Take any south-bound train into Baltimore, and you will know the instant that you cross under 695 (the assumed if not actual dividing line between city and county): piles of trash fifty feet high. In actuality, it isn’t trash, its wood chips and building materials and who-knows-what-else. It just looks like trash.
I was in Philly for work today, as I am often. Daylight savings made this my first return train yet that has brought me through the city in the daylight, and the scenes made me overwhelmingly sad.
It’s the same sadness I feel when I tell people I live in Baltimore. You get the concerned, knowing nod from people who are too polite to ask the obvious questions. It’s the occasions where people don’t say anything where you just know they are running through every episode of The Wire they’ve seen in their head. Those that aren’t “polite” just blurt it out—Is that safe?
It’s a question that bothers me more than I ever want to admit. Mostly, I hate being asked that because this is my home. I’ve travelled lots of places, and a myriad of cities have felt comfortable to me – New Orleans, Boston, Seattle, Shannon – but Baltimore is home. I’ve considered living other places, I have lived other places. But some part of me identifies with this city. I see some of myself in it, and I fit here. So I hate being asked if this place is safe. Put me in the middle of Smalltown, U.S.A. and I will feel edgy and uncomfortable in a way I never have here.
But, I have to be honest, part of the reason that question bothers me so much is that it is so valid. This is a dangerous town if you don’t know where to go and where not to. Sometimes, it’s dangerous even when you do.
There is no two ways about it: Baltimore is infested with drugs. I am sure the tourism board won’t thank me for this, but I am only stating fact. You live in or around this city long enough, and it winds up on your doorstep in one way or another. I know this from experience. I’ve never used, but it has impacted my life more dramatically than anything else with the possible exception of cancer (which I have also never experienced firsthand).
And yet, this is my home. I know all cities have neighborhoods and niche cultures, but those that thrive here, that define this place in a way far more entrenched and impressive than the drugs, just happen to fit me perfectly.
In a way, I like to flatter myself by thinking that I am somewhat like Baltimore. See me at a party after one too many and you will think “damn, stay away from THAT mess.” Sit in a meeting with me at work when I start railing on branding, and you will see a part of me that is composed and rigid and capable, like our collection of “business” buildings in the harbor. Like that collection, that part of me is small.
I have my moments of being open and affectionate and just a little bit charming. Those are the days when I walk through Mt. Vernon. I have days when I can’t seem to care if my hair is combed or my socks match but I know I feel like laughing. Hello Hampden. There is the part of me that feels nostalgia for times that came long before me, when I need to be surrounded by history, and those are the days when I am thrilled to wander around Greenmount Cemetery. When I need to feel literary and hope that my ramblings here amount to more than a task for oblivion, I can put my hands on Poe’s grave in minutes.
Like Baltimore, I am frenetic and love to have a million options for what to do on a Saturday night. Like Baltimore, I think 2 a.m.is about as late as it is physically possible for me to stay out.
Yes, Baltimore is dangerous. Am I? Is there a part of me that is? Maybe that is a part of me I don’t know yet. But I know this—there is beauty in this city, dangerous or not, and being here inspires me. This is home.
And on a more personal note, I am heading to Penn State in two and half weeks for a lecture. I will be meeting the cast of Paranormal State. I love the show, but in procrastinating from work, I did some blog hunting and learned a bit about the cast. The trip is motivated by a desire to meet people I respect, who intrigue me.
Ryan Buell, the main ghost-hunter dude, just published this blog about writing his book that made me all misty. I don’t have a ton of writer-friends, and so sometimes I feel a bit at a loss for a way to express to people how writing truly is a love-hate-love endeavor. Ryan’s blog sums it up, and if nothing else, I want to shake his hand and thank him for letting me know there are more of “us” out there. You should check it out—www.ryanbuell.net—it’s the March 22, 2010 entry.
Sergey, who is the techie ghost-hunter dude, has this amazing blog full of photos. I love looking at photography, and I swear, that man captures emotion and truth better in his photos than I will ever be able to in words. I just want to tell him he rocks.
But, this is where the “danger” part of my personality shows through. I see one ideal and two probable scenarios. Ideal: I am able to shake Ryan’s hand and thank him in a cohesive statement, and tell Sergey he rocks, and we all share a nice conversation and I make some new acquaintances. Probable scenario #1—I enter the room, see two people that I admire and want to meet, and am instantly reduced to a pile of giggling befitting a twelve-year-old and make a complete a*s of myself. Probable scenario #2—I am so terrified that Probable Scenario #1 is the outcome of attempted to achieve ideal scenario that I hide in a corner all night and don’t say anything to anyone…like a twelve-year-old.
Yes, guys and gals, like Baltimore, I am a danger to myself. Stay tuned for the outcome. I guess I better get over my fear of people before I officially become a published author in November. Giggling like a school girl could make interviews really tricky…
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Can I hire my grandfather as a publicist?
My grandfather just called to tell me that he is working on a booking me an author event in Frostburg in November. My grandfather is, apparently, my publicist. This makes me giddy. I am trying to keep my excitement muted—lots of people publish books, you know, it isn’t that special—but in all honesty, I am so far beyond elated and I am thrilled to see someone in the same boat.
And I am nervous, because, inevitably he’s going to read it.
This is so surreal, and this book is so personal to me, and it scares the hell out of me that people are going to see into that. What if they hate it? What if people think it is unrealistic? What if it is?
The other day I was explaining the plot to a co-worked, and I mentioned “alcoholic” in regards to one of the characters. She frowned, and smiled, and looked uncomfortable, and asked if that was something I had “experience” with.
That is such an odd question for me to answer. When I wrote the initial story, with all the experience of a seventeen year old growing up in a house devoid of alcoholism, I can’t imagine what would have prompted me to include that affliction. Perhaps I thought I could understand what that was based on the movies I watched, and a book or two.
Oddly enough this story (and the half-written novelization of it) were far from my mind when I sat across from a stranger at a Chinese restaurant about, oh my goodness… was it five years ago? He was tall, and had beautiful eyes, and listened to me intently with an amused smile plaguing his face.
He told me, over that dinner, that he himself was a recovering alcoholic. I knew little more of it by 2005 than I did in 1998 when I first wrote about Max and Menna’s mom. I paid little attention to this tidbit about him on that day, more intrigued by what was going on behind that smile.
When we left the restaurant and I got home, it was me that couldn’t stop smiling. We say each other every day for the next three weeks, during which we discussed his addiction, my writing, our past failed relationships, my dog, his cat, and anything else that came to mind. We discussed everything save for all of the warning signs that were growing in my mind to a muted concern.
Three weeks later he told me he loved me. My mind swam, and the muted concern was instantly and officially muted, as I said it back.
The next day my mom called to tell me that an x-ray had shown a fractured vertebrae. At that point in time, it seemed easy to chalk that up to mom’s usual clumsiness (a trait I inherited). At that point in time it seemed like this was the beginning of something amazing and I had this sudden and intense feeling that something great was finally happening.
I wonder now if I had known that that something was finally happening would not end up to be so great if I would have kept moving, kept going, kept ignoring that nagging feeling. I still don’t know if I regret any of it, because I have emerged someone that I am proud of, someone my grandfather is proud of. Is it better to be proud of who you are, even if that person is a little broken, or too live happily ignorant and just below your potential?
And I am nervous, because, inevitably he’s going to read it.
This is so surreal, and this book is so personal to me, and it scares the hell out of me that people are going to see into that. What if they hate it? What if people think it is unrealistic? What if it is?
The other day I was explaining the plot to a co-worked, and I mentioned “alcoholic” in regards to one of the characters. She frowned, and smiled, and looked uncomfortable, and asked if that was something I had “experience” with.
That is such an odd question for me to answer. When I wrote the initial story, with all the experience of a seventeen year old growing up in a house devoid of alcoholism, I can’t imagine what would have prompted me to include that affliction. Perhaps I thought I could understand what that was based on the movies I watched, and a book or two.
Oddly enough this story (and the half-written novelization of it) were far from my mind when I sat across from a stranger at a Chinese restaurant about, oh my goodness… was it five years ago? He was tall, and had beautiful eyes, and listened to me intently with an amused smile plaguing his face.
He told me, over that dinner, that he himself was a recovering alcoholic. I knew little more of it by 2005 than I did in 1998 when I first wrote about Max and Menna’s mom. I paid little attention to this tidbit about him on that day, more intrigued by what was going on behind that smile.
When we left the restaurant and I got home, it was me that couldn’t stop smiling. We say each other every day for the next three weeks, during which we discussed his addiction, my writing, our past failed relationships, my dog, his cat, and anything else that came to mind. We discussed everything save for all of the warning signs that were growing in my mind to a muted concern.
Three weeks later he told me he loved me. My mind swam, and the muted concern was instantly and officially muted, as I said it back.
The next day my mom called to tell me that an x-ray had shown a fractured vertebrae. At that point in time, it seemed easy to chalk that up to mom’s usual clumsiness (a trait I inherited). At that point in time it seemed like this was the beginning of something amazing and I had this sudden and intense feeling that something great was finally happening.
I wonder now if I had known that that something was finally happening would not end up to be so great if I would have kept moving, kept going, kept ignoring that nagging feeling. I still don’t know if I regret any of it, because I have emerged someone that I am proud of, someone my grandfather is proud of. Is it better to be proud of who you are, even if that person is a little broken, or too live happily ignorant and just below your potential?
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Crankypants??
OK, so I have this mental block. I am a fiction writer, even when there isn't a word processor around for miles. To me, life has a narrative arc. But, uh, blogs don't it seems. Or at least it sort of seems that imposing a narrative arc on a blog means that it isn't a blog anymore.
But this is my space, right?
So, I think I am going to take artistic license, and tell the story anyway -- the what and how I came to feel like I was approaching enough perspective in my life to write the book that prompted this blog.
Here's the funny thing...I always thought I understood hardship when I was in my early 20's. Ironically, I don't know many people who do, unless they lived a life no one should. There are those who are abused, neglected, traumatized -- those like Max and Menna -- who have perspective at the age of 23. I did not.
This is not to in any way minimize what anyone feels at that age. I remember being 23, the weird feeling of so much energy without a place to focus it. That coupled with the enormous let down of the "quarter life crisis." You spend four years at school being told that you are amazing, with the only true measure of success as a little mark on the piece of paper you get at the end. Then you start working, and you go from amazing to fetching coffee. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of "this is it?" And I thought I understood how rough life could be, but still couldn't find the words to write Max and Menna because believing that I truly understood was both arrogant and naive.
There are two separate but inexplicably intwined instances that really began to change that for me. Ironically, they both began around the same time-- Spring of 2005.
Event one began on a blind date in a Chinese food restaurant. Event two didn't so much as begin as it did to grow, as my mom began to break bones without explanation.
But this is my space, right?
So, I think I am going to take artistic license, and tell the story anyway -- the what and how I came to feel like I was approaching enough perspective in my life to write the book that prompted this blog.
Here's the funny thing...I always thought I understood hardship when I was in my early 20's. Ironically, I don't know many people who do, unless they lived a life no one should. There are those who are abused, neglected, traumatized -- those like Max and Menna -- who have perspective at the age of 23. I did not.
This is not to in any way minimize what anyone feels at that age. I remember being 23, the weird feeling of so much energy without a place to focus it. That coupled with the enormous let down of the "quarter life crisis." You spend four years at school being told that you are amazing, with the only true measure of success as a little mark on the piece of paper you get at the end. Then you start working, and you go from amazing to fetching coffee. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of "this is it?" And I thought I understood how rough life could be, but still couldn't find the words to write Max and Menna because believing that I truly understood was both arrogant and naive.
There are two separate but inexplicably intwined instances that really began to change that for me. Ironically, they both began around the same time-- Spring of 2005.
Event one began on a blind date in a Chinese food restaurant. Event two didn't so much as begin as it did to grow, as my mom began to break bones without explanation.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Nonsensical musings following travel catastrophe
So, last night, I was trying to get home from Jacksonville, FL. If I were to fly direct, it is a 1 hour and 45 minute flight. Assuming the normal 90 minutes at the airport prior to the flight, half an hour to get there, half an hour to get home, all in all, the trip should have taken about four hours and fifteen minutes.
But, it rained. And was foggy.
I got to the airport at 4:00 p.m. and walked into my house at 2:30 a.m. Ten and a half hours, at least an hour of which was spent circling the Atlanta airport waiting to land. It gave me much time to muse (and curse under my breath).
The Atlanta airport is one of the last bastians of Western civilization that allows its patron to indulge in the increasingly taboo and downright nauthy act of smoking indoors. Now, I am trying really hard to quit, I am down to 3 cigs a day, and am weaning off of them quickly. However, following the ordeal up until that point, and with the prospect of being stuck in Atlanta all night hanging over my head, I decided to indulge in my taboo and downright naughty habit. I paid $9.15 for a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights (not my brand, but what the store in the airport had), and entered the smoking lounge.
Walking into a smoky room, steel chairs, no windows, and a quiet murmer of conversation was, for whatever reason, highly disconcerting. Nonetheless, I sat down, lit up, and sighed with relief. And, as I always do, began to people watch and (to be honest) eavesdrop on the conversations going on around me.
I was sitting by the sterile, hospital-looking sliding doors that looked out upon the rest of the airport, and noticed something interesting. Outside, in the smoke-free, less cancer-risky crowds, no one was speaking. Everyone sat at the gates, consumed in their blackberries, iPods, laptops, books, or thoughts, basking in solitude. Inside, huddled in clouds of carcenogins, we all chatted. From "can I use your light?" to "how long have you been stuck here?" the atmosphere was downright cordial. Despite the bleakness of the smokers lounge, it made me sad I was quitting.
Smoking is one club where there are no entry guidelines. Heck, even people with no money can get it if their bumming skills are up to par. And it got me thinking...
I am, largely, a rather isolated person. Sure, I have friends and family, and am very much part of a network. I have an astounding support system. I have no time to see most of them or be a very good reciprocal participant. I try, and I do have a strong core that are part of my daily life, but I still can go weeks on end without physically touching another person. However, I don't think I am alone.
There have been countless studies done on the impact technology has on human interaction. I've got no astounding knowledge to impart that isn't already there. But, I realized last night that most of my face-to-face, human bonding usually involves something that is "bad for me."
Smoking is a prime example. I made friends last night in the lounge, and we shared our snow woes. Back at my gate, I just grumpily eyed the entire lacrosse team that was about to board my flight with dread. Drinking is another good one. How many friends, even if the relationship lasts only until the next shot, have we all made in bars? And how about eating, my favorite "bad for me" activity? Eating is very social to me. When I am alone, I eat a salad and drink water (I literally do). When I am with friends, it is all about the Chinese take out and a beer.
Now, the lacrosse team, they had companionship based around something good and healthy. It made me sad that I am not atheletically inclined, and forced me to promise myself that at tomorrow's kickboxing class I would try to make a friend. Maybe. If I can stand up when its over.
I got on the plane very somberly, realizing that I needed to reshuffle my time and put more emphasis on reingraining myself in my network of friends and family, of decreasing the isolation.
And then, I sat next to Chris, the 39 year old personal chef from York, PA. Chris has two kids by two women, and an ex-wife with no kids. He had 15 pictures of his motorcycle on his iTouch, and one of his daughter. He told me in no uncertain terms that he knew I must be single because no man would "let" his woman travel as much as I do. Chris culminated two hours of talking my ear off and trying to convince me to put my head on his arm and go to sleep by asking me out.
For real?
It made me rethink my rethought stance on isolation.
I don't know, these are non-sensical musings. I am curious, though, if anyone has thoughts.
But, it rained. And was foggy.
I got to the airport at 4:00 p.m. and walked into my house at 2:30 a.m. Ten and a half hours, at least an hour of which was spent circling the Atlanta airport waiting to land. It gave me much time to muse (and curse under my breath).
The Atlanta airport is one of the last bastians of Western civilization that allows its patron to indulge in the increasingly taboo and downright nauthy act of smoking indoors. Now, I am trying really hard to quit, I am down to 3 cigs a day, and am weaning off of them quickly. However, following the ordeal up until that point, and with the prospect of being stuck in Atlanta all night hanging over my head, I decided to indulge in my taboo and downright naughty habit. I paid $9.15 for a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights (not my brand, but what the store in the airport had), and entered the smoking lounge.
Walking into a smoky room, steel chairs, no windows, and a quiet murmer of conversation was, for whatever reason, highly disconcerting. Nonetheless, I sat down, lit up, and sighed with relief. And, as I always do, began to people watch and (to be honest) eavesdrop on the conversations going on around me.
I was sitting by the sterile, hospital-looking sliding doors that looked out upon the rest of the airport, and noticed something interesting. Outside, in the smoke-free, less cancer-risky crowds, no one was speaking. Everyone sat at the gates, consumed in their blackberries, iPods, laptops, books, or thoughts, basking in solitude. Inside, huddled in clouds of carcenogins, we all chatted. From "can I use your light?" to "how long have you been stuck here?" the atmosphere was downright cordial. Despite the bleakness of the smokers lounge, it made me sad I was quitting.
Smoking is one club where there are no entry guidelines. Heck, even people with no money can get it if their bumming skills are up to par. And it got me thinking...
I am, largely, a rather isolated person. Sure, I have friends and family, and am very much part of a network. I have an astounding support system. I have no time to see most of them or be a very good reciprocal participant. I try, and I do have a strong core that are part of my daily life, but I still can go weeks on end without physically touching another person. However, I don't think I am alone.
There have been countless studies done on the impact technology has on human interaction. I've got no astounding knowledge to impart that isn't already there. But, I realized last night that most of my face-to-face, human bonding usually involves something that is "bad for me."
Smoking is a prime example. I made friends last night in the lounge, and we shared our snow woes. Back at my gate, I just grumpily eyed the entire lacrosse team that was about to board my flight with dread. Drinking is another good one. How many friends, even if the relationship lasts only until the next shot, have we all made in bars? And how about eating, my favorite "bad for me" activity? Eating is very social to me. When I am alone, I eat a salad and drink water (I literally do). When I am with friends, it is all about the Chinese take out and a beer.
Now, the lacrosse team, they had companionship based around something good and healthy. It made me sad that I am not atheletically inclined, and forced me to promise myself that at tomorrow's kickboxing class I would try to make a friend. Maybe. If I can stand up when its over.
I got on the plane very somberly, realizing that I needed to reshuffle my time and put more emphasis on reingraining myself in my network of friends and family, of decreasing the isolation.
And then, I sat next to Chris, the 39 year old personal chef from York, PA. Chris has two kids by two women, and an ex-wife with no kids. He had 15 pictures of his motorcycle on his iTouch, and one of his daughter. He told me in no uncertain terms that he knew I must be single because no man would "let" his woman travel as much as I do. Chris culminated two hours of talking my ear off and trying to convince me to put my head on his arm and go to sleep by asking me out.
For real?
It made me rethink my rethought stance on isolation.
I don't know, these are non-sensical musings. I am curious, though, if anyone has thoughts.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Shauna Kelley enters the blog world...
So here it is, my first blog following my first book deal.
This is still a surreal feeling, I must say, the idea that people might actually care about what I have to say. Who am I? I am 29, living in the big (little) city with my best friends and a gnarly little dog who makes me laugh more than anyone I know. I’m always a little bit fat, always look tired, and rarely know the right thing to say in any situation. And so, here is someone who reverts to quoting bad action movies from the 80’s when she is at a loss for words is charged with exposing some sort of wisdom for the masses.
OK, wisdom…wisdom…wisdom. I have no wisdom, I just have a book.
In September I will be a published novelist, putting out for the world my very first book. It’s not my best writing, I know, but it is the story that I love the most. Truth be told, I have often felt that it wasn’t my story, it’s a story I got to tell. But now I sound flighty, and that feeling is something that definitely isn’t me.
Me, I’m frenetic. I look especially tired today. Worked 10 hours, and am militantly avoiding homework. So, as Max and Menna moves closer and closer to being a real, tangible book, maybe the best thing to blog about is how the story came to be.
The thing is it took me more than seven years to finish this novel, and then the culmination came within three months. I had written the same scenes over and over and they were never quite right, and I came to understand why.
Max, Menna, Nick, and the other characters in this book face adversity that I cannot begin to imagine. Sure, I had my issues as a child. My upbringing was far from perfect, but I don’t know anyone who had a perfect childhood. Imperfect though it was, I had loving parents, and always had enough to eat, enough to read, and a people who cared where I was. And so, here I was, with my angsty arrogance (which most of us had in huge supply during our teen years), thinking that I could write about people who had hard lives.
And so, the words never ever came the way I wanted them to, because I was a fool to think that I could understand the situations that I in fact dreamed up. I had to face hardship in my life. I may have thought life was hard, but it wasn’t until I turned 24 that I ever began to understand what hard is.
Trust me, I am not deluded or self-pitying. I know I still have it really, really good. But writing Max and Menna was made possible through emerging from pain and struggle and realizing that I was OK. It wasn’t until I was 24 that I began to have enough perspective to write this story.
What happened at 24? Quite simply, and very melodramatically, I fell in love. I promise that the culmination of this story will not be about how love unrequited made me understand hardship. I promise, there is so much more to my story than that.
But right now, I have to finish packing. My plane for Florida leaves well before dawn, and I haven’t yet started laundry. Ah work.
Sleep well, and happy dreams to you all!
This is still a surreal feeling, I must say, the idea that people might actually care about what I have to say. Who am I? I am 29, living in the big (little) city with my best friends and a gnarly little dog who makes me laugh more than anyone I know. I’m always a little bit fat, always look tired, and rarely know the right thing to say in any situation. And so, here is someone who reverts to quoting bad action movies from the 80’s when she is at a loss for words is charged with exposing some sort of wisdom for the masses.
OK, wisdom…wisdom…wisdom. I have no wisdom, I just have a book.
In September I will be a published novelist, putting out for the world my very first book. It’s not my best writing, I know, but it is the story that I love the most. Truth be told, I have often felt that it wasn’t my story, it’s a story I got to tell. But now I sound flighty, and that feeling is something that definitely isn’t me.
Me, I’m frenetic. I look especially tired today. Worked 10 hours, and am militantly avoiding homework. So, as Max and Menna moves closer and closer to being a real, tangible book, maybe the best thing to blog about is how the story came to be.
The thing is it took me more than seven years to finish this novel, and then the culmination came within three months. I had written the same scenes over and over and they were never quite right, and I came to understand why.
Max, Menna, Nick, and the other characters in this book face adversity that I cannot begin to imagine. Sure, I had my issues as a child. My upbringing was far from perfect, but I don’t know anyone who had a perfect childhood. Imperfect though it was, I had loving parents, and always had enough to eat, enough to read, and a people who cared where I was. And so, here I was, with my angsty arrogance (which most of us had in huge supply during our teen years), thinking that I could write about people who had hard lives.
And so, the words never ever came the way I wanted them to, because I was a fool to think that I could understand the situations that I in fact dreamed up. I had to face hardship in my life. I may have thought life was hard, but it wasn’t until I turned 24 that I ever began to understand what hard is.
Trust me, I am not deluded or self-pitying. I know I still have it really, really good. But writing Max and Menna was made possible through emerging from pain and struggle and realizing that I was OK. It wasn’t until I was 24 that I began to have enough perspective to write this story.
What happened at 24? Quite simply, and very melodramatically, I fell in love. I promise that the culmination of this story will not be about how love unrequited made me understand hardship. I promise, there is so much more to my story than that.
But right now, I have to finish packing. My plane for Florida leaves well before dawn, and I haven’t yet started laundry. Ah work.
Sleep well, and happy dreams to you all!
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