What are you reading?

There's a podcast called What Are You Reading, hosted by the clever and funny Matt Debenham, and I would tell you to subscribe even if I hadn't made an appearance. I did, however. So you listen to my episode right now, do you hear me? And then listen to the others. Clear your schedule!

We covered all kinds of book-related topics, including my favorite books from every year since I was ten, and I got so swept up in our witty repartee that I completely forgot about Judy Blume. I may never forgive myself. I know Judy Blume will never forgive me. Or maybe I read them before I was ten? I was awfully sophisticated.

As we discuss on the podcast, I read a lot and this makes me feel pretty superior, but immediately upon completion of each book the memory of it exits my brain. I fear that I'm less brilliant than I tell people I am. I try to recommend books, and it's a joke.  You should read this book. Because it's good, that's why. It's about a guy who does stuff. I don't know. This thing happens in it. I think he wears a shirt. I once got to the last sentence of a book (Housekeeping by Marilynn Robinson, if you must know) and realized I had read it before. The last sentence. What about that last sentence jogged my memory, I'll never know. It wasn't "You already read this, dumbass." I now remember Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson because it is The Book I Forgot Until The Last Sentence. Also, stuff happens in it.

When Matt interviewed me I was reading The Moviegoer, by Walker Percy, which I had read in the early nineties and remembered only that I used to list it among my favorite books, and when I reread it I was worried about early-nineties me. That book is bleak as shit. It's a good thing early-nineties me doesn't exist anymore. We also talked about John Irving, so afterward I was inspired to reread A Prayer for Owen Meany, another book I couldn't remember except for a vague sense of approval. Oh, and Owen Meany was a small person. Not to mention, something something sports. And: war.

I liked it again, mostly. But why, John Irving, why you gotta italicize so many words? When your writing is strong enough that you don't require it? It puzzles and distracts me. I hope you've learned to control your italicizing tendencies, award-winning writer who doesn't give a hoot what I think.

Okay, look. I'm done addressing John Irving. He's not reading this blog! In the podcast, you get to hear how we met. Then dated. It gets pretty explicit. (We never even hugged. Although we shook hands for a while. Maybe a few seconds? It was intense, though. You could tell. His wife was in the room. She was into it. I don't know what I mean by any of this.) He interviewed me for a job as his live-in assistant, and I did not get said job, the end. Reality is so disappointing.

Seriously, though. What are you reading? Besides this blog post, smartypants.

I'm back

A month ago I realized I had been blogging for over nine years, and I sank right into a blog crisis. What am I doing? I thought. How can I continue? Shouldn't this end at some point? Nine years! Am I going to blog until I'm old and then dead?

I asked myself these questions, and then I waited for answers. I hid myself away from the world. I created a massive vision board. I walked until my feet kind of hurt. I sat down. I drank tea. Then coffee. Finally I realized that my questions were dumb.  

Why do I do this? Because I like it, I guess. Is it unseemly to go on for this long? I have no idea what that even means. Did I really create a vision board? Of course I didn't. I was unable to find images in magazines that resonated emotionally for me.

I considered scrapping this blog, the Finslippy name and everything, and creating a new one, with a new name, new theme, new LEASE ON LIFE!!!! (Multiple exclamation points!) But that's kind of like getting a boob job when what you really want is to know if God exists. (Don't look too closely at that analogy. I know I won't.) A new look wouldn't cure my existential crisis. I just had to power through it, and meet you on the other side.

While I was gone, I did make some changes to the ol' website. I tore out the ads; they were using valuable real estate, and the monthly checks had dwindled to the point that they made my bank sad. With the freed-up space, as you can see, I added a link to Flickr, so now you can see any new paintings I've, uh, painted. So that's nice.

There's no good way to write the "I'm back!" post after being away for too long, but sometimes you have to take a break, and then when you return it has to be awkward and uncomfortable. It's a rule. And then you can get back to the good stuff. Or at least the less-awkward stuff. Now: who wants a cuddle?

A conversation about the cat that has nothing to do with her weight

Henry: The cat hates me. She's always biting and swatting.
Me: It's not personal. She's a cat. Cats are nuts. They hate it when you show too much affection.

Henry: I wasn't even touching her. I was looking at her.
Me: Yes, but with love, I bet. That's your first mistake.
Henry: I was lying there, and she reached over and swatted my face.
Me: You were gazing right at her, right? With love? WITH LOVE? Confess.
Henry: You're weird.
Me: Listen to me. With this cat, the more you like her, the less she likes you.
Henry: She loves Dad.
Me: Because he deeply, deeply dislikes her. And she can't get enough of it. She's all over him the minute he walks in the door. Do you need more proof that she is utterly bananas?

Henry: She's nice to you, too.
Me: Not as much as Dad, though. Because I don't hate her. But I do express my displeasure with her, frequently. That keeps her interested. I'm telling you, if you're more aloof she'll come around.
Henry: Fine. I don't think I like her anymore, anyway.
Me: Keep talking like that and she's going to fall in love, son.

Building my tiny empire

How great are all of you, sharing in my Tic Tac box obsession? I knew I was surrounded by a community of fellow weirdos. I just didn't know how weird.

And now I know. Deeply, deeply weird. You are all invited into my blanket fort.

Secondly, I have a couple of business announcements. Behold!

The Practice of Writing is almost but not quite full, so I need to close registration in the next few days. If you want to sign up, now's your chance!

Also, I am officially hanging out my shingle as a writing coach. If you're serious about your writing and could use one-on-one help with your manuscript, stories, essays, poetry, or blog, here's more information.

(I'm really excited about this. I've been unofficially coaching a handful of students, and I love it more than I love Orange Tic Tacs.)

Other ideas I'm tossing around for the future: a mini-Practice of Writing course (maybe a week long?), as well as workshops for smaller groups. If you have any thoughts on what you'd like to see offered, what questions you need answered, what needs I can fulfill, speak up!