Winter inversion

It can only be January.

A week ago, a ball of very cold air found itself trapped between the mountains, pushed down by warmer air, too weak to move up and away and out of the valley.  So the cold air, it curled into fetal position, and succumbed to death, its body spreading cold and lifeless across the valley.  And as the air began to decay, it became darker and darker, and blacker and blacker, and even colder.  And it filled up with all the filth that a city of two million people push into the air each day, people who expect the air to swirl and dance and take their filth to a better place.  But the dead air did not move, not even to shudder.  And the filth was pushed back into the city all that day.  And the day after.  And then the day after that.  And the day after that.

Warnings came.  Don't exercise outside.  Consider wearing a mask.  Don't drive if you can help it. ... But who can help it?  The city doesn't sleep, even trapped under the body of the dead air, waiting for inhuman hands to find it, lift it, rescue us!  And if it's unsafe to exercise outside, then walking or biking to work isn't an option.  More cars.  More blackness in the air.  The snow on the lower sides of the mountains becomes jaundiced with haze.  Then gray.  The schools cancel all outdoor recesses.  Mornings, the dead cold air presses heavy against the ground, foul and freezing, and we stumble through it.

The forecast is grim.  Cold and haze for five more days.  And cold and haze for five more.  Then five more, as far out in time as the National Weather Service will go.  

And then, possible snow Thursday.

Not just snow, but blowing snow.  Blowing snow Friday!  We cheer!

Thursday comes, and then Friday, and the snow and the wind dive into the valley and tear up the dead air and cast the remnants of its body down into the ground and up into the sky.  And the icy flakes scour the valley and wipe it clean and white and cold.  Deadly cold.

And the forecast tells us that the storm will end, and then there will be more still days, in which a new ball of cold air, blown in with the snow, will find itself spent and exhausted, too weak to climb out the valley walls, and it will curl itself into a ball and die, and let its body decay over the city.  And two million people will slowly suffocate again.

It must be January.

Rejection reflection

Toward the end of the 2012, I sent out a round of query letters to literary agents, in a first attempt to get my novel published, and for my efforts, I received back a round of form rejections.

This means a few things.  First, it means November was less pleasant than it might have otherwise been.  It hurts to have people tell you that you aren't good enough, even (especially) when it's true.  But I guess I am recovering.  I can now admit to the universe that I am a reject, and decide how to move on from there.

Second, the rejections mean I need to decide how serious I am about publishing fiction.  I already have a great job that I love (most of the time), and an awesome family that I love (most of the ... oh wait).  I have some sort of personality disorder, however, that compels me to do multiple difficult and stress-inducing things all at the same time.  Do I want fiction-writing to become stress inducing as well?  Do I want it to take more time from my family?  Is there a way to take it up a level without having it become another stress in life?  After the round of rejections in November, I decided no, and spent my decompressing time playing epoch video games (with the family ... sometimes).  But I am ready to try new things again.  I am planning to attend a local writer's conference a weekend in February, for example.  I might sign up for a writers' workshop one Saturday in January, as well.  If I am serious about publishing fiction, I think I need to meet more like-minded people.

Third, all those rejections mean that I need to learn to write a better pitch letter, and sparkly first five pages of my novel, so that if you read my pitch and/or first five pages, you feel compelled to request to read the rest of the manuscript.  In fact, you will be so sucked into the amazing writing and story in just those few paragraphs that you will not only request the manuscript, you will hover over your email inbox until the manuscript appears.  Yes.  Yes, that's what I shall write next.  Unfortunately, since no one in the publishing industry has yet read my manuscript, I don't really know whether the novel itself is viable.  Of course, I like the novel, and some of you have told me you like it.  In 2012, several wonderful helpful people read my manuscript and offered feedback.  I would especially like to thank K.A. for her detailed feedback and comments, including line by line editing.  I owe you, K.  If and when you are willing to let me return the favor, just let me know.

Fourth, I feel like I need more consistent feedback and support to improve.  I would love to join a local writer's group, for critiquing and advice.  But I don't know how to go about doing so.  How does one find a group of people who live near oneself who all like to write?  I think one must sign up for writers' workshops and maybe meet those people there.  Or perhaps I could join an online group.  Perhaps.

Fifth, my rejections have made me look more seriously at self-publishing.  From what I have investigated, it appears that authors who self-publish have much more control over content.  They can charge less for their book ($2 instead of $10 for the electronic version), which means more interested people might take a chance on reading the book.  They receive a higher margin of profits, if there are any profits.  The downside is that there is no peer-review process -- no editor gives their stamp of approval to the finished product, letting readers know that they can trust that this book isn't just crap.  But these days, publishers expect authors to do their own marketing anyway.  At least that's what it sounds like.  Which means the benefits of traditional publishing are dwindling....  And so should I really take my novel there?

OK.  So that's where we stand on that hobby.  And although it has consumed much time, it's still just a hobby, and I have real life work and responsibilities as well.  And potential rejections to face there, too.

At work, in terms of things that could be rejected, I have two grant proposals out, three submitted research papers, a tenure file, and a sabbatical leave request.  I should hear back on whether each of those things is rejected (or not) within the first half of 2013.  At this point in my career, I am not expecting all the decisions to be rejections (though likely some will be).  As opposed to my fiction hobby, I am a little more established in my real-life career now, and people trust me to do good work, and they reject my contributions a little less frequently.  But even if the above things are rejected, I will spend some time feeling sorry for myself, then dust myself off and try again.  I will write another grant proposal, or try a different journal, or maybe look into a new university.  I know now how to work past these rejections in my career.

Which is interesting.  Really, I am where I am in my career due to luck.  Someone back in 1999 and in 2004 and again in 2007 was willing to take a chance on me.  They picked me out of the slush pile for the fellowship, for the postdoc, for the tenure-track position, out of a lot of good applicants.  Because I was lucky enough to have someone take the risk on me, I was able to follow up with hard work and produce products of interest to others.

So I guess that's the take home message for hobbies, too.  Given enough work, and some luck, things could happen.  And I'm already lucky in that I can afford to be patient.

So to conclude this long, boring, reflective essay, I would like to wish all my readers good luck and hard work in 2013.

Melancholy

I want it to be last week again.

I want to be sitting here in this same spot in space, but in last week's time.

This week, the vacation ends.  Jonathan goes back to school.  I go back to work.

I want it to be last week, when I had a whole week of work-free vacation in front of me.  When I had promised my family and myself that I would not spend time thinking about work responsibilities, but instead I would read novels, play video games, visit with far flung family, and eat chocolate.

Last week, at this same spot in space, the voices in my head wondered where to spend my leisure hours.  This week, the voices remind me that I need a syllabus, a few lectures prepped, an end of year faculty profile, and I should get those two papers submitted that were supposed to be submitted in mid-December, preferably by this time next week, same location in space, unfortunately.

And then when I feel a little melancholy thinking of my upcoming week, in spite of two more vacation days, I wonder if I should be setting some New Year's resolutions to increase my happiness.  Would that help?  Would that make the panicky feeling go away?

Actually, I think the only thing that makes the panicky feeling go away is getting the work done.  And so luckily, the holiday is ending.  We all get the privilege of going back to school and work and checking things off the accomplishment list.  Happiness, here we come!

On optimism

I still attend church regularly.  That surprises some of the people I know, and occasionally they want to know why.  One reason is it offers me set-aside time for introspection each week.  As a highly imperfect person, in  meetings with other highly imperfect people, I get the chance to think about improving, changing, growing, and exactly what I want to grow into this time.

Last Sunday we discussed what it means to live in troubling times.  For the record, I wonder if the times we have been given are more or less troubling than any other times.  In any case, it is true that the times we are given are often troubling.  We lived through a very troubling Friday, December 14, 2012.  A discussion on troubling times was apropos.

So what did the discussion unearth for me?  The take-home message was one of optimism.  Not only is this the worst of times, but it is also the best of times.  Life is hard, but there are more people trying to do good than there are those trying to tear down the world.

And the message of optimism, it reminded me of my maternal grandfather.

Grandpa was optimistic sometimes to a fault.  When I was a teenager, I often spent time in his kitchen, discussing life and future over homemade bread and yogurt.  To him, the world was a wonderful place, bursting with opportunity.  He was sure that for me, as a young person in that world, there was nothing I couldn't do.  He was ever happy, encouraging, teasing, and proud.  Me, I was more of a realist, but even so, his words helped me see possibilities I had never considered, and from there, to map out a future.

Grandpa was an educator.  He had earned a PhD from Columbia University, funded by the GI bill.  He worked for a time at G.O.D. University, like me, until he couldn't stand the politics there.  He was the first religious liberal I knew, at a time when all my friends and neighbors, and parents, were conservative.  His intelligence, his wit, and his eternal optimism helped me to understand that life is not painted in black and white.  It is painted in color.

Looking back, I wonder how he remained an optimist.  His employment with G.O.D. was a complete disaster.  There were times his family lived through extreme poverty, in places far from friends and family.  He ran for political office multiple times in an extremely conservative state, and was defeated soundly; even the signs he posted were abused and vandalized.  He was acquainted with failure.

I'm acquainted with failure, although not to the extremes he faced.  And then add to that the troubling times, and life becomes heavy.  We carry on, beaten, sometimes only because the alternative is more frightening.  But he carried on laughing.

Looking at my life last Sunday, and where it needed to grow, I realized that I could do worse than to be more optimistic, like Grandpa, for now. There is still so much that is good.  Find that.  Encourage that.  Be that.

Ending the semester

On Friday, I walked a mile through the streets of Philadelphia and caught a train to New York City.  The train stopped under Manhattan, and I walked through a tunnel full of people to catch a subway running uptown.  After an hour under the city, I finally climbed concrete steps into the rain.  Lunch, and a talk, and then I walked back into the subway and under the city and a train carried me out and away into the dark.

Three hours later, exiting another metro station and lugging my laptop to a gray hotel, I glimpsed the Washington monument stretching into the fog of a winter evening, lit like a torch.

These are things that people come to see, said the lights.  Except to you, it is only a little architecture against the skyline to remind you which talk comes next.

This morning, the common final exam began at 7 am.  I left my house just after 5:45 am, and made my way through the dark to my office.  In my building, I hurried around the cleaning staff to and from the printer, to and from the computer.  Why hasn't that TA picked up his exam box yet?  Can I move the proctor in your room to the basement of the Martin classroom building?  Someone found a printing error on form B; please announce it to your students.  We are out of scantrons in the chemistry building.  There isn't enough light in the business auditorium.  My student is ill.  When is the alternate?  And meanwhile, 1500 students sat with pencils in hand and tried to remember, for three hours.

This is how semesters end, in a blaze of light and motion and anxiety, with faculty and students hurtling past the major monuments, the lit torches pointing up into the winter fog.

December

... is already starting out well.

Jonathan's cast was removed.

Tim's mustache, grown for a good cause in November, was also removed.

Things are looking better and better around here.

Somewhat problematic:  big crunch time until finals.  Two more classes to teach, then I fly out to visit three cities and give two talks before I return home to give two finals.  But then things ease up a little tiny bit.  Maybe.

Maybe I'll start writing again.

Volunteering

A few weeks ago in church, while in the midst of a discussion, a woman asked a rhetorical question.

"Doesn't it just make you feel wonderful when you're helping someone?"

And I thought about my latest foray into volunteerism, and honestly answered:  No.

I have been volunteering since October at Jonathan's school, running a once-a-week after school math program for kids.  I wanted to be able to include all the kids who were interested, so I paid all the up front expenses myself (particularly the background clearance fee to work in the school), and have been charging the kids nothing with the idea of helping them have fun with supplementary math.

It hasn't really worked as planned.

The first issue was that too many kids were interested.  We had 25 sign up and turned 10 away in a single day.  I have not been trained in managing 25 kids that age.  The meetings have been chaos.

The second issue was one I discovered later.  I want to include kids who like math, who come there for the fun of it. I have a couple of kids who haven't been participating, who complain all through the hour long session, and can't wait until it's over.  When I pulled them aside and suggested they stop coming, since they clearly hate it, they said their mom would be mad if they didn't come.  She wants them to attend and learn something.  So the kids show up and resent having to be there and drag the class down because Mom thinks that they should be learning something.  I'm not running the program for Mom.  I told the kids they would not be able to come back if they don't start participating.  We'll see whether my talk has any effect.

Another problem is location.  Because of space issues, we're borrowing a teacher's classroom.  The teacher has almost no blackboard space at the front of the classroom.  I can't plug in my laptop.  That means I get to communicate via interpretive dance....  ?

So how does volunteering make me feel?

Completely exhausted.