Dogs Steal Yarn

The process: Tuesday's version

There comes a point where there are too many thoughts to follow, too many threads to tie together, to rely on your brain or a mere notebook. It's time to break out the big revision guns.

Jumbo sketchpad and Sharpie. Flowcharts. I'm actually making flowcharts. I didn't think I was that kind of writer. Learn something new every day, I guess. And really, whatever works... I just need to be able to see what I'm doing as clearly as possible. Today that means huge sheets of paper and flowcharts and bulleted lists. It means writing out, longhand, all the things I think I already know about this particular subplot and the people moving around in it, to see if it's actually adding up to what it's meant to.

So far so good. Only two major scenes/hurdles left in this draft. I'm feeling mostly good and hopeful.

Corruption Scandal Rocks Dogs Steal Yarn!

You may have noticed that the comments in my previous post are screwed up. As in, I received 23 comments, the comment counter shows that there are 23 comments, but none show up in the comments box. Rest assured, those comments were emailed to me and I did read them. Alas, no one else can for the moment.

My IT Department has declared my comment database corrupt. (I know, you suspected all along, didn't you? Something just wasn't right around here. All those whispered comments, the bizarre behavior in the "VIP" room... I know. We tried to keep it under wraps for as long as we could.)

So unless I've misunderstood (my Benevolent Tech God will set me straight if I have), we're going to be having a one-way conversation here for a while. Like a week. Maybe two. Gulp.

What did I do with my time before there were comments to read? Is it possible to blog in a vacuum? Without the instant feedback of the comment box, will I wither and die?

Sigh.

Alas.

Woe is me.

BUT...I would like to publicly thank the wonderful, generous, lovely, talented, kilted David for always swooping to my rescue whenever my blog gets sick. He rocks.

(For now, if you leave a comment it will be emailed to me. I'm not sure if that will change as David digs in to try to fix things.)

Added later: Curiouser and curioser. The comments are working just fine for this post, but are still all kinds of busted on the previous post. The technical plot thickens. I'm sure there's a fascinating explanation.

Room by room, manifest destiny

Apparently having my own office wasn't enough. I wrote the first three drafts of Drowning Practice in my office. My very own, quite spacious room full of books and yarn and lovely late afternoon light... Surely no one needs more space than that. Apparently I do. For the latest round of revisions--the fourth draft being done at the request of an enthusiastic agent who we hopehopehope will soon become My Agent but who will, for now, be referred to as Dream Agent--I have annexed the dining room.

All meals will be eaten at the tiny table in the kitchen until further notice. Yes, this house once had a dining room. Now it has been conquered and renamed. It is Cari's Studio Annex. In this brave new land, the coffee runs freely alongside the angst and doubt, alternating with glimmers of tremendous ego. (It can't be helped, really. If you don't have the occasional moment where you truly believe you're an extraordinary genius, then it's just not possible to write fiction. Don't worry. Those moments never last long and I try to keep my mouth shut until they pass.)

There is also room in Cari's Studio Annex for yarn. (There's always room for yarn.) Yesterday I received some fantastic birthday Koigu from the beloved La Brainy. There's no knitting happening in the Annex, but there is certainly yarn fondling.

And now, back to the revisions. I may be a bit quiet while I work on this draft. I'm hoping it's the final draft that Dream Agent will deem ready to go out to publishers. (At which point a whole new world of hurt and angst will open up. Bring it on.)

Don't be alarmed...

...but I have ACTUAL KNITTING CONTENT. I know. Shocking.

I finished the back of the Corset Pullover. The camera did something weird to the creamy off-white Rowan Calmer. There aren't actually tree trunk-like rings in the stockinette sections. (Or is that just my monitor? Or my eyes? Now I'm picturing you leaning in and squinting at the screen and saying, "What rings? I don't see any rings. What's Luna been eating?" Please tell me you see the rings too.)

So now all that's left is the sleeves with their delicate lace cuffs; a million and two strappy things; the lacey edging of the neckline; the uber-careful seaming to get this close-fitting number just right; the purchase and application of D-rings; the prayers, hopes, burnt offerings, and ritual dances involving tiny dogs in the hopes that after all the work this thing is actually flattering...

Stay tuned.

My sixteenth birthday

My thirty-second birthday

Happy birthday to me! And happy birthday to Jackie, Greta, and Lisa, my blogland birthday twins! Greta and Lisa are both on blog breaks, so think good birthday thoughts for them, and if you know them drop them a birthday note. Jackie's blog is alive and well, so please go leave her a birthday comment!

Added later: So apparently August twentieth is an extremely popular birthday. It's also the birthday of Polly and Jessamyn. Growing up I knew NO ONE who shared my birthday. My sister-in-law was the first person I ever met who was also born on the 20th. But then I started bloging and the August 20th babies came out of the woodwork. Go figure. Happy birthday to us all. (You have to wonder what happens nine months before August 20th.)

I've just finished reading The End of the Story by Lydia Davis. Just finished it less than a minute ago, and it's got my brain all aswim. The book's narrator is writing a novel about the end of a real-life relationship. The reader's experience is that Davis's novel is the very novel the narrator is writing, and that Davis is the narrator. That Davis is writing to us about her experience with this man, with the loss of this man, and with the experience of writing about him. It seems, somehow, quite clear that this is an autobiographical story taken from Lydia Davis's life... And yet...that's the artifice, the fiction, that right there.

Maybe this is an autobiographical work; maybe we are reading about something from Lydia Davis's "real life." Maybe we are not. There's an excellent chance that it is entirely invented. Either way, it's fiction. Even if it were presented as autobiography, even if it were absolutely "true," it would still be fiction, because all memory is fiction. When we remember an event we change it, innocently or intentionally. Time warps our recall. Events are convoluted, two people's actions becoming the actions of one, words spoken by one person assigned to another. I say I was wearing the blue skirt because I remember I was wearing the blue skirt, and yet it may well have been red. I say that we lost each other in Rome on an overcast winter day fourteen years ago, that I turned away from him for a single moment and when I turned back he was gone. And yet maybe I actually walked a few paces away. Maybe I was angry and walked an entire block. Maybe we were separated by a crowd and one of us was swept off... The details get hazy as time passes and we fill them in with what feels right or what we would have wanted to happen, or what would make us more heroic, or more tragic. We're all unreliable narrators. Every one of us.

I'm often asked if my writing is autobiographical. (It isn't.) Most of my writer friends are asked the same thing, and often by other writers. When I'm reading fiction, I will sometimes find myself wondering how much of the story was taken from the writer's life. Why is that? Why do we do that? Where does this need come from...to take a piece of fiction and try to find what's "true" about its creator, culling the text for clues about that person behind the curtain pulling the strings?

Part of that impulse seems to come from wanting to connect to the artist. We want to recognize ourselves in the work, want to recognize its creator as someone we share something with, a fellow human with fears and loves and losses and all that, just like us. Especially if we care about their work. The more a piece of art moves us, the more we want to feel that the artist is just like us. And of course, they are. And so we go looking for clues. I felt this when I went to see the Basquiat exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum this past spring. I couldn't connect with the work, wasn't moved by it, until I came to a painting that had his footprints on it. There, right there, was my connection to this man who had once been alive, like me. Who had walked on that canvas as he created the painting.

Same with fiction...we're always looking for those footprints, aren't we? I'm not sure that's a bad thing. I'm not sure that makes me a bad reader, or a bad viewer of art... That part of what I'm looking for is that feeling that we're all connected, all walking through it together. Then again, I've certainly been accused of being an overly sentimental reader. I have no love for Pynchon, for Foster Wallace, for DeLillo. All head. No heart. No heat, no blood.

Not for me...

I want those footprints on the canvas.

Eavesdropping #1

Location: Midtown Manhattan, lobby of corporate skyscraper

Security Guard #1: No, man. See, you want there to be one big truth but it's not like that. My truth doesn't have to be your truth. We all have our own truth. It's different for everybody.

Security Guard #2: Yeah. Yeah. [pause] Did you catch the game last night?

The big payoff to knitting for babies? Getting to see the sweet little things wearing what you've made. Here's my friend Rebecca's daughter, Olivia, in the sweater I made for her:

Our deck has been annexed

Meet Bertha.

She sets up shop each night and is gone by morning. We've struck up a "Don't bite me and I won't kill you" arrangement that works out pretty well. She builds her web at the far end of the deck and we stay close to the house and try to give her wide berth. Because, see, she's as big as my thumb. She's beautiful and she eats the mosquitos and all that...but she creeps me out.

The web is amazing, though. You can barely see it, even when standing dangerously close to it. It was only once the flash went off that I was able to see how intricate it is. And how big. The center is easily four feet in diameter, and then the vertical spokes shoot out like tent ropes several more feet and anchor to the deck railing and the surrounding trees. It's gone every morning (does the dew weight it down and break it?) and she rebuilds it every night... Amazing.

Cassie, this photo is for you, darlin'.

Does this t-shirt make me look...

...self-centered?
...misguided?
...fat?

Last year I drew a quick caricature self-portrait to amuse myself. To further amuse myself, I posted it here on the blog. It was well-received, everyone got a giggle, I taped the original sketch to my studio wall and we all moved on.

So last night I started playing around with that old image. I thought it would look cool on a T-shirt. Off to CafePress I went. Indeed, it appears that it does look cool on a T-shirt. And hey, maybe other people will also think it looks cool on a T-shirt. And maybe it will generate a modest bit of cash that can subsidize the yarn habit. So I pull the trigger. A store is born. Fun! Off I trot to the blog and write a somewhat tongue in cheek post about formerly wealthy, currently dead Italians. And some of you like the stuff, which is very cool because I like it too.

But come morning I'm feeling somewhat uneasy about it. Billy says, "Well, you're kind of asking people for money." And I hadn't been thinking of it that way because I hadn't really thought it through. And then I reread my post and cringed just a bit more.

And then I see this wonderful thing that Cara has arranged, this CafePress store where the proceeds are going to charity. On the same damn day as my silly little store. So I'm feeling sheepish and mistaken and like a capitalist pig of the most unpleasant sort.

So then the dilemma becomes what to do about this store. I like the image, and others seem to like it too. Do I pull the plug on the store? Do I leave it available for those who want it? I toyed with the idea of also donating the profits from mine to charity, but that opens a can of blog political worms of its own.

I donate to charities, including Heifer, on my own each year. However I don't relish the idea of being the one in charge of a fundraiser, of keeping the tallies, of keeping track of the money and accounting for it... Many many kudos for those of you with the organizational and people skills to do that. I know me, I know my tolerance for public activity.

So here's the deal, I think. And this is totally up for discussion. I would love your input... But here's what I'm thinking. If you like any of the stuff in the store and would like to own it, that's great. Enjoy it. Use it in good health. If you would prefer the money go to charity, please take the entire purchase price and donate to the charity of your choice. You see, the cut that one gets from a CafePress store is rather small (which is fair, as there's no overhead so no risk on the part of the person who sets up the store. Ex: My cut of an $18.99 T-shirt sale is $2.00). If you only want the item because the proceeds are going to charity, please pass my humble T-shirt by and give the whole amount to a worthy cause.

We could sit here and listen to the crickets...

...or I could hand you one of the earpods from my iPod. Want to know what I'm listening to right now? Sure you do.

I made a mix for my friend Emily the other day. She was complaining of being stuck in a musical rut and wanted to be introduced to some new music. The resulting CD pleased me so much that I listened to the playlist myself all weekend. I think you can probably find most of it on iTunes.

Staring at the Sun -- TV on the Radio
Alley Flowers -- Jolie Holland
Multitude of Casualties -- The Hold Steady
Poor Little Rich Boy -- Regina Spektor
December 1999 -- Jolie Holland
Back to Gray -- The Thermals
Lifter Puller vs. the End of the Evening -- Lifter Puller
Combat Baby -- Metric
New Girl -- The Long Winters
Stevie Nix -- The Hold Steady
Needle in the Hay -- Elliott Smith
Oedipus -- Regina Spektor
Resolution -- The White Hassle
Dearly Departed -- Devotchka
Ode to Divorce -- Regina Spektor
Sangre de Stephanie -- Lifter Puller
Consequence of Sound -- Regina Spektor
Damn Shame -- Jolie Holland
Oh! Sweet Nuthin' -- The Velvet Underground

And there you have it. Some recent obsessions and a few older favorites. No matter who I'm listening to at the moment, I always return to The Velvet Underground, and I always try to sneak them on to whatever mix I'm making.

(Yes, Lou Reed, I've have my sideline flings--some of them spanning years--with Nick Cave, with Perry Farrell, with Craig Finn. And back in 2001 when I and all my friends got laid off and I ignored you and wallowed in Bright Eyes. And then there was that long cold winter spent mourning for Elliott Smith... But never forget, Lou, that I love you most of all, you grumpy old thing.)

So what are you listening to this summer? What are your new discoveries? What are your old favorites? I'm ready for something new.

PS: Yay, John! You have seen his Knitty pattern, yes?

Having failed to track down a Medici...

I've opened a CafePress store. Not only is it the official T-shirt/mug/sticker/postcard of Dogs Steal Yarn. It's also a confession and a warning to all who see you! Now, does it get much better than that? (Or maybe it's a confession and a warning that you know me. It's a self-portrait, after all...)

So maybe I haven't yet stumbled upon a wealthy patron who wants to ensure that I can spend all my time writing (and knitting). That doesn't mean there's a lack of kindness and lovely gifties. Look what came in the mail this weekend from the always wonderful (lovely, delightful, fantastic, so-much-like-me-it-can-be-scary) Norma:

Do I really need to say that the crackers are already half gone? Delicious. And that sock yarn? Fifty percent mohair, fifty percent merino. Beyond delicious. And as you may have noticed, I kind of like sock yarn.

Now go get your T-shirt/mug/postcard/sticker/button/thong. (This particular statement on a thong amuses me to no end.) Please. Um...pretty please. That is, uh...you know...if you want to.

If you need me, I'll be in my summer office

With the AC from my office now in the bedroom window, and the bigger/better AC that we got from friends (thanks again, Quig and Jules! ) not yet installed (it's damn big and heavy and we just haven't gotten around to lugging it upstairs yet), my office is now too hot to work in.

No worries. I present to you, my summer office.

Quite a view, hunh? The support staff is a bit lazy, but that's summer for you. (Note Sadie's jail cell in the corner. That's where she goes when she uses up too many of the office supplies or forgets to give me my phone messages. Dogs today, no work ethic.) No, I never make the bed. Never. It's just going to get messed up again. Luckily Billy agrees. Take a last look at the white walls, too. For my birthday I've asked for paint on the bedroom walls. (oh yeah...and those awful miniblinds the previous owner left replaced with the rice paper shades I bought well over a year ago and haven't gotten around to hanging yet, and my stained glass windows hung in front of those... Amazing how easy it is to shove the little projects to the side and before you know it you've been living with miniblinds for a year and a half.)

There've been some changes afoot in the knitting department. Some projects set aside due to acute lack of interest (Madli), older WIPs brought back to the forefront so that they'll be available to be worn in the fall (Corset Pullover), more socks started, more sock yarn hoarded...

I also bought the yarn for this lovely thing from the latest VK. I am using the suggested Blue Sky Alpaca Sportweight. The stuff is luscious. I'm looking forward to the heat breaking, because right now I can't bear to touch even this wonderful yarn. Of course I changed the colors somewhat. Can you picture me knitting with and then wearing turquoise? No. Of course you can't. Here are the colors I'll be using:

Valentina is going to make it too, and will also be changing the colors. She has fantastic color sense, so I can't wait to see what she does.

Ugh. It's hot in here in the main office. Back to the summer office I go. Have a great weekend. Stay cool. If you absolutely must touch wool, please be sure your air is sufficiently conditioned. Ugh.

And no, still haven't had those waffles or pancakes. Maybe this weekend.

Things that make perfect sense in the middle of the night

Lying in bed last night at three a.m., trying not to let our bodies touch at all, trying to lie perfectly still so maybe we could actually feel the ceiling fan in spite of the stifling heat in the room, Billy and I fantasized about living in a place where one could hop in a car in the middle of the night (in this scenario we actually would own one) and crank up the AC or roll all the windows down and drive along some highway to an all-night pancake house.

Yep. We were overheated and sweaty and absolutely wide awake and all we could think about were pancakes. Pancakes and waffles. And then we were going to go from the pancake place to a diner with those little individual jukeboxes on each table and the jukebox at our table would actually work and we'd play it and eat cheese fries.

New York has many things to recommend it, but it doesn't have the three a.m. riding down the highway in the middle of summer with the radio cranked up and all the windows down and just you and your friends on the highway thing. It doesn't have that late night Jersey roadside diner and cheese fries thing.

Anyway, we finally gave up and moved the AC from my office window to the bedroom. Yeah. Probably would have been a good thing to do before 3:30 a.m. We cooled off and fell asleep around four. The alarm clock went off much too soon after that.

Of course we both woke up with a craving for waffles.