Superglued my writer’s hat to my head . . . .

I’ve been putting it off, telling myself that I didn’t want to do it until I could sign up for Active membership, and then I see on the Rumor Mill that the current issue of the SFWA Bulletin has an interview with GVG, Ellen Datlow, and Gardner Dozois about what they’re looking for when they go through their slush piles. Like a taser to the head, it becomes crstalline-creature clear to me that I should have subscribed to the Bulletin already. SFWA Members–both Associate and Active–get the Bulletin as part of their membership so it makes sense for me to go ahead and toss them my stupid application, write them my stupid check, and have done with it.

So Associate membership it is. Sigh.

Maybe I’ll make enough pro level sales this year to qualify for Active membership.

But hey, membership dues are tax deductible. Whee.

On a less boring note in the life-of-Eugie, I’m going to go see Spiderman this afternoon. Nice, escapist fun. Maybe I’ll splurge on a packet of Twizzlers.

With my writer’s hat firmly planted . . . .

I even have my glasses on. Whenever I wear my glasses, I feel all frumpy and librariany.

Yesterday, I got two whole rejections slips in the mail. One from Absolute Magnitude and one from Dreams of Decadence. Obviously the DNA publications Lapine/Kessler duo had a slush reading last weekend. But, despite the crushing rejection (actually, not-so-crushing, in truth, I’m getting a thick skin about dejection slips) I’m jazzed. Both notes had encouraging handwritten blurbs on them and the one from Ms. Kessler–editor of D of D herself and not some first-reader–said she was keeping another of my submissions for consideration. Happy dance!

How sad is it that a strong “maybe” can get me so riled up? Aw heck, I’ll take what perks I can out.

And on a less firm “maybe”, I was cruising the Rumor Mill and saw that the editor who I’ve got two manuscripts with, one for each anthology he’s currently editing, sent rejection snail-mail out early last month but sent email notes out to author’s he’s short listed. And I realized, ding, that when I sent these stories out, I had my email address still, before that whole AT&T debacle, and if he’d sent a note to me, it would have gotten bounced. I’m probably leap-frogging the gun to assume no news is good news, but not getting a dejection slip makes me hopeful. So I sent him a query and an FYI about my email address changing.

I appear to be firmly mired in writer’s block, but at least I’m staying on top of the marketing side of things.

Must. Sell. Something. (Else.)

Weirded by nostalgia

Okay, so I was just surfing around, checking out various and sundry blog sites as I’ve recently become acquainted with this new form of lovely addiction, and I run across a webjournal of a person I knew in high school. Now this person and I were friends of the hang out, and occasionally make out, persuasion. We had a lot of mutual friends and spent many evenings en masse listening to music or otherwise doing those things that parents fear their teenaged offspring are engaged in, despite having done the same things themselves without an iota of harm coming to them. (Except for my mother, who grew up in some alien culture with some really weird-assed cultural expectations and apparently didn’t do squat. But that’s a whole ‘nother rant.)

Anyway, back to this ex-friend. He was, and apparently still is, a highly intelligent individual, but I remember he was also socially clueless with a veritable cocktail of neurosis that tinged every interaction with him with a patina of awkwardness and strained silences. Once, he made it known to me that he was quite taken with me and was interested in progressing our relationship to a closer level. Now this declaration wasn’t all that surprising since it was delivered, if memory serves me right, on the tail of a prolonged kissing session on a grassy hillock (while another pair of friends were engaged in similar impetuous displays of hormone-induced libido beside us). However it made me contemplate him as more than just someone to have casual lip contact with and I realized that part of me shrank away, twitching under a coffee table, at the thought of it. There was too much that was alien about him to ever make me completely at ease, and that’s no way to conduct a relationship. So I made some comment to put off my answer and hoped he’d get the hint. He didn’t always (remember that social cluelessness from above?) but this time, it seemed he did. We continued to hang out, but as time passed and I saw less of him, I didn’t really make an effort to keep in contact. But he was a markedly intelligent individual (and I value intelligence more than any other character trait) with a creative bent that I always admired.

And now I’ve stumbled across his blog. And it seems like he’s turned into a caricature of who he was in high school. His entries scream out witty intelligence. His ironic satires make me envious of the smooth turn of his phrases, wrought with allegories that are insightful and keen. Yet at the same time he’s devolved further into his nest of neurosis, living alone with his cats in an un-air conditioned apartment swirled up in a dark morass of paranoia, anxiety, and isolation, working at a minor-ducats job he obviously despises and that is way beneath his abilities.

So. Okay. My childhood was, by all measures, a bad one. My mother was insane, not someone who should be allowed near children, and my father was a shit who left her and me when I was three. I can’t blame him for leaving her. I would have too if I could have. But he was a shit to me as well during the sporadic visitation periods he “gifted” me with and his sole interest in me was to elicit promise after promise that I would take care of him when he got old. My father didn’t have issues. Uh huh.

But high school was different. I became who I am during those years, largely due to the influence of the company I kept who, though being for the most part assholes who suffered from low self-esteem and thought the cure for that was trammeling my self-esteem into the mud, introduced me to different ways of thinking, thereby setting into motion the realization that everything that parents, school, and society had fed to me as truth was up for debate. Despite the trashing my ego was taking, I discovered I could think on my own, thank you very much. And that stuck with me. (And eventually I bandaged my ego up, stuck it in a sling, met the most wonderful man in the world, married him, and lo and behold, my ego recovered.)

But okay, so it’s left me with some really weird-ass feelings about high school and my hometown. This person who’s blog I’ve discoverd was one of the rare few who never tried to build himself up by cutting out other people’s legs from under them. And he’s got some qualities that I find laudable and rare in people. I considered, for a moment, contacting him, sending him an email just to say “hi, how’s it going?” But I’m in touch with my inner reality enough to know that I won’t. It wasn’t a conscious process at the time, but some part of me made a decision many years ago to lose touch with this person. I’ll respect that.

But now it’s left me feeling weirdly nostalgic. The past is a strange and murky creature. I love mine and hate it. That’ll show it.

A slight re-direct

If you came here from, please know that my journal has gone Friends Only to protect myself against the cyberstalker who runs that website.

Click HERE for more information and to see the few entries I’ve left public.

If you’re on my friends list, you can still read this re-located entry Here.

Comments here have been disabled in order to halt any further harassment by this cyberstalker. For the record, I have asked him several times to go away and leave me alone.

A funky dreamscape.

I had this reoccurring dream again last night. It’s not nearly as interesting as the one where I’m going to work or class stark, bare-assed naked, but I haven’t had one of those in years. Plus Eugie-the-dreamer is always amused with that dream rather than mortified, which I think is what’s supposed to be the requisite emotion. (Hmm. What does that say about my psyche? Mostly that I’m not into dream analysis, I suspect.)

Anyway, my dream is that I’m getting ready for finals (Note: I’ve been out of school for years) and I realize that I’ve just plum completely forgotten about a class–Biology. Now why is it always Biology?–all semester long. And I’m all panic-stricken because there’s this big test coming up and I haven’t attended class all semester. Then, when I try to either 1. vainly attempt to make up the whole semester in one review sitting or 2. beg the professor for more time, I can’t remember where the classroom is and I can’t find my schedule book that will (ostensibly) tell me. Of course, if I had my schedule with me in the first place, I assume I wouldn’t have forgotten about the class. But why, for godsakes, am I dreaming about missed classes? It always leaves me with the vague feeling that I’ve forgotten something when I wake up.

I’d much rather have that sex dream where I’m flying over this forest of phallic trees . . . .

What’s really ironic is that I think Freud and his theories are all tom-quackery. Snarf.

Entry whatever. Who’s counting?

Okay, so it’s been–what?–a week since I updated this. In that time, I’ve just about fully recovered from the whatever that hit my system and knocked me out for the count. I hate being sick. And I hate that weak, wobbly feeling I get after doing nothing but lie on the bed or the couch for days on end. But, that’s over and done with. Hurray!

To celebrate, Matthew and I had a caloriefest/moviefest last night. Sushi for dinner, brownies and ice cream camped out in front of the big screen for dessert, and coffee with ice cream in it for after hours. Mmmm. I can’t believe we ate nearly a whole half gallon of ice cream between the two of us.

We watched “Sabrina”–the 1995 one with Julia Ormond and Harrison Ford–and “American Beauty.” 1999 was a truly amazing year for movies. What the hell happened? 2000 was so lame. Anyway, “American Beauty” is just an amazing movie. We saw it when it came out amidst the slew of other 1999 films and it holds up well to repeated viewing. I wish I could write like Alan Ball, drool.

Taxes, belly dancing, and ANWR

Conflicting emotions leads to vast tracts of confused brain wrinklies.

Okay, first of all, we’re getting money back from taxes. Blink. Guess paying two mortgages for a lot of last year really helped us (not, btw, something I’d recommend even with the tasty tax refund ensuing). Hurray!

Next, I recently found out that I’m belly dancing for some heart/cardiac charity event on the 19th, but it’s not going to be my solo, Rohee, but rather the troupe number. But, get this, with only one other troupe member. It was staged for six dancers and in a week we need to have it ready as a duet. Furthermore, I didn’t think we had rehearsals scheduled for this week at all. Urk.

Finally: George W. wants to open up ANWR to oil drilling, prompted by Iraq’s recent 30-day “nope, you don’t get none.” Even though if they started drilling today, they wouldn’t get a drop of oil for a decade. Even though ANWR is a beautiful, pristine(ish) haven for caribou, polar bears, and other wildlife. Even though there’s not enough oil in the reserve to make a spot of difference in the economic/oil situation. Even though Iraq is only our 6th largest oil supplier. Even though I see squadrons of gas-glugging SUVs and mini-vans littering the roadways when smaller, more fuel-efficient cars exist. Splutter!

Argh. I’m conflicted. Am I happy? Trepidatious? Or livid? It’s really hard being all three at the same time, but I’m working on it.

Doh! Or: “Yes, I’ve lost count.”

Well, I went to belly dancing last night and, there was no class. Doh! The session starts next week. Pointless travel time = one and a half hours of my life I’m never getting back. Damn.

And we’re going to Mr. Tax Preparer to get our taxes done today. Shudder. This is the first year that I “get” to pay taxes as a writer too. Joy.

Calmblueocean. Calmblueocean. Calmblueocean.