Sometimes I feel like I’m doing all of this wrong.
A student and I ended up having his thesis meeting at 7 p.m. on a Saturday this week, because between his schedule and my schedule, that was the only time that would work. And that’s fine, I’m happy to do that, but still.
A vendor I talked to at the art fair today was startled to find out I had a full-time job in addition to doing the fair and making the art. Especially when he realized I was opening a store in two weeks, and that I had a lot more art in the store (that I’d made with my own two hands) than in my tiny booth space at the fair.
I’m not sure fairs are for me. I find them very physically tiring — despite taking prophylactic ibuprofen, after last night’s packing, and this morning’s load in and set up, I was in pain for a lot of today. I need to remember this, and get more help.
And there’s a lot of talking to strangers (in brief and not usually interesting ways), and I think I’m supposed to be more actively selling, but I hate when people are actively selling to me (maybe because I grew up in New England, and we keep ourselves to ourselves?), so I usually end up mostly reading a book at my booth, and constantly interrupting my reading to casually announce to browsing folks that if they have any questions to let me know.
I do sell more when I talk to people about my work. But I just can’t initiate that, most of the time — it feels way too pushy. I’m happy to answer questions, though. I’m not cut out to be a salesperson, despite having done my time at JC Penney and Loft as a young adult, which is why it is deeply ironic that I’m opening a store.
I asked Kevin tonight, a little teary, if I was just nuts for doing all this. And he said he wasn’t sure why I seemed compelled to do it, but I did seem compelled. And that is true.
I really should get a therapist. It’s on the to do list.
The to do list is impossibly long.
***
But writing isn’t any better than art, you know. I’m still writing, still dutifully submitting books to agents, and stories to magazines (I’ve got a novella that I just heard back from the editor, that it’s on its second round, which is a good thing, so fingers crossed), and pitching essays (had an editor say yes to a pitch a few days ago, but the essay is a little politically scary to write, so let’s see if I actually manage it).
That’s all fine. But the old models of submitting to agents and having them sell your novel, and then having the publisher sell the book, have mostly fallen apart these days. In the old days, that only worked for a very small group of writers (mostly men, mostly white, mostly straight, etc.), and I’m generally in favor of the democratizing effect of indie publishing becoming a real, viable thing, but lord, I really don’t want to do more selling.
I can manage a Kickstarter every few years, but if I have to track analytics on Amazon and pivot my marketing strategy to take advantage of current trends in publishing, my brain will actually melt, and I may never write anything decent again.
I’m not sure the regular paths for publishing will still work for me, and I’m not doing the regular paths for art either (no MFA, haven’t submitted to galleries or whatever else you’re supposed to do as an artist — I didn’t even realize until recently that a lot of galleries charge fees to submit).
Sometimes I feel like I’m feeling my way in the dark with all of it. Trying to create something I can’t really articulate yet — something that synthesizes writing and art and community support and political change and teaching (which I still love, amazingly, decades in) and hell, parenting too, because that’s certainly been a huge part of my life for the last eighteen years.
***
Last night, I needed to spend about three hours sorting and packing things for the fair today. Usually I do this kind of thing on my own, but I’d had a long week, and it was just a little beyond me. I asked Kevin to come to the studio with me to help, and he hauled boxes out of the closet and then waited while I sorted, and loaded things into the car, and waited some more while I tried to think through whatever I would need that I was forgetting.
We came home, and ate a late dinner, and then I asked him to help with one more task — a friend’s father had passed away, and she’d asked if I could preserve the funeral flowers for memorabilia. She’d dropped them off earlier that day. You want to get event flowers into desiccant as quickly as possible, before they start to fade and wither.
So he came down to the basement with me at 10 p.m., and we sat on the floor, and I showed him how to cut the flowers off the stems and gently cover them with desiccant in bins, and Kev lifted the bins back onto the shelf for me (with my injured wrist, that can be challenging, once they’re full of desiccant and heavy).
It was quiet, and peaceful, and in a way, a little healing for me too, taking care with these funeral flowers. I was thinking about Kevin’s parents, especially his dad, a wise federal judge, whom I miss often in these troubled political times. I keep wanting to ask Ron questions, and I can’t.
But working with the flowers settled me a little. There is something I can’t quite articulate about the concrete grounding that comes when you work with your hands. If I can someday translate that into words, or art…well, we’ll see.
***
I told Kev that it was so much nicer doing this with him; I might ask him to help me more often. He didn’t say no.
On this Valentine’s Day, I am utterly grateful to have a partner who is willing to put his thought and time and labor (even when he is also very tired) into helping me do the work I feel compelled to do, even when I can’t explain, even to myself, why I feel compelled to do it.
Kevin makes my life possible; if you’ve ever appreciated something I’ve written or created or taught or anything, you should know that he’s the rock that holds up the work.
I don’t know how I got so lucky.
*****
(Pic is from oh, 30 or so years ago. Thanks again, Sharlini Selva — it’s still my favorite picture of us.)
