MUSICAL CHAIRS BLOG Jen Knox
I think I'll let a YouTube video take care of it... Dragonfly escapes frog attack - BestofYouTube.comIt's been a month since graduation (oh wait, not even that long) so I'm just getting started. Nonetheless, I feel that I can relate to this little guy.
The question I've heard, more than any other since my book was published is "How'd you get over your panic disorder?" And I will attempt here to answer.
Before I answer, a disclaimer: I will never write a self-improvement book or spiritual book for the following reasons. 1. I am not one to dole out advice on "how to" get over panic or anxiety because I am not wholly sure that I really "got over" mine. Perhaps it just ran it's course, after all. Or, perhaps it was a combination of things that I do not have the formula for. 2. Everyone is different. 3. Who knows, it might come back.
OK, so now that that's out of the way... No, I have not suffered from Panic Disorder since the summer of 2003. I almost brought a panic attack on, however, when I wrote that opening scene of Musical Chairs because I meditated on that day for hours, trying to remember exactly what it was like so that I could recapture the fear, and in a small way, the sensations did come back.
Because I open with this scene and then close with a loose sort of resolution, which covered more than panic, but an entire lifestyle shift, I will take this opportunity to explain my prescription for coping with the attacks while they lasted. No, it wasn't anti-depressants or anti-anxiety medication that did it.
I began with a bunch of false starts with various psychoanalysts. I've said this often, but it's worth repeating: finding a good psychoanalyst is like finding your significant other. It's magical when it happens, but there are a lot of people who just fall short of establishing that perfect balance, that perfect rapport. Besides, many psychoanalysts are a touch insane (there's a reason people like myself were drawn to study the subject, after all).
I found a therapist I didn't like, but who knew his shit. He was a cognitive therapist, and although I did not get better under his care, I credit him with giving me the tools I needed to cope with panic.
So logic does not cure panic. In panic, there is no room for it. What there is room for, and this is a technique that the aforementioned doctor recommended to me, is repetition. The repetition of anxiety is inevitable, and to counter-act these thoughts of doom and demise, a person must be armed with a sort of equally repetitive script. Mine went as follows: "I am in control of my own thoughts. I am not worried. I am in control of my own thoughts. I am not worried...."
Seems overly simple, right? Well, that, it was explained to me, is the key. A person must come up with one or two lines to always repeat to his or herself when the panic begins. So, when I would begin to feel a chill and the racing of my heart, I would begin repeating this mantra Ad nauseam, until the attack was over. This didn't work the first time, but after the third or fourth time, I began to recite the mantra, almost in a chant, and it slowly began to be something that came as quickly as the panic had, a programmed response.
I also repeated anti-worry mantras at bedtime and during the day, when I remembered, thinking this would be a way to prevent future attacks. It was my personal meditation and chant, and I think it was incredibly important that it was short and easy to remember.
The other thing I did was reduce the amount of caffeine in my diet. This was a prescribed lifestyle change that I have since turned my back on, but at the time I think it really did help. I merely replaced my lattes with decaf lattes (which still have caffeine in them, especially if you are used to Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts) and then, eventually, to black and green tea only.
Finally, I wrote about it. Every time I had an attack, I would get out my notebook and jot down the sensations, as soon as I could. This put them in perspective, and helped me to know what to expect when another attack came on.
So again, this is only what worked for me. I would like to credit therapy, but the truth of the matter was that I began with so many therapists and only continued seeing most of them for a handful of sessions that I'm not sure that I was a model patient. I did get a bunch of helpful information in these sessions, however. I also did my research online and found chat rooms for those with severe anxiety, conversations in which I never partook, but I always found solace in hearing others' similar experiences. So here's mine. My dog, a Blue Heeler named Buddy, watches every move I make with detached interest. I sometimes feel as though I am his personal reality TV star. After all, he follows me from room to room, even sitting outside the bathroom when I go. This never bothered me; in fact, I found my short spunky shadow a reassuring, accepting presence in my life.
Because I'm off work, I am beginning to notice that his clingy behavior is getting worse. He's expecting too much from me: walks five times a day and pets 24/7, even as I sit in my cushy office chair, attempting something literary. When I leave the house to meet with friends or run errands, he pouts--this is the one time that he refuses to look my way. With the jingle of keys and the turn of a knob, Buddy sighs loudly and curls up on the couch, facing anywhere but the front door I will selfishly exit.
Buddy is the first dog I've owned since I was a kid. He's a lapdog, rarely hyper, and he never barks unless threatened by another dog. And even then his bark is low, a hybrid growl-bark that seems to say "Back up," or more likely "Get the fuck away from me."
When out with friends, I speak of Buddy as they do their children. "Guess what Buddy did today?" I'll ask eagerly to hesitant gazes. "I'm kind of worried," I'll go on; "he seems less social than other dogs." Friends will listen and nod, and fellow childless, dog-owning friends will match my stories and sometimes raise the bar, including the far more dramatic tale of say, a Lab jumping out of a second story window or a Chow biting the UPS guy.
OK, so here's the problem: I baby my dog. This wasn't an actual problem, really, until it was pointed out to me--rudely--by a neighbor. I was walking Buddy in the courtyard of my apartment complex (where dogs are allowed) when he stopped, as dogs do, to smell a bush. I stopped too, only to hear a shrill voice scold me: "Get that dog," it said.
I looked around to find a short elderly woman with close-cut curls and schoolmarm glasses, frowning. "What?" I said, confused by her demanding tone.
"I said ... Get that dog!! You need the dog whisperer, that's what you need. You better get him." She gestured to Buddy, who was now peeking out from under the bush, not exactly afraid, but understandably wary of the hollering woman.
Being a writer, my initial reaction to this expression of insanity was to tell the woman to speak slower as I grabbed for my Moleskine and pen. Instead, I asked calmly why she felt the need to yell at me, a person she doesn't know, when my dog was merely sniffing a bush.
"What did you say to me?" she screamed. Yes, screamed.
Not quick to repeat myself, I simply yanked lightly on Buddy's chain and continued on my way. Buddy followed, reluctantly, and then he stopped again, this time to smell the cement sidewalk. I stopped, too.
"Get that dog! Get that dog!"
"I think YOU can walk another way, walk around us, or wait," I said firmly. Then, I did repeat myself, "And what makes you think you can talk to a person you don't know like that?"
She just stared. I shrugged, fighting the tingle of exhilaration one gets during the start of an argument or fight. I yanked Buddy onward, resolving not to turn back around. As we walked away (of course) she began again: "I said that because I don't trust dogs, and you're obviously not the pack leader here."
"I no longer care what your crazy-ass reason is," I yelled back, not turning around. But, as I consciously kept Buddy close, I realized that he resisted as I yanked him along. He stared up at me as if to say, what are you doing? And, I realized that the woman might be right. Perhaps I should work a little harder to train Buddy, stop treating him like a child, and maybe think about my reasoning for spoiling him. But, if I do need to work on my dog owner skills, I can only hope my neighbor works on her people skills.
I grew up in Ohio, where the weather is as unpredictable as the number of cows you might see driving to work each day. One thing is guranteed, however: each winter it will snow. Down parkas will be worn and driving conditions will be challenging.
Having lived in Texas for a while now, I have shed my winter skin, so to speak. My blood has thinned to the point that I find myself shivering in 50 degree weather. And yet, there is a part of me that has begun to miss the cold, ice and snow. I've found myself less productive at home, more liable to run out into the sunshine and throw a frisbee that my dog will watch soar away before staring up at me as if to ask, "Why the hell did you just do that?" I'm far more willing to go out with friends on a warm evening, not to mention the fact that there are far more festivals and outdoor activities that tempt me (never been much on skiing or sledding, though I do miss the Toboggan Run near Cleveland).
So, is there a negative correlation here between my ability to put out pages of writing and the warmer climate? I wonder this as I sit today, at my computer, blocked on a project that I had planned to finish by the end of the year. Curiously, on a cold day here (again, 50 degrees) I wrote more words than I had the preceeding week.
I haven't found much in the way of research about this subject. Climate & Creativity, but I did find an article about Innovation (business speak for creativity) and climate from which I found a passage that alluded to the fact that yes, climate does impact creative output. Unfortunately, said article won't be cited here because I couldn't find an answer to the question.
The number of creative writers living on the East Coast is fuel for my argument. But then, California is a counter-argument. I'm going to investigate this further as Chris and I discuss where to move... Then again, it really all boils down to where we can find jobs and cheap housing. Art can't be created without food, after all. And student loans loom like the fattest, most ominous winter storm clouds, even here in San Antonio.
[POSTED ON OUR SIX MONTH ANNIVERSARY]
A Meditation on Marriage The repetition and awkwardness of the question evoked irritation, something like the metal scrape of a dentist's pick as it moves along the gum line.
When’s the wedding?
I know it’s a fair question, a somewhat fair assumption. When two people are in a long-term relationship, the discussion of marriage seems inevitable. After all, when Chris was offered a better job out of town, I didn't think twice before stuffing my wardrobe into a few bags, giving away furniture—one television, two lamps, a bamboo rug, and an underutilized hall tree—and asking for a work transfer.
Chris and I were partners, but marriage wasn’t part of our formula. We didn’t want to ruin our relationship with a set of shiny rings and stamped approval from the state. We marveled at those who did. I say "we" but really, these were my thoughts, my impositions on our relationship. What I didn't know then was that Chris had other ideas.
I was eleven. It was 1990 and my mother was alone, sneaking a cigarette at the kitchen window before my father got home. I walked in. She exhaled out the window, the same way I would when I would turn fourteen and begin sneaking her cigarettes up to my room. Mom had combined the last of our ketchup, some bread crumbs, half an onion, a huge chunk of ground beef and a few eggs in a big bowl. She threw the oven mitt at me. “You can finish the meatloaf,” she said as she lit another cigarette.
When my father arrived home the meatloaf was in the oven, filling the house with the smell of onions and comfort. He said hello and walked upstairs to change. I helped Mom set the table. She sat, picking at her own plate as she watched my father eat his meal. He patted his stomach and burped.
“You're welcome,” Mom said. She meant it. I laughed. Meanwhile, Mom continued to watch my father closely as he ate. He never returned her gaze. He wouldn’t speak to her again during the meal.
I used to stare at the wall of our living room, which was adorned with my father's art. When they were still dating, Dad drew Mom’s body in sections, charcoal outlines of her thigh or the side of her arm, her waist, framed grayscale pictures. Those portraits were a series of framed mysteries. I didn't understand their symbolism, and I remember searching for familiar lines in the shading.
#
I was thrilled to see my father again, six months after the move. He has remarried since divorcing my mother almost fifteen years ago, but lately—only lately—he has begun telling me stories about his love affair with Mom. This day, he told me about the time the two took an entire summer to make things from scratch; they made cheese, bread, and three kinds of wine in their small apartment in Toledo, Ohio.
“That raisin wine was a chore,” he said. A dark piece of straight, limp hair fell low on his forehead and he pushed it back. “We drove all the way around the city, just looking for raisins. I think there was a grape shortage—the one summer I can remember in history that there has been a grape shortage! And we picked that summer to make our wine.”
Dad went on to say that for some reason, their goal was to fill a large plastic tub so as not to alter the recipe they had acquired—one that made a few gallons. As they slowly amassed the stock at various markets and grocers around the city, they only got more determined. They listened to loud music and laughed, kissed, sang.
“Man, that wine was nasty,” he said. “But we did it.” Dad laughed, looking toward reminiscence; that spot another’s eyes can’t quite trace.
When I asked Mom about the wine a few days later, she laughed without pause. “You're father and I drove around all day. We were on a mission and we weren't going to give up for anything.”
I told Chris about the wine. He suggested we try it. We purchased 1 lb of sugar, 2lbs of raisins, and a lemon.
“Why are we doing this?” I asked.
“It’s fun,” he said, reaching for the instructions by my computer screen. “We add 6 quarts of boiling water to these ingredients then we just have to stir it every day. In a month, we’ll have wine.” Chris kissed me on the cheek, and reminded me that they probably just did it wrong.
We stood in the kitchen, hovering over a large glass bowl. I instructed Chris to stir as I poured. I noticed that his beard is growing back in, shading his jaw. I've always found this stage of a beard attractive on him, masculine, natural and fleeting. He has to keep a clean-shave for his job, so this look is a rarity, reserved for long weekends and holidays.
“I can’t guarantee this will be good,” I said, handing him a wooden spoon.
Chris bent his knees until his eyes were in-line with my own. He rested his arm on my shoulder and I could feel the length of the spoon down my back. “Then again, maybe it’s worth a shot.”
Copyright © Jennifer Lynn Knox
I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood. --Audre Lorde
I thought I'd share this quote as it pertains to my current dilemma: misunderstanding. You see, I worked diligently to write, to express a tough story without whining, crying or playing the victim. And yet there are some people who think I am holding back, that there was some sort of sexual abuse in my past that led to the stories that make up my memoir. The fact is, there wasn't. Women are capable of making bad decisions all on our own, without first being victimized. I am the poster child of this fact.
For some, it's far easier to claim we are easy targets, victims, incapable of making our own bad decisions. Many readers have recognized and acknowledged my attempt to own up, to examine my personal quest, but there are a few who think they can read deeper into the meaning of my words, that I'm secretly calling out for help. I have to be honest, this worries me. And, it offends me.
I'm here to say, I do not regret writing my memoir, nor do I regret publishing it. I am somewhat bruised by those who assume I was a victim of this or that, but it won't shut me up. In fact, it gives me fuel to keep writing, to explore more fully the human condition in all it's shaded, difficult to draw contours. Not everything is black and white, clean lines. This makes life both beautiful and difficult, and I will continue to exercise my ability to capture this shading, to try to communicate my personal experience of the world without being so easily pigeonholed.
For those who misunderstand, you keep me going. My goal is to capture that gray shading and communicate it to those who are convinced everything is black. Or white. Good or bad. Predator or prey. Hardly.
This is why I write. It is also why I read. I want to better relate to what I do not yet know, what I have not experienced first-hand or that which I have and do not yet fully understand. So, I'll continue to write, to practice my craft and hope that I can better communicate what it is like to live and watch and empathize as the individual woman I am, without being filtered into a neat, comfy category that says I am X, the direct result of Y. Things aren't always that simple.
Computercation
Many things frighten me. I'm frightened by almost everything, at least for a short time. Then, predictably, I grow used to the thing that scared me, and instead, I become bored by it. For instance, I was once scared of computers. I felt inept on many computer programs and so I avoided them at all costs.
And after five (maybe seven) years of regular computer use, it's no surprise that I'm growing--if not bored, restless--sitting at my computer, trying to market this book all the damn time. So, I've decided that I'm embarking on my computer-cation (computer vacation). Wish me luck, I'll need it. I already feel the withdrawal, the looming email collecting in folders, important things that I have to respond to right away... Scarier than Halloween.
So, I'll post Monday or Tuesday, to report on my attempts to follow in the footsteps of King Ludd, and all those who have rebelled against technological change.
In closing, here's a list of helpful Halloween Hints, lessons I've learned over the last week that might make Halloween itself a little less scary.
1. If your ice cream man comes around at 6AM, he's selling drugs. Don't take his free ice cream, even on Trick or Treat night.
2. Don't eat any candy with warning labels. (i.e. - "this might remove a filling")
3. If you're going to dress up, zombiefy your costume, it only helps.
4. Too much candy corn is truly sickening. Even if it's the chocolate kind.
5. Don't dress up like Michael Jackson, unless your going to do a damn-good job on the costume--that rule goes for kids, too.
6. Apples do not count as cady, unless they're candied apples.
7. You're never too old to dress up, only too cranky.
8. If you're going to do like me and be Rosie the Riveter, make sure you don't go into neighborhood with high gang activity, unless you happen to know they're all Bloods.
OK. Signing off here... I'm already shaking. I might have to take up drinking and smoking again without the comfort of these one-sided conversations (I mean "blog entries")
jen
(buy Musical Chairs, if you haven't yet...) Or go here, they're giving them away.
[picture courtesy of last year's "Zombie Walk" in San Antonio]
I've received my first negative response. It's official, I'm a writer!
Blogger,
Renee S. Gardiner, who is a self-proclaimed critic and whose credentials include an official blogger's badge as a
Catholic Company's official product reviewer posted a review of Musical Chairs that included the phrase: "I just don't get it." (This phrase makes up one-third of the review.)
I felt a slight twinge of sadness after reading this review, and then I got curious about the author. I read her other reviews and began to feel a little better--it quickly became clear that
Musical Chairs would not be her forte--that she is accustomed to reading Christian Fiction and Amish-themed books. That said, she rated a picture book similarly, as follows:
2.0 out of 5 stars for The Adventures of Snip in Oregon by Betty S. Moir
"...Maybe it's because I'm not a dog person or maybe because my children are older (my 'baby' is 9 years old)) but I just didn't "get" this book which looking at other reviews here puts me in the minority." So, she doesn't "get" dogs either. Well, at least I know I'm in good company. I love dogs.
If you're interested, please read her review here:
Amazon I don't mind a negative review, but I have to take comfort in the fact that she is not my target audience. Another reviewer put it best, when she says, "this is a modern language book, which means some of the blunt language may not appeal to some people." I love the controversy, but perhaps it should be noted that my book might not appeal to those who are extremely conservative. Than again, I wonder what compelled Renee to request a review copy? Perhaps... Hell, I don't know.
Thank you, Renee, for your review. I am not responding negatively to you, just doing what memoirists do, recording my search for answers. We should talk about your disliking for dogs, though. The one above is loved by all.
The days are long for an impatient writer, waiting to see her completed book for the first time. I am, as many of you know, a rather impatient person anyway. This is a result of moving often, and treating everything as a temporary situation (not in a Buddhist way, but more of a neurotic, anxious way). Disclaimer aside, I want to take this opportunity to capture the extreme emotions I currently feel, the ebb and flow of pride and fear, worry and excitement, wonder and exhaustion.
As a writer, I am thrilled. There is no doubt that I have put a lot of work into this project, put my life into it, in fact, and I have often felt this day would never come. As a memoirist, I am fearful, worried that the subtle revisions to my manuscript will in some way offend those who are highlighted in the text. Even though my parents, sister and Grandma have all read various versions of this title, I have worked tirelessly to revise it and even the slightest change sometimes, the addition of one extra scene from childhood, the extraction of another, can change the entire feel of the book. These delicacies are tough.
As a daughter, sister, adult, I feel wholly responsible and confident that I represented my story as honestly as possible. I have represented a time in my life to the best of my ability, and any fears I have are not about my intention being exposed but my intention being misinterpreted. I have noticed, for instance, that there are two responses from those readers with whom I've shared my story:
1. "You are a strong woman, brave. I can't believe you lived through all that."
2. "I like your voice, the fact that you talk about so much tough stuff without sounding whiny or playing the victim role."
As is obvious, these two responses are somewhat contradictory. As a writer, I prefer the second.
As a woman, I prefer the first.
I've never in my life felt like such an emotional wreck; however, I've never been so happy. If I had to do it again, right now, perhaps I would have labeled my work "fiction". It would have given me the freedom to build momentum, to tell a story with a more-defined story arc... but I've never been known to make things easy on myself and those I love.
The advice I would give to writers who plan to publish memoir is to take careful account of what you want to say, to write as if no one will ever see the manuscript, and then, to think very carefully before submitting the work as nonfiction. Think about whether you are expressing true empathy for those you have turned into characters. Think about whether you are ready to receive criticism from the outside world, concerning your decisions. Think about it, and then, if you believe that the benefits to those who read the manuscript will outweigh the costs, then it is worth it. Publication is, after all, about sharing ideas with the world, not writing for some cathartic or therapeutic reason.
All that said, I will endure the roller coaster, and welcome the criticism. I am ready for it. In fact, I invite it. After all, my story is hardly one of victim hood but rather that of a girl who has made a lot of bad decisions. And for the record, my family has been nothing but supportive of my expression, so long as I am being genuine in the telling. I don't know that everyone would be so lucky. But, seeing as how I am, the emotional roller coaster is worth it!
MUSICAL CHAIRS
Last night Chris went grocery shopping. As I unpacked the numerous items I would have purposely avoided putting in the cart: cookies, chips, beer, cereal—here, I stopped. He bought something I haven’t seen available in years, General Mill’s Boo Berry cereal. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t eat the stuff, but something nostalgic made me curious and I tried a little. The cereal itself was nothing special, a bunch of sugary puffed corn clusters dyed blue and some indistinguishable marshmallows with an odd, crunchy texture, but the actual experience was cathartic.
The act of eating that cereal awakened memories that were rich in sensory detail: the taste reminded me not only of images but provided an ephemeral feeling of the past. Although it is often difficult to purposely recreate such feelings, the experience made me think about the process of writing about the past or even summoning past emotions to write fiction or poetry. In writing my memoir, I would often meditate on the past, writing a scene as I revisited my memories privately, working hard to resurrect those gaps in chronology—those weeks or months that have seemed to blur in my mind. But after Chris’s odd purchase (for a household that never eats cereal) I have begun to construct a list of foods and habits that I used to have, that I have since grown out of or given up.
After a few days of mild writer’s block, I feel as though I might have stumbled upon a rather obvious exercise to combat such times—proactive nostalgic experiences. Over the course of the next few weeks, when I’m not fretting over my lecture, I will be revisiting the past in this manner, through sensory remembrances: old music, meals, pictures… I think this might be, at least a temporary cure for the block. And, I thought I’d share it.
Many people don't know that Bruce Lee was a philosopher. His whole theory about optimum performance and contentment was centered on the idea that each person should be "like water," able to adjust to whatever surroundings contain them. If a person is never overly excited and never overly depressed, there is contentment and balance in life. Lee also said that all stress, both positive and negative, is hard on the body. Therefore, with balance, there are fewer expectations and fewer disappointments but also more resilience.
It seems there are a few ways to achieve this balance, the most important being discipline. Routines that are healthy but varied, include exercise and meditation or prayer, work and relaxation, along with adequate socialization are all necessary routines to provide a foundation of balance in a person's life. Yet, to be successful in this country, it seems as though a person has to pick and chose to compete.
Malcolm Gladwell's recent book Outliers reflects the phenomenon of extremely successful people in numerous fields, from athletics to computer programming. What he seemed to find is that a combination of opportunity and extreme dedication were requisits for the ultra-successful. Even Lee fit Gladwell's model of extreme success, proving his own training regime somewhat excessive, even to the detriment of his physical health at times.
In the past four months, I have most all waking hours to perfect my manuscript, rewriting numerous scenes and editing, all in order to create my best work--work that has been developing for years. Whether the book is any good is yet to be determined, but it is an unavoidable truth that I have been sacrificing balance for this project.
In the past week, I have slept an average of 10-12 hours each night, felt moody and nervous throughout the day and, to be honest, compromised my appearance and sometimes my relationships in order to finish this project. However, had I not done this, I might have missed a window of opportunity that will not come again.
What I wonder now is how much compromise is worth it? I feel exceedingly happy to have completed this work, but what did I sacrifice? I have the feeling many people are met with this option: balance and contentment vs. success, throughout their lives, and I'm currently wondering which path is more promising... neither is guaranteed, after all. I have been thinking about this post for a while, thinking about the hours of research Chris and I did about the publishing industry, the dozens of query letters I sent out and rejection letters I received, about the publication process I was unaware of before undertaking it, and I've come to the realization that although I did not take the standard route, my personal experience might help others if I recount it here.
Let me just begin by saying, I've been exceedingly lucky to find caring and honest people to work with throughout this journey. My publisher, All Things That Matter Press, is a small operation that works with writers who are not yet "names" in the industry but who they believe display a powerful story and dedication to their art. The company is run by Deb and Phil Harris, both of whom I have worked with for the past few months, going back and forth with through editing and cover designs, and both of whom are dedicated to helping writers who want to maintain their artistic integrity without self-publishing. ATTM Press, if they believe in your work, is a royalty-paying company, and unlike self-publishers or scam-publishers, they do not charge the author or try to sell editing services. They are merely a small company that cannot (at this point) afford to pay big advances and fly their authors around the world on book tours.
Many people told me that I should have held out for a bigger publisher, that I would not get the sales or exposure I deserve, but in response, I say, as an investment, I would be weeded out of big publishers--no question. Reason? Well, I wrote a memoir--not the savviest of business decisions, considering the tough economy coupled with the struggling publishing industry along with the fact that I am a girl from a working-class family who grew up in Ohio and wrote about her own bad decisions. In other words, I am not a sure thing. I say this, not to be defensive so much as realistic. A memoir by a person who is not yet famous is a difficult sell. And I have done the research to prove it.
Chris Shanahan (my husband and a widely respected economist (yes, his specialty is agriculture, but he's adaptable)) did an analysis of the industry for me and the evidence was astounding--memoir is a genre that is dominated by celebrities. Literary memoir, the genre I am currently studying, is largely wonderful and under-read; however, it is also dominated by already-well-established writers. In other words, creative nonfiction is not the best genre to emerge with, according to big business practices.
Let me just assure everyone who cares and worries about my decision: it was more important to me to get my real story into the world, to work with people who care about my individual art, and to understand the ins and outs of the business. At bottom, I am truly in it for the art of my story this time. I blame this artistic stubbornness completely on my father--who taught me to be true to my voice, even at the cost of actual dollars. And, who knows, perhaps Musical Chairs will do well, and I will be proud to say I have gone on record as fully supporting a wonderful, albeit small press, like ATTM, who cares about my work.
Art and writing are not exempt from becoming big business, like any other capitalist venture. And I am here to say, if we support small publishers and "nobody" artists like myself, sometimes there is hidden value there that cannot be easily purchased. With a statement like that, my book better be good, eh?
My book will be out in by October 10th, 2009. So let me have it after that--seriously, this is a learning process for me, and I want all the feedback I can get. My first book took five years to write, but within those five years, I spent an average of twenty hours/week on the writing itself--I'm not a fast learner by any means, but I want it to be clear, I am by no means thinking myself some sort of unsung prodigy. I am always learning. Small publisher or no, a writer has to work damn-hard to allow stories to be told in the best possible way.
I will not write about the forthcoming stages of this book's process and it is likely the full story will not be realized for many years, but the following is a short record of the process of beginning. This blog is my commitment.
My grandmother wants me to write about her life. Today, she is miles from me, a psyche patient in a small Ohio facility that is monitoring her around the clock. She is a paranoid schizophrenic who has been reasonably stable for many years and only recently has she begun to suffer what is often referred to under the diagnostic-umbrella of schizophrenia as “a mental break.” Currently, my grandmother is on suicide watch.
Although my grandmother’s life has been ravaged by such breaks and long periods of publicly-suppressed paranoia that she would often only share with those closest to her, her life has also been laced with magic. Her story is one that I am honored to share. There will be obstacles, and due to our small and largely scattered family, it will be a project requiring a lot of difficult research. Moreover, I cannot fully explore my grandmother’s life without including our own, often tumultuous, relationship, which I begin to introduce in Musical Chairs, my own story. I guess what I’m saying is, this will not be easy.
The delusions that have plagued my grandmother throughout her life will be mine now, too, to explore and record—honestly, this is a project that scares me. However, after speaking with my grandmother daily over the course of her recent break, I am beginning to realize what I’ve always suspected, that her illness has colored many of the most remarkable and mysterious strokes that have painted her life’s portrait.
Today, Grandma is sick. She is grateful that I call, and each day she tells me this. But her illness is also wearing her down, and she can never talk long. A few days ago, when she told me she wanted me to write about her life, I asked her to begin a journal, to take notes about memories as they arrive. I will be visiting her soon, and I told her that the more she can capture, the easier it will be for me to interview her when I arrive. Today, she assures me that her memories won’t leave.
“These memories are strong, Sweet, they’re tumbling in by the truckloads, and everything seems clearer than yesterday. That’s why I need you to do this.” Her voice got small after this encouraging bit of news. “But, Jen, I can’t write anymore. I’m too weak.”
The last time I saw my grandmother, she was the picture of health. I told her not to worry about writing. That was my job anyway. I said we’d figure it out. And we will.
Jen
www.jenknox.com
omes addicted. After seeing three women with boob scarves on, he quits his job and takes up the medication full-time. When the stuff shows up in advertisements for lawyers offices, as an opportunity for group lawsuits, he begins to feel tight pains in his stomach that double him over in front of the TV.
