Apparently the term is “Spring Holiday”

My old university did not recognize Easter as a holiday.  I stuck it to the man by telling my students that while I was contractually obligated to teach on Good Friday, I would not penalize absences nor would I make a major assignment due.

I’ve been doing some general, large-scale thinking about next semester’s syllabus that caused me to investigate holidays for Spring 2012.  (By the way, I’ll probably be holding class on February 29, which tickles me for no particular reason.)

My current college, thankfully, is closed the weekend of Easter, from Friday to Sunday.  It calls the closure “Spring Holiday.”

Whatever works, I guess.

Dear Editors

Dear Fiction Editor(s),

Please find attached my scintillating short story, “Most Poignant Title Ever,” of about 4,000 words, or whatever your ideal story length is.  My main character, a flawed but sympathetic scientist, makes the discovery of her lifetime when, by deducing her actual parentage, she grows a microbe under her fingernail that will cure the Claz’kon Plague, but not before her little sister succumbs to the disease.  Did I mention it was sad but also beautiful?  You will probably cry.

I recently graduated with a M.A. in Creative Writing, for which I wrote a thesis that astounded and moved my professors so much that one of them won the Worldwide Book Award, one of them retired to raise goats, and one of them has been institutionalized.  My previous professional publications include none, but if you publish my story, I’ll have something to say here next time, won’t I?

This story is a simultaneous submission because I can’t wait ten weeks each times ten magazines for someone to decide to buy it.  Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Best,

~K

P.S. Today my WORD COUNT for my novel-in-progress is 32,430.  Admit it.  That impresses you a little bit.

Things Not to Do in a Coffee Shop

I was in a locally owned coffee shop this morning, a really nice place that shares its location with upscale secondhand furniture, of which patrons can avail themselves while studying and sipping some chai.  My zen-like productivity experience was destroyed, however, by my fellow customers’ and even the shop’s failure to observe these five simple rules.

1. Please do not play bad Christian music.  I’m glad you’re playing Christian music, but let’s keep it to songs written in the last decade, and no choruses.
2. Please do not hum to the Christian music.  Especially not off-key.  Especially not loudly.  Especially not for all three hours that I’m there.
3. Please do not have a long and loud conversation on your cellphone.  Other patrons do not care whether the files were or were not received in a timely manner.  Also, you are not an ostrich.  Just because you can’t see us doesn’t mean we can’t hear you.
4. Please do not spontaneously sing “Happy Birthday” to Jeremiah.  Jeremiah was clearly not having his birthday party at your coffee shop, so there is no need to go on about it.  People who do not know Jeremiah should not feel the need to join in.
5. Please do not play your guitar.  Other people are working, plus there is already way too much music happening.  A coffee shop is not a recording studio.  Shall I repeat myself?  A coffee shop is not a recording studio.

If humanity would just observe these simple rules, or even, say, half of them on any given day, I would be inclined to revisit said local coffee shop.  Unfortunately, guitar girl was the Last Straw, and I have officially brushed the dust off of my sandals or whatever metaphor of moving on will suit your cultural and/or religious ideologies.

When I am angry, I speak in a flat voice and use long words.

February 11

Apparently Dove dark chocolates thinks I am not a genuine person.  This is what the foil lining told me–

Be free.  Be happy.  Be you.

and–

Feel free to be yourself.

Does this worry anyone else?  Just a little bit?

Other than the sad truth that I am eating chocolate at my desk, there are two ways to tell that I’m very busy at the moment.  One is that my desk has also become my dining table: I have a mug, a cup, a bowl of half-finished soup, two plates, two spoons, and an empty container of yogurt keeping my computer company.

The other way to know I’m busy is that my dining table has not dishes but books on it:  four novels in various stages of being read and six nonfiction reference books for my preface, along with eight to ten photocopied articles, a folder of my homework, and a folder of my grading.

Maybe more chocolates are called for.

January 18

1.  First Day of School.  This morning I got my new parking sticker and last textbook, so I’m all prepared for my first class of the semester tonight.  I’m definitely not prepared for getting back to teaching tomorrow, but there’s time yet.

2.  The Crying of Lot 49.  I read the first three chapters, then skimmed the rest, because I just didn’t get it.  I do get that it’s supposed to be a satire, but I suspect I was born in the wrong decade to truly appreciate it.  Thomas Pynchon must be something one studies rather than reads for enjoyment.

3.  Jingo.  Terry Pratchett, on the other hand, is something one reads for a lot of enjoyment indeed.  I love the books about Sam Vimes and the City Watch best.

4.  Word Count.  I should be writing my novel right now.  I should be reaching 30,000 words.  Instead, I’m thinking about making cookies and reading more about the pending war between Ankh-Morpork and Klatch.  And instead of actually doing any of these things, I’m blogging about them.  Blogging: Procrastination Has Never Been So Meta.

AA

That’s Anxiety Anonymous to you.  I just received an email inviting me to attend “Anxiety Group,” which seems like a bad place to go if you’re feeling stressed out.  Here is an excerpt from the attached flyer.

DON’T STRESS OUT ABOUT IT

DO YOU OFTEN FEEL OVERWHELMED BY YOUR DAY TO DAY DEMANDS?

DO YOU WORRY SO MUCH THAT YOU GET LITTLE DONE?

WANT RELIEF?

What I want relief from is the all-caps invitation, from lack of hypenation in compound adjectives, and from university spam in my inbox.

Humph.

How I Read ‘The New Yorker’

For Your Snobbish Bemusement:
How I Read The New Yorker

May 21, 2009

I have subscribed to The New Yorker since mid-2007, when as a college junior with few prospects – I was an English major with a creative writing minor – I read on Wikipedia.org that the average household income of subscribers was an incredible $81,000. What originally brought me to this page was a reference – I forget from where – to Eustace Tilley, the magazine’s unofficial mascot. Wanting to belong to the august company of individuals with monocles and viewing the arrival of the magazine as something of a financial talisman, I went to The New Yorker website (www.newyorker.com) and promptly signed up for two years of good luck. Though I learned too that the average age of subscribers is the mid-forties, I was unfazed, having always been older than I am. In 2007, I was vaguely aware of The New Yorker as “literary,” but now I know it to be, in the words of my husband, an “arrogant liberal snob” magazine. As an arrogant moderate snob myself, we (that is, the magazine and I) make a perfect fit.