Happy 2011!

I’m back!

I just landed my first assignment to write a personal essay for a big magazine. It’s going to be a triathlon-level challenge in lifting an individual experience to a more universal level that people who are not me will find interesting and maybe even inspiring.

Yes, I’m a little intimidated. My original plan for this very blog — to track my progress in confronting my fears — sort of fell apart as I discovered, first, that I didn’t have nearly as many fears as I originally thought, and second, that I was falling into the whole “the wonder of me” trap in which I expected total strangers to care about my life without making the effort to make said life something they could relate to. I was so worried about seeming self-involved and self-indulgent that I self-censored myself right out of blogging. And so here I am again, after a month of silence, starting from scratch.

I have no idea what that means. I think it means I’m going to write about whatever I want, as long as it has some vague connection to the idea of having a bigger, better, more satisfying life. I know it means trying to find some way to make this less an echo chamber and more a conversation with other people who want a big heaping helping of More, whatever More is.

I don’t want this to be a chore. I want it to be a self-indulgence, like going to the movies alone, or taking a hot bath with a cold beer, or finally treating myself to the luggage of my dreams. (My Aeronaut arrives tomorrow!) I’m making it up as I go. Isn’t that the point — to explore, express, expand? I think so.

Stay tuned.

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A stitch in time

As I’ve mentioned before, I had a traumatic home ec experience as a preteen, and I haven’t touched a sewing machine since. In the last year, though, I’ve found myself wanting to face that fear directly. That’s why later tonight I’m heading over to a sewing class, where apparently I will relearn the basics of hand and machine sewing by making a sock monkey.

I know a couple of dogs who’d be delighted to sink their teeth into Mr. Sock Monkey, and they won’t care if he’s a little lopsided or mutated, so I won’t, either. Let’s face it, it’s so much easier to enjoy trying new things when the stakes are low!

My larger goal, though, is to learn enough simple sewing skills to alter my own clothes. I’ve been fascinated for years by people who can put their own stamp on otherwise generic clothing and refashion old clothes into new. I have a friend who turned a floral romper from the ’90s into an adorable dress. I have another friend who bought her wedding dress from a bridal salon that specializes in making old dresses modern. I’m always finding things in vintage and thrift stores that don’t fit me right or simply aren’t flattering but have so much potential (great bones, gorgeous fabric, whatever) if only I knew how to bring it out.

In part it’s about wanting to be both thrifty and eco-conscious, and in part it’s about wanting yet another creative outlet. But mostly it’s because in the last year or so, I’ve been inspired by various stylish sources to get a lot braver about exploring and expanding my personal look. For a long time, my wardrobe has basically consisted of basic jeans, basic t-shirts, basic cardigans. Classic, yes, but Bo. Ring.

Now I’m adding dresses, mixing patterns, exploring the wonderful world of legwear, and trying outfits that might seem odd, like belting a lightweight short-sleeved cotton shirtdress over a long-sleeved t-shirt with tights and boots. (Clothing swaps are great for this. Hey, it was free; if I can’t figure out a good way to wear a swap find, I can just pass it on at the next one.)

I’m allowing myself the occasional splurge, like the amazing All Saints cardigan I just picked up 2 weeks ago and have already worn in 4 different outfits, but my budget doesn’t have a lot of room for the expensively unusual. And that brings me back to learning how to sew. I don’t expect to become an expert dressmaker. I just want to be able to play.

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Fearlessly dorky

Gather ’round, children, while I tell you a story about the olden days.

Okay, I’m kidding. I’m only going to tell you a story from 1990. Which is, to my surprise, 20 years ago (damn, how did that happen?) and therefore almost half my lifetime ago already (I say again, damn, how did that happen?). Yes, it was pre-Internet, but otherwise, I wouldn’t call it olden. Retro, maybe. But I digress.

It was 1990. In fact, since we do now have the Internet, I can date the story precisely: May 1, 1990. The location: Northampton, Mass., where I was living because I was working at the newspaper in nearby Holyoke. I’d bought a ticket to see Michelle Shocked on her Captain Swing tour. She had two opening acts. One was a band from Hawaii called Poi Dog Pondering. The other was an English singer/songwriter who called himself John Wesley Harding.

I don’t know what Michelle Shocked is doing these days, and the last time I saw PDP was at the Fillmore in late 2001. But I saw John Wesley Harding this past weekend doing a set at the Red Devil Lounge, and it was — I have no better word for it — delightful.

See, here’s the thing: the second he walked out onto that stage in 1990 and started singing, I became an instant fan. Those tunes! Those lyrics! That voice! (I’m a sucker for a British accent, I admit it.) Also, it didn’t hurt that he was also preposterously attractive. From that point on, I followed his career. Not in the creepy stalkerish way, and not in the “learn every detail about his personal life” way, just in a “go see the guy whenever he plays a local show, and drop some cash on his music” way.

Since then, I’ve had a handful of entertaining fangirlish encounters, most of them in the mid-90s, when the man was performing a lot more often than he does now. I bought him a beer before a show at Bill’s Bar in Boston when a friend and I accidentally arrived far too early and walked into the bar during the sound check. I got to hang out backstage for an hour at another Boston venue because my housemate was dating a producer at the radio station sponsoring the appearance, although I didn’t want to be rude by striking up an actual conversation with someone who was trying to rehearse. And then there was the night I hung around a certain Central Square club for several hours after the show for no better reason than that he was also hanging around, jamming with some of the local musicians. Okay, maybe that was borderline groupie-like, but come on, an extra show by a favorite performer at no additional charge? Who would pass that up?

Anyway, what I’m saying is, I’ve been enjoying his music for 20 years now, which seemed to deserve a little bit more than just the occasional purchase on Amazon. So on Saturday night, after an engaging performance to far too small an audience, I waited at the merchandise table until I spotted my chance, and then I said something to the effect of, “Hey, Wes, I first saw you opening for Michelle Shocked in 1990 and I’ve been listening to your stuff ever since, and I just wanted to say thanks. Really. Thanks.”

And he was very nice about it and thanked me in return, which more than made up for my fear that I was being creepy or groupie-ish.

P.S. None of us are as young as we used to be, but he’s still pretty darn attractive. Whatever his secret is, I want some.

P.P.S. It turns out Bill Wadman has taken his picture. Is there anyone I know, or would like to know, whose picture Bill Wadman hasn’t taken? And why hasn’t he taken mine?

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The NaNoWriMo update

I came back from my vacation with an idea for a novel, and I signed up for NaNoWriMo to give myself the motivation to get to work on it. It’s now two weeks into November, halfway through the month. So how am I doing?

Terribly, thanks. And that’s great.

In order to “win” NaNoWriMo, you have to spew out 50,000 words in 30 days. That’s 1667 words a day. By today, day 14, I should have 23,338 words. I have 13,550. Which is to say, I’m way behind. Almost 9800 words behind.

On the other hand, I’m learning a lot about myself.

For one thing, I’m learning that even when I’m doing something voluntarily, for no other reason than because it sounded like fun, I still drive myself crazy with deadline pressure. Not the good kind of motivational deadline pressure that gets me to put my ass in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard, either. I feel overwhelmed by the fact that at my current pace, I won’t hit 50K words until late December. I feel even more overwhelmed by the fact that if I want to reach that mark on time, I need to crank out almost 2300 words a day. It’s causing me anxiety, oppressive anxiety, the kind that makes me want to quit just to make it stop. I find this fascinating. Why am I stressing so much about something with absolutely no consequences? That is a very good question indeed.

For another thing, I’m learning that despite this self-imposed torture, I’m having a good time! I’m telling a story! I’m not leaping to my keyboard every day with fresh vigor, but I can actually see myself finishing this draft, even if I don’t finish it for another month or two. Who knew?

And finally, to my surprise and delight, I’ve discovered that I want to finish it, even if it takes a while. Because I think it’s pretty good!

I have the perfect excuse to cut myself some slack about not finishing by November 30. I have four perfect excuses, come to think of it: I’m working on a white paper for one client, website content for another client, and a blog and newsletter for a third client, all of them starting first thing in the morning, plus I’m negotiating a potential ghostwriting project. That’s more than enough to keep me busy for a while. So I will feel no shame about leaving St. Wilfrid’s Yard (the novel’s working title) for a while.

But I’ll also look forward to returning.

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On small beautiful things

I’m supposed to be writing a crappy novel right now for National Novel Writing Month. I started it last night while sitting in my local coffee shop with half a dozen other NaNos, and so far, I’m not entirely sure I’m going to finish. I need to do 1,667 words a day to hit the 50,000-word mark by the end of the month; last night I only managed to eke out 900 or so, and about 450 of them suck.

In my defense, I was a little distracted by the ball game. Which is what I really want to write about right now. The ball game. The beautiful, beautiful ball game in which the San Francisco Giants beat the ever-lovin’ pants off the Texas Rangers, who seemed to have forgotten how to swing a bat. There’s something incredibly inspiring about witnessing a collection of scrappy youngsters and workmanlike tradesmen who were never supposed to make it to the post-season transform before my eyes into a team of superstars. I mean, Buster Posey! He’s a rookie! He’s barely old enough to shave! But now, no matter what happens, for the rest of his life, that kid is a World Series champion catcher!

In the grand scheme of things, I know, this is pretty meaningless. As people who don’t care about baseball keep reminding me, it’s just a game. So why do I care? For the same reason that I’m writing a crappy novel for the hell of it: because things don’t have to be significant or even remotely important to have meaning and value. I’m participating in NaNoWriMo because I’ve never tried to write fiction before and I think I might enjoy it — even though I may yet find myself tearing out my hair over it, one strand at a time. I’m loving the World Series buzz because for just a little while, this entire city is surfing a giant black and orange wave of communal bliss — even though today is an election and tomorrow morning we’ll be sniping at each other over the results. It’s the little things.

Speaking of little things, here is a lovely hypnotic video of a letterpress in action, printing business cards. Enjoy!

Keegan Meegan Press & Bindery from :::MAGNETIC ARCHIVES:: on Vimeo.

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