning I saw two things that made it a lot less amusing:

Thing One was the election result. Houston, the first major city in the USA to elect a lesbian mayor, resoundingly defeated an ordinance whose sole purpose was to recognize the right of all our citizens to live in our city free from discrimination and hate.

Thing Two was this story about a young woman who, in the opinion of a very stupid restaurant security guard, didn’t look womanly enough to use the women’s bathroom. The moral certitude and self-congratulation of the people who humiliated and physically hurt her is chilling. That’s a real issue. Unlike the trumped up (and Trumped up) issues ultra-conservative factions are “protecting” us from. Meanwhile, who’s protecting us from them?

The “Bathroom Ordinance” mentality is not about anything you’re doing wrong. It’s not even about who you are. It’s about who some stranger *thinks* you are. And some people think anyone who doesn’t fit the standard gender template is to be hated and feared.

I wish I had a dime for every time I was called “sir” when I was in chemo. Perfectly understandable. I have the height of a supermodel, but I’m not stacked like one. I was bald as a grapefruit. My skin was too sensitive for any kind of makeup, and because I was in misery, I dressed for comfort, frequently wearing Gary’s oversized shirts with baggy cargo pants. I was aware of some stink-eye glances, but I was never genuinely afraid to use the ladies room. I wouldn't feel that way today.

I am not for a moment co-opting the disenfranchisement experienced by people who actually are trans or cisgender. I'm saying the promotion of ignorance and hate forces all of us to live in a city that is less generous, welcoming and intelligent than it should be.

I’m profoundly disappointed in you, Houston. But I still love you. And I know you can do better.

Thanks to the fabulous Annise Parker for spearheading the HERO effort and for all the great good she’s done for Houston during her time as our mayor. She will be sorely missed.

Me, this man, and the one thing Kim Davis will never understand about marriage

So the Gare Bear and I have been married 32 years as of today. The first three words he said to me were "I love you," and I hope those will be the last three words I say to him. Words are my stock in trade, but I have none to express how truly grateful I am to have this beautiful, funny, intelligent man in my life.

Over the past three decades, we raised two children to responsible, dynamic adulthood. We've traveled the world together, negotiated the treacherous territory of cancer and chemotherapy, and lived together for several months on a fire tower almost entirely cut off from civilization. We've debated politics and fought over money. We keep gaining and losing the same 50 pounds. We're still into each other. Still onto each other. The only thing we're religious about is doing the New York Times crossword puzzle together every morning.

We don't have a good marriage; we are a good marriage.

This is a concept people who oppose marriage equality don't get. (Along with the concepts of civil rights, science, separation of church and state, and MYOFB.) As irritating as she is, I feel bad for their new patron saint, Kim Davis, the Kentucky county clerk being lauded for defying the Supreme Court decision to recognize the civil right of any legal adult to marry the legal adult with whom s/he feels at home. The concept of marriage Davis is supposedly championing doesn't include the kind of marriage Gary and I live in. Our marriage is not sacred to us because God said so; our marriage is sacred to us because we said so, and our public commitment to keeping it that way entitled us to the legal and financial benefits of marriage.

We had already been living together for a while before this delightful post-hippie nuptial be-in on a mountaintop, and in Montana circa 1983, we were legally married by common law from the time we opened a joint bank account, indicating our status as "married". Why the ceremony if we were already legally married? In fact, why be married at all, since we were doing fine living together? Back then, I had no logical or illogical answer. We had no clue what this marriage would turn out to be, but we felt it was something precious and important, and we wanted to reinforce and protect it--from the erosive power of time, from the corrosive power of insecurity, from the nattering of all the people who thought we didn't belong together, and from our own inevitable f**k-ups.

Now, 32 years hence, I see the accidental wisdom in that. I still can't quantify exactly what marriage means, but I know this isn't about one man and one woman--insert Tab A into Slot B--this is about One Gary and One Joni. He is who he is, I am who I am, and what we are together is We Are. There is no other marriage like ours, because every marriage is unique. That's part of what makes each marriage precious.

I'm fairly sure Kim Davis is not thinking of all this on any existential level; she just hates homos, as conveniently prescribed by the almighty god who was created for the convenience of haters. (As Gary succinctly put it when the whole thing started revving up, "She's not Rosa Parks. She's the bus driver.") Right now, she's riding this 15-minute wave of fame, a heady experience most dumpy, sullen bureaucrats can only dream of. But the irony of this particular person being chosen to champion the sanctity of marriage is like tin foil between the teeth of anyone who actually understands the true sanctity, the rarity, the inexpressibly precious stroke of luck and dint of industry that is a long, loving marriage.

I'm not saying she doesn't understand or respect marriage because she's never had a good one. I'm saying she doesn't understand or respect marriage because she doesn't understand or respect people. She doesn't understand or respect the scripture she spouts. She doesn't understand or respect the laws that govern the public office she holds. Marriage is way above her pay grade. All she does is sign the paperwork. If that makes her feel powerful, well, add that to the list of things she is bombastically wrong about.

At the end of the day, all the bloviating and grandstanding will come to nothing, and most Americans will accept what other first world citizens accepted a long time ago. Some people are gay. Get over it. If you truly believe that healthy marriages contribute to a healthy society, don't screw around on your spouse and shut up about the spouses of others.

Until that day, I think it's important for heterosexual couples who thrive in solid traditional marriages to keep speaking up for the civil rights to which all people are entitled. So here's me and the Grizz. My Gare Bear. The love of my life. My husband, for better or worse, till death do us part.

We believe in marriage. That's why we believe in marriage equality.

Mrs. Grey will see you now (3 things I learned coming out of the hair color closet)

Continuing the extended metaphor I began back in 2011 with this post on My Publishing Career as Illustrated by My Hair, in which I detailed a circuitous journey that began in the 1970s. Back then, a slow-to-blossom tweenage flower child, I was ironing my hair straight and selling erotic short stories in the girls' bathroom at the local roller rink.

My long auburn locks disappeared during chemo when I was in my early 30s. For ten years, I kept my hair super short and colored it various shades of red in an attempt to ward off the bad cancer juju. During my 40s, I let it grow, gave up on the auburn and went with an ash blond that made the increasingly ashy roots less noticeable.

When I hit my 50s, I decided to stop coloring my hair and embrace my grey. That was easier said than done, but here I am, and along the way, I learned three important lessons, which I intend to apply to life and writing as I enjoy my hard-earned silver era.

Thing #1: It's a process. Whatever "it" is, it's a process.
I suppose it would have been easier to just cut the hair off and start over, but I've done the micro-short-to-hippie-long hair transition before. There's a lot of bad hair days as you hang in there through the awkward stages. The temptation to cut (like the temptation to abandon a book that becomes a struggle) is always lurking.

In order to keep the length, I had to allow a few inches of roots to grow out. Years of hair color had to be stripped away. Then I had to nurture my hair with cold water and conditioner for several weeks before the final process of low-lighting, high-lighting and toning to match my true color.

As a structural editor/book doctor, I've held the hands of several authors as they did a similar strip, recovery and restoration process on a book. The key is that natural root. Once you can see the authentic soul of the book, you know what to do with the rest.

Book process, life process, color process, whatever. Patience and persistence will be required. Bet on that and assemble a great team. Which brings me to...

Thing #2: A lot of experts are terrified of change. Because it means they won't be experts anymore.

For years, stylists kept telling me there was no way to go grey without cutting off my long hair, but I started seeing young women doing it for themselves on YouTube. Apparently that's a thing now, young women with grey hair, and as soon as that trend took hold, well, whadya know! Shut up experts. Young women do what needs to get done. (Which brings me to Thing #2 subsection A: Young women, you have a lot more power than you think. Use it wisely.)

This is reminiscent of the dragging acceptance of indie publishing in the traditional publishing world. Agents and publishers were loathe to accept this new universe because it meant the crumbling of the system in which they were super comfy, even though the vast majority of authors were not. Lamest battle cry ever: "That's the way it's always been done." Whether I'm looking for a colorist, oncologist or freelance copy editor, I want someone who has ten years of experience, not one year of experience ten times.

I knew I'd found the right guy when Sergio Sepulveda at Visible Changes told me, "There's always a way to do something. It's just a question of 'has somebody figured it out yet'." Apply this to publishing big time. The only thing we know for sure about anything is that it is not the same as it was yesterday. Expertise in the way things have always been done is a great foundation for the purpose of exploring, building and inventing the way forward. It's less useful when it becomes the La-Z-Boy recliner from which experts advocate for status quo.

Thing #3: If someone tells you not to be yourself, they are wrong. 

Before Sergio, every stylist I consulted tried to warn me off the idea of embracing my grey with the same dire (in their minds) prediction: "You'll look older." The thing is, I AM older. I'm thrilled to be older.  Why invest time, energy or money in not looking like myself? For whose benefit would I be doing that?

Sergio's take on it: "There's nothing more beautiful than a woman who's happy about who she is." Can I get a "Amen" up in here?

It kills me to see authors jumping through hoops to please agents, acquiring editors, theoretical readerships and nebulous trends. It's like trying to reinvent yourself to please an indifferent boyfriend. Down that path lies despair. Your power to create, your best hope of happiness, and yes, your marketability lie in your uniqueness. Embrace it with joy!

Here's the new older me with the amazing Sergio, awesome haircutter Hua, their shampoo-slinging sidekick Justin, and a totally fabulous photo-bomber rocking her own silver streaks.

It takes a village: Me, Hua, Sergio, Justin and Foxy Frostentip

UPDATE 2/2/17 ~ Having escaped the abusive environment of chemicals and color, my hair has grown out a lot faster. I now have 100% virgin/chemical free, 99.9% gray hair. And I love it.

"Artists lead. Hacks ask for a show of hands." (A blast from the past and peek at the new #SteveJobsmovie)

When a ghostwriter friend mentioned she was suffering from increasing pain in her hands (hazard of the profession), I told her, "I just posted something about that on BoxOcto last year." When I searched it out, my mind was blown a bit. It was actually posted in October of 2012.

Here's the post, followed by an update:

Gary sprained his hand last night at work, and it's swollen up like one of those old fashioned baseball mitts. For years I've always kept bags of frozen peas specifically for the purpose of icing my aching wrists, fingers and hands after hours of typing. I got one out, and it was frosted solid. I suddenly realized I haven't had to ice my hands since last Christmas when Gary gave me a MacBook Air.

I'm not one of those rabid Apple heads, but this was a profound improvement in my quality of life. There are times when my ghostwriting schedule forces me to crank out 3K words a day (and if you're a writer, you know that 3K good words means also typing 5K off-the-mark words that end up cut or reworked.) Many was the midnight hour that found me lying on the floor fighting tears of agony, my hands and forearms piled with the fruit of the Jolly Green Giant. 

The realization that it's been 10+ months since I had to plan for and facilitate that pain - it just blew me away. How did I not notice that? How was I not celebrating it every day? I suppose it's because the MacBook allows me to focus on (and celebrate) what I'm writing. The presence of pain is impossible to ignore; the absence of pain is something we take completely for granted. 

A hallmark of great technology: it disappears into its own functionality. Instead of cluttering and upstaging life, it provides a vehicle for it. Like a really good bass player (or a really good ghostwriter), it provides structure and soul without calling attention to itself.

UPDATE: My MacBook Air is still going strong, and I eventually hunted up a matching low impact keyboard for my desktop PC. Typing is virtually pain-free and dramatically faster. After switching to the MacBook Air, I actually started transcribing interviews in progress. It's super slim in the bag and quiet enough that it doesn't register on the digital recording, and I'm able to insert my own thoughts and questions on the fly rather than depend on my sieve-like memory.

ANOTHER UPDATE: Okay, now it's October 2016, and I still have never had a problem with my 5-year-old MacBook Air. The battery life is not great anymore, so I may invest in a new battery. Other than that, it's still going strong. I've been using it twice as long as any other laptop I've ever owned, and I've used it ten times more -- which also makes it the cheapest laptop I've ever owned. After my PC died, I replaced it with an iMac, so my laptop, desktop, and phone now communicate seamlessly. Remember how I said "I'm not a rabid Apple-head" earlier? Yeah, well... praise God and pass the KoolAid.

And now for the trailer. Can't wait to see this movie, because anything written by Aaron Sorkin is pretty much a masterclass in dialogue and plotwerk. My motto for the foreseeable future: "Artists lead and hacks ask for a show of hands."

Hulk Balls! Integral to summer morning workout

Hulk Balls! Integral to summer morning workout


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“My fear,” said Venus, “is that the discovery...

“My fear,” said Venus, “is that the discovery of the matrix will lure her even farther from reality.”


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#KeepItDown Two eloquent statements that changed my mind about the Confederate flag

Living in Texas, I've grown used to the image of the Confederate flag on everything from pickup trucks and beer cozies to dorm rooms, children's lunch boxes and baby jammies and onesies. For years, I've just rolled my eyes, assuming that living in the South meant having to accept the Confederate flag as if it's as innocuous and unavoidable as the roadside Cracker Barrel.

Last week, two things changed my mind about that:

The first was this bluntly cogent statement by my nephew, Jared Sacramento, which he posted on his Facebook page:

If you don't IMMEDIATELY recognize why the confederate flag is racist and offensive, then you are completely delusional. "Southern pride"? "Southern heritage"? Why are you proud of your racist ancestors? Why are you proud of the time when America went to war over the right to own and torture people? Why are you proud of the people who kidnapped Africans from their home countries, dragged them here kicking and screaming, murdered them, raped them, whipped them, oppressed them, and if that's not enough, after these people lost the war, they spent the next 100 years openly hunting black people down like dogs to lynch them or beat them to death? I'm sorry if that was your great great grandpa, but he was wrong, and we don't need to keep celebrating that. 

In Germany people are ASHAMED of their Nazi ancestors after what they did. Why, 150 years later, is the south still celebrating their worst moment in history? If it's not about racism then why are ALL of the states that fly this flag the most RACIST states in the nation? If it's about "southern heritage" then why don't black southerns fly the confederate flag? If you consider yourself non racist and look at this flag as a symbol of your heritage, you need to get real. 

This flag represents a time in our country where my father would have been HUNG FROM A TREE for loving my mother. It represents a time in our country when I could have been forced to fight other black men to the death so white people could watch, laugh, and bet on it. It represents a time in our country when the entire police force of some cities dressed up in white robes at night looking for people like me to torture and kill because of the color of my skin. Why should African-Americans have to grow up in a world where we are constantly reminded that slavery happened and half the country is still proud of it? 

If this is the heritage you're so proud of, then you are a racist. Stop pretending. Stop clinging on to a symbol of hate when we have a beautiful flag you can fly with 50 stars on it that represents ALL of us.

The second is this video of Bree Newsome, possibly the most awesome woman on the earth or 30 feet above it, taking down the Confederate flag posted at the South Carolina statehouse in 1961 in response to the growing civil rights movement. And then it shows her quietly, proudly going to jail for something the rest of us--as voters, as a culture, as decent human beings--should done a long time ago.

#TheStruggleIsReal Why I’m Not Mad That You Didn’t Hire Me (Freelance editor Jerusha Rodgers on a millennial dilemma)

Today we hear from Jerusha Rodgers (aka "The Plot Whisperer") of Rabid Badger Editing in a post prompted by a conversation about agism in publishing, which I see from the perspective of a, um...let's say "experienced" author/book doctor in my 50s and she sees from the perspective of a fresh new face in her mid-20s. Ironically, yes, she had to explain to me about "the struggle is real."

Shortly after graduating, a friend of mine posted the greatest Facebook status ever: “I would love to reenact some the of the fantasies in Fifty Shades of Grey, specifically the one where she gets a full-time job straight out of college.”

With an economy that clings to safety (read: tradition and money) and a workforce and community that strives for advancement (read: cooler, more accessible stuff), applicants whose limited practical experience is backed up by open minds and inherent expertise in the use of technology often get left out of the running. It’s the struggle forcing many Millennials to create career paths instead of follow them.

I was lucky enough to grow up in a house where I was taught the value of what my mom calls “the tangible intangibles.” Did my year backpacking the world add a highly sought after internship or years of dutiful service at a publishing house to my resume? No. It left a discouraging gap in my renter’s history and an intimate knowledge of third world medicine. But it did teach me how to solve problems under pressure and in the face of complications. It made me find ways to bond with people whom, on the face of it, I had absolutely nothing in common. It changed the way I see opportunity and the way I define advancement. It made me realize that taking a business call at 3am Malaysian time is really not the end of the world; it’s just doing your job well, and that’s worth it. All of these are traits that employers want brought to their projects, but they want them to be learned from twenty years of climbing the corporate ladder. It’s not because there’s anything inherently better about it; it’s just that that’s how it’s been done in the past.

The problem with this line of thought is that the times, they are a-changin’. We no longer live in the world we did twenty years ago, and no one is better prepared to work in the current climate of technology and connectivity than the people who grew up in it. We have a different (read: better) understanding of how things work than what people can learn in an SEO class, but there isn’t a way to put that on your resume. There’s no spot to say, “My social media experience goes back to when you needed a college email address to sign into ‘The Facebook,’ and I knew what MySpace Angles were before there was a name for them.”

Artistic fields are always a gamble, so when the going gets tough, the bosses stop taking chances. They’re less open to “Well, no, I’ve never done that, but I know that I would excel in that project because of X, Y and Z,” because to them sounds like, “Hold my beer and watch this.” It’s totally understandable that employers are nervous to stick their necks (read: wallets) out for a newcomer, but the behind-the-scenes reality is that projects suffer for it. Newcomers push boundaries, bring fresh perspectives and incorporate an understanding of the technology-based world we live in that has taken a lifetime to learn.

And we can never explain why that’s better than twenty years of corporate experience, because if you don’t already know why, you’ll never understand. You’ll just have to hold our gluten-free craft beers and watch this.

My Facebook-free summer begins today. And I LIKE it.

A while back I adopted a small policy that triggered big change: "Facebook only while standing." That simple step made me suddenly mindful of the way I'd been unconsciously getting on FB at my desk, in the car, as I lay in bed or sat at the table in a restaurant.

I justify the time I spend on social networks as part of the "platforming" I'm obligated to do as an author and ghostwriter, and I'm more than willing to admit that maybe I'm just not doing it right, but the net gain for me has been very low. It certainly doesn't justify the time it's taken away from reading and writing. Even Mark Coker of Smashwords said this year at LBF that loitering on FB and other social network time-sucks was one of the worst mistakes commonly made by indie and legacy published authors alike. The days when LIKEs converted to book sales have expired. Now we're just nickle and diming ourselves to death.

The only thing I'll really miss is lurking and spying on my kids, their cousins and my former students. I stayed through the first week of June so I could participate in a virtual baby shower for my nephew and his wife, which is the only way our globe-spanning family could come together and the most brilliant thing I've ever seen orchestrated on FB. I also communicate with authors in the UK, Greece, Italy, South America, Australia and France via FB, and I participate in a lively forum for ghostwriters on both sides of the Atlantic.

But as much as FB has the power to bring us together from the far corners of the world, it also pushes us apart by allowing us to imagine that flipping a LIKE on a photo of someone's raspberry blini is the same as being their friend. FB is the hall pass that allows us to feel okay about neglecting real world relationships. It's a local anesthetic that makes us feel less lonely than we really are.

Habits die hard, but I deleted Facebook from my phone this morning, and it didn't hurt one bit. I'll still have Messenger, so the kids can get in touch with Aunt Joni if they need to. I'll have to Skype my Dad and call my sisters. I'll have to read the news and think for myself and watch adorable ducks by the pool instead of kitten videos. I'll read a book in bed, watch passing scenery in the car and gaze across the dinner table at the man I love instead of staring down at my iPhone.

I'll be posting on this blog, and whatever posts here or on my Tumblr gets robo-posted to FB and twitter, but even if it didn't, I don't think I'd be missed. Plenty of clever memes, breakfast shots and daily noise to fill in the slimmest blank. I'll be back in September, and I'm pretty sure I won't have missed anything I haven't seen before.

Two of my fabulous girlfriends are at the Tonys!

One you may have heard of: Kristin Chenoweth brought me in to collaborate on her hilarious memoir, A Little Bit Wicked, a few years ago, and we've been friends ever since. She's currently blowing the doors off Broadway in On the Twentieth Century and is up for Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role in a Musical. She's also hosting, because...Cheno.

My other Tony girl is my longtime pal Marianne Adams, director of education at Grandstreet Theatre in Helena, Montana, who was shortlisted (top three of over 4,000 nominees) for the Excellence in Theatre Education Award from the Tonys and Carnegie Melon University.

Marianne and I became friends almost 30 years ago when we appeared together in Crimes of the Heart as Babe (MA) and Lenny (me). Marianne started teaching at Grandstreet Theatre School shortly after that. Over the years, she's made GST a safe, welcoming home for thousands of artsy, smart, interesting, misfit, hyper, hipster, creative kids from preschool to college.

Marianne was nominated by her students and coworkers who'll be glued to the Tonys broadcast on CBS tomorrow night, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the red carpet.

I'm ecstatic that the Tonys will be honoring a teacher from a small town in Montana alongside the biggest stars on Broadway. Theatre, like publishing, is a lot more than just what happens in New York. As in publishing, there's a lot going on behind the scenes, and the people who work backstage often go uncelebrated.

The fact is Kristin and Marianne are a lot alike: both powerhouse talented, completely dedicated to the art of theatre, enormously giving, loving, intelligent and generous. They've both spent their lives learning, performing and mentoring. They're both hilarious, and I can't imagine my life without either of them.

Break a leg, Kristin and Marianne!

Post your pups on Whatever and Scalzi will donate $$ for speculative fiction diversity

Post a photo of your happy dog or puppy on John Scalzi's Whatever blog before midnight tonight! He's donating a dollar per dog (up to $1000) to Con or Bust,a non-profit organization whose mission is to increase racial and ethnic diversity in the production of and audience for speculative fiction.

Oh, this made me miss Manny and Rosie! (And Redbone and Khan.) Over the years, we've been ridiculously blessed in the puppy department.

Here's the link! Post that pup!

The Art of Upscale Downsizing: 3 simple rules that transformed my new workspace

Last weekend, the Griz and I moved into our new quasi-retirement digs (read Aging Hippie Lakeside Love Grotto), between thunderstorms and flash flood warnings. As water continued to rise just a few hundred yards from our new place, the complex management sent out text messages warning residents to watch for snakes on the property, and in the spirit of encroaching apocalypse, I did something I've never done before: I made my office my first priority.

Typically, my office (or my cough "office" cough) has been the last room in the house to be finished. This time, my kids are grown, my life is my own, and the Griz is happy to share center stage with the work that keeps me happy and contributing to our solvency. This week I'm scheduled to dive into editing Orna Ross's forthcoming historical novel about W.B. Yeats and his paramour Maud Gonne. It's a beautiful, important book, and I wanted to be ready for it.

My new sunroom office in this one-bedroom apartment is just 8x10 feet--half the size of my upstairs office, with which I'd fought a major organizational/ housekeeping battle, in our old four-bedroom house. I was nervous about the drastic downsizing, but as I worked through the process, I made three simple rules, which turned out to be the three things I love most about my Woolfish "room of one's own":

1) Every object must earn its footprint. For me, that means everything in this room has to A) serve and purpose and B) make me happy. Utilitarian + Joy = worth it.

Making the cut: A Salvador Dali coffee table book doubles as a lap desk. A Dr. Seuss lunchbox that houses paperclips and pushpins. My great-grandma's kitschy plaster cat, now in charge of pens and highlighters. No longer happening: Furniture, wall art and tchotchkes that were nice to have and sometimes hard to let go of but didn't pass a test of archival value ("Will my kids really want this after I'm dead?") or serve a daily need.

Gorgeous thrift store china cabinet: no. Tiger oak chair rescued from a defunct VA hospital: yes. I could have made an argument for the usefulness of either one, but the chair earns that footprint. The cabinet served as a junk collector simply because it was there. No cabinet = no junk. Winning!

2) Nothing but work happens in the workspace. It occurred to me that my most precious natural resources, time and space, are both limited, and my mindset for one naturally influences my mindset for the other. This small square footage is premium real estate, and it's most valuable to me as clean, feng shui friendly floorspace. Cluttering it with plastic bins, file boxes and obsolete computer equipment detracts from the calm, creative vibe I'm striving for, and though a lot of that stuff is arguably work-related, it's not the work I'm working on now, so it doesn't earn a footprint in this space.

Same goes for time clutter. A while back, I declared a "Facebook only while standing" policy, which immediately made me more mindful of the time I was wasting there. I try to justify social network activity as "platforming", but in truth, 90% of that falls more accurately under "farting around". So no more magazines or leisure books on the desk, and no more games or aimless net surfing on the office computer. (Isn't that why God created smart phones?)

Old manuscripts, tax records, press archives, correspondence and keepsakes took up a huge amount of space in my old office and our over-spill storage unit. I invested in a NeatDesk scanner and opted into their whole system. I'm still working through the mass exodus of paper from the storage unit, but the bottom line is: everything that can be digital must be digital. And almost anything can be digital.

I'll admit, I cried letting go of my kids' school projects, which I'd been justifying as decor in my old office. I'm keeping a few framed pieces for the wall here, but everything else is being digitally archived. My plan is to compile a coffee table book for each kid, which will be equally feng shui friendly in their future homes.

3) I work at home; I do not live at work. In the past, when my office got out of control, I could close the door and keep the insanity to myself. My new sunroom office is open to the living room in our new apartment, so it has to jibe with the living room aesthetic, and that forced me to be more mindful of the way my work serves (or or doesn't serve) the greater goal: a happy, healthy home life with this man I love. My work tends to take over at times, and I've learned that allowing work to hog all my time, space and waking thought actually makes me less productive in the long run, because I get fried and don't allow myself to recharge.

While plotting books, I've always built out massive grids of sticky notes on the wall a la A Beautiful Mind. I had stacks of books that were sent to me for reviews and blurbs. I tacked up Max Parish and Ansel Adams calendar art and scrawled notes on corkboards. The purpose of all that (in my head) was part organization, part inspiration, and it worked for me in that space, but it's not what I want to look at when I'm sitting in my living room. Not working. (No, really, I'm not. Seriously! I really mean it this time!)

Going forward, I'll be organizing writing and ghostwriting projects with Scrivener, which allows me to integrate research, character notes, and chapter material. (Try it! You'll like it.) A Passion Planner satisfies my need to physically write things down and brilliantly brings all those random corkboards and creative impulses into an intelligent plan of daily, weekly and monthly actions that pragmatically serve my creative goals. Instead of keeping a file drawer for editing and ghostwriting clients, I'm streamlining editing and book doctor projects via a nifty online system called 17 Hats, which allows me to create typical work flows from first contact to client invoice.

So instead of a blizzard of flailing sticky notes, I now have one powerful, wall-wide work of art that genuinely does serve to inspire me and provides a super cool counterpoint to the more conventional living room art. I got this amazing canvas frame X-Men panel on Overstock.com for less than $100. (It's actually a room divider.) It comes from "The Dark Phoenix Saga", in which Jane Grey (now Phoenix) kicks the stone-cold keister of Emma Frost (aka the White Queen).

Her power is a song within her... a passion beyond human comprehension. She is more alive than she has ever been...

Just the right vibe for a fiercely focused and beautifully functional creative workspace.

That Moment When You Know You're Doing It Right (the greatest bad review I've ever gotten)

I come to mourn Charlie, not to praise him

Watching with great interest as the painful “to Charlie or not to Charlie” conversation emerges in proximity to the controversial decision to give Charlie Hebdo an award for “freedom of expression courage” at the $1,250/plate PEN American Center literary gala last night and the recent attack on a significantly less tony Dallas conference featuring a contest for cartoons of the prophet Muhammad.

When the whole #JesuisCharlie thing was sweeping social media, I was uncomfortably certain that most people either didn’t know what “Je suis” means or they didn’t know what “Charlie” was about. I was horrified and heartbroken when I saw the news about the massacre, but I cringed at the cartoons, tweets and op eds canonizing the people who died that day. Of everything I saw in the subsequent outpouring of support, this illustration by Lucille Clerc was the most appropriate, because it spoke to the brokenness of our violent world and not the ideology of the people involved in the shooting.

Having spent a bit of time in France, I was vaguely familiar with this magazine. My French is tres mal, but I understood enough to know that it was firmly based in hate. Southern France has a lot in common with the southern USA: a lovely climate, gorgeous scenery, overwhelmingly pleasant people, a gracious love of gracious living and way way way too many racist and xenophobic SOBs per square mile. The stuff I saw in my admittedly limited exposure to Charlie Hebdo was the kind of thing I’d expect to see in a publication from the KKK.

I want to believe that the people who gave Charlie Hebdo a standing ovation last night were standing up for the spirit of free speech. Had I been there, I'd have stayed in my chair, picking at my $1,250 broccolini, because to me, that award feels like a resounding endorsement of exceptionally well done hate speech.

I cried about the attack on the Charlie Hebdo office in Paris. It broke my heart that such a thing could happen in this city I love so much. But I would also be heartbroken if someone sprayed gunfire on demonstrators from that infamous “God Hates Fags” Southern Baptist church as they protested at a soldier's funeral. (I refuse to feed that beast by typing their name or linking to their twisted website.) I'd be sad and sickened to see that happen, but I would never post #IamGHFBaptist on Twitter or express any other kind of solidarity with them or hand them an award for their courage in expressing their hate.

Je suis a to-the-last-breath defender of free speech, even though I despise what some people do with it, and I abhor violence, even when it’s done to someone I can't stand. I mourn the people who died at Charlie Hebdo, but I can’t praise the work they did. Without drawing any comparison to what happened in Paris, I also mourn the young gunmen who stupidly sacrificed their lives in Dallas for the hate of old farts on the other side of the world. I keep wondering if we'll ever wake up to the reality that hate itself is the real enemy.

Je suis sick of it all.

#NepalQuake Relief: Three top-rated charities with no religious agenda

Lots of dubious text-to-give opportunities popping up. Here are three organizations that have a strong presence in Nepal, no religious agenda and excellent report cards on Charity Navigator.

American Red Cross
Fundraising and admin costs prevent them from getting a 4-star rating on Charity Navigator, but they are always the first relief organization I donate to. Maybe this is just me being an old fart, but I've seen them in action during hurricanes down here on the Gulf Coast, and they are amazing. The Nepal Red Cross was in place and prepared. British and American Red Cross disaster training is ongoing, so they were immediately rendering first aid and working to rescue people.
Donate via credit card or text “redcross” to 90999 to donate $10.

Direct Relief
Coordinating with local and emergency response partners in the hours and days ahead, along with corporate and technology companies. According to Charity Navigator report card, 99% of your donation goes to actual, on-the-ground efforts.
Donate via credit card or PayPal

Americares
According to their website, an emergency response team from the AmeriCares India office in Mumbai headed into the impact zone yesterday, and relief workers are preparing shipments of medical aid and relief supplies for survivors. AmeriCares stocks emergency medicine and relief supplies in its warehouses in the U.S., Europe and India that can be delivered quickly in times of crisis. According to Charity Navigator report card, 98.2% of your donation goes to actual, on-the-ground efforts.
Donate via credit card or PayPal

Mommy blogs and memoirs: Where do we draw the line when writing about our kids?

Just saw this excellent piece that appeared in the Atlantic two years ago: The Ethical Implications of Parents Writing About their Kids (Tips for spotting a problematic new genre: parental overshare) by Phoebe Maltz Bovy, who makes many valid points and has a name I would like to steal for a character in a novel.

With the ease of publishing a blog post or even a book these days, there's been a glut of confessional writing, and there's been some internet sturm und drang over this issue. (Do not say "mommmy wars." I will punch the next person who uses the term "mommy wars" or "women's fiction." Do not test me. I will punch you on the arm.)

The way the two sides have been presented reminds me of this amusing anecdote, which really is not about my kids, though they are in it, and they are naked:

When my son and daughter were toddler and infant, I gave my mother-in-law an adorable photo of them in the bathtub. In the photo, my mom is sitting on the closed toilet playing guitar, and the kids are in full song, suds flying everywhere. My mother-in-law pursed her lips, folded the photo in half and said, "I never took naked pictures of my kids. There's enough smut in the world."

Moral of the story: On the one hand, the concept of "overshare" partially depends on the audience; on the other, as the article says, parents are the first line of defense for a child's privacy.

When I wrote a memoir about being a young mommy with cancer (Bald in the Land of Big Hair, HarperCollins 2001), I agonized over what to say and not say about my kids. I had written the book I wished was available to me when I was sick. I hoped it would be a gift to the next young mom in the chemo lounger. But my kids had been through a rotten, rotten couple of years, and I didn't want to traumatize them any further. My husband and I made the difficult decision to hold back the movie rights when interest was expressed by Lifetime. I was in remission, but we were told not to hope for more than five years. We'd been bankrupted by my cancer treatment and needed the money desperately, but we didn't want to force our kids to live with a Hollywood version of our family after my death.

As it played out, I lived (GOFIGHTWIN CHEMO!), and my kids survived being characters in a bestselling memoir. They turned out great and regard me today with all the eye-rolling, long-suffering love most 20-somethings have for their mom. Over the years, I've published maybe 10% of the words I've written about my children. The other 90%, including a full-length memoir called Offspring, I've either destroyed or set aside for them to read after my death, when the decision to publish or not will be theirs. They are entitled to tell their own stories or to keep their experiences private, including the story about growing up with a writer mommy.

Here's the advice I give my ghostwriting clients on memoirs in general:

1) I have the right to tell my own story, but it's not right or reasonable for me to project subtext, motivation or intention on other people who figure in my story, and I can't control the filters readers bring to my work, so I have to consider how the story might land on the adorable-smut-in-the-world spectrum.

2) There's no such thing as a tell-all memoir, nor should there be. When making decisions about what to share and what to keep to yourself, do a cost/benefit analysis: Is telling this story going to cost you or someone you love more than it benefits the reader? It's not fair to tweak the truth in a memoir; if you open that door, you should be prepared to let the reader in, but you're not obligated to share everything. I believe strongly in the art of memoir as cosmic cartography: we each have a tiny piece of the map of human experience, and sharing those disparate fragments, we help others find their way through the same perilous territory. However...

3) Published memoirs should earn their footprint in the world. Why are you telling this story? Are you sharing something new, shining a light on something unexplored, potentially offering a great gift to someone who is lost and afraid or is writing a way for you to process the experience for yourself? Memoir writing is a powerful way to work through a traumatic experience or to find meaning in the grind of everyday life. But not everything that's written -- even if it's beautifully written and took hundreds of hours -- needs to be published. Maybe the gift of this memoir was in the writing.

Not trying to kick a hornets nest. Just my two cents on the topic. Apparently, writer/photographer Penny Guisinger will be doing a panel on this topic at AWP 2016. I suspect it will be well attended.

One for #SiblingsDay :)

No one has challenged, vexed, loved, hated, teased, comforted, tormented, tested, uplifted, entertained or inspired me than my brothers and sisters. From left: Janis, Diana, Linda, me and Allen with our baby bro Roger piloting the scrap wood and mop bucket airplane.

Happy Easter! (Some things just never stop being hilarious.)

It's been 25 years since I dragged my kids to Wallgreens for a free photo with the hapless Crayola bunny. I still die laughing every time I see it.

My daughter looks like the angry piglet from Alice in Wonderland, my little boy appears to be suffering a psychotic break, and I feel certain the bunny went out drinking that afternoon and passed out in his own vomit somewhere in the black, black abyss behind the balloons.

Anyway, um... Happy Easter!

Bloom where you're planted (Fresh ink and yahrtzeit for my mother)

"I don't understand tattoos," Gary said yesterday. "I don't get what it is or why people feel the need to do it." Anyone who contemplates getting a tattoo should probably think that question through, in addition to contemplating the pain and money and huge risk that it could go awry.

The best explanation I could come up with: A tattoo is the karmic counterpart of a scar. A scar is (usually) an involuntary statement of the skin: "I was in this place and this thing happened, and I healed, but I am changed." A tattoo is elective, but it makes a similar statement. For whatever reason, the person feels the need to express: "I went to this place in life, and I am changed."

Even a stupid little Tweety Bird or ill-chosen tramp stamp is the branding of a moment, a scar left by rebellion. Not all scars are beautiful or worth the misadventure, but every one of them marks a lesson learned. Same is true for tattoos.

The topic came up because Jerusha and I had an appointment with artist Christina Sparrow (who also did my Shakespeare tattoo) to get inked in memory of my mom, author/historian Lois Lonnquist, who died March 27, 2014 of Alzheimer's.

In my quest to invent a religion that works for me (I call it Jewbuddhistianity), I've observed that Jews really do death right. You sit shiva to calm the chaotic moment and acknowledge how we're humbled by loss, and then you observe yahrtzeit one year later to honor the power of love that far surpasses the power of loss.

Yesterday was yahrtzeit for my mom. Her downward spiral was an exhausting trek, but for 75 years before that, she lived a vibrantly creative life of the mind. "Bloom where you're planted" was a keystone Momism she repeated many times while I was growing up. Even as a kid I knew it meant more than "pack your stuff, we're moving again," though that was frequently the context.

My mom embodied the greater meaning of that folksy little saw. She was a resilient survivor of a hardscrabble childhood, and time after time, throughout my life, I watched her make something extraordinary out of circumstances and opportunities that ranged from vaguely disappointing to downright punishing. She had the fortitude to till whatever earth she was given. She had the patience and wisdom to cultivate something better. She taught her six children the importance of being grounded and productive, not just in where you are, but in who you are. My tiger lily is a perfect avatar for Mom: graceful and determined with a just hint of volatile.

Jerusha opted for wild flowers. When I checked in with her this morning to see how her fresh ink was settling in, she texted back:

"I'm really happy. And I see Montana when I look at it. It's grandma's flowers and the coyote pillow and the couch/chair and saying goodnight to the Sleeping Giant. It's the spirit of all the time I spent with grandma and all the stories she told me about her life. I think that's why I like that it's a tattoo as well. It's so delicate and pretty and feminine, but to get that, I had to go through something painful that takes strength and endurance. It's a microcosm for the things I learned about grandma's life as I got older and could understand more about how she went from Fort Peck Dam to Humbolt Loop."

Update March 28, 2017: Three months ago, my tiger lily tribute to Mom took on a whole new meaning. Meet my lovely granddaughter, Lily. "Though she be but little, she is fierce."

#HowIWrite Blog Hop: Free-falling, being 50, and four fab authors you need to read this summer

Tagged by my author buddy Jen Singer for the #HowIWrite blog hop. I’m supposed to answer four questions and tag four author friends to do the same, which struck me as a fun summer chain letter sort of thing to do. Plus I do love any opportunity to tout the big talent of Roz Morris, Barbara Taylor Sissel, John A.A. Logan, and Linda Gillard. (Sharing a stellar summer reading recommendation from each.)

First, the questions:
What am I writing? 
Well, at the moment, this blog post—one of several short pieces I owe right now. This past winter was pretty intense personally and professionally, and I fell wretchedly behind. (Amazing how clear one’s priorities become when one is in the crucible.) But in general, I’m not a great multitasker. Things tend to pile up while I’m writing a book. I go down the rabbit hole and forget about the real world until I’ve either exhausted myself or finished the thing. Right now, with the third (hopefully final) draft of my next novel fermenting in the wine cellar, I’m catching up on commitments, domestics, and sleep so I’ll be ready to check out again and obsess through revisions.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I’ve never been able to settle into one genre, but as Shakespeare said, “There’s nothing new under the sun.” The uniqueness in any author’s work is the unique life experience, emotional intelligence, and personalized vocabulary s/he brings to the page. Your soul knows a story no other soul has ever known. For better or worse, my work is different because it’s mine.

Why do I write what I do? 
Because I bloody well feel like it. Look, I spent my teens pleasing my parents, my 20s accommodating various employers, my 30s facilitating my children, my 40s being a team player for publishers and agents. Later this year, I’m releasing an essay collection with the working title “50 is the New F#ck You.” I’m in the Power Decade now. If a woman’s not doing what she wants to do at this point in her life, what exactly would she be waiting for? Trade publishing has done a lot for me. I’m grateful for the craft skills I gained under the thumb of so many wise editors over the years, but I intend to spend the rest of my life drunk on creative autonomy, writing what I want to write, publishing under my own imprint, and helming my own financial destiny. Hopefully, there will always be a bit of money in my particular brand of quirky fiction and memoirellas. If not, I’ll dine on cat food and greet the evening with no regrets.

How does my writing process work? 
Surprisingly well. At the beginning of a book, I always feel overwhelmed. No way I can see myself climbing this mountain. I know from experience that doggedly clinging to an outline doesn’t work for me; I’m a research hound, and that always takes me in wonderfully unexpected directions, so every book is a free fall during the writing phase. Then comes the editing; you get jerked up short by your parachute. Everything slows down. You take a breath, look around, get your bearings. When I finish a first draft, I’m in love with the characters, and that gives me the energy I need to push through two or three rounds of revisions. So I guess my process involves being sufficiently inspired to leap and confident enough to trust my craft skills on the way down. I have the tremendous advantage of an excellent freelance editor on my speed dial: my daughter, Jerusha Rodgers of Rabid Badger Editing. The kid has an eagle eye and has never flinched at critiquing my prose or my wardrobe.

Enough about me. Time to tag my author pals, each of whom has written more than one book I can highly recommend for your summer reading joy, but I forced myself to narrow it down:

Roz Morris's fiction has sold more than 4 million copies worldwide, although you won't have seen her name on the covers as she ghostwrote for high-profile authors. She is now writing fiction under her own name, starting with her critically acclaimed novel My Memories of a Future Life. She is a writer, journalist, fiction editor and the author of the Nail Your Novel series for writers. Roz’s writing blog: Nail Your Novel. Find Roz on Facebook and Twitter as @Roz_Morris.
Best summer read: Lifeform Three, a richly imagined fable in the tradition of Bradbury and Atwood, one of my all-time favorite books.

Barbara Taylor Sissel once lived on the grounds of a prison facility in Kentucky, which might explain the nature of her writing, especially her latest: Safe Keeping and Evidence of Life. Driven by the compelling reality that at the heart of every crime, there’s a family, her novels are issue-oriented, threaded with elements of suspense and defined by their particular emphasis on how crime affects families of both victim and perpetrator. She now lives and writes from her bucolic Story House near Austin, Texas. Find Barbara on Facebook and Twitter and Goodreads.
Best summer read: A Sophie of a choice, but I'll go with The Ninth Step, a lovely garden of complex characters entangled by a painful past, perfect for fans of Picoult and Shreve.

John A. A. Logan is the author of The Survival of Thomas Ford, Storm Damage, and Agency Woman. His fiction has been published by Picador, Vintage, Edinburgh Review, Chapman, Northwords, Nomad, Secrets Of A View, and Scratchings; with reviews of his work in Scottish Studies Review, Scotland On Sunday, The Spectator, and The Hindustan Times. His work has been published internationally in anthologies edited by A L Kennedy, John Fowles, Ali Smith, Toby Litt; and he has been invited to read his work at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. He blogs monthly for Authors Electric. Find John on Facebook and Twitter.
Best summer read: The Survival of Thomas Ford, an intense psychological thriller about batshit crazy scariness in the wake of a car wreck, perfect for fans of Stephen King and Dean Koonz.

Linda Gillard lives in the Scottish Highlands and has been an actress, journalist and teacher. She’s the author of seven novels, including Star Gazing, which was short-listed in 2009 for Romantic Novel of the Year and the Robin Jenkins Literary Award (for writing that promotes the Scottish landscape), and House of Silence, a Kindle bestseller selected by Amazon as one of their Top Ten Best of 2011 in the Indie Author category. Linda’s latest is Cauldstane, a contemporary ghost story set in a decaying Highland castle. Find Linda on Facebook and check out some of her wise writing advice.
Best summer read: Emotional Geology, an offbeat, award-winning love story that showcases this author’s mad skills with character, dialogue, and throat-burning emotion.