National Book Festival

My wife and I went to the National Book Festival on the National Mall on Saturday. This being the sixth such festival since I arrived in D.C., I have to wonder why it never occurred to me to go in previous years. As I writer, I found it an inspiring experience and one that reminded me once again why I write.

It's too easy to get lost, sometimes, in the minutia of queries and agents and e-readers and whatnot. I can't argue that sort of stuff isn't important - vital, I suppose - if you want to actually get published rather than write a bunch of manuscripts that sit on your hard drive. But ultimately - for me, at least - writing is about questions, themes, and ideas (if it wasn't ultimately about these, I wouldn't be inspired to write), and this reminded me of that.

Of course, all of literature is represented at the Book Festival, so even if you don't feel as heavy about it as the Lt., there's plenty to see and hear. (You can see the full listing here.)

The first thing my wife and I did was to go hear the "bad boy of contemporary American literature," Jonathan Franzen, speak. Despite his standoffishness, he was witty and sharp, has keen insights (one might even say he is disarmingly insightful, an aspect of his work that not everyone considers an asset) and clearly has thought a lot about things. His main message was that a writer needs to work hard, to dig deep, to push the boundaries further and further all the time. (All of the talks, from this year and recent years, are or will soon be archived on the Library of Congress website.)

"And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Irrefutable proof that Jodi Picoult sucks!"

He answered audience questions and then gamely signed books for nearly an hour and a half, dispatching the line with ruthless efficiency (though people were still waiting when he finally had enough and stopped signing, personally I'd thought he'd been very giving). As we got close to him in the line, Jonathan Safran Foer (whose books I haven't read, and whose own signing line that afternoon would rival Franzen's) came by to say hello, which I thought was pretty cool.

Dear Lt. - I hope one day to be half the writer you are. xxoo JoFra!

Next we saw Orhan Pamuk speak. I'd read Snow and so figured I'd done my due diligence with this Nobel Prize-winning author from Turkey, but his hour-long Q&A inspired me to read more work by him. In particular, I was struck by his answers to political questions. He drew a contrast between himself and true political dissident writers...and part of his reason for doing so (besides being honest), I think, was because that is not where his true artistic interests lie. Certainly he eschews simple, single-layered explanations and answers. With writing itself, he stressed how much of it is simple patience, persistence, and workmanship, as opposed to inspiration and "genius".

After Pamuk, we went to try to get a book signed by Allegra Goodman. There was a bit of confusion, as she wasn't there, and the best story we got from Festival staff was that she wasn't signing because it was the Jewish Sabbath (a problem one would think they might have foreseen in advance). We weren't sure if she'd be speaking as scheduled, or was even at the event. Luckily, she was indeed there, and we got to hear her speak.

Publishing is dead. No one reads books anymore!

Goodman was dynamic and effervescent, speaking about her current work and also about her process. Once again I got the strong sense of a writer driven by questions. For example, she talked about wanting to know what drives the lust for objects that so many collectors evince (a question that strikes fairly close to home for me, given certain of my family members, but one I never would have articulated so clearly).

We ended the day by listening to Harold Varmus, a Nobel Prize-winning cancer researcher who also has run the National Institutes of Health. I was impressed by his humility and his broad-mindedness. His book, which is sort of a mish-mash of his experiences (I mean that in a good way) that grew out of a lecture series he gave, is all about building bridges between disparate disciplines and professional cultures. For example, not only is he a scientist who moved into the policy arena, but he was also an student of literature before going into biomedical science, and C.P. Snow's "two cultures" plays in his work.

Honestly, I felt hyper-stimulated by all this. But it really also served to remind me of what is important. I said to my wife after we got home that when I was 16 I wanted to be a writer, and despite all the intervening years and my idiosyncratic career pursuits during that time, that is still what I want. I wasn't just reminding her of what she already knows; I was reminding myself.

I leave you with a line from Orhan Pamuk's Nobel speech: "A writer talks of things that everyone knows but does not know they know."

This Post

This post is going to be whatever I write right now, at 8:30 in the morning on Friday. A heavy work schedule, some other outside activities (at least one related to writing!), and some internet problems at home precluded me from writing until now. So let us get started....

I believe this morning was the closest I have come to puking on the Metro in years. Round about New York Avenue(/Gallaudet University/Florida Ave/WTF/OMG/BBQ) I was ready to exit the train and look for the nearest garbage can (of course, Metro garbage cans have their openings in the side, so vomiting into one would be nearly impossible). Yes, part of this was perhaps one too many vodka tonics last night. But most of it was Metro's fault. I stuck it through, though, reminding myself that Metro sickness is like sea-sickness; it goes away once you get out of the boat.

Our projected high temperature here in Washington D.C. today is 95 degrees. The haze was so thick this morning it was more like fog. People, it is nearly October. We have passed the autumnal equinox! Can we just...please...stop the insanity?!

There is an oak tree near our apartment that is continuously dropping acorns on the roof of the nearest building, parked cars, and the sidewalk. Every time I walk under that thing, I'm just waiting to get beaned. Hasn't happened yet, though.

Belimperia and I are planning to attend the National Book Festival tomorrow. I want my copy of Jonathan Franzen's book signed by the man himself (though it remains to seen how bad the lines will be). I am mostly but not quite done reading Freedom (a title that makes sense but has the unfortunate side-effect of reminding both me and my wife of that George Michael song).

Thus far, the book has - among other things -succeeded in making me really not want to be a dad. But, in contrast, MO Mommy's blog leads immediately to paternity desire overload. Those two boys are cute, but Willa is off the charts. I just think to myself: this could be me. (The one on the left, smartasses.) How could I say no to that? This one is perhaps my favorite of all. [cue heart melting]

All this is to say: we are still undecided whether we want them. But we're starting to seriously consider....

Next week will be light on posts because I will traveling part of the week, but I'll try to manage one or two if I can.

OK, typos and all, here we go!

On Pol Pot by Philip Short

High school social studies: was it just me, or did every year start with the Revolutionary War and end just before World War II? That's how I feel, and it means I was never properly exposed to the war in Vietnam. My high school health teacher once showed us a slideshow, set to music, that was perhaps about his experiences in Vietnam (he never explained it, so I don't know for sure). And, in my house, I felt like the Vietnam War was one of those taboo subjects because it struck close to home.

All this is to say that my ignorance of the Vietnam War, and "Indochina" in general, is fairly staggering. But this biography of Pol Pot, which I picked up used years ago, had been intimidating me from my bookshelves for too long.

Having tackled lots of heavy 20th century history over the past couple of years, especially about Communism in its various guises, I figured it was high time to learn about the architect of the Cambodian version; the version that decided to skip all the intermediate steps and get right to full-blown Communism.

Manages to explain not enough, and too much, at the same time...and yet it works.

My assessment of this book is quite simple - it has one major strength and one major flaw, and they are somewhat flip sides of one another.

The strength: this book is an almost encyclopedic recounting of Cambodian history from the 1950s through the early 1990s. I learned an immense amount by reading it, and while it wasn't Vietnam-centric (obviously, based on the title) I feel like I understand that whole period of history - and the destructive role that the U.S., China, and the Soviet Union played in waging proxy war through these smaller states, at great cost of lives and resources - much much better than I did before.

The book starts with President Eisenhower and ends with President Bush (Sr.) - indeed, the period of Khmer Rouge rule is but a small portion of the book - and certainly makes me think harder about U.S. foreign policy under all of these administrations.

The book also, I think, does a great job of explaining Khmer Rouge ideology: where it converged with and diverged from traditional Marxist-Leninist thought, and how it incorporated Cambodia's culture, history, and religion (Theravada Buddhism) into a very distinctive and dangerous (though ultimately incoherent) ideology that was certainly more (or at least quite different) than full-blown Communism as it might have developed in China, the USSR, or elsewhere.

The weakness? Well, have I mentioned Pol Pot yet? A biography of Mao and a history of Chinese Communism would be different books...this book, though labeled a biography of Pol Pot (one of many names he adopted over his lifetime), doesn't live up to its billing in that regard. Maybe this is because Pol Pot was the antithesis of so many of his fellow dictators who developed cults of personality and made themselves the state. Pol hid in the shadows. Maybe it is the culture (which, among other things, deemphasizes the individual), or poor recordkeeping, or lack of witnesses, or all of those and more, that have led to a hopeless dearth of information.

But there is a point in the book where Pol (or Sar, his birthname) finally announces he is the leader of the Khmer Rouge. His old schoolmates can't believe it, and wonder how an easygoing young man like Sar became the head of this bloodthirsty movement.

The greatest failure of this book is: after all those pages of history, the reader wonders, too! I acknowledge the challenges, but the book simply fails to explain how Pol became Pol, or what truly motivated him.

That being said, my recommendation is this: if you are looking for a biography of Pol Pot, look elsewhere. If you want to understand Cambodian history and the basis for the Khmer Rouge "experiment," it is hard to fathom that you would do better than this book.

Not Much

I am afraid I don't have much of a post for you all today. But on the plus side, I had a productive weekend in terms of writing. I managed to do a first-draft revision of my first chapter that I am pleased with. It needs more work, for sure, but it is on the right track and that is the most important thing, because I was kind of flailing around after last week's failed attempt. I also managed to add 800 words to my WIP.

And, earlier this week, I rewrote my query. I don't know what version of the query this is, since there have been so many, but it is significantly shortened and simplified with the one goal of getting the agent to ask for pages. At only about 170 words, it leaves me with a lot more room to kiss up to the individual agents I am querying.

I'm only being half-flip with my use of that phrase. Have you noticed that agents who blog can sometimes write the sort of self-aggrandizing posts that no one else (even, arguably, most celebrities) could get away with, and still be assured of affirmative responses from their sycophantic commenters? Once or twice agents' posts have landed in my reader - posts even the agents themselves evidently thought better of posting after all - and all I can say is wowza.

Anyway, I'm going to fix this first chapter and send it out along with my query, and it'll almost be like pitching a new book.

Thanks to those of you who commented on Friday's post. I was thinking to myself, as we sat on the train, how sad it was that someone would want to kill themselves on such a beautiful morning. Kill themselves in the morning - that seemed wrong (resisting the urge to make a joke about hangovers - and...success!). Kill themselves on one of the first nice days, having survived this whole summer - that also seemed wrong. And kill themselves on a Friday - that definitely seemed wrong. Also, given many choices in how to die, being hit by a train would likely wind up towards the very bottom of my list. Personally, I'd much rather just grab the third rail, though I'm sure that'd be no picnic either.

That being said, the person was fine and there was really nothing else for people to do. There is also some history to people being so jaded: when the Washington D.C. Metro system was being designed and built, a fateful decision was made to put in only two tracks: one in each direction. (and yes, I realize I used two colons in the previous sentence)

Operationally, what this means is that any problem on the track backs up the entire line. As the system has grown older, and been poorly-funded and poorly-managed, this means frequent mechanical problems, fires and smoke on the tracks, and electrical problems in the stations (never mind the escalator and ventilation problems). Any of these occurring on the line - anywhere on the line, even sometimes on the opposite direction - can and will screw up your commute.

All this is to say that - in a certain way - suicide on the tracks is no different from the doors failing to open on the train in front of you or a "suspicious package" ten stations on. The result is the same - a delay - and anger is sometimes expressed towards the disturbed people who choose to exit this world in a way that inconveniences - albeit temporarily - thousands of other people. (Perhaps, you may be thinking, this is the point. And perhaps it is. I don't know.)

The term "metrocide" has been flippantly applied to anyone killed by the system: suicides, track workers struck by trains, pedestrians struck by buses. Clearly "metrocide" refers to many different kinds of things, but regardless, it happens too much. I'm not crazy about the term, but I'm not above using it either.

And since I know this has been kind of a heavy post, which was not my intention but that's how it is, I leave you with some humor: a local work of genius about none other than the D.C. Metro:



(and yes, I realize I once again used two colons in a single sentence)

Suicide Attempt

The train shudders ungently to a halt just before we hit Rhode Island Avenue Station. The air vents stop blowing air. People look up from their newspapers and books. I turn off my iPod.

We're in the front car, and it's quiet. No one's talking. There's no noise at all but the rustling of papers - as tense and uncomfortable as the waiting room in a doctor's office.

Then we hear raised voices from the driver's compartment. Everyone looks over.

The loudspeaker crackles once, twice. Then: "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be moving momentarily."

Now it's clear that something's wrong - we've been referred to as "ladies and gentlemen" rather than "customers."

"There's been an attempted suicide."

A few minutes later the train powers back up and rolls, very slowly, past the platform at Rhode Island Avenue. The back of the platform is empty - and why shouldn't it be? six car trains stop beyond it - except for three cops/Metro employees and a man with his arms wrapped around one of the little polls that list the name of the station.

I assume, but can't see, that he's cuffed that way to prevent him from jumping back onto the tracks.

About 50 feet past this, a heavy crowd of people is lining the edge of the platform. A little more than you'd see most days but nothing too unusual...except all their heads are turned in the direction of the guy cuffed around the poll.

The doors open. I wonder if the driver will leave the train. Not much gives me sympathy for Metro drivers; this kind of situation does. But nothing happens. The doors close. People go back to their papers.

"Next station: New York Avenue."

Grrrr!

I spent several hours this past weekend working on revising the first chapter of my book, in anticipation of sending out more queries. I'd been ramping up to do this for weeks, and went in focused and with what I thought was a good plan.

Yet, at the end, I realized what I had done didn't work. At all.

Well, I remain firm: I'm not sending any more queries until I revise this chapter in a way that excites me. And, of course, I'm not exactly sure - beyond that - what I'm trying to accomplish with the revision since - despite getting plenty of really helpful comments from people, especially on the first chapter - I don't actually know why agents are passing. Even my full request garnered no feedback. So...pretty frustrating.

It's at such times that my thoughts turn to drinking. (OK, my thoughts turn to drinking sooner or later anyway, usually sooner.) Take a nice, generous shot of Wild Turkey 101 and mix it with a bottle of Budweiser (as in: pour the shot into a glass and then pour in the beer) and you've got yourself one splendid boilermaker. Here's the thing, though: you have to remember that your base liquor is 50% alcohol and accord it the respect that it is due.

(BTW, if you think writers drink a lot, you should hang out with some scientists one day...especially those of the discipline that the Lt. hails from, which I can't tell you without killing my anonymity. I have seen some amazing shit, people.)

drivin down the road, looking for a waffle house, drinkin lots of wild turkey!

And while we are on the subject, why did it take me so long to realize that Smirnoff vodka is basically the perfect drink? You can mix vodka with practically anything and it tastes good. Vodka tonics are amazing: how else would I have survived the umpteen million days this summer when it was 100 degrees and 99.9% humidity?

The Lt. is no longer that young of a man, and so an added bonus is that he can drink plenty o' vodka and wake up the next morning just fine. I have a lot more sympathy for the fact that Russians are stereotypically alcoholic now that I have finally, at this late date, acquired the appreciation of vodka that it deserves (not that reading about Soviet history, or even understanding the climate of the region, had left me particularly unsympathetic).

Two final observations to wrap up this lovely post that ought to get me a literary agent in-and-of-itself because it so effectively showcases my total-fucking-awesomeness:

1) I have long railed on this blog about the uselessness of body-mass index (BMI) as an assessment of pretty much anything. For example, I believe I had a post a couple of years ago ever-so-subtly titled "BMI Is A Crock Of Shit." A couple of weeks ago, The New York Times followed suit...though they did not use the exact phrase "crock of shit". (This is case #7,672,590 of "If Only Everyone Was As Smart As The Lt." - just ask my wife, Saint Belimperia, how this usually goes. If you think I rant a lot on this blog....)

2) Gift-giving: if you have read this blog (especially the family entries), you know how fraught with peril is accepting gifts in my family. I found this link to a wonderful, scholarly essay on the social complexities surrounding gift-giving. I recommend it to those of you who write and like to understand the deeper bases of social interactions...actually, I recommend it to everyone. Bet you never realized gift-giving could be so complex. (Well, if not, welcome to my world.)

An Analogy

Trying to become a published writer while working full-time is like walking down the street with three suitcases and a small child.

I come to this analogy as I return to work after my month off, and as the number of writing projects I am working on seems to have rapidly proliferated. All of a sudden I am once again busy all day, and come home to: 1) a novel I have completed and need to revise and query for; 2) a WIP for which I must complete a first draft; and 3) some other ideas for future work that need to be fleshed out.


So, in the analogy, the small child is the day job and the suitcases are the writing projects. You need to, at least more or less, move down the street as a cohesive unit with the kid and the bags. The small child certainly requires the most attention on a continuous basis, and is least under your direct control. It's the most likely to try to run off, and in a pinch you might need to leave the suitcases for a little while and run after it.

And the suitcases themselves need to be juggled and arranged in a way that allows you to move each of them forward. You can't abandon one and come back for it later, or it might very well be gone. On the other hand, the bags are different and you can't hitch them all together and move them forward in lockstep.


I wouldn't want to try to extend the analogy too far. But the upshot is: you've got more than you can really manage and the best you can do is to try to keep it all close as you make uneven halting progress down the street.

Three Short Book Reviews

After my month away, I have a bit of a backlog of books to review. Some of them will require their own posts, but a few - for various reasons - can be grouped together. Here are three books that couldn't be more different from one another, but I am grouping them together anyway:

Will take you longer to watch any Star Wars movie than to read this.

Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher.
My wife picked up this celebrity memoir and told me it was a quick, but decent, read. I agree it was quick - I read the whole thing in a couple of hours sitting outside - and decent (Carrie Fisher certainly can write). But it also seemed a bit pointless. It doesn't really have much celebrity dirt (she dispenses a couple of little nuggets about filming Star Wars, but grudgingly it seems), it's kind of about addiction but not really, it's sort of biographical but not coherently so.

Fisher, who is obviously quite smart and talented, starts off the book with caveats about how she grew up the child of celebrities and brings a perspective different from most readers. She flat out says she knows her problems are Hollywood problems.

I started off more on her side than she herself seemed to be; but by the end she had thoroughly convinced me that she was indeed self-absorbed and would be a difficult person to deal with. I don't really recommend reading this, but if you want to, go read it at the bookstore because it won't take you very long.

Very much worth it.

Burning Bright by Ron Rash.
I absolutely adored Rash's novel Serena, and this collection of short stories is a worthy follow-up. Much of his fiction takes place in rural western North Carolina (is that redundant?), and he does a magnificent job bringing people's stories - from a Civil War wife to a modern-day family whose son is addicted to crystal meth - in this fairly obscure (at least to me) geographic area to light.

His style is even more effective for its spareness, and I found myself both enjoying the stories as a reader and learning from him as a writer. I highly recommend this book.

They never got their shit together.

Hitler's Empire by Mark Mazower.
The Nazi takeover of much of Europe occurred with astounding speed. How did they manage and rule all of this newly-acquired territory?

Despite the stereotypically German desire for order, and the perception of strong central authoritarian control by the Nazi regime, the answer appears to be through a very decentralized and sometimes ad hoc set of policies that were occasionally deliberate but often not. Internal clashes between competing goals of the regime (for instance, the need for labor and the desire to eliminate "racially unpure elements") and between party factions and powerful individuals who may have prioritized one of these over the other led to radically inconsistent treatment of conquered land, resources, and populations. All this, of course, occurs in the context of a war that many in the regime knew was lost long before it ended.

Reading this book is a somewhat major undertaking, but it is worth it if you are interested in 20th century European history. I learned a lot, and I recommend it.

Lt. Spends A Month Playing Author

Or...My Latest Writing Update

As most of you know, or might reasonably surmise, my fondest dream is to one day be able to give up working in an office and earn a living as a fiction writer (or maybe part-time fiction writer and part-time some other kind of writer). Last month, when I was between jobs and totally without other responsibilities, provided a great opportunity to play at this in miniature. I was able to devote as much time as I chose to writing, and I got a lot done.

First and probably foremost, I wrote 16,000 words on my WIP. Having gone into August with 18,000 words, I've nearly doubled the length of the thing. My WIP, as I may have mentioned before, couldn't be more different from the novel I've already completed and have been querying for. I expect total length to wind up in the approximately 55,000 word zone, so that means I managed to push myself well over the halfway mark. My goal right now is to finish a first draft before the end of this calendar year...sooner, if possible.

Working in pajamas? Cool. Controlling my own time? Priceless!

On my completed novel, three things of note happened:

1) One of the days we had a terrible storm and lost power, my wife and I drove to a big Barnes & Noble nearby and spent a few hours there. I took a notepad and jotted down the titles and authors of some books that seemed to be "like" mine. In cases where the books had acknowledgment sections that mentioned the agent, I wrote their name down, too. This gave me about half a dozen new agents to query.

2) I'd mentioned before the possibility of a local book club discussing my book, and last month they did. I went downtown to meet them and they talked about my book for more than an hour. I got some pretty good feedback. There were some areas of disagreement among the different members of the club (one person in particular seemed to want me to greatly streamline the story, removing major characters and several plotlines, while the others disagreed) but they all seemed to enjoy the book a lot.

I tried to push them as hard as I could to point out flaws and weaknesses. As it turns out, their suggestions for improvement focused largely on the beginning, and in ways I've heard from others. They all seemed to agree that the first chapter was the weakest part of the whole book, which is ironic for reasons that will be readily apparent to those of you who write. The writing is on the wall - no pun intended - that the first chapter needs a revision, and I'm going to do that before I send out any more queries. As for the rest of it, some relatively minor tweaks and tune-ups.

3) The agent who requested my full at a writer's conference in June rejected it. Honestly, I was less disappointed by the rejection itself than by the fact that - despite some kind words - she didn't provide any reason for rejection or any specific criticism or ways to improve the manuscript. I figured "what the hey? it was a full request" and I wrote her back to thank her for looking at it and to ask if she had any more specific feedback. She responded immediately and said that she did not, though she told me that if she thought of anything she'd let me know. Well, I know I can't ask for anything more, and certainly I'm not owed anything at all. But, I have to say, the lack of feedback was disappointing. She's the first publishing professional to read my entire manuscript (or however much of it she actually read), so I had high hopes.

Anyway, moving forward, I'm going to revise as I discussed above and then send out some new queries. With a "new" first chapter, maybe I'll have more luck.

Finally, over this past month I devoted some focused thinking time to several new ideas, two of which are beginning to congeal into actual stories with characters, themes, and narrative arcs. One of those in particular has risen to the top as the thing to tackle next. This idea for a third project is moving back in the direction of serious and at least sort of literary. So over the next months I will be working, as much as I can, on developing that idea.

Having this time, to sit outside on a bench with a notebook and a drink and no other distraction - mental, physical, or otherwise - for an hour or more, was an amazing luxury that really helped me move these ideas forward. It's going to be much more difficult to focus now that I am back at work, but I'll have to do my best.

It is nice to see that the ideas keep coming. Not quickly and easily, but they do keep coming. One of these years I am actually going to get one of my books published - I still really believe it. And if not, I'm going to at least have fun writing. Otherwise, what's the point of all this?

Franzenfreude

This whole thing is so hopelessly smeared and mangled that it is impossible to extract anything coherent from it.

Is the issue:
-male vs. female authors in the New York Times specifically?
-male vs. female authors in book reviews generally?
-male vs. female authors in terms of publicity resources they receive from their publishing houses?
-that female authors are less likely to be taken "seriously" than male authors, no matter what genre they write in?
-that certain genres are taken more seriously than others?
-that certain genres are given more space in book reviews generally?
-that certain genres are given more space in The New York Times specifically?
-that there is a male equivalent of "chick lit" that is taken more seriously than "chick lit" in book reviews generally?
-that there is a male equivalent of "chick lit" that is taken more seriously than "chick lit" in The New York Times specifically?
-that Michiko Kakutani (a woman, btw) is so off-the-deep-end that the NYT sometimes does two reviews of a single book?
-that Michiko Kakutani is so off-the-deep-end that the NYT sometimes does two reviews of a single book, usually one by male authors?
-that Jonathan Franzen is a twit?
-that Jonathan Franzen needs two positive book reviews from the same review page like Imelda Marcos needs more shoes?
-that things would have been different if they'd trashed his book twice?
-that Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Weiner somehow don't make enough money and need more publicity?
-that Michiko K. hates Jodi P. and Jennifer W.? (I don't know if she really does.)
-that Jodi P. and Jennifer W. are acting like Kanye West at an awards show?

Some of these are issues answerable with data, and some of these are not. (Slate's data answer nothing.) Some of these issues intertwine. Consider, for example, the genre-by-gender interaction term that would need to be built into any multivariate consideration of many of these issues.

I would never argue that the publishing world (or the book review world, much less The New York Times world) is fair across gender, genre, or a variety of other factors. But Jodi P. and Jennifer W. attacking Jonathan F. and Gary S. is more like something you'd expect from the WWF than from successful published authors.

This is going to be one of those so-called "dialogues" where everyone yells at each other (or at themselves, mostly) until they get tired and give up, having accomplished nothing, because it's not clear what precisely it is being discussed.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I write this on the last day of my month off. I start my new job tomorrow...but I am looking forward to it, rather than dreading it. (Not that I wouldn't be thrilled with more time off, just that I think I'm ready to give this new thing a whirl.) Things here on the blog may be a little choppy this month as I take a little time to get the lay of the land in my new position, but I expect for the most part to resume regular posting.

I had a spectacular month off. I didn't go try to have that life-changing epiphanic experience - trekking through the Afar desert or climbing every 14k'er in Colorado or living in an ashram in the Himalayas - but instead did everything in moderation. Everything, that is, except work, which I didn't do at all!

Although that is patently untrue. If I had to sum up the month in one sentence, I'd say: I basically lived like a full-time author (though with a more relaxed schedule, I am sure). Indeed, the month was more devoted to writing than to anything else; so much devoted to writing, in fact, that I will save discussion of it for a later post.

surely there is nothing worse than the first day of school.

If you've read this blog before, you know that on the 1 to 10 introversion scale, the Lt. rates a 16.4. So I did not miss having to venture downtown and deal with people constantly, I did not miss my blackberry (lord, no!), I did not miss having to be in a largely-reactive mode of addressing seemingly endless streams of electronic communication, most of which are entirely irrelevant anyway. I used the Metro as rarely as possible. I did not read the newspaper (except for the Books section!). I did not at all keep up with my Google Reader. I carelessly perused Facebook once in a while but not that much. I did not set up strings of coffees, lunches, dinners, and happy hours with assortments of friends and colleagues. I basically just disengaged. That, my friends, is a true luxury to those of us who need alone time to recharge.

So what did I do? Besides writing (construed very broadly to include all the activities involved in it - like I said, I'll get into it next time), I (in absolutely no order):

--Cooked. Lots of great, healthy food. Homemade pasta sauces from blends of fresh vegetables. Fruit smoothies. Chicken and pork tacos. Homemade hummus. Even experimented with finding a way to ingest whey-soy protein powder without wanting to puke (although, in that regard, I failed).

--Took care of necessary errands. Obtained a new driver's license. Potted plants for the apartment. Cleaned out our closets. Finished going through all my old papers. Worked with my wife to partly reorganize our books. Cleaned the whole place and kept it clean.

--Went to the gym. A lot.

--Went on a lot of walks. Sat outside reading. Read a lot. Got some great color. Walked through Rock Creek Park after the incredible storms to survey the damage. Came upon a spot, usually dry, that had turned into a temporary lake. Yellow leaves fell from above, disturbing a surface that was otherwise entirely still, perfectly reflecting the trees around it. Told my wife I couldn't believe something so beautiful - albeit an unusual and temporary sight - was a ten minute walk from our house.

--Won a neat little contest on Sierra's blog and used part of the prize to pre-order Jonathan Franzen's new novel.

--Celebrated our first anniversary (goddamn, am I a lucky man) and, grudgingly, turning another year older.

--Meditated, though certainly not every day.

--Watched the entire extended version of the Lord of the Rings trilogy (yes, again) and most of the episodes of "Lockup" on hulu.com. Downloaded a lot of music (at least, a lot for me) including the original 1970 soundtrack for Jesus Christ Superstar, the one musical I actually enjoy.

--Went in to my wife's workplace one day to have lunch with her. Said hi to all her co-workers and managed to sneak her out of there a few hours early!

--Traveled. Back to the place where I went to grad school, where I went drinking with old colleagues at my favorite bar in the whole world. I wandered through the university's main library and sat in one of the isolated anonymous carrels reading a book I'd plucked off the shelf, just soaking in the atmosphere of the place. Also traveled to the "mountainous" part of Maryland where we swam in the pool and hiked to the Mason-Dixon line and down into a surprisingly beautiful gorge lined with majestic old trees, where our floor was moss and our walls ancient rocks.

--Entertained, on separate occasions, both of my brothers (MB and YB) here in town. Enjoyed Cuban food and our favorite brew pub downtown. Visited the Newseum. Sat around drinking (but not too much) and having our usual, but very necessary "group therapy" discussions and laughing a lot.

Well, folks, after all that I guess it's back to the grind for me...but I've got a whole month's worth of stored-up blog post ideas (don't I?), so just sit back and watch as the Lt. brings sexy back (whatever in the fuck that means)!