20th Anniversary Countdown: Guest Post #18

In celebration of my blog's 20th anniversary, I'm having guest posters every week leading up to the big day. 

I met TJC during my second semester of college in an American Culture Studies class that I can't remember anything about except the time Dr. Joe freestyled drawing the development of a city, complete with new interstates and white flight on the board; a guy who used to say "whatnot" a lot, like multiple times in a sentence; a guy from London who apparently did a lot of charcoal art and was always filthy, especially his hands and nails, so we called him Dirty Dan; and that I met TJC. We somehow became friends even though I was a jerk about her major - in retrospect a degree in polisci doesn't give you any more employable skills than creative writing - and bonded over our shared love of Dr. Joe, Dr. Stuart, Garth Brooks, sci-fi/fantasy books, and ordering Papa John's late at night. She's stayed more nights in our guest room than anyone else, plays dumb games of Taskmaster with me, and is the first person I text when I witness people behaving badly.

Let's welcome TJC!

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Hello! Boy, am I excited to be asked to write a guest blog post for NGS! As she can tell you (lovingly), I’m a great procrastinator, one of THE greatest. She knew I’d write this the night before it was due, as I have for every assignment I’ve ever had. She’ll say, “This isn’t homework!” but that’s how I have to think or else it’s distraction-city, baby. She has dreamt to the soundtrack of my favorite video game*. We’ve known each other for twenty-six years now. I knew we’d be life-long friends when she asked me, semi-seriously or perhaps completely seriously, if the shuttle buses get up on their hind wheels to wave as they pass each other. Also, finding me walking randomly on campus to tell me to “JUMP IN!” to her truck so we could stalk an old man who called us The Smiling Girls as he was heading somewhere to teach or confer. We each had our own Dr. Jeffrey Peake – for very different subjects. Which brings me to a very fun thing about our friendship…. [Note from NGS: I'm vaguely worried Dr. Peake will Google his name and find this blog. Sorry I'm such a disappointment to you, Dr. Peake. Also, the shuttle buses waving at each other thing...I'll leave it you readers to figure out how I really felt about that.]

We have similar tastes that are so very separate in their manifestations. Very! We love books but rarely the same book. We love Garth Brooks, but songs she loves I hate (except In Lonesome Dove and The Ring Song – real title not important). Our love of British television: give me Bob Mortimer all day. (Insert an NGS retina-splitting eyeroll.)  [Note from NGS: I have quite literally listened to The Ring Song like six times in a row this morning.]

But, despite these differences, we still find ways to share the love. Music, reading, laughter, being able to just sit quietly with the cat, perusing Reddit and sighing a collective sigh that at least we are NTAs you could find out there…. It’s the little things, ya know?  

I promise I have been preparing for this, NGS. I’ve been thinking about my obsession with the six basic emotions and how I have a long-defunct blog that no one wants to stumble upon. We don’t talk about Bloggo, if you get what I mean. I used to do a weekly write-up of the ways in which I felt my feelings using the six emotions: anger, disgust, fear, happiness, sadness, and surprise. Then I thought, what do I want to DO with those for this blog post, though? 

Well, I somehow wrangled a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing many moons ago. When I get asked to visualize an apple, my great-aunt Sally with her two little braids and her purple floral dress goes into her apple orchard to pick an apple, a green apple, always a green apple, and then she retreats to her trailer in the middle of nowhere to slice up this apple and put it in a pie crust to bake a pie, and then she bakes a pie, and then she puts it on the windowsill to cool and then Porky Pig tries to steal it. I think solely in how would I would turn any anecdote into a scene in a book. I really don’t know how else to communicate. 

I do a lot of reading and writing and reading about writing, so maybe I could write up a few entries for each emotion based on books, writing, Garth Brooks, and surviving.  

*Bonus points if NGS can remember the game. [Note from NGS: Final Fantasy Tactics.]

I. Anger 

A. Most of these emotions are downers, so I’d like to keep it light by doing a little funny rant. It’s what NGS expects of me, I’ll tell you. Not a day goes by I don’t have an angry rant like a dime-store comedian. Recently it’s about the state of popular culture. I’m a middle-aged LADY now, a real ma’am. I have hit the point where I cannot BELIEVE the youngs don’t know every celebrity I know, and sometimes, it hurts. And there is anger – when the youngs say something akin to, “They probably aren’t as famous as YOU think they are.” Excuse me? And I feel anger. Then I try (but don’t always succeed) to understand that somewhere a rift happened where we have a thousand media sources instead of twenty, tops. That everyone watched the Thursday night line-up on NBC in 1990 but now watching TV at a set time is for the Olds. What streaming service is it on, the youngs say, when I talk about a show. And you know what, I tell ‘em. 

B. The angriest I’ve felt related to writing was at the AWP conference in Seattle in 2014. I don’t even remember the poet’s name, but she was on a panel with Tobias Wolff if you’d ever be inclined to research this. I’m not. Anyway, this lady gets asked why she’s a writer, and she starts talking about how she wishes she wasn’t, that she actually wanted to give it up thirty years or so ago, but then she had her daughter and she realized if she gave it up her daughter might someday ask her about her youth, and she (the writer) would have to admit she was once a writer, and then her daughter would be burdened with the FEELING that her mother gave up writing for her – even though it wouldn’t have been true. Now, this lady is getting her hotel room paid for, no doubt a spending budget for meals, etc. I paid roughly $2000 out of pocket to be at this conference that THIS LADY doesn’t even want to be at. You should have SEEN Tobias Wolff’s horrified, incredulous face. And mine. 

C. One time, I was reading a book, and there was a woman who worked at this literary ministry, and she and her father worked in different departments and her father worked in this big secret department and he went missing and he contacted her and asked her to meet him in a café and there was something-something about maybe evolved animals that could hold jobs and there was something about her mother and something about her aunt and uncle and a conspiracy and her father was being followed and a fight ensued and then I got to page EIGHT and I could. not. handle. any. more. information. I was so angry I threw it across the room. Learn to pace your details, authors. 

TJC did not provide a photo until the end of this post, but here's one. I'm wearing a Kenny Rogers tshirt and she's wearing a short-sleeve hoodie. I think this speaks volumes about us. 

II. Disgust 

A. Let me tell you about the time I bought a book, gave money to the authors, because I could not believe the AUDACITY from just reading the synopsis on Amazon. I had to see it for myself. In it, some editors gave you and me, the reader and aspiring writer, advice on how to tick the boxes of their prescription for GOOD WRITING. It was divided into the normal categories such as dialogue, setting, character, etc. But wait, there’s more. Also, the editors provide examples of writers who took their advice and got published – BY THESE EDITORS. But wait, oh wait! Then, they took excerpts from books such as THE GREAT GATSBY and rewrote those passages to show (checks notes) how much better the writing could have been if they had been around to edit THE GREAT GATSBY. No. Get out. [Note from NGS: And this is how TJC and I are different. I think Gatsby could have used some editing. LOL)

B. Again, a lot of these basic emotions are maudlin. So let’s take a minute to talk about how disgusted anyone would be if they knew I have no less than FIVE piles of laundry, not necessarily dirty, in two rooms, on both the floor and on two chairs. What’s a metaphor, NGS? The piles of laundry are like my disorganized mind – I KNOW where everything is but I’m too lazy to put it where it needs to go. And at this point I’ve come to accept this about myself. But, um, no one wants to walk through either of those deathtraps. 

C. Norman Mailer. I frequently text NGS to lament on the sheer arrogance he exudes when I come across an interview. Little did I know this was kind of a plot point on Gilmore Girls!? A show NGS loves and because of which she instantly LOLed when I started my rant. He was such an ass!  

III. Fear 

A. I fear a society that doesn’t know the beauty of Garth Brooks and what he accomplished for country music. I mean, the youngs I know don’t know who Madonna is either, so I guess I can deal with it. But as a writer, I love magical realism and Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, and if you don’t know how that has anything to do with Garth Brooks, STRAP IN. Garth changed country music from being this stagnant, separate, homogenized genre into a mainstream musical force acceptable to people around the world. Yes he DID. Shhh. I love blended genres; I love things that seem like they are one way but contain the elements of other ways. Garth was afraid to release "The Dance" because it wasn’t “country” enough – can you imagine? Garth walked so these new artists could run. I fear a world that puts no respect on his name. [Note from NGS: Look, I am a Garth fan. But his refusal to get with the times and allow his music on streaming services has meant entire GENERATIONS do not have easy access to him. Even I listened to some cut rate cover of The Ring Song today because I couldn't be bothered to deal with CDs.]

B. I fear I waste a lot of time, because LOL I do. But there’s a great Meat Loaf song for that called "Wasted Youth." Sometimes – oh no I’m about to be serious – I admit to myself how when I was a young writer at Bowling Green, I didn’t know anything. About anything. Oh man, I was so green. I think if I had written a novel right out of the gate I would look back now and hate it. A professor I had whose name I usually drop like a sack of bricks once asked me, “Why would anyone ever write this story?” and I hated him SO MUCH. But he was RIGHT. I had no idea why I wrote it. But now I waste a lot of time figuring myself out even if other people think it’s silly. I used to be afraid of their opinion. 

C. I fear I don’t waste enough time. I have a regular job in retail. It’s not my dream. It takes up a terrible chunk of my week. I want to read everything, write everything, watch every movie, play every video game (I’m a product of the 80s, yo!). But you know what, no matter what, I wouldn’t have enough time. There will forever be more books, more media, more fantastic places to virtually be (not really be – I’m a homebody through and through). I have decided to be happy! wasting my time. As much of it as possible. And in doing so maybe put off writing blog posts for my friend of over twenty years until the night before. But hey, I wouldn’t be me if I did it any other way. 

IV. Happiness 

A. My happy place is a good, prosaic, run-on sentence. Perhaps you’ve noticed? I love Nabokov, Thomas Wolfe, Faulkner. I want poetry in paragraphs; this is how I describe my perfect novel. I don’t care about plot. Nonsensical sh*t can happen on every page as long as the atmosphere pours from the page like fog from a misty mountain. Minimalism ain’t for me. Also, it took me a long time to shed my fear that my writing style would be off-putting. I’m sure it is to someone and I’m also sure it’s someone’s cup of tea. 

B. The world of writing is changing! I’m such a pedant about the various periods of literature. Modern and contemporary are not synonymous. Whenever someone talks about their Modern American Literature class I am Normal Mailer levels of asshat about how they are probably actually reading contemporary literature. But I digress. Literature is diversifying! Language is evolving! Yes, I only mentioned dead white men in my previous passage. But let me tell you about Rita Dove! Nnedi Okorafor! Emma Torzs! It used to be I felt I could open to ten random pages of The Best American Short Stories and it would sound like one writer. But no more! Authors are realizing they don’t have to jump through some editor’s hoops in order to be published and praised. Hallelujah. 

C. Because of the million outlets we have now for media, there is always a community for anything and everything. I’m so happy to now be able to virtually attend the AWP Writer’s Conference. Are there as many virtual panels as there are at-conference panels? Not yet. It’s okay. I got to listen live to the keynote speaker this year, Jericho Brown, and that was amazing. I tweeted about how happy I was to get to sit in on that community even from thousands of miles away, and he answered! I don’t care how silly that sounds, it made me so incredibly happy. Like I was part of that world again. It’s out there. I can bring it here now. 

V. Sadness 

A. How to give this some levity…. I’m sad…that…I can no longer drink or eat whatever the hell I want to. Because I’m An Old, as NGS likes to put it. This is part of surviving, right? I can barely drink coffee because of the acid reflux it induces. But I will. Each morning and usually at some point during the afternoon as well. I’m not going down without a fight. How else am I writing this at, oh my – look at the time. 12:31 a.m. 

B. Someone took the title of one of my novels! That I haven’t even written! I’m so sad because it was PERFECT! I had started the novel on Google docs and I’m convinced this person used AI and unwittingly stole my novel. How sad, for me and for the state of art in general, that a poor, lazy, unorganized writer like myself could fall victim to the harrowing world of savvy criminals. NGS figures into this tragedy because the stolen title in question was on a TBR blog entry on THIS VERY BLOG and that’s how I found out about this nightmare! [Note from NGS: But did I ever actually read the book?!]

C. It’s sad how… I don’t know. How hard it is for me to even pretend I can carry this sad entry through? This has been the hardest to rant about. That’s sad, right? Oh no! I’m losing my edge. Hurry, brain, think. In a timely and organized…. Forget it. 

VI. Surprise 

A. I’m forever surprised how fun a writing prompt can be. I’m – again – a bit of an ass about the nature of art. I’m kind of a believer in talent as something organic that can’t be taught. Even though I totally went through seven years of higher education to learn about writing. I scoffed at writing prompts as something beneath me as recently as probably yesterday. Which was technically less than an hour ago. But as I sit here, probing myself and reminding myself not to oh-so-easily stray into something dark and twisted (as is MY nature), I remembered how much I love writing in general, and how it makes me happy, and how surprising it is no matter how or when it comes about. 

B. I’m also surprised how many of these entries revolved around writing. When I set out, my plan was to write an entry for each emotion that tied back to the “books, writing, Garth Brooks, surviving” laundry list from hours ago (for both you and me by the end of this). But it is my love to talk about writing. It is my love to do writing.  

C. I’m surprised I didn’t abandon the format even when it ended in a place it didn’t really begin in. To reiterate, I’m lazy. I sleep until 10:00 each morning. I play video games and read books and stare at the wall. I can have a deep philosophical conversation with myself that lasts an embarrassing amount of time. Sometimes I write it down. Sometimes it becomes something. But more often than not I realize I have put SOMETHING off. Laundry, usually. I am proud and astounded that I filled out this outline like a disciplined, thorough person. 

VII. Addendum 

A. I need twenty entries. [Note from NGS: Like, how the hell can you even tell? You've used roman numerals AND letters; it's all over the place. Our brains work in such different ways.]

B. Like I said, I think in scenes. When I listen to music in the car, I am driving – down the highway – imagining either the Dancing with the Stars routine I would do or the movie montage I would put to that particular song. I can’t not being writing a story. But now, I’m going to leave you at the end here with two portraits of the artists as young women: one of me and NGS as youngs jammin’ out to – and I really remember this – Guns ‘n’ Roses, and one of NGS alone in the quintessential way I picture her in all her goofy, happy glory. A picture, a thousand words…. [Note from NGS: I am putting these photos in here, even though they are both embarrassing. I was a CHILD. Also, I'm still like this, so I feel like it's fair.]

It was "Welcome to the Jungle."

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Somehow this was even more mortifying than when Bestest Friend wrote her post. Please tell me there are embarrassing photos of you on the internet and that your mentor from high school or college could potentially find them.  What's your fondest memory of your early twenties? Favorite Garth Brooks song?