the future of the book
William drawing in the backseat and his first computer drawing.
Photo by Billy
I haven’t written any new fiction lately. I set ‘write my book’ squarely near the top of my things-to-do list, but other pressing things cut in line:
Loads of laundry.
Meds for Molly.
Plans for the next school week.
A few weeks back, I went to the James River Writers Conference in Richmond. There was a panel discussion on the future of the book. Would books even exist in a few short years, and what about the publishing industry? My own concerns were more localized. I sat there knowing the future of my own book, namely that there would be NO book unless I could sit down an write it.
There was one speaker, a kind of a non-writer, Dash Shaw, who makes Graphic novels. He talked like Keanu Reeves a la ‘Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure’—that stoner-style disjointed cadence, not without its poetry. On the panel, Dash said something like, ‘Who cares about the future of the book?’ to an audience full of writers and bibliophiles. Then he mentioned a xeroxed comic-zine that he used to get as a teenager in the mail. How unpolished it was, and how amazing. He said he was happy enough to be able to put a comic up on the web, no publisher in sight. To lay it out just the way he wanted.
I cracked open Dash’s fat graphic novel on Monday. Although I love words and pictures, I’d never read a comic book before. The thing is, it’s so good: funny, thoughtful, gross, and sometimes sublime.
So I’ve come to this: why worry about the books in my future. What form, if any, they might take. Better for me to just focus on stories.
Stories in drawings or words lined up on the page.
Stories unpolished or amazing.
Gross or sublime.
Stories are the thing I want to do.
The graphic novel I’m reading, by Dash Shaw, is called Bottomless Bellybutton.
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Filed under art, drawings, photographs, writing | Comments (5)reunion
Me and a dear friend from elementary school at my 20th high school reunion; South Lakes High school, Class of ’89…Go Seahawks?
Photo by Billy and school photo circa 1987
I went to my 20th high school reunion, a glitzy event in a cavernous hotel ballroom. Bravely Billy went too. We wore nice clothing (recycled from our New York trip) and tight, shiny shoes.
Of course I had been ambivalent about going in the first place. Because, really, what had South Lakes High School ever done for me? (Excepting maybe AP English and the art wing.)
But in the end I showed up out of curiosity and a slight masochism. It would either be better or unbearably awkward. And in the latter case, that would funny and wonderful, because I’m not in high school anymore. And when else do you get a chance to see (so starkly) the difference two decades and an open bar can make?
In the end, my experience of my 20th reunion was a little of everything: Funny, fun, and a little painful. Surreal too: wading through a crowd of strangers but recognizing parts of nearly every face. Not the whole face, but an smile here and arched eyebrow there—the oddest blend of past and present. Some girl you used to know in a long-ago life with the marks of a grown-up etched across her face.
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Filed under family matters, photographs, the world we live in | Comments (5)itsy bitsy spider
video by Billy
Tall tale or reliable reenactment? You tell me. Be sure to watch to the end!
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Filed under family matters, video | Tags: video, wolf spider | Comments (2)empathy
snapshot by Billy
boy’s best friend: William hugging on Molly
Have I told you about our sweet, neurotic dog Molly?
She was that way when adopted her many years ago. As a pup, she was so skeptical of hardwood floors that we’d have to take her outside, around the house, to get her into the carpeted downstairs family room.
During her middle ages, Molly got much better. But in the last year or so, we’ve seen signs of that same old stress: panting, shaking, following us all over the house and barking at the edge of the carpet.
We’ve taken her to vet a few times, but they never find anything. We’ve started walking her regularly–like we used to before William was born, which is a chore sometimes. Some days, between two dogs and a toddler, I felt like I handled more poop than a person ought to have to.
Last month we put her on Prozac because, well…she seemed so unhappy. Waiting to see if it would work, I’ve tried to learn to ignore her unhappiness, because nothing I do seems to make any difference. Because her misery makes me unhappy too.
When we got home yesterday, Molly was pacing and trying to vomit. It seemed more of the same. We called the vet, made an appointment for the next day, hung up, then called back. Billy ended up rushing her to the doctors just before they closed.
It turns out she has Bloat, which can kill a dog in minutes.
We are still waiting to see if she will be alright.
If you have a dog, you might want to know about Bloat. Molly will be at the emergency vets over the weekend, but things look more promising today.
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Filed under family matters, photographs | Comments (3)I’m wittier when I’m not dodging a sippy-cup
Photos by Will May by Billy
It’s surprising how much funnier and more fun I am when I’m not dodging sippy-cups and trying to dress, feed, or otherwise corral one unwilling boy named William.
Billy and I found out walking down the pungent-smelling streets of Chinatown, in the big apple, a week or so back.
William stayed happily home with Grandma, and we stayed out late, told stories, and talked about art, dammit, with our friends John and Will, who are after all artists.
And to top it all off, we celebrated Billy’s honorable mention for Blurbs Photo Book Now contest at the reception at the Tribeca Rooftop,
looking at all the winning books and
out over the city.
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Filed under family matters, photographs, writing | Comments (3)when toddlers attack
Photo by Papa Johnson
It was a sunny Sunday on Carter’s mountain so that everything shone like honey. We’d just taken a hayride through gnarled rows of Pippins and Ginger-golds and I was saying something to Billy:
I’m so glad we came up here together, I was saying, when something whipped stinging across my face from behind.
It was a stick. Thrown by our boy, our pride and joy: William. He still had hay stuck in his britches and cinnamon sugar (from the apple cider donuts) on his cheeks.
Ouch, I said, and I meant more than just my pride.
The truth is, this wasn’t my first such attack.
There was the metal compass (a gift from our New York trip) that William hurled at my Achilles heel one morning on the way to Montessori.
And the particular painful orange sippy-cup, heavy with milk, that I took in the brow while pulling into the parking lot at Target.
And I’ve heard of even worse stuff. One mother’s whose sweet little angel ‘accidentally’ broke her nose with an errant headbutt.
I’m pretty sure our three year old is not a sociopath. Most days he is kind, composed, patient even. And even after he attacks us—after the we’ve neutralized that threat, given him a time out, after all that—he says ‘sorry’, shrugging but sincere, without an ounce of guile.
It’s a stage. He’ll learn or grow out of it, these terrible threes. Right. Right?
Still, I didn’t expect this exactly out of parenthood. That I would have to duck, watch my back in this particular way. And every time, I’m startled that it’s us he lashes out on us: his parents, of all people.
The ones who take such care of him.
the ones who’ve show him what the world is.
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Filed under family matters, motherhood, photographs | Comments (2)