This is where I live, and this is what I want to do.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
to bi or not to bi
I have a problem with boxes. Ever since I busted out of the Perfect Mormon(TM) mold and began constructing a life from that wreckage, strict definitions make me claustrophobic. But sometimes I contemplate checking the box next to "bi." As Lady Jonathan writes in this rad blog post, it's a pretty fraught term.
[Disclaimer, especially for those who know me in real life: contains explicit sexual content. If you don't want to think about me naked or having a sex life, don't read this!! Save us both the embarrassment! Ok? Ok.]
Backstory for context: When I was a student at BYU in Utah, I slept with my female roommate. We had both served Mormon missions. I felt incredibly guilty and was terrified of anyone finding out, since I would've been kicked out of school, had my church membership put on probation, and been incredibly ashamed. So I never told anyone. And in my mind, what we were doing was not sex, because I was definitely not gay--I was just lonely, and screwed up, and...something...
Fast-forward 10 years. I've left the church (for reasons other than my confusing sexuality). I've only dated men, despite having crushes on women, and fell in love with a particular male and thought we would end up getting married and making babies and building a life together as a straight couple. That relationship went up in flames, but that's another story.
The juicy part of this post is that I recently met a woman I'm incredibly attracted to: she's funny, sweet, intelligent, witty, absolutely gorgeous (yes I'm a shallow Libra), ambitious, and I feel awesome around her. We talk for hours. I'm utterly twitterpated. And, because this post is inevitably leading to this: the sex is fantastic. Mind-blowing. I get full-body tingles when she texts me.
So now I'm confronting that sticky question that I put on the back burner all those years ago and left to simmer: What am I? Gay? Bi? Shouldn't I have figured this out before 30? Sigh...
For a brief moment after the Devastating Breakup of 2012, I made an OK Cupid profile and listed myself as "bi." Unfortunately, this was interpreted as "I have no type! I will sleep with anything that moves!" when, in reality, I've had fewer partners than most gay and straight people I know. (Not to be shame-y; this is just a fact.) I felt terribly awkward being approached by dudes who wanted me to seduce their straight girlfriend, or a couple wanting a threesome. I hated stipulating that "bi" does not equal "desperate" or "nymphomaniac." So I deleted that account.
Even in offline life, there seems to be a lot of pressure to be either gay or straight. Both male and female partners I've been with have expressed worry that they "can't satisfy me." [Insert tacky joke about my dream partner being a hermaphrodite.]
I was discussing this with a friend over lunch the other day. He and I had slept together in the past, in a weird moment of consensually "using" each other that didn't ruin the friendship. (I know, miracle.) I was telling him about my new lady love.
Me: So this is awkward, but you and I slept together, and, you know [insert gesturing toward myself to indicate that I clearly had a physical response when we were together] so how can I pick a side?
Him: I think the fact you feel like you have to pick a side is the answer. Straight people don't feel like they're picking a side, nor do gay people. But you do.
Clearly I have genius friends.
I also have friends who are not shy about asking me how I can vacillate between male and female partners. Or, more bluntly, one friend asked, "How does sex feel good without cock?" She didn't mean this offensively--she understands that plenty of female cisgendered couples (translation: both women were born with their lady bits and identify as female) have fulfilling sex lives. But she knew I had enjoyed sex with men and was honestly curious.
Confession: As a Mormon, I still considered myself a virgin despite months of sex with my BYU girlfriend. I think there is still a straight-culture bias toward anything except penis-vagina sex as less "real." This feels awful to admit, especially when a women fears that I'll also consider her as a less "real" partner and lover. Ouch, right?
I thought about all this for quite some time, and my answer is rather indelicate: I like it when people I'm aroused by and feel an emotional connection with put parts of their body into my body. And I like touching their bodies--whether they have "innie" or "outie" sexual organs--in ways that feel good to them. I don't feel like anything is "missing" when I'm in bed with a woman. I get just as much pleasure and feel just as much of that terror/exhilaration of emotional connection. (Reason #4 why I'm not very promiscuous: I tend to fall for people I sleep with.)
Why do we get so hung up on body parts, anyway? All of our bodies are different. Even within the general categories of "male" and "female" there is a fuckload of variation. There are tiny dicks and big clits. There are "man boobs" and flat-chested women. There are V-shapes and hourglass shapes and pear shapes and apple shapes. Ok, I have to insert this here:
I love that list.
And here's a list of body parts I find attractive: eyes, hands, smile creases, full lips, not-cankles, and dark hair. My biggest conundrum is that I find both beards and breasts attractive...but not on the same person. ;) But seriously, I look for plenty of physical attributes when it comes to who I want to sleep with (again, I'm a Libra); these just don't include "one specific type of genitals."
A much more significant part of my attraction involves how a person takes up space in the world: how they interact with others, how they use body language, and how we spark. Falling in love is not picking a side: it's picking a person. And I don't pick someone as a man, or a woman, but as an incredibly specific individual AND someone largely composed of what we all have in common: a body. A heart. A personality. A soul.
I would honestly hope that someone would consider a lot more than my uterus, vagina, and boobies (sorry, third grade humor sneaks in) when deciding whether or not I'm attractive. Even for being a six-foot-tall blond with long hair and a curvy body who wears dresses and earrings, I'm not 100% girly girl.
Par exemple:
I love wearing stilettos and short skirts, and I also own ties, a suit, and suspenders.
I am an awesome seamstress and I love power tools.
I'll spend hours baking gourmet desserts, but my idea of a weeknight dinner is often popcorn and beer.
I love being called "doll" by the person I'm intimate with, and I *love* having an androgynous name.
I love wearing make-up and going on fancy dates, and I adore getting sweaty and dirty playing outside.
I'm sure all of us could come up with gender-bending paradoxes. The world is not black and white. It's no mistake that "gay" and "rainbows" go together like chocolate and peanut butter (which is, btw, the strongest argument I can find for intelligent design...) because the strongest rallying cry I can find that unites the GLBTQ community is acceptance of diversity. Now THAT is a revolutionary concept.
And finally, if I feel the need to be with more than just my primary partner, that would be called polyamory, not bisexuality.
So yeah. I'm setting up residence on the goddamn fence.
[Disclaimer, especially for those who know me in real life: contains explicit sexual content. If you don't want to think about me naked or having a sex life, don't read this!! Save us both the embarrassment! Ok? Ok.]
Backstory for context: When I was a student at BYU in Utah, I slept with my female roommate. We had both served Mormon missions. I felt incredibly guilty and was terrified of anyone finding out, since I would've been kicked out of school, had my church membership put on probation, and been incredibly ashamed. So I never told anyone. And in my mind, what we were doing was not sex, because I was definitely not gay--I was just lonely, and screwed up, and...something...
Fast-forward 10 years. I've left the church (for reasons other than my confusing sexuality). I've only dated men, despite having crushes on women, and fell in love with a particular male and thought we would end up getting married and making babies and building a life together as a straight couple. That relationship went up in flames, but that's another story.
The juicy part of this post is that I recently met a woman I'm incredibly attracted to: she's funny, sweet, intelligent, witty, absolutely gorgeous (yes I'm a shallow Libra), ambitious, and I feel awesome around her. We talk for hours. I'm utterly twitterpated. And, because this post is inevitably leading to this: the sex is fantastic. Mind-blowing. I get full-body tingles when she texts me.
So now I'm confronting that sticky question that I put on the back burner all those years ago and left to simmer: What am I? Gay? Bi? Shouldn't I have figured this out before 30? Sigh...
For a brief moment after the Devastating Breakup of 2012, I made an OK Cupid profile and listed myself as "bi." Unfortunately, this was interpreted as "I have no type! I will sleep with anything that moves!" when, in reality, I've had fewer partners than most gay and straight people I know. (Not to be shame-y; this is just a fact.) I felt terribly awkward being approached by dudes who wanted me to seduce their straight girlfriend, or a couple wanting a threesome. I hated stipulating that "bi" does not equal "desperate" or "nymphomaniac." So I deleted that account.
Even in offline life, there seems to be a lot of pressure to be either gay or straight. Both male and female partners I've been with have expressed worry that they "can't satisfy me." [Insert tacky joke about my dream partner being a hermaphrodite.]
I was discussing this with a friend over lunch the other day. He and I had slept together in the past, in a weird moment of consensually "using" each other that didn't ruin the friendship. (I know, miracle.) I was telling him about my new lady love.
Me: So this is awkward, but you and I slept together, and, you know [insert gesturing toward myself to indicate that I clearly had a physical response when we were together] so how can I pick a side?
Him: I think the fact you feel like you have to pick a side is the answer. Straight people don't feel like they're picking a side, nor do gay people. But you do.
Clearly I have genius friends.
I also have friends who are not shy about asking me how I can vacillate between male and female partners. Or, more bluntly, one friend asked, "How does sex feel good without cock?" She didn't mean this offensively--she understands that plenty of female cisgendered couples (translation: both women were born with their lady bits and identify as female) have fulfilling sex lives. But she knew I had enjoyed sex with men and was honestly curious.
Confession: As a Mormon, I still considered myself a virgin despite months of sex with my BYU girlfriend. I think there is still a straight-culture bias toward anything except penis-vagina sex as less "real." This feels awful to admit, especially when a women fears that I'll also consider her as a less "real" partner and lover. Ouch, right?
I thought about all this for quite some time, and my answer is rather indelicate: I like it when people I'm aroused by and feel an emotional connection with put parts of their body into my body. And I like touching their bodies--whether they have "innie" or "outie" sexual organs--in ways that feel good to them. I don't feel like anything is "missing" when I'm in bed with a woman. I get just as much pleasure and feel just as much of that terror/exhilaration of emotional connection. (Reason #4 why I'm not very promiscuous: I tend to fall for people I sleep with.)
Why do we get so hung up on body parts, anyway? All of our bodies are different. Even within the general categories of "male" and "female" there is a fuckload of variation. There are tiny dicks and big clits. There are "man boobs" and flat-chested women. There are V-shapes and hourglass shapes and pear shapes and apple shapes. Ok, I have to insert this here:
And here's a list of body parts I find attractive: eyes, hands, smile creases, full lips, not-cankles, and dark hair. My biggest conundrum is that I find both beards and breasts attractive...but not on the same person. ;) But seriously, I look for plenty of physical attributes when it comes to who I want to sleep with (again, I'm a Libra); these just don't include "one specific type of genitals."
A much more significant part of my attraction involves how a person takes up space in the world: how they interact with others, how they use body language, and how we spark. Falling in love is not picking a side: it's picking a person. And I don't pick someone as a man, or a woman, but as an incredibly specific individual AND someone largely composed of what we all have in common: a body. A heart. A personality. A soul.
I would honestly hope that someone would consider a lot more than my uterus, vagina, and boobies (sorry, third grade humor sneaks in) when deciding whether or not I'm attractive. Even for being a six-foot-tall blond with long hair and a curvy body who wears dresses and earrings, I'm not 100% girly girl.
Par exemple:
I love wearing stilettos and short skirts, and I also own ties, a suit, and suspenders.
I am an awesome seamstress and I love power tools.
I'll spend hours baking gourmet desserts, but my idea of a weeknight dinner is often popcorn and beer.
I love being called "doll" by the person I'm intimate with, and I *love* having an androgynous name.
I love wearing make-up and going on fancy dates, and I adore getting sweaty and dirty playing outside.
I'm sure all of us could come up with gender-bending paradoxes. The world is not black and white. It's no mistake that "gay" and "rainbows" go together like chocolate and peanut butter (which is, btw, the strongest argument I can find for intelligent design...) because the strongest rallying cry I can find that unites the GLBTQ community is acceptance of diversity. Now THAT is a revolutionary concept.
And finally, if I feel the need to be with more than just my primary partner, that would be called polyamory, not bisexuality.
So yeah. I'm setting up residence on the goddamn fence.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
This is water.
There are many days when my mantra is "This is water...This is water..."
As always, the book is better than the movie, but this is beautiful in its own way.
As always, the book is better than the movie, but this is beautiful in its own way.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Eating rain for breakfast
Recently I went to LA/San Diego for a weekend of sun and surfing. Ironically, it rained. (Cue Alanis here.) I surfed anyway, because that is what I do. In the words of my dear friend Arla, "Don't they know you eat rain for breakfast?" (If you're a bike commuter in Portland all winter, this is true.)
It was a pretty rough day of surfing. The waves were coming choppy and at angles, and I accidentally caught a *huge* one. It shot me forward and I held onto my board for a couple seconds before the curl crashed down over me, knocking me off my board and pulling me underwater. As I spun in the ocean's washing machine for what felt like forever, I began to panic. What if I never surfaced? What if I drowned? I was completely overwhelmed by the force of the water, lungs burning, hair wrapped around my throat. But then the spinning slowed, and I stopped flailing. I opened my eyes to see a spectrum of calm blue and rising bubbles, and I figured out which way to swim.
Last night was rough, and to be totally honest, it scared me a little. I keep thinking that I'm at a place where I will stop getting knocked off my feet by pain, self-doubt, and despair. I keep thinking I've learned enough healthy coping mechanisms and made so much progress (thank you, therapy) that my emotional "baggage" will stop making me a "difficult person to be around" (as my ex so charmingly put it). I keep thinking maybe I'll be fun and sunshine and rainbows 24/7.
Just to be clear: I'm not bipolar. I have a therapist (and she doesn't think I need to be medicated). ;) I'm high-functioning and an affable, enthusiastic, and even joyful human being who is deeply grateful for all the good in my life (see: friends, job, city, lifestyle, etc.). This is all true. But it is also true that my emotions run deep, and they are not always sparkly I-am-Wonder-Woman feelings, unfortunately. And I confess, when I go to that dark place, I arms-distance everyone around me and get lost in the death-spiral of self-pity and am convinced that no one will ever know and still love pathetic, nauseatingly bleak little me. It's so ridiculous that it's hilarious...except when I'm in it.
So anyway, last night I was slow-boiling myself in the bathtub, listening to sad music and feeling awash in teary pessimism, when I had a small epiphany. I realized that perhaps the key to getting through my rough patches, just like the surfing incident, is learning to be quiet through the pain. Perhaps I've finally been in this dark place enough to know--and I mean really know on a brains-and-gut level--that feeling bad doesn't last forever. Sadness won't kill me. And if I can just hold my breath for a moment longer, if I can stop flailing and panicking, if i can figure out which direction to swim in, things will be okay again. I will surface, coughing and sputtering, a little shocked and waterlogged, but alive.
These are novel ideas for me: to stop being so afraid of negative emotions; to stop regarding my occasional moments of being swamped by sadness as my ugly impediment to being loveable; to be quiet in the darkness, sure in my strength to swim upward, even if it means waiting patient in the spin.
I got back on my board that day in San Diego. After a rough night, I'm at work, laughing with my staff, throwing myself into everything I believe is important and worthwhile. I keep getting in the ocean, so to speak, knowing that I'm strong enough to keep swimming. I keep eating rain for breakfast.
It was a pretty rough day of surfing. The waves were coming choppy and at angles, and I accidentally caught a *huge* one. It shot me forward and I held onto my board for a couple seconds before the curl crashed down over me, knocking me off my board and pulling me underwater. As I spun in the ocean's washing machine for what felt like forever, I began to panic. What if I never surfaced? What if I drowned? I was completely overwhelmed by the force of the water, lungs burning, hair wrapped around my throat. But then the spinning slowed, and I stopped flailing. I opened my eyes to see a spectrum of calm blue and rising bubbles, and I figured out which way to swim.
 |
| Before I surfed in the washing machine. |
Just to be clear: I'm not bipolar. I have a therapist (and she doesn't think I need to be medicated). ;) I'm high-functioning and an affable, enthusiastic, and even joyful human being who is deeply grateful for all the good in my life (see: friends, job, city, lifestyle, etc.). This is all true. But it is also true that my emotions run deep, and they are not always sparkly I-am-Wonder-Woman feelings, unfortunately. And I confess, when I go to that dark place, I arms-distance everyone around me and get lost in the death-spiral of self-pity and am convinced that no one will ever know and still love pathetic, nauseatingly bleak little me. It's so ridiculous that it's hilarious...except when I'm in it.
So anyway, last night I was slow-boiling myself in the bathtub, listening to sad music and feeling awash in teary pessimism, when I had a small epiphany. I realized that perhaps the key to getting through my rough patches, just like the surfing incident, is learning to be quiet through the pain. Perhaps I've finally been in this dark place enough to know--and I mean really know on a brains-and-gut level--that feeling bad doesn't last forever. Sadness won't kill me. And if I can just hold my breath for a moment longer, if I can stop flailing and panicking, if i can figure out which direction to swim in, things will be okay again. I will surface, coughing and sputtering, a little shocked and waterlogged, but alive.
These are novel ideas for me: to stop being so afraid of negative emotions; to stop regarding my occasional moments of being swamped by sadness as my ugly impediment to being loveable; to be quiet in the darkness, sure in my strength to swim upward, even if it means waiting patient in the spin.
I got back on my board that day in San Diego. After a rough night, I'm at work, laughing with my staff, throwing myself into everything I believe is important and worthwhile. I keep getting in the ocean, so to speak, knowing that I'm strong enough to keep swimming. I keep eating rain for breakfast.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Postmormon Silver Linings
Here's that damn list has taken me years to admit to, i.e. all the positive aspects of spending the first twenty-four years of my life in a religion that, for a few years after my escape, felt like it had destroyed all good parts of my life (not that I'm ever melodramatic about things).
The Silver Linings to Being A Post-Mormon:
1. Public speaking skills, gleaned from years of bearing testimony in church, giving Sacrament meeting talks, and being a Gospel Doctrine teacher.
2. The ability to talk to pretty much anyone, thanks to 18 months ofharassing contacting strangers as a missionary in Belgium.
3. Teaching skills (again, see: Gospel Doctrine teacher and a missionary).
4. Uh, mortifying yet hilarious scrapbooks.
5. Enough material for an entire book (about my mission), several short stories, and probably a MothSlam story or two.
6. Je parle francais (albeit comme une vache espagnole) also thanks to the mission.
7. X-ray vision superpowers to see through frauds and hoaxes.
8. Extra tickles of forbidden delight every time I do seemingly innocuous things, such as drinking coffee.
9. I can catch any Biblical allusion.
10. Toughness, as in a my-ancestors-hauled-handcarts-across-the-plains-and-farmed-godforsaken-Idaho way.
11. The Book of Mormon musical? Even more hilarious.
12. Teaching people the secret temple handshakes is always an entertaining party trick. ;)
13. Wearing tank tops, miniskirts, corsets, real underwear, and fewer layers on hot days (buh-bye, garmies!) all feels slightly deviant and extra awesome.
14. My liver and my savings account escaped undergrad pretty much unscathed.
To be continued...and no, this photo doesn't have much to do with the post, except that I adore Edward Gorey and his sense of humor.
The Silver Linings to Being A Post-Mormon:
1. Public speaking skills, gleaned from years of bearing testimony in church, giving Sacrament meeting talks, and being a Gospel Doctrine teacher.
2. The ability to talk to pretty much anyone, thanks to 18 months of
3. Teaching skills (again, see: Gospel Doctrine teacher and a missionary).
4. Uh, mortifying yet hilarious scrapbooks.
5. Enough material for an entire book (about my mission), several short stories, and probably a MothSlam story or two.
6. Je parle francais (albeit comme une vache espagnole) also thanks to the mission.
7. X-ray vision superpowers to see through frauds and hoaxes.
8. Extra tickles of forbidden delight every time I do seemingly innocuous things, such as drinking coffee.
9. I can catch any Biblical allusion.
10. Toughness, as in a my-ancestors-hauled-handcarts-across-the-plains-and-farmed-godforsaken-Idaho way.
11. The Book of Mormon musical? Even more hilarious.
12. Teaching people the secret temple handshakes is always an entertaining party trick. ;)
13. Wearing tank tops, miniskirts, corsets, real underwear, and fewer layers on hot days (buh-bye, garmies!) all feels slightly deviant and extra awesome.
14. My liver and my savings account escaped undergrad pretty much unscathed.
To be continued...and no, this photo doesn't have much to do with the post, except that I adore Edward Gorey and his sense of humor.
 |
| I adore Edward Gorey. |
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
I've had very mixed feelings about this blog lately. For a long time it has been a place to vent, but as more and more people from my "real" life stumble across this, I've become more self-conscious about what I post. Also, the more I heal and move on, the more I feel like putting my energy into other places. So now what? Do I delete it? Keep it private? What now?
Then I recently was asked this by a fellow postmormon:
How have you come to terms with all those years "wasted" in the church?
I've been thinking about this question for a really long time...for as long as I've been trying to come to terms with the fact I spent the first 24 years of my life in what I now consider to be a cult. Often it feels like I wasted all that time, and it makes me angry and depressed. All those things I could've been doing! I rant in my head, All the adventures and...and...
Well, and what? If I hadn't gone through the experiences I did, I would be a different person, and honestly I'm alright with how things have turned out.
But here's some of my reply:
I think part of the answer is already there, latent in the very fact you're asking the question. From my experience, we have to be open to the idea of moving on before it can begin to happen. If we can't even imagine coming to terms with our pain and anger, how could we ever hope to do it?
Anyway, all theory aside, I just keep working on forgiving myself. I keep making lists of the positive things I gained from those experiences (and yes, this is hard, especially at first: it took me YEARS to admit there even could be positives). Honestly I still cannot forgive the church, but I can accept that what happened is un-change-able, and all I have is this brief, precious moment of right now, so I need to focus on it. However, I would never, ever say "just get over it." I think that's (a) impossible and thus (b) useless advice. Emotions take time to process.
To be even more honest, I've written a book about my mission experience, and just getting that story out and having it heard makes it feel like the experience was less of a waste. Given, I've exerted four years of energy into writing and editing the damn thing, and I'm sure other people would consider it more time "wasted" on the church. But for me, I had to work it out by writing. I had to find a way to frame those experiences and pull something positive from them, and for me that positive is a story that will, hopefully, make others who have experienced the same thing feel less alone and strange in the world.
Above all, be gentle with yourself. Appreciate who you are now, and the people standing beside you for this next step.
So there's that. Maybe I'm getting less angry and ranty, and that's probably a good thing, but I think having the whole process included in this blog--and not just the "Oh, I survived, and am so happy and over it" part--is valuable on some level. Because it is a process, and one that I'm continuing to write on through.
 |
| Copyright by the lovely blog Hyperbole and a Half |
Then I recently was asked this by a fellow postmormon:
How have you come to terms with all those years "wasted" in the church?
I've been thinking about this question for a really long time...for as long as I've been trying to come to terms with the fact I spent the first 24 years of my life in what I now consider to be a cult. Often it feels like I wasted all that time, and it makes me angry and depressed. All those things I could've been doing! I rant in my head, All the adventures and...and...
Well, and what? If I hadn't gone through the experiences I did, I would be a different person, and honestly I'm alright with how things have turned out.
But here's some of my reply:
I think part of the answer is already there, latent in the very fact you're asking the question. From my experience, we have to be open to the idea of moving on before it can begin to happen. If we can't even imagine coming to terms with our pain and anger, how could we ever hope to do it?
Anyway, all theory aside, I just keep working on forgiving myself. I keep making lists of the positive things I gained from those experiences (and yes, this is hard, especially at first: it took me YEARS to admit there even could be positives). Honestly I still cannot forgive the church, but I can accept that what happened is un-change-able, and all I have is this brief, precious moment of right now, so I need to focus on it. However, I would never, ever say "just get over it." I think that's (a) impossible and thus (b) useless advice. Emotions take time to process.
To be even more honest, I've written a book about my mission experience, and just getting that story out and having it heard makes it feel like the experience was less of a waste. Given, I've exerted four years of energy into writing and editing the damn thing, and I'm sure other people would consider it more time "wasted" on the church. But for me, I had to work it out by writing. I had to find a way to frame those experiences and pull something positive from them, and for me that positive is a story that will, hopefully, make others who have experienced the same thing feel less alone and strange in the world.
Above all, be gentle with yourself. Appreciate who you are now, and the people standing beside you for this next step.
So there's that. Maybe I'm getting less angry and ranty, and that's probably a good thing, but I think having the whole process included in this blog--and not just the "Oh, I survived, and am so happy and over it" part--is valuable on some level. Because it is a process, and one that I'm continuing to write on through.
Publishing! Salamander and Boneshaker
Good news! I've got a short story coming out in Salamander this June. It's the same one that was a finalist--the one about two missionaries serving in Portland, Oregon.
Also, I have an excerpt from my book being published in Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac sometime in the near-ish future.
On that note, I hired the fabulous Ali McCart at Indigo Editing (whom I highly recommend) to edit my manuscript and did a huge, exhaustive edit, cutting the first seven chapters, reworking a couple scenes into flashbacks, and whittling the whole thing down by about 40,000 words. Phew! But, it is in much better shape, so much so that I've had a nibble from a major agent (i.e. a full manuscript request with a two-week exclusive) and a big-name author whom I met through work asked to read the first chapter. (!!)
I don't want to jinx myself, but I think it's going to happen this time. Woohoo!
Also, I have an excerpt from my book being published in Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac sometime in the near-ish future.
On that note, I hired the fabulous Ali McCart at Indigo Editing (whom I highly recommend) to edit my manuscript and did a huge, exhaustive edit, cutting the first seven chapters, reworking a couple scenes into flashbacks, and whittling the whole thing down by about 40,000 words. Phew! But, it is in much better shape, so much so that I've had a nibble from a major agent (i.e. a full manuscript request with a two-week exclusive) and a big-name author whom I met through work asked to read the first chapter. (!!)
I don't want to jinx myself, but I think it's going to happen this time. Woohoo!
Friday, December 14, 2012
It's not so sick and sad.
"It's a sick, sad world out there."
I'm reading several statements like this on Facebook today after the elementary school shootings in Connecticut. I also live in Portland, and the recent shootings in Clackamas have understandably shook and dismayed everyone. But I'm really bothered by these statements about "out there" being "sick" or "sad."
Why?
First, there is no "out there." This is the world, and we are in it: we are in movie theaters, malls, and schools. "There" is wherever we are right now, in this second, breathing in and out and feeling our heartbeats. "Out there" sets up a false distance between us and our communities.
Second, the world is not "sick" or "sad." Yes, horrific things happen, and they happen every day. Humans are capable of unspeakable cruelties. Some of us are sick. Some of us are sad. But such blanket statements deny the complexity of human interactions and just engender fear. And fear will not help us get through this.
I remember being in my senior year of high school, sitting in my journalism class and chatting with another misfit--a guy with long blond hair who wore long black trench coats and laughed at my sarcastic jokes. Someone turned on the TV, saying there had been a shooting in a high school in Colorado. The newscaster began describing the gunmen: two students who had long hair and wore black trench coats. My friend shifted in his chair. He looked at me, and I had the mortifying thought: "Do I really know this person? Can I trust him?" I think he saw this, and I felt awful for it. But I didn't mumble an excuse and walk away. I kept talking to him. He forgave me for that moment of judgment without me ever asking, and I will always be grateful for that. He did stop wearing that coat for a while, despite it being a freezing spring in Idaho. The word "columbine" shifted its meaning, and our perceptions of young men with long hair in black trench coats also shifted.
Trust me, I am no Pollyanna. There are still days when my chest feels so broken that I close the laptop, lock my door, and curl up under the blankets because I just need to hold on to my heart until it recovers. But the trick is to keep walking "out there." The trick is to stop fearing the world, labeling it as evil and cloistering ourselves among the familiar, among opinions that don't make us uncomfortable, safe in whatever racial/religious/political/socioeconomic/educational status mirrors our own. So today I am not writing a facebook status about how horrible the world is. Today I'm writing a blog post about how I will walk into the world today, breathing deeply, trying to notice the variations in the people around me without fear or judgment. I will be out there, and I will not be sick or sad. I will still hope.
I'm reading several statements like this on Facebook today after the elementary school shootings in Connecticut. I also live in Portland, and the recent shootings in Clackamas have understandably shook and dismayed everyone. But I'm really bothered by these statements about "out there" being "sick" or "sad."
Why?
First, there is no "out there." This is the world, and we are in it: we are in movie theaters, malls, and schools. "There" is wherever we are right now, in this second, breathing in and out and feeling our heartbeats. "Out there" sets up a false distance between us and our communities.
Second, the world is not "sick" or "sad." Yes, horrific things happen, and they happen every day. Humans are capable of unspeakable cruelties. Some of us are sick. Some of us are sad. But such blanket statements deny the complexity of human interactions and just engender fear. And fear will not help us get through this.
I remember being in my senior year of high school, sitting in my journalism class and chatting with another misfit--a guy with long blond hair who wore long black trench coats and laughed at my sarcastic jokes. Someone turned on the TV, saying there had been a shooting in a high school in Colorado. The newscaster began describing the gunmen: two students who had long hair and wore black trench coats. My friend shifted in his chair. He looked at me, and I had the mortifying thought: "Do I really know this person? Can I trust him?" I think he saw this, and I felt awful for it. But I didn't mumble an excuse and walk away. I kept talking to him. He forgave me for that moment of judgment without me ever asking, and I will always be grateful for that. He did stop wearing that coat for a while, despite it being a freezing spring in Idaho. The word "columbine" shifted its meaning, and our perceptions of young men with long hair in black trench coats also shifted.
Trust me, I am no Pollyanna. There are still days when my chest feels so broken that I close the laptop, lock my door, and curl up under the blankets because I just need to hold on to my heart until it recovers. But the trick is to keep walking "out there." The trick is to stop fearing the world, labeling it as evil and cloistering ourselves among the familiar, among opinions that don't make us uncomfortable, safe in whatever racial/religious/political/socioeconomic/educational status mirrors our own. So today I am not writing a facebook status about how horrible the world is. Today I'm writing a blog post about how I will walk into the world today, breathing deeply, trying to notice the variations in the people around me without fear or judgment. I will be out there, and I will not be sick or sad. I will still hope.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Video of Mormon Temple Rituals Goes Viral?
As a former Mormon, I went into the temple having no idea that I would have to veil my face, chant, and learn secret handshakes and passwords to get me into heaven. It was shocking. But, because I was a fifth-generation Mormon, BYU student, and about to go on a mission to Belgium, I swallowed my discomfort and followed along. I bowed my head and said "yes."
It's taken me years to fully appreciate the amount harm that the Mormon religion can do. Given, every person's experience with religion is personal and thus different, but I have strong feelings about the cult-ish, brainwashing aspect of the temple ritual.
Don't believe me? This video is the real deal. See for yourself.
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