no one reads this blog,

which is ok. I don't have much time for it anymore, my concept is scattered, at best, and the whole endeavor feels like a bit of an unorganized disaster, which seems fitting, given the state of the world (and life) right now. Plus, maybe I only really write it for myself, something not meant for public consumption, a chronicle of my life in San Francisco, what I see, what I'm thinking about, a place to write.

There is this lesson I've been learning over and over again lately. It is that I can't count on anything. Nothing is certain, nothing is solid, nothing is permanent. It is the lesson of my life, I think, but right now it is relentless. The answer is to be ready for changes, expect them to come in unexpected ways, and to foster flexibility. It is hard to do this.

And this, too, is part of the lesson.

On small funerals, small breakdowns, and drunk writers

My computer died. It did not go quietly in its sleep. The end was a violent one, involving an angry cat with a cone around his neck, a bottle of beer, and corrosion. It all happened so quickly.

First, please check out this site that gives a great breakdown of everything to do if you (or a cat) spill something on your laptop. It's from a company that's trying to sell you their spill-cleaning service, and I'm not vouching for this, but their basic instructions are a comprehensive list of things you should do if you find yourself in this unfortunate situation. Look at this now, I'm telling you, because after you spill beer on your laptop, you can't get on the internet to look up what to do about it. This may seem like an obvious point, but internet dependency (more on that later) will blind you to many otherwise-obvious facts.


That's my computer. Isn't it cute? I bought this computer in 2005, right after I had finally committed to an MFA program and was making plans to move to Boston. It was my first Mac. I went off to graduate school with this computer and I wrote my thesis on it. I've been writing my first book on it. I used it constantly. If proof is necessary, check out the keyboard:



I wore a good number of keys clean of their markings. Like I said, I used this computer constantly.

So when the beer spilled on the computer, I panicked. I yelled at the cat, then turned the computer off, mopped up excess liquid, and sat staring at it, wondering how long it would be until I could turn it on again. When I did the next day (24 hours later), it came on, but some things were a little messed up. I took this as a good sign. A few days after that, the computer wouldn't even turn on.

At the Mac store, the guy told me he needed to take my computer "in the back" to see how extensive the damage was. It's never a good sign when they need to take your computer in the back. He came out looking grim and told me that the beer was eating away at the mother board. So are you telling me that the computer is dead, I asked, I think multiple times. And finally he said it: yes.

I had gone into the Apple store thinking that if the computer was indeed dead, I would look around at the new models and start thinking about a new laptop. That's the kind of person I am: I need a computer. But I heard the news, and all I could do was pack up my dead computer while the Apple guy tried to tell me I could at least sell it for parts (as if!), and rush away from the store. On the street back in my neighborhood, I started crying. And then later, in my kitchen with my roommate and friend Daniel looking on in horror, I blubbered about how I'd written my thesis on that computer, how that computer had been with me through a lot in the past 4 years, how only I could type on it because all the keys were worn off.

What was my problem? I hate crying on the street. I hate crying in my kitchen. It's embarrassing.

I should have known that this would happen. I had, only a few nights before that, decided to do an experiment while hanging out at home and see how many times I had the urge to look something up on the internet, or use the computer at all, for that matter. This is the list:

google how to cook beets
change my gmail status: look at the moon!
google when the February full moon is
post pictures on facebook
change gmail status: nothing like clean sheets
blog about doing laundry
google if it's going to freeze tonight
google the equivalent sugar for stevia
google Au Revoir Simone lyrics
make an anti-V-day mix on itunes

Whoa. That's a lot of computing for one night. My internet addiction was clear, but what was more than that was my dependence on my computer. I couldn't be without it. It had been with me through a difficult move to a new city, a time of friendlessness, provided many chats and emails between friends who lived far from me. We had developed an emotional relationship......or.....eerrr....I had. (I even went so far as to compare myself to those people who fall in love with inanimate objects who I had recently read about on, of course, the internet. Thankfully, I decided that was an unfair comparison. (Please do click on the link, though, and watch the incredibly disturbing video.))

But seriously, my computer dying really bummed me out. I'm planning a funeral of sorts. My friend Dan pointed out that if a writer's computer has to die, dying from a beer spilled by a cat must be the best way to go. I couldn't agree more.

I can't help but notice that this all happened just as AWP (the annual booze-fueled writers conference) is gearing up in Chicago. I've attended AWP the past two years and couldn't make it this year, but I've requested drunk dials from the windy city and I know that I will get them. So happy AWP, happy Valentine's Day, and hooray for old, broken computers and their addicted owners.

Seen in San Francisco

clever title here

I was recently talking with a writer friend who told me that he writes everything longhand and then later types it into his computer. I was shocked: people still do that?

I've been known to write a little longhand when the mood strikes me. When I'm out and an idea comes to me, I write it down. When I'm reading in a cafe and something comes to mind, I might write for a few minutes in my notebook. I jot things down. But a whole story? Longhand?

I can't even begin to fathom how this works. Do you write it all in one setting? Do you know how your story is going to go and write it out exactly this way? What happens if you want to insert something two pages back? How does that work?

It makes me wonder: how do the differences in the way we write influence what we write? It makes sense that there would be certain stylistic differences between something that is written longhand versus the computer. Writing longhand is inherently more deliberate. You have to both plan to write a word, think about it, and then spend the 2 seconds writing it out. On the computer, you can slap down a sentence without fully processing what you're typing. Writing on the computer encourages extra words, putting down all of one's thoughts and then editing later. Surely these two modes of composition must produce different results.

This article claims that the differences are neurological, which seems entirely logical to me. I don't know where I'm going with all of this, but I think it's really interesting. Why hasn't someone done a study on this?

Seen in San Francisco

These beautiful trees are blooming everywhere around the city! Someone told me they are cherry blossoms...does anyone know for sure?

in the Mission

I have been neglectful and I'm sorry

I'll be the first to admit it: my attention has been drawn elsewhere--namely, to work, lounging in the park on sunny days, and my other blog. I'm sorry. I've been posting lots of links and not a lot of content. Things have got to change.

If there's anything left to cheer you up, my second-favorite blog, it's Maira Kalman. She writes and illustrates a blog for the New York Times that has recently gained a lot of attention due to her her post on Obama's inauguration. It made me happy.

One of my favorite pieces of hers is the first in the series called "Finale." The poem goes like this:

Part 1. Precarious

I am at a loss
for words.
Everything
was not said.
Things are
bittersweet.
Bitter. Sweet.

What is this faint
vision? This fleeting
memory?

The furniture is so fragile.
And the dust floats so slowly
in the sunlight.
So sunny. And so precarious.





Also, she illustrated a version of The Elements of Style (!!!!!!!!!!!)*. How can anyone get any cooler?



*I acknowledge that both Strunk and White would be quite displeased with me and my excessive parenthetical exclamation marks. They need to take a deep breath and deal with it.