Love or Money?

At the risk of obviousness, I love Spain.

I've loved Spain with blind faith since I first heard about its existence when I was about eleven years old. People have been telling me lately how hard it must be, away from home during the holidays. I've nodded and smiled, only to realize later that they were talking about me.

I can't understand why anyone would not love Spain.
Photo 2005 Jessica Knauss

No, I don't feel as if I'm away from home. If we must pathologize my experience, I've come up with the term nationality dysphoria, which is a form of psychological suffering on its way to being diagnosable, but I prefer to think of it as one of my defining characteristics rather than a disease. If you asked any one of my friends or family members to describe me, their first sentence would be, "She loves Spain."

Now that I'm here, what would it take to get me to leave? I underwent just such a test of my love and loyalty this past week. I'm exhausted!

A company I worked for in Massachusetts (one of my favorite places in the United States) had been trying to contact me about a freelance job. I welcomed this idea, because in order to live in Zamora, I teach English on a part-time basis. It pays enough to live frugally, but if I want to have money left over at the end of the year to pay student loans or buy a ticket back to the United States (that part's iffy), I have to maintain a healthy schedule of freelance editing.

The company had some trouble getting in touch with me because this came about when I was traveling in Ponferrada without much internet. We finally set up a time for a call via Google Voice on Monday afternoon. I should've suspected it was a big deal when they insisted on the phone call. Most of my freelance work never leaves the realm of email.

My favorite historical figures call me to Spain.
Photo 2016 Stanley Coombs 

Nothing could've prepared me for what happened. I had my notebook next to the computer to write down the specifics, and it only has one line of notes before all hell broke loose in my brain. A huge editorial project in Spanish packed into three months for one of the most famous publishers, I would have to live in Massachusetts while I worked on it.

But... I live in Spain...?

As we kept talking, the offer took on epic proportions.

* A round-trip ticket.

* A rent-free apartment equipped with ways to eat frugally.

* More pay than I've ever earned in a year as a freelance editor, and much more than I make as a part-time teacher assistant, for three months' work.

That quantity of money wouldn't seem like much to some, but it would offer me some exciting possibilities.

It turned my head. I felt I'd only ever seen job offers like this in movies before. However, inconveniences included no health insurance and no transportation allowance. I would have to give notice at school and my gorgeous apartment and be on a flight by Christmas Day at the latest. (This kind of last-minute scramble is routine in this industry.)

I requested twenty-four hours to decide, and put up the twenty-four-hour Facebook poll at the top  of this post. The poll is highly simplified, but that was what it boiled down to for me: Love = staying in Spain, Money = leaving immediately for three months. I wanted people's gut reactions, and I got them. I was impressed, but not surprised, when Love became the favorite from the start.

I also got advice from a few people whose opinions I trust. In my shoes, they would go for the money. In my circles, money is rarer than love and you must take it when and where you find it. And, after all, I've already experienced true love, the kind you always hear about and never think is real. How greedy would I be to demand yet more love now that my sweet Stanley is gone?

I went to bed thinking that in the morning, I was probably going to pack my winter clothes to head to Massachusetts. The English idiom "sleeping on it" is "consulting with the pillow" in Spanish. My Spanish pillow did a lot of convincing, because I woke up in the opposite frame of mind.

I got up and emailed to politely decline.

With the time difference, the company wouldn't read the email for several more hours, but I felt better instantly. With that strange interlude over, I had an unusual day at school that required every ounce of extroverted energy I'd stored up over the last six months.

I was emotionally exhausted to the point of physical symptoms when I received a counteroffer.

The old offer still stood, with its plane fare and its quick time frame, but the new offer added:

* A generous food allowance.

* Even more salary!

* I would be picked up from the airport.

* I would work with people I enjoyed, as well as a new international cadre of brilliant experts.

* I would be a train ride away from all the wonders and friends of Boston.

I started thinking I would be crazy not to accept. As this blog post admits, I may just be a little crazy. Add nationality dysphoria to my normal, earth-shattering grief, and we can conclude that the only reason I'm not a complete basket case is that I'm successfully treating the symptoms of my pathology by living in Spain. I've also had some wonderful help with my grief.

I researched the details of what it would take for me to accept the offer. Sure, there were a few problems, but they all had solutions. Then the Facebook poll ended, with Love the clear winner. Why wasn't I as clear about it as my friends?

I had a coffee date that afternoon with my Zamora-native friend. It turned out that such an activity involves viewing the colorful sunset and the flight of the storks at the castle as well as a nice little walk past innumerable medieval and Renaissance architecture masterpieces that exert a physical pull on me to have tea in a cozy jazz cafe.

The storks just keep coming at Zamora Castle. (Not a photo from the coffee date.) 

I explained the extraordinary job offer to my friend, and he was impressed. "You must be really good."

"Of course, I'm the best. Didn't you know?" I replied with a sense of humor I'm not sure anyone understands but me.

All the beauty of Zamora had come out to meet me that afternoon. I savored the signature bergamot essence of Earl Grey tea in a jazz cafe in the small, unique city of my lifelong dream. My life since my true love died has dipped frequently into unbearable, but here and now, I can reach out and touch happiness, if only for the briefest moments.

"Spain will be here when you come back," my friend said. "It's not going anywhere."

It was true, but I wasn't convinced. Sure, I would have enough savings to come back in the springtime and resume everything but work at school, which I assumed wouldn't take me back after such a sudden departure. But once I was in Massachusetts, the paperwork alone would be daunting. Doubts surrounded the idea in my mind.

Some of the greatest moments of my life have happened in Spain. 

My Zamoran friend and I stopped at the supermarket (full of Spanish food!! I'll have to write a separate post about this aspect of life.) before heading to our separate homes, and we sang a few lines from Manolo García songs in the middle of the street. This is not something that ever happens in the United States. If he was rooting for me to take the job, he was going about it all wrong.

I got home, made a Spanish-style light dinner, watched some of my favorite TV in the world, and then called up an old friend. She asked me different questions than all the other wise advisors I'd called upon so far and helped me unpack what felt wrong about the "it'll be here when you come back" argument.

Her question was: Would I have left Stanley for three months to be with a rich man?

When I recovered from the copious tears that sprang up at the thought, I choked out, "Never." No question. No argument. Everyone pack up and go home.

Photo 2005 Jessica Knauss 

Maybe no one else would see it this way, and maybe it's not fair to focus so much of the meaning of life on any one thing, especially a country, but this is an accurate reflection of my psychological landscape. At a deep level, I questioned whether Spain would ever take me back after such a betrayal. Perhaps the country of my birth would latch onto me and never let go. It was as if Spain was testing my loyalty and asking me to define what's most important. I couldn't disappoint the surviving love of my life, even if it will never give me words of approval because it has no lips or vocal cords.

I suppose everyone has their price, but the offer didn't quite meet mine.

Listen up, Spain! I passed the test. I'm staying as long as you'll let me. Send money now. Lots of money!

You Look at Me, I Fall In Love: A Few Reasons Zamora is Going to Be Awesome

Urraca of Zamora as portrayed in El Cid (1961) 

As you know, I'm going to be teaching English in Zamora, Spain, come September. It's a dream come true not only because I've always wanted to live in Spain, but also because Zamora has a lot going for it (in my humble opinion).

You probably haven't heard of Zamora before. If you look it up online, you'll find phrases like "overlooked" and "the quiet interior of Spain." That suits me fine. My dear Stanley taught me that many of the finest things in life are quiet and hardly anyone knows about them.

This anonymity is recent. From the time of its founding at the beginning of Roman power in Iberia, Zamora played an important role in commerce and military strategy. Its history is full of explosive characters, a goldmine for historical novelists—and I'm planning to do a lot of mining!

I pretend to be Urraca de Zamora in 2005. 

A most notable character is Urraca de Zamora. Her father, King Fernando I, decided to divide up his vast kingdom among his children. (This might seem like a good idea, but it has never played out well in history or fiction.) Urraca's three brothers fought it out until Sancho II had become King of Castilla, León, and Galicia. However, Urraca's father had granted her sovereignty over the walled city of Zamora, and she wasn't giving it up easily. Sancho besieged the city and then sent El Cid himself to ask Urraca to hand over Zamora in exchange for many different prosperous villages with their noble vassals. She refused with the vehemence required and with the support of the loyal Zamorans. In the end, she had to call in her other brother, Alfonso, to help, and once the siege of Zamora was over, Alfonso had become Alfonso VI of all the kingdoms of his father.

The rare and gorgeous Romanesque cathedral of Zamora
Photo by Jessica Knauss 

That's only one example of how desired Zamora has been by important players. The Spanish saying "Zamora no se ganó en una hora" refers to the many long sieges it suffered as leaders through history took great pains to win it or recover it.

Zamora has crossed my path before, kind of a teaser trailer for this new life plan. My proudest accomplishment, Seven Noble Knights, begins with a siege of Zamora (read it here when you scroll down)!

At Zamora castle. Photo by Jessica Knauss 

I also visited for one day before I started my doctoral dissertation research in Salamanca. It was not enough time to even begin to delve into the amazing architecture all that history has left behind. Zamora is a major center of Romanesque architecture, and I adore that style. I will adore imagining historical and fictional characters interacting, feeling their emotions, and living their everyday lives in and among this architecture. Much more about that later.

Finally, I had a feeling all along that it would be Zamora. The program I'm teaching with only allows you to choose the top three regions you'd like to be placed in, what type of school, and what size of city. None of the preferences are guaranteed as they place hundreds of teachers all over the country. I had indicated Castilla y León as my first choice because Stanley had said his favorite city was Burgos (the site of many scenes in Seven Noble Knights). I was thrilled when I received my first regional choice, but intuited that it wasn't going to be Burgos.

There were two Spanish pop songs in the 1980s that had provincial capitals of Castilla y León in their titles, and I strongly felt that it was going to be one of them. In my darker moments, I knew Soria was the place for me. I'm sure it's wonderful, but it's the only capital of Castilla y León that I haven't visited at all. Its '80s song is a six-minute epic of mystical angst and disappointment in love, complete with an organ that evokes church or the phantom of the opera.

These are the lyrics of "Camino Soria" (my translation):

Everyone knows it’s hard to find a place in life where time passes rhythmically without thinking, and pain doesn’t stay long. On the banks of the Duero there’s a city. If you don’t know the way, listen to this: The dead leaves fall slowly as you walk by and the deer begins to speak. On a cool morning the sun’s already out but can’t warm anything. When you can make out the mountain of the spirits, don’t look. Recover and keep walking. Bécquer was no idiot and Machado no lout, and from the two of them you find out that the cure for love is solitude. On the banks of the Duero, there’s a city. On the banks of the Duero, my love, I’m waiting for you. I’m headed to Soria, where are you going? There, I’m in my glory as never before. I’m headed to Soria. I want to rest. Erasing from my memory betrayals and the rest. Erasing from my memory, I’m headed to Soria. 

After the year I've had, I don't need any more brooding. I've got that covered. 

So I turned to the other song, "Zamora." The lead vocals are by none other than Manolo García, one of the loves of my life! Added to that, the lyrics and music are loud, fun, nonsensical, ROAD TRIP mayhem. (This is the 2015 version. The '80s version appears to use Zamora as an insane asylum. We'll leave that aside, too, thankyouverymuch.) 

These are some of the lyrics (my translation): 

There’s no rush to get there, everything’s yet to be discovered. If you want to come along, there’s room on board. I’m a gray Argonaut, but I have a plan: just friendship, that’s the deal. Chimeras, excitement, that’s what’s coming. Benzedrine-free shine, that’s the goal. A life of musicians who never want to stop, a life of acrobats and tricks. We’ll be freaks with excellent etiquette, guests no one is expecting. She looks at me, I fall in love with her, she takes me to Zamora. Our journey ends if I propose a wedding. And if you go off with someone else, I fall in love with your mother. You call me and say, “Calm down, don’t get worked up.” 

The Duero at Zamora
Photo by Jessica Knauss 

In both cases, the cities were chosen because of the multiple rhymes that could be made with their names, but I listened to "Zamora" on repeat for several days while I awaited my school assignment. When the email came in, it was so very official, with a dateline and everything, in the administrative capital of Castilla y León, Valladolid. Valladolid is a large and amazing city, but I was disconcerted because I thought I'd been assigned to a school there. No, silly, keep scrolling! Ah, there's the school address: It's in Zamora! Yippee! 

A fun song named after it, I started my first novel in it, Romanesque architecture, thrilling history, a good school, I should be able to walk just about everywhere, and it's close to Portugal. In ten trips I've taken to Spain, I've never set foot in Portugal. Time to dust off the bucket list. 

How Not to Be a Potential Client

Now that I freelance for a living, my life depends on developing good relationships with clients. Far be it from me to complain about any potential client's behavior, but I need to share this one with the wider world because it's representative of what freelance editors encounter every day. I've changed some of the details to protect the identity of the person who sent me this message via one of the freelancing sites I belong to.

Greetings!

I am shopping around for an editor to go over the final draft of my [genre I work with] novel before I sent [sic] it to print. I need someone who is very detail-oriented to double check for typos, grammar mistakes, etc. Are you available to take on a project this week? My goal is to have the edits done by next Monday. Also, what do you typically charge for a project that is just under 100,000 words?

Thanks!

Let me dissect the flaws in this all too average message so that if you're ever in the market for an editor or proofreader, you can do better. Correspondence to potential editors is one more place you can make a good or bad impression, one more chance to put your best foot forward as a writer.

I am shopping around for an editor to go over the final draft of my [genre I work with] novel ...

The opening is off-putting because of the phrase "shopping around." Yes, freelancers are aware clients do this, but if this person had written something along the lines of "I saw that you like to edit novels in this genre," it would have been a point for them rather than against. It would have shown that the client had read my preferences and may also have done some (highly advisable) research into the books I've edited in the past. Such research benefits both of us because it makes it more likely that you'll find the right fit, which results in a good working relationship and satisfactory results.

I need someone who is very detail-oriented to double check for typos, grammar mistakes, etc. 

It's great that they give some sense of the work they'd like done, but the "double check" sentence makes me suspicious that this person doesn't really know what services they need, and the "etc" doesn't help that impression. Ideally, before you approach your researched editors, you need the following elements in place: 1. A completed book. 2. Someone (preferably many people) whose opinion you trust to read the book. 3. A list of issues your trusted readers found that you can't correct on your own. Editing the book as much as you can by yourself will save you time and money. Knowing the specifics of what you need will make for a better estimate process, saving time, money, and heartache.

Are you available to take on a project this week? My goal is to have the edits done by next Monday. 

What's the rush? Most editors have many projects going on at once and scheduling each project is a superhuman act to begin with. Much as we might like to help, we can't throw our other projects a week off schedule without serious consideration and, ideally, previous notice. It takes time to find tiny errors. This client was expecting someone to find all the needles in 100,000 bits of hay in just a little more than six days. Why the need to get the book to the printer so quickly? Please don't leave your copyediting and proofreading needs as the last hurried step in a production crunch. It stresses everyone out and creates opportunities for the mistakes we're all trying to avoid.

Also, what do you typically charge for a project that is just under 100,000 words?

The last question is inappropriate, since rates are explained on all the freelance sites I belong to. 100,000 words in a week would qualify as a rush job, which is far from typical. How can I know that I would charge typical rates for this book when I haven't seen a sample? A better approach would have been: "Please take a look at the attached sample and let me know your best quote for this last-minute rush job."

Every human interaction is an opportunity to prove you are a thoughtful, considerate human being as well as a professional. Remember that even when you reach out to someone online, there is a human being very similar to you, with their own issues and concerns, on the other end. 

Six Years of Christmas

Having a full time job has made me into one of those people who just can't do it all. This blog has suffered most. I've worked hard on it for years and appreciate every single one of my readers, so my New Year's Resolution will have something to do with establishing a regular schedule here again.

Looking back on the year at this holiday time has brought to mind all the travels (and accompanying emotional ups and downs) my husband and I have done since we met. And so, enjoy photos that represent Christmas through the past six years.

2008

We had been living together in Massachusetts for half a year when Christmas 2008 rolled around, and it was a small apartment and so had only a tiny potted Christmas tree at home. But we had love, and my husband was determined to fulfill a promise he'd made sooner rather than later, so we also had Mickey! At Disneyworld! An unbelievable Christmas.

2009

Christmas 2009 was bare-bones. We had moved to Pennsylvania only days before. But at least we had love, and Saxophone Santa (still our favorite holiday toy). See Saxophone Santa in action here and with a friend here.

2010

The following year, we had placed our stuff in storage and moved in with my gracious sister-in-law in Arizona the previous month. It was the beginning of an explosively creative period in all aspects of my life, but I wasn't aware at the time. Holiday 2010 is represented by fake snow for the wondering Arizonans at the Winterhaven lights display.

2011

By 2011, we had moved to our own apartment in Arizona and both had interesting jobs, and I was writing like crazy. But we hadn't been able to get our stuff out of storage, so at home, we decorated a tree with candy canes and a beautiful compass rose ornament I received from an author who had already become a good friend. This year, we had even more fun at the Winterhaven display because we found this gorgeous Christmas rhino!

2012

We moved from Arizona to Georgia in 2012, but didn't make it to Christmas there. Instead, we went from the boiling pot of water that was summer in Georgia to the icebox winter of Illinois. This was the Christmas my husband realized that I own four giant tubs worth of Christmas decorations, enough to decorate our tree several times over. My mom got me started when I was a kid, and you can't throw away memories like that. I accomplished the amazing feat of finishing my first novel, Seven Noble Knights, in November 2012, and it's commemorated with the cake and the thumb drive, and the new ornament.

2013

Christmas 2013 was probably the most surprising of all, as my husband and I had been living in a hotel in North Carolina since May. We never expected to stay there for so many months, and yet again, our stuff was in storage. We got a little tinsel tree and set it on top of the dehumidifier I insisted on earlier in the year. Those North Carolina summers might be even wetter than the one in Georgia!

2014

And that brings us to this year! In the photo, our tree with a lot, but not all, of the ornaments from the four tubs, stands out in front of a medieval Christmas banner I picked up at a museum in New York City and stacks and piles of other memories. Note the Fight for Rhinos sustainably sourced wooden ornament, front and center.

Finally, this photo was taken on Thanksgiving Day, but the bare trees, the church tower, and roofs covered in snow scream Christmas.

Coming soon: a guest post from outstanding author Kristin Gleeson!

Happy Holidays!

"I've Had a Long String of Bad Luck..."

For the past several years, I've been doing the opposite of what it seems most writers do: searching for a full time job beyond my writing.

My husband and I had an arrangement that he would work whatever jobs he could find so that I could have my own schedule and do all the things I do: writing, editing, translating and publishing. All too frequently, however, I took freelance positions beyond my work-from-home publishing jobs that brought in some much-needed money, but were a tremendous distraction from the writing focus. I sometimes thought back fondly to my days as a cataloger in the library, when I had none of the inconsistency or instability of freelancing. Why did I ever leave that beautiful place and those lovely people?

Eventually, we got tired of the moving and the instability, and decided to return to our beloved New England and make things happen from there. That decision was the main missing piece for us. Once we made it, it was only a matter of time before everything would fall into place for us.

I've accepted a full time position in educational publishing.

Let that sink in for a moment.

I've been trying so very hard all these years to get a "real job" in publishing, but honestly, there were times I felt it would never happen. I'm in shock at how quickly it's all taking place.

There's going to be a major adjustment period while I figure out how many of my writing, editing, translating, and publishing activities I can handle with a full time job, and yes, we do have to move again. At least this time it's less than an hour's drive. Thank you for bearing with me while I figure this out and become a geographically stable, professional member of society. The one certain thing is that I won't give up on my writing, especially Seven Noble Knights.

Definitely don't miss March 19, when my Javan rhino story debuts!

Big Announcement: Açedrex Publishing is Now Ready!

When I got some funding and the blessing of Tom Grundner of Fireship Press, I took the plunge. I have always wanted my own publishing house. The time is now. The result is Açedrex Publishing, a bilingual (English and Spanish) press that I hope will meet the needs of readers and writers alike.

Visit us here: acedrex.com. We're having a big debut party sale!
Please like us on Facebook.
And tell everyone you know (especially readers, writers, and translators).

Thanks for coming on this journey with me. I couldn't do it without my readers and supporters.

This was a big, scary venture that required a lot faith and a lot of work. Here are some highlights from the soundtrack of my life over the past couple of months.

When Chenoa's singing, you know everything will go well!

Madonna can really rock an inspirational song, but here's one of the sassier ones.

When you need every day to be the first day of your life, turn to Los Aslándticos.

And Stacey Q teaches us to seize the moment when the moment is right.

Any success Açedrex has will be the result of even more work, so there's no stopping now! I won't be giving up my own writing, either, so wish me stamina.

East, West, North, South

Doc Holladay said it, not me.

It's starting to get seriously hot in Arizona. I wouldn't notice much if it weren't for my dear husband, who melts at the very thought of 85 degrees, not to mention the 120 averages we can look forward to. Added to his weird job and our accommodations on the floor of our apartment, I really can't blame him when he says out of the blue, "We have to get out of here!"

Ideally, we would return to the place we met, Beautiful Boston. I had made a conscious decision to live within the Hub's radius when I completed my degree in England because anything else was just too far from civilization. Boston retains so many old world traditions it's practically madness, including letting cattle "plan" the city layout. But I know the city layout. It's carved upon my heart, no matter who came up with it originally.

Boston thinks it's a big city, but really it's a cozy size, surrounded by suburbs that count as Boston in any normal tally. On a nice day with good shoes, you can walk from end to end of the city limits effortlessly and see hundreds of years of history as you go. Alternatively, the public transportation is not only safe and convenient, but real people use it every day, to the astonishment of some Westerners. This is all in contrast to where we live now, where everything I'd like to do is so far away from where we live that the buses won't take me there unless I ride for literally hours. After waiting for 45 minutes under the burning sun. (Why don't people in the desert create shade? The Pima had ramadas for a reason, people!)

I fell in love with Boston during my college days. I went to Wheaton College, which is much closer to Providence, Rhode Island, but both of those places are satellites to the Hub. It's still easy to see the city as the ultimate college town, so there are a lot of intellectuals and resources for a writer like me. Also appealing to me, they have nonstop flights to Spain and something like 8 Spanish restaurants, most of them very good. I could go on and on.

But it's far from healthy to do so. Boston has its disadvantages, the only one I can think of now being that, as a coastal city, it will be flooded with rising ocean levels by midcentury.

But seriously, we may get out of Arizona soon as a result of my husband's never-ending efforts in that regard, but it will probably not be a return to the city where we met. We just don't seem to be welcome there among employers. While I too, will be glad to put an end to our Arizona Year Without Furniture, I will hold some things about it very dear: the progress I've made in my writing, editing career and blogging, and an announcement I'll save for later this month. Luckily, these things are not material, so they'll fit comfortably with us in our compact car when we leave for... the next great adventure.

This Translates to a "New" TV

As you may know, my husband and I fled to Arizona to live with his sister. This was to keep her company, as her husband had recently passed away, and mostly because we couldn't afford a place of our own. Now, as you know, my husband has a job in the far south of the city, so we had to move because his sister's place was way too far north and we literally couldn't have afforded the gas, even before the springtime price increases. Even with the gas savings, we're just holding steady in a virtually furniture-free apartment, crossing our fingers for the day we can go back and get our stuff. Then we won't feel so gosh darn poor.

Now my sister-in-law has finally sold that house so far from town and is off this week to move back to California. (Arizona had been her husband's idea.) Good for her! My husband and I feel slightly abandoned to the rattlesnakes, coyotes, gila monsters, and burning sunlight, but her departure for a smaller place means we get even more second-hand stuff. You name it, we can use it. The one that's most drastically changed our quality of life has been that my sister-in-law gave us another TV set. She had given us one that she thought was decent, but it was anything but. The first TV she gave us was 12 or 14 inches, so I had to sit pretty close in order to see the questions on Jeopardy! Its remote control had been lost to the sands of time, and the cable guy didn't give us a cable box or remote because we got the cheapest package. I assure you, we pay for cable, but on this TV, it felt like we were stealing. The TV was really designed to be used with the now missing remote, so in order to use it, we had to take off the front panel and change the channels and volume with the little nubs. Even when I was single and at my poorest, I never had to endure such ignominy. The worst part was, well, it's visible in the picture.

In this picture you can also see the borrowed glass coffee table and a castoff lamp.

The channel number in the middle of the screen, taking up 25% of it, obscuring sight gags and making it impossible to recognize who's talking, never goes away! (This is apparently a common malady of older TV models -- I've seen Craigslist ads with this description!) You have the watch the lower numbered channels to get only half the obstruction.

The result of all this was that I never watched TV until my husband came home and needed to unwind. I think that's the reason I've gotten so much writing and Fireship Press projects done, so it actually added quality to my life ... until I had to look at that screen again.

The "new" TV my sister-in-law gave us is 32 inches or so (ginormous!), so I can see it across the room, read the Jeopardy! questions, and flip through the stultifying channels with the working remote. I feel almost like a princess. Or at least lower middle class. I'm still not watching much TV, but I do feel most grateful to my sister-in-law. I wish her all the best in California.

The Sleep Surface Saga

I've written about my husband's and my difficulties finding furniture that fits our budget, which in these past months has ranged from $0 to loose change. We were gratifyingly able to get a $50 refund on our futon when a sale went into effect at the store. We were feeling pretty settled, and even venturing into thinking about using the refund to get a cheap table to eat at and maybe use the computer when we weren't eating. Of course, that's when our air mattress got a leak in it. We slept on the futon while arranging to find some rubber cement to plug the hole, and even had an amusing time using the method my husband learned while briefly working at a gas station: we wiped soapy water over the plastic surface with a sponge (like he used to rub over tires) and the hole revealed itself with a little volcano of bubbling air.

Of course it was never the same once it was patched. We like to keep it pretty firm, and it insisted on sinking underneath us more than we wanted. We figured it was par for the course: we'd been using the thing every day for months, both for sleep and for extracurriculars, which we figured was beyond the scope of its design, anyway. It agreed with the thought by going completely flat within days and becoming unresuscitable.

So it was back to the futon. Why be dissatisfied with the futon? It's pretty lumpy and narrow for sleeping, and it's in the living room, where my husband can wake me up far earlier than before by grinding coffee and generally having the lights on. If we decided to sleep permanently in the living room, the bedroom would become useless and our pocketbook would ask loudly why we didn't just get a studio apartment.

It was time to get a mattress. We have a completely useable mattress... in storage in Pennsylvania. Knowing that, we really didn't want to spend the money on a mattress that would, in the best of situations, be a duplicate of something we already had, and in the worst, be something we would have to throw away if we left for greener pastures. We considered my dad's suggestions of getting thick foam pads of the kind people by for camping, but we couldn't find any such materials for sale near us. We looked for free and cheap things on Craigslist, and that's where we found our mattress provider.

We had to call ahead and make an appointment. The warehouse was in a nondescript building on a deserted-looking street. In the picture on our GPS app, it looked much cheerier than it was in person. For some reason, it made us feel less secure about our purchase when we saw Better Business Bureau insignias posted everywhere. We were shown a mattress with a garish balloon pattern that my husband wouldn't even touch, much less consider.

We were shown the next price point up from there and it seemed about as thin as a camping bedroll. The next price level was a "pillowtop," but the pillow aspect of it is still in question. It feels more like adobe bricks. I was surprised when my husband said okay, we'd buy it. The next level up was much more cushy, but we said to each other, as if convincing ourselves, that we wouldn't be using it long before we'd go back and get our deluxe memory foam dream machine in Pennsylvania. It wasn't worth it to pay that much more.

The delivery was same-day. They were going to charge $35 for the service, but we'd just had professional delivery of the futon for only $20, so, faster than the blink of an eye, the salesman lowered the price on our mattress by $35. We used a debit card for the purchase and it felt ever so risky. We wondered if every traffic cop was going to stop us for trafficking in stolen goods.

But only for a little while. Miraculously, a friendly man delivered the mattress a matter of hours after the purchase. In spite of its brick-like surface, my husband and I have been sleeping like the dead on it. It's much easier to get out of it in the morning since it doesn't slide around like the air mattress. The disconcerting squeaking is gone, too. Only two things nag at me: we still don't have a proper table to eat or work at, and when we happened into Big Lots the following day, they had a fresh shipment of Sertas for $50 less than we'd paid for our no-name.

Some day we'll win, and we'll be well-rested when we do!

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

Writers beware. I'm now a publishing insider.

How did this happen?

Like any good thing in this economy, I did not stumble upon my dream job through traditional search-and-résumé methods.

I wanted to start carving out a real writer's community for myself here in Tucson. The communities I was involved with from Pennsylvania were theoretical. I wanted, at the very least, a cyber community I could exchange manuscript critiques with, because I can't seem to get motivated sufficiently to write my amazing novel without some kind of outside impetus. Through the connections I forged with these goals in mind, I happened to be at a couple of different events at the same time as the founder and editor of the local wonder, Fireship Press. Naturally, I approached him immediately with a résumé, list of references, salary requirements, and hours of availability...

Of course that's a lie. I recognized that he would be fascinating to talk to, but was far too shy to start something. I was heading off to collect my husband and leave the scene when the editor approached me (apparently because I had been the only person in the group who was working on historical fiction). We had a short but hugely informative talk about the market for historical fiction and the role of series in publishing profitability. And so I went into the holidays with that breath of fresh air.

It's important to note from the day-to-day living standpoint that I have been given a volunteer, i.e., unpaid position. I haven't had any bites since my bookstore gig ended, and it looks like my husband's job isn't going to be a fast fix, either, so I figured I had nothing but time on my hands. I might as well make good use of it.

After another brief meeting, I confirmed that this was the publisher for me. Fiction! History! Innovative, grassroots methods! So I set my jaw, trying to squeeze the shyness into submission, and shot the editor an email asking whether he needed any help with his inspiring enterprise.

He did. So we met and talked it over. He said my qualifications were impressive. I received a document to translate into Spanish and a manuscript from the slush pile the next day. Thankfully, I say that so far the job has been from home. Tucson, the majestic and wide, is just not friendly to a one-car family. I should visit the premises soon, to get a look at the whole production process. In the meantime, I'm going to do such a good job that the editor will put me on the payroll, or I can at least take the experience elsewhere. Either way, the time will not have been wasted. Time spent learning never is.

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Sweet Anticipation

I recently saw the first episode of the Morgan Spurlock series 30 Days, in which Spurlock and his fiancée go to Columbus, Ohio, and try to live on minimum wage jobs for a month. "The working poor," they kept saying, and I kept feeling like they were talking about me and husband. He's found a job in his field, but it doesn't pay enough for us to buy health insurance, much less to really get set up. In Columbus, when they filmed, there existed "free stores" where said "working poor" could come and pick out donated items that they might need, without charge. The Spurlocks picked up tables and chairs and mattresses and got really nicely set up for that kind of budget! Alas, I haven't found any such free stores in Tucson. There are more thrift stores here than I've ever seen anywhere else, but even if you find something that makes you feel like it's not full of bedbugs, you still have to have your own way of getting it back to your place of residence. Our Honda Civic wouldn't cut it.

So last Saturday night we finally gave in to the irresistible urge to go to Sam Levitz. 

The worst part about buying a new couch is that time period between the purchase and the delivery. Luckily, our waiting period was short. We gave up on the folding chairs, as I mentioned, on Saturday night. We decided that since there was no couch waiting for us in storage in Pennsylvania, it was worth the risk to charge a very reasonably priced futon. It could serve as both a bed and a couch, two things we presently lacked. 

Sunday we imagined how much more wonderful it would be to watch the Criminal Minds marathon on our borrowed TV if we could only relax on some seating that wasn't metal. 

Monday I dreamed about how all the kinks in my neck would be gone if only I could sit on a couch and work with the laptop instead of hunch on the floor or the air mattress. 

Monday night we groaned into the air mattress and tried to figure out whether the sheets would work on the new futon, now so near to us! Sweet anticipation! 

And here it is early Tuesday afternoon and the apartment is finally starting to look halfway furnished. The futon nicely simulates a real couch when it's up. It's soooo soft and cushy, I might have to take a nap on it before I can get to work. Also, the salesman at Levitz told us to go back in and check whether the price had gone down, so we could maybe get a refund as big as $100. So what could possibly be wrong? Sorry, Mom, the only color available was chocolate brown. I guess beggars can't be choosers. 

I Said I Wanted to Work With Books, part II

It's behind me now, so I can say with authority that I know what it takes to have a successful textbook rush at a great university.

Necessary items include:

The heaviest books ever printed. Preferably, they will magically find their way all around the sales floor and it will be up to the customer service desk people to break their wrists returning them time after time to their rightful place.

At least one student who asks for "that purple book."

A circular customer service desk so that the public can come at the workers from any angle. This also has the advantage of normally requiring the customers to walk halfway around the circle in order to be close enough to one of the computers.

A maximum of two computers working at any given time for looking up textbook availability and location.

A textbook buyback station that can clearly be seen through the floor-to-ceiling windows across the rotunda. Ideally, said windows will be closed off except for emergency and event access, so that anyone who's made it down to the textbook section will have to take their used books back up the stairs, out the front door, around a few unmarked corners and back down the rotunda staircase to get within a few feet of the buyback station.

Mysterious photocopies ordered by the professors that are kept hidden in a restricted area until an initiated individual asks for them by name and course number.

Five different kinds of "clickers" that have never been sorted and all end up filed under M.

Several professors who call to check up on the textbooks for their courses, who are invariably mistaken for students with online orders unless they preface their request with some form of the phrase "the course I'm teaching."

At least one student who investigates all the books for his courses very thoroughly indeed, making full use of the customer service desk, and then tries to find them all cheaper somewhere else.

A large cohort of student workers coming and going at all times. About half should be confident and experienced, and half should have started at the bookstore yesterday. They should be generally friendly among their fellow students, until it gets close to lunch or quitting time, when they should strongly identify with a narrow core group of pre-selected peers.

An almost as large group of retired or underemployed people who love textbook rush and come back every semester, to a 25-cent raise each time until their wage equals ten dollars per hour. Every last one of them should, at some point, regale you with fascinating stories of past textbook rushes or a well-traveled past. If it's your first time at a bookstore, one of these temporary workers should remind you strongly of your husband, because he has dark hair and a very positive attitude, but mainly because you like being around him.

Absolutely zero possibility of any of the employees reading any of the books, although at least one of them really wishes she could.

So, dear readers, armed with this knowledge, go forth and sell textbooks!

My Other Favorite Story of All Time, Now Published and Available in Bewildering Stories

Listening to my mother complain about her job as a teacher during one of our weekly phone calls, inspiration hit me. Everything she'd ever told me about uncooperative students and everything I'd experienced as an elementary school student combined into one sentence. The story, now known as "Unpredictable Factors in Human Obedience" (working title and for some time afterward, the uninspired "Modern Science"), took several days to write as I took public transportation to and from work. I ended up throwing out that first inspirational sentence, and took an editing hiatus before figuring out what to do with the end, but overall, it's still true to that first bolt from above.

"Unpredictable Factors" shows the unexpected consequences of some extreme actions the main character, a teacher, takes in order to maintain control of her classroom. I had no teaching experience when I wrote the story, but I'm very proud of it still, after having paid my teaching dues. It accurately reflects the frustrations that arise in such a noble profession. It's incredibly rewarding to witness students learning under your tutelage. The problem is getting them to learn when there are so many other things they would rather be doing.

At the same time, I'm proud of the narrator. She's not expecially sympathetic, but she still draws you through to the end of the story. She's the first time I really tried to get inside the head of someone different from myself. I think she works because she functions on impulses I recognize in myself but never make use of. She's quite a gal! I just love what the editor of Bewildering Stories says about her:

"Unpredictable Factors..." introduces Emily Mattheson, a young primary-grade schoolteacher. Readers might expect Emily to be as innocuous as plain vanilla, but they’ll know from the very first paragraphs that Emily’s career will be an inadvertent horror story. She’s not only lazy and careless, she’s a kind of suburban monster, a character who might be a match for the Meursault of Albert Camus’ L’Étranger.

But unlike Meursault, Emily never realizes what she represents or what she’s done. Readers might wish she did, but she’s all the more frightening for being a Black Hole of moral insensitivity.

I sent "Unpredictable Factors" off to some very reputable publishers, but couldn't find a home for it until I changed the title and looked beyond the strictly literary. The story is meant to bewilder the reader, and so I'm thrilled it's found a place in Bewildering Stories.

The story has a subtle twist I hope you won't miss out on!

Read the whole story here! And check out the succinct editorial description here!

I Said I Wanted to Work With Books

I've been working the textbook buyback rush at the University of Arizona Bookstore for a week and half now. Unknown lucky sods get to do the buying and inspection. At that point, they ship the heavy, dusty books to a group of us, on dollies, or in wheeled tubs. We put those lovely stickers that say "used" on them and then try with all our might to put them in the right place. That means finding out whether it's been ordered for the spring semester or not, and tens of thousands of other variables I would never have imagined only two weeks ago.


The burden is mostly physical: standing all day, walking miles across hard floors, lifting, bending, crouching, etc. We also have a heavy burden on our memories, as we need to recall exactly where things belong or cost ourselves a lot of extra physical effort.  I'm impressed with how much I remember. I'm mostly in the rhythm of things now, so I don't feel as desperate or soulless as when I started.

The first day was really hard because all these wonderful books were coming under my nose, and yet I couldn't stick my nose into them! The pace is much too fast for a contemplative perusal of each interesting bit of course material that comes my way. When I was a cataloger at the library in Boston, at least it was understood that you could set some books aside for yourself before finishing up the records and sending them out for the public. We were all bibliophiles there, and it was an unspoken benefit of the job. In this situation, books are whisked out from between one's fingers -- to occupy their spaces on the textbook shelves so the avid students can find them, or to languish among other things that have been purchased "on spec," or in the overstock piles -- long before one can do more than get a sense that one would like to continue reading. The longing was so great that first day, I thought I might have to quit on the grounds of psychological torture.

Then there are the myriad assaults on the sensibilities of those who love the book-as-object: torn and folded covers (book drop accidents); mutilated, replaced, detached spines; excessive note-taking in margins; dog-eared-ness; signs of being dropped in the bathtub; and other scenes too gruesome for this blog. Perhaps even more depressing, we frequently see books still in the plastic shrink-wrap, sent to us as if they've been thoroughly used. In these cases, perhaps the students meant to return the books new because they weren't taking the class, after all, but didn't get around to it in time, thus costing Mom and Dad hundreds of dollars. I usually assume they were coasting, and never opened the book, all the while hoping to get an "A" anyway. I always send loving thoughts to those books, sending them on to, I hope, be truly loved the next time around.

One day, I will be able to actually start reading a book, never mind finishing one! In the meantime, please look the other way if I've developed a habit of leafing through the pages as I scurry across the warehouse. A single sentence is better than silence.

Gila Monsters Meet You At The Airport

I was in the University of Arizona bookstore, gearing up for an interview, when I saw the book Gila Monsters Meet You At The Airport in a display of local children's books. It's the quintessential guide to gaining perspective, especially in the context of having to move to a new place you know nothing about. It contrasts the eastern and western United States, hinting that the really important things are the same everywhere. Mainly, it pokes gentle fun at people's assumptions about places they've never been and shows that you, the reader, can fit in and make new friends anywhere.

Like the main character, I was established on the East Coast and had every intention of staying there "forever." I was born in California, but through a series of choices, I have come to prefer crowded streets full of unfriendly people and piles of dirty snow as if I had always lived there. Rationally, I knew our move West was necessary, but I couldn't help facing it with some trepidation. Can I adjust to Western ways of thinking and acting? Will Arizona feel like home within a reasonable amount of time?

According to Gila Monsters author, Marjorie Weinman Sharmat, I have nothing to worry about. I wish I could just take her at her word and have done with it. I start at my new (temporary) job tomorrow. It should give me a swift sense of belonging. I will have to squeeze in time for writing between textbooks and students. Wish me luck!

Things and Ghosts

The hardest part about making this recent move was leaving most of my things -- books, files, furniture, and homey amusements -- in storage, taking with us to Arizona only what would fit into our compact car.

I'm not especially materialistic, but my stuff has a way of making me feel comfortable, like I'm in the right place, and that the creativity can flow. I was terribly envious of Barbara Briggs Ward's setup when she told me about it for her November 26 interview! Imagine, a place to settle down, to have a chance to position objects to their best advantage, to remain undisturbed.

One reason objects help me feel at home is that just about everything in my household has its own story, and those are important parts of my story. For example, a slightly battered, ordinary-looking floor lamp I've left in storage in Pennsylvania came to me when I moved into a studio apartment for the first time. When I first got to Boston, I moved in with room mates from some long-forgotten listing service, and all the lighting was already in the house. A very kind supervisor of mine had agreed to drive me over to the new place because I didn't have a car and the movers claimed they couldn't bring me with them in the cab. So all four of us drove ahead of the movers that day: Margie's husband, Margie (my supervisor), me, and the lamp she no longer needed, because she didn't want me to be in the dark in the new place. So, since September 2001, that lamp has been known as "Margie's lamp" in honor of her kindness, and no way would I willingly give it up. When I look at it, I see Margie and all the good times we had at that wonderful job.

Other objects contain within them the spirit of authority. When my grandmother gave me a set of kitchen utensils for my first wedding in 2004, she said, "That is the best whisk you will ever use." No ifs, ands, or buts. That whisk still receives the utmost respect and care, and in my house, it is known as "The Best Whisk in the World," when it's not languishing in storage, that is. Thanks, Grama. I think of you every time I use any of those utensils.

I drove my husband crazy during the moving process. Every time he would pick up a seemingly worthless object, I would cry, "I got that in Spain!" or recite some more complex history, plain as day to me, and he would know that it was too important to throw away. I love my husband beyond belief, but we are opposites in this regard. He's moved so many times that he has whittled his possessions down to the utterly necessary. If it weren't for me, he could pack up and leave in a sub-compact car in about two hours. He says the memories are in his head. His past is never in evidence, and I'm sure that's one reason he's so eternally ageless to me.

His attitude seems very healthy, whereas I have always considered memory to be outside myself. Consider the wonders logged in my childhood diaries: events I would never have been able to recall, in full detail! Also, my paternal grandmother died after the protracted horror that is Alzheimer's disease, and my dad was diagnosed with early onset dementia seven years ago, practically securing a similar fate for him. I always think that if I were to meet with that demon, my things and all the memories they so obviously contain would help me recognize the world and maybe stay in it a little longer. Just a theory.

Oh, the memories embedded in my captain's bunk! It's a twin bed with two drawers and an open storage area underneath that I got to sleep in when I was very young. The construction is entirely modular, so the  biggest piece is the mattress (not the original one anymore!) and it's been easy to take everywhere. Since I've been married, I've used it as a couch/storage area in my study, a place to take naps, and a visitor's bed. It's seen every aspect of my life, except the times I lived in England and Spain. Because it's been moved around so much, the bed frame has seen better days, but I don't usually see its flaws. It has its own presence, made up of so many witnessed events.

It is this presence that brings me, finally, to a concept often talked about on Ghost Hunters. I started watching the show because the guys are from Rhode Island, a rapturously beautiful state that I miss terribly. I kept watching because they often capture amazing audio clips that suggest the persistence of spirit. The concept that pertains here is the reason for residual haunting. They suggest that certain objects, which may have been involved in traumatic experiences or just really loved and cared for by their long-passed owners, retain something of those experiences and emotions. We in the present day then witness that pent-up energy as movement, feelings, or sounds.

My stuff is probably causing at least one residual haunting at the storage unit in Pennsylvania as we speak.

I like the concept. It validates the weighty importance I feel when I walk into a medieval manuscript library. There have been few objects in the world made with more deliberation and care, and then so appreciated and loved. I positively vibrate around medieval books, but I've never been able to articulate the phenomenon to ask anyone else if they feel it, too.

My dad's woodworking projects and my mum's sewing are in the running for the title of most cared for objects. So it comforts me to think that the items my parents have crafted for me will continue to emanate their love and skill even if (God forbid!) I can never go back and get them. Even when they pass away. Even when I do.

The Challenges of NaNoWriMo

National Novel Writing Month is a great concept! Write enough words every day in November to have 50,000, and that will be your first draft of your novel. It introduces some much-needed, concrete, obtainable discipline into the big idea of writing a sustained piece of fiction. Some of these books have gone on to be published and met with great success.

November is as good a month as any, I suppose. But my challenge with NaNoWriMo has usually been that it falls during a month when I've got some huge upheaval going on.

This year, we're getting ready to move. I'm lucky to write this bit here, since the computer is now on the floor, the desk having escaped to greener pastures a couple of days ago. Because my husband is out with his nose to the grindstone earning us a few dollars so we can eat, I'm left with most of the sorting, packing, and throwing away duty. I'm one of those writers who likes to have a dedicated nook for working, with everything close at hand, nicely decorated, ventilated, and perfumed, for maximum sense inspiration, so this is not the month for me to be writing. I admire anyone who can produce any creative work in a disrupted environment.

Last year, if you can believe it (I can hardly believe it myself!), we were also getting packed up to move! If anything, there was a lot more emotional strain in 2009 because we were leaving Cambridge, Massachusetts, a place I love as if I were born there. We came to this state for a job that didn't work out, and now every time we go downtown, my husband is appalled at how run down it is, and astonished that he ever took me here. In other words, we can't wait to leave. This time, we'll use our intuition a bit more in finding a new place to live. Cross your fingers that it works!

Two thousand eight was a banner year, as I met my husband! The part before November was pretty disruptive, and I wasn't in a mindset to take up the reigns of my writing career yet, and we flew to visit my parents in Oregon for Thanksgiving. Excuses, excuses.

The previous year, 2007, was the only November I had an idea, a plot outline, even! I had a desk to work at that wasn't going anywhere! I had tons of free time for the first time in five years, because I'd just completed my PhD! I was accustomed to taking on large projects! And most of all, I had ganas. I was able to keep up the NaNo pace pretty well for the first ten days of November, but then I started to feel pretty poorly. I thought, I'm sick, but that doesn't keep me from typing, I'll keep chugging...

But no. It wasn't to be. By the twelfth, I had self-diagnosed myself, using WebMD, with strep throat, and then it was off on a difficult journey to the doctor for tests and drugs, because back then, WebMD and/or other web sites had no qualms telling me that if left untreated, strep throat will kill you. YIKES. Now of course, they admit that that's not necessarily true, but it was pretty easy to believe at the time that I was about to die. Oh, the pain! Needles and knives all along my throat! I couldn't eat, couldn't speak, could hardly breathe. The last thing I remember about that November is that, in immense physical anguish, I had to call up a Spanish friend of mine I still haven't seen since, to tell him I couldn't meet him in New York, where he was running the marathon. Sorry, Antonio! And mostly, I'm so sorry, book!

Before that, I was shackled to my PhD, and NaNoWriMo was just getting started in California.

In November of 2011, I can only hope my desk won't have run away from me and that I won't come down with a dread disease. Just a little stability is all I ask. It's not a lot. I pledge now that, even if I'm working two jobs or something equally time-consuming, as long as I have some semblance of an idea and a desk to write at, I will participate in NaNoWriMo. I will write 1,667 words a day of the same story.

(Uneasy grin.)