Running Sans Scrappy

Away from home, the dog is in the kennel. I used to feel bad about kenneling the dog when we went away, but Scrappy actually seems to like it. I think it really is like doggy camp for him. He gets to hang around other dogs, pee in lots of new spots. Maybe it's reminiscent of his former life, the one where he gnawed off all his front teeth bored to tears locked away all day... Although I don't think he gnaws anymore, so he's at least gotten past that part of it. I guess just imagining he's having an okay time makes it easier for me to leave him there and go on and enjoy some time away from him. Is this like having a child?

I woke up at exactly 6:00am, and by 6:30 was out of bed and getting suited up for my run. I know now that I have crossed that line of making myself run to needing to run. No dog. On vacation. I still wake up and WANT to run. It was even raining this morning, and I heard myself making excuses why to run instead of why not to run: It's not raining that hard. It will be raining harder later if I don't go now. It's at least warm enough out to rain, so it will be warmer to run. Etc. It was at that moment I knew I was in the need to run zone.

I didn't run for long. Only about 25 minutes. I slipped several times, but never fell on my butt. That was the guidepost: if I slipped and fell on my butt, I was going to call it quits. But I never fell. It became my challenge of the morning, to stay alert of the ice patches forming under the rain, yet relaxed enough to enjoy the run. Tense enough to keep upright, yet loose enough to do the same. I found my center, just below the navel, breathed into it, loosened my shoulders, loosened my neck, then my right leg shot out from under me and I did some kind of hillbilly pirouette on my left foot while violently jerking my torso first to the left, overcompensating, slipping further, then jerking to the right. Taa-daa! A perfect 10 point moron out running on the ice in the rain. I would like to blame the dog for this, but clearly, I'm on my own.

Home for the Holidays

Going "home" for the holidays. I say it that way, because I guess I have finally gotten to an age in my life where "home" is actually where I live, and going to my parents' home is just that - it's their home, the home where I grew up, the home I go to visit but not where I live.

It's actually getting harder and harder for me to be away from home. My home, I mean. It's just that, when I have time to not be at work and not have to be at a certain place at a certain time, I do like to spend time in my own space, doing my own things, be it sitting on the sofa reading a book, at the table in the morning writing, or in the basement cleaning out boxes from moving or doing laundry. I like my home. I like my home life. I like being able to just do what I want to do when I want to do it. I like not having to be "on" - since I spend so much of my time around other people all day every day. Even when I'm not in class, I'm "on" - at any moment a colleague or student will come to me. I am surrounded by people. At home, I like not having to be ready to be "on".

It's not that I don't like to go away from time to time and visit and do other things. I do. Summer is the best time for me to do this. I feel much less pressure that the time away will be the only time I have, and that as soon as I get back, I have to be "on" again. Weekends away are harder. I have to be "on" as soon as I get back, after just spending three days "on" wherever it is we have gone. No down time. My personality is one that is energized by being around other people, to the point of exhaustion, so down time is incredibly important to me. Down time. Think time. Write time. Read time. Intropsective time.

Holidays are also even more demanding in terms of all the people, all the energy, all the activity. I get electrified, and all the more reason why it's better for it to be a short time away with time afterward to recoup. As it is, we are going to be spending five days away, which is really pushing my limit. I will just have to be sure I get in some "off" time - time to go running, to read, to write, to enjoy a movie and some people watching. That should help to balance all the other activity that I look forward to, but know at the same time, will exhaust me. Sort of like how I feel after a looooong run - good, but ready to just sit still for a while.

As Winter Nears

Winter solstice is approaching, and the official first day of winter, and it will be ushered in by the cold and snow that has preceded it, making some of us believe it is already, truly winter. Last night another foot of snow on top of the 2-3 feet we already got this week. Every morning shoveling new fallen drifts from the walks and drive.

Last week I woke to temperatures in the single digits - above freezing, mind you - but with wind chills well below. It's not been enough, however, to keep me inside before dawn lights the skies. Scrappy and I have been out each morning, snow or no snow, wind or no wind, running our usual morning route of about 2 miles. The one morning we got two feet of snow and the plows hadn't been around yet, I did cut it short - maybe a mile. It seemed it was much harder for me to run through it than for him - born with natural four-wheel drive. While I normally make him run beside me at a heel, I have begun to let him run ahead. Given the waist-attached, hands-off leash system I devised, it allows him to give me a little assistance when he pulls a bit, helping me to keep my forward momentum through the drifts. I know it may seem crazy, this running in ankle-deep drifts, but after the first block, I get so warmed up that every time, by the end of the run, regardless of temperature or wind chill, I'm sweating. What would I do without Scrappy? Okay, well, I'm sure I'd be curled up under the covers every morning, happily sleeping until at least 7:30. But, honestly, I'm so grateful to have him as my motivation to get up and work out every day. Even if we don't run, we at least walk one mile. And then again at night, after dinner, we go out and walk another mile.

The other night, we got to walking through the neighborhoods well after dark (all of about 8pm here). It wasn't too cold, may 17 degrees, and no wind. The traffic had died down, and the streets seemed so quiet and peaceful. We began by walking our usual route, then, seeing a side street with pretty Christmas lights adorning several houses, I took a turn and headed that way. I was childishly thrilled at the sight of multicolored lights and electronic set of bells that chimed Christmas carols. We continued our walk, and I pressed on in my serendipitous journey, simply choosing my turns and route by whichever direction I saw the beacons of the season and followed them.

I turned and twisted down streets I knew well in the summer, but now didn't recognize as well without their foliage. I saw houses that I had only known as hedges before, yards now seemingly as wide as open fields without all their summer accoutrements of picnic tables, above-ground pools and patio furniture. I was mesmerized by this new winter world, and followed the lights, followed the lights, followed the lights. White lights woven through pine swags, windows decorated with figurines to resemble turn-of-the-century towns at Christmas, giant Santas and polar bears filled with air and lights bouncing gently on front lawns, and white light reindeer that would raise and lower their heads.

I crossed one street after another, and thought I knew where I was, when suddenly I found myself completely turned around. I had somehow gotten lost in my own neighborhood, had crossed my path and gone several blocks past where I thought I was. It was an oddly disorienting feeling, but at the same time, not the least bit unnerving. In fact, it was even somewhat exciting to know I had misplaced myself on this little adventure, but knew I would eventually find my way back. I was in no hurry. I wasn't cold. The dog seemed happy to keep walking. And so we did, our silhouettes passing among the terrace trees and leafless hedges, shuffling through the drifts of snow, stopping from time to time to admire the glow of holiday cheer.

As the Semester Terns

November...wha...hey, waddaminit! Where'd November go?!

Yeah, it's like that.

Home for the holidays is always a joy and a treasure. Or not. This round was brief with its moments of heartfelt love and connectivity, but then the damn Lions had to go and lose the friggin' game. I'm seriously beginning to not enjoy watching them play. Not completely yet, but almost.

Oh, yeah, family. Well, Lisa was home from New Orleans, or wherever in the world it is she's been traveling most recently. She brought me and Casey some nifty things from around the world, and from that other world of now New Orleans. The best thing she gave me, though--okay, sure, besides sisterly love and all that--was a book! Surprise! A book - for me? But the book is a response to the blog I wrote about Homeland Security Against Racist F*ckers. Of course, it comes from Tolerance.org - only one of the coolest organizations to ever exist in terms of education and all the -isms that plague our process as a truly civilized nation.

The book she gave me is called Speak Up! Responding to Everyday Bigotry. I think this may become required reading in my classes...

Click here some wonderful publications they offer for FREE! Great for teachers and the general public of folks like me dealing with ignoramous neighbors. Of course, if you can give money to the organization - The Southern Poverty Law Center - I highly recommend it. Even a couple of bucks to cover some postage costs. But don't sweat it if you can't. Get the publications - some are PDF downloads, so you can run off bazillions of them at work or some other stick-it-to-the-man action.

Thank you Lisa for a great gift I hope to share with many others, and unfortunately will need to put to use myself, but am grateful to have something now to guide my confrontations, making them more constructive then, say, just slapping someone silly. After all, violence like that, no matter how good it feels, really isn't right.

Deep breaths.

Mortality and My Dog Scrappy

Don't you hate those moments when you find yourself dwindling in thoughts of what it really means to be mortal? That at some point and time, your existence will come to and end. Nothing more. All of this gone, and you won't even know it because there won't be any knowing left. I don't believe in a god and a heaven, so I don't have these thought of an ever after. I know such thoughts may bring great comfort to some in their beliefs, but that's what it's for - comfort and not much more. It's the blinders to wear to not really have to think about it or give it too much thought because, really, there ain't much to think about. For me, dead is dead is dead. There is no ever after, there is no meeting up later. Dead is done.

This doesn't mean, however, that I can't and don't respect others' beliefs in god(s), in an afterlife. No, to the contrary. That's fine. That's what works for them and what they want and need. And I do pray. How contradictory is that? Well, not really. I pray to the god(s) that others believe in, in my effort to provide them the comfort they need and desire. For instance, the hurricanes and earthquakes. I don't believe in any god for me, but I will say a prayer and send it into the universe to the god in which those people affected may believe. I don't have a problem talking to other people's god(s), I just don't want or need to talk to their god for me.

When I talk to my parents on the phone, and they say, "God bless you." I say, "Thank you, God bless you." It's not me I'm asking any god to bless, but them. And if they want to talk to their god and offer a blessing, that's their relationship with god, not mine. And when I say it back, I simply mean to step into their belief system for a moment and ask their god to bless them. Still, not about me - that's about them.

When I have a friend I know is religious, I tell them I will pray for them if they are in need, or light a candle for them - which is some sort of pyrotechnic prayer offering. How about the idea of sending positive energy into the universe? Sure, okay, there's that, too. That if you want to call it "god" you can, but it's really just directed energies. The movie Powder was a great example of this concept of energies - at the end, when he...well, I can't give it away, but suffice it to say, it certainly is my perspective of what happens to us when we're gone. Re-emission. We are energy, recycled, recirculated into the universe. Which means from the beginning of time, we are all one - all composites of previous energies having come before us. Sure, why not?

The bottom line is that I don't get hung up on it has to be this, or it has to be that. I'm open to considering possibilities, and open to knowing there can be many, many possibilities all on one planet. That is what we are, isn't it?

So, how does the dog figure into this? Well, the thoughts came to me today as I was driving my dog to a dog park so he could go play. It just hit me as I drove the car and looked out across the harvested fields and thinning fall tree lines in the distance. Under overcast fall skies, I looked at my husband next to me, to my dog in the back seat, and thought, "This is my life. This is all there is. Someday, it will all stop. All be gone. All be done." And as my chest seemed to tighten at the thought of it, and my heart beat faster, I reached out my hand and placed it on Casey's leg. I held it tightly for a moment and felt the anxious energy from my core release and funnel itself out, through my hand, into his leg. He sat calmly, looking out the window at the same serene fall day. "This is now," I told myself. "Nothing matters more than just - this." And I grew calm. And I breathed. And I took my dog to the park.

Simple Comforts

One of my most simple comforts is watching movies. Not just any movie, but rather a movie I've already seen, preferably more than once or twice or three or four times, for that matter. I don't knwow what it is, but I tend to enjoy watching movies over and over and over. But not just any movies. The ones I like to watch repeatedly tend to be sappy, silly, downright dumb movies. For example? Well, let's just start with Julia Roberts - Mystic Pizza, Pretty Woman - and another fav, even more than Julia, Sandra - The Net, Miss Congeniality - dumb, dumb shit like that - Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Bad News Bears, Shrek, Shrek II, Jaws, Moulin Rouge, Secretary, Brazil, A Fish Called Wanda - okay, so maybe not really dumb shit all the time, but at least movies I have seen once already. The reason for this is because I like to work with movies going on in the background. I don't really watch them the whole time they're on, but I like to look up once in a while and catch my favorite scenes. So, really, they're like background for me. But they do tend to have their moments as movies - those bits and pieces where I like to be drawn up in the fantasy of the movie and believe that it could all be real for a moment. More real than the papers I'm reading or the reviews I'm editing or the fact that the dog has to be let or or the cat box cleaned...if nothing for just than a moment.

Homeland Security Against Racist F*ckers

Okay friends - I could use a little help here...

In regards to the hurricane victims in the south, I have now twice dealt with people in town who have commented to me about people from that area coming to Michigan. One person was a construction worker in our house who was working on a project for us, the other was one of our neighbors who is older and has been very kind to us. The gist of the comments each time has been about the "blacks coming to Bay City." The construction guy said something like, "Now they're bringing a bunch of those blacks here. Oh, I got nothing against them, but I don't know why they have to bring them here." And the neighbor, commenting that a house in the area was a HUD house said, "They're going to be bringing hurricane victims here. There'll be blacks in the neighborhood." (At last look, our neighborhood is mostly white, but not without some variety of race/ethnicity.)

Honestly, at first I am so shocked by their comments I don't know what to say. Then all these thoughts go rushing through my head about weighing out the value of the relationship and what would be the "right" response in a situation like this. My gut feeling is to tell them to go f*ck themselves and that I'd sooner have a "black" neighbor than a white racist in my home or next door. But, I bite my tongue. Should I respond? What should my response be? Is the relationship that important that I should be swallowing the bile of this racism? Can anything I say really even make a difference? Do I need to make a difference or just be true to myself? Is there a difference between these two?

At the very least, I can change the subject a bit by commenting that I have family who live in New Orleans. That seems to be enough to disarm the situation for them to think about that, or, in the case of the neighbor, I just looked at him, and looked at other neighbors sitting there as well. The silence was thick, but I still am not satisfied it was enough. Grabbing him by the throat, I suppose, would have been too much. But it is now what I envision myself doing. I don't think I am so mad at him as much I am at myself for not saying/doing something more.

But, what?

A Letter from New Orleans

My "little" sister is back in New Orleans, doing what she does best: helping people and, no doubt, saving lives. The text below is her most recent e-mail to family and friends, sent September 6, 2005. For those of you who don't know, she makes reference to being specialized in her medical field - she is a cancer surgeon - making emergency medical care a challenging task for her, but one she has readily stepped up to. My respect and admiration to her and all her colleagues at this time, as always before, but now even more so.

[Letter from the Good Doctor in New Orleans]

I can't thank you all enough for all of the love and support you have given me through all of this. I have been truly blessed, more than I thought I ever deserved. I could not have made it though this past week without all of your encouragement. Here is my update.

I returned back to Louisiana on the 2nd (thank you again Susan and your beautiful family for taking such great care of me during a VERY difficult time). I have been back at my hospital in New Orleans now for the past few days, relieving my partner who was here for 6 days through the worst of it, where I am staying 24 hours as we are not allowed to return to our homes. Arriving back here was the greatest sense of relief that I have felt in days. I must truly be a missionary doctor, because it was killing me to be away. When I imagined that I travel to other countries to care for their sick, and now the most needy were in my own city, it was very difficult to be away. Don't worry about safety, as here at the hospital it is simply not an issue. We are very well protected.

The hospital is in better shape than any other in town and only 2 others are opened. We got only some roof damage at the hospital but no flooding. The electricity and water were out for 48 hours during the storm so there is a lot of work to do to make it a fully functioning Hospital again, but we are able to add back day by day. We live everything, and every decision day to day now. Our emergency room is picking up, as initially they did not want to send patients here because they wanted them all out of the city. However, our hospital "Ochsner Clinic" is located on the border of Orleans and Jefferson Parish, and if you have been watching the news at all you know that Jefferson Parish residents were allowed back into the city temporarily today, so things are getting busier. And yes, there are many who never left and in Jefferson Parish do have some electricity and running water so they are unlikely to leave at all.

Tomorrow we are opening up clinic for any problems with patients from all of the specialties and we really don't know what to expect. We want people to know that we are here for them, so if they need help they will receive it. I do whatever I can to help out. Being so specialized as I am, in a crisis you learn a lot of new skills to help. I am now a pharmacy technician and have been filling hundreds of prescriptions every day, as I believe we are the only functioning pharmacy in town. The search and rescue workers come to us to renew their medicines.

I made it out of the hospital briefly today to go check on my house for the first time since the storm. I am truly blessed. Other than some branches in my yard and a screen from a window and a few shingles (no telling who those belong to) my house was absolutely fine. I cleaned out my fridge and freezer, with hardly any horrible stench. For all of you who have harassed me for years for having such an empty fridge, to you I say HA! It served me very well this past week.

We did see a lot of destruction from water in the city. Thousands of trees down. Very few people around. They are still evacuating slowly. I live in Orleans Parish which was the worst hit and the most severe water. I really wasn't supposed to be out, but a medical badge can get you a lot in a natural disaster. There were trucks and trucks of military troops, all armed, all over the city. I felt very safe (did I mention I was in a Land Rover, with another crazy female surgeon, with a Rotweiler in the back and a handgun in the glove box? No it wasn’t mine, but it was there, just in case!), as I'm sure the military and law enforcement outnumber civilians 10 to 1 now.

I will not be able to live in my house for awhile. How long? No one knows. Again, day by day. No electricity or water and a lot of work to be done in the city. On my days off from the hospital, I am to go to Baton Rouge. They will put us up in doctors’ homes there if we have no place to stay. I have a friend there who said I could stay with him, but unfortunately I haven't been able to reach him for 3 days now. I'll keep working on that. They say that the navy hospital ship with 1000 beds may dock on the river by Ochsner to house all of the employees so we can have a place to live without commuting and living in the hospital while we are here. Cruise lines have also volunteered their ships.

What will come of all of that and in what time frame, Who knows? Day by day. Right now I have a job I love, a place to sleep, 3 meals a day and all of you. What more could I ask for? I don't worry so much about tomorrow right now. I am so blessed for all I have today.

Am I going to leave New Orleans? Absolutely not. I had a deep love for this city and its people before all of this that was only strengthened by this unfortunate tragedy. I would never desert them now. I look forward to being part of the recovery of this amazing place. This past week has changed me, and all of us that live here, forever. I pray that it will continue to strengthen me and remind me and the rest of the world what is truly important in life. I ask you to continue to pray for this city and all of those taking care of us, and that you all will too appreciate how blessed you are and how precious life is.

Please read [Anne Rice’s] letter from yesterday's New York Times: “Do You Know What It Means to Lose New Orleans?” It could not describe my feelings for New Orleans and this tragedy any more eloquently (yes Denise, I had to look up the spelling on that word).

I'm sure there is so much more to tell, but that will have to be it for now.

I'm tired and need some sleep.

Oh, one more thing, if any of you work for corporations (or you money bags out there) that can donate money, my employer has a Hurricane Relief Fund to support our employees who have lost their homes to try to provide them with housing and get them back here if possible and stabilize their jobs and lives. They have been absolutely amazing though all of this as an employer and I would love to see all of these great health care professionals who were not as fortunate as I was be able to come back and help heal this city and its people. A letter addressing this and providing the information is [inserted below]. Please pass this along if anyone asks how they can help.

I love you all. God Bless you all.

Good night and God Bless.

[Letter from Ochsner Hospital, New Orleans]

This is a sad and humbling day for the staff of the Ochsner Clinic Foundation, and for the people of our great city of New Orleans. We at Ochsner are grateful to report countless acts of courage, incredible dedication and generosity by our staff, patients and families, and the citizens of New Orleans, Louisiana and this wonderful country. What we have directly witnessed reaffirms our faith in humanity. It is unfortunate that the thoughtless acts of a few have diminished the great work of so many citizens from all walks of life.

Ochsner hospital remained open throughout this ordeal and continues to serve our community. The word written by employees with red garbage bags on the top of the parking deck for all to see speaks volumes: OPEN. This was our message to the city when all other communications failed.

This feat is the product of incredibly dedicated, talented and selfless employees. I am deeply grateful to be associated with such an extraordinary group of people.

Approximately 5,000 of our 7,000 employees are victims of Hurricane Katrina. Many of our people have severely damaged homes, or are completely homeless.

In response to many requests to offer support, Ochsner has instituted the Ochsner Clinic Foundation Hurricane Relief Fund to benefit our employees and organization, both of whom have both suffered greatly in this disaster. Donations can be made payable to Ochsner Clinic Foundation and specified for the Ochsner Hurricane Relief Fund at the following address:

Ochsner Clinic Foundation - Dept. #118
P.O. Box 4869
Houston, TX 77210-4869

Funds may also be wired to the following location:

Hibernia National Bank
5718 Westheimer, Suite 600
Houston, TX 77057

ABA #113024915
Account #0623336615
Reference: Ochsner Clinic Foundation Hurricane Relief

Ochsner is a 510(c)3 non-profit organization, founded on patient care, research and education. We are one of the country’s largest non–university based academic centers and directly care for patients throughout southeast Louisiana. We continue our mission, and will serve and rebuild New Orleans, with the help of our employees and our extended family.

Sincerely,
Patrick Quinlan, M.D.
Chief Executive Officer
Ochsner Clinic Foundation

How the News Does Spin its Own Hurricane

I have been watching the news non-stop every chance I get since Sunday. I have a sister who lives in New Orleans - she's okay - but that will be another blog. In watching and listening to the radio as much as I have, I can't help but comment.

Like all stories, news reporters sensationalize all they can. I don't mean this disrespectfully to the people of New Orleans, as a matter of fact, I mean just the opposite. I think the story of their misery needed to be sensationalized. It needed every bit of camera play and emotion that could be pulled from it, because I do believe the government was slow to respond. I don't think officials understood the scope or seriousness or just the pure disgusting-ness of the situation. Maybe if we could transmit smell over the tv, that would have helped. But to have the director of FEMA say, three days after the hurricane and after we are all witnessing the vile living conditions of people at the Convention Center, that he wasn't aware of any situation at the Convention Center - ? Doesn't he have a tv? Hasn't he even seen general news coverage of the event? Listened to the radio? No one he works with could have seen this and mentioned it to him? So, apparently, there was not enough sensationalizing going on if this was the response from government officials. Today, the mayor of New Orleans said the president decided to come down and see the destruction for himself because he didn't feel his own people were telling him enough of the story. I don't think he watches the news either.

Where I think sensationalism went to the negative? Focusing on the looting and negative behaviors of the people of New Orleans. Yes, there are morons in every community. If my hometown of sugar and spice were to be thrown into a destructive situation of life-threatening crisis, I can guarantee there will be those people who will be mean, hurt others, take advantage of others and think of no one but themselves. (As a matter of fact, I know some people who get elected to office and receive promotions for this type of behavior.) But these were not the majority of people in New Orleans. The majority of people were waiting - and in my opinion very patiently - for the promised buses to arrive. They waited for days. Some died. Some may have broken into stores for water or food or clean clothes. Wouldn't you? I sure as hell would. I saw some "looted" stores on the news today, right down on Canal Street. They were still full of material goods that could be worth a lot of money. But the water was gone. Food was gone. Some of the clothes were gone - some clothes still hung neatly on the racks. So what we saw on the news- the looters - in the first hours of the disaster, were those bad people who would be bad no matter what and were taking advantage of what they thought was a temporary situation. The guy who had a huge bag of clothes and shoes, no doubt he left those behind a day later, just wishing he had a sandwich.

But these looting scenes are the ones we saw again and again. And no doubt what the president was told was happening in New Orleans. And why a hundred buses sat outside the city for two days on hold, because it wasn't "safe" to go into New Orleans without an armed guard on every bus. For the love of whatever god you believe in, if the people had seen one hundred buses coming, why on earth would anyone have to fear their relief, their gratitude, their restored hope...

The news did us right and did us wrong on this story of Katrina and the people of New Orleans. As always. We as intelligent viewers have to be better about remembering that the news means to spin a story, and we have to sort through that to make our own decisions about what we believe, and maybe what we want to believe in spite what we are shown, about the inherent nature of human beings. In the days to come, I know time and again the overwhelming agreement will be that those people (not refugees, please!), those human beings in crisis needed help or at the very least, needed to know help was coming, long before they got it. Minutes matter in such situations, and each day is an eternity. No one will argue they needed more than they got and sooner than they got it. The question will be, Why didn't they get it? And that will no doubt be the drawn out, hashed over question that will take our nation all the way through the next election.

Blog Spammers are Jerks

What is up with the blog spammers? What a crush to see comments to my post have absolutely nothing to do with my post, but want me to come to their blog where they're selling cat furniture (uh, all the furniture in my house is cat furniture) and dietary supplements. Yeah, right, that has a lot to do with my writing about a new job and my having my dog put down. "Great blog! A lot of fun to read" one said. Spammers are jerks. And then some.

New Job Second Thoughts

I’m getting ready to teach my first class at my new college on Monday. And for the first time since moving here, I’ve been hit with a twang of disappointment, bordering on wondering if I’ve made a mistake, career-wise.

Sure, there are some great benefits to this new school, and I know that over the years, I will have opportunities here to develop myself as a teacher that I did not have at my old school. There are education classes offered for teachers right through the college, and I’m interested in taking each and every one of them. There is support for faculty here to continue their education and to be involved in staff development. There is a teaching learning center here that supports instructional innovation and will assist teachers in developing new direction for old assignments in their classes. In all, that seems great.

Of course, there’s also the extracurriculars going on throughout the year – speakers, events, workshops – both here on the campus and in the surrounding communities. Okay, I tell myself, this is all good. So what went “wrong” to cause my wave of second thoughts?

I went and looked at my classrooms. The first word that came to mind: ghetto.

I’m in classrooms with old-style desks – one with the kind of chairs with the desks attached, another with chairs that look as though they were second-hand from some elementary school, with those crappy faux wood-top tables with brown metal supports – retro, I suppose, if I wanted to see it in some positive vein.

Chalkboards. Chalkboards? What top-notch college uses chalkboards anymore? And I saw no chalk on the holders, so I know there’s going to be a supplies issue with this already. An overhead in one room, nothing electronic in the other, and the third, I couldn’t even get into, nor look into because of the green tape over the window. What the heck is that all about?

So, I go from a school where I had a computer projector in my classroom for everyday use, to feeling as though I’ve been thrown back in time about 15 years.

And it’s not just that. I have no lit classes, and no hope that any will come anytime soon. I say it doesn’t matter, but the distinction between faculty is clear here – those who have and those who have not. I’ve even been in conversations where I feel as though I’ve been ignored by my colleagues because I don’t have lit classes – how could I possibly have anything to say about literature? Or how could I even be considered a writer if I don’t have an MFA and a creative writing class to teach?

I left a school where I had three lit classes a year, and had developed a fourth. I was teaching online and in the classroom, I had technology at my fingertips on a daily basis, I organized and was asked to read at public readings. So, can you understand this feeling of, “What have I done?”

I told myself I could do this. I could give up the lit and sit at the bottom of the pond and enjoy what I got. I have to just remind myself of that. I have to just remind myself that I can teach with nothing more than pencil and paper. And I suppose it’s going to be this first term that is the practical reminder of my roots. It’s just going to be frustrating at first, and I also fear it may be harder for me later to be able to go back to the techniques I used to use – computers and other electronic aids – like some kind of yo-yo that gets its string twisted and can’t bounce back up as quickly, or at all.

I Need Nap Time

I have just had the first day of my new teaching job, and I'm friggin' exhausted. Is frigging in the dictionary yet?

I'm just wondering if I ever had enough energy to go through what I went through today and not come away feeling as though someone had vacumed my soul out, scrubbed it with a bristle brush and then slung it over my shoulder on the way out the door. I think I can say with some certainty (is that contradictory?) that I never had the energy for such full days of work. From 8am to nearly 7pm, being "on" the whole time, talking to colleagues, sitting in on workshops, eating in front of others (not a leisure task by any means - extra wipes of the mouth to be sure there's no mustard, sipping instead of gulping, etc.) - even bathroom breaks provided no "down" time, other than the actual act of sitting.

No, I can distinctly remember, even in college, having been a napper. I love to nap. Not only that, I think I NEED to nap. There have also been plenty of recent studies that show a correlation between workers getting nap time and increased productivity that makes up for the time "lost" for the nap. If increased productivity means making me less bitchy when I'm feeling wiped out, then I'm all for it, and no doubt so are my students.

I can lie down and sleep for exactly one hour, then get up and get on with my day. Sometimes, if I've not had a good night's sleep, I might nap two hours, but generally not more than that. When I've had long work days at school, I shut my office door, turn off the lights and nap sitting up in my chair. This is really only good for about a 15 minute nap, but it's enough. I've tried curling up on the floor, but it doesn't work for me.

I'm going to have to seriously consider taking in a nap mat of some sort. A yoga mat. Sure, that could seem innocent enough - "Oh, yes, I do yoga in my office sometimes..." Or should I just come out and say, "No, it's my nap mat." And really, who doesn't remember their kindergarten nap mat? Certainly that will find a soft spot - no pun intended - with anyone who would ask. For that matter, I think I may as well haul in a blanket and pillow. I mean, you never know when a freak storm might find me stranded on campus overnight... Does that sound plausible enough?

Isabelle's Ashes

The vet called today. I have caller ID, so I knew it was them, and still I answered the phone. She asked for me.
"We have Isabelle's remains."
"Okay, thank you," I say and hang up.
Isabelle's remains.
All that remains of Isabelle.
Ready to be picked up now.
The finality weights me soundly to mortality, to the reality of loss.
All that remains.

Final Ride

Yes, Isabelle is gone now.

It was a lot harder than we both thought it would be. Once again, the day before and the morning of, she seemed okay - once she was up. Partly this might be due to the fact that I'd upped her meds so much, which her liver wouldn't be able to sustain for much longer than a month or so anyway.

We went away earlier in the week, and Holly - Isabelle's best pal who stays with her while we're away - came for one more night with her. I gave Isabelle a bath and trimmed her nails to "get her ready for Holly." While bathing her, I noticed how thin her back end had become. Her backbone stuck up - her hip bones stuck up - her back legs barely having any more muscle on them. And I cleaned the green gunk out her eyes yet again.

Being away from her was okay this time. I knew she was with Holly. I knew there was still time. But, on the ride home, as we got closer, I felt the saddness come over me. I took her for a walk that night - a long walk - almost four blocks. Casey went too. I gave her treats and went to bed. The next morning, I was up early and took her for another walk - another long one, then sat out on the porch with her, then inside the house.

Repair workers were coming to get started for the day. Casey talked with them while I sat in the diningroom with Isabelle. It was sort of like waiting for the plane to make the final boarding call when one person is leaving the other.

When he finally came through the door to get her, he stood for a moment, his lip quivered and his eyes filled with tears. We both cried and laughed, knowing that he was supposed to be the strong one in this moment and suddenly, it was just as hard for him as it had been for me. We hugged and cried, I got Isabelle up and led her out to the car. I gave her a big hug, then helped her into the back. I hugged her head one more time, then shut the door. I watched as they drove off - Isabelle's head peering out above the seat. She loves car rides.

When Casey came home, more tears, more hugs. We lay on the bed together, holding one another. I asked him to tell me about it. "Were they nice?" I asked. "Yes," he said. That's all that mattered. He didn't stay in the room with her when they administered the shot. I wouldn't have expected him to. He said, "The vet looked at the chart, looked at me and said, 'We'll bill you.'" Her leash and collar are still in the car. I can't bring myself to take them out yet. I try not to do dumb stuff, but already, at the grocery store, I saw paper towels on sale and reached for a big pack of them, then stopped myself. I was getting them to clean up after Isabelle. To wipe off her eyes, to wipe down the slobber off the walls, to clean up her drool. I didn't need them anymore, and I broke down crying in the aisle at Meijer.

Silly, I tell myself. Silly, silly, silly. But I still can't make it stop from happening. So, I just let it happen.

Returns

I went back to Alpena today to clean out my office, the final official act of leaving any position. As I drove north, I enjoyed the solitude of my drive. Casey had stayed home to work, so I was on my own. I listened to the radio, as I prefer to do – NPR, of course, while they’re on talk mode, but nix the classical. Who really listens to classical anymore? I popped in an old mix tape a friend of mine had made: “Old But Not Forgotten 60s and 70s.” I sang along to some, and to others, simply spaced out into my own thoughts: my new job, the house, the “Check Engine” light on my car, and, of course, Isabelle.

The further north I got, the more I began to notice the change of scenery around me. More hills, more lakefront, more trees – lots more trees. The roads became less and less crowded the further north I went. As I came into Alpena, just south of our old subdivision – near Squaw Bay – I looked up to see a Bald Eagle flying overhead – flying out over the cattail swamp to the open waters of Thunder Bay. Further beyond, I saw the dense treed area of Partridge Point, jutting out in the deep blue bay. Okay, so THIS, I told myself, I will miss.

Even driving into Alpena, there are a lot more trees – small stands of them, long strip forests along the roadside, groups in yards and parks. Yes, many more trees. Looking out on the bay I realized that more than being able to see water, living on the water means being able to look out and see nothing – the expanse of open space, probably much in the same way people experience the space of the desert, only with water, the coloration and feel is no doubt much different. There is blue everywhere, from sky to water’s surface – all blue and reflections of sunlight. The air is fresh and clean and cool.

I went to the bank to close my account and to another bank to make a deposit. People were nice. Strangers looked to me with kind eyes as they talked to someone else, meaning to include me in their storytelling. Both men and women held open doors for me, waiting for me to reach the threshold before walking off. There was less movement everywhere I went. Not so many people, not so many cars, a much less crowded feeling. This I will miss.

Some days here, I already can sense that “city” attitude – it’s all about me, myself and I. Screw everybody else, I own the road, I don’t have to think about others, looking out for number one. It weighs heavier here, and I can feel it, like a wet blanket on a humid day – ugh. And there is nothing I can do about it. Oh, sure, I can do my own good deeds, yadda yadda – but I still sense that divide, that disconnect. It’s a bit depressing, really, to know there are so many more people here – more people, but less connect.

There are things I will miss about Alpena. I never said there wouldn’t be. I only knew it would take me a little longer to let them come to the surface. As in so many life experiences, through the test of time, it is the good things we remember – if only we give ourselves enough time.

As I cleaned out my office – thanks big to Angela for helping with that – I have to admit, I wasn’t sad. I thought I might be, but I just wasn’t. I realized as I sorted out stacks of papers and books – just how much work I had done for that college, just how much of my life I had given to my job. It was overwhelming. I might say I wouldn’t do that again, but I also realize just how much a part of me it is. I care about my job. I care about the people I encounter. I care about my students. I will do it all again, only in a new place with new people. It is always about “them” not me in my work. I know this because I could do what I see some of my colleagues do – teach overload after overload, summer classes – all for money. That’s not about others. That’s about self. That’s not what I did nor what I will ever plan to do.

After cleaning the office, we went to lunch – to Hunan. It was wonderful. Alpena actually has great Chinese restaurants. Another thing I will miss. We’ve tried one here, and it’s that overAmericanized-brown-sauce-no-flavor Chinese. We sat and ate overlooking the water. It was beautiful. A wonderful end to a great six years in Alpena. A delicious meal. A good friend. What more could I ask for?

I have many friends I leave behind in Alpena, but I don’t feel sad about this. People stay in my life. I might miss their closeness, but I never miss them. I know they are there – I can call them or e-mail them, but they are also always with me. They have become a part of who I am. I have assimilated some of them into my life. Too funny, as Angela would say. I’m feeling hinky about that, as Monica would say. And so much more – in my actions, in my words, in my way of seeing the world. My friends are who I become in my life, and I will return to them again and again in each and every day.

Endings

My online summer class is over. My last class with ACC. Yesterday I read the final paper, scored the last final exam and calculated grades. One plagiarist, one who missed the final exam, one who didn't write the final paper. So, certainly, not an all happy ending. I've already heard from the first two, who of course want to contest the results of their grade - and the last one won't care because she still passed. Welcome to education.

I felt a bit of a flutter of emotion when I closed down the computer last night, knowing I was now finally and formally finished with that college. It's the same as always at the end of any semester, just like the end of the race when I was doing triatholon and marathon - how something so big and consuming, now over, could end with so little bang. Whoop-dee-doo. I finished my class. Who cares? Now what? It's almost a bit of a letdown - emotionally - to feel it come to nothing, and I just want to break away from that feeling, put it behind me, forget about it as quickly as possible.

That compounded with my situation with Isabelle left me a bit of a wreck - I had to get out of the house. As much as I feel like I want to be with her and spend time with her, yesterday it was just too much, and I needed to be apart from her.

We went shopping - mind you - I hate shopping, so this is a desperate act - but, it felt good given the muggy heat wave here - spending the afternoon in the environmental hell of air conditioned bliss. I got my copy of the new Harry Potter and another book I'm considering for my fall classes. We shopped furniture and clothes, house gizmos and finally dinner groceries. By the last stop, though, I was feeling anxious to be home again. I was worried I had left the dogs too long. Worried Isabelle would be suffering heat stroke. And generally, just wanting to be near her again.

Of course all was well when we arrived home, Isabelle picking herself up off her carpet to greet us, no doubt from a sound sleep.

Today is better for me in terms of accepting her end of life. I am thinking of each trip up and down the stairs with Isabelle and how much harder each step becomes. She has to sleep in the basement now, because of her late night accidents, but, given the heat, it's better for her there. It's just that it's another set of stairs she has to climb each day. She's slower in the morning, better at night. But yesterday, even after walking her, a puddle of urine on the porch as she wagged her tail. And that's one I give her medication for. I look for leaks in the roof, denying for a moment it could be her, then let the sinking feeling have its place.

Today I made a plaster imprint of her foot. It's something I've been meaning to do for a while now, and figured I'd better get to it. Of course she accommodated without any resistance, stepping into the cool sludge. It's something, I tell myself, something more than memories and photos. Something I can touch. Because, when she's gone, I will still care, and I don't want to forget.

Isabelle

My dog is at the end of her life. I know. I've seen this look before when my grandpa was dying. He was withered to skin and bone, his eye sockets sunken into his temples. I took pictures of him and my grandmother. I look back on them now and see the sharp contrast in their features, even as she was aging, she was still full of life, while he, he was being drained of it. And how she knew this, every day. Knew that she was caring for a dying man. Knew that each day, each moment could be his last, and being there with him through that.

Isabelle is eight, maybe nine. That's pretty old for an English Mastiff. I took her to the vet this week for runny eyes. The musculature around her face has atrophied, as has the rest of her. She has taken on the appearance and gait of an old Disney hound dog. "C'mon Disney dog," I'll say to her as she plods along on her walk. There's nothing to be done about her eyes. Probably just the result of so much skin hanging down around them now. Her sockets, sunken, going deeper each day. Her eyes black and beady, glazing over some, in sharp contrast to the fur around her muzzle, which is turning whiter. She's dropped 15 pounds in the last three months.

The vet took blood for a test, then Isabelle had other troubles this week, so I took in a fecal sample. That was normal, but the blood test showed some high areas. I've seen those before too, in my cat Mocha who I just had put down because of a liver tumor. The vet couldn't tell me for sure what the high numbers indicate - they'd need more tests, she said, "a blood smear, a stomach x-ray - oh, it's really easy to do…"

"No more tests," I said. "We've been through this her whole life. She's getting old."

The vet told me of other medications to try. New vet. Didn't know the history. That we'd been on those pills already, and off of them, onto something else, along with three other pills for a total of five pills twice a day. That in addition to special food for urinary health. I began to understand how it is people feel when they go through this with a loved one and are at this kind of stage of understanding there really isn't any more to be done.

"Just make her as comfortable as you can," the vet suggested when I said I was going to focus on her end of life care. She prescribed an anti-diarrheal medicine to help with the most recent issue.

Driving home, I was flooded with emotions. I was angry that maybe they did their test incorrectly and there really was something I could give her a pill for and make her all better, only they were too incompetent to find it. Maybe I should demand they run the test again. I felt guilty that I hadn't done enough. Maybe I should put her through more tests, just to be sure. But, sure of what? That she for sure has a tumor? That she for sure has cancer? I don't need to know these things.

I pulled into the driveway and looked to see her in her usual spot on the side porch. She slowly rose as I got out of the car and shuffled across the porch, down the stairs using the one-at-a-time baby steps I had taught her so as not to damage her joints, and ambled across the yard to meet me, Disney dog style. I hugged her and scratched her big floppy ears. She melted into a big brindle puddle at my feet and rolled over to have her belly scratched. How could I resist?

Inside, I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and began to prepare her newest remedy - three pills in a spoonful would be no problem going down. My husband came into the room, and I couldn't help but break into heaving sobs. How could I ever have done this alone? How do people do this alone?

He will take her to the vet to have it done. I can't be there at all.

Today seems to be an okay day for Isabelle. I cleaned the goop out of her eyes. We walked down the street. She had a better stool than I've seen from her in a while. I think for a moment that she's doing just fine and all of this is just overreacting. But by the end of the block, she is tired, panting heavily. We turn around to go home, and the walk is one slow step at a time. I give her all the time she wants to stop and sniff first a tree, then the grass. She snorffles through her droopy muzzle, "Rooting out truffles?" I ask, the same line I've used for years. She stops and looks up at me, her black eyes small and round behind protruding bone, then she steps up and moves to a new smell. In the morning sun, her shadow on the sidewalk, I see her body looks full and large, her legs strong, and her tail wagging, wagging.

Leaving Alpena

We're leaving Alpena. We're moving the household and NewPages World Headquarters downstate. As we go through this process, I'll be writing about yet another experience of moving. Yet another... It used to be that I moved once year, sometimes more frequently. When I was in college, I rarely stayed in the same place past the lease. And after college, well, old habits are hard to break. There always seemed to be a better deal, a better neighborhood, a new romance, one breaking up - whatever the case may be. Even here, it was one year in a rental, and then buying a home, where I've been probably the longest of all - five years. Six years in Alpena.

Six years.

And in those six years: Bought a house. Ended a relationship. Started a new one and got married. Got a new cat, a new dog and a tank of fish. Stopped racing triathlon and marathon, got hurt, got fat, and am slowly beginning to add exercise back into my regular schedule (having a dog helps!). Six years of living and learning, and now I'm ready to put it behind me.

Each day, I run through the mental list of things I'll miss about Alpena, and things I won't miss. Today:

Things I Won't Miss About Alpena

Mosquitos (I have over 40 bites on my legs alone and have to take Benadryl because I react so violently to them - swollen welts up and down my legs.)
Swamps - we live in one, hence the mosquitos.
Being two and a half hours from the nearest major bookstore, restaurants, microbreweries, shopping, university and family.
Being five hours from the nearest cool museum.
No decent literary arts events.
The smell of the pressboard plant.
Flats - no decent hills for miles.
Several of my "colleagues."
Being the organizer instead of the attender of events.
Shoveling snow in two driveways.
Our quarter acre yard, complete with flower bed - I hate yardwork.
Brown Trout Festival - the biggest festival event of the year, and at the center of it all, the beer tent; sorry, but looking at fish on ice as a main summer event is, in a word: mundane. Hence the beer, I suppose.
Deer hunting stories.
Bear hunting stories.
Ice fishing stories.
"No, we don't have it in stock, but we can order it for yous."
Yous.

Any others I could add to this?

When Giving the Grade Means I Don't Care Anymore

I recently gave a student from my spring comp class a passing grade. The operative word here being "gave" - because the student certainly didn't earn it. So why did I do that? Because I simply decided I didn't care enough about this student anymore to pursue it. It's sad, I know, but it's true.

The student - let's use the name Hisher, pronoun s/he - had been in my fall comp class, and had barely made it by with a passing grade. The only reason Hisher passed, I think, was because s/he had a buddy in the class who pushed Hisher to show up and do the work. Both are players on a college sports team.

Now, before you go - oh, yeah, right, and you hate sports so you were hard on Hisher... I love sports. I can hardly wait for fall football to start, and get depressed when the Superbowl is over. I love basketball, especially the playoffs, and enjoy softball and baseball. Men's and women's in all of these (I can hardly wait to move downstate and see my first women's football game!). If anything, yes, I am "hard" on sports players because I think they should be able to carry an academic load as well as an athletic load, and do both well to succeed. I refuse to let athletes who cannot pass basic skills classes represent our school in sports. Privilege, not a right and all of that.

Hisher didn't start out the second semester very well. In fact, s/he was absent a lot in the first several weeks, showing up once a week to a 3x/week class for three weeks. That's pretty bad. I pulled Hisher aside and asked what the heck was going on, s/he just goofed me some answer, no answer really. "I know your buddy is gone this semester, so you're on your own to pull it together and pass this class. If you miss any more classes, you'll fail. Don't do that." S/he nods and says alright, promise I won't, and sure enough Hisher didn't.

But when grades came out, Hisher didn't pass. It was that first paper. S/he bombed it by not meeting word count in addition to it just being pretty poorly written. I asked Hisher to resubmit with electronic copy to verify - to come and see me about it, but s/he never did. It would have given me the opportunity to work with Hisher more, to encourage better writing, to help with a rewrite of the paper, to set goals for doing better in the class. S/he never came to see me. Just let it slide.

Once the grade hit, of course, s/he was immediately in my e-mailbox, questioning why (in some of the most poorly written e-mails I've seen from a college student in a long time). I explained why. Told Hisher to resubmit the paper with electronic copy and I would reconsider. S/he couldn't get an electronic copy, using Mac not MS - tried to send file, it was blank, complained s/he was working, did not have time to come to campus. After a week of e-mails like this every day, I finally said - no more e-mails: by Friday or not at all. That's when Mom called the college, and the Vice President called me.

I held my ground. Told VP the whole story. VP asked if I would give another week. I said no. Two more days. That's it. Otherwise, they could pursue it as a formal complaint. VP agreed. Two days later, I had the paper and electronic copy.

Rereading it, I was shocked at how bad it was. I could see why I wanted to talk to Hisher, to try to get Hisher to work on just writing more, to develop stonger skills. I knew s/he could do better. And, yes, it was short on the word count. Only by a couple of words, but, short is short, and it concerned me at the time that s/he couldn't even meet a minimum word count.

Looking at the paper again, thinking about how much I cared about Hisher during the semester and wanted to help, I thought about Hisher now. Working in Hisher's family business, not a great sports star, parents still fighting Hisher's fights - because, in the meantime, Mom e-mailed me, on behalf of her child, wanting clarification as to why her child hadn't met requirements, why I was asking for what I was, why this, why that - but no disrespect... Then why ask?

Where was Mom when Hisher wasn't showing up for class but once a week? Where was Mom when Hisher was coming in hungover to class and burned out on partying? Where was Mom when Hisher had papers due that were turned in at less than a high school level? Was Mom on Hisher as quickly and as diligently as she had been on me?

I didn't need this shit.

That's my breaking point line. I know when that comes out of my mouth, I have really hit the end of a fight and need to quit.

That was the point where I looked into my heart and realized this was not a student I cared about anymore. I had once. I had thought I could have made a difference. I held that paper grade because I thought Hisher would care. But it was clear, s/he didn't and never would, not about this anyway. I was still caring more about Hisher than s/he cared about his/herself.

Hisher was the one student in my class that semester who, from pre- and post-writing samples showed absolutely no progress whatsoever. I realized it wasn't my fault. I couldn't change it. I could make it worse by holding to the failing grade that s/he truly deserved. I could ruin Hisher's life for a little while, but would only do it if I thought it would ultimately make it better. I knew deep down, it wouldn't make any difference at all. Not for this one. Not me. Not this time. It's for someone else, somewhere else, some other time to reach this kid.

I gave Hisher a passing grade. Because I just didn't care anymore.

Hisher sent me a thank-you e-mail - with poor grammar and technical errors. I deleted it without responding.

What to Do When You're Told No

It's not that I don't like being told no. If it makes sense and is reasonable, it's fine. I especially appreciate being told no by someone who is stopping me from making a big mistake or doing something that would ultimately end up being very foolish and I just can't see it that way right at the moment. Oh, I've had plenty of times I wish someone had told me no in my life. And probably just as many times when someone did and I wish I would have listened. Those were generally my much younger days (like last week...).

But the last no I got just did not settle well with me. I have been working with the Hope House girls - a JD school program - on putting together a literary art journal. We've been working on it for months. Angela got involved with the layout and design and a great deal more in terms of editing and working with the girls on their writing and critiques. Kathy came in and worked with them on art and art critique as well as going over all the works herself and giving the girls each individual conferences on their work. I thought we were good to go. I had met with staff, who were very excited about the project. I was told that at the state level there might be problems if they did not allow such publications, to which I responded I would be happy to provide them with any information and support they needed to see what we were doing. All seemed okay.

Then, last week, we were told no. That the director of the funding organization - Child and Family Services - and the director of Hope House decided against the project. I spoke with the Hope House director, and she said it was their decision, at this level, for two reasons: the girls' right to confidentiality and liability.

Mind you, these are issues we worked with in the classroom very carefully with the girls. None of them were forced to publish, they could select which works to submit, no one could use their full name - it had to be first name, initials, nickname. We talked repeatedly during the class about content and respecting others' identities, but also having the right to tell the truth in their writing. Yadda, yadda.

I was shocked at the denial. Surprised. Then, after talking with the Hope House director, who repeatedly said to me, "It's not like camp..." I was pissed. Just seething mad over it all. Camp? When did I ever work in a camp? Seven years in a domestic violence shelter, three years in a high school dropout program, teaching composition in a men's maximum security prison, a mentor for newly released prisoners coming back into society - camp? Excuse me?

After spending time fantacizing about the Rambo-Jane approach to salvaging the literary-art journal ("For the arts!" she yelled as she tossed the grenade into the office cubicle...), I decided that the best defense was, well, as much defense as I could gather. I went over the Hope House director and made an appointment with the Child and Family Services director, then I went to work.

I researched other JD programs and publications. I found the sponsoring organization for a book written by women in prison, I researched libel law both at the federal and state level, and I made printouts and photocopies and - armed myself. Regardless of the outcome of this situation, I'm glad I did what I did. I amassed a great amount of information in short period of time and hope to continue research in this area. Some of the best stuff I found:

The Beat Within - A Weekly Publication of Writing and Art from the Inside
Their publication is amazing. Dave was a great person to speak with here, and he immediately sent me three issues. It's chuck full of writing, and to top it off, The Beat writes a response to each piece they publish. It's incredible work, from both ends - the writers themselves and the publishers.

Aid to Inmate Mothers
This is the group responsible for publishing the anthology Right to Remain Silent, which I found out about on the Tolerance.org website, and for which I wrote a review on NewPages.

Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts
Who knew? Based out of New York, they have a hotline staffed by law students who can answer most initial questions coming in on the lines, and if they can't, then they consult with staff lawyers and get back with you. Every writer and artist should know about these people. Brava/o for the work they do!

Pongo Publishing
"The Pongo Publshing Teen Writing Project is a volunteer, non-profit effort with Seattle teens who are in jail, on the streets, or in other ways leading difficult lives. We help these young people express themselves through poetry and other forms of writing and publish annual anthologies of their work."

Donald Hall in Ann Arbor: Sometimes Writing is Just a Job

We just got back from a whirlwind weekend of travel and events. More later on the fact that I've been offered a new job, we're leaving Alpena, selling a house here, buying a house downstate, and getting NewPages World Headquarters ready to move - all a giant UGH! to deal with, but will be well worth it. One of the reasons why - access to art and literary cultural events.

Saturday, we hit the Ann Arbor Book Festival, which was a surprisingly small event. Not hardly a couple hundred people were there at any one time, which was nice in terms of moving around and sitting in on some sessions, but a bit disappointing in terms of thinking there should be more people there wanting to absorb this kind of cultural event. But, then again, Ann Arbor probably gets so much of this, it's no big deal. School was also out of session, which may have had something to do with it.

The weather was beautiful, sunny, not too hot. Tents were set up in which authors read works, poets slammed, librarians addressed issues of concern, and children listened to storytellers and created bookmarks. We had the great pleasure and honor of sitting in on an afternoon session with Donald Hall. He read from his most recent book, which recounts his life with Jane Kenyon, and her death. "The book starts with her death," he said, "so there is no suspense." The rest of the book is about their life together, the joy of their time with one another and the pleasure of their literary life.

I don't know Donald Hall much, if at all. I've read some of his poetry, but don't know much about him other than what I know of his life with Jane. And I suppose that might be what there is to know of him. He was her teacher at UofM when she was a student, but once they left Ann Arbor for the family farm and lived their life of writing, he said it was clear that she was the leading force in their literary life together, and that he followed her lead. I guess I would have thought it was the other way around, but after hearing him speak, I saw a side of him that reminded me of my father, who, after many years into my own adulthood, I began to see as the more emotional of my parents, my mother the much more stoic.

Donald Hall also related a funny, very practical story of being a writer and simply trying to make money. I can't imagine leaving a tenure position at UofM (or any college for that matter) to go write. That, in and of itself is a truly romantic approach to life that many of us just simply wouldn't have the courage to do, let alone the fortitude to pull off. But, so they did. At the same time, the romanticized notion of it has a practical side - and Hall told of writing a children's book that became a Caldecott winner. The motivation for writing the book? Money for a bathroom remodel. So, jokingly, the bathroom has been named the Caldecott room.

I see my own work as not so much different, then. And that's what it is - work. Summers off for teachers? No such thing. Here I am now, cleaning, getting the house ready to sell - doing a lot of work that would have/could have/should have been done during the school year, if I hadn't been buried under piles of papers at home. Who brings home this much work with them? So, teachers spend their summers doing everything they should have been doing the last nine months had they had a 8-5 job. And, then I go and take a summer class to teach. Why? Money. We need the money. Pure and simple. It's not that I think students should have access to a class or that I care about their being able to fulfill their educational requirements. We're facing a lot of expenses now and in the coming months, so teach a class, make some cash. It's a job. Teaching is just a job like anything else. Like writing for Donald Hall. At a certain level, it is what we do to survive and thrive. So, no matter the romanticized notions of the lifestyle - the writer on the farm, the teacher with summers off - it is just a job. And, no doubt, if we didn't need the money, we certainly wouldn't do it. At least not to the extent that we do.

Scrappy - New Dog in the House

I've a new family member: Scrappy. His story goes like this...

I saw his picture in the paper over a month ago, in one of those sponsored picture ads for the Humane Society. "Terrier Mix" he was labeled. Ugly, is all I could think. He looked like his name described him: Scrappy. And at the same time, I was absolutely struck by his image. I looked at him and immediately thought: That's my dog.

Now, to have heard me talk about my current dog, Isabelle, over the past year, this would be the furthest thought you would ever think from my mind. She has had so many health problems and needs so much care that I had sworn off dogs - publicly. She's an eight-year-old English Mastiff, weighs in at 140lbs and rattles the windows when she snores. She doesn't drool, but she can fling lip stringers across the room and leave marks in places I never would have thought a dog could reach. She sheds constantly, can't control her bladder (thus, one of her many medications), is prone to urinary tract infection and has bad joints, making it hard for her to get up. Whew! Oh, but did I say I loved her from the moment I saw her as a 1-year-old in a Humane Society in Oregon? Yes - she was the exact dog I had been dreaming of. (Be careful what you wish for...)

So, I was out of my mind to think I would want another dog. Two weeks ago, I went to the feed store and stopped to check out the shelter pictures on the board. There he was again. Scrappy. "Been here several months already and needs to go..." Oh, he really was too ugly for Alpena. He didn't fit the Rottie/Huskey/Shepherd/Lab profile that everyone here seems to look for in a dog. He looked like a terrier in the face, but something like a coyote in the body, with terrier hair. "Gets along well with children and other dogs." I don't have kids, but I always wanted a dog that was good around them - for all the wild ones that come running up and always ask too late if it's okay to pet the doggie.

I went to lunch a week later with my friend Kathy. At the end of lunch I told her about the dog. "I just have to go see him," I said. She laughed at me like a good friend should when the other is talking nonsense but knows there is nothing she can do about it but enjoy her role of helplessness. I left and went directly to the shelter.

When I got there, I told them the dog I was looking for. The worker took me back through and pointed to an empty cage. "It may be that one, or," she went back to another run, "this one." She pointed at a sheepdog-looking thing.

"Not that one," I said. "Scrappier. Really scrappy looking."

"Yeah, you mean Scrappy." She took me back out front. "He actually went to a home."

I felt a sense of mixed relief and sadness. Okay, not meant to be, I told myself.

"But," she added, "it's not working out. Not any fault of Scrappy's. The woman already has five dogs, and a couple of them don't like Scrappy. Tell you what, if you leave your name and number, and if it doesn't work out for her, I'll give you a call."

As I stood finishing up my number, another worker walked up to us. "You here about Scrappy?" she asked me. I nodded. "The woman who took him, that's her right there." She pointed to a woman standing at the front desk.

I quickly introduced myself as the workers told her I was looking for Scrappy and as she was explaining to them why it wasn't working out with him. She didn't come in to bring him back. Of all things, she came to volunteer her time to walk dogs, which, come to find out, she does regularly. Five dogs at home and she volunteers to walk dogs! How huge is this woman's heart?!

After a brief chat, we left together and I followed her to her house to meet Scrappy. She talked and talked him up, but certainly didn't need to. When I saw him, I knew, he was my dog. He just was. There was no question about it. It all worked out for this very reason. We exchanged phone numbers, and I went home to "try to talk my husband into a second dog." I knew he would blow a gasket and never agree to this one easily, if at all.

After a few moments at home, talking chit-chat with him, he asked what else I did that day. "Funny you should ask," I began, then launched into the whole story of this dog who kept coming back into my life and meeting Judy just at the right moment at the shelter and how it was crazy to want another dog but Isabelle was old and I wanted a dog to run with me and...

"If you want the dog, go get the dog," were his first words.

I was shocked. "No, really...you're supposed to try to talk me out of this."

"Why? It's obvious you really want the dog, and if it will make you happy, then get the dog. Go, get him right now, and while you're at it, pick up the mail."

I hesitated. Walked about the house, did some work, thought about it, made sure it really did feel like the right thing to do, then, I called Judy. We were both equally stunned and excited. Us two total strangers on the phone, near tears of excitement over this mangy-looking mutt.

I got the mail, then I got Scrappy. It's been a whole week now, and he's here beside me in my office as I type this. He's a famous dog. As it turns out, come June he would have been in shelter for a full year. There are so many people I talk to who know him - from his picture in the paper or because they saw him at the shelter. I literally had a woman stop in her car on the road, get out and come up and ask me about him. "Oh, yeah! I know Scrappy. I told my mom about him, that she should get him, but she didn't." Good for me! I thought.

He's sweet, cuddly, loves to be pet and hugged, he walks well on leash, he runs in the morning with me and still has endless energy. He's great with all people so far. I take him to Hope House when I volunteer and the girls mob him and love him. He gets along with Isabelle (though is a bit too rough at times), and respects the cats (although we'd like him to chase the snot out of Deke - we think there's potential).

So, today, and for many more days, I am going to be grateful for no-kill shelters, for all the people who make them possible, and for wonderful volunteers like Judy. And of course, to my wonderful husband, who thinks Scrappy is just fine.

Almost There / They're / Their

Phew! End of semester...final papers all read...just need to calculate grades, ruin a few lives and move on. Last night, after reading for three solid days in a row - non-stop (I kid you not) - I reached up and put my hands on my head. It felt shrunken, all too small for all that I had read and shoved into it. It was a very surreal feeling - how could I have amassed that much reading into a space that fit between the palms of my hands and outstretched fingers. Certainly, it needed to be far larger, states larger, than that.

This was a hard end of semester for me. It always is a mix of good and bad in terms of feelings. It's a kind of euphoric-depression - eupression? I got this when I raced triathlon and running, especially after the big ones - the marathons, the half-ironmans. All those weeks and months (and really, years) of preparation, to come across that finish line is such an overwhelming feeling of relief, success, and "is that all there is." And, now that it's done, now what?

I know my students are out partying tonight. Well, a couple of them are still wondering how to mend their grades after being caught plagiarizing, but the majority of them are already tapping kegs, grilling burgers, racing their cars down dirt roads, going to movies. It's that emotional outpouring of knowing it's as done as it's going to get.

For me, it's some of that, but also, a strong sense of loss. I'm losing some great people from my life. Yes, my students are my life. I watch some of them truly grow and blossom in a year of classes. All the brightened faces of discovery in their own abilities, the light seeping into the cracks in their minds as they learn something of the outside world. I remember the fights and struggles, the pushing and the shoving of their fragile ideologies into a larger world. The tears in my office, the angry words...they're all still my kids. No matter their age. "Mom," as she was dubbed by the students, may well be, but while she's in my class, she's my kid.

All of this, boiled down into A, B, C, D, E - with pluses and minuses in between.

Is that all there is?

I'm exhilarated, yet feel empty. I come home and, believe it or not, go out to pick up dog poop in the back yard. Yup. That's my grand finale. Dog poop and sticks so my husband can mow the lawn. And, as I do it, I'm grateful for it. The meditative pacing back and forth across the lawn, like a labyrinth walk, finding the joy of discovery in a pile of shit, not wanting to let a single one get away from me, picking up the littlest stick triumphantly, as certainly I have saved the mower from catastrophe.

And I come in and call a friend. Angela. To hear her voice. To fill the void. We talk of what comes next in our lives, and I know there is something more. I know there is more, purpose, focus, direction. My volunteer work with Hope House. A new event at the library in June. But for now, I just want to sit at home. Look out the window. Maybe, finally, give the dog a bath.

Yes, it's over, and now is our down time before, all too soon, it will begin again.

You've Gotta Read This

I've had a stroke of genius that just needs to be shared. This is a great assignment for a comp class working on literature analysis and could be applied to short story, poetry, essay, film, plays, songs, etc. It could even be applied in just about ANY discipline in which evaluative analysis is used. I would love to hear what other teachers think of this or other ideas that this might spur.

Okay, truth is, I'm not the genius. Ron Hansen, the editor of You've Got to Read This: Contemporary American Writers Introduce Stories that Held Them in Awe. Essentially, the book is an anthology of the stories selected by the contemporary American writers, each of them introduced by the writer. The introduction is really a kind of analysis, telling stories about the writer's response to the story, how it affected them and why. Each includes, inadvertently, an analysis of the elements of the story the writer felt were most worth mentioning.

So, when coming to the literary analysis section of class, and facing yet another year of stories in our textbook, which I'm a bit tired of reading, and even more tired of reading the same old tired responses and analyses of them by students (bless their hearts), I was hit with a brainquake. This is what I came up with:

Give the students literary journals of contemporary writing - I just happen to have copies to share with students, but the students in larger areas could find these at their local bookstores and in library stacks. I would use the NewPages Guide to Lit Mags as the check for quality: if it's not on the list, clear it with teacher first.

Have the students sample read around until they find a story that really knocks their socks off. Then, have the students write an intro to the story, just like in Hansen's book. By doing this, they are able to relate a personal (reader) response as well as make a close analysis of all or select elements that they felt were well developed in the story with examples to support their writing. I also required them to include SOME comment about the author of the story, encouraging them to search the author on the web, but since most are brand new, there may not be anything on them at all. At the very least, I know there are contributor notes in the journal, and I've told them they can use those as long as they put it into their own words and weave it in well with their writing.

Further, I encourage the inquiry approach to research, and they may include other relevant information they find out about the author and historical, geographical, etc. information that appears in the story. We do read shared stories for class, and a good example of this inquiry approach is Chinua Achebe's "Civil Peace" - one of the questions that always comes up is "What war was this?" By following this inquiry, students are able to learn a great deal more about the culture and thus have deeper understanding of and appreciation for the story itself.

The students have agreed upon a common formatting for their writing, and will submit their writing along with a copy of the story (which I will copy to control quality). All of these will then be compiled into our own class anthology - which students have yet to name - but each of them will leave the semester with a copy of this. I have agreed to create a source page for the back of the book - a works cited page. They have to type up their own entry, MLA format, and give it to me on a disk or e-mail it to me, then I will compile the page. As far as copyright, I'm pretty sure we're okay as a one-time educational use on these. Ideally, it would be way cool to get permission for reprint and make something like this to distribute wider than just our class - or sell it as a fundraiser for some student activity - but that's much further down the road.

We've been studying stories and discussing the elements of fiction, writing brief analysis papers and doing worksheets for a couple of weeks, so I think the students are ready for this. They seemed receptive and even excited about the project. None expressed any reservations about sharing their writing with others to walk out of class, and this even seemed to pique their interest in the activity.

Can't you also see the applicability of this to other areas? Art, music, math (yes, math - select your favorite problem from the semester...), history, business - the possibilities are endless! It helps in literature that the authors are contemporary as it eliminates the possibility of students getting canned essays off the web. But, at the same time, the assignment, just by virtue of being such a personalized response practically eliminates the ability to copy and paste - at least a whole essay start to finish.

I am so excited about this idea. It's risky as a new assignment - especially with my not having read the stories, but at the same time, that's what makes it so fun for me as a teacher. And the students added their own challenge for me: they want me to do the assignment with them, because they want to see what kind of a story I would pick. I moaned to them about that, saying, "Oh no, now I'm going to have to read..."

Actually, by the end of the day, I had my story all picked out. Now I just have to do my homework.

My Nomination for Pope

Back from an exhilarating weekend in Vancouver, B.C. the activities of AWP still swirling about in my head will need several journal sessions to sort through and coalesce into focused bits I can elaborate on here. More on the surface of my thoughts recently has been the death of the Pope. Not because I much care about the Pope. I don't. Not in any deeply emotional way, anyhow. He was old. He died. And now a new pope will take his place. The news reports told of the "ritual" acts needed when choosing a new pope. It was funny - and I do mean ha-ha - to listen to the process and hear how much it sounded like the guidelines in our faculty contract for replacing vacant positions. It's not a ritual, it's and administrative process. The pope is an administrator, no different than any other hired/elected official. There's no mysticism to the process - it's political. The U.S. cardinal won't even be considered, and I'm doubtful the world is ready to embrace a black pope, so Cardinal Francis Arinze can count himself out, and for similar reasons, I think Cardinal Norberto R. Carrera of Mexico City can prepare to stand aside. It's not really about being chosen by God, now is it?

To that end, I have my own nomination: Sinead O'Connor.

Back in 1992, she shocked the nation by ripping up a picture of the Pope John Paul II during her performance on Saturday Night Live to raise awareness of child abuse in the church, among many other issues she denounces within the Catholic church. For more information on this, a great web site to visit is The File Room Chicago Cultural Arts Center - an illustrated archive on censorship which you can browse, as well as add cases to. Sinead O'Connor has her own page for this particular action.

The folks at SNL were bombarded with over 6,000 complaint calls to the network, not to mention that Tim Robbins took his own cowardly bastard stand in not thanking her at the end of the show. Then what? Suddenly the US erupts in the "scandal" of the abuses of children within the Catholic church. Priest after priest after priest is yanked out of his cassock into litigation for child abuse. Relocations, denunciations, removals all follow. Can we say Sinead was right? No. Not a single soul or souless source ever came forward to admit that. The network that shunned Sinead and refused to let the episode of SNL be repeated, those who booed her off stage in performances that followed, Tim - HELLO?! - Robbins... Not a one stepped forward to say, Gee, maybe Sinead was on to something that we were still not ready or willing to believe. Yeesh! Okay then, in this be it ever so humble blog, let me be the first: Sinead - you were right.

And before you go all holier than thou on me - I was baptized and raised Roman Catholic - went through CCD classes and was confirmed (my confirmation name is one of my deepest darkest secrets) - I've done my fair share of Stations of the Cross, when business people enjoyed a noon - 3:00 break at the bar, I was kneeling and kneeling and kneeling. And I've had my fair share of taunting over the ash mush that was to resemble a cross on my forehead those long, long Wedesdays. So, back off. Like many Catholics who openly admit: "I love the Pope. I didn't agree with everything he said, but - " Okay, wait. What's the but? In Catholicism, either you agree or you're scorned, you're bad! You'll burn in HELL! Or, at least until confession. In any case, don't play me on this one. I've got just as much say as the next claim-to-be-Catholic-when-it-suits-me.

Sinead O'Connor is not anti-God. Anything but. Repeated interviews with her reveal that she is deeply spiritual, though she then claimed to not support organized religion. In an interview with Rolling Stone, Sinead, she says: "i lived in hell for a long period of time. the only thing that saved my ass was god."

Yet, in 1998, she was informally ordained a priest by a Catholic "splinter" group. Of this act, she humbly commented: "I am now a Roman Catholic priest and I intend to fulfill that office to one hundred and million per cent the best of my ability. The Church was dying and I think I'm a very good and loving person that I've been prepared to take the crucifixions, which I will now have to put up with for doing this, so as to bring people back to the Catholic Church. I think it's very wonderful of me that I've been prepared to do this - to give publicity to the Catholic Church. I don't need any publicity myself. What I've done is resurrect the Church and saved its life - and I hope the Church will be strong enough to see that."

Good enough for me. And that she has a tremendous voice to boot only works in her favor. So, crucify me if you'd like, but I'm sticking (pun intended) to it: Sinead for Pope!

Borrowed Blog

I'm heading out for AWP Vancouver on Wednesday, so unless the five-minute muse strikes me when I'm there, I won't blog in until after. In the meantime, this is actually stolen from Casey's blog on NewPages. It's info and links to the incredible opening remarks we heard while at the Other Words conference in Florida. Really, if you care about literature, read what these guys had to say about it. It's incredible.

***From the NewPages Weblog***

In early March, [Casey and I] headed to Tallahassee to participate in Other Words: A Conference of Literary Magazines, Independent Publishers, and Writers. The Florida Literary Arts Coalition is planning to make Other Words an annual conference. When the opening remarks and comments were finished, we realized we had heard some amazing and important thoughts on the state of independent publishing. We asked Richard Matthews and R.M. Berry for permission to publish their comments. If you have a blog or website, please post a link to these comments. They deserve a wide readership.

Other Words by Richard Mathews. Introductory remarks, Other Words Conference. "...in the face of the myriad forces that foster mass communication, popular culture, and global media conglomerates, our coalition in support of the creation, publication, and dissemination of independent, non-commercial literary arts gains a special sense of relevance and urgency."

On Freeing Words by R.M. Berry. "Our struggle must be fought in the marketplace and the media, in private foundations, federal and regional and local arts agencies, at presses both large and small, in university English departments, at bars and bookstores, and within every writer’s soul. In the same way that no despot has ever stayed in power without the unconscious complicity of the defeated, the thoughtlessness that passes for writing today could never achieve its dominance without your and my collusion."

Sweatshops in Your Neighborhood

I saw a great program on C-SPAN2 Book TV this morning: Jennifer Gordon speaking on the topic of sweatshops in the US. She's written the book, Suburban Sweatshops: The Fight for Immigrant Rights. She's an Associate Professor of Law at Fordham University School of Law.

She was one of the most articulate people I have heard speak in a long time, very passionate and incredibly knowledgable about the subject matter. She addresses the difficulty people have in being able to relate to the practice of sweatshops in their own neighborhoods by asserting that people still get an image of sweatshops as always being somewhere else, far away. When in fact, she points out, by definition, sweatshops are any employment situation in which workers are underpaid - citing examples of restaurants that pay dishwashers $3/hour. And, by law, that sweatshops are any place of employment in which two conditions of illegal work practices are utilized or two infractions of safe work place exist (I'm going from memory here - but I think this is close).

It was startling for me to hear this, not realizing it really took so little for an employer to be considered a sweatshop. I say so little, but realize that it would only take one infraction in my union workplace for our group to be all over the employer with grievances. Of course, the plight of undocumented workers isn't so well supported. What a luxury rights can be.

Gordon's work also includes founding the Workplace Project in 1992.

The Workplace Project, Long Island, NY

The Workplace Project is a member-based organization that grew out of the struggle of Central and South American immigrants to respond to non-payment and underpayment of wages, high rates of injury on the job, and other labor abuses. Governed by a board elected from the membership, the Project emphasizes organizing and education through its programs.

Over 370 workers have graduated from the Project's nine-week class in immigrant and labor history, labor law, and organizing techniques. Members learn to defend themselves at hearings, launch campaigns for enforcement of existing labor laws, and organize others in their workplace and community. Some graduates recently initiated their own cooperative landscaping business.

The Project won a significant legal victory with the 1997 "Unpaid Wages Prohibition Act," signed by New York Governor Pataki following lobbying efforts coordinated with the Chinese Staff and Workers' Association and the Latino Workers' Center. The law makes repeat or willful nonpayment or underpayment of wages a felony. It also levies the toughest penalty in the nation against employers owing wages, increasing fines against them by 800%. Much of the momentum behind the bill came from the Project's analysis of its 900-person database, which documented the Department of Labor's lack of attention to claims brought by low-wage workers. Only 3% of cases filed by the Project over three years had resulted in even partial payment.

The Workplace Project can be reached at 91 N. Franklin St., Suite 207, Hempstead, NY 11550-3003; 516-565-5377; email: workplace@igc.org.

[From: National Network for Immigrants and Refugee Rights]

The Storm Before the Calm

Why does it always seem that right before I take a few days off, all of the sudden, everyone wants my time and needs a hundred things done yesterday? It certainly does seem to make the being gone part all the better! We're now officially on spring break until next Tuesday, and after that, I'll be on my way to AWP in Vancouver! Woo-hoo!

And for that matter, the storm in the classroom regarding topic choices for argument came to a nil point. The students picked "DNA dragnets should not be allowed by law enforcement to solve crimes." As it turns out, the group decided that there wasn't as much on the issue of gay marraige outside of religious morality that they felt they could argue, so they bagged it as an issue. All that fretting for naught. Or not - ?

Pick a Genre, Damn It!

"My work defies genre. How can I possibly call it simply fiction or non-fiction, when it comes from the hard-lived lives of those who have come before us, those whose very existence have determined the hard-driven lines of poetic justice so poorly maladapted into the simplicity of the written word. But it is all we have, only the merest scratch on the surface of our souls..."

PFFFT! Please! Someone save me!

If there is one thing I can't stand anymore, it's this my-writing-defies-genre drivvle. Pull-ease! Get over it! Most especially when you are begging for promotional help, complaining that your work is not getting noticed by Penguin or Random House, nor put on the shelves of Barnes and Noble, and, oh, by the way, couldn't we possibly, pretty please do something about helping get the book reviewed?

Yeah, sure. Here's a start. Tell me how to list the book on the site. That's right: DEFINE YOURSELF WITH CONVENTIONAL GENRE! If you want to be recognized in this reality, then you have to play within certain parameters of the reality. If I can't list a book as fiction / non-fiction / poetry at the very least, then, promotionally speaking, we're in some serious trouble. Further than that, many books now are clearly labeled on the back as to what section a bookstore might place them for the customers to find them: Self-help; GLBT Fiction; Young Adult; Memoir; Historical Romance; etc.

Oh dear. Did you say label? How dare you label me!

Okay, then don't expect publishers to be able to promote your book. Don't expect people to be able to find your book. Don't expect reviewers to know if they want to select your book for review because they happen to prefer and have their specialties in particular GENRES for their review reading. And don't forget the Library of Congress needs to have a way of cataloging your work - you know, the Dewey Decimal System and all.

Yes, yes. I know. New genres have been created, and will continue to be created over the years, and this is what is great about literature - it continues to grow and change an recreate itself in form and function, style and, yes, genre. If this is what you hope to do, to be a part of a movement of defining a new genre (maybe the antigenre genre), then figure out what to call yourself, and do it. But, if like one of the popular bands of my college days, who preferred to label themselves "psychodelic funk fusion ska," ends up in the general "world" section at the music store or "jazz" - well, they can hardly blame the just-above-minimum-wage manager or floor lackey who simply has to find a spot for all the materials coming in.

Of course, that bargain bin starts to look pretty tempting when no other genre really seems to fit.

I'm not alone in my ranting on this. Robert Lasner, guest columnist for Moby Lives, has his own reasons for considering this same issue in his article: The Death of First Fiction. Really writers, we're all on the same side. We want to see you get published and get promoted and get read. That's the point, isn't it? Maybe after establishing yourself, gaining some clout in the field, then you can institute the change. Sometimes you can strike out, defy convention and come out on top, but those stories seem few and far between. Try it, and if it works for you, more power to you. And if not, then there will still be those of us who will be here: ready to list your book, publish it and promote it.