Sorry to be so…

absent…but I’ve been swamped with work, extra projects (a newsletter, a fund-raising gala, sick kids), etc. and a new beau besides, and now going away for the weekend. I will be back Sunday night with another Muse. Cheers, mates.


…from complete exhaustion after another deadline day, but I just want to add that the cow-giving-birth story was really gross. I forgot to write just how disgusting it was when I passed that cow. It was an eeewww moment. And yet…

…nah, it’s too late, I’m zonked and goodnight.

A Birth Metaphor…

…or maybe not. I was driving to work the other morning, on my hour or two-hour commute (depending on traffic, of course), and passed the huge dairy on the west side of Highway 101 north of Novato. I saw this dairy cow, black and white spots, in a weird squatting position, and I thought with morbid fascination, “Great, just when I look, it’s going to pee,” or worse. And then I saw this grotesque red mucus sac protruding from its hindquarters and I realized as I flashed past at 70 mph that this cow was giving birth, standing on four legs in a muddy paddock with hundreds of other cows around it, and hundreds of weary commuters passing by without a care. And I thought, there must be a reason that I saw this.

Life is hard enough without being dropped from your mother’s warm womb into cold mud on a sunny but very cold Thursday. It’s hard enough that some days I want to stay in bed between skin-warm flannel the color of lilacs, and close my eyes against the drabness of rain, fog, slick roads, ceaseless deadlines. I want to lie in bed and listen to the trees in the woods creaking in the wind, hear the rain pelting the roof along with leaves, acorns, eucalyptus nuts, whatever else flies down. I like to hear the screech of the hawks who sit up on top of the tallest eucalyptus and spar with the crows, and the sound of the goats in the field across the road. At night the darkness isn’t frightening; it is cozy, like a blanket, and the stars are brilliant pinpricks in the sky and the owls hoot in the trees.

In the morning I find my way to the mirror and see every detail — the lines that seem to magnify by the day, the weirdness of the shape of my face, the imperfections that distort every photo. I hear my mother when I cough or sneeze, I see my father in the lines in my forehead, my sisters and brothers in the shape of my eyes, the jut of my chin. I see genetics in the faces of my children, in the way my eldest two look identical from behind, the way their voices begin to sound more alike, in the Doppelganger effect of looking back to my childhood when I look at my youngest — she is me at that very age.

And I am my mother — my father told me so the other day, when I sat reading with my glasses on and a clip pulling my hair off my face. “You look just like your mother,” he said with an edge of gruffness in his voice. My eldest daughter, who is half Nicaraguan but might as well be full-on, has never looked like me. She has now dyed her hair raven black, and her shoe-button eyes glitter like warm brown gems. She has a oval-shaped face to my heart-shape, and her eyes tilt slightly, so that she could more easily be Japanese or Native American or Filipina than half Scottish-English. And yet, there, in her black-and-white photos that we just bought for her auditions, the ones that cost me a fortune, she smiles her mother’s smile, and there is a ghost of me around the eyes, Will-o-the-wisp in nature, almost impossible for me to see — and everyone else says, “Jeez, she looks just like you.” Amazing stuff, DNA.

And where do we go from the double-helix? Backward to the old black and white photos in my family album, the ones of my father, a little boy during the Depression, in trousers that were much too large because his mother had cut down some man’s pants for him to wear. My grandmother, my great-grandmothers, great-grandfathers line up in this old photo, their grim, lined faces that are staring down the photographer as they also stared down hunger, and before that, the road from Canada, and before, the long ship’s passage from Glasgow or Oxford or even further back, Wales. My great-grandfather’s eyes are pale, probably as blue as my brother’s and sisters’, and even in this ancient photo, as bright as the eyes of a child.

I feel like a sojourner on this planet, carrying bits of the past into the future, in baggage I can never set down. If there is a ray of hope in anything, in the crude birth of a calf on a chilly morning, it is that life happens when it must, unexpectedly, miraculously, in all its bloody, mucky glory. And it is that I, too, am sending on my own message through my three daughters: go forth, live your lives, find your paths, send forth your spirits into the next little lives, and the next. That is comforting. As much joy as I get from seeing my girls in every step of their lives, I can’t wait to see what comes next. I’m looking forward to great-great-grandchildren. Won’t that be a treat?

Advice to aspiring writers: Seize the metaphor and run.

Falling Victim…

…to my own malaise…that is, sloth. I have been sitting for the past several hours, very, very busily addressing my bills, my e-mail, my other pressing concerns — and not writing one stinkin’ word. I mean real word — real writing, as opposed to bread-and-butter e-mails that say thanks for lunch yesterday, when are we meeting, can we reschedule, what’s on the agenda. That’s not Writing. And as I was taking out letters to the mailbox and hauling in the recycling bin, I realized that I have been procrastinating. Even this is procrastinating. Isn’t it? Aaaagh!

Nothing like the taste of crow, or at least one’s own advice. “Just apply your ass to the chair,” I tell my students, shamelessly stealing the line from many a writer (can’t remember who was the first to say it, but a Google search brought up several versions and several claimants, alas.) As if it were so easy.

O, fickle Muse, why do you vacation when I most need you? I have just one day per week that I can devote to you — where have you gone?

I will now apply my fingers to the keyboard and report back later on my success or lack thereof.

Pimping the Novel…

Harsh words, yes? No. Trying to sell one’s writing is an act of prostitution, the same as any other kind of solicitation. I’ve been working the strip, as it were, trying to get my work out there, and friends, newbies who have that Great American Novel fantasy, veterans, writers of the world, hear me: it is prostitution, plain and simple.

For example, I went to the fabulous Books by the Bay last summer, which was well publicized in an insert/booklet in the SF Chron, supposedly sent all over the Bay Area. My bio is in there, coincidentally in an upper left corner, the first one on that page, so if a person was flipping through and read that page, mine would be the one they’d see first. I saw an advance copy because our press did the print job. I’m in there twice, in the schedule and my bio, about two inches long. I am very glad about it, great placement and great distribution. Every little bit counts.

A certain bookstore owner (who thinks my name is Julie Parks, regardless of how many times I nicely say “Julia Park” right after she introduces me to people as such) asked me to sit in her bookstore booth. But if you sit, people ignore you, so I stood there for an hour and passed out my new shiny postcards to passersby like some sidewalk solicitor. Some people took the cards and went, “Ooh, ahh, sounds juicy!” Others took them, looked and handed them back. I sold one book thataway in an hour. Yes, we’re racking them up, I say racking!

I was scheduled to sign in the authors’ tent at 1:30 and went and sat, and they gave me a stack of books to sign (books, I must clarify, that I donated for the literacy of the masses). I signed all 25 of them, and they took the books away. One author across from us had a small crowd – Diane Johnson of Le Divorce/Le Marriage fame. The rest of us just chatted amongst ourselves because no one was coming in to get their books signed or even to talk to us. We tried to be philosophical.

Then I spied The Golden Ring. I mean the guy who used to be the book editor at the SF Chron and who used to give me books to review, who still has lots of clout. I have met him in person a few times but it had been at least two years since last I saw him. I pondered for about 30 seconds what to do: go talk to him, um, no, yes, wait, he’s leaving! I grabbed the handy copy of my novel that I’d brought, hoping to see him, and walked up, catching his eye. I said, “I don’t know if you remember me but I used to write book reviews for you.” He said, “Yes! Julia Park Rodrigues!” Yesss! I told him about my book and said I had one for him and told him to read just the first three pages, and if he liked it, to go on.

I can’t even express here how hard it is to foist your book on someone who clearly does not want it. It makes you feel like such a prostitute, but I’m hoping by just asking him to read a few pages, maybe it works better than anonymously sending it to him. Who knows what the best plan is? Anyway, he said, “I usually read the whole thing,” and he was very pleasant and suggested I give another copy to the current book editor (he’s moved on to be critic now). I was rather pleased that he remembered me, and he was really interested — or faked it well.

That made the entire day worthwhile — catching the Golden Ring. But as I was packing up, I realized that I had my huge nametag on my shirt. Uh, yeah, he sure did remember my name just like that. And he had my book and god knows if he even read it because no review ever appeared in the Chron and what am I gonna do, call him and make him tell me it sucked?

Is it saying anything about the nature of this business that I got more compliments and comments on my shoes than I did about my book? They were pretty fabulous shoes. I am thinking of offering a free pair of shoes now with every book.

I once spent three hours in a Christian bookstore for a book-signing event when some of my semi-spiritual prose/poems appeared in an anthology, going slowly out of my mind. I mean, I’m a Christian, a person with a deep spirituality, and some days I have faith strong enough to move mountains. Sometimes not. But the kind of Christians who run bookstores and are just so earnest, who pepper their conversation with “Praise God,” and “Thank you, Jesus,” well, Jesus, they give me the willies!

I’m an edgy Christian if anything, fairly irreverent, usually thinking something sarcastic about the choir or the fat lady in front of me, maybe even something off-color as the priest blesses the Communion wafer. I’m the kind of Christian who says “fuck” all the fricking time. I believe in honest sexuality, social justice, equal rights for everyone and saying what one thinks, and frankly, there are so many religious people out in the world who would rather quash those altogether, who want women and every other troublemaker (you know who you are) unseen, unheard, heads covered, eyes downcast, mouths shut. So many Christians are such right-wing fanatics, such unthinking drones who do whatever the Reverend Bob on Channel 27 says without thinking, like bombing abortion clinics or pelting unwed mothers with pig’s blood, quoting Scripture like some ticker tape, “Leviticus this,” “Ephesians that.” I call them KKKristians, with a K-K-K, if you see my point.

There’s a guy who used to live up the street from me; he and his wife are both KKKristians in that very sense. She told him she didn’t need a car, that she would rather do the shopping on her bicycle, that she didn’t want the temptation of going outside the home so easily. She always wears little frumpy dresses and aprons and earthy sandals, and she never cuts her long graying hair, and she homeschools their little daughter who is just going to grow up to be the biggest freak on the planet. One day the wife invited me for a cup of tea, and I accepted like an idiot, and damned if she didn’t start haranguing me about why I was in grad school, why I was neglecting my children and not harkening to God’s word. Damned if her praying for me didn’t feel like her preying on me instead.

It’s an interesting line that I’m walking – how to be a feminist with a spiritual side, how to write sincerely on matters of faith and still keep my edge. That Saturday, I sat in the Christian bookstore and signed my books, and tried not to be oppressed by the sugar-sweetness of all the Precious Moments statuettes that say “Jesus Wuvs You” and all the little bracelets and tchotchkes saying, “What Would Jesus Do?” and wondered, “Yeah, what would Jesus do?” He’d probably spin on his heel and walk out (a copy of my book under his arm), disgusted with the hypocrisy and intolerance and bigotry that permeates the air these days. What should one expect to find in a religious bookstore? I don’t know. It gives one pause, that’s all I can say.

The deal with book signings is that you have to kick ass on the pre-publicity, get out the word everywhere and bribe people to show up with music, free food, strip teases, circus sideshows, etc. And you still won’t have people lined up out the door unless all your friends come en masse. You also have to sit up straight, dress well, buy cookies, provide freebies, make eye contact with everyone who passes, and make conversation with all of them. Including the one guy with a Navy Seals T-shirt on who starts out talking about your book and ends up ranting against abortionists, homosexuals, and those devils in Washington who want to take away our guns and make more laws that restrict our freedom. Hey, I talked with him and he bought a book, but if there was ever a moment when I felt like a whore, it was that one.

Advice to aspiring writers: Get used to it.