Lists

Math first (last weeks was a bit off): Four more mail days. Three more Boy days. Three more family Saturdays. Three more days as a Floater. Ten more days of listing. Twenty-three more days of panic (not counting today).

I've been thinking I should make a packing list, but I'm also sort of incapable of it. Sean'll be so close, I'll be able to get anything I need, so I can't bring myself to worry.

But, generally, I'll need:

A week's worth of clothes. (Include at least one fancier outfit, just because)
Stuffed Animals
Laptop and Charger
Headphones
MP3 Player
Meds
Notebook/pens/pencils
Paper? (I have no idea what the printing and such situation is, will have to check the packet again)
Headset
Muffins (Yes, muffins)
Instructors' Books
Sheets/blankets/pillow
Towel
PSP (I'm sure I'll have not time for it)
Idea Notebook
Toiletries (Toothbrush/paste, brush, bodywash, shampoo, facewash)
'Questions' book (dumb, but amusing, to me at least)
Phone
Wallet
Fan? Maybe... I don't usually like fans. In fact, I kind of hate them.


That's all I can think of just now. Maybe more will come to me over time. But, like I said, I can just have Sean drive down anything I'm missing, or pick it up in the U District.

One Month

It's the 22nd of March. Move in is in exactly one month. A month is such a reasonable, understandable section of time. I can break it down into segments, know what's going to be happening, week by week, day by day. Sunday, I get my hair done. Next week, I meet with my local critique group. The first two weeks of June is for moving at work. The third week of June is for panic. And then it's over. That's it. Four more days being a floater at work. Five more days doing mail. Fifteen days of listing. Four precious, fragile Sundays to drink Sean in as best I can. Four Saturday night dinners.

And then...

And then I don't know. I'm in the neutral zone right now. Neither excited nor scared. Clarion feels mythical, more of an idea than something that will actually happen. This is pretty common for me. To take something big and hide it from myself, so that I can still function as a human.

In exciting news, I just finished 'In Another Life' a story I'm at least hesitantly optimistic about. We'll see how it does in critique, but I think I finally got it on paper in a way that works. The story idea has been bugging me for awhile, so I'm pleased. And I'm proving to myself that I can complete stories on a more regular basis. Short fiction is still not my go to form, so I'm trying to get into the mindset.

Rules

I just finished Ellen Kushner's Swordspoint for the second time. I read it years ago and enjoyed it at the time.   A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a short story by Kushner and loved it. I spent a week hunting for Swordspoint in every bookstore in Seattle and finally had to give in and order it off the internet. Some books fall flat on a second reading. Not this one. This time, I didn't enjoy the book. I loved it.

I do wonder why that happens, why sometimes what seems merely good on a first reading shines the second time. Maybe it's just changing taste. Maybe it's reading as a writer and recognizing the talent.

Since finishing, I've been thinking about rules, and styles, and what they mean to me.

Generally, I write in close third for my longer fiction and first for my shorter pieces. I did write, and publish, a piece written in second, but that was an experiment that just happened to work. I'm proud of it, but I wouldn't say it's something I plan on repeating.

I never write in omniscient. If you had asked me before I settled into Swordspoint, I would have said I didn't like omniscient. I might even have described it as old-fashioned. I certainly would have said that current trends favored first-person in the YA market and close third in most speculative fiction.

But you know what? I'm an idiot. I'm an inexperienced, insecure writer who pays too much attention to the 'rules' more experienced writers talk about. I think about keeping my prose transparent even though some of my favorite prose is lush and visible. I worry about the fact that my most recent story is first-person present tense because I've been told that's amateur  Nevermind the fact that there are some short stories in the same style that I've loved. And I avoid omniscient.

Of course, maybe I'm just scared of it. Doing it right is hard. Doing it wrong is easy. But maybe I need to be willing to do more wrong things. The time to take chances is now.

Resigned to Bravery

Dear future self (and I've decided that, as this blog is for my use, I'll start treating it that way),

There are now fewer days to Clarion than the actual event of Clarion. I've been thinking of the lyrics of a Dar Williams song lately. The song is Spring Street, you know the one. And near the end of the song, she sings:

But I'll push myself up through the dirt
And shake my petals free
I'm resolved to being born
And so resigned to bravery

That's how I'm feeling now. I've applied. I've been chosen. I've decided to do this. And because I've decided, I have to be brave. I can't do this halfway. I can't hide, I can't be shy. I'm going to do it right. And I am excited. I know I talk a lot about fear in this blog, but I am so very excited. I wouldn't be counting down if I wasn't.

Today, my mind isn't so much on fear. It's on hope, and chance, and dreams. Right now, the Moth is auctioning off a chance to have tea with Neil Gaiman. It's something that's been auctioned off before and every time I see it, the part of me that I usually try to shut down, the part of me that wants wakes up. Because I do admire him, as a writer and as a person. But I've known, every year, that I simply can't afford to donate a few thousand dollars to the Moth, as much as I love what they do. I've known, deep down, that I'd never get a chance to talk to Neil, to thank him for Smoke and Mirrors, the book that helped me start to see myself as a writer instead of as someone who writes.

But now, I'll get to learn from him for a week. From him, from the brilliant Elizabeth Hand, the one-of-a-kind Samuel R. Delany, and the irreplaceable Ellen Datlow. I'll study the art of beautiful prose under Margo Lanagan, and struggle to face the darker elements of the craft with Joe Hill.

And then there's my collection of skilled, accomplished, and hilarious classmates.

My excitement shines right through the terror.

Admitting to Fear

Crises of confidence are normal, right?

Well, anyway, they're normal for me. Today is one of those days where I'm terrified. It's not merely that I'm afraid I might be the worst in the class. I think I could actually be okay with that. After all, if that's the case, I'll have plenty of space to grow.

But I am afraid that if I'm not at the level of the rest of the class, they might like me less. It's a silly thought, obviously. My friendships aren't based on how good at writing a given person is. But the thought is nagging at me today. What if I'm not good and they don't like me for it.

That, and I'm thinking about the expectations again. A story a week. I know it's possible, that, without the distractions of work and life, it's doable. But it still seems so overwhelming. Until today, I wasn't worried about running out of ideas. I've got a notebook full of them, just snippets I want to explore. But today, as I struggle to figure out how to end my current short story, I'm worried. If I can't end this, how can I hope to even start anything else.

What if I sit down and nothing comes?

They're boring, normal fears. I'm sure I'll get over them. But I want them down. I want to be able to look at this blog next year and be proud of having proven myself wrong.

I'm not as stressed as I sound, future self. I'm actually in an excellent mood as I write this. I had an amazing day, and I'm looking forward to the weeks ahead. But I do worry. Sean would say it's not productive and he'd be right. But I do it anyway.