Happy New Year

“Goodnight you princes of Maine, you kings of New England.” 

― John Irving, The Cider House Rules

We'll start it with this quote not because it relates to anything but because it's awesome.

My Christmas was lovely. I spent it in magical rural Wiltshire, where my accomplishments included "preventing the vicar from setting herself on fire," which will go down well in history.

Now I'm going to go drink with friends and husband. Life is good.  I wish I could have told myself a year ago that on January 1, 2012, I'd be all right.

In Which It Suddenly Occurs to Cinna That She Is Living the Life

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself."
--- Neil Gaiman


As an Exciting Science Researcher, I got pretty used to waking up in the morning - or, rather, abruptly re-animating from a near-death state, pouring water on myself in a semblance of hygiene, assembling myself into clothes like an undead alien visitor from another planet with only a vague idea of how human fashions work, hauling my steaming corpse into work fifteen minutes late, plugging myself into an IV of coffee, and abruptly rejoining the land of the living, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a universe of work ahead of me to do. I then did about 35% of the work, which was 30% more than was really expected of most human beings but only 50% of what I'd hoped to do that day, and then went home happy and fell into a deep coma next to my fiance, my hyperdrive metabolism turning the little world under our blankets into a baking-hot oven full of vivid, lovely, creative dreams. I would emerge from my cocoon the next day and start over, stressed and happy.

See, I almost said "I got pretty used to waking up, going to work and accomplishing things" but I thought that would be such an insult to the gods of Truth and Justice that lightning would probably leap through my power cable and erase the hard-drive of my faithful computer, Gwydion.

But in truth, I really liked the sense of accomplishing things and then going home. I liked my routine. I liked the fact that I could be a sedentary, sleep-obsessed creature with a faithful metabolism that kept off the pounds by burning them off constantly in the form of sorcerous heat. It kept me warm in the fickle climate of New England, ensured that I never had to put much thought into my diet, and saved on the heating bills.

Then I got married, got a visa, left my job and moved to England - all within the span of about five minutes. Baaaaah!

I am not adapted to this climate. I'm always too hot on the street, stripping down to t-shirts and skirts. Then I'm too cold in the houses, wearing silly amounts of sweaters (jumpers) and clutching mugs of tea just to keep the feeling in my fingers. My Faithful Metabolism just doesn't work here; I'm walking everywhere, miles at a time, and its response is to turn off the heat, so that I'm quite literally steaming in the rain in the minimum possible amount of clothing as the British hustle around me, dramatically bundled up in coats and scarves. Then the damn FM insists that what with all this exercise must be starving. I haven't consumed as many calories per diem since my fantastically awkward teenager stage. It's ridiculous.

I have no job! So I'm writing this romance-type novel, perching in coffee shops for hours as I do "research," i.e. reading other romance novels and looking at pictures of steampunk fashion.

And I have no money of my own! I bought my tickets and visa, paid off my credit card and showed up. That did me in for cash, and now Darling Husband has to hand me an allowance of snack-money!

In short, I am living the fucking dream.

Now I just need to convince myself to be grateful for it.

I think I'll start now.

Love,
Cinna

alone amongst the wild brits

Huzzah, I have finally landed in Bristol, England, where the weather is delightfully described as "Brizzle Drizzle" and the population consists of 12,340,000 tiny female undergraduates with spectacularly teased bleach-blonde hair, who scurry about at a million dance moves per minute, reminding me of highly animated dandelions in the process of exploding. Their tiny, high-pitched voices would grate on the ears if they ever said anything comprehensible, but thankfully, they only converse in vowels, like little baby sparrows with their wee beaks full of scrambled eggs and marmalade. It is a pleasant background sound, one that can be easily ignored.

Like the wild undergraduates of my beloved Dartmouth College, they are completely incapable of crossing a road like adults, instead employing a splendid series of familiar techniques, such as:

1. Run Across the Road in Heavy Traffic, then Stop Halfway and Look Surprised (The Deer in the Headlights Remix)
2. The Throw-Yourself-in-Front-of-a-Car Game (Regional Variation: shout "Wanker!" Bonus points: lunge suddenly from behind a parked car.)
3. The Luna Lovegood (Apparate suddenly in the middle of traffic with a dreamy expression, swat vaguely at the cloud of invisible Barking Nargles swarming around your head, and slowly wander about the road in a cryptic, non-linear fashion, appearing not to notice the hysterical drivers and bicyclists risking their lives in attempts to avoid you)
4. The Gathering Bee (Similar to #3, but instead of communicating with fictional magical creatures, describe a series of strange dance-like moves as you wander through traffic, as if you are a beautiful honeybee who is detailing the location of a delicious source of nectar to the rest of your hive. iPod entirely optional; ripped tights a must.)
5. Hark! A Phone Call! (Variation of #3 and #4, with cell phone [aka: mobile] used as prop to create narrative drama.)
6. Zebra Crossing (Cross as if at an actual zebra crossing*, using blinkers and headphones to completely isolate yourself from all perception of actual traffic patterns and, indeed, all reality. Wear a loudly patterned zebra-striped coat, black-and-white tights and Converse.)
7. The Polite Lost Waif (Run out into traffic as per normal, but suddenly realize that you are both inconveniencing people and endangering yourself and others. Mime a terribly guilt-stricken face, bobbing and waving to attract attention and apologize. Dance with oncoming traffic, miming "You go first! No, you go first! Oh, I couldn't possibly go first! I'm but a poor lost waif! I don't know what cars are! Please go first!" Take about ten minutes to actually cross the road, immobilizing the entire city center. For bonus points, drop things and dither about, retrieving them.)
8. Every Undergraduate in the World Ever. (Classic. Simple. International. Step obliviously in front of a moving car. At the squeal of brakes, arouse yourself from your dream and favor the drivers of the cars with a splendidly filthy look.)

IT'S JUST LIKE BEING HOME. But I love them, really; they're terribly sweet, and they do my doddering 23-year-old heart good to see them drinking in public at eleven in the morning. I overheard one of them talking about Derrida, and it brought a misty tear of recollection to my eye before I realized that she was actually just trying to order a coffee. Bless.


* Zebra Crossings are highly decorative British crosswalks where motorists HAVE to stop for pedestrians. Everywhere else, whether you're at the odd little Suggested Crossing Zones or simply jaywalking, cars have the right of way and must be taken into account.



We are currently staying with friends, so I am accomplishing nothing whatsoever, as I huddle in a corner and obsessively update Tumblr.

BUT I WILL WRITE. I am going to finish this novel if it kills me.

Hopefully, the novel will get to me before the pedestrians do.

Jealousy is an old coyote

“Sometimes this human stuff is slimy and pathetic – jealousy especially so – but better to feel it and talk about it and walk through it than to spend a lifetime being silently poisoned.”
― Anne Lamott

The following exchanges took place in September 2011, when my Oldest Dearest Internet Friend, who had come up for the wedding, challenged me to turn jealousy into something beautiful. I'm still reeling from the fact that she came. It was incredibly amazing and brave of her, as she had known me since my wretched 14-year-old fanfic-writing days, but had only met me ONCE. I call that industrial-strength courage. She is a splendid human being with magnificent plumage and the terrifying ability to start magazines.

And she is making me write the romance novel that is currently occupying far too much of my runtime, because I have a problem with jealousy.

First, I want to talk about jealousy quickly; even Saint Anne of Lamott, who is probably my spirit animal, knows what its bite feels like, and she treats it as an old friend. God, she writes so beautifully about that old coyote, the Trickster god of the soul - the slitty-eyed shadow always slinking into our wagon-circles and nipping away with our delicious bacon. Jealousy! Always saying, If somebody else is doing well, then it's at our expense, they're using up all the luck that was meant for us. Always saying We're better than those fools, so why does everyone like them more? How dare they be prettier or smarter or more adjective-er than ourselves?

But Jealousy is a lonely dog without much power by itself, and once we name it, we don't need to feed it. Once we put a collar on it, we're the ones in charge of Jealousy. But instead, we act like it's something to be ashamed of. Worse, we use it as an excuse lie to ourselves and others. She only got that book deal because it's marketable right now, we fire across the bow. She's doing better at work because she's prettier than me. People only like him more because they THINK his tumblr is funnier - the mediocre, narrow-minded, pandering FOOLS!  

We claim it isn't the voice of Jealousy after all, but good taste and clear-eyed truth. We sniff around for a tribe of others who will believe us. Perhaps we want to be haters. We do like to bite. A lot of us secretly believe that we are actually stunning, shining talents who haven't succeeded yet because Unfair World is purposefully keeping us down. And so Jealousy breeds itself, a self-replicating virus, a simple and selfish bundle of genes.

Well, that's where we go wrong, I think. I don't think there is anything good to come out of lying to ourselves. I think you have to embrace your Jealousy and claim it, like any other foolish flaw.

And that's why, a few days after my wedding, when I was lolling about with my Accomplished Husband Who Has A Book Contract But Still Can't Construct A Sentence Without A Blueprint, and my Oldest Dearest Internet Friend who, as I said earlier, is pretty much a publishing industry unto herself, I felt comfortable and loved enough to talk about my Jealousy. We like to think that our Jealousies are special - uniquely twisted little creatures, lovingly nourished and perfect in their own way - but just like any other Common or Garden Jealousy, mine evaporated into ridiculousness when held up to the light. It was ugly, yes, and negative, but by no means unusual.

I told my new husband and my dear friend that a woman in my laboratory had recently left her job because she had received a book deal. And I was jealous! Sincerely, stupidly jealous! I had never sent a novel of my own to an agent or publisher. And here I was jealous of her! I was happy at my workplace, while she had patently resented every second of her existence spent there, so the change had probably wrought wonders on her life - and there I was, jealous! Jealous of someone clawing out her dream! Jealous of her baby book!

The two of them looked at me like I was a tiny baby bird, rumpled and damp and impossibly adorable. Head-patting was involved.

"But I'm TOXIC," I mewled.

"Everybody is pretty fucking toxic," they said.

Me:  I am basically oozing toxicity from the PORES of my FACE.

The Brit: Yes, you are, dear.

Me: I hate you. And while I support this woman and recognize my own disgusting folly, I also have this urge to lie in a bathtub and drink vodka from a squirt gun. Her book has pretty much killed my desire to write anything. I am a horrible person.

BFF: So you should write a romance novel too! You should interrogate it from the wrong perspective! You should write a steampunk romance novel with a sexy paranormal element and some spunky corset-ripping. A BAD ROMANCE. Then we can analyze it in online forums and start flame wars and have a fandom. PERFECT CURE FOR WRITER'S BLOCK.

Me: I can't write a romance novel, it'll be a steaming pile of crap.

BFF: THAT'S WHY YOU SHOULD. It'll be liberating. And then you can blog about how it's so HARD to WRITE.

Me: Writing isn't hard, you just need to open a vein. It isn't HARD to bleed. Everyone can.

BFF: That's gross, and probably also why you have writer's block.

The Brit: I'm writing this down.

Me: Honey, stop, you don't know anything about writing. It'll just be bickering couples degenerating into squabbling and flippant bitchery, interspersed with dark horrible slimy things. It'll alternate between slapstick and horror. The sex scenes will be gruesomely awkward. Saucy kisses will turn into awkward tongues-in-the-ear. It will be easy! Bloodless! NOBODY WANTS BLOODLESS WRITING!

BFF: The market disagrees with you. How else do you think these things get written? Here is your penname.

The Brit: Here is your outline.

Me: How do you know what an outline IS? What is this?

The Brit: It's your novel. It's a fluffy steampunk romance novel about adventure and stuff, it has corset-ripping, and at some point they bicker on a train! In India!

Me: What have you two been drinking? Because I need to drink a lot of it and lie down in a dark room for a while.

BFF: Write this up and send it to the girl's publisher. If it gets in, Virtue is its own Reward. If it gets rejected ... you'll have the strength of your convictions?

The Brit: Throw in some ponies, I like ponies. And a sexy Englishman! It can't go wrong! Nothing goes wrong with sexy Englishmen!

Me: AND YET. SOMETHING WENT VERY WRONG WITH YOU.

==

Later

==

Me: ROMANCE! *keyboard smash*

The Brit: What.

Me: I am writing my romance novel and the heroine has just barfed on the hero's sister's boots. ROMANCE!

The Brit: Does that happen ... often ... in romance novels?

Me: It's okay, the hero's sister threw them out the window-thingy. She's a lesbian, but nobody can ever know. She may stick her tongue in the heroine's ear. Things are up in the air right now! ROMANCE!

The Brit: Is this actually how professionals write romance novels?

Me: Well ... no. Well... probably.

The Brit: You do realize that shouting "ROMANCE" doesn't automatically make it romantic? And wanton expulsion of bodily fluids doesn't either?

Me: I've vomited on every lesbian I know and still got to second base with all of them. ROMANCE!

The Brit: I just realized that we've been married for, oh, three days.

Me: OH! Remember that time when you made me come over to build your porch swing for you, because you were bullshit at it, and you made me my first gin-and-tonic, and I threw up on you? And then you kissed me after?

The Brit: You mean, do I remember our first date?

Me: SEE?! ROMANCE!! Which is more romantic vomit - bilious or chunky?

The Brit: That isn't even a question.

Me: I'll leave it up to the reader's discretion. They might not be as romantic as I am. I wouldn't want to force anything on them.

The Brit: Yes. Yes, you set a standard that is very hard to approach.

===

Sometimes the Brit finds it difficult to keep up with me and how romantic I am, but he's only human.

And that is the splendid origin story of the piece of work that I am grudgingly beginning to consider as a novel. Born out of Jealousy, but named and claimed and made my own. Better out than in! It was born out of something difficult, and I believe that's the only way to make things that are beautiful - like my marriage. Like my journeys. Like my favorite stories. Like my life and soul, I hope.

If you're out there, tell me about your Jealousy stories. Because I want to hear them. Because I want to promise to you that you are not alone, that you should not be ashamed - and if you don't hear Jealousy for what it is in your life right now, maybe it's time to listen.

Love,

Cinna

so I'm moving to England next Tuesday.

Not this Tuesday. The Tuesday after it. 

And I am full of conflicts. And terror. And delicious chili. Sometimes it's easy to mistake chili for terror.

While I am a committed Anglophile with an unhealthy interest in British media, this move isn't by choice, and I'm not doing it for pleasure or work. I'm doing it because my handsome new husband is going back for non-optional reasons, and I will have to accept that I'm going to be a Kept Woman for a while. 

The husband is excited because, in his innocent little heart, he strongly believes that I will use this inspiring free time to write an amazing novel. And I am terrified because I'm not sure that I can. And also because I'm leaving a great support network, an interesting and rewarding job, steady money, great hobbies and lots of snacks to trot around at the heels of a boy. A truly wonderful and beloved boy, but a heteronormative life partner nonetheless. 

An accurate depiction of noodly-armed terror disguised as apathy

I feel the absolute clarity of my position. I will either raise my chin, draw confidence and dignity around myself like a cloak, and walk into my new life with grace and courage, slipping through one of the Greatest Human Cities of Earth like a fish in a larger shoal. OR I will chew off my own foot and run howling into the woods, where I will subsist on maple sap, berries and cynicism - like any other creature of Darkest Vermont. It's not too late to run away.

Actually, it's way too late. I've already bought the plane ticket. I am going to have to face up to London, somehow.

Arglehargleblarglebibbly.

Love,

Cinna

P.S. The formatting of this post is truly horrific (WHAT IS WITH THE WHITE PATCHES, BLOGGER? WHY ARE YOU SO BAD) but I'm going to leave it because I'm too cool to care.

Shouting like a kitten in a bucket.

The above illustration is how this blog would come across if I was to do it in real life. I would be running around naked in a silly hat, shrieking about cats. People would not make eye contact. But here you are, reading it, redefining normal.

There is something so lulling about living in the age of readily accessible Internet and equally accessible nudity and hats. You are surrounded by people gibbering in every corner, and it blinds you into thinking that you, too, are absolutely fascinating.

It's enthralling. Liberating. Five hundred years ago, if your child had a shit, you would carefully scrape it into the wooden bucket that you left out for the local werewolf, and you would say no more about it. Children do practically nothing else but poop; they are lovely, but they are grubby tubes with a mouth at one end, and this is expected of them.

If you made a larger deal of it, or ran around with said shit, showing it to people, you might find one other person - probably another mother, or someone related to you - who would show interest in it. Once. The second time you ran around showing everyone your precious baby's shit, you would be stripped naked, covered in cleansing salts and penned out for the bears to eat, because the corrosive nature of your insanity would cause the cows to abort, or the wheat to grow backwards, or something. (The salt would keep your craziness from contaminating the bears.)

That shit had to be nipped in the bud, figuratively and literally.

But now your craziness is something to be licked and nuzzled and shared with people. Now you can detail the digestive processes of your very own baby mammals on Facebook, WITH pictures, and nobody thinks it's weird at all! You can join entire clubs devoted to the intricacies, consistencies and vagaries of baby poo. TRULY, WE ARE LIVING IN THE FUTURE. We created it, and here it is.

I would like to say that we're doing the Internet wrong - but we aren't. That's what it's for. People can openly flaunt their craziness, coddling and nourishing it, reinforcing themselves with other like-minded people. It's a hothouse of people all convincing themselves that They Have Something To Say.

And that's just it. They do. We all do. We all have something to say. Every human being is unique and powerful and gorgeous and strong and completely broken, and every human being has a story to tell, and every human being is convinced that everybody else wants to hear it. And that's wonderful. In the Internet, we have the Voice of the People, writ large across the whole planet. And the People want to show you their poo.

The end result is that everything you blog about is Something Nobody Wants to Read . 

So with that being said, I here vow only to blog about only the very highest quality poo, and I promise not to find myself too fascinating.

Hello, world.

Love, 

Cinna