I Know I Don't Call (But That Doesn't Mean I Don't Care)

True confessions: I have an incredible aversion to the phone. I wouldn't label it a phobia. I'm not overwhelmed by a gut-gnawing sensation when my phone rings, but I do experience a sharp irritation akin to sandpaper on bare skin.

I envy people who can chatter endlessly on the phone because it appears to be a nice way to connect with other people. But that's not me, nor will it ever be. I'm not a phone person. In fact, I am on the other side of the planet from where you phone people live.

I can't offer a sound or rational explanation for the reason phone calls strike me as burdensome. I love talking face to face. I love hand-written letters, emails, Facebook, and of course, this blog. But phone calls - everything from the press of the device against my ear to the raspy metallic sound of the distant voice on the other line - strike me as artificial and forced. I'm not good at it, I don't enjoy it.

So I won't call. But I still miss you and you should write me a letter or email if you want to talk.

It's not you. It's me.

Neil Gaiman at the Grocery Story

Since my last post celebrated Neil Gaiman's Newberry, I thought I'd trot out my too-frequent thoughts about a real life encounter with he-who-I-wish-was-my-mentor. These day-time musings emerged to haunt my thoughts when I learned that Gaiman lives near the Twin Cities (which automatically made me feel cooler by association, since I live in the same place that he does).

So here is the scenario of what would happen should Andrea run into Neil Gaiman at the grocery store, or Spyhouse, or the Electric Fetus, MIA, my office at Macalester (these are places that I go, I have no idea where Neil Gaiman spends his time in the Minneapolis/St. Paul region. He certainly has not shown up at my office):

I am in the produce section holding a pomegranate and thinking about Persephone. A person next to me picks up another pomegranate and turns it over in his hand. I look up and my jaw drops. Neil Gaiman, being a polite person, smiles in a civil way and takes another pomegranate. Because pomegranates are wonderful and of course having more than one is a nice idea.

I stare and wait for the floor to open up so that Neil Gaiman and I are swallowed by Twin Cities Below (is there a Twin Cities Below Mr. Gaiman?). Whenever this happens we wander through the underworld and I save Neil Gaiman from the giant mosquito or rabid loon that guards the labyrinth, which I'm certain is located beneath the Walker Art Center's sculpture garden. Mr. Gaiman returns happily to his family and, grateful for my heroics, offers to critique my writing and introduce me and my novel to his agent.

But the floor doesn't open up and I am still gaping at Neil Gaiman.
"Oh my god, you're Neil Gaiman," I say.
His smile becomes gracious. "Yes."
I am still staring. Neil Gaiman shuffles his feet.
"Oh my god, you're Neil Gaiman." I say again. I am unable to blink.
Neil Gaiman grips the pomegranate more tightly and looks at the bananas like they are an escape hatch.
The flood gates open. "My name is Andrea and Neverwhere changed my life. I write and I really want to get published, and did I mention that American Gods changed my life. I write YA urban fantasy and did I mention that the Graveyard Book changed my life. And I hope your dog feels better soon, my dog's had a hard time lately too. He's a pug so his sinuses completely freeze in the winter and he can't breathe. And did I mention how much I love Sandman and that what you write about writing helps me to write. Did I mention that I'm trying to be a writer? Congratulations on your Newberry."
I take a breath and notice that Neil Gaiman isn't standing in front of me any more, but there is a pomegranate rolling along the floor. I am devastated because Twin Cities Below must have taken him but not me.

I sigh and wander into the tea/coffee aisle. I convince myself that the conversation went very well. The next day I am served a restraining order.

Alas, alas I should not meet Neil Gaiman, lest I end up a mirror-image of that crazy fangirl from Flight of the Conchords. My writing career would surely be over before it began.

Gaiman's Newberry

I just read Neil Gaiman's post that his Graveyard Book won the Newberry. I almost started jumping up and down and shrieking, but I'm in my office so no dice. But I'm shrieking on the inside, more than thrilled as he is my #1 writing role model. Grats, Neil Gaiman I'm laughing and swearing too!

Anew

Sigh. The semester begins.

We had an unusually long break this year and I still haven't decided if it has added anguish or relief to my view of the ever-looming schedule ahead.

I am one of those folks who manages to sign on for far too many projects. In addition to attending my first writers' conference (SF here I come!), I'm giving papers at the Newberry, the OAH, at my home institution, and at NAISA. Wow.

Fall resembled this manic bundle of activities and I survived. I will survive again.

Teaching will be helpful. My students are a balm to every slight that academia has rubbed raw. In case any of them ever stumble across this post. Hey there. Thanks. You are extraordinary, yes you heard me. Extraordinary.

Onward. Onward I go.

Knackered

Writing is an endeavor frequently misunderstood. I recently found a writing soulmate in British author Marie Phillips (whose novel, Gods Behaving Badly, is one of the funniest books I've read). In an interview, Phillips described how much her writing alienates her from the rest of the world. As she relates (paraphrased): My friends ask what I did and I respond, I was laying on the couch and thinking all day. I'm absolutely knackered. To which her friends will roll their eyes or dismiss the suggestion.

Phillips summed up exactly a writer's mind (at least in my own experience): distracted, out of this world, constantly and furiously at work. And this process saps your physical and mental strength. I spend hours upon hours wandering around (my house, the block, the river, Target) and bumping into things - I'm a flaneur but the gritty, not graceful, kind - as I think about my characters and their worlds. I feel what they feel, I anticipate their reactions to the problems they encounter.

And yes, I spend all day on the couch, whether writing or just thinking about writing. And after a day like that, I am utterly and genuinely knackered.

Thanks, Ms. Phillips.

An Unusual Fundraiser

Sign on the local pharmacy (I kid you not)

DEER HIDES FOR LIONS CAMP
NO HEADS OR LEGS PLEASE

Man, I love it up here

Does this mean the ice road is open?, or why I love Ashland, Wisconsin

I'm writing from what I've come to realize is probably my favorite place on this blue planet: my hometown, Ashland, Wisconsin. Nestled against the southern shoreline of Lake Superior, Ashland is an unassuming town of 8,000 people. It hovers between idyllic and despondent as it boasts an immense lake more akin to an ocean with water that waves a dark blue of crushed velvet and a national forest that it is too easy and wonderful to get lost in. The city also suffers from the diseases that plague most rural habitations - economic depression, isolation. But Ashland is experiencing something of a revival. I attribute much of these successes to the fabulous people who live here (and particularly the mayor, Ed Monroe, who is a phenomenal human being and visionary when it comes to the things that matter in a community like Ashland).

It gets very cold in Ashland, so cold that on the small bay that shelters the city (Chequamegon - that's pronounced shuh - wah - meh - gun) the lake actually freezes to the point where an ice road allows automobile travel between the mainland and Madeline Island.

Madeline Island is one of 21 Apostle Islands that make up the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore. Madeline is the only island with a permanent community, LaPointe, and the ice road, or a wind sled bring residents of LaPointe across from the island to commune with the rest of the world during the cold winter months.

As I sit in the Black Cat coffee shop, one of the pieces of evidence for Ashland's current cultural renaissance, a group of well-bundled young people stomped in, covered in snow. The proprietors of the coffee shop waved and chortled. "Does this mean the ice road is open?"

The winter pilgrims from Madeline Island have arrived. Scenes such as this are why I love this particular piece of the world quilt. And why Ashland is a better place to write than any other I've found.