Houston, We Have a Conference

Just now home from the Houston Writers Guild Conference. Tired enough to sleep in lead boots, but I feel like I just ditched a glass slipper. Andrea Barbosa and Fernanda Brady and Mike Brady and Alicia Richardson and their whole entire posse just knocked it out of the park. I made about 70 new writer-buddies, and I think we collectively blew three weeks' worth of serotonin in about four hours. Getting to share a man-pizza with Liz Larson and a redneck truck-date with Jennie Goloboy on top of all that was just the cream gravy on the chicken-fried steak. Counting the hours until I can go back.

NB: this adorable duo were not the two most important people at the event.
Tragically, they are the only ones I took a picture of.

I tell you what, y'all. You work and you wonder and you sweat and you cry, and then almost out of the blue, somebody who doesn't owe you a single blessed thing hands you a room key and a pretty purple gift baggie and a kindness you'll remember forever, and all of a sudden you could do a thousand more miles right there on the spot. Please remind me of this next time I turn into a mopey doughnut: no quest succeeds without a dose of elvish hospitality, and I-45 runs clean through Rivendell.

The Ides of Marsha

We wrapped up the spring program of the DFW Writers Bloc this afternoon with a wonderful presentation by Annie Neugebauer. The Writers Bloc is part of the DFW Writers' Workshop, and is facilitated by our fantastic hosts at North Lake College. It's been wonderful to see this tiny little program grow and come into its own over the past year, and we're really excited about doing even more with the WB's summer programming.

But the person I keep meaning to thank is this one in the picture here - Marsha Hubbell. She has been our self-appointed class mom and tireless cheerleader from the get-go. She brings us cupcakes and veggie chips, helps with set-up, loans out tupperware, and catches balls before I can even finish dropping them. She even puts us in the newsletter at the Writers Guild of Texas (WGT), which is all kinds of kind (and those of you up in the Richardson/Plano area DO need to do yourselves a favor and drop in for a visit.) Our good friend Helen is filling in for Jane Lumsden in this photo, who has probably logged a hundred Fitbit miles schlepping ice and gluten-free cookies for the greater glory of the Workshop.

And tonight I'm thinking a lot about just how much of the world's supply of hospitality, harmony, and convenience comes from Marsha and Jane and people like them. The folded towel that your doctor has for you to lay over your lap when you lie back for your exam, so you don't feel quite so exposed. Those little chocolate bites that your favorite church lady brings to the 9:30 service. The box of kleenex the homeroom teacher already has out when you go in to talk about what's happening with your kid, so you don't have to ask or even reach. They're the littlest things - enjoyed, often taken for granted, and forgotten almost as soon as they're consumed - but they are *oxygen* for our sense of wellbeing. (For comparison, think about the last time you waged a pitched battle with the forces of rote bureaucratic indifference. Think about how much easier it is to expand and relax your mind when someone has already provided for your meat-suit.)

So if you've enjoyed the Writers Bloc at all this year, please join me in giving big love to Marsha and Jane, our tireless behind-the-scenes snack-Sherpas and juice-o-mancers. If dealing with your fellow Earthlings has left you bruised or burned, if you worry that the well of the world's generosity is drying up, come out to the Writers Bloc next time you have a free Saturday afternoon - we've got a treat for you.

Announcing Candidate Campolo

You may have heard me describe myself, very modestly, as “simply the finest human being who has ever lived.”

That is no longer true.

The title now goes to my sister, Allison Campolo, who has just thrown her hat into the ring to run for the Texas state senate, in District 10. (That is basically the southern half of Tarrant County – Konni Burton’s district, for those of you who keep up with these things.)

And you guys, I just can’t even imagine the guts it takes to do that. You know, to put your face out there KNOWING that people will say horrendously ugly things to and about you. To volunteer yourself to spend the next 18 months knocking on doors and making phone calls and wearing out the bottoms of your shoes, all for a ‘maybe’. For a job that literally does not pay a living wage. (Texas state senators make $7,200 per year, plus a per diem when the lege is actually in session – which is four months out of every two years.)

But, you know. She sweated her way to a black belt in kung fu. Started, ran, and sold a business. Got her master’s and is working on a PhD in veterinary biomedical science. She’s spayed cats, researched fish farms in Thailand, smashed bricks, blood-typed horses, built a barn, broken bones, played in a band, doctored an epileptic beaver and a squeamish brother-in-law, and probably BASE-jumped from a breaching whale off the coast of Nicaragua while I wasn’t looking. She’s even more of a ridiculous Mary Sue than I am – and if that’s the kind of person you would trust to road-trip down to Austin and kick our Lone Star shit into shape, then I hope you’ll join me in backing her bid.

You can start by following her on Facebook and on Twitter. She’ll be speaking at the March for Science in Fort Worth this weekend, and will need our help in collecting donations and signatures to secure her bid. It’s going to be a long, uphill slog, y’all – but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from living with Al, it’s that bravery is contagious, and ‘badass’ is a verb.

Midnight Confession

I miss regular life. I miss sleeping through the night and not needing 5-hour energy to get through the day. I miss wearing my smaller clothes and caring about what I eat. I miss going to movies and baking funny cakes and being a good friend. I worry about what will happen at next week's doctor's appointment, and I feel guilty for letting my haphazard book promotion efforts lapse. I'm afraid maybe they'll cancel the UK edition of the last book because the sales haven't been good enough. I worry sometimes that I'll never have the wherewithal to write another book, or that nobody will want it if I do.

But y'all, we sure have pumped a lot of goodness into the world lately. And that's solid enough to sleep on.

All the Stately Ladies

Whew! That’s enough “please” for one day. Now let me bust out a very particular “thank you”.

I don’t know whether it’s because I’m getting into heavier stuff or just a random coincidence, but lately I have been knocked acock, almost on the daily, by this cavalcade of bad-ass elder stateswomen in my life. I’m talking about Marsha Hubbell and Stephanie Chambers and Jane Lumsden and Chris Weiler-Allen and Trayce Primm and even and especially my own dear sweet brick-busting dane-wrangling ultramom, Shirley. They are just so *potent*, y’all. They don’t get hung up on the little things. They don’t get heartburn worrying about what other people think about them. They are just 100% occupied with serving up their glory to the world. And I cannot WAIT to get old enough and real enough to be like them – to stick to my guns and ride for the brand and have not one single thought to spare for what somebody else might have to say about that.

Actually, while I’m at it, let me add Rick Amitin here too. Men of his generation have not been encouraged to wear their hearts on their sleeves, but he has stitched that sucker on there with day-glo nylon. He walks through the world with the assertively kind, unflinchingly affectionate realness that I can only marvel at. He has spent his life becoming the change he wanted to see, and not many folks can say that.

Anyway: gals, I know today is ‘our’ day – and that is as fabulous excuse as any for us old-ladies-in-training enjoy and appreciate the people who have helped us to discover our muchness. It’s a hell of a job, and we are so fortunate that they have hitched up their wonder-wear and waded in to do it.

'Twas the Night Before WORDfest...

Friendly friends, I know you're busy today, and I have not been present much. But if I could, let me beg a moment to lay my head in your lap. Let me whisper into your reeds.

This WORDfest thing on Saturday has blown up beyond all expectations. We're up to 340 registrations, and there is no knowing how many walk-ins we'll get in top of that. And five days out from go-time, my ulcers have ulcers. If we get too many people, we'll be swamped, and people will be crowded out and frustrated. If we get too few, I will lose my savings. (I have not gone into debt for this, but my last book advance is tied up in this venture, along with most of my travel money for the year.)

And more than that, like... I can name two dozen people who have bought into this project and worked their asses off over the last few months to help make it happen. They have given up so much of themselves and their free time for this promise, this vision for a bigger, grander, more cohesive and inclusive DFW literary community. They are the spiritual stakeholders on this venture, and I really, really want them to be rewarded for that.

I have debated about whether to post this. You're not supposed to appear anything but confident and enthusiastic, when you spearhead a thing like this. But I believe in love and realness, and you-all have ALWAYS rewarded me for that. So if you have a thought to spare for Team WORD this week, please do. It's only a tiny speck in the grand scheme of things, but if we pull this off, it could be the beginning of something much bigger.

EDIT:  World, you have a funny way of answering my prayers.

Just a Little Pat on the Back(yard)

I saw an article in the NYT today about a restaurant in Japan, operated by a senior care specialist, that makes special gourmet meals for people who can't chew or swallow well. It's high-quality food that's artfully arranged and presented, so it looks and tastes like first-class fare - a big deal for older and disabled people for whom eating is a crucial pleasure.

I also saw a video this week about a guy who had a horrible time in foster care as a kid. Now he's adopted four of his own, and started a company that makes "comfort cases", so foster kids don't have to haul their belongings around in a trash bag.

And right here in my own backyard, David Doub is hard at work erecting tentpoles for geeks and creators of all stripes. He runs Dusk Comics, the Creative Women's Conference, the Texas Creative Community FB group, and now he's helping with the Texas Latino Comic Con (and probably even more things that I don't know about!)

And I just love it when somebody sees a problem in their own backyard, suited to their own expertise, and decides to solve it. Fixing the little things is how we fix the big things.
Good job, world. Good job, team. Keep thinking about you-shaped solutions to us-sized problems. We can do it!

In the Beginning, There Was the WORD

It feels increasingly trivial to talk about writing things these days. But if you’re feeling decidedly ‘whelmed’ by everything else on your Facebook feed, this might be useful to you.

Last year, I decided that it was dumb to live in a metroplex of 7 million people, which probably has about 6 million writers groups, when none of said groups even knew the others existed. We were all just hunkered down in our little bunkers, doing our own thing. To be clear: there is nothing wrong with choosing that, but it isn’t a choice if you have no alternative – if you don’t know even know whether you HAVE neighbors, let alone who or where they are.

So I started visiting every writers group I could find, and at each one I asked: what others do you know of? Who else is out there? 

Turns out the answer is, "a whole hell of a lot."

So we made our own little group-of-groups - it's called WORD (Writers Organizations 'Round Dallas).

And by and by, we got some momentum going. We started having monthly meetups where representatives from different groups would all get together and trade event flyers, share news, and problem-solve together. (“How do you prevent brain-drain when your best writers get published and then leave the group?” “What do you do when your critique group gets too big for a single discussion circle?” “Does anybody know a speaker who can come talk to us about Scrivener?”)

Now, a little less than a year later, there are twenty-three groups on the map, and we’re still finding more. We’ve got our first-ever writers group “trade fair” happening next month, which I will wax ecstatic about tomorrow and for weeks to come. Thanks to the visionary Kathryn McClatchy, we’re even getting plans in place to pool our resources and have a big-name author come talk to us later this year (all the way from Australia!) Our new network is still a little speck in the grand scheme of things, but I’m really happy with where it’s going – and I think that if we work hard and play our cards right, we can help make DFW as much of a literary hotspot as LA or Seattle or Minneapolis.

All of which is to say: if you are feeling adrift in this age of millions – millions of marchers, voters, viewers, buyers, and sharers – I really, really recommend finding yourself a real-life mission of dozens. A dozen neighbors is a neighborhood. A dozen students is a class. A dozen relatives is a family. Our brains are wired to interact with and enjoy people in those quantities, in a way that we can’t manage with our 900 Facebook friends. I can make no meaningful difference to a million writers – but twenty-three of us are doing something valuable here in our little corner of the world.

And I suspect that you are *perfectly* positioned – in where you live, what you love, and who you know – to do something right now that no other person reading this could accomplish. Don’t discount that. The smallest, most intense and personal jobs are the hardest to assign, the work of the most priceless people (and if you don’t believe that, when was the last time you got a new mom?)
Your feed is constantly handing you the work of a nation, of a whole society, and that IS important – but please don’t let that be a reason to neglect the work of your own neighborhood. The tasks we assign ourselves are by definition the essential work that nobody else is stepping up to do – and in that, you are irreplaceable.

Living at One Minute to Midnight: A How-To Guide for the Whelmed

I haven't posted much of anything about politics, for a whole tiresome list of reasons. But I am foremost a student of humans and human emotions, and I'm seeing a *lot* of my favorite humans getting fried by the bug-zapper that is our news right now. So if you are feeling burnt and crispy, here is something to think about.

Whenever you are involved in something significantly larger than yourself - a club or group, a company, a family, a nation - it is essential to understand your role. If your job with your company is to get and keep clients, then that is what you do. You pay attention to marketing and budgets insofar as they touch your own work, but you don't stay up all night worrying about the 401ks. That's someone else's job.

The problem with the intersection of politics and social media is that nobody is handing you a clearly-defined role. And without that, it's easy to think you are supposed to do everything. Every outrage that comes across your virtual desk is somehow your responsibility. Every worthy call to action has to be acted on, every objectionable comment replied to, every feed fed. And that is too much, y'all. No wonder we are getting overwhelmed and dropping out.

But nobody is going to come over to your desk and dump half your virtual inbox in the trash on your behalf. You are going to have to decide for yourself what is and isn't your responsibility. Right now, I can see two ways of organizing your give-a-damns:

1. Filter by cause. Let's say you are all about minority rights, healthcare, and gun control. Those aren't just issues you have opinions about - they are the three hills you are willing to die on. So you go to the mat for *those causes specifically* - you call, you march, you research, you debate - and let everything else pass you by. Climate change is somebody else's job. Economic issues are somebody else's job. You are fighting in the Pacific theater, and you can not worry about Europe.

2. Filter by role. You know, a medic does not do the job of a sniper. If somebody needs some killing, don't call the medic. Conversely, the medic does not sign on to treat only a certain kind of soldier. They will use their specific skillset on *everyone* they can, to the absolute best of their ability. Maybe that's you. Maybe you have zero stomach for Facebook arguments, but you will gladly call your representatives and give them hell at the town hall meetings. Good! Appoint yourself the legislative muscle of the movement, and leave the diplomacy and debate to someone else. Or maybe you can't blow up phones and streets, but you are a rational, persuasive *boss*. Good! Be an outpost of reason and kindness here on the virtual frontier - help people understand each other, dig up the facts and figures that are getting buried under the hyperpartisan headlines, and add to the ranks of the thoughtful and enlightened. (God knows we need it.)

Regardless, y'all: it is essential, now more than ever, that we tap our individual talents and strengths, and trust our fellow-humans to do likewise. Don't do the things that hurt you. Don't let yourself get so tired and frazzled that you pass on the hurt to other people. This may be a war, but you are not the only soldier - and nothing proves that you have smart, sustainable passion for a cause like a list of ten other things you gave up to pursue it.

Dia and the Dog Lady

The truth is, it has been a really shit week over here. I am just so tired and irritable and over-emotional and stressed about everything. Doubly so today, because today is the one-month mark for Dreams of the Eaten, and I haven't gotten my act together to do one single thing for it. No blog post or newsletter or nifty giveaway thing, no nothing. You would be forgiven for thinking I don't give a rip about my own book, for all I've done for and about it lately.

Turns out I didn't need to, because the party came to me. 

Kimberly Moravec, I don't know what possessed you to chisel out hours of your own over-full life to do this, but I love it desperately. It is beautiful - just monstrously, fantastically beautiful. Día and Mother Dog have never looked so good in my head as they do on your paper, and I have never been more clever than the day I did whatever it was that suckered you into being my friend.

Let's make a deal, y'all: if not-crying isn't in the cards right now, then we're just going to have to give each other something better to cry about.