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NaNoMo Vultures and Parental Discontents
Oct. 20th, 2015 11:24 amAmusingly enough, not one copy of Sexus is to be found in the entire Dutchess County or Ulster County library systems.
Since I’ve decided to write an alternate history of June for the upcoming National Novel Writing Month, and it will need to chronologically parallel the events Miller writes about, I guess I need to start hitting the used book stores.
I’m not exactly sure why I joined NaNoMo.
I cruised their site. You win if you write 50,000 words in a month! Wow! MONEY, I thought. So I cruised the prizes. They’re all pretty crummy. Discounts on writing and editing software packages, for the most part. Yet the NaNoMo administrators keep shilling for donations. What exactly are those donations going towards if not towards prizes? It can’t be for website maintenance. It’s a pretty low-tech website. You don’t even have the option of uploading what you write.
So, the organizers must be paying themselves exorbitant salaries. For doing absolutely nada.
It dawns on me that the aspiring writer industry is growing every bit as scammy as the college application industry.
###
As you can tell, I’m not in an upbeat mood today.
###
On Saturday while I was stalking Hassid through Henry Miller’s old hood, I got a phone call from Max.
Max did not sound good. Two months in, the law school stress hit. Sounded right about on schedule to me.
He’s not exercising. That’s bad – Max, and Max’s father, too, for that matter, both need to exercise vigorously for at least 30 minutes a day. Sweat buckets, push their heart rates over 180. If they don’t, they become subject to these deep paralyzing despairs.
Also, he has a cold.
Also, his back hurts.
I did the maternal thing and nattered on and on (and on) about the critical importance of exercise.
“You know, the reason I’m sending you that money,” I said, “is not so you should put it in the bank but because I wanted you to have a little bit of cash that you spend on yourself. Maybe you need to book a massage on a weekly basis. An hour a week when you can get pampered and you don’t have to worry about someone else’s reciprocal pleasure, you know? Believe it or not, that can actually give you one day of perfect relaxation.”
Max sighed. “Don’t know where I’d find the time.”
“Also, you know, you need to scan your fellow law students and designate one or two of them Your Bestest Law School Friends. Even if you don’t really give a shit about them. That’s the only way you survive experiences like that. You accumulate a cadre so you can make nasty jokes about professors and plaintiffs.”
“That’s probably a good idea. I just… Haven’t really reached out to my classmates. Haven’t had the time.”
“You really should, Max. Black humor is the ultimate survival mechanism. Really! It makes all the difference.”
Then I launched into Round Two of Plus, You REALLY Need to Exercise!
Apropos of nothing, I then said, “You know, Liza’s way of coping with stress is to flirt! You know that, right? It’s how she makes the world around her safe. Maybe you need to flirt, too. Plus – are you smoking dope, Max?”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Because, really, it’s a bad idea to smoke dope when you’re in law school. Drinking alcohol is fine! But dope. I don’t know. It erodes the brain cells you need to decipher long strings of double negatives."
Plus, have I mentioned? you need to exercise!
“I’m repeating myself, aren’t I?” I sighed.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Max said mildly. “If you complain about not feeling great to a parent, you have to accept the consequences.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more irrelevant in my life than when I got off the phone with him.
Yesterday, I got a brief email from Max asking for Janet’s contact info.
Liza and I are discussing the possibility of living apart. Just so if this happens, it won’t hit you as a complete surprise, he added.
I read this, and I got absolutely sick to my stomach.
The only fucking reason he ended up at Boalt was because he and Liza were in a relationship.
And I fucking knew this would happen.
I dug my nails into my palms to keep from adding any kind of editorial comment when I sent him Janet’s contact info. I know Janet wants to sell the Spruce Street mansion. I know she could probably rent it out for $5,000 a month. But she loves Max. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
Oh, that awful, awful feeling. When you want to help, but you can’t help. Because… You. Just. Can’t.
Since I’ve decided to write an alternate history of June for the upcoming National Novel Writing Month, and it will need to chronologically parallel the events Miller writes about, I guess I need to start hitting the used book stores.
I’m not exactly sure why I joined NaNoMo.
I cruised their site. You win if you write 50,000 words in a month! Wow! MONEY, I thought. So I cruised the prizes. They’re all pretty crummy. Discounts on writing and editing software packages, for the most part. Yet the NaNoMo administrators keep shilling for donations. What exactly are those donations going towards if not towards prizes? It can’t be for website maintenance. It’s a pretty low-tech website. You don’t even have the option of uploading what you write.
So, the organizers must be paying themselves exorbitant salaries. For doing absolutely nada.
It dawns on me that the aspiring writer industry is growing every bit as scammy as the college application industry.
###
As you can tell, I’m not in an upbeat mood today.
###
On Saturday while I was stalking Hassid through Henry Miller’s old hood, I got a phone call from Max.
Max did not sound good. Two months in, the law school stress hit. Sounded right about on schedule to me.
He’s not exercising. That’s bad – Max, and Max’s father, too, for that matter, both need to exercise vigorously for at least 30 minutes a day. Sweat buckets, push their heart rates over 180. If they don’t, they become subject to these deep paralyzing despairs.
Also, he has a cold.
Also, his back hurts.
I did the maternal thing and nattered on and on (and on) about the critical importance of exercise.
“You know, the reason I’m sending you that money,” I said, “is not so you should put it in the bank but because I wanted you to have a little bit of cash that you spend on yourself. Maybe you need to book a massage on a weekly basis. An hour a week when you can get pampered and you don’t have to worry about someone else’s reciprocal pleasure, you know? Believe it or not, that can actually give you one day of perfect relaxation.”
Max sighed. “Don’t know where I’d find the time.”
“Also, you know, you need to scan your fellow law students and designate one or two of them Your Bestest Law School Friends. Even if you don’t really give a shit about them. That’s the only way you survive experiences like that. You accumulate a cadre so you can make nasty jokes about professors and plaintiffs.”
“That’s probably a good idea. I just… Haven’t really reached out to my classmates. Haven’t had the time.”
“You really should, Max. Black humor is the ultimate survival mechanism. Really! It makes all the difference.”
Then I launched into Round Two of Plus, You REALLY Need to Exercise!
Apropos of nothing, I then said, “You know, Liza’s way of coping with stress is to flirt! You know that, right? It’s how she makes the world around her safe. Maybe you need to flirt, too. Plus – are you smoking dope, Max?”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Because, really, it’s a bad idea to smoke dope when you’re in law school. Drinking alcohol is fine! But dope. I don’t know. It erodes the brain cells you need to decipher long strings of double negatives."
Plus, have I mentioned? you need to exercise!
“I’m repeating myself, aren’t I?” I sighed.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Max said mildly. “If you complain about not feeling great to a parent, you have to accept the consequences.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more irrelevant in my life than when I got off the phone with him.
Yesterday, I got a brief email from Max asking for Janet’s contact info.
Liza and I are discussing the possibility of living apart. Just so if this happens, it won’t hit you as a complete surprise, he added.
I read this, and I got absolutely sick to my stomach.
The only fucking reason he ended up at Boalt was because he and Liza were in a relationship.
And I fucking knew this would happen.
I dug my nails into my palms to keep from adding any kind of editorial comment when I sent him Janet’s contact info. I know Janet wants to sell the Spruce Street mansion. I know she could probably rent it out for $5,000 a month. But she loves Max. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
Oh, that awful, awful feeling. When you want to help, but you can’t help. Because… You. Just. Can’t.
