A Writer Remembers.
It's funny the things we remember, and how we remember them. A decade ago I remember getting the email for my first book. It was about this time of year, and Tanfer--my co-editor--wrote me with nothing more than "Yes! Yes! Yes!" It was our first book each and together. We were younger then, that's for sure. Ironically, I think I'm slightly smaller now . . . Usually, that proverbial comparison goes the other way. That meander aside, I remember culling those pages, corresponding with the authors, doing the next to final press review of the chapters at a professor's house in Port Jeff, and in September and October I did the index in Virginia. I had left NY, and I was in Virginia on a Visting hire. My parents were delighted to have me around, even when I sat on the couch eating Kit Kats ticking off index terms and numbers. There was a sense of hope and happiness then. In the middle of those ticking numbers, I picked up a couple of paid articles, and then I jetted off to Istanbul for what has become known to all of us there as the "08 Conference." Little else is needed, as eyes grow glassy, smiles emerge, and folks always look at me and start asking questions about me and someone there. There's another memory for another day.
In December I found myself back in Istanbul, standing on the banks of the Bos with a mellowed and stood up heart, but Tanfer came in from Ankara carrying our book copies in tow. I did the cover design for the book, since--as T says--I'm the photographer. I remember staring at the cover for what seemed like forever. Sometimes, even now, I catch it on my shelf and still stop in shock. That same shelf holds more than one book with me in it, more than one book with my name on it, and yet . . .
That first book seems like a million years and laughs ago.
My last book, an anthology on comics, history, and literature, was pitched from a professor's attic in Port Jeff. Sara has since sold her house, but I still keep a picture of the view from that garret on my wall. It was all very poetic then, and perhaps now. Early on I had an author who decided to mansplain to me. Yeah, I overlooked it the first time. The next round I let him hang his throat. Fucker. Then, I had two authors in Athens, and as articles were being finalized for the press (we had a more extended review as we had a hurricane in there), the economy of Greece was collapsing. I was somewhat newly married. I was battling a Lupus flare. I was fighting a husband whom I would not soon enough leave for emotional reasons. In the middle of it all, I remember one author pretty much losing her cookies in my email. I didn't tell them about my Lupus in the early days, but once the book came out, I mentioned it. They knew I got married in there, but indeed, no one knew about a husband who made his feelings about me clear entirely too soon after we said: "I do." I remember reading that emotional email about the state of Greece, as my then husband stood in the doorway of our office that was a closet with a window and the Labrador retriever climbed into the chair with me. She gave him a look of "come on bitch, try us" as he flailed his hands calling me names he would use more times for the short duration of our marriage.
I took a break and made one of my favorite cotton skirts, and my husband couldn't understand why I wouldn't watch some sporting event with him. I went and saw my parents for a week or so, and while there I ticked out the index from their living room couch. Again.
Looking back, I giggle and breathe a huge sigh. The book earned accords from more than one source, I still talk with some of those authors, and I hear some of my research from that tome has found its way into other big-name projects and works. So I hear.
Now, my next book is out (well, presale . . . the official release date is the 23rd). My monograph, too many years in the making as I published everything under the sun first while waiting for Hillary Clinton to make her presidential bid, so I could finish it (making the book far better and far different for it), and somehow became known as a girl who writes about Wonder Woman. That part was never intentional; instead, it was one of those things that happened along the way. Right now I'm drinking laced hot cocoa (Pama liquor if you are inclined) while writing this and remembering when. The sweetness and warmth as a nice soft edge to these stark memories.
A couple of surgeries later, endless Lupus flares, countless (and I do mean fucking endless) drugs and unfortunate side effects, some broken hearts, a couple of address changes, and several passport stamps later . . . Lost in those pages, nights, and ink spilled self-doubts is the man I spent the better part of twelve years believing was a love. I've never believed in one love of your life. Instead, I've always seen it is as an evolving one, and I thought that he was one of mine. We moved on from each other a couple of times, most obviously as I was briefly married to someone else. We never stayed apart long, as we always managed to text and message notes of friendly natures. Last summer, as the final acts of ascension to the manuscript were culling, he pulled the final trigger laced with gasoline. There have been several articles, and book chapters, he didn't acknowledge. This time . . . The first book without him on the sidelines is a bit jolting of sorts. Life evolves, as we all do. The writer remembers. The writer awakes.
I remember the email, from my editor, saying we had to change the title as the use of Wonder Woman violated copyright. So, walking through Chicago O'Hare, I texted titles, and while boarding for Denver, I sent off the new one to friends. In the middle of that--literally--my face began to ache. Two days later I would find myself in an ER in Denver, with a face the size of an elephant. Cellulitis, legalized pot in Denver, Lupus, hanging with a best friend's dogs, hanging with my agnostic daughters, a former beau brining me edibles instead of flowers, and the turbulent year that would continue to unfold are what frame my memory now. If I could omit the ex-husband, I'd take those days of a Lupus flare and a writer-friend losing her cookies in my email again. I'm sure my Greek friends roll their collective eyes at that thought, but . . .
I went and saw my parents in December, and I took my last edits with me. This time, the index . . . I tinkered it out from their living room couch and one chilly hotel foyer in Charlotte, NC. There's some symbolism there, I am certain.
Perhaps in a few years, it will all seem softer. Though, for right now, it all feels a little surreal. I turned down two other presses (a possible third that I don't count) over the years. Why? I knew the market I wanted. I knew what I wanted to finish saying. I thought, still, that the academic market would bend in my favor. The market will forever treat me like a cast-off stepchild, but I believe (at the very least I have to believe still) that I've left a footprint along the way.
I still have a few academic projects left in me, but by and large, I'm moving toward popular writing and fiction. After all, there was a blue-eyed girl who used to find herself down the hall on her friend's couch talking about the plans they dreamed. Drafts of two novels are done, and a few dozen short stories populate my digital space these days. Perhaps that guy I knew remembers those dreams, his laughter at stories I would craft for him, and how the dream of a pen name was better than a romance. Or so we thought.
In the end, the writer keeps writing. The next project awakes and waits.
In December I found myself back in Istanbul, standing on the banks of the Bos with a mellowed and stood up heart, but Tanfer came in from Ankara carrying our book copies in tow. I did the cover design for the book, since--as T says--I'm the photographer. I remember staring at the cover for what seemed like forever. Sometimes, even now, I catch it on my shelf and still stop in shock. That same shelf holds more than one book with me in it, more than one book with my name on it, and yet . . .
That first book seems like a million years and laughs ago.
My last book, an anthology on comics, history, and literature, was pitched from a professor's attic in Port Jeff. Sara has since sold her house, but I still keep a picture of the view from that garret on my wall. It was all very poetic then, and perhaps now. Early on I had an author who decided to mansplain to me. Yeah, I overlooked it the first time. The next round I let him hang his throat. Fucker. Then, I had two authors in Athens, and as articles were being finalized for the press (we had a more extended review as we had a hurricane in there), the economy of Greece was collapsing. I was somewhat newly married. I was battling a Lupus flare. I was fighting a husband whom I would not soon enough leave for emotional reasons. In the middle of it all, I remember one author pretty much losing her cookies in my email. I didn't tell them about my Lupus in the early days, but once the book came out, I mentioned it. They knew I got married in there, but indeed, no one knew about a husband who made his feelings about me clear entirely too soon after we said: "I do." I remember reading that emotional email about the state of Greece, as my then husband stood in the doorway of our office that was a closet with a window and the Labrador retriever climbed into the chair with me. She gave him a look of "come on bitch, try us" as he flailed his hands calling me names he would use more times for the short duration of our marriage.
I took a break and made one of my favorite cotton skirts, and my husband couldn't understand why I wouldn't watch some sporting event with him. I went and saw my parents for a week or so, and while there I ticked out the index from their living room couch. Again.
Looking back, I giggle and breathe a huge sigh. The book earned accords from more than one source, I still talk with some of those authors, and I hear some of my research from that tome has found its way into other big-name projects and works. So I hear.
Now, my next book is out (well, presale . . . the official release date is the 23rd). My monograph, too many years in the making as I published everything under the sun first while waiting for Hillary Clinton to make her presidential bid, so I could finish it (making the book far better and far different for it), and somehow became known as a girl who writes about Wonder Woman. That part was never intentional; instead, it was one of those things that happened along the way. Right now I'm drinking laced hot cocoa (Pama liquor if you are inclined) while writing this and remembering when. The sweetness and warmth as a nice soft edge to these stark memories.
A couple of surgeries later, endless Lupus flares, countless (and I do mean fucking endless) drugs and unfortunate side effects, some broken hearts, a couple of address changes, and several passport stamps later . . . Lost in those pages, nights, and ink spilled self-doubts is the man I spent the better part of twelve years believing was a love. I've never believed in one love of your life. Instead, I've always seen it is as an evolving one, and I thought that he was one of mine. We moved on from each other a couple of times, most obviously as I was briefly married to someone else. We never stayed apart long, as we always managed to text and message notes of friendly natures. Last summer, as the final acts of ascension to the manuscript were culling, he pulled the final trigger laced with gasoline. There have been several articles, and book chapters, he didn't acknowledge. This time . . . The first book without him on the sidelines is a bit jolting of sorts. Life evolves, as we all do. The writer remembers. The writer awakes.
I remember the email, from my editor, saying we had to change the title as the use of Wonder Woman violated copyright. So, walking through Chicago O'Hare, I texted titles, and while boarding for Denver, I sent off the new one to friends. In the middle of that--literally--my face began to ache. Two days later I would find myself in an ER in Denver, with a face the size of an elephant. Cellulitis, legalized pot in Denver, Lupus, hanging with a best friend's dogs, hanging with my agnostic daughters, a former beau brining me edibles instead of flowers, and the turbulent year that would continue to unfold are what frame my memory now. If I could omit the ex-husband, I'd take those days of a Lupus flare and a writer-friend losing her cookies in my email again. I'm sure my Greek friends roll their collective eyes at that thought, but . . .
I went and saw my parents in December, and I took my last edits with me. This time, the index . . . I tinkered it out from their living room couch and one chilly hotel foyer in Charlotte, NC. There's some symbolism there, I am certain.
Perhaps in a few years, it will all seem softer. Though, for right now, it all feels a little surreal. I turned down two other presses (a possible third that I don't count) over the years. Why? I knew the market I wanted. I knew what I wanted to finish saying. I thought, still, that the academic market would bend in my favor. The market will forever treat me like a cast-off stepchild, but I believe (at the very least I have to believe still) that I've left a footprint along the way.
I still have a few academic projects left in me, but by and large, I'm moving toward popular writing and fiction. After all, there was a blue-eyed girl who used to find herself down the hall on her friend's couch talking about the plans they dreamed. Drafts of two novels are done, and a few dozen short stories populate my digital space these days. Perhaps that guy I knew remembers those dreams, his laughter at stories I would craft for him, and how the dream of a pen name was better than a romance. Or so we thought.
In the end, the writer keeps writing. The next project awakes and waits.
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