Status of book:

I’ve been up at 5am every day this week to get in hours of revisions before going to work. Tomorrow I hand my first draft complete to my editor, lit agent, and adored Patrick, who’s on friend/editor patrol to personally ensure I don’t look like a dumb-ass (or at least any more than I usually do). Squeal! It’s really hard, as a blogger, to hand off writing. What, you mean I can’t revise and republish over and over again? I’m so spoiled by push-button publishing.

Status of kitchen:

Best summed up in two words: total disaster.

Moral of the story? While I’m doing ok as a writer, I ain’t no housekeeper.

This weekend I attended a writing workshop in Portland. I stuck out like a pink-tipped, sore thumb, but not really in a bad way. I was a little bit younger than the other writers (the bulk were in the 35-45 range), and since of course I look and act even younger than I am, I think I confused everyone a bit. At one point, the workshop leader (best-selling memoirist Jennifer Lauck) grouped me into her 7-year-old son’s generation, despite the fact that I’m in my early 30s.

Despite my alieness, I got a lot from the workshop. Friday night we each were assigned a topic to write two pages about for the next morning. I’m not completely sure how topics were chosen — some of them were based on readings we’d already done, some of them seemed random, and some of them (like mine) were oddly prescient. My assignment was to write two pages about my mother.

Gulp. Keep in mind that with my grandmother’s death last week, mother-daughter dynamics are in full effect.

As those of you who read this site know, my writing is mostly light and entertaining. And the first half of the piece was exactly that. The second half got into a small conflict my mother and I had over my being present at my grandmother’s deathbed, and then in the closing paragraphs I went for the emotional sucker-punches, aiming straight for the jugular and letting loose with such well-worn literary conceits as repeating the saddest parts for full effect.

I got mildly choked up while writing the piece, but steeled myself and vowed to keep my shit together when presenting during the workshop. I am not a weeper!

But of course, when my turn rolled around, there I was not just crying — but SOBBING. I was in good company (there was actually a box of tissues passed from reader to reader), but I was still somewhat mortified with myself. Me! Sobbing! Other people are allowed to sob during their readings but I am a pillar of emotional fortitude, and I am not accustomed to blubbering over my own writing. I laugh at myself a lot; but cry over myself almost never.

The piece was well-received and I decided that I would pass it on to my mom. It was an homage of sorts to her and my relationship, our shared quirks and communications styles. More than anything, it was about how much I loved her, and come on: what mother doesn’t want to be the star of the I Love You! show?

Perhaps my timing was off, what with my grandmother’s funeral and all, but my homage had exactly the opposite effect that I’d intended. My mother called me last night reporting that she’d read the piece and didn’t like the person it described (her!) and was sort of mortified and felt very hurt and cried a bunch. Gulp.

I guess it’s a little bit hard being turned into a character in someone else’s story, isn’t it?

I explained my intentions with the piece and she understood and it was all ok, but as I closed the conversation I reminded her, “You know, mom, that was just a two-page story. I’m writing a whole book right now …”

“But the book’s not about me,” she said. Erm, have you heard many wedding stories that don’t include the mother of the bride?

This brings up some interesting issues for me … not just with my mother, but with untold numbers of people. Andreas refuses to read any of my book drafts, arguing that he doesn’t want to impede my creative process — even when I beg him for feedback, he declines. He may regret this decision.

I use friends and family members to comedic effect through-out my book. Are these people going to hate me? Am I going to simultaneously celebrate the release of my first book while grieving over the fact that my friends have disowned me and that my in-laws won’t invite me home for Christmas? For godsake, what will Uncle Howie say? (That will make more sense after you read the book.)

I’m caught between refusal to change my writing out of fear and, well, wanting to avoid making my mother cry.

Also, for those who are curious, you can read the piece I wrote for my mother by clicking below.

Read the rest of this entry »

I went to a private elementary school for a few years called “The Island School.” It was a small non-religious school started by some poets and hippies and teachers and other progressives. The curriculum emphasized storytelling above all else, and my classmates and I were writing rambling 10 page epic fantasy stories by the time we were in third grade. Math maybe not so good, but we were all hyper-active writers.

Part of this was because the Island School had a writing policy called “Guess & Go.” The teachers’ felt that the goal with teaching children to write should be expression and creativity — not meticulous spelling. With a 7-year-old’s attention span, by the time they stop and try to figure out how to spell “journey,” they’ve forgotten what the hell the journey was going to be. At the Island School we just scribbled “jurne” and kept writing.

It was an early-’80s education gamble that paid off, thanks to the miracle that is spell check. No one needs to know how to spell, now! But we do need to know how to think on our toes and keep the copy coming. [Side note: I'm reaching a pace with my writing these days where I almost wish I had a finger pedometer. How many words do I write each week? With work, book, blog, freelance ... maybe 6,000? With emails and IMs and texts? God only knows! 10,000? 15,000? I have no idea. Honestly. When am I ever not writing?]

All this is at least in part thanks to the Island School telling me to just Guess & Go at age 7. Legend had it that the teachers used to keep a collection of their favorite misspelled words by students. I have a keen memory of trying to sound out how to spell “drawer.” What I ultimately came up with was “jwuarre.” Because was how I said it, so that was how I spelled it. It was very wrong, but I got the idea out.

I’m still a Guess & Go writer. My vocabulary is huge, but I can’t always spell those big words. My new employer is learning very quickly that they may have hired a copywriter who’s also an editor, but they didn’t hire a copy editor. I can’t chart a sentence. Half the time I can’t spell at all. But I can write!

Tonight, as I stumble through another chapter of the book, I present to you the Guess & Go word of the evening: pharmeutucal. Good job, fingers!

My favorite chapter closer in my book (so far:)
If you enjoy it, I would encourage you to eat penis cake all the time. Why reserve it for special occasions?

On this, my “day off,” I’m working through writing three chapters for the book. While stumbling across some old writing, I realized that for today my three favorite words are “full frontal freakout.” I want to start a band so that I can name it that. I want to print a zine with that as a writing theme. I want to name the book that but somehow Full Frontal Freakout: One Untraditional Bride’s Guide to Weird Weddings just doesn’t quite work.

That said, I’m in no kind of full frontal freak-out right now. I’ve had the best day ever with myself, eating delicious vegetabley leftovers from my domestic dinner success on Friday, going for walks, drinking endless cups of Yerba Maté and cranking out chapters like my fingas are on fiyah!

ON FIYAH, MOFOS!

According to my geeky chapter map spreadsheet, I am 42.21% done with my book. That should be closer to 50% by the time I go to sleep tonight. Also: does the fact that I map my chapters on a spreadsheet make me some sort of cheat? Aren’t writers supposed to be tortured artists with needles hanging out of their arms? I guess those are just novelists. Those of us who do non-fiction might get a different stereotype. May I submit for your consideration the overcaffeinated, slightly cooked geek as the new stereotype? Thank you.

When I first starting thinking about book ideas, many of the revolved around my stories. I’m a writer: of course I want to tell MY STORIES. But as part of Offbeat Bride, I’m getting to hear about some of the most amazing wedding stories. The pair who married underwater. The couple who produced a whole stage performance called Wedding! The Musical. The couple who got married at Glastonbury and have great photos of them muddy and in love laying on the ground at the festival. Straight weddings, gay weddings, geeky weddings, hippie weddings, rock weddings, fucking awesome parties that just so happened to be weddings.

A few years ago I found myself, as an essayist, considering writing a book — a 70,000 word project seemed somewhat daunting. But now I’ve realized that’s because jesus: my stories aren’t THAT fucking interesting. Honestly. But when I have other people’s stories to share? HA! Why didn’t anyone tell me that not only would it make writing my book more feasible, it would make it a pure fucking joy. People do awesome things when they play with the concept of commitment and ceremony and weddings.

Think of it: supposedly the cost of an American wedding is currently averaging around $25,000. Even if you spend far, far less than that, when was the last time you threw a party where you let yourself spend even $1,000? Never. The only parties where you spend money like that are weddings and funerals. It’s not even really an issue of dollar amount — it’s an issue of resources like time and attention.

So, it’s really cool to see what my fellow freaks do with a party when they’ve got the resources to really do it up, even when it’s far, far less than the national average. These stories are far, far more delicious than the national average.

Now if only I had a little more time to work on the book … it’s getting to the point where I’m like a floating brain: all I do is write and think at work and then come home and write and think some more. I’ve barely seen friends since September, and Seattle Hermit Season has only just very barely begun and I’m already in full creative retreat mode. Please, won’t you tap the glass of my formaldehyde jar?

Take a minute to meet the lab rats

You can read profiles and see pictures of a few of the women quoted in the book by checking out the lab rats archive!

I had a busy morning catching up on all my chores and bills and then it was 2 o’clock and I looked at my list and what’s next on it? “Write STD Card* chapter of book.” But you know what? I felt about as inspired as a … as a … um, really uninspired person.

So, I defaulted to my favorite Plan B: I took a shower and then a nap. While I was sleeping I had a long circuitous dream about singing. (Tip for those who haven’t known me all my life: I used to be an active vocalist, even getting a vocal scholarship for college. I abruptly stopped singing in 1994 and haven’t done so much as karaoke since then.) In the dream, I was brainstorming for an album I was going to be recording, trying to compose the songs I would sing. I was forcing it, and nothing was working. Then I stopped and tried just freestyling and scatting and this perfect peal of joy came out of my mouth and the song made perfect sense and the clarity of my voice was surprising even to my own ears. The lyrics were something like ‘Baby, my life is un-defeatable …”

That’s pretty much the best dream ever in terms of lifting me out of an afternoon creative slump. A vision of finding my own voice? I’ll take it! I woke up and started writing immediately. No guarantee it’s great writing, but my writing is conversational and my process is all about verbal diarrhea. Once I can get the spigot of written feces flowing, things usually work out just fine. Added bonus: I slept through the hours that are consistently an energetic black hole for me: 3 – 5 p.m.

• STD Card is definitely the best wedding phrase ever!

Tonight I had dinner with a beloved old friend and she was asking me about my book. I was telling her about how weird it is, after years of writing for other people, to be writing for myself. I explained about how I told my editor how I’d need lots of feedback initially, “You know,” I said. “Until I nail the right tone.”

My editor reassured me that she’d give me as much feedback as I needed, “but you’ve already got the right tone,” she explained. “You’ve already got the voice for the book.” Buh?! I do? Really? Oh! Right! I haven’t been hired to take on someone else’s voice in exchange for money. This isn’t a word whore project. This is MY BOOK. I guess I use … my voice?!

Weird.

Then my old friend asked me what exactly that voice was. It was a simple question, and in trying to give her a simple answer I stumbled over a five word mission statement that pretty much sums how I write.

Conversational. Accessible. Profane. Funny. Pedantic. Not sure if that last one is good or bad, but it’s certainly apt.

In further navel gazing, I have yet to figure out how much I should write about the process of writing this book over the next 10 months. Writing about writing makes for some damn dull reading, and maybe it takes some of the magic out of the finished product to hear all the tooth gnashing and hand wringing that went into it. I’m not sure yet. I mean, it’s not that I won’t write about the process — it’s just whether to bore you lot with it, or whether to write it down for myself.