Experienced yarn workers will tell you–always buy as much yarn as you need for the project ahead of time. They say this is so you can be sure to get all the same dye lot, which is handy. But it’s also because, when you’re in the middle of a project, you’re a jackass. Like me.
I was like “Oh, right I totally remember what yarn I bought for the Hill House afghan.”
And now the new yarn has arrived and some of it is right and some of it is not a yarn that has heretofore appeared in the Hill House afghan.
The tan? The crucial tan? Not in the box.
Instead, I picked out for myself a more vivid brown.
So, it’ll be interesting to piece together. I’m going to have to lay it out on my bed and move things around to make sure they’re evenly distributed. But I had 29 squares of a 48 square afghan. And I bought a whole lot more yarn than I had for the 29 squares. So, in my head, I’m already planning on bumping it up to 6×9. If I still have yarn, I might go bigger.
That makes me laugh, too, that I thought I was through over half the House and now I’ve discovered that’s not the case.
1. The Butcher’s vehicle broke down in Gallatin, so I had to get up before dawn to go get him. I am wired on coffee and exceptionally tired.
2. I got some out-of-left-field news yesterday, unexpected and good, but also, unexpected.
3. I’m reviewing edits on a story and I am a little startled by how angry I’m getting at the copyeditor. I don’t often have the chance to be copyedited except when K. does it. The thing I guess I’m realizing is that I trust K. implicitly. I don’t trust this person I don’t know, because I don’t know him/her (I think it’s a her, but I’m not sure). And the thing is that her/his edits are fine. This is not about his/her work. This is some weird thing about me being all “NNNOOOOO!!!” (with growling bear noises) and then having to step back and ask myself if this is truly about the editing suggestion or about me. 90% of it is this weird feeling of wounded defensiveness. If I had a therapist, I guess I’d talk it through. Since I don’t, I’ll just mention it on the internet.
4. My parents are here. I’m taking them to the Country Music Hall of Fame tomorrow.
5. On Friday, I have to take dog poop to the vet.
6. So, you know, mixed feelings.
I woke up to the sound of gun fire, five shots in quick succession. There might have been a shot that woke me up. I don’t know. I sat there in the dark waiting for any sign that I needed to do something–crying, screaming, voices of any sort, a car driving off. A little while later, a car honked, but I have no idea if they were connected.
My first thought was, “Well, that has to be the end of the red dog.”
But the Butcher says he doesn’t see anything out there. He also thought, if the shots came that close together, the person might not have been aiming that well.
Every winter, I should just put a reminder on my calendar that I am morose during the winter. And that I will swing wildly the other way once I see the sun again. I have been really busy getting shit done. I love the Hill House afghan. I can’t wait to see it all laid out, but I really like how the part I have done feels.
I only feel a tiny bit bad about calling it the Hill House afghan because I do think it will be cozy and wonderful and I hope C&M don’t feel any weird, bad vibes off it.
I think I edited that Isaac Franklin piece harder than I have ever edited anything in my life. I am getting prouder of my willingness, at least in non-fiction, to write something as a way of getting started, and then cutting it away when the general shape of the piece clearly calls for a different kind of beginning.
But I only saw two people I wasn’t related to this weekend, which is good for getting shit done, but not good for feeling like you’re connected with the world.
My parents arrive very soon, so I spent some time cleaning. I was hoping the Butcher would also spend some time cleaning and then the house would be clean, but he spent the weekend helping friends get their house ready for sale. So… yeah. Butt I hope to have a nice visit with them and then I hope to see people I haven’t seen in weeks.
And I hope to get sincerely started on “Ashland.”
We’re a month out from the release of The Wolf’s Bane. We shall see, dear readers, we shall see.
1. The yarn to finish up the Hill House afghan is on its way.
2. The editor loves the Isaac Franklin piece.
3. I sold “The Four Gardens of Fate” to Apex magazine. Yes, there’s a Borges reference in there. And yes, I’ll have more details as I know them.
One thing about “Ashland” is that, even as I’m daydreaming about it, I feel like it must have been done a hundred times. A million. Everything seems so cliched. Of course X. Which lead to y.
Which is why it keeps weirding me out that I can’t find any Southern haunted house stories.
It’s my favorite grad school phrase! “Always already!” It seems like there always already had to be a story like this.
Its absence is eternally confusing to me.
Last night I went out to OZ, which is this huge artistic event space out by the Tune airport. It used to be a cigar factory. It’s pretty ordinary looking from the outside, but it’s extraordinary inside. Wow.
I was there to see William Tyler’s “Corduroy Roads.” It was fantastic. Ha ha ha. You can tell I’m just writing this for my own blog. Saw this. It was amazing.
But so the deal is that Duke University has opened its library’s special collections to artists and commissions works based on the things in it. Which, damn, man. I wish there was some way to make happen here.
So, Duke has these two old books of Civil War images. And William Tyler is a guitarist who’s worked with Lambchop and Will Oldham who is a Southerner. And the piece was… well, there were two movie screens that showed Duke’s photos and moving images made from Duke’s photos. Tyler moved around the stage playing music and ruminating on what it means to be a white Southern man who feels some great desire to make sense of the Civil War but who isn’t one of the boys Faulkner describes as dreaming it’s… I can’t remember… the second day at Appomattox or whatever.
It was really interesting to hear him talk about how even Shelby Foote seemed to not quite get at what Tyler needed someone to try to get at. He had a great quote from Robert Penn Warren’s “The Legacy of the Civil War, 1961.” But mostly he played music, incredible music, while these pictures moved in the background.
I guess because when scholarship can’t scratch your itch, you turn to art to try to get at it.
The part I found most amazing and moving and discombobulating was that, since so many of the images were old photographs, there were a lot of “ghosts,” people or animals who had moved during the exposure time. And so there was a whole portion of the show devoted to looking at those “ghosts” in the photos. It had this effect of making you feel like you were looking at pictures of dead people.
Which, of course, you are.
It was so amazing and the people at OZ were really lovely.
But, for all my talk of what a small town Nashville is, I only recognized one person there. Which is nice and humbling. Here are all these people with interests similar to mine who do things I might be interested in and I don’t know any of them. Not quite so small-townish after all.
Anyway, I think they said it’s touring, so, if you get a chance to see it, I highly, highly recommend it. I’m glad the Butcher insisted I go.
This morning, I was rifling through my documents folder to see if I had “stupidly” made a file containing my gmail password. I had not. But I did find a file entitled “What makes things scary?” It was pre-A City of Ghosts.
Maybe I’m not any better at figuring it out.
I’m really excited about The Wolf’s Bane. My head says to be cautious and to expect at least one more disaster. My heart says, “A month, a month. It’s out in a month!”
It’s even getting a real review, which I am completely nervous about.
I feel like it’s time to get started on the book. But I have about two weeks worth of other stuff to do instead.
Yesterday, my co-worker brought her puppy in. A poodle. He immediately ran over to me, fought with my shoe, and fell asleep at my feet.
I felt like Sonnyboy had given me a pretty awesome gift, because, certainly, the reason I seem puppy friendly is that I smell like a friend to dogs.
I’d like to put that on my resume–friend to dogs.
I started a grid for “Ashland.” A spreadsheet that maps out each characters’ crises and the things leading up to them. I’m going on a model of “build-up,” “scary thing,” “crisis,” “new circumstance,” with each character experiencing roughly four crises of various intensity. This should, I think, give me a lot of scary things happening.
It already gave me a good idea of the kinds of things that need to happen in the middle of the novel.
Plus, my goal is not to have everyone hitting their plot points at the same time, but to make sure that they’re hitting them–that they have their own narrative arcs and aren’t just interactive scenery for the main character.
The thing I’d like to figure out is how to leave them in the grid so I can be sure I like each character’s arc, while also somehow ordering them so that I can see what has to happen in what order. Like, the church lady can’t come to the house to help one character until the other character goes to church and meets her.
I’m thinking about some kind of color coding, I guess? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just number things?
Anyway, the thing that I’m still wrestling with is how to plot to ratchet up the creepiness.
I don’t really know what I’m doing, I guess I what I’m trying to say.
I walked the dog this morning, since it seems unlikely that we’ll get to walk for the rest of the week. And we made it the whole way just wet but not muddy. Until the end, my driveway maybe ten feet away, when I stepped in a huge mud puddle. Up to my ankle.
Our neighbor has planted some trees in the wettest spot between our two yards. I wonder if it will help. At the least, it should help dry the yard up more quickly after it gets all boggy like this.
Meanwhile, our lawnmower is in the shop and our grass needs mowing and I am at a loss as to how to make that happen. I know no teenagers. I don’t know who else you hire to just mow your lawn once.
–I think my Isaac Franklin piece is pretty good. I’m curious and nervous about the editing stage. I don’t know if they’ll let it stand or if they talked me out of it, but I didn’t use the term “black people” in the piece at all. Just “people” and then, when needed, “white people.” That’s the one thing I came away from the Ben & Sue project most firmly convinced of. Who just get to be “people” in a story is who the reader identifies with. The [adjective] people always seem like someone other than where the reader’s sympathy is expected to lie.
–I’m keeping my fingers tightly crossed that everything stays on track for The Wolf’s Bane.
–The trick with needing more yarn at this point in an afghan is that there’s always the temptation to revise the plan, to change the idea behind the afghan. Like maybe the rest of the squares should just be solid colors? But you can’t change horses mid-stream. Well, you can, but it’s a bad idea. The chaos of the Hill House afghan must carry us through.
I have, indeed, run out of yarn. If the afghan is going to be 6×8, which it needs to be unless C&M are planning to shrink themselves down to half their original sizes at some point in the near future, I need 48 squares. I have 29.
So, fine, I need more yarn. Which I knew this weekend and I didn’t bother to take care of business.
My own fault.
But that means that, in order to keep moving forward on the afghan while we watch TV, I am… I can barely bring myself to say it… tucking ends on the 29 squares.
Yes. Willingly tucking ends ahead of time.
I don’t even recognize myself.
I watched Fallen this weekend, which I hadn’t seen in a million years and, wow, is that a well put-together story. One thing they do a really good job of is suggesting bigger stories that you’re only seeing a part of. We don’t know why Jonesy is so loyal to Hobbes, but we see that he’s loyal to and protective of him. We infer there’s some big backstory. I also felt like, this time through it, something had happened to Art–that he hadn’t always been disabled, but that his situation, his frailty, an absence of a wife, that he had custody of his son and that his son was not utterly surprised when he died, seemed to suggest something had happened to him. A car accident maybe? I don’t know. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
And I felt like they laid a lot of groundwork to suggest that the kid might have some kind of story of his own later.
It’s something to remember–that you don’t always have to explain what your characters think is normal and not worth commenting on.
Which, obviously, I kind of knew this weekend, but I did nothing about it. And now I’m a little aggravated with myself. I’m really nervous about this Isaac Franklin piece. And I have a rash all over my hands, on my neck, on my stomach, and my feet itch so much I can only assume it’s about to pop up there.
But my seeds are planted (except the hollyhocks) and my plants are in. And I spent a bunch of time out in the glorious sun. So, I think it’s worth it.
I think the Isaac Franklin thing is in good shape. As is the thing for the Scene.
I have planted a climbing rose and some foxgloves and planted all my seeds. I chased the dog around and now I am exhausted. Which is good because I haven’t been sleeping well this week.
So, I think this means I’m justified spending the evening listening to podcasts and working on my afghan. I was booking along on it and then I got distracted by all this writing stuff.
I’m giving the stripey afghan to S. on Sunday and I am both excited and a little bummed. I don’t know what exactly it is about that afghan, but it’s a favorite. I think both because it was super easy and looks super great. I will miss you, stripey afghan! But you go to a place with a porch and some still cool evenings ahead.
You know, I just realized that, if I had had coffee with a friend this morning, I would have spent my day doing all my favorite things.
This morning, Lesley and I had a meeting with the Zoo about our kids’ book. It went really well and they seem really excited. So, I’m excited. And I was glad to get the chance to talk to Lesley about her art and her creative process. She was telling me that, sometimes, before she starts a piece, she writes a statement of intent so that she feels like she opening herself up to the feelings she wants the work to have and opening herself up to the power of coincidence and unintended things.
I’m pretty eager to think about that in terms of my own work. And she said such kind things about The Wolf’s Bane and it made me excited for it to finally get out in the world.
George Featherstonhaugh is a racist, no doubt. In his book, he warbles at length about the calm and placid nature of untroubled Negroes, who only revert to savagery when provoked. But it’s because he’s so biased and so biased in a way that should be sympathetic to the likes of Isaac Franklin, that his revulsion at the slave coffles stands out. How gross does it have to be if someone like Featherstonhaugh is “What the fuck is this motherfucking bullshit evil?”
Anyway, I had been struggling to figure out how to write about Isaac Franklin, but I decided to just go with him being a villain and the white people of Nashville as willing to overlook his villainy I cannot tell you how much I want there to be the word “villainry” which would have a slightly different meaning than villainy. Villainy, in my perfect world would be the actions taken by a villain–plunder, rape, burning down houses, befriending cats, etc. “Villainry” would be the act of being or becoming a villain, adopting the persona of a villain. A peerson’s first act of villainry would, therefore, be to go out and do acts of villainy. Because what bothers me is not so much Nashville missing out on Franklin’s acts of villainy. I mean, yes, he kept sex slaves at Fairview and yes, his neighbors knew, and yes, it did not go unnoticed that he shipped one of his sex slaves and her child off from Fairview right before he married Adelicia. But the raping and the leaving dead bodies in the swamp, he mostly did on the road or down in Natchez.
What bothers me is that white Nashville completely missed his villainry–his transformation into a villain. Because his victims were slaves, white Nashville could not see Franklin’s villainy for what it was and thus missed that he was, in fact, becoming a villain.
But think about it this way. Isaac Franklin loved to rape women. We know this from his letters in which he discussed it. We know that he especially loved to rape enslaved women who, by his measure, looked “white.”
No matter how racist you are, no matter how sure you are that people of African descent don’t deserve better than the depravities the white South unleashed on them, when you hear that a white man has such unabashed enthusiasm for raping “white” women, would you marry your white daughter to him?
Oliver Hayes did. He put his daughter in bed with this monster.
One hard thing about this year, for whatever reason, has been weird class stuff going on. Or, I don’t know. That may be too strong a word for it. I guess I just notice more and more that I, say, could use $100 to replace my wheel cover or the front of my oven and I kind of feel proud because I could put $100 toward either of those things, if I had to.
But there’s always something else a little more necessary in the house, so I haven’t gotten around to it.
I’m constantly aware of how big a change that is from the days when there’d be no money for anything, necessary or not.
But lately there just seems to be a lot of stuff where the people I’m talking about talk about $100 the way I talk about $10.
And sometimes it makes me feel like I’m among strangers whose customs I don’t understand.
The dog is on thirty days of anti-worm medication, which we were supposed to give him in cheese. It’s been ten days, I think. And you know, a dog can’t eat that much cheese, even a big fat dog.
So, in an effort to unconstipate him, we’ve switched to sandwich meat.
He also seemed to think that it would be nice if I rubbed his nose while he napped and farted.
And who among us does not want that from the people we love?
So, I read the one biography of Isaac Franklin. It was written back in the 30s and purports to be scholarly. But it’s the kind of book where, whenever the guy quotes someone in the 1830s being viscerally disgusted upon seeing what Franklin was up to, he has some footnote about how that person is obviously ignorant and we all these days understand that people are complex. And even this biographer, smoother-overer of all things unseemly about Franklin, says he had “mulatto mistresses” at Fairview, up in Gallatin, before he married Adelicia Hayes.
He had literal sex slaves and it was so well-known that even the guy who’s devoted himself to shining up Franklin’s reputation can’t leave it unmentioned.
Here’s a list of things we have thanks to Isaac Franklin’s money: Belmont University, the University of the South, Beersheeba Springs, Angola Penitentiary, Gallatin Road, Metro Center (yes, a whole fucking neighborhood because Franklin liked horse racing, which made it reasonable to try to keep that part of town from flooding); the Fairview subdivision, Ledbelly… I mean, maybe you could argue we have the Blues and thus most forms of American music because of Franklin, since he moved so many people into Mississippi in bondage.
1. As previously noted, The Wolf’s Bane is out May 22nd and there will be some kind of party and I would love to see you there.
2. I also have a story in this anthology, and though I don’t know a lot of people with $100 to throw around, if you are and this looks like fun, here you go.
3. I have a big non-fiction thing in the works. I just found out last night that my pitch was accepted and it’s due next Wednesday. I am really excited and also kind of want to throw up. But woo!