Things I'm Doing Instead of Writing

Playing so many rounds of Pepper Panic that the Royal Games admins should probably start checking on me.

Replacing imagination with procrastination in this song from Disney World.

Thinking about my coworker who will full-on vogue at the slightest provocation and how watching him is literally my favorite thing in the world.

Catching up on my correspondence, which I also put off for an unreasonable amount of time.

Debating what I should read for so long that I end up reading nothing.

Compulsively checking my e-mail even though I only ever get messages from retailers.

Scrolling through Facebook until there is nothing left for me to see.

***

Neglecting to compose even the simplest blog posts is becoming second nature to me. I hope that I can be better this year and get back on some kind of schedule, even if it's just once a month. That way, I'm still putting my work into the world even when no one else wants to publish my writing. Because honestly, if I don't keep going, I might die.

-Cate-

New Year, New Playlist: 2019

I had a tradition on my first blog, What We Covet, of starting each new year off with a playlist of music I intend to take with me throughout the year. As with the previous lists, the songs were culled from my current collection. Most aren't recent, but they certainly sound good to me, and that's really the goal of any playlist I ever make. They come to you in no particular order. I hope you'll check them out, if you're not already familiar with them. Enjoy!

***

 

There's only one song this year, y'all, and it feels appropriate to share it the day that our new Congress is sworn in: "Meltdown."

 

Just listen to the lyrics. They'll tell you how I feel.

 

-Cate-

Dystopias R Us?

Earlier this year, I claimed to have reread my all-time favorite, Fahrenheit 451. But the fact is, I did no such thing.

Let me be clear: I began my reread, and I got halfway through the book. The reason I posted about finishing that reread is because I thought for sure that I would be done with it by the time the post went live. The reason I didn't finish my reread--and still have not, all these months later--is slightly more complicated.

The thing is, even my beloved book is tainted at the moment. We're living in a world where our President is allowed to get away with almost anything, from arbitrarily revoking press passes to refusing to hold a so-called ally accountable for a despicable murder, from blaming California for its own deadly fires to skipping out on ceremonies commemorating World War I. I could go on, but I think I don't need to, as you've all lived through the same issues.

America, I'm sad to say, feels like it's turning into a dystopia. At the very least, it's become a sideshow laughingstock. And when you see this sort of tarnishing firsthand, it's so tough to continue reading about it on the page; fiction becomes too factual to stomach.

I realize this is a bleak outlook, and I hope to feel better about the world soon. In order for that to happen, though, we have to pull together as a country and demand better of our leaders. A bit of that did happen earlier this month, when voters (including myself) raised their voices at the polls and elected many new Representatives, governors, and other officials to displace those currently in power. If this new group of lawmakers can band together and effect some positive change, I'll be glad. 

In the meantime, I continue to resist, and I encourage you to do the same.

-Cate-

Good Things for Autumn

There is something about fall that I love. The leaves changing color, the cool rain, the earlier nightfall, and the fashion choices are all excellent. It's a cozy time for me, more comfortable than summer and winter, more fun than spring. Plus, it's Halloween season, which makes me so happy.

Like Martha Stewart before me, I wanted to share a few thinks I think are great for fall. This is, of course, a completely subjective list, but I hope it's one that inspires you!

1) Loaf Cakes

To match the denser feeling that comes with fall, why not whip up a loaf cake? They come in all sorts of flavors, including those seasonal classics, apple and pumpkin. You can even match the shape of the loaf to the season if you so desire!

2) Walking Trails

I'm not the biggest fan of being outside, but it's difficult to pass up the chance to step on some crunchy leaves and experience the turning of the colors. The best way to do this, in my opinion, is to either take a drive down a tree-lined corridor or get yourself to a walking trail in a local park. Your state's Department of Natural Resources can give you great ideas about where to do this.

3) Tiffany & Co. Perfume

Recently, I decided it was time to find a new fall fragrance. You can always go with the typical classics from Bath and Body Works--something like Warm Vanilla Sugar is good, and they have an ever-changing range of seasonal scents. Or, if you're looking for something more sophisticated, as I was, you can try this perfume, with patchouli and musk at its base, to give you that warm feeling.

4) Fahrenheit 451

Y'all should have seen this one coming. There is no book that says FALL to me like Fahrenheit. This is the perfect season to read (or, in my case, reread) Bradbury's classic.

What would you add to your own list of  fall essentials? And how do you feel about the debate about fall versus autumn?

Whichever side you come down on, I hope you have an excellent season!

-Cate-

Images via here and here.

Why I Didn't Report

This post is for LB, who did report.

I've never been raped, for which I'm grateful.* But I have been sexually harassed on several occasions, been made uncomfortable by male attention (in a way unconnected to my anxiety), and thrice been touched against my will, all by different people, and in each instance as an adult.** So now I'm here to list the reasons why I didn't report.

1) Because feeling squeamish during an encounter isn't enough of a reason to make a claim against someone.

2) Because I was conditioned by society to believe that I should be flattered by the attention.

3) Because I brushed it off as a symptom of his drunkenness. 

4) Because part of me wanted it, and I thought that made the whole thing okay.

5) Because I was afraid of the consequences of saying no.

6) Because he was sensitive and vulnerable and I didn't want to make it worse for him.

None of these people are in my life anymore, although only by circumstance in all but the last case. Him, I had to cut out because of his terrible behavior (on this front and others). And, in all but the last two cases, I have forgiven the transgression.***

Because it's tough, navigating these situations. I can't know how many of them were one-off incidents borne of alcohol or a moment of bad judgment, and that makes it seem easier to just move past an awkward, uncomfortable, or inappropriate moment. Also, when the incident is minor, moving past it feels like a better choice than making a fuss. And when you have to see some of these people every day of your life, learning to live with the situation makes survival more possible.

However. 

Having said all that, I do think that speaking up and defending yourself is important. But having said THAT, I completely understand why some--maybe most--survivors of harassment or assault choose to bury the pain, embarrassment, and shame.

I believe Dr. Ford. I believe all of my friends who have made the decision not to report. I believe the women (and men) who have reported and been brushed aside, ignored, and scapegoated. Because I've been there, too.

-Cate-

* The fact that I feel I have to express my gratitude for not having my bodily autonomy violated too badly is another discussion for another time.

** I'm so lucky not to have experienced any of this as a child. Such a sin against minors is literally the most disgusting thing I can imagine.

*** Whether I should or not.

Summer Book Report 2018

Y'all. It's been seven months since I blogged, so #failcatefail. But that's not even the worst part: I barely have a post to write here at all.

This wasn't the greatest summer for my reading life. I've been a slacker all year, in fact. Since January, I've only read 20 new-to-me books, although to be fair to myself, I also reread the entire Harry Potter series in January, which is an accomplishment in itself. And I did buy a few (read: 20 or more) volumes to read in the future! These are the stores I've been to recently to accomplish such a feat.

- In September, I returned to McLean & Eakin in Petoskey, MI. This is one of my favorite bookstores, which is saying something, as I love most bookstores I visit.

- Also in September, I went to Between the Covers in Harbor Springs, MI. This was my first time at that store. It's small but has a good selection and reminded me a lot of Lorelei Books in Vicksburg, MS.

Sadly, I have yet to go to any other stores, except for my local Barnes & Noble (I know, okay?). However, I should have the opportunity in October to go to both Brilliant Books in Traverse City, MI, which I already know, and Horizon Books, also in TC, which I've never shopped at before. If I have the time, I'll also stop at Landmark Books in TC.

In other bookstore news: for those of you who don't know, the Lansing branch of Schuler Books has closed; however, their Okemos and Grand Rapids locations are still open for business!

In other bookish news, I've suspended my Book of the Month Club subscription, although I do highly recommend the service. Their curation and price point are spot-on; I just found myself more interested in other books I found elsewhere, but don't be surprised if I tell you in the future that I've reactivated my account.

I'm sorry my first post back isn't more exciting than this one, but I hope you find it informative and discover your new favorite bookstore this way!

-Cate-

Food Food Food: The Pumpkin Queen?

If you were suffering under the delusion that my October soufflail would deter me from revisiting that pumpkin cookbook of my mother's, you were wrong. So it happens that the second Food Food Food post starts much like the first: with a can of pumpkin guts.

Look, it's not that I didn't want to move on to different things. I did. But that stupid orange book was taunting me, okay? I couldn't let it defeat me. So I drove to the grocery store in my yoga pants and marched myself around until I found the ingredients for something called a Pumpkin Cream Cheese Pie with Sour Cream Topping.

Let me be clear: this was not a cheesecake. It was closer to the texture of a chocolate silk pie, or maybe a cheesecake if cheesecake came in a semi-wet chiffon variety. I should also tell you now that the recipe called for no pumpkin pie-type spices, only grated lemon peel and vanilla. That felt wrong to me, so I ditched the lemon and substituted ginger and nutmeg (which items we already had at home). 

I felt that I had the advantage this time. There were few ingredients, and everything was simple (i.e., no stiffly beaten anything this time). The sour cream topping was so easy to make that I wasn't sure what to do with the extra time I had, other than taste-test it; it's pretty much my new favorite thing.

That required only sugar, sour cream (I used lite), and a touch of vanilla. I mixed it in a cereal bowl with a fork. It would have taken someone with far fewer skills than I have to mess it up, I think. But I also had a secret weapon: real Mexican vanilla.

I'm not sure we've ever had a brand of vanilla other than Danncy in our house. Mom picks it up in Tijuana when she gets the chance, and a single bottle lasts approximately one million years. The rich brown liquid smells and tastes incredible and smooth, and I highly recommend it.

The pie itself was a cinch, in part because I used a store-bought graham cracker crust. Aside from that, it came together quickly and baked up in about 45 minutes. Before I added the topping, it was a light beige-orange, and it smelled like fall.

Because the crust was threatening to burn, I had to take the pie out of the oven before the topping fully set up, so it was less meringue-like than I suspect it should have been, but it still tasted good. The sour cream added just the right acidic notes to the dessert, and the texture of the pie still felt like a classic pumpkin pie, but overall it was lighter than that more traditional option. 

Although I did feel that the pie itself was a bit on the bland side, I'm happy to report that neither of my parents rejected the endeavor this time (I still can't blame my mom for not wanting to consume the first experiment).

My hope is that I'll continue to focus on seasonal fare, although perhaps in the future my efforts will line up better with my blogging schedule so I'm not consistently behind the times with my posts. If anyone has suggestions or requests, let me know, as I have yet to decide what I'll make next!

-Cate-

PS For copyright purposes, I won't be sharing the exact recipe here, but if you're interested, e-mail me at CateIsMilesAway@gmail.com for more information.

Adventures in Rejection: Self-Rejection

Hey, it's Valentine's Day, so why not talk about rejection for a minute? But this time, it's different, because it's all about you and something you should know.

It's okay to reject your own work.

Literally everyone who has ever taken a creative writing class has heard that phrase, "Kill your darlings." Usually it's in reference to a line or two that you really love but which don't quite work in the poem or story you're writing, or sometimes it's about characters who don't belong. But sometimes we have to take that saying to the next level.

Kill entire manuscripts if you have to. Don't think of it as abandonment or murder. There are pieces we've created that are either too amateur or too personal to share with the world, and no one is going to stop you from burning those pages. Or don't burn them. Stomp on them. Shred them. Vent your frustration and scribble all over them. Whatever it takes.

Although we as writers don't necessarily always know when something is working without someone else's input, there are times when we know in our writerly guts that something is wrong. Maybe you had an idea that turned out to be a dead end. Maybe a particular topic is off-limits after all. These are the times when it's okay to listen to that instinct and pull the plug.

And try not to worry too much when you do so. because there will always, always, always be another idea for you. I promise.

-Cate-

To Be Read

You have one. I have one. Everyone has one.

The dreaded pile of books "to be read."

No, dreaded is the wrong word. It's a pleasure to have that stack available. Because you never know what you might want to read next, right? It could be that historical biography, or perhaps a novella. Maybe it's a celebrity memoir or the hottest YA novel. In other words, the "to be read" pile represents a world of possibilities.

But what do we do when it gets unmanageable? Because it will, eventually, become so large as to seem insurmountable. Perhaps you found a ton of books on sale at a library or flea market. Or maybe you've rediscovered some cache of volumes you put aside years ago. Suddenly, there is nowhere to store all of them. 

Personally, I am a fan of culling: sitting down and being honest with myself about whether or not I will ever get around to a particular title. I've impulse-bought more books than I can count, and it's important to me to reevaluate from time to time, in case I realize that a certain topic isn't really the best thing for me to explore. 

In an ideal world, there would be enough time for us to read everything that interests us. But we live in an imperfect place where time isn't as abundant as we would like--or need--it to be. We do the best we can, including tackling that pile to the best of our ability. 

-Cate-

Diversification

Something I think we don't discuss often enough as writers is diversification. 

In this case, I don't mean diversity of subject matter or characters, although those things are important, as well. Rather, what I mean is that we ourselves must be diverse.

Think about it: in nature, stagnation can--and often does--mean death. If an ecosystem isn't varied enough, it can fail, withering away as its few plants and animals falter under the weight of sustaining something they aren't equipped to handle. Likewise, going hard on one project, all the time, can mean creative death.

It's important to branch out into other areas. Of course, writers should always be reading, and that's one way to diversify: by seeking out genres and topics outside of your own scope. And in order to keep the creative juices flowing, it's helpful to have another artistic endeavor. For me, it's photography (I'm a big fan of Instagram). When I don't feel able to write, or when I need a break from it, I might snap a few pictures and express myself that way. Other options are music, painting, or even crafting (my crafts of choice are usually crochet and scrapbooking). 

Or maybe you have a more scientific hobby. Vladimir Nabokov was into collecting butterflies. Flannery O'Connor raised peacocks. Sylvia Plath kept bees for a time. Hell, even the more run-of-the-mill things out there, like cooking or bowling, make great side pursuits.

The point is, having something to do outside your writing time makes you a more well-rounded person, which in turn makes you a better artist. Sitting at your desk all the time can be crazy-making and lead to myopia. And no one likes a writer who never introduces a new subject or element to his or her writing, right?

-Cate-

Turning the Lazy Susan

All right, let's talk about something for a second: this horrendous phenomenon of retelling stories from another character's perspective.

When I say this, I don't mean the Wickeds and Grendels of the world, those being mainly original works that expand upon their source material. What I'm referring to, rather, is something along the lines of E.L. James' Grey or its forerunner, Stephenie Meyer's never-finished Midnight Sun.

Not familiar with either of those titles? Consider yourself lucky. I will admit, right here and now, that I read all four of the main Twilight books as well as Midnight Sun, which is available via Meyer's website. I kept waiting for them to get better, or for something truly intriguing to happen; neither of those things came to pass. By the time I got to Midnight Sun, I was no longer hopeful, but like a knight who has undertaken an impossible mission in the name of his king, I felt I was duty-bound to take one last stab at giving Meyer a chance. That, I don't mind telling you, was a mistake.

It turns out that retelling Twilight from Edward's perspective was a terrible move because it made him seem even more irredeemably creepy, even more like an unrehabilitated stalker. And, frankly, it was a waste of time.

Because Meyer had already told this story. Revisiting it with another character as the narrator wasn't groundbreaking, and it certainly wasn't an improvement upon the original. Rather, it was an exercise in laziness. This is the kind of project you undertake when you're working on your first or second draft, playing around with voice and point of view. It's not the sort of thing you do once a project has been completed. To me, that says you're out of other ideas and can't pull yourself away from the thing that made your name.

Since Midnight Sun didn't make it to book form, though, it doesn't seem as brazen as Grey, which looks from where I'm standing like a pure money-grab. Because Grey is nothing more than a retelling of Fifty Shades of Grey from Christian's perspective. (No. I have not read any of the Fifty Shades books.) EL James, rather than moving on to new writing projects, has simply retooled her "original" trilogy; I say "original" because it started out as Twilight fanfiction. And now she's selling it, milking yet more profits from her cash cow, which is a disservice to fans of her writing as well as the craft of writing itself.

Of course, you can make the argument that nothing is ever really new and all that. But in these cases, there is literally nothing new. We owe it to ourselves as writers and readers not to support such endeavors, which lead to stagnation among consumers and our output. Instead, we should be exploring entirely new territory and expanding our horizons by seeking out more original works.

Don't let this become a full-blown trend in the publishing industry. We all deserve better.

-Cate-

On Rereading

If you're familiar with this blog, you've seen my reading list section, which names every book I've read since 2011. I've kept this record more for my own edification than anything, but I feel it can also serve as a jumping-off point for anyone searching for a tome to consume or interested in what a writer actually takes in (short answer: everything).

But my list took a nosedive in 2017. The number of books I read last year was considerably lower than it had been in the past--fewer than my usual goal of one book per week. On the one hand, it is true that I slacked off, partly due to changing circumstances but also thanks to a newfound inability to concentrate on anything for very long (thank you, depression, for making it difficult for me to focus). On the other hand, I also decided to take time in the final quarter of the year to re-read five books that mean something to me.

It started with Steve Almond, whose (Not That You Asked): Rants, Exploits, and Obsessions brightened my grad school days and which I wanted to revisit for its instructive wit and keen observation. His meditation on Kurt Vonnegut triggered in me a need to spend time with favorite novels of my own. So I went on to Robert Coover's Briar Rose, still a thrilling novella to behold some ten years after I first encountered it. The suffering lovers at the center of Coover's tale, of course, made me think of Thomas Hardy's exquisitely painful plots, so The Return of the Native called out to me. 

It was also October, though, and with Halloween upon the doorstep, I put Hardy on hold to tackle House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski's intricate tale of fractured humans and the things that haunt them. After that, it was back to Hardy, and then of course I had to round out the season with Fahrenheit 451, my long-standing favorite.

I could have gone on, poring over other novels that have influenced me along the way. In fact, I have no doubt I could make an entire career of living inside fictional worlds I've already encountered. More than likely, I will halt my new-to-me progress again this year to re-read more old loves.

Because it only feels right. In spite of the march of progress and the never-ending supply of new material (as well as my bad habit of going on book-buying binges), I feel I owe it to myself--and the novels, in a way--to look back. After all, what is the point of saying something like, "Oh, yes: The Bell Jar had a profound effect on my writing" if the details of that book are getting hazy and I can no longer cite specific moments that set me on fire? And anyway, re-reading gives you that same feeling you get when you go home for the holidays: relief, comfort, and anticipation of the good things ahead. (Side note: if this isn't how you feel about going home for the holidays, you have my sympathies, and also my permission to insert your own analogy here.)

As for what I re-read this time around, I can say the following:

- I relate to the characters in The Return of the Native better now than I did when I was 17, which made this a richer reading experience for me.

- Although House of Leaves didn't scare me this time (it terrified me as a 16-year-old), it still caught my attention and left me wanting the next page.

- Steve Almond is bae just as much today as he was when I first saw him in Cambridge, MA in 2011.

- Coover's work is every bit as magical as I remember.

- Fahrenheit still feels like my forever book, and I hope that never changes.

And I'm curious to know: what books do you like to re-read? Tell me in the comments. 

-Cate-

New Year, New(ish) Project: Food Food Food

Back in the day, when I was working on my first blog, What We Covet (RIP), I decided to branch out into food blogging with a venture called Food We Covet (double RIP). This endeavor was short-lived, due to several factors, including an unfortunate phobia of mine (triple RIP), but it came in handy when I took a course about food writing in grad school. One friend in particular--I'm not naming names, BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE--has made it known that she desires the return of Food We Covet.

While I can't (read: won't) make that happen, I am able to start a new feature here, starting today with a story about a disaster that occurred in October.

Like many mothers, mine has a stockpile of old cookbooks, though some of hers are hidden away in the basement. So while I was waiting for my laundry to finish up one day, I started perusing the titles when I found a slim little volume of pumpkin recipes; I later learned that she didn't even realize she had it, which is why it had been tucked away so long (the receipt inside indicated she purchased it circa 1993). 

As it was Halloween month, I was pretty pumped (no pun intended, or maybe a little), and I decided to dive right in. Obviously I chose the toughest thing possible: a pumpkin soufflé. Soon enough, though, I asked myself the relevant question: WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING.

Up until I got to the butter, things actually went pretty well. Canned pumpkin wasn't ideal, perhaps, but it was a nice way to save time. The ground ginger and nutmeg scents burst through my nose and immediately put me in the holiday mood. Even grating orange zest without a grater proved possible, if annoying (I used the ever-so-delicately serrated part of a table knife for this step, and my upper arms got a nice workout). 

But then the butter wasn't as soft as I thought it was, so it wouldn't blend with the other ingredients, and I wound up with tiny shards of butter in the batter, visible even without my glasses. This is the part where I almost cried, but I hadn't gotten to the eggs yet, so I had to pull myself together in order to separate the eggs in precisely the manner you're told not to separate them, which is to say by pouring the albumen and yolk back and forth from one half of the shell to the other. This is, naturally, the way I wound up with yolks in the white and vice versa. But hey--nobody's perfect.

It turns out, though, that the separation itself wasn't the problem. Rather, it was the fact that no one has ever shown me how to "stiffly beat" egg whites, or more precisely the fact that it is difficult to do this by hand. The short version of this story is that they were not stiffly beaten, although I think it's fair to say they were vigorously swirled around. I'm 99 percent certain this is what went wrong with the recipe.

I say that because the soufflé was well on the way to rising. When I cut into it, the texture was too dense, too wet, and I knew it hadn't gone my way, but it was also spongy, and I could see that the outside walls of it had started to fluff up.

Because the batter hadn't fully set, the whole thing fell apart as I tried to serve it up to my parents. Mom, understandably, abstained after her first bite, and I agreed that it was wrong--the flavors were off because the texture was bad, and it felt more like eating mangled pumpkin stew than anything. Dad happened to enjoy it, so I bequeathed the rest of the entire dish to him.

At any rate, it was nice to be back in the kitchen after not really setting foot in one for awhile, at least with any intention behind it. And while I soufflailed--as I told my friends--it was worth the effort to learn a lesson about how not to do a thing. Maybe I'll never attempt another soufflé, though.

-Cate-

PS For copyright purposes, I won't be sharing the exact recipe here, but if you're interested, e-mail me at CateIsMilesAway@gmail.com for more information.

New Year, New Playlist: 2018

I had a tradition on my first blog, What We Covet, of starting each new year off with a playlist of music I intend to take with me throughout the year. As with the previous lists, the songs were culled from my current collection. Most aren't recent, but they certainly sound good to me, and that's really the goal of any playlist I ever make. They come to you in no particular order. I hope you'll check them out, if you're not already familiar with them. Enjoy!

***

2017 was shitty, y'all. I mean really, truly awful. In the interest of never having another year like that, let us proceed with fun, happy music!

1) "Barbara Ann," The Beach Boys

While I fully recognize that this song was specifically engineered to find the right balance between talent and fun, I don't care: it makes me really happy that it sounds like a jam session at some beach party, with the background noise and ashtray improvisation and everything else. Listen to it and you'll know why people think Brian Wilson is a genius.

2) "Just Dance," Lady Gaga

I'm gonna go ahead and tell you right now that I have scream-sung these lyrics into a phone in the past. Was I under the influence? I decline to say. Was it a good night? It certainly was.

3) "Happy," Pharrell Williams

This song is literally called "Happy." No way was I going to leave it off the list.

4) "Can't Stop the Feeling," Justin Timberlake

Is this song cheesy? I honestly can't decide. But even if it is, it makes me want to dance, and I think it's pretty uplifting, as well.

5) "The Way You Make Me Feel," Michael Jackson

Justin Timberlake's musical godfather Michael Jackson was, in my opinion, at his very best when he was protesting, such as in "They Don't Really Care About Us" or "Scream." But neither of those songs is cheerful at all. You know which of his tracks makes me smile the most? This one.

6) "Holiday," Madonna

Speaking of superstars from the '80s, here's Madonna imploring us all to take "some time to celebrate." With the new year here, why not take her advice?

7) "For Once In My Life," Stevie Wonder

Is it just me, or does Stevie Wonder always sound a little bit elated, even when he's singing sad-ish songs? I suppose the question is moot, as he's singing a genuinely happy song here.

8) "Cheap Thrills," Sia

There's something great about songs that declare, "I need you and that's it," as long as they don't have a creepy tinge to them. Sia only wants to be on the dance floor; it's her happy place. Let the lady hit her groove.

9) "Your Love Is My Drug," Kesha

Let me first say that I am so glad Kesha is back after all the upheaval and drama she experienced for a few years there. It's not that I miss glitter-bomb Kesha; it's more that I look forward to hearing her sound as excited about life as she does on this track.

10) "Like a Feather," Nikka Costa

It is absolutely criminal that Nikka Costa is not more famous than she is. This song alone should have done it: an anthem about letting go and relaxing for once--something I need to learn to do.

-Cate-

Holiday Hiatus

Y'all, I am beat.

I'm not just tired in my body. I'm tired in my soul. And I want to take a break, go into hibernation like the animals do. Instead, the most I can manage is taking a holiday hiatus from this blog, which I hardly work on at all in the first place.

Here's hoping 2018 will be better, because I know I'm not the only one who needs to hit the reset button. 

-Cate-

On Adulthood

You remember when you were a kid and being an adult seemed so legit? You would get to vote and drive a car and use credit cards, and you wouldn't have a curfew because you'd be in charge of your own damn self. Your mom wouldn't pick out your clothes anymore, you could buy the food you wanted and none of the healthy stuff your parents thrust upon you, and you could finally--finally--live the life you thought you'd have (based on the happy endings of the films you loved).

Well, children, I am *cough*sputter*cough* years old, and I am here to tell you what you have undoubtedly gleaned for yourself: being an adult is bullshit.

I'm not just saying this because I'm in a bad place right now, although that is certainly a contributing factor. I'm also saying it because I've seen it reflected in the faces of friends and colleagues lately. But more importantly, I'm saying it because sometimes life as an adult sucks because you yourself suck.

This isn't my way of accusing anyone else of being lame or terrible. It's actually me acknowledging how awful I am myself, or at least how heinous I can be at times. Last week, when I wrote a post about youth being awesome, it was partly because I truly feel that way, and partly because I was hoping to find a way back to that good, boundless spirit young people often have. 

This past summer was foul, and it bled over into autumn, in no small measure because I've made two huge mistakes this year that altered the course of things and contributed to a deepening of my own depression. The first mistake--job related--is something I may be able to fix in the long run, if I can manage to recapture the drive I had in simpler, younger times.

The second mistake, a personal one--well, it looks like I won't be able to rectify the situation, which is at least 50 percent my fault and sent me into a spiral of self-doubt, anxiety, and pseudo-regret (I say pseudo because I don't actually regret this thing, just the way it turned out). Maybe someday I'll be able to claw myself out of that hole, but I can't count on that, because adults are stubborn and our brains aren't as easily rewired as they were when we were young, and it appears that no amount of passion, belief, or longing can change this.

Because of my brain chemistry, I've never been a naturally optimistic person, as I'm sure you can all tell from reading this. But I said it last week and I'll say it again: it would be great if we could learn something about having an outlook for a more hopeful future from our young people, because adults as a group could use an injection of that from time to time, so we don't end up constantly despairing about our lives.

-Cate-

On Youth

People often have trouble believing that I am *cough*sputter*cough* years old. It turns out that the single genetic gift my parents bestowed upon me (sorry, but it's true) is a young-looking face. Sometimes this works in my favor, such as when I was employed by a high school and needed to be able to connect with teenage students. Other times, it's a burden; people decline to take me seriously because I must have less experience or education.

Speaking as someone who is old enough to have finished grad school in 2012(!), though, I assure you that I've been through some shit (both personally and professionally), and the government has been trusting me to drive, consume alcohol, and vote for some time now. I've suffered through my quarter-life crisis, and my childhood pets are long gone. And I've reached an age that even adults consider to be adult-like.

But on the other hand, let's not discount youth! Young people--let's say 16-26--often have insights that full-blown adults do not, simply because adults have too much baggage and experience behind them to look at certain events or problems with fresh eyes. They are also full of energy, and some of them still have that boundless capacity for love and friendship that the rest of us have lost. Oftentimes, I've found that the creativity of young people far exceeds that of adults, because they are still at a time in life when others actively encourage their unusual points of view or their creative bents. 

I think youth is a good thing, and young people are an asset to our society. Let's not give them such short shrift. After all, as Whitney said, the children are our future.

-Cate-

Process, or, Cate Hates Craft Books

Thanks to some excellent teamwork between Dunes Review, the official publication of Michigan Writers, and Traverse City's Brilliant Books, the unofficial coolest bookstore around, I was recently able to participate in both an in-store reading and an online interview as the author of a poem--"Rn (86)"--featured in the most recent issue of Dunes. Caitlin Marsh, the social media manager at Brilliant Books, gave me the option of answering some or all of the questions she posed, and I exercised my right (write?) to ignore a few of them, because I didn't think I had good answers. They were all about the writing and manuscript-sharing parts of being a writer.

Turns out I hate to talk about process, because it's boring. Not unimportant, mind you: mundane, uneventful. This is probably why I rarely made it to the end of any craft book ever assigned to me (five years out of grad school, now I can say things like this with impunity). Except for John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist. Fuck that book, which I stopped reading on its own (lack of) merit.

This is undoubtedly coming across as a little hypocritical of me, seeing as how much of my blog content stems from me trying to give advice about how to write. But I'm doing it in a way that makes sense to me: a little at a time, one topic at a time, not unlike the way Writer's Digest and other periodicals address craft. Too much, and it feels either preachy or stifling.

But I recognize two things here: first, that process IS important to all of us who write, and we can't ignore it. Second, that writers are lucky to have people who can--and are willing to--talk about it so we can deepen our understanding of the writing life. Many thanks to those people (yes, even John Gardner). You do important work, even if some of us are stubborn about addressing it.

-Cate-

Season's Greetings from Retail Land

Throughout my working life, both in retail and academia, I've endured any number of indignities: long hours, truncated lunch breaks, dirty looks, and the like. About two months into my most recent retail experience, however, I was on the wrong end of the worst insult I've ever received on the job.

Let me preface the insult itself by saying that I work in the beauty industry, and of course my employer has a makeup dress code, so I put a full face on every time I'm scheduled. Also, if you've ever met me, you already know the next part: I suffer from what the kids call Resting Bitch Face, and it's genetic; both of my parents look perma-stern. I've accepted this part of myself and moved on with my life. Some people, however, apparently have not.

This terrible customer, for example.

After insulting my brand, holding up my line, threatening me with a mention of my manager, and then berating me for not doing something I was explicitly trained not to do, one disgruntled customer decided that I was smirking at her, and the conversation took a turn for the even worse.

Cate: That's just the way my face looks.

Customer: Well, it's a terrible face for selling beauty.

Yes, the woman actually said this to me. But I have to be honest with you here. The insult itself is not what I found outrageous in this situation. Rather, it was her sense of entitlement. 

I'm not even going to expand on this, except for adding a single comment: DO NOT BE THAT CUSTOMER. Retail workers deserve better than that, and you were almost certainly not raised to be such a piece of trash, especially during the upcoming holiday season.

Please and thank you, from all of us to you.

-Cate-

From Whence You Came

My father recently asked me a question that I have sometimes mulled over privately, but which I never expected to have to answer for realsies, given my level of absolute non-fame: do you consider yourself a Southern writer?

First, some background. Some of you know that while I was born in North Carolina, I was raised in Michigan, yet I have also spent the bulk of my adult life living and working primarily in the South (specifically, North Carolina and Louisiana). As a result, I've often--sometimes inadvertently--been immersed in the world of Southern literature or Southern writers. However, I've also spent a great deal of time around New England (particularly Boston) writers because of my grad school experiences.

Also, there is some debate about what constitutes Southern literature, because there is much debate about what actually constitutes the South. The Line isn't always the most effective way of answering this, because there are many out there who will swear to you that Kentucky, Virginia, and even North Carolina aren't really Southern states. Then there is the issue of Maryland, which is tricky because it is now Northern in character but historically was considered Southern.

So how do we categorize someone like Edgar Allan Poe? Personally, I don't consider him to be a Southern writer, but I suspect that he would categorize himself that way, given the opportunity. Meanwhile, I absolutely consider Mark Twain to be a Southern writer, although he spent most of his life in Missouri, Connecticut, and various Northern cities (with stops in California).

As far as that goes, who do we consider to be American writers? Sylvia Plath provides a good example for this question: undeniably American (born, raised, and partly educated in Massachusetts) and influenced in part by other Boston Writers (such as Robert Lowell and Anne Sexton), yet entrenched in British life (studying and living out the most prolific part of her career in England) and surrounded by English and Irish writers (Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney) while still communing with other expatriates (like WS Merwin). Most people would probably categorize her as American, although there is also a case to be made for her as an English writer.

A similar debate can be had about Gertrude Stein, another famous expat. She was American by birth but dwelled in France for much of her life. If anything, I would think the best designation for her is international, as she spent her time moving in artistic circles populated by people from many countries, including America (Ernest Hemingway), France (Henri Matisse), and Spain (Pablo Picasso), among others.

My basic response about my own situation was, "I don't think anyone has ever accused me of being a Southern writer, and I hope they never do." This has nothing to do with my opinion of Southern literature, which I appreciate and sometimes even love (here's looking at you, Faulkner). Rather, it has to do with my perception of myself as well as my priorities and my style. I would categorize myself as a Michigan writer, and a proud one.

What other people call me is, ultimately, their business, I suppose, but I feel like I would be vocal about this one thing, were I in a position to do so, because I do have strong feelings about it. But on the other hand, it's nice just to be called a writer at all, even if I sometimes have trouble giving myself that designation (in spite of my enormous ego and repeated declarations on this blog). 

-Cate-