Nancy Mendez-Booth blog

Caffeinated and agitated, to go, please.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

I’m turning into Rain Man. He got bent out of shape if his “People’s Court” routine was disrupted. For me, it’s coffee, and there was obviously a conspiracy to contort me today. It began first thing in the morning, at the corner deli, where Manny and the crew know exactly how I like my post-run cup of coffee: medium, splash of milk, no sugar, lawsuit-hot.

I stepped out with my medium cup into the sunshine and bus exhaust on Summit Avenue. The lid opening was on the cup seam, but I was determined to keep my mood as bright as the day. There was no steam when I removed the lid. My lips pulled back into a snarl when they touched the coffee.

It was tepid.

Not hot, not even lukewarm, but somebody-left-the-carafe-off-the-burner-then-poured-and-sold-it-to-me tepid. And perhaps the sugar was added in hope that the sweetness would distract me from the temperature. What the hell was Manny thinking? I’ll remind him tomorrow that my order never changes, except for tomorrow when I’ll instruct he owes me a large in recompense. I didn’t want to risk the avenue-of-squashed-pedestrians again, and the possibility of that nasty coffee being the final taste sensation I’d carry into eternity.

* * *

I had hoped my afternoon cup of coffee would erase the morning experience, and elevate me to an unprecedented appreciation of life – including Manny’s. Even though he f***ed up my order. And my morning. But it was not to be this way.

You see, environment and ambience is essential to enjoyment of my afternoon cup. It is the time of day when I leave the house after writing in solitude all morning. I complete necessary errands, appointments, and meetings, then treat myself to a cup somewhere chosen for convenient geography, reliable Wifi, non-butt-numbing seating, unobstructed street views and sunlight, music and conversation kept at a hum, oh, and of course, a medium coffee that meets the afternoon specifications: substantial in flavor, but not overpowering; just a splash of soy milk (not available at Manny’s, the man who insists milk can only come from a cow, and suggests I try powdered non-dairy creamer); no sugar or sweetener; and hot enough to sue if I spill it.

Today I had been in Queens, conducting research in my hometown for a future story collection. I was standing under the el, and the rumble of the train mixed with the sound of my stomach reminding it was time for my coffee and snack. The local McDonald’s had been remodeled with a wall of windows that featured a sign announcing Wifi, and the premium roast coffee available on the dollar menu. Tempting, except the Mickey D’s had also added a Playland, which was likely to be the source of screeching and yelling at that afterschool hour. I decided to try the new Starbucks one block away, unaware that I’d discover even more unarticulated coffee specifications essential for my inner balance and peace.

Snazzy, I thought when I entered and saw the wide plank wood floors. Starbucks illustrated how much had changed in my corner of Queens. There was ample available seating, including an armchair by the large windows. “She’s a Bad Mamma Jamma” was distinguishable above the few murmured conversations. I approached the counter, ready to be elevated.

Instead, I was overwhelmed. I ordered a medium, was reminded by the young woman behind the counter I wanted a venti, then asked what brew I’d like. She pointed to a blackboard before I could remind her the word brew makes me want beer. So many choices! Pike’s Place. Guatemalan. Reserve blends. Dark roasts. Bold. Drip. Pressed.

“What does it all mean?” I asked, not realizing how middle-aged it sounded until after it was out of my mouth. Twenty years ago, I could have been the young woman behind the counter with the choppy haircut, smudgy eye make-up, chunky glasses, and indulgent smile.

“Well, what would you like?’ she asked.

There was no one on line behind me, but I didn’t think either of us had the time for me to explain that whatever she poured needed to make up for Manny’s shortcomings. I gave her an abbreviated version of my coffee desires.

“So maybe a Reserve Blend?” she asked, saw the confusion on my face, then provided the most fascinating description. The Reserve Blends are each crafted from carefully selected beans. She suggested I might like the Blonde Willow, milder than the robust Veranda, but still substantial. It would take a few moments to prepare a venti cup because the drip coffee maker does not brew Blonde Willow after five o’clock.

Yeah, there’s things I don’t want to do in life, either, I thought, and wondered if brewing Blonde was in violation of caffeine appliance labor laws. She would use the Clove press, similar to a French press, but different: it brews the beans upside-down, and the paperless filter allows more of the oils through for an enhanced flavor experience.

Really? Seriously? It was my turn to smile indulgently. I hummed along with “Boogie Oogie Oogie” and eyed the empty armchair as she ground and brewed my Blonde. The steam rose through the sip hole in the lid, and I felt the heat through the sleeve when she handed me the cup.

“I think you’ll like it,” she said as she rang up my order.

Indeed, I thought and was tempted to purr as I inhaled the aroma.

“That’s $3.47.”

My eyebrow arched to my hairline. “What is?”

“The venti. It’s $3.47,” the young woman repeated. She smiled as she waited, and I realized she was serious. Three dollars and forty-seven cents for a cup of coffee I couldn’t sip for at least fifteen minutes without risking the delicate skin on my thinning lips? Did she forget to mention the blend was reserved for idiots like me who don’t think to ask the price because my daily coffee from Manny’s is only one dollar? Was the soy milk imported? Would the venti have been cheaper before five o’clock when it could have been prepared by the drip maker instead of the uppity, fancy Clove press? Who the hell wants oily coffee anyway? Damn.

A line formed behind me as I thought all that, and envisioned myself through the chunky glasses of all the younger people around me.

“Well, this must be one hell of a cup of coffee,” I said and kept my tirade internal.

“Let me know how you like it,” she said as she handed me my change.

Cheap, girlie. I like my coffee cheap.

“Mm-hmm,” I offered as I raised my chin and cup toward her. I sat at a small table instead of the armchair, and pulled out my notebook to record my observations and conversations of the day.

Wait till Manny and the crew at the deli hear about this tomorrow morning.

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Leave it on the road.

Monday, May 7, 2012

Regret weighs more than disappointment.

I was a ruthless runner. Sub-seven minute miles and qualifying for the Boston marathon were my driving goals, and my motto was “Leave it on the road”. I gave my all in every run, whether it was a morning five-miler, a 5K for a local charity, or the NYC marathon. I didn’t always win, but I never had the regret of having denied myself the chance by not trying hard enough. I lost many toe nails, endured bloody blisters, and almost lost bladder control sometimes, but I never crossed a finish line thinking I still had more kick or more to give.

Time to put up or shut up.

My running days have been on my mind a lot as graduation approaches. I’m terrified about post-MFA life, but I know that I left it all on the road over the past two years. I was accepted to the MFA program at a point when I didn’t believe I had the talent or strength to complete it. I felt depleted (defeated?) by my losses: I’d lost my job, my son, my faith, my sense of worth and purpose. Yet the invitation was an opportunity to realize my long-time fantasy of dedicating time to my development as a writer. Broken as I felt, I still recognized that I would never accomplish anything as a writer if I stayed at the starting line, just contemplating possibilities.

Play nice with others.

Immediately upon entering the MFA program, established writers gave me guiding words that helped me move beyond my limits and boundaries. At a welcome reception for new students, one writer told me to look around the room, then said, “Everyone in this room is going to be your colleague for the rest of your life. Remember that every time you interact with someone.” These were tough words because I’m introverted, self-conscious, and unkind by nature; however, I’m also practical and knew there would never be an audience for a writer no one respects or knows about. For the past two years, I’ve talked to everyone (even people I don’t like), been gracious (especially to people I don’t like), asked questions, and listened. I didn’t want to listen to the people I liked least, and they seemed to feel the same about me, but they provided some of the most thought-provoking feedback.

Ignore the “Do Not Enter” sign.

I was lucky to meet the poet Irene McKinney during my first semester, and hear her say, “If I only wrote about the stuff I thought would make people like me, I’d be ignoring about ninety-nine percent of what I should be writing.” She went on to admit that it was mortifying to write about the aging of her body, secret lusts and jealousies, and other things she would prefer to hide; however, the stories we need to tell wait in the places we least want to enter. She was right and wise, and I remembered her words every time I knew I was holding back in my writing. It scared me to plunge into the darker depths within myself to access the emotions needed to make fiction real. I had to resist the safety procrastination and avoidance seemed to offer: scrubbing the bathroom floor, refolding the sheets in the linen closet, or writing a “nice” story seemed so much easier. But just like with running, I had to risk discomfort and pain to move forward, get stronger, and finish proud.

* * *

I don’t know the terrain or the course of the countless miles ahead. I do know, though, that because I gave my all during the past two years, I leave with what I need to keep moving forward.

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Post-MFA Fear #2: I will never get published. Never.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Real or unfounded? I’ve been published in the past, so it is likely that it will happen again. What I want right now is big-time publication, e.g., a story in The New Yorker, agents competing to represent me, nominations and awards. Realistically, that will not happen this week. Any one of these things may happen in the future. My pieces that have been published took time to write, and it took time to match them to appropriate publications. Then it took time to submit appropriately (i.e., formatted properly, accompanied by a tight cover letter addressed to the right person, even better if my submission was endorsed by someone respected, previously published and/or connected to the publication), and to await a response. So much time.

What can I control? I know that to get published, I need to keep writing. As a professor once advised me when I voiced my publication concerns: “How about you just write first? Write, then worry about what to do with it.” True words. So my first priority while I’ve been in the MFA program has been to treat writing like my job. That has meant dedicating a specific amount of weekly hours, physical work space, and schedule and project plans. For example, on a typical week, I might designate Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday as fiction writing days. I allot five consecutive hours per day, 7:00 a.m. till 12 noon, in my home office. I create a to-do list the night before my writing days to keep me on track as to what I will work on and what I will accomplish.

I can also control the research needed to submit smartly. That has included finding out where authors and classmates I admire have been published. I have asked for suggestions from teachers, writers, readers, and classmates. I read Poets & Writers, and browse publications at book stores and libraries.

It is also up to me to submit my work if I want to get published. As a teacher once told me, “There is no market or audience for writers who keep their stories on their hard drive or desk drawer.” I’ve got to get my stuff out there if I want to get anywhere.

What do I have to accept as out of my control? Again, that darned time element. Once I submit a story, response time is largely out of my control. I’ve learned that just because a publication seems to be a perfect match or I have a strong endorsement or have been published there before is no guarantee that they’ll publish (or re-publish) me at a particular time. Ouch. Developing patience and a thicker skin is going to be a continual process.

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Post-MFA Fear #1: I will never find a job. Never.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Real or unfounded? Of course I can find a job. I always have. My fear is that I will not find the job(s) I want, i.e., a position outside of corporate America, likely academic or with some literary connection, that sustains me financially, and provides flexibility to pursue my fiction.

I have consulted with established writers, self-employed artists and professionals, and teachers, and have identified the direction toward which I’m working: I want to pursue employment in academics because I find it satisfying, I enjoy it, I’m good at it, and it can provide the flexibility and intellectual support I seek.

What can I control? I need experience and publication to attain full-time, college-level positions. My main priorities toward this are:

Submitting my work. I identify publications that might be interested in the stories from my manuscript that are finished, and then send, send, send. If I know anyone connected to a publication of interest, I ask them for guidance on whom and how to contact.

Completing my manuscript. More than one person has told me that eventually I will need an agent, and no agent is interested in a half-complete manuscript. A completed manuscript is my ticket into the game; so though I’m nervous about finding a job, my many advisers are right: My job right now is to finish that manuscript.

Contacting schools about teaching opportunities. There are a lot of schools in the metro New York and New Jersey area, and I am on track to contacting all of them. A family friend on the faculty of a local school gave me a useful piece of advice: Don’t overlook local community colleges. They often have a great need for adjunct and part-time instructors. The courses may not be the sexiest, but these are opportunities to gain experience, and may be easier to land without a PhD or extensive publication.

What do I have to accept as out of my control? It is within my control to take action on the things I can influence, e.g., submitting my work, applying for teaching positions. The time it will take for these actions to yield results is not wholly within my control. It is important to follow up with people because my future is no one else’s top-most daily priority; however, relentless reminders will not further my cause either. So I have to accept that while it is up to me to sow and nurture the seeds, beyond that, I have to be patient.

Post-note: The NYT Sunday Styles section printed an interesting article about Gloria Steinem yesterday. Of particular interest to me was an accompanying article about Shelby Knox, a young feminist organizer who became Gloria Steinem’s mentee. I’ve had similar conversations about what I really, really want to do — however, I do not have a Gloria Steinem willing to house and feed me, and provide connections while I make my dreams come true. What do you think: Is the following example inspirational or delusional?

“Gloria asked me what I really, really wanted to do,” she said. “And I said, ‘Well, if I could do anything, I would just go back to doing what I was doing: writing and traveling and speaking.’ And she was like, ‘Why don’t you do that?’ And I said, ‘Well, I’ve got to pay rent.’ ”

At that point, she said, Ms. Steinem suggested, “Well, why don’t you live with me for a while until you get on your feet?”

So, for the next two and a half years, Ms. Knox lived in Ms. Steinem’s guest room. During that time, she traveled around the country speaking; tried and, in her words, failed to be a blogger; and started a book about fourth-wave feminism, which she said was more diverse as a movement than second- or third-wave feminism, largely because of the Internet.

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Post-MFA Fears: An Honest Assessment.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Life pre-MFA

I received my first MA, in English Literature and Critical Theory, immediately after college graduation. Post-MA, I spent about 15 years writing in nonprofit and corporate environments, including proposal writing, marketing and advertising, and copywriting. I applied to, and was accepted into my MFA program in 2010 after I was downsized from my last corporate position.

I mention all this for the following reason: Assessing what I had when I entered this new stage of my life helps me assess realistically what I have now that will help me move forward. It’s part of the whole managing anxiety strategy: When I freak about my life going nowhere and being a loser, it is helpful to consider if these fears are actually founded in reality.

So I entered the MFA program with:

Academic, professional, and personal life experience that helped me focus and take full advantage of this second grad school opportunity.
Marketable skills that I can use to “pay the bills” and “fall back on” as I continue to create a life that works around my first priority, i.e., writing.
Previous graduate academic credit that allowed me to complete my MFA in less time and for less money.
Teaching experience from my first and second grad school stints that help me in my pursuit of academic work.

I’m leaving the MFA program with:

An MFA degree that enables me to pursue college teaching positions, and looks snazzy when applying to non-college level academic positions.
Strong writing skills that help me pursue my own fiction goals and make me more marketable if I need to dip back into the corporate pool temporarily to pay my mortgage.
A strong body of work that I am submitting EVERYWHERE applicable because publication is key to my goals.
A strong network of classmates who are familiar with my work, and on whom I can call to be trusted readers and colleagues; and teachers who can provide references and guidance.
Knowledge gained from speaking with established writers on how they’ve honed their craft and pursued their writing goals without starving.

Assessing all this makes me feel a little better because I know that I am not leaving my program empty-handed and unprepared to face the future. However, there are still things I fear.

Next post: I will never find a job. Never.

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Post-MFA Fears.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I didn’t need to spend two years or tens of thousands of dollars for an MFA. I already possessed a Mind Filled with Anxiety before I attended graduate school. My fears are numerous enough to fuel every moment of my day, and range from the rational, e.g., fear of water (I’m a terrible swimmer), to the not-so-rational, e.g., fear of the alligators that live in urban sewer systems. The Master of Fine Arts that I will receive in May adds to my daily terrors.

The anxiety management I learned from a very wise woman is helping me cope with my post-MFA fears. My anxiety results from fear of the unknown and the accompanying lack of control. Managing the anxiety is a step-by-step process:

1. Identify the fear.

2. Determine if it’s real or unfounded.

3. Take action on the things I can influence.

4. Accept the things that I cannot control.

As May commencement approaches, my anxiety feels paralyzing, but I don’t want to be frozen by fear at the moment my name is called to receive my MFA. My next posts will focus on how I’m taming my fears using my wise woman’s management process. Next scheduled post: Friday, March 16, 2012.

Many of my MFA classmates are plagued by the same agonies. I encourage you to comment and share how you are confronting and conquering your own anxieties, post-MFA and otherwise.

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Happy Feet.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Keep your feet happy.

A runner’s feet pound the ground an average of 1,500 times per mile — making shoes a runner’s most important piece of gear. Selecting the proper shoe from among the available variety, and the marketing hype, is a challenge for new and seasoned runners.

A good first step
Start by identifying individual factors such as foot type (flat, medium or high arch), body build, average mileage, and terrain. A straightforward self-assessment tool is the Shoe Dog feature available at the Road Runner Sports Web site: It “fetches” suitable shoe styles based upon answers to multiple choice questions. One benefit is the recommended shoe types, e.g., stability, motion control, neutral, cushioned, are terms of general use across shoe manufacturers and retailers — so once you’re identified as needing a “neutral” shoe, you can use that information to select shoes at other sites or stores.

Expert guidance
Specialty running shops provide assessments and suggestions from on-staff runners, typically people with experience on the road and testing gear. Some stores, such as Urban Athletics, offer gait analysis where a staff member observes a runner’s feet in movement to determine appropriate shoe suggestions. Runner’s High in Jersey City, Fleet Feet in Hoboken, and the New Balance store in Hasbrouck Heights are staffed by experienced and knowledgeable runners.

Don’t run in old shoes!
The rule of thumb is replace running shoes every 300-400 miles. Two additional good tips are: 1. keep a log and track your mileage on your shoes; and 2. mark the date you start using them on the side of the shoe or inside tongue. Signs that your shoes may be too old include:

Loss of cushioning or the shoe feels flat
Creases in the midsole of the shoe (the part between the sole and the upper)
Aches and pains during or after your run

BTW, if you’re looking for a great home for your old shoes, check out Give Your Sole. They seek to provide less fortunate men, women and children with your gently used shoes.

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Winds of Change.

Monday, March 5, 2012

I was born decades ago, and came of age in the pre-Occupy late 80s and early 90s. Protest makes me think of action and noise: PETA members throwing red paint on fur-wearing pedestrians along Fifth Avenue; anti- and pro-choice groups waving signs and condemning each other loudly across barricades. When I think of protest songs, I think of Bob Dylan or the Sex Pistols.

The third assignment for the GlassBook Project course in which I’m enrolled required us to: select a protest song; create a visual representation of the song; and collaborate with musicians who would translate our visual representation into a musical score. The deadline to add/drop courses is past, and I’m a stubborn over-achiever, so though each class assignment confounds and intimidates me, I thought, “Bring it on.”

I am at the stage where I’ve selected a song, and am completing the visual representation. Collaboration with the musicians will occur within the next few weeks. Though not yet finished, this assignment has made me think differently already about protest and change.

I surprised myself with my selection of “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley. I’m a long-time Marley fan, but expected I would select something more, well, noisy. My husband suggested “Redemption Song” one night over dinner, and I thought, “Hmm, interesting.” I knew the lyrics from having sung the song so many times over the years, often while holding hands with other bad singers and swaying in a circle; however, the words read differently to me when I printed them and considered what they said about the nature of protest.

The song’s “narrator” is speaking on behalf of his community, and opens by recounting the experience of physical enslavement. The song doesn’t invoke the actions or words I associate as a challenge to or defiance of slavery, e.g., uprising, breaking of chains, escaping. The lines that resonated most with me were, “Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery/None but ourselves can free our mind”; and “All I ever had/Redemption songs/These songs of freedom”. I thought about how protest begins in the mind. The non-enslaved mind can envision change because it can imagine possibilities and realities outside of expected norms. It is radical to communicate the message of mental emancipation through the “character” of a physically enslaved person. I expected that his/her message would focus on liberation of the body; however, the surprising messenger reinforced that our minds are all we ever have, and we can be free as long as our thoughts are our own.

After slogging through a lot of not-so-great ideas on how to visually represent the concept of mental-freedom-equals-change, I decided to create a wind chime. The rods catch the breeze (they go with the flow, do not resist the winds of change), and the resulting tinkles encourage meditation. This may not seem like protest, but I believe a quiet mind is an open mind – and an open mind can see how to put change into action.

It has also been interesting to consider the connection between an open mind and the creation of identity. Members of the transgender community recently met and spoke with the class. The conversation made me aware of how much they challenged my understanding of identity. I was surprised, and dismayed, by how traditional definitions of gender confined my mind. Expanding the boundaries of my perception is how I can improve my interactions with members of any community, and recognize the injustices that need to be addressed by change.

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Running Buddy.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Dogs remind us running (and life) can be fun. / photo: J. Booth

Running partners motivate us to get out the door and on the road — but they don’t always have to be of the human, biped variety. Your most enthusiastic running partner might be resting his or her four legs on the couch: your dog.

A pack of two
Most dogs look forward to going outside and need to be walked at least twice a day. Developing a running routine with your dog:
- makes the run fun and playful instead of another trudge to fulfill weekly mileage goals
- keeps both of you in shape
- provides loyal company without chatter

Dogs need training, too

Just like you can’t finish a 5k your first time on the road, your dog can’t crank out the miles instantly, either. Your four-legged companion’s endurance needs to be built up slowly, perhaps with a walk/jog combo for a determined distance or time to be increased appropriately and gradually. A January 21, 2010 New York Times article provides good guidance on training and other tips such as breeds better suited for running.

Pack running in Jersey City
A soft running surface such as dirt is kinder to human and canine joints; however, surface options are limited in Jersey City. The times during the week when you do run with your dog, make it a treat for both of you, e.g., by running in Liberty State Park on the worn dirt path that runs parallel along Freedom Way. And while running tracks provide a nice, springy surface, dogs are not allowed. Wherever you run with your dog, keep him or her on a leash at all times as the city provides too many distractions that could tempt your buddy onto a busy roadway.

Enjoy the run and remember: humans deserve a treat for good behavior, too.

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Better Vision.

Monday, February 20, 2012

It’s six weeks into the spring semester and I have an answer to my question, “Why am I, a fiction writer, taking a studio art course?” Simple: I am improving my vision.

I don’t mean that I’ll be able to drive without my glasses, or never need to buy contact lenses again. I mean I am learning to look at my work differently: more broadly, deeply, closely, and distantly.

Peripheries of Perception: Project #2 required us to select an object(s) that had meaning for us, and consider the method we would use to transform that object. I chose a thick pile of papers on which I’d written various drafts of a recent short fiction. My goal was to transform the multiple versions of the story into one visual object that communicates the essence of the story.

First, I needed to distill the story to its essence – not the who-did-what plot aspects, but what is the one word or phrase that communicates the experience of the story. It is a short fiction titled “Holy Mother of God” and I realized the story is a prayer. The reader experiences the unfiltered prayer of a little girl beginning to question faith. The story begins with the girl telling the Holy Mother that things between them are still cool, even though there has been no response to her prayers. Perhaps the Virgin has been too busy.

Second, I considered ways to represent prayer visually. I got excited over some not-so-great ideas. For example, I thought of creating origami Virgins from my paper pile. I rejected the idea as too obvious and uninspired. I thought of cutting the papers to form a free-floating mosaic of the Virgin’s face, suspended as a mobile and sensitive to the breeze so viewers would wonder, “Do I see the face of Mary?” Better than the origami, but then I realized something just as important as the creativity of an idea: the practicality. I had two weeks, limited studio art skills, and many other life and academic obligations. Back to the drawing board.

I decided on cutting into a stack of the printed pages with an Exacto knife so that the resulting holes and gaps would form a shape that could be seen as an image of the Virgin. I would frame the result, much as unexpected images of the Virgin, whether they appear on closet doors or grilled cheese sandwiches, are made into precious objects.

So I was set: I had an outline of a Mary-like image on my top page and an Exacto knife. It took a lot of “looks” at the project and my ideas to get to this point: looking at the story to find meaning; looking at that meaning to see how it could be visually represented; taking a look at my ideas to see how achievable or relevant they were.

I hunched over the page with the Exacto knife, so close my nose practically touched the paper. Nick, our professor, looked over my shoulder and asked how things were going. I said great, and explained how I planned to cut through the whole outline before pulling the paper bits. He stepped away, took a look, then asked, “Why?”

Because I had a plan, I said. I needed to finish step one before going on to step two. He suggested I step away from the page and the table, and take a look at what had already taken shape. Jane, our visiting artist, joined us, and the three of us considered the page.

That’s when I saw it: the still loosely attached and somewhat lifted bits of paper had already created a discernible shape on the page. The effect of an “unfinished” step one gave the image an ambiguity that communicated the fragility of faith I was trying to communicate. I would have missed this, and never realized it, if I’d kept such a tight focus on the product and the process.

Stepping away and taking a look from a distance or a different angle might be obvious to someone more experienced in studio art. I do it in my own way as a writer, e.g., re-imagining a story from a different narrative perspective to find what I might miss. Seeing the value, literally with my eyes, in an art studio reinforced the importance of approaching my craft from different angles to get the sharpest image.