michellepanik.com -- new and improved!

I've revamped my personal site--come check it out:
http://michellepanik.com

Freelance Writing Website...with Blog!

I've started hanging out over here:

San Diego Freelance Writer & Editor

Reading Assignments

Head over to Significant Objects to read my friend Lakin's story about a paper fan that, like a pet-store puppy, she had to take home. (No, I don't condone pet stores selling animals. But I do condone artistic license and simile).

Then, head on over to my new website, MichellePanik.com, and check out my latest blog entry, which includes a link to an article I wrote for TCSD's Newsletter.

JD Salinger: Half-pipe Thrasher

From the outside, you might think JD Salinger didn't do much with his life. 91 years on this planet and 4 books in 15 of those years, the last of which was published 45 years ago. Just a few interviews. Sort of like Forrest Gump running. And then, one day, not. I wonder what he's been doing since 1965.

We'll probably never know, but I like to think he's been learning the art of underwater welding, training a bear to dance, and performing some sweet ollies. Wouldn't that be cool?

At last night's Tri Club meeting (Chris Lieto and Craig Alexander; you totally missed it), I spoke with a friend who's recently switched from real estate to nursing. I used to write fiction, but now I am moving into nonfiction. Change is good.

Throw Your Hands in the Air and Wave Them Like You Just Don't Care

Today was my first run in 17 days, the last one being day I turned 31 (which still seems like a clerical error). It is good to be back on the roads.

I spent part of the run behind a jogger who'd periodically pump his fist while listening to (I can only assume) uptempo music.

I am in the middle of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. It is Murakami's meditation on running, and also on writing. At one point he talks about a mutual understanding shared by all long-distance runners. I agree. I think people who enjoy running share plenty of character traits (which I won't go into here, Murakami does a much better job in his book).

I have never pumped my fist to music while running. But I completely understand the feeling.

Something Other Than the Sausage-making Metaphor

"Writing goes something like this: think of idea, collect material, find the right angle, do something else for a while, get sudden idea and write it down, think some more, plan, organize, think, write, rewrite, proofread, rewrite, proofread, proofread, finalize. Writing feels a lot like wrestling an alligator. A fair amount of violent thrashing is part of the struggle."

-Bulletproof News Releases, p. 132

MIA

After almost a month away, I finally have something new to blog about. And it deals with, well, blogs.

Today, a neighbor asked me about starting a blog. Which was flattering (although what do I really know about this crazy medium, except that people love watching parts of your personal life--like what's in your pantry). But it came at a funny time in my life, because this blog has sat silent for nearly four weeks.

It wasn't that I was out clubbing downtown or taking advantage of the bargain-basement hotel room prices in Tijuana and couldn't be bothered to blog. Rather, I've been home. A lot. While I love teaching ESL, it's not enough for me as a career. It's something I want to do in an alter-ego way, although probably without the black mask or cape...unless I can get some type of tenure--then I'll be teaching in flip flops.

But anyhow, as I've been rethinking how I want to use my writing skills in a full-time job, I've taken a break from writing here.

But it feels like a good time to return. Welcome back, me. And soon: welcome to the blogging world, my neighbor.

Now Accepting Submissions

At tonight's Tri Club meeting, I sat by ex-Prez Brian. Before things got started, Brian let me in on a idea that he thought we should take on.

Taking a cue from Tiger Woods, we'll edit a book called Men and Their Messes. It will be a compilation of stories that ordinary people submit about themselves or someone they know, as long as the person's of the male persuasion, and as long as they've gotten themselves into a sh*tload of trouble.

And because Brian's more than just an idea man, he's got a plan, too. We'll create a website with a form that people can use to submit their story directly to us. We'll compile the best ones, do a little editing and--badda-bing, badda boom (thank you, Urban Dictionary, for the spell-check)--we'll have a book. Simple, right? Until the website, www.myegoruinedmylife.com, is up and running, you can send your tales of self-inflicted woe directly to me.

(Meb gets interviewed by Bob Babbitt.)

After cementing our plan and creating an action-item list, Meb Keflezighi was welcomed as the meeting's guest speaker. Before Keflezighi became the first American to win the New York City Marathon last month since Alberto Salazar in 1982, he was an Eritrean immigrant who took ESL classes at Jefferson Elementary in North Park. After that, he became a cross-country runner by trying out for his junior high team with a mile time of 5:20. And then he became an all-American runner at UCLA. And then at the 2004 Olympics, he became the first American to medal since Frank Shorter in 1972. Keflezighi is a man who has most certainly not made a mess.

(Meb's brother, Merhawi, videoing.)

I Heart Austin Palmer

And you thought I was done with cursive.

Earlier this week, the ESOL teacher whom I'm assisting said she pays extra attention to her penmanship when writing in cursive on a student's paper. She said many English language learners aren't very familiar with cursive. Which is not something I'd thought about before.

Most cursive and print letters are similar, which I'd imagine make things pretty simple for an English language learner. The uppercase Q is a perfect quagmire, but most letters aren't as difficult. Like the "M" or "m". If you could recognize the printed versions, you'd probably recognize their cursive counterparts.

I think it was my dad who sent me an email forward with sentences consisting of words with some letters out of order. But, because there's enough that's correct, you can read the sentence perfectly well. Your mind makes the correction. (I tried to find a link for this, but wasn't successful. Anyone know what I'm talking about?)

While I like writing and cursive, my cursive is actually a hybrid of cursive and printing. I sort of took the letters that I like from each type, and made my own writing. But this could be difficult for ESL students. So I tried to make my comments only in cursive. Except for my capital "F"s. Too fussy.

Dotting One's Eyes and Crossing One's Tees

In Spanish class last week, we students had to write sentences on the board. As I was walking up, I overheard one student tell another, "I don't even remember how to do it. It's pointless."

She'd been referring to cursive writing.

I just picked up a piece of chalk and began writing, but what I really wanted to do was turn to her and say, Cursive is extremely practical! People may not often write anything of substantial length anymore (thanks, Twitter), but when they do, cursive is faster and easier on your hand.

I hear lots of kids aren't able to read analog clocks, because it's no longer taught in grade schools. And this cursive-phobic student was younger than me. I am not going to use either example as proof of our society's decline. I fancy myself an optimistic person. And anyhow, I think society keeps getting better (cruise control? Hello!). But I think cursive--and pens and pencils in general--adds something to our society and the way we communicate.

Writing is slower than typing. Which gives you more time to think about what you're writing, and therefore more carefully consider your words. Which just may lead to better writing. Or at least writing that's more thoughtful. I've reaped this benefit with fiction writing umpteen times.

Sure, a cursive capital "Q" looks pretty funny. And both types of "z"s have an awful lot of loops. But, come on. Handwriting. It's so simple. It's tactile. It's real. And if you're left-handed, it's wonderfully messy.

Shined up and Shipped out

To me, the best short stories are round-cut, perfectly shined little gems. A sapphire, maybe. Today, the story I'm working on feels like a medical cadaver, dissected thrice over and left out of the refrigerator.

I am buoyed, though, by the thought that this story will, if I keep working, become something semi-precious. To prove the point, I just had a story accepted at the Concho River Review.

A Brood

Today at Starbucks, a woman asked if I were saving one of the empty chairs. I said, "Nope," and she said, "Oh, good."

I invited her to use it, and she said, "Don't worry, I will. I have a bunch of grandchildren." She liken them to a school class, and I didn't think much about it until the woman's daughter came out the door, followed by five children.

The grandmother wasn't kidding.

The kids were all well behaved. I had been prepared to put in my earbuds, but there was no need.

Last night, my dad showed home movies to me and Bryan. After five and half years, my husband finally heard the high, squeaky voice of my childhood. And I was reminded of what a cute kid my middle brother was. And how my oldest brother lived the 1980's in camo. And I learned that my mother's subconscious finger twitching is a longer standing habit than I'd ever realized. And if ever I had any doubts, that my dad really did look like Alan Alda. Still does.

The Starbucks mother did a good job of managing her kids, considering there were drinks and pastries all around. But she did seem a bit distracted. I wondered how many small moments she misses or forgets in the chaos of having five kids--like a long-gone uncle telling a joke while an exuberant little girl pours make-believe tea. I hope she has a video camera.

"A Walk in the Woods" by Bill Bryson

(Larry King accompanies Bryson on the Appalachian Trail.

Best free bookmark ever.)

I took this book to Tin House because I wanted to read something of the nonfiction persuasion. I don't want to spoil anything, but themes of perceived and realized expectations, of social interaction, of solitude, of adventure, of being content, of wanting more, of the great unknown, and the great outdoors (there are trees in Portland the likes of which San Diegans can only dream of!) crossed over well between the book and conference.

Plus, now that I've read about Bill Bryson hiking this behemoth of a trail, I don't have to do it myself.

Brain Drain

(What 9:15 PM looks like at the 45-degree north latitude in July.)

What is it about learning so much that makes one feel so stupid? I have been taking copious notes, thinking about storytelling, and considering stylistics and form all week. And now, on Saturday, having learned so much, I find myself unable to recall a good friend's name.

Mountain Climbing

This morning I passed a woman pushing a double-wide baby stroller up a not-insignificant hill. Suddenly, revising a story didn't seem so tough to me. And I hoped the woman has a hard job--like particle physics or, really, motherhood (twins!)--because she'd do an awesome job.

Through You

Aimee Bender gave a talk today at Tin House. I read two of her books in college, after finding out she'd gotten her undergraduate degree from UC San Diego. But that was less than ten years ago, and I don't remember much about either book, except that I'd enjoyed them at the time.

I recently gifted Oliver Sacks' The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat because I had fond memories of it. But all I can recall of it, other than those favorable impressions, are some fuzzy details about the titular case study.

It is disheartening that I don't remember much about these books that had affect me so much at the time.

On last weekend's MarcFit run, a member told me he'd just bought the new Kindle for his wife. Apparently, you can make marginal notes and highlight text. Maybe this would help. If I could write notes and interact with the text, maybe I'd better retain the words (like those studies about doodling improving one's memory of auditory input).

Maybe there's no way to stop the slow seepage of knowledge or sensations or emotions. Perhaps you can't take anything with you. And we should be happy to simply enjoy what comes for the time it's there. Every book I read, every time my father rolls through town, and every moment with my husband.

Wednesday Takaways

Spoken by writers at Tin House today, concerning stories:

"Nobody likes whiners."

"I don't want to know people who are in therapy. I want to know people who are still killing dogs."

In a Westport Dorm Bathroom

What's almost as cool as seeing the Virigin Mary in a potato chip? Francisco Goya in a marble wall.

Summer Camp '09

I have arrived at Reed College and Tin House, after watching the paintings of Richard Diebenkorn float by my window seat, and without my favorite fleece. But I am faring well without this favorite jacket, because an airport employee told me where to buy another. I am wondering if the best charity work one can do in their life is simple, everyday kindness.

Snail's Pace

Here's something I love about writing. The care that's taken with the choice of words that become clauses that become phrases that become sentences that become paragraphs that become scenes that become sections that become stories. Everything is crafted.

Here's something I love about ESL. The care that's taken with words here, too. You have to go slower--not a lot, but a little bit. It may take an extra thirty seconds to explain (or act out, or round up props) the concept of the California Aquaduct. You do not rush through and not care if anything you're trying to teach is getting through.

It's good to go slow. My very good friend feels that it's taking significant time to finish her doctoral dissertation. Bryan and I took six months to find the perfect dog. And then we took twenty-six years to find each other.