Making Mistakes?

By this point, I've had quite a bit of time to think about my life and what I've done with it--the kind of soul-searching that comes with losing your job, apartment, and insurance all at once, or maybe just the kind that comes with living in your childhood bedroom against your will. (But thanks, Mom and Dad, for not turning it into a gym or some such nonsense. I appreciate having a place to crash.)

There's good news and there's bad news. First, the bad. Because I have an anxiety disorder, it's very easy for me to fall into a spiral of shame and despair: what if the things I've done in the past have completely negated my chances for future success why am I such a horrible human who is ever going to accept me now, et cetera and so on.

BUT! There are hours, and sometimes entire days, when I think, "Fuck it. I know what I did, I know why I did it, and I stand by (almost) all of it."

I'm not trying to get all self-righteous here and claim that I'm infallible. Clearly that's a crap notion. Should I have slacked off the way I did sometimes? Absolutely not. Should I have yelled at that table full of undergrads about their racial insensitivity? No; I should have taken a more rational approach.

On the other hand, should I have committed myself to publishing an anthology with my own money when my bosses refused to discuss the project with me? Shit yeah. Four very deserving young women saw their work in print as a result, and I couldn't be happier. And should I have written that letter telling administrators that what they were doing was detrimental to the well-being of our institution? You bet your ass. 

This is the ultimate thing I've concluded: it's okay. I won't say that I'm happy about the way things turned out, because being underemployed sucks. But I can't spend my time thinking that I made mistakes any bigger than anyone else in their 20s. I certainly didn't do anything I regret so much that I want to die or alter my memory Eternal Sunshine-style.

Besides, sometimes boxes of Pop-Tarts magically appear in the kitchen now, and that NEVER happened when I lived alone.

-Cate-

Adventures in Rejection: Cate Hates Her Eyebrows

I am obsessed with my eyebrows.

If this is an exaggeration, it’s only a small one. I’m forever checking to see if I’ve grown a unibrow overnight; those little hairs above the bridge of my nose are such a pain to pull out, and they sprout as if from nowhere at any time they feel ready--which could be the middle of the night or the middle of the day. They’re hair; they have no sense of the spinning of the Earth or the passage of minutes and hours.

To draw an unlikely parallel, this is sometimes how it feels to wait for responses to submissions. I get the same sense of discomfort when no word whatsoever arrives from editors, and then suddenly I am ambushed by a rejection letter while I’m checking my e-mail during my lunch break. Hearing “no” for the thousandth time is like finding a dark, coarse hair smack in between your brows when you freshen your makeup mid-afternoon: it’s embarrassing, discouraging, and frustrating.

Yet we must remain vigilant about sending our work in for consideration. Even if you don’t care that your eyebrows meet in the middle, creating a swarthy bridge above your eyes, you’re going to care if your words never see the light of day. Because we’re writers, and half the point is to share our art with others, whether they have beautiful eyebrows or not.

-Cate-

The Boomerang Girl Playlist

This may or may not turn out to be the year of the listicle for Cate Is Miles Away. I'm on a solid roll already, what with three of them in January and now this piece. But I'd like to think this one serves an actual purpose: spreading the word about my upcoming chapbook, Boomerang Girl. 

As of yet, we haven't started typesetting or designing because the publisher, Tiger's Eye Press, must first edit and release the latest issue of Tiger's Eye Journal, which I personally can't wait to read. But in the interest of looking toward the future, I wanted to share something with you that I made for my cover artist so he could get a feeling for what influences my work.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Boomerang Girl playlist.

1) "The Truth Is in the Dirt," Karen Elson

There are days when I think I could live with listening to nothing but The Ghost Who Walks for the rest of my life. While "Pretty Babies" would fit into this list as well, I chose to include "Dirt" instead for the absolutely epic lines, "Here she comes; it's killing time. / Flames are burning behind her eyes." It's my go-to listen when I really want to be a badass.

2) "Lady Picture Show," Stone Temple Pilots

For many years now, STP has been my favorite band. Not a traditional choice, perhaps, but Scott Weiland's voice and Robert DeLeo's bass make me feel better when I'm down. "Lady Picture Show" fits in pretty well with some of the themes I explore in my poetry, and particularly with the Boomerang Girl pieces.

3) "Let It Will Be," Madonna

"Just watch me burn," she sings. And I want you to watch me, too.

4) "Alright," The Lucy Nation

Who among us has never felt the need to reassure ourselves, saying, "It's going to be all right?" The Lucy Nation has embodied that in this song of self-assertion and strength. Sometimes I wonder if it really is all right now, and this song helps me work through that.

5) "Bite Hard," Franz Ferdinand

I love this song so much that I decided to pull a line or two from it as an epigraph to the chapbook. Feel free to speculate about which section I chose. (The whole thing is quotable from top to bottom, so good luck.)

6) "Hot Knife," Fiona Apple

Apple knows her way around songs about relationships. From her first album to now, she's been exploring the different aspects of love, and I adore how this shows two different approaches to it: on one hand, the girl who's melting, and on the other, the one who's burning.

7) "Soul Love," David Bowie

Even if this is a slightly incomprehensible song, it's so spot-on that it doesn't matter. Bowie's voice and music transcend the sometimes wacky lyrics and makes me feel like he's singing directly to me. (How cool would it be if he was actually doing that, though?)

8) "Original Sin," Elton John

We all grew up listening to--and occasionally loving--Elton John. I'm no exception to this. For me, though, the moment I grew really attached to him was when I first listened to Songs from the West Coast start to finish. "Original Sin," in particular, crept into my brain and set up camp. It's a gorgeous love song that hearkens back to John's earlier work in the best way.

9) "In the Cold, Cold Night," White Stripes

Meg White may not be the greatest singer (or drummer) in the world, but when she does sing, I feel deeply connected to her because of the vulnerability in her voice. On an album full of standout tracks, this one is especially great and important, at least for me.

10) "Gardenia," Mandy Moore

I know people overuse this phrase, but Mandy Moore is--and always has been--criminally underrated. The whole of Wild Hope is a great album that showcases her range of musical interests and helps her shed the teen singer image with which she started. In a perfect world, everyone would know at least this track of hers, which is a little bit haunting and so relatable for women of a certain age.

11) "Simple Things Part 2," DirtyVegas

Who would have thought a Pink Floyd sample could be put to such use in a techno-acoustic hybrid tune? This is one of my all-time favorite songs, and I think that I've referenced it many times in my own work, either consciously or not.

12) "Fast As You," Dwight Yoakam

Dwight Yoakam is incredible, and he--like any good country artist--really gets the intertwined ideas of heartbreak and revenge. In this song, he says everything I'm trying to say in the final poem of Boomerang Girl, which y'all will just have to wait and read someday soon.

-Cate-

All Booked Up

Living with my parents again is, occasionally, a hilarious thing. For example, several months ago, Mom wanted to rearrange their bedroom furniture so she could have easier access to the large window in the room. In the course of this turnaround, she got a little frustrated by stuff (you know--the objects you accumulate over the years). I happened to be present when she delivered a stern warning to Dad: "From this point on, you are only allowed to have one book in the bedroom at a time."

Well, this is more or less the most shocking thing you can say to a person in this house.

Given my current circumstances, two bookcases are in my bedroom, with the majority of my books packed away in cardboard boxes in the basement, which pains me greatly. In an ideal world, I would have a separate room to use as a library; alas. And because I have no night stand, books are just piled up next to the bed. As I write, there are no fewer than four volumes and two magazines that have been partly read.

Surrounding myself with books is one of the things that makes me feel better. Just being near them--their spines declaring titles proudly, their covers all colors imaginable--brings a sense of order to my life. I figure that as long as I don't veer into hoarder territory and make a book maze through which I must struggle in order to sleep, I'm in decent shape.

When I asked Mom about the one book edict before I wrote this post, she sighed and said that neither she nor Dad could stick to it. Apparently I'm not the only one in this house who enjoys the proximity.

-Cate-

Meeting with Gods

Hey, remember that time I mentioned how Richard Blanco hated my outfit? It was really traumatic, guys. But the point is that I got to meet Richard Motherfucking Blanco. 

I was considerably lucky for many years. Due to some incredible work on the part of professors and administrators, excellent writers regularly showed up on campus at my undergraduate alma mater, and in grad school, the stakes were even higher. Right before commencement began for the summer 2012 MFA graduates, Nikky Finney turned to three of us and asked if we were nervous. Steve Almond once laughed at me for essentially revealing to two hundred people that I'd had a bad day in workshop during a q-and-a session. David Rakoff, may he rest in peace, was gracious enough not to guffaw when I asked him about the connection between comedy and pain.

I don't say any of this to brag, as in, "HEY, LOOK AT ALL THESE COOL PEOPLE WITH WHOM I RUBBED ELBOWS, HOWEVER BRIEFLY." I say it because I realize how invaluable these experiences were.

If you are ever able, go to readings and book signings. Ask questions of the authors, should time allow. You will learn so. freaking. much from them, even if you don't speak to them directly. Sometimes just watching an author read can teach you a great deal--for example, how best to present your work in public, or perhaps how to connect better with your audience.

And here's a secret: about 97 percent of the authors I've met are the nicest people in the world, so you don't have to be afraid of approaching them. The other 3 percent? You don't want to spend time with them, anyway. I promise.

-Cate-

The Impossible Imposter

My parents and I are going to Las Vegas in March. This will be my first visit to Sin City (and Nevada in general). When Mom asked me what I wanted to do while we were there, I came up with one of my typical batshit ideas: I decided I wanted to visit the campus of UNLV and find out more about their MFA and Ph.D. programs in creative writing.

"Wait," you're saying to yourself, "doesn't she already have an MFA?"

Yes. She does.

Once every three or four months or so, I decide that I should go back for a second MFA. This is not because I enjoy being in school. In fact, there are few things I hate more than being in school. And it's certainly not because I feel like getting tossed around in workshops again. (Not to brag, but I only cried once during a workshop in all my years of education-getting. Those of you who know me know that I cry over everything, so this is a pretty big deal.) No, it's because I feel like what I have done is not enough. It's never enough.

As I said to my parents, "I don't think I went to the wrong school. [Lesley is the best, for real.] I just think maybe I should have studied poetry instead." Earlier this year, I mentioned that I've won a competition to have a chapbook published, and on my way to that point, I was also a semi-finalist for one prize and a finalist for another. But I'm terrified that someone is going to take these things away from me because they'll figure out what a horrible writer I am or--worse yet--everyone who ever reads it will think that I'm useless and don't deserve to be published.

This stems from something called imposter syndrome. And I have a severe case. Women, in particular, are susceptible to it. This is speculation on my part, but I assume artistic types have the most trouble with imposter syndrome, because our work is already undervalued and (some of us) feel like jerks whenever we manage to pull ahead of the pack. I mean, just read this list of actors/actresses/assorted others (including Don Cheadle, Meryl Streep, and Maya Angelou, of all people) who seem to suffer from imposter syndrome!

I'm working hard to internalize the notion that there is a difference between being realistic and giving in to imposter syndrome. For example, I want to stay grounded and remind myself that--at least at this point in my life--I'm not the kind of writer whose work is going to show up in The Paris Review or Poetry or even Passages North (thanks for rejecting me twice so far, and an extra shout-out to Northern for dismissing my grad school application back in '09). And there's a good chance I wouldn't be happy in a poetry program, anyway, partly because I'm not happy in school. Yet I also have to remember that Laura LeHew, Carlos Reyes, and Ted Enslin (!) have said some nice things about my poetry. 

Striking that balance is difficult, as are so many other things in life. Any time it gets too difficult, I have to remind myself that, to this day, Richard Blanco telling me he didn't like my outfit is still the worst thing a poet has ever said to me (to my face, anyway). But that's another story for another time. Meanwhile, I'll be over here trying to talk myself out of a second MFA. Who has that kind of time, anyway? I should be out in the world writing, instead.

-Cate-

This Is Why We Need Feminism

At my former job, I had to face both sexism and gender discrimination at various points in my career. It was a difficult way to live and work, and at the very end of my time there, the worst of it happened. Without going into detail, I will say that there was much discussion about a co-worker's alleged, shall we say, exploits, and my name was brought into the conversation.

I was furious because it is no one's God-damned business what I do--or do not do--with my vagina. I am an adult and I refuse to apologize for operating while female. The whole incident pushed me over the edge, to the point where I was sobbing in my parents' living room (because I was lucky enough to catch wind of this while I was still on vacation rather than in my office). This is it, I thought. This is what it is to be a woman.

Having lived with and mentored college-age women for five and a half years, being an aunt/Godmother to a little girl, and coming from a family full of strong ladies, I am honestly outraged that we are still operating this way in 2015. And this is not just a first-world problem; conditions are much worse for women in some other regions, notably Africa and the Middle East. In China, sex-selective abortions are still performed on the regular. Women in India have worked to rise up against rapists who are not prosecuted.

In the United States, we are dealing with those who would curb our reproductive rights, the continued existence of the glass ceiling, and a literary culture that strongly favors men, among many other large and small indignities. I'd sum it up thusly: this is bullshit.

As a former Girl Scout, as the kind of person who does what she wants, as someone who eludes categorization, and as a female (both by birth and identification), I have to say that I am sick and tired of having my life prescribed for me and suffering consequences--however intangible or small they may seem--because I happen to have two X chromosomes. Unfortunately, I have no plan of action in mind; because I'm desperately trying to find a job and keep up with my writing submissions, I am unable to start, or even join, a group that advocates for women.

What I AM able to do is support my fellow women (including the trans* ones, for whom life is even more difficult). Need a sympathetic ear? Feel free to contact me. Want to rail against the patriarchy for awhile? I'd be happy to nod in agreement. Desire a chat about professional issues with a fellow female professional? I'm your girl.

Stay strong, ladies. I know we've faced thousands of years of oppression, but if we haven't lost the battle yet, I have a feeling we never will.

-Cate-