Here is something you mustn’t miss–Quarterly Conversation with Ellen Meister. Ellen is my dear friend and I can tell you with great sincerity that her personality comes through completely in this interview (indeed, in all of the interviews she’s done). She is just exactly as intelligent, thoughtful, and humorous as she comes off. Go on and read it and be wowed.

Do you NaNoWriMo? Have you ever? This year, so far I’ve written just over 6K since Tuesday (November 1) and am fighting against myself every step of the way.

I’m a reviser. I revise as I go. I write and then I go back and rewrite. It’s just part of my process. Anyway, this is a good and a bad thing. But yesterday I started questioning whether I shouldn’t be writing this novel in 3rd person (which is a more comfortable POV for me) instead of 1st.

See, I was trying to sabbotage myself before I’d even gotten my feet wet. I was trying to trick myself into starting the whole thing over again.

Well, I’m not falling for it. I’m going to keep going and when I finish the draft, then I will go back and see if 3rd person isn’t better.

I’ve written novels before, but never in a month. Over a series of months, years. And then rewritten them and let them sit. Honestly, I do enjoy NaNoWriMo–love the collective energy of it–but 50K in a month does not a novel make. That’s a portion of a first draft. Still, it’s something.

Okay. Sorry for babbling. Just, once again, sabbotaging self by getting off track.

I posted this a while ago, but am reposting as a reminder and gentle nudge to you my writerly friends:

I am honored to be the guest editor at SmokeLong Quarterly for the next issue, due out on December 15th. We have some amazing pieces accepted already and I am excited about being a part of this issue.

For those of you who are writers, I encourage you to submit some of your flash fiction (1,000 words or under) for consideration. I look forward to reading your work.

I had a weird thing happen to me the other day–I forgot the days of the week in French. Actually, I remembered six of them but could not remember Thursday (Jeudi) and I refused to look it up. I spent all day trying to remember and then asked Allen when he got home. This lapse is truly disturbing as I knew the days of the week in French before I could read. And then I tried to count to 100 in French and all bets were off when I got stumped at the word for fifty.

Is this some kind of use it or lose it memory thing?

Am I getting… OLD?

In other French news, what the FUCK is going on in Paris–Fresh violence hits Paris suburbs:

Rioting youths opened fire on police and set dozens of vehicles ablaze in a seventh night of violence in Paris.

Scary. Sounds like something that would happen in the US and for similar reasons:

France’s government is facing mounting criticism of its handling of the riots, which began after two teenagers of African origin died one week ago.

The boys, aged 15 and 17, were electrocuted at an electricity sub-station. Local people say they were fleeing police, which authorities deny.

Horrible! Those poor young men.

An absolutely devastating tragedy (and yet not more in the news still–and whynot???)–Earthquake toll leaps to 73,000:

Pakistan says more than 73,000 people died in the 8 October quake that devastated its north and Kashmir.

Official figures a day earlier had put the death toll at about 57,000. No reason was given for the sudden jump.

Day of the Dead:

November 1, All Saints Day, and November 2, All Souls Day are marked throughout Mexico by a plethora of intriguing customs that vary widely according to the ethnic roots of each region. Common to all, however, are colorful adornments and lively reunions at family burial plots, the preparation of special foods, offerings laid out for the departed on commemorative altars and religious rites that are likely to include noisy fireworks.

My dear friend Stephanie gave me this information and encouraged me to make an ofrenda de muertos, which I have begun to do (although there will be no fireworks as they scare my dog).

Here’s a great piece from Me Three: Another Story about Me, By Corey Mesler

When I was walking my dog this morning, I passed a man walking his dog. The reason I mention it is that he (the man, not the dog) was wearing an old-school grey sweatshirt/sweatpants ensemble. I hadn’t known one could purchase such a thing anymore but it looked fairly new, so I’m guessing that it hasn’t been hanging in his closet for 20 years (which is the last time I saw someone in such an outfit).

The sweatpants were the baggy, elastic around the ankles, tie waist (actually, I’m not sure about this. I did not get close enough to his waist to see the band) sort of thing and for some reason this made me really happy.

I guess I was pleased to see someone as out of the fashion loop as I am. Pleased that he was unafraid to be wearing something that was not low-rider and bootcut. He got up, slapped on his sweatsuit and decided to face the day.

Brother, I salute you!

It also made me happy that I don’t have sweatpants anymore. I have plenty of clothes for running but they are not of the sweatpant variety. They are more breathable, less heavy. Still, you can’t really beat sweatpants for lounging around.

And, accoring to photographic evidence, lounge in them I did for years and years. Recently I was going through some old photos and found some truly unfortunate examples of what I will call the sweatpants of my youth. Apparently I had no problem wearing these sweatpants 24X7.

The problem was that they were not “real” sweatpants. Instead they were elastic waistband and made out of a cheaper, more lightweight material than your typical sweatpant. They also had thick red stripes running down the outer side and the bottoms of them were not cinched with elastic, rather they were wide-legged and a bit short on me. They were not a name brand like Champion. They just sort of were. They existed as something I wore when nothing else worked for me.

You might be thinking. Hey, these sound cool! These sound like something you could wear today.

Trust me when I tell you they were not. And neither was the perm I had when I wore them.

And so, yes, when I saw this guy in his sweatpants today, I had a twinge of desire for my own sweatsuit but I’m going to opt not to get one, so damaged am I from the photographs of the sweatpants of my youth.

It’s dirty little secret time and here’s mine: I’m obsessed with looking at real estate web sites, especially when there are photos to go along with the listings. And I know that I’m not alone. People in the US have been buying and selling houses like crazy over the past few years. The flipping of houses has become a hobby/business for some. But that’s not what I’m talking about.

Two years ago almost to the day we made an offer on the house I sit in now. It was the first property purchase for both my husband and me and we were shit scared. In the two years that has passed, that fear has not really gone away and what I’ve come to realize (and what I suspected all along) is that owning a house is a) overrated and b) a huge pain the ass.

Gone are the days when I can call my landlord and tell her that we need a plumber to fix the shower head or that I can take money off my rent for painting the windowsills. Long gone are those days. Now it’s all up to us to fix and pour money into and every bit of chipping paint and leaking faucets sends a chill deep into my heart.

But we knew what we were getting into. It was just that time in our lives when we had to buy or else face the fact that we were throwing money out the window.

And so we bought and so here we are–not in our dream house (I don’t think either of us actually has a dream house–a dream location maybe but not a house) but a place that is attractive and comfortable and that will hopefully appeal to some family who is willing to pay us more than we bought it for.

So if I find owning a house egregious, why the obsession with looking at real estate? There are several factors at work but the biggest one is that I’m nosey.

There. I’ve said it. I like looking at the photos that are available with the houses for sale. I like seeing how people decorate and what sort of geegaws people have (for example, I’m amazed at how many people collect porcelain dolls! I’m terrified of the things but apparently I am in the minority). Also, I like to count how many visible television sets there are (the norm is around three or four per house) as opposed to the number of books, which are few (and I know that real estate agents tell you to pack up books and things to depersonalize the house but I don’t think this is why I don’t see many books).

I’m also fascinated by the wall color/covering choices people make. My mother warned me about wallpaper while I was growing up (seriously). She told me time and again that you are best to choose something neutral because you’ll end up getting sick of the crazy design after a while. Apparently, many of the people whose houses I poke through online did not get the same lesson.

I like seeing how people set up their living space. Once in a while, I’m pleased to note that they have created spaces for conversation where there is not a television in sight. But more often than not, every chair and table and bed is positioned for better viewing on the tube.

I should stop here and say that I am not a television elitist–far from it. I love TV. Watch it all the time but not, I suspect, as much as most of my neighbors do.

This nosiness of mine is not a new thing. From what I can remember one of my favorite times to be in the car was at night because then I could see in through people’s windows. See the color of their walls, the glow of their television. From where I sat it all looked so warm and cozy. It looked like the people were having a happy life. A well-ordered life, without clutter and a puddle of dog pee staining the carpet.

Perhaps this is what drives me to write–the desire to see, to know how others live. To understand why it is they collect porcelain faced dolls and have psychedelic wallpaper. To envelope myself in their surroundings and know how it is they exist.

My friend Mary Akers (and I thank her for bringing this to my attention) posted a link to a National Geographic story that has left me shaken up Dogs used as shark bait.

I know there are some places online touting the use of live cats, dogs, kittens, and puppies for bait as urban myth, but this story should show that this is actually happening. And I don’t know what to do because I can’t read the story all the way through. I clicked and saw the photo and now I am undone.

Does anyone know of an organization working to stop this act? Please let me know by posting in the comments. Thanks!

Here’s a great, heartbreaking little story by Claudia Smith in Pindeldyboz: Mermaid

As children, our costumes were always simple, cobbled together things–gypsy, ghost, hobo, whatever. They were not store bought and more often than not required that we put on lipstick and eye shadoow, which was always a plus back then. We would trek out with our dad and hit the neighborhood with our pillowcases in hand and Unicef boxes around our necks. Every once in a while, some older person would actually say, “Trick” to our “Trick or treat” and then we would stand there dumbly as the person waited for us to perform until the person eventually just took pity on us and gave us our damn candy.

The worst was to get an apple.

AN APPLE?!?!?

No child wants an apple on Halloween. It’s just going to go straight into the trash because no sane mother would let her child eat that razor-blade embedded thing.

And then, we learned that Halloween was for spraying our friends with shaving cream and hitting each other with eggs and for getting our first French kiss behind the post office.

And then it just became the time to go out to bars dressed as a cat or a hooker or a character from Brazil but it didn’t matter which because we were too drunk or stoned or whatever to care.

And then it became now: the time in our lives when we avoid all things costume. Yes, there are still those “adventursome” friends who desperately send out invitations to their Halloween costume “Bash” but they will not find us there. We’ve done our time dressed as one of Charlie’s Angels. We’ve had the guy dressed as Andy Warhol tell us our teased hair was the same exact wig he had on.

Halloween? We are so over it.

So sayeth the curmudgeon.