This Is Not a Tree

Joseph Barron

White oak or black oak? Black, we’ll say,

With jigsaw-puzzle leaves.

Down the branches, with the wind,

Twigs fall like pieces of a jetliner

That blew up at thirty thousand feet.

Marking time beside the office park,

It occupies what space it can afford.

In the beginning was the word

Already trading fact for plastic souvenirs

That fit neatly in the overhead compartment?

The oak puts out to sea.

Bark wet-black, it stands rooted on the water.

Trunk and crown cut the trade-wind swells

As though the polar caps had melted

And the ocean swamped

Miss Liberty.

An evil sky descends like minor thirds.

At the end of endings lies the word.

This poem — posted with permission — is by one of my oldest and dearest friends. Not only does he selflessly send me cool packages from Philadelphia (Wagner on CD, so I can play Ride of the Valkyries as I roar down the road in my truck), he also sends me his poetry, which I would love even if I didn’t know him.

Thanks, Joe.

Authorly Quotations

The Well (one of the oldest and best online communities) has a section called the Inkwell, where authors discuss their work.

Here are some quotations from two of my favorite authors who posted there.

I don’t remember Christ ever preaching Against People Who Made Stuff Up, or the chapter in Matthew about Jesus throwing the Fantasy Authors out of the Temple. In fact he was quite big on the whole Parable bit. — Neil Gaiman

I’ve never felt that answers were the real province of the writer; better questions, on the other hand, certainly are. — Neil Gaiman

I know I shouldn’t write so much. But when I’ve finished a book the choice is: find something else to do, or tidy your desk. And I don’t know how to tidy my desk. — Terry Pratchett

I always advise people to read outside the field they want to work in. — Terry Pratchett

That last quotation, incidentally, is one reason I read Gaiman and Pratchett and Le Guin and Straub and Disch and Delany so many other fantasy/horror/SF authors. The main reason, of course, is that they write well-crafted, insightful books that grapple with the issues I’m most interested in. “Well-crafted” is important; I have a hard time reading mediocre prose, even if I’m reading purely to escape. But it also matters that, though they are among the foremost writers of our time, they’re all writing outside my field. They use very different tropes and genres than I do. I can read them for pleasure, reread them for comfort, study their technique, all without fear that I’m going to lose my voice in theirs.

I can’t bury myself in Barbara Kingsolver or Dorothy Allison, though of course I have read their books; their work is too close to mine, both in style and subject. I would end up paralyzed by inadequacy or scouring my work to purge unconscious parallels. That’s a losing proposition for everybody concerned.

Out of curiosity, I went to www.unnaturalhistory.com. This is what the page says:

Zero content since August 25, 1999!

Now there’s a low-maintenance site.

Dark Dreams

A huge AHA! today about writing.

For weeks, ever since I got serious about getting back to work again, I’ve been having painful, difficult dreams about writing. Usually the dreams are filled with babies — stillborn, aborted, miscarried; babies neglected and helpless. In my dreams babies have usually stood for writing — just as “work” always means “writing.” I love my job, I even write there — but it isn’t my real work.

One night I dreamed that I had borne five children, had two miscarriages, and was trying to escape from a violent husband. I felt horribly guilty about leaving and about the dead children. Though this doesn’t look on the surface like a writing dream, it is one to me. I’ve published five books and completed two more that have never been published. Of course, this dream also echoes my mother’s life: she had the four of us, another daughter years later who died within a few days of birth, a stillborn son, and a miscarriage. And God knows my father was violent. Exploring that link will have to wait.

Last night I had a dream in which a character was actually writing — writing well, even — but he chickened out, gave up the real work and started to scheme and lie, entangling a lot of other people in the mess. The book he was working on was about two corpses in the snow and how they got there. His editor circulated the synopsis and plot outline, and Hollywood expressed interest; there were items in the newspaper saying that there was an $8 million offer. But the writer was hanging up on bill collectors, avoiding getting his mail, hiding secrets from his wife, pretending that everything was going to be wonderful — living a lie that had to come crashing down sooner or later. By the end of the dream, he was on the run with a couple of people — one his secretary, a tiny dark-haired woman, another a fan who had been promised riches. They never made it out of the airport. And the two people he was with, the fan and the secretary, turned out to be babies in disguise: the secretary was only two years old, the fan even younger. (Two years ago I left Billy.)

And this afternoon, I took a nap and had a long complicated dream that mingled Tori Amos, packing to move, classic job-anxiety images, dead babies, trying to leave my husband, and being shot at while I tried to defend myself by hiding behind a card table. It was a nasty one. In the dream I was trying to edit a book by a woman who had aborted three babies while in her twenties and then could never get pregnant again, which echoes my own fears of having wrecked my talent by not writing novels when I was in my twenties.

These are all violent, punitive dreams, and they all tell me the same thing: that I am a killer, a liar, a whiner, a selfish irresponsible coward, someone who wastes time, someone who dared to value anything more than writing and who will therefore be punished by not ever being able to write again. And there’s an additional layer of guilt and fear — in all these dreams, the writer is trying to escape from a vengeful spouse, and it’s the babies who suffer.

So this is today’s revelation: One reason I haven’t been writing since I left Billy is that part of me thinks I don’t deserve to. I must be punished for leaving him by never being able to write. And furthermore, I must be punished for not writing enough or making enough money when I had the chance, when I was able to be a full-time writer.

Leaving Billy meant turning my back on someone I loved, on the promises I made, on my conception of myself as a loyal, compassionate person who would never abandon someone who was suffering. Even in the worst days of the marriage, I never forgot that Billy was in terrible pain. Over and over again I asked myself, “How can I leave him? He has nothing else, nobody else, and he’s so deeply hurt.”

Leaving him also meant that I valued something else more than the writing: after all, he had given me all those years of freedom to write, something few people ever have, but by the time I left, staying home to write wasn’t enough to keep me there any longer. I valued something else more than that time to write. Partly, of course, because for the final couple of years, I wasn’t able to write.

I’ve always thought that there were multiple reasons for that final writer’s block. The simplest was that I had betrayed myself for Billy in writing his mother’s book the way he wanted it. A writer can lie to friends, lovers, lawyers, anybody — but not to the paper. That’s the ultimate, unforgivable betrayal.

I finished the book about his mother in November of 1997. Then I stopped being able to write. I couldn’t even sign my name on a check. I didn’t write e-mails or letters or posts to the board. I stopped dead. I think I was also trying to do something awful enough that he would have to leave me — and not being able to write checks for weeks or months at a time, when I handled the finances, was a despicable betrayal.

Now I also see that I was blocked partly as a kind of self-defense. If I couldn’t write, obviously there was no reason to stay home. The writing that had been my freedom, my joy, had become a prison. If I was blocked, I could get a job, become independent again. I was wretchedly afraid that after so many years out of the job market that I would never find work. I was sure I was unemployable. Obviously I was wrong.

The block began almost five years ago. The time between November 1997 when I finished the book and March 2000 when I left is some of the darkest time of my life. I came near to killing myself much more than once, and I’m still sorting out the damage. Without Michele, without Gwen and Adrian, without a few other friends, I would have died. And it’s a measure of some level of strength in me that I could form those relationships — build the friendship with Gwen and Adrian, build a healthy, honest love with Michele — at a time when I was fighting just to go on.

Of course, a lot of the block is gone. I started being able to pay bills and deal with finances again as soon as I left. I furbished up an old short story and sold it a couple of years ago, published it under my own name. I’ve been writing for a living again since May 2000, when I got the job writing book copy. These days I work as a tech writer. Clearly something is here again. But writing fiction or essays, writing for publication . . . that’s hard.

So where does this leave me? In practical terms, I need to sidestep the voice of that punitive superego screaming at me from my dreams. I also want to explore why exactly that voice is so angry, what it’s trying to protect or achieve. And I need to keep writing. No matter what.

Look to the skies this weekend for one of the most beautiful of all celestial events: the Perseid Meteor showers. This article will tell you how to get the best view.

I celebrated my birthday in traditional Silicon Valley fashion: by working a ten-hour day with no breaks (except a couple of birthday phone calls from Lisa and my mother). The work ethic here is disguised by the flaky, casual approach to workplace dress and manners, the lack of hierarchy, the toys on every desk. It’s powerful nonetheless, and not, so far as I can tell, driven by any deep guilt or even ambition in any of the usual senses. Techies work because they love ideas, because they can’t tell the difference between work and play, because they can’t think of anything else they would rather do. When they’re done at work, they go home and play on their computers. Very similar in some ways to artists and writers, except that good techies have a much better chance to get rich.

As for play at work. . . . well, I spent some time talking with my boss yesterday, while playing with the anagrams on her little conference table. The other day when I came in they spelled out “sodomy,” among other words. (We haven’t had our “workplace diversity” training yet, in which we’ll learn not to use naughty words lest we offend anyone.) I put together “taut,” “Mafia,” and “smut.” She also has Legos, little plastic aliens, and various other workplace toys. There are several whiteboards around the company used solely as graffiti boards and places to write jokes and smart-alec remarks. I myself have a large whiteboard where I keep lists and magnetic Simpsons figures for people to play with. Also magnetic poetry — my boss came by and wrote a risqué poem on my board.

Besides being playful, my co-workers are young. A few days ago some of us were discussing age and birthdays. One of the boys here is 23 — 23! I could easily be his mother. But then most of my co-workers are in their 20s or early 30s. I’m the oldest woman in the company and one of the oldest people. I think there’s one guy who’s a bit older than I am. That’s because in Silicon Valley, everybody my age is retired — all dot.com millionaires.

After I was finished with work, I went home for the birthday celebrations. Sonja and Michele had decorated the house and cooked a wonderful dinner. Then I opened presents: mostly toys, including a vast set of colored pencils (which I brought in to work as a desk toy), beautiful embroidery silks, some beading supplies (including a beading board — yes!), and an IOU for the new edition of the Vertigo Tarot. The big present was an HP scanner — high-resolution, color, OCR software, you name it. Now I can scan in all those family pictures, plus the years and years of typed journals and typed manuscripts. I stayed up late installing and testing it.

Altogether a good birthday, but I’m looking forward to a very quiet weekend. I’m wiped out from too much caffeine and work, too little rest and solitude, and that bug I had last weekend. All I want now is sleep and a chance to finish getting my office together. The only obligation I have coming up is tomorrow night, when we’re having another communal household to dinner. I’ve met some of them, but not all. We have a lot of interests in common, and I do want to spend time with them, but I also need about a month of total solitude.

Comparative Economics, Lesson 1

If you had bought $1000.00 worth of Nortel stock one year ago, it would now be worth $49.00. With Enron, you would have $16.50 of the original $1,000.00. With Worldcom, you would have less than $5.00 left. If you had bought $1,000.00 worth of Budweiser (the beer, not the stock) one year ago, drank all the beer, then turned in the cans for the 10 cent deposit, you would have $214.00. Based on the above, my current investment advice is to drink heavily and recycle.

This is making the e-mail rounds. Not being a beer drinker, I naturally recast it:

If you had bought $1000.00 worth of stock one year ago, the news from Wall Street would depress you utterly. If you had bought $1,000.00 worth of books a year ago, you would have had countless hours of pleasure and learning, and you would still have a thousand dollars’ worth of books you could reread, lend to friends, resell at a yard sale or used-book store, or in a pinch use for insulating your house, setting fires, or making confetti. Plus you’d have had the advantage of seeing the world through the authors’ eyes, and you might have a few deathless words in your mind. Based on the above, my current investment advice is to keep reading.

Or, as Robert Benchley put it, circa 1930, “Since I graduated from Harvard, I’ve earned about $2,000. I’ve had $500 worth of parties, restaurants, and theatre tickets, and $1500 worth of candy, all of which went into making bone and muscle and some nice fat. All the investors had was $2,000 worth of whatever stock it was that looked so yellow along about last November.” (Quoted from memory; accuracy not guaranteed.)

Of course, having spent tens of thousands of dollars on books over the years, and thousands to pack and ship half of them out west, I’m naturally interested in defending my particular extravagance. We’re still unpacking books, and we’re facing the crisis of where to put them all.

Heat Wave: A Social Autopsy of Disaster in Chicago

Check out this terrifying little article from the New Yorker. It has all kinds of implications: about community, local politics, greed and short-sightedness (individual and corporate), and the unexpected, far-reaching effects of crime in the streets.

I celebrated my birthday in traditional Silicon Valley fashion: by working a ten-hour day with no breaks (except a couple of birthday phone calls from Lisa and my mother). The work ethic here is disguised by the flaky, casual approach to workplace dress and manners, the lack of hierarchy, the toys on every desk. It’s powerful nonetheless, and not, so far as I can tell, driven by any deep guilt or even ambition in any of the usual senses. Techies work because they love ideas, because they can’t tell the difference between work and play, because they can’t think of anything else they would rather do. When they’re done at work, they go home and play on their computers. Very similar in some ways to artists and writers, except that good techies have a much better chance to get rich.

As for play at work. . . . well, I spent some time talking with my boss yesterday, while playing with the anagrams on her little conference table. The other day when I came in they spelled out “sodomy,” among other words. (We haven’t had our “workplace diversity” training yet, in which we’ll learn not to use naughty words lest we offend anyone.) I put together “taut,” “Mafia,” and “smut.” She also has Legos, little plastic aliens, and various other workplace toys. There are several whiteboards around the company used solely as graffiti boards and places to write jokes and smart-alec remarks. I myself have a large whiteboard where I keep lists and magnetic Simpsons figures for people to play with. Also magnetic poetry — my boss came by and wrote a risqué poem on my board.

Besides being playful, my co-workers are young. A few days ago some of us were discussing age and birthdays. One of the boys here is 23 — 23! I could easily be his mother. But then most of my co-workers are in their 20s or early 30s. I’m the oldest woman in the company and one of the oldest people. I think there’s one guy who’s a bit older than I am. That’s because in Silicon Valley, everybody my age is retired — all dot.com millionaires.

After I was finished with work, I went home for the birthday celebrations. Sonja and Michele had decorated the house and cooked a wonderful dinner. Then I opened presents: mostly toys, including a vast set of colored pencils (which I brought in to work as a desk toy), beautiful embroidery silks, some beading supplies (including a beading board — yes!), and an IOU for the new edition of the Vertigo Tarot. The big present was an HP scanner — high-resolution, color, OCR software, you name it. Now I can scan in all those family pictures, plus the years and years of typed journals and typed manuscripts. I stayed up late installing and testing it.

Altogether a good birthday, but I’m looking forward to a very quiet weekend. I’m wiped out from too much caffeine and work, too little rest and solitude, and that bug I had last weekend. All I want now is sleep and a chance to finish getting my office together. The only obligation I have coming up is tomorrow night, when we’re having another communal household to dinner. I’ve met some of them, but not all. We have a lot of interests in common, and I do want to spend time with them, but I also need about a month of total solitude.

From the “Better Late Than Never” Department

Mikhail Kalashnikov, who created the AK-47 automatic rifle, said he wishes he had invented a better lawnmower instead.

The Senate Foreign Relations Committee, defying the Bush Administration, approved the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women.

Actually, these are quoted from this week’s Harper’s Magazine Weekly Review (at http://www.harpers.org/weekly-review/). Every Tuesday they publish the highlights of the previous week’s news. Past gems include:

The head of research at Walt Disney agreed to become the head of research at the National Security Agency. (July 23)

[You know, I've always been suspicious of Disney. Even before The Stepford Wives. How can any company do such spectacularly beautiful animation — Fantasia is one of my favorite movies of all time — and yet have such unappealing characters? I did love their version of Beauty and the Beast, though.]

A swarm of locusts descended on Beijing, where they were promptly gathered by the bagful, deep fried, and eaten. (July 16)

President George W. Bush told Americans to get more exercise, eat less, and stay away from tobacco, alcohol, and drugs. The government of Malaysia, concerned about rising divorce rates, encouraged Malaysians to use affectionate names, such as “darling,” with their spouses. Women in Swaziland were told by a royal official not to wear trousers, and he instructed the army to patrol for offenders, who will have the offending garments stripped from their bodies and torn to pieces. (June 25)

[At least we're in better shape than women in Swaziland — our army isn't yet going around ripping French fries from our hands or demanding that we drop and give them twenty.]

A number of elderly pop stars, including Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Cliff Richard, and Brian Wilson, performed at Buckingham Palace to celebrate the 50-year reign of Queen Elizabeth II. Ozzy Osbourne sang Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid.” (June 11)

[This one I really don't want to think about.]

President Bush told religious leaders in Moscow that Americans “hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights.” President Bush met with President Fernando Henrique Cardoso of Brazil and somehow thought to ask him: “Do you have blacks, too?” Condoleezza Rice, the national security adviser, interrupted the conversation and explained: “Mr. President, Brazil probably has more blacks than the USA. Some say it’s the country with the most blacks outside Africa.” Cardoso was later heard to say that Bush was still in a “learning phase.” . . . President Bush told a group of Republican senators that Kim Jong Il of North Korea was a “pygmy.” (June 4)

[A banner week for the President]