Wanting to meet the author because you like his work is like meeting a duck because you like pâté...Margaret Atwood.
I laugh at this quote every time...
I always find it so flustering to meet a person I admire...have never found it too fulfilling because it winds up being this weird thing, unsatisfying...I don't know, like a bad aftertaste. It's always so awkward meeting the famous anyway, they're inundated with everyone else who's with you in line waiting for the autograph and after my book signing experience, I know it's just...tiring. Today, I met my inspiration, Joyce Carol Oates. I found her exactly as I imagined...not at all disappointed...why, blow me down, she rocked!
I normally do not like being in crowds, so I was very brave going alone without any moral support...I also braved the chilly gray day...found my way into the auditorium, settled in and waited for the show to start. The place filled up...and as usual, I always get the person who doesn't have space issues sitting next to me...a very large elder man kept bumping my arm...and then midway through...he fell asleep. Which...I think...can't be sure...JCO looked in our direction and I felt like saying..."No, I'm not with this dude..." And I kept saying to myself (just like I always do when I'm in this situation), why me? Damn it.
Anyway...JCO read poems...talked about the poems...told stories, went on tangents...made fun of Syracuse weather (an easy target)...was amused because people kept laughing whenever she mentioned Donald Trump (so she'd just say his name again just because)...and the New Jersey Turnpike...(you had to be there.)
There was the one person during the Q&A who had to say something about her work being "so dark and depressing"...she again joked about the Upstate New York weather possibly being the cause...I giggled quite a bit (quietly, I didn't want to wake the man next to me of course). I do believe that the Upstate New York weather adds something special to the writers who have experienced it...
I thought JCO was gracious throughout the event, very funny and natural, down to earth. I got in line, bought a copy of her latest...and got in the line for the signing...
Yes, it's official...I'm a nerd...I'm awkward to begin with...being small, light weight, sickly, juggling myself, my belongings that consisted of my purse, long flowing raincoat, oversize scarf, my funky hat, my mocha cappuccino, and I had extra big hair today because of the weather...reading glasses, then add a precious book to the equation and stick me in front of a woman who I have admired since I was 14 when I read
Wonderland (during that impressionable time when I found out that I can write about ANYTHING I wanted to...I didn't have to write something "nice"...) Okay, you get the picture...so she asked for my name, I sputtered it out...and she asked, "What do you do?" Ummm...I'm a writer, an artist, and I work here in the art collection. She signed the book, handed it back..."Well, looks like you really got the artist thing going with what you've got on..." I think that's what she said, and she kind of laughed...maybe she smirked just a teeny bit. Ugh..thanks...thank you for Bellefleur, it's my favorite book. I don't think she replied, I left the line, nearly running, trying to find my way out of the building, to familiar ground, back in the bowels of the art collection, back to my office that I fondly refer to as "the cave", back to my work that I abandoned to go dallying on Homecoming/Reunion weekend...25 years ago I graduated from SU (JCO graduated in 1960, two years before I was born.) Then I started to laugh at myself...You nerd. It occurred to me that I kept crouching down while I stood in front of her...she was sitting, and it made me feel odd being so excessively taller (I'm almost never taller than anyone, except wee children)...so it must've looked like I was bowing and scraping...I wasn't, I just felt the physical need to be at her level...
I'll bet she was thinking..."Okay, who brought the weird girl?"
I don't know...but...it's funny...did I leave an impression? Probably she'll get a story out of it for her next reading...(oh god, there was this weird girl...why me? Damn it.) I know I would...I just did...a story that I'll remember.
Maybe she knows...she has an inkling what I go through on a day to day basis, as a creatively driven person...a mind that is running a million miles of thoughts at light speed...I can't write it down fast enough...I muddle along trying to go above and beyond stuck on survive...writing and painting...working a full time job to support my "habit" as I call it...that creative vice that requires certain tools and devices to make inspiration come into being...
Since I've been reading the
Journal of Joyce Carol Oates I've felt this kinship with her...I feel less "nuts" knowing that she feels exactly like I do about writing...it's been like looking in a mirror at times. I would love to sit and chat with her...maybe someday...
And so...that's my story...
It's Friday night, raining and dark...welcome back to Upstate New York JCO...
The boys were snoozing by the woodstove on a blue blanket...I went outside with my camera leaving my kitty boys inside...last week our leaves were in full gold and the sky blue...
...in a weeks time we now have bare trees...
The morning sky framed by sumac and grape vine...
Milkweed set free on the wind!
I've been studying the goldenrod along my fence...and played around with a few, this photo turned out to be my favorite...it reminds me of one of my favorite paintings, Charles Burchfield's watercolor, Goldenrod in December, 1948...(Whitney Museum of American Art, 74.62, follow link for photo and a complete entry: http://www.davidrumsey.com/amica/amico266784-125220.html)
A wee pink stripe in the sky...
More looking north, northwest...I'm glad I wasn't over there, it looks a bit scary...
I have a head cold, and have been at home in bed doctoring myself for the last two days...I sort of feel like how this pitiful flower looks...
Ah, but this one wore it's snow so prettily!
As did this snow-capped bunch!
Yes, it's cold...but not too terrible...the snow was gone before noon, like it was never there...
In a field of stones there are big ones and little ones...and here I am, the little stone wedged in between the big ones...I am an independent author, independently published. Field Stone Press got its name from those beautiful old bones of the earth, their composition an amalgam of the ages, we find them strewn about our Upstate New York acre, they are collected, piled, lined up, weathered by the elements, and revered as precious. Life is too precious.
Looking out my window, I'm finally seeing the sunshine after a week of rain and scattered peeks of sun. It's so beautiful. Although I do complain about it, I do believe there is something special about the weather in Upstate New York that generates great writers. So many have hailed from here, or just passed through underneath the prevalent gray sky. I wonder. The profusion of overcast days certainly can make one gritty around the edges; some places have trouble with the Dog Days of summer bringing out the worst in folks, but in Upstate New York, the sun comes out and that spectacular blue sky that can make the most surly character giddy. I think the lull of gray skies keeps writers inside writing since there is no temptation to go outside and play — ah, but writers will write no matter the weather. At least I can feel that I’m in good company when I sit at my computer patiently contemplating one paragraph at a time during those precious hours I maintain in my studio. Often I’m bemoaning the fact that it’s already eleven o’clock at night and I have to get up and go to work the next day. So, I walk my dog before bed to decompress, looking for the stars, hoping to see a sign of a clear sky—sometimes it is this upward glance that provides a resolution for that one elusive character quirk or just the right name. I’ve pulled many ideas out of the sky; I live on a rather large hill seven miles outside of Syracuse, so there’s nothing but sky out here.
There are many times that suffusion of gray comes down as fog, and my world takes on a different quality—isolated; it is a rich atmosphere for a writer’s garden of thoughts. How many plot knots have I worked the kinks out of while my hands have been immersed in the soil of my garden on a fine sunny day, having the soft, sweet tail of a cat brush my arm as it passes through, its paws relishing in the freshly tilled dirt. Happily, there have not been many kinks for me to work out, it’s more likely that new stories are found amongst the weeds, stones, and cat leavings. Sometimes I forgo the garden to just sun myself in my favorite chair on the front porch while hummingbirds buzz at the bee balm; my dog resting his head on my barefoot, as the latest red pen sits poised, ready to stab at a manuscript lying in my lap. You see I have a good life on my hill, so pastoral — this is how I want you to picture me — this is how you will know me.
With a sky like that behind my barn...why not aim high? I believe, I've rambled enough for one day...and that's the news from the windswept hilltop in Upstate New York...
Yes, it's official...I'm a nerd...I'm awkward to begin with...being small, light weight, sickly, juggling myself, my belongings that consisted of my purse, long flowing raincoat, oversize scarf, my funky hat, my mocha cappuccino, and I had extra big hair today because of the weather...reading glasses, then add a precious book to the equation and stick me in front of a woman who I have admired since I was 14 when I read Wonderland (during that impressionable time when I found out that I can write about ANYTHING I wanted to...I didn't have to write something "nice"...) Okay, you get the picture...so she asked for my name, I sputtered it out...and she asked, "What do you do?" Ummm...I'm a writer, an artist, and I work here in the art collection. She signed the book, handed it back..."Well, looks like you really got the artist thing going with what you've got on..." I think that's what she said, and she kind of laughed...maybe she smirked just a teeny bit. Ugh..thanks...thank you for Bellefleur, it's my favorite book. I don't think she replied, I left the line, nearly running, trying to find my way out of the building, to familiar ground, back in the bowels of the art collection, back to my office that I fondly refer to as "the cave", back to my work that I abandoned to go dallying on Homecoming/Reunion weekend...25 years ago I graduated from SU (JCO graduated in 1960, two years before I was born.) Then I started to laugh at myself...You nerd. It occurred to me that I kept crouching down while I stood in front of her...she was sitting, and it made me feel odd being so excessively taller (I'm almost never taller than anyone, except wee children)...so it must've looked like I was bowing and scraping...I wasn't, I just felt the physical need to be at her level...
