Everything is "Fine"

The word "fine" is poisonous. So are the ever-changing moods of an aspiring writer.
Today, I had someone tell me that I'm a goddamn genius, and another tell me that my work is, "fine."
Critic number 1 gushed about my work for several minutes, saying it's "powerful, provocative, and very well-written". She went on to say that one of my poems was so good, she sobbed at the end and had to take a walk to think about everything I'd made her think about with my beautifully crafted work. All of this felt great, until I received an email from critic number 2, who said my work is "fine".
With that one word, I forgot everything that my previous critic had said. If something is fine, it is neither good or bad. It isnt remarkable at all. It's a dishrag that's almost too smelly to keep out on the counter and maybe needs to be thrown in the wash, but not quite yet. It's "fine" for the moment. You dont think about it, you have no feelings whatsoever for the dishrag. You merely wonder if it needs to be washed, then leave it there with an absent toss and walk out of the kitchen to get to more important things.
I suppose this is what it's like. One moment you're brilliant, and in the next, you're a dishrag.
I should be fair to critic number 2. She offered up very helpful and supportive advice and even gave me a few tips on how to get out of the "fine zone". I'm going to take the advice and see how it works out, but it's hard to get past that word. Your eyes and your brain zero in on the four letters even after they're gone from the screen. Nothing else matters if your hard work can only muster up a "fine" review.
This is what worries me. If I react to "fine" with such dramatic bruising, what will happen to me when someone says, "This is NOT good at ALL. This is crap and no one will ever pay you for this."
Hmmm. Clearly, that's a little more damaging than "fine". But the only way to see how I'll react to a comment like that is to keep on going and risk that possibility. If no one ever says that to me, that would be wonderful. But I think the true test of life is to have someone say, "You're no good at what you love to do" and for you to say, "Yes, I am. But thanks for the input". If you, and I, can walk away from that kind of criticism and continue to go for "It", whatever the "It" might be, then you and I have won.
In the end, I will win. And I'll be more than fine.

Teacher Angst and New Beginnings

I've been told to blog. So here I am blogging...
I was a teacher for 2 years. I decided that having a real job(like teaching) and living by a schedule(like 8:00am-5ish) is not as great as the pre-teen version of me made it out to be. The pre-teen and even teen version of me is in fact, an idiot. I was made to believe, by myself, that growing up and becoming responsible would allow me such freedom and independence as I had never experienced before. So the younger version of me convinced the older version of me to go ahead and strive for a "real job" with a "real salary" and get a "real life". I soon realized I had less of a life than I did at 15. This is sad, especially according to my 15 year old students, who often told me I should, "get out more". I spent my time grading papers..or lets be honest...thinking about grading papers, and wishing that for just a moment I could focus on something a little less real. This led me to dream about writing, which as we know, is as unreal as you can get. Still, when I verbalize these fantasies about "living by my pen", I'm told to blog. So here is my blog. It won't pay the rent, but it might begin to satisfy something important.

The Goal

When I announced that I wanted to leave my ridiculously secure teaching job to become a writer, I was often faced with the question: "What do you want to write?" This question was always accompanied by a smug look and a smile that said, "Isn't it cute that she wants to be a writer?" I learned to ignore the look, but the question persisted.
What I soon realized is that the answer is...Everything.
Here's my ideal picture of myself on a perfect day, five years from now.

I wake up at 9:00am (anything before 8:00 is considered ungodly) and brew a cup of coffee. As I'm watching the life-giving liquid drip into its carafe, I get an idea for a poem. This is good, because the deadline for my book of poetry is coming up in two weeks and I still need about eight more poems to add to the collection. With my coffee and my idea for an opening line, I sit down at the computer to see how things will play out.
When I look up again, I realize I'm going to be late for brunch with my agent. I dont want to leave the poem, but I have all the ideas down at least. All I'll have to do later is edit, edit, revise and edit.
I barely make it to brunch in San Clemente on time. My trick is to put the hair up, wear a dress and throw on heels. Even though it's easy, it still looks like I'm put together when I arrive. We're at the Beach Fire Grill on the patio and it's perfect Southern California weather. My husband was right when he said we should stay here, instead of taking the offer to move to New York. The offer was for him, and it was posed by a law firm that is so wealthy and pretentious, it's just silly. But Kevin couldn't be dragged from our college stomping ground in Orange County. I suppose we're West Coasters that will always love trips to the East Coast, but would never survive the weather. In the end, Kevin opted for a smaller firm that has offices on both coasts. I was proud of him.
My agent is a little peeved that I'm five minutes late. He's not used to the idea that fifteen minutes late is my normal schedule and he should count himself lucky. But I quickly learn why he was so anxious to see me. The editor of the Los Angeles Times loved my latest feature story on education in California, and wants me to write more for an column on education and kids in California. The column will run biweekly and delve into more detail about the issues in education today. This is the best news I've had since my first book deal and I nearly choke on my mimosa. Novels and poetry are my two first loves in writing, but I've always wanted a column and thought it out of reach. I can finally call myself a writer of fiction, poetry and nonfiction. Even better than that, I'll get to discuss and expose some of the biggest issues in a system that I care deeply about but I consider to be broken. This is a deal I never thought I'd get.

I'm still going over the details with my agent when a woman interrupts us. She introduces herself as Amanda Greenbrook, and says she's an aspiring designer. I tell her I love clothes and wish her luck, but then realize she's looking for more than best wishes. She starts talking so fast that I almost dont understand her, but it's all clear when she shoves a pair of shoes at me. They're tall, blue and extremely gorgeous heels. Then she says, "It would mean so much if you'd wear them, and just mention here and there that they're my design. I've read all your novels and I love your work. I'd be honored if you could just wear them-to the store even." I pull out my purse to try and pay her for the shoes, but she runs off shouting that they're a gift.

My editor doesn't seem to realize the importance of this event. He's worried that we'll be late for my plane, but the only thing I can think about now is shoes. I've heard that things like this happen to models and actresses, but never writers. I can't stop myself from putting the heels on right away. I'm even wearing a dress with blue in it, so it seems fortuitous. How did she happen to have a pair in my size right there at the restaurant? I decide to worry about this later, because I love the shoes too much to taint them with suspicions just yet.
I'm buzzing with excitement over the LA Times and my new shoes, but my editor points out that if we dont get going we really will miss the plane. After swinging by the house to pick up my bag, we head to John Wayne. I'm going to New York (my favorite place to visit but not live) for a booksigning event and to teach a week long writing class to college kids in the writing program at NYU. I'm thrilled to be doing both, but the real perk to this trip is that I'll be able to see Kevin. He's been working with the New York office for the past week on a big case, and it feels like I havent seen him in months.

But first, the booksigning. The event is a huge success. It's at a little bookstore in Manhattan and there are more people than I anticipated. I love booksignings. I love making cute dedications to someone's little girl, or wishing someone luck with their dream to be a whatever. They seem so excited to meet me, but really I think I'm more thrilled to meet them. They make this whole thing worth it.
The book seems to be doing well so far. It's the second in a series of three. My contract stipulates that I'll produce four. The last two in the next two years. What my agent doesn't know yet is that the story ends after the third book. I didn't even know this myself until I finished it last month. Sometimes the characters surprise you. I'm hoping my agent will like the new idea I have in mind for book number four. He always loves my surprises.
At 10pm eastern time, Kevin and I meet up at the hotel for dinner. We decide to grab a cocktail in the lobby before heading out to dinner at Tavern on the Green. We get so caught up catching up, that we miss the reservation and order room service instead. I love that we both secretly wanted that to happen and didn't watch the clock on purpose. We'll be fancy tomorrow.
Before I fall asleep, I dream of Pulitzer Prizes and award dinners.

There's the dream.
How to acheive it?
Step One: Write
Step Two: Write
Step Three:...