Pre-united and it feels so good

Please join my obsession with the Bourne franchise of films as I pitch prequel ideas at Punchnel's. It is my irrational expectation that one of you, via six degrees of separation, will get this to Matt Damon.

Don't make Bourne come after you.

Spreadsheet No More! A tale of liberation.

In 2008-2009-2010, I have read 61 books, 70 books, and 40 books, respectively. I tallied my reading habits on nerdalicious spreadsheets, sharing and comparing with my readerly friends. We had some great conversations over those lists, didn't we, friends? Didn't we?

Lookit. I wimped out this year.

No spreadsheet. No list. Occasionally I updated the column on the right side of this page, the "Now Reading," though I declined to include the books I was reading to my son, now almost 15 months old. There would be quite a few repeats on that list, including a book we have unofficially titled "Sad Animals."

Huge point of pride that this little guy loves books. He'll clamber into your lap with a book in hand, and point out certain pictures and read along. His favorite books often involve the word "no," which he delights in saying.

Did I distract you yet from the lack of spreadsheet? It is partially due to caring for baby that I neglected to care about logging my book list. To be honest, I used him as an excuse: I knew I'd be busy and never started a list in the first place. It was freeing to read indiscriminately and not think about how the books stacked up, or how many books I'd have to read to reach the previous year's total, or whether I seemed to be reading more nonfiction versus fiction or men versus women. All of that tracking I did was interesting for a time, and helpful in making conscious choices about reading material. But the unconscious can be a powerful ally, I think, in picking books that you not only want to read, but might even need to read.

A few of the ones I read and loved (or am still reading, and ones that I can, at this moment and without a spreadsheet as a reminder, remember): Kate Atkinson's Started Early, Took My Dog; Jo Ann Beard's In Zanesville; Bob Hicok's Words for Empty, Words for Full; Teju Cole's Open City; David Foster Wallace's The Pale King; Marilynne Robinson's Gilead (again); Patricia Henley's Other Heartbreaks; Michael Martone's Four For a Quarter; Mark Neely's Four of a Kind; Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad; Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story; Suzanne Collins's Hunger Games trilogy; and Leah Stewart's Husband and Wife.

My awesome sister and brother-in-law got me a Kindle for Christmas, which has been fantastic. The first book I downloaded was Thoreau's Walden. A compromise of sorts: taking baby steps into the technology, dearhearts. (Also: free book.) Can't imagine ever giving up paper books, but I'm excited by the prospect that having more options will equate to more reading next year.

Happy almost-2012. And please send me your recommended reads.

11 lines in 11 minutes

1. When I was in college, we called an automated line to find out our grades in advance of receiving paper copies; you had to listen to a maddeningly slow voice spell out the course and section number and then likely you would hear, "GRADE. NOT YET. SUBMITTED."

2. The message I'd like to send at present: GRADE. NOT YET. SUBMITTED.

3. During the Victoria's Secret Runway Show tonight, with musical guest Kanye West, he spoke of his own departed angel, his mother; he dedicated a song to her as 19-yr-old women dressed in angel wings strutted past.

4. His mother died of complications from plastic surgery.

5. I am living the American dream, said one corseted model.

6. This was about six minutes worth of the show, and then we watched LOUIE, in which the title character, a much younger male comedian, came on to the much older Joan Rivers.

7. Today I read a YA blog that called this generation of young people the most literate and text-savvy of all time.

8. Eggs, it seems, taste different lately, almost as if they've changed the recipe, like the chickens got together and cracked open (ha) a cookbook and said, Well, how about this?

9. If I were a different sort, I would WebMD the symptom: WHAT DOES IT MEAN WHEN EGGS TASTE DIFFERENT?

10. Better not to know.

11. Ah, there's twelve minutes, and I've missed my designated window, and we haven't even gotten to the tabloid narratives observed at the grocery store, which can be a topic for a later date. (Teaser: ANGELINA RUINS THANKSGIVING. And it hadn't even happened yet.)

It's here. Welcome, book.

Sudden Flash Youth, a new collection of young adult flash fiction from Persea Books, is out now. It includes my short piece, "For Good," about Juan and Cece at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. You'll find work from Steve Almond, Richard Bausch, Stuart Dybeck, Dave Eggers, Pia Z. Erhardt, Meg Kearney, Paul Lisicky, Naomi Shihab Nye, Pamela Painter, Robert Shapard, Alice Walker, and many, many others. The book is edited by Christine Perkins-Hazuka, Tom Hazuka, and Mark Budman.

This piece of art gets special mention in my story (The artist is Do-Ho Suh):

And so does this one, by artist Robert Indiana:

A funny thing happened on the way to the dinner

So there I am, at the gorgeous Central Library as part of the Indiana Author's Award event. I have two back-to-back sessions during the day, and before the first one starts, I have a minute to duck into the Author's Fair and say hello to Bich Minh Nguyen, one of the finalists for the Emerging Author award (the other finalists were Micah Ling and Aaron Michael Morales.) Bich was kind enough to invite me to join her for the awards dinner at Purdue's table -- she teaches at Purdue, which is where I earned my MFA.

I also see Dick Wolfsie sitting at one of the tables in front of a stack of books. I say hello, and tell him that I had the pleasure of watching a taping of his show with my class more than 20 years ago at Union Station.

"Great!" he says, nice as can be. "Are you still a teacher?"

This is where I had to explain that yes, I am now a teacher, but back then, well, I was in the sixth grade.

Poor Dick Wolfsie was mortified. He clapped his hands over his mouth and apologized. "Wait until my wife hears about this." (Note to Dick Wolfsie's wife: It was totally fine. Funny, in fact.)

My sessions were titled "Get Started," a course I'd taught before for the Writers' Center of Indiana. My first group kicked off with participants asking a number of questions, which helped focus the discussion. We wrote a little, talked a little more, and people discussed the stages of their various writing projects (for some, they had yet to begin, so "Get Started" made perfect sense.) It was a great, participatory group. Afterwards, I watched two attendees introduce themselves, then exchange contact information along with meaningful hugs. Not exactly typical of a short writing session, but hey: I'm thrilled that connections were made.

Have I mentioned that I did not eat lunch, not officially, on this day? It had been a busy morning. My husband had rented an aerator for the lawn, and drove across town to do my parents' lawn, too. When he got home, he looked peaked. "I feel horrible," he said, and collapsed into bed.

Really? I was thinking. I haven't showered, and the baby needs to eat, and he's taking a nap? I looked closer. He was more than peaked, he was green. And he'd have to take care of the baby -- who'd had a bug two days before, which my husband must've caught -- when I left to teach. "Rest," I said, "then call my mom if you need her." Grammy's always on call. Three cheers for Grammy!

So I wheeled the high chair over to the bathroom door and took a quick shower while the baby ate. He whined at first, then kicked his feet and laughed each time I peek-a-booed around the shower curtain. I quickly got ready and grabbed a banana to go. Got through the first session, then realized I'd need a little more sustenance. I bought a granola bar at the library cafe and ducked into the now-empty author's fair room to eat.

A man walks in. "Are you an author?" he asks. "Are you famous?"

"Um, yes?" I say. "And no."

We chatted a bit about his writing, his identity crisis, his career change. I gulped down the granola bar. I only had a few minutes before the next session, and I raced off. I do a lot of racing around these days, which is funny considering my high school volleyball teammates used to call me Eeyore. Because I was slow. Also: grumpy.

The second session went a little differently. People came in and out, sort of trying out the class before deciding it wasn't for them. Or maybe they wanted to hit more than one session before heading home. There was a distracted vibe. I talked about getting messy, creatively, rather than trying to shoehorn ideas into a prearranged format. "But I'm halfway done!" one person argued. "I've got it all mapped out on a spreadsheet, and now you're telling me to start over?"

Was I? I didn't think so. I had been talking about getting started. As the title of the session would suggest. Even so, I began to sweat. Was this nerves? Students offer challenges all the time, and usually it doesn't faze me. I like trying to think on my feet and explain something in a new way. But I was definitely sweating. Maybe I shouldn't have worn a wool sweater.

I was in the middle of a sentence, answering a question about the merits of MFA programs, when I knew that it wasn't nerves. I felt sick.

"I need to excuse myself," I said. "If I'm not back in five minutes, we'll have to cancel."

Deep breathing got me to the bathroom, where I proceeded to retch my meager lunch into the toilet. "Sorry," I said weakly to the person in the next stall, who was nice enough to ask if I was OK.

Actually, now I felt great. "I'm fine," I said emphatically, popped a Breathsaver, and returned to the room to finish the session. A concerned trio of library staff waited for me there, and I reassured them I could finish the remaining ten minutes. And I did. I can still make the dinner, I told myself. That was a one-time thing.

It wasn't. I had to pull over once on the way home, and couldn't even make it to the passenger side to get sick on busy College Ave. Someone, I thought, is going to drive into my open car door, and also my head, and this will be a humiliating way to die. While vomiting on the roadside.

"I can still make the dinner," I said when I got home. My husband eyed me from the couch; my mom shook her head doubtfully. I laid down on the floor. My sweet baby scooted over and flopped his body over mine as if giving me a hug.

"Just a sec," I said, and ran to the bathroom.

Old Faithful, my husband called me, once I was well enough to joke about such things. I stayed in bed until late afternoon Sunday. The bug my son had and my husband nearly had was no joke.

So, I missed the dinner, which, judging by all of your photos on Facebook, was really nice. Congratulations go out to poet Micah Ling, who won the Emerging Author award, and I wished I'd had the chance to talk to her, and to catch up with Bich, and to meet Aaron, another Purdue MFA grad.

Jell-O and soup and saltines and a really great husband (and mom, who came back on Monday to take care of me AND the baby) fixed me up right. Baby's feeling great now, too. Here's hoping I'll keep my clean bill of health for the Gathering of Writers this Saturday. I'll continue my strict regimen of granola bar avoidance, and everything should be just fine.

In which I want a crepe but do not get one

Indianapolis Monthly has just made me swoon, via "The Dish," with mention of banana and Nutella crepes. It is too late to get some, hour-wise. Must distract self. And perhaps you!

Me, in words:
A headline poem, "Monkeys Ponder What Could Have Been," in Gargoyle 57

An interview with PANK Magazine, at their blog

Short fiction, "Arrested Development," in Midwestern Gothic

Me, in events:
I'm teaching two "Get Started" sessions at the Indianapolis Central Library on Saturday, from 1-2:30 p.m., and also from 3-4:30 p.m. This is part of the Indiana Authors Award event. Very excited to attend the dinner. Business attire is recommended! I do not know exactly what this means, which is part of the excitement.

And, I'm teaching a session on the essay at the Gathering of Writers, a fantastic annual event put on by the Writers' Center of Indiana.

(I still want those crepes. Man.)

Uh-oh

Today's horoscope: "Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): The answers you need may be lost in the mail or floating in cyberspace. You and your can-do attitude will prevail."

That's a nice little uplift at the end. Still. THE ANSWERS I NEED MAY BE FLOATING IN CYBERSPACE? Super. I'll just get started tracking them down. Because cyberspace is small, easily managed, and it shouldn't take me, oh, more than an hour.

Also I have tons of spare time! So there's that.

USPS, I still love you. Whitney Houston-style: I will always love you. Do not be confused, though: I am not saying you are Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard. Which is playing simultaneously in living rooms across the nation, on three different channels, at any given point on any given day.

Except Sunday.

Ten lines in ten minutes

1. Life observed from the car window is removed times two, yet feels sped up.
2. The dancing Cash for Gold man usually wears a gold lame suit and plays cardboard guitar, though lately he has taken to wearing a vampire costume for Halloween (presumably.)
3. Once I watched a special on TV about a man who claimed, from jail, not to have killed a woman he seemed guilty of killing; during the interview, he played a small guitar he'd made of cardboard and dental floss.
4. At The Avett Brothers concert the other weekend, I entered a raffle to win a signed guitar.
5. I said I'd really learn to play this time, if I won.
6. I'm going to win, I told my friend Allison.
7. I didn't win.
8. The night was chilly, more than that, the night was cold, and we wore our blankets and stomped our feet and danced and watched the moon and the stars and listened to the Avetts singing song after song, all that emotion, what do they do with all that emotion, I love them for having it, writing it, sharing it.
9. Sometimes in class, I feel as if I'm being watched/recorded, a la Candid Camera, based on the ludicrousness of situation.
10. Maybe I am.

Lost Dissertation Opportunity #267

Degree Candidate: Sarah A. Layden
Degree Sought: PhD in Popular Culture and Fast-Food Studies
Working Title: Color Me with Condiments: Representations of Race and Class in Burger King's 1974 "Have it Your Way" Campaign
Research questions: What is the cringey to sassy ratio? Is that Jon Voigt asking for four Coca-Cola? Why not colas?

15 lines in 15 minutes

1.) The deadline forces the mind to mind. 2.) I am writing about personal things, potentially exposing things, which feels hazardous and risky; but I'm telling the story as best I can, which means being honest, which can be incredibly difficult. 3.) There are many, many jobs that are more difficult than writing, chief among them police officer. 4.) The IMPD officers wear bulletproof vests at all times, over shorts and T-shirts when the weather is warm. 5.) There is something startling about a man in shorts with a visible gun holster, and a gun inside that holster. 6.) Even more startling: that man at your door. 7.) (Everything's fine, mom.) 8.) The refrain of the subconscious, the things it wants and asks for, so different from what the upfront brain says it wants. 9.) You Are Your Brain vs. You Are Not Your Brain. 10.) Polenta with pesto, chicken cordon bleu, a glass of red wine, a green salad. 11.) My week's refrain: The World Without Aunt Judy In It. 12.) A Facebook friend referred to FB as the biggest panoptican there is; look it up -- he's right. 13.) Planning to see "Contagion" and read "The Plague" by Camus, 'cause I'm sick like that. 14.) While burping the baby I sang to him, "Who let the burp out?" to the tune of that song, and he replied, Dada. 15.) I'd speculate if he knows what he was saying, but really: do any of us?