I had an interview with a Chinese newspaper the other day. The journalist turns out to know both my mom and dad. He said something like, "Oh, you have good lineage." I'm not sure what that means but I took it as a good thing. The interview was set up by a family friend, Aunt Anna, who has taken a nice interest in my writing. She sent out some query emails to two Chinese publications and a few days later, two interviews! I'll be conducting both in my amazing Chinglish.

This particular writer actually has quite the story himself. He was in the Army for twenty years as a war correspondent. He wrote a book in 1985 about an ex-soldier who has been wounded and lost an eye, and then he moves to America but isn't sure if it's the right place for him. He said they printed 90,000 copies of the book at the time. That's a huge number. If a book sold 100,000 copies nowadays, that would be a runaway best seller. Due to a larger population and less competition for publication, it was semi-normal for a book run back then. I think nowadays if you had an initial print run of 30,000 you'd be leaping for joy.

Part of me wishes I had the ability and training to do interviews. I love learning about people and asking them all sorts of questions. I'm pretty much curious about anything. Strangely, I hate reading interviews, especially the ones with celebrities or musicians or whatnot. The format loses me for some reason, even though the words are much more direct than through a story that has the occasional quote. I'd really love to follow someone(s) around and try my hand at documenting their words/life.

I love reading the spotlights and profiles in Entertainment Weekly or Rolling Stone. It's like you find an angle, spin it out, and then get to tell the world what you think the person is like. The skill of interviewing is something I'd be interested in acquiring.

I've had thoughts about coming up with mini-profiles and articles about people I know in my life (or even strangers?) but it's difficult because sometimes in trying to tell a story, you might have to say negative or possibly offensive things. For example, what if I wrote that someone seemed "flippant, superficial, immature, or uncultured?" They'd hate me forever!

But if someone is willing to be a test subject, I'm game to try profiling them. I really admire the people who can capture a person's look or persona with just a few sentences and details. I'm wholly incapable of it so I should really practice.

My class is over. We had our final performance last night and the whole thing came off famously. I wasn't sure how many people would show up but the room was packed. Easily fifty or more people. When we arrived for rehearsal, we each got a chance to stand up on the stage and practice adjusting the mic, read a few paragraphs, and get a good view from the elevated platform. That view was so key, but it can be disconcerting to look over a crowd for the first time. Seeing empty chairs and getting a sense of the space was useful.

I hadn't memorized any bits of my story. I knew that would make maintaining eye contact easier but I felt it was more important to get my words right. I'll look up when I got the chance. I had spent the previous night revising, making everything more colloquial, taking out all the alliteration that made my FOB-tongue stumble, and inserting a few more transitional phrases. I felt good about the piece, I felt good about my practice. The advice that Jon G and Heather gave me that afternoon was to "show more emotion." That could have been their advice to me for life, not just this performance.

Originally, I was slated to go second to last, right after intermission. In my head, I knew that my piece would probably work best first. It was short, it was frothy, and it was less serious than anybody else's. Chuck and Cathlin were the experienced performers of the group and maybe they should have bookended it, but both of their pieces were long. As we rehearsed, Sam changed the order and asked if Yasmine or I could go first. I volunteered myself. Not because I was dying to get on stage first, but because I just wanted it to be over.

Some people thrive on attention, spotlight, and audience feedback, I do not. It just makes me insanely nervous and self conscious. I had decided not to wear my typical thermal under my t-shirt for exactly this reason. Recently I've been breaking out in a mild sweat whenever something uncomfortable has been happening (speed dating, random social events). It's like Spidey sense, but useless and embarrassing.

I wanted to wear my hoodie up on stage, because it gave me more girth, but the whole space was so damn hot that I just ended up reading in my white tee. I sweated anyway, pausing a few times during my ten minute reading to wipe my head and then clear my palms. Goodness.

Overall, my reading went well. I'd like to think that I pull through better in the clutch. And I know I gave my best performance that night, with some good pauses, some better articulation, and better facial expressions. So it was a success. At the same time, it wasn't nearly as good as it could have been. I wish someone else had read it, then it would have been better. But that's not what this life challenge was about. I had to get up there and read. And I did.

Something to work on for next time: figuring out what to do with my hands. I tend to clasp and unclasp them. It makes me look intensely nervous and childish. Neither of which I was, of course.

The Art of Relationship War
A How-to

Pat Benatar, with her feline eyes and massive collection of spandex onesies, told us a long time ago, “Love is a Battlefield.” She sonically declared there would be no promises, no demands, and only love as war. The video for her song featured choreographed dancers doing moves that would now be relegated to the six o’clock aerobic hip hop class. But back then, as Pat shoulder shimmied a sleazeball off the dance floor and right out of her life, I knew that what she had to say was forever true: Love was a battlefield.

It makes so much sense doesn’t it? Love as war? A person’s heart has to be defended at all costs. Battles waged in the name of love have to be as fierce as those waged for independence. Fiercer even. Cast aside family ties and fight, like brother versus brother at Gettysburg. Overcome invincible odds like the heroic 300 did at Thermopylae. Charge epically, romantically, suicidally, into battle like the Light Brigade. That’s how fiercely you have to fight for love. As Wesley from the Princess Bride tells us, the fight is always “to the pain!”

So, when engaged in ultimate battle, with no recourse but the utter destruction of your enemy, who to turn to for advice but the Chinese? Well, not me exactly. But more specifically, Sun-Tzu, legendary theorist, heroic general, best selling author, and almost certainly a hit with the ladies. Somewhere in this spindly body of mine, his blood courses strong and proud, waiting to take over and assume command.

Sun-Tzu, he of the super styling fu manchu, laid down thirteen steps for success in any war-like endeavor. He started with Laying of the Plans (”Get a girlfriend”), asked for a definition of success (”Got a girlfriend”), and then wound through Plans for Attacking, Positioning, and Deceiving (”Keeping a girlfriend”). His last two chapters, the ones covering the proper use of fire and spies, were tactical masterpieces -- and my personal favorites -- so I’ll highlight a few things from there.

Who, when given the opportunity, hasn’t looked at their significant other’s email? Just a quick peek your heart says, while your brain is helplessly muttering, “Don’t do it! Respect her privacy!” That rational brain is soon screaming, “Who the fuck is this Mike character and why is he emailing her five times a day?” A bullet, imagined or not, is tearing through layers of your skin, your bone, your cartilage, fat, tendons and trust. The gaping hole left behind is waiting for some answers. You need some truth.

But (!), don't confront her, because then she’ll know you’ve been spying. Answers can be far more easily attained through a quick Google search. I highly recommend using quotes around the first and last name for more accurate results. It just works better.

Spying, or the gathering of intelligence, is usually counter intelligent. But being stupid can sometimes be really smart. You knew by opening Pamela’s inbox, that nothing positive could conceivably come flooding out. It would have been better to slide your mouse over to the “Sign Off” button and be done with it. But love is war, and knowing is half the battle. So I -- I mean, you -- read on, and maybe copy-paste some incriminating phrases. Maybe forward a line or two along to your friends for analysis. Then maybe send the whole thing when they ask for “more context.” All fuel for fiery retribution.

In his chapter dealing with fire, Sun-Tzu recommends waiting until the perfect moment to unleash vengeful fury. “If there is an outbreak of fire, but the enemy’s soldiers remain quiet, bide your time and do not attack.” Patience he means, don’t blow up everything all at once. Hold a little something back to knock your opponent, otherwise known as the love of your life, on their ass when they least expect it. Heaven knows you’ve been texting Sally from accounting a few more times than professionally necessary. And when the heated discussion about your possible but probably non-business use of “Miss you, see you Monday!” comes up? That’s the time to drag Mike and his five daily emails into the open. Fight fire with fire they say.

Sun-Tzu not only recommends holding something back in the arguing department, his Art of War emphasizes the importance of having reserves. Alternates, backups, troops to save the day. Never show off your entire repertoire and always tuck something up your sleeve. The general who throws his entire army into battle has no surprises left to spring.

Of course, there are nice surprises and not-so-nice surprises. Bringing her flowers when you’ve declared yourself a diligent non-romantic? Good surprise. Bringing her flowers because you’ve just lost rent at the casino? Bad surprise. Showing up uninvited when she’s out with just her friends? Surprise!

In a related lesson, it’s always better to not be too predictable. Or to let a girl know everything about you. As a Sun-Tzu admirer by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte once said, “You must not fight too often with one enemy, or you will teach him all your art of war.” Don’t be an open book. Be opaque, be difficult to grasp, be mysterious. Women love a good mystery. Nancy Drew, Agatha Christie, Angela Lansbury...and Velma from Scooby Doo, all shining examples of the female’s superior observational powers. It takes three times as much effort to hide something from a woman’s omniscient glare than from any male’s stupefied gaze.

Boys are also, by their very nature, entirely ill equipped to think of themselves as less clever than anybody else. Girls, by their sugar and Spice Girl empowered nature, know that boys aren’t nearly half as smart as they think they are. But boys can use that imbalance to their advantage. When faced with a difficult question, act confused; Sun-Tzu would call this allowing your enemy to underestimate you.

For example: “Did you love her as much as you love me?” “I don’t think I knew what true love was back then, so I can’t say.”

“Do you think she’s attractive?” “In what way?”

Deny, deceive, play dumb, and then run. A good warrior knows when to retreat. Sun-Tzu, Chapter Four, page ninety-six.

What Sun-Tzu counsels above all else, however, is that the best victory is one achieved without fighting. The general who accomplishes his goals without violence is the one to be admired. I understand and agree wholeheartedly. My man Sun is talking about passive aggressiveness isn’t he? To fight without fighting, right? Let water destroy rock, hugs instead of slugs, and rainbows before elbows.

In learning to turn the other cheek, it’s obvious that nothing infuriates a girl more than when you aren’t infuriated. So when she says: “Oh honey I’m sooo sorry I was talking to Justin all night, did you mind? It’s just we haven’t seen each other since, like, forever.”

Don't react. Intergalactic wars have been started for far less, I know. But don’t shrug her hand off your arm. Don’t grimace. Don’t even raise an eyebrow. The proper response, the art of relationship war response, is to shrug your shoulders and let it go -- for now. Cool off for a few weeks, wait for her guard to be down, and then fling the dagger.

“Oh honey, Sarah and I are going to get dinner and some drinks. I haven’t seen her since we broke up. She kind of wants to hang out alone. You don’t mind do you? It’s just we haven’t seen each other since, like, forever...” Be sure to imitate her exact wording and cadence. Practice beforehand if you have to. Borrow a mirror, buy a recorder, something.

The sudden similarity will hammer home your point, while having the dual advantage of reminding her that you were perfectly calm and collected when she transgressed, so she can’t say anything. She has to let you go. Make sure to dress up extra nice, exit with a big kiss, and thank her for being “so understanding.” Bonus points for leaving your phone behind in a place she’ll notice as soon as you leave.

Let’s see if she talks to Justin ever again.

Sun-Tzu, freaking genius right?

By committing to his thirteen simple lessons (like I have) you might strategically lose a few battles here and there, but trust me, you will never lose the war.

For thirteen months, I drove exotic cars at twice the speed limit, sent pedestrians flying toward the nearest curb, and teased cops in my rearview mirror before boosting quickly away. At my finely tuned best, I could get from Point A to B faster than anyone else. The streets of San Diego, Atlanta, and Detroit were filled with an unending stream of wannabe racers, all hoping to dethrone the champ. Nobody could do it, I was the man among men, and it all felt incredibly, deflatingly…false.

It had started off well a summer ago, when my interview for a vaunted game tester position had been a series of softballs like: "So what did you play growing up? What system did you have? Do you love games?" I wasted no time dipping into my list of authentic gamer experiences. The real ones, the ones that made the interviewers nod their heads in appreciation. When I got the job, I was thrilled. Finally, a career. A dream fulfilled. I was in the video game industry. Mom, I made it.

There was a problem looming though: I wasn't one of the boys. It wasn't in me, I couldn't adjust to being around only guys for twelve hours a day. Especially guys that somehow managed to pair testosterony bravado alongside an obsession for Super Mario and his ongoing quest to rescue his one true love, Princess Peach.

Nobody called bullshit here? Guys who love video games aren't cool, that's exactly how you got uncool in the first place, by staying inside and playing video games all day. Why pretend otherwise? At least that what I'd thought.

Unexpected Lesson #1: Cool is relative
In real life, away from the confines of the testing lab, few of my co-workers could have been described as traditionally cool. Or popular. Nearly everyone was a social outcast of some sort. Dork, dork, geek, dork, geek, dork, nerd. These weren't even derogatory terms in any way, they were just descriptions. Nobody aspires to play video games for a living without a strong streak of dork-geek-nerd built in.

But instead of banding together into a happy League of Dorks, there was a clear hierarchy. Slumming at the very bottom of our geekdom was an unfortunate guy named Sean. The reason he became the verbal whipping boy of the testing lab? Well, heavens to all hell, his sin was that he was an unrepentant Nintendo fanboy. Sean's computer station was always decorated with the company's (official) paraphernalia. Action figures were neatly arranged on his monitor and carefully rotated in or out according to what pieces he wanted to show off that week.

Touching Sean's toys was predictably the easiest way to rile him up. So of course the bullies of the lab thought it was always hilarious to place Megaman and Luigi in compromising positions when Sean wasn't around. Then they would do the same thing to Donkey Kong and Diddy Kong. I didn't really find video game incest to be very amusing, but it was laugh or be laughed at — the law of the gamer jungle — so I laughed. Secretly though, I admired a guy who took pride in his toy collection.

Unexpected Lesson #2: Mulan had it easy
For some reason, I was the only Asian in the gaming lab for quite a few months. That meant any Asian related question was directed my way. Number one on that list was always "Hey, how do I get Asian girls to talk to me?" I wanted to say, "Well, it would help if you were less creepy" but instead offered neo-Confucian phrases likes "Be persistent and the path will become clear" or "Don't ask her what country she's from."

Another frustrated co-worker told me that whenever he approached a circle of girls at the club, they would all turn their backs, shutting him out. "What's the deal with that?" he asked. I used a predator versus herd analogy and told him to wait for the weak one to be separated out. Then quickly buy her a drink before she retreats to safety. "We're a group minded people, you have to keep that in mind." I dispensed useless advice and they drank it up because I was the voice of Asian authority.

Halfway through the development cycle, we hired another foreigner, a female tester. Before her arrival, the only other females in the company were the two receptionists, who liked to come through the lab every once in awhile, jump or giggle on command (literally), and generally boost morale. But now a girl was actually going to be in the lab with us and a big meeting was needed to prep us for it.

Jason, our boss, told everyone that sexual harassment was a big deal. Talking, touching, disparaging, praising, any of these things could constitute sexual harassment if taken the wrong way. Having half naked pictures of women on computer wallpapers was no longer allowed. Calling everyone "gay" or "bitches" was to be curtailed. He reminded everyone to be respectful of each other, girls and boys alike.

At the end of his little speech, the first question asked was "Is she hot?"
Jason rolled his eyes and said, "What do you think?"

I think the poor girl last two weeks. She quit after someone decided it would be a nice initiation to fart in her general direction. From two feet away.

Unexpected Lesson #3: Tbc

Just a few hours earlier we had been discussing our "in case of parental death" protocol. One of our friend's mom was dying and everyone was put on high alert. His family had been ready for awhile now, since Stage Four cancer rarely spares. What hadn't been discussed was what should be done in case of friend emergency. We were all well versed on congratulations, graduations, marriages, babies, lay offs, break ups, and most everything in-between. Death was new. There wasn't a humorous email chain about Kevin's mother passing away. Nobody hit "Reply All." And that felt weird.

When our friend was run over by a speedboat in the Bahamas, it took all of ten minutes before the competition for best new nickname ensued. She had escaped with relatively minor injuries so it was easy to make light of the incident. "Scuba-Lynn" or "Lynn-atee" were the clear winners. We talked about making T-shirts, or at least an oversized button to commemorate the event. Lynn was highly amused and we congratulated ourselves on being supportive and caring "in our own way."

This time around, "in our own way," was confusing. I couldn't decide if it was normal for friends to fly in for a funeral, especially if you weren't close to the family. Lilly, already in San Diego, had slipped in at the end of our conversation, "You can stay at my house if you want, Jess' room is open." The way she said it, it seemed like she assumed I would be going home.

But wait, I wanted to ask, "Is everyone else going down? Is that what we're supposed to?" I didn't realize flying home was the automatic next step. I thought maybe we would consider sending flowers, or an apologetic email, or maybe hope for voicemail. Were there other options available, or this was something you just did because it was tradition, like reluctantly standing there with all the other unmarried males, waiting for the stupid girdle to go flying by?

After getting off the phone with Lilly, I immediately consulted my other adult friends, the ones I considered mature enough to give sage advice. The consensus seemed to be, "If you're free, you should go."

Hum, well, I was unemployed, I had a general policy to never plan more than two days ahead, and I had no life. Of course I would be free. Decision made. It hadn't been as easy as that though. A wise person had told me to call around and ask for bereavement rates. I didn't even know what those were but they sounded like a great idea. Unemployed remember?

So later that night, I spent forty fear filled minutes in front of my apartment at three in the morning, checking around for the cheapest flights between SFO and SAN. I was crouched outside because the inside of my apartment lacked reliable cell phone reception. Any phone calls had to be made standing out in the street, something I generally tried to avoid past midnight because the Mission still seemed terribly sketchy to me.

The last time I had stepped outside for a four o'clock cigarette, I had turned back after eavesdropping on a conversation between someone speaking in near-tongues and her friend, who sounded exactly like Chucky. Or he maybe he was an actual six year old but anybody who let a six year old hang around on my stoop in the middle of the night probably didn't have my best interests at heart. I'd packed my cigarette away that night and headed indoors before even making it past my gate. Since then, I've totally kicked my late night cigarette and stroll habit, replacing nicotine with the soothing safety of a locked door. Now I was outside on the phone, trying to make a deal and keep an eye on both alley entrances at the same time.

The first thing I found out about bereavement rates, also known as "compassion fares," was that they required proof of death. That made business sense, I guess. Airlines would have to prevent being taken advantage of by last second travelers somehow.

Proof of death required the name and relationship of the relative, in addition to the name, address, and phone number for the funeral home, hospice, or hospital. Sometimes they needed the name of the doctor. I clearly didn't have any of those, and wasn't about to ask. Getting home immediately wasn't looking good.

Luckily, after some calling around, I secured a $39 Southwest "Wanna get away?" promotion ticket. For the record, Southwest doesn't offer bereavement rates because "our fares are already the industry's lowest." Thank you Southwest for your daily compassion.

The next afternoon, "good friends fly home" badges pinned on our hearts, my friend Adam and I flew home.

It's t-minus a few days before my new Macbook arrives. I have been craving a new laptop for months but I finally bit the bullet. I mean, after dropping $500 for no reason last week, I figured it's now or never to splurge. Ameer was going to get a new Mini with his Elsie discount so I figured maybe I could get in on the action. Thanks to both of them, my new Macbook, juiced to 4 gigs of RAM and 320 gigs of hard drive space, will be here shortly.

I'm expecting my life to change. It probably will.

In its final days, my old iBook is really starting to put up a fight. Crashing randomly, battery draining after thirty minutes, refusing to connect to wireless. It's like deciding you're going to break up with your girlfriend and then she gives you a thousand more reasons to do it. Never look back, never waver. She's making it really hard to even be nostalgic because I'm mostly just frustrated with how slow she is. Ex to the next, hurry.

Tonight's random writing group, brought to me once again by Craiglist, was really great. It was held at a stranger's actual apartment and I was worried that maybe I'd be abducted or something. I was also worried that they'd so freely give out their address and phone number -- they clearly weren't concerned for their safety. It turns out the host was a very pleasant English girl, with a charming accent and a very interesting living space, including paintings of the ocean that reminded me of David Attenborough's nature documentaries. She informed me that not many people would be showing that night, and apologized, but that was just fine with me. A few minutes later, another guy showed up, full of frantic energy and short quick laughs. He had a tattoo of a heart on one arm and a cartoon rocket on the other.

My greatest fear jumping into these groups is being terrible. That wasn't much of a problem the first time out last week (for a different group), as I arrived late and didn't have anything to share. I just sat down and started reading/critiquing other people's work. This time, we did a few writing exercises. Part of me fell in love already. I mean, people sitting around doing writing exercises? This was a dream come true right?

Then I sort of got it in my head that whatever I was writing/typing was going to be dull and tired. There's this moment where you're not sure what your co-writers are going to be capable of writing, and that makes you kind of afraid to share. Our first exercise was to pick up one of the books on the couch, find a sentence we liked, and then write for ten minutes starting with that sentence. I started with a line from Margaret Atwood's Moral Disorder. "After the murder of his wife, the peacock started behaving strangely."

I found out that while I wasn't necessarily terrible, I didn't write great either. I mean, for one, I wrote really slowly. Like the other two writers cranked out a good amount of stuff in such a short time. They had this sort of effortless way of describing things. I found myself self-editing a lot in my head. And I wrote really straight forward, without much spin or spark. I think it just takes practice. This is the closest to anything creative writing I've done since maybe grade school?

I have another meeting with the critique group on Thursday. I've discovered I suck at critiquing. Well, discovered is the wrong word. I knew I sucked at it, I just hoped I'd be a little better than I actually am. It's a totally different skill, writing versus critiquing. I'm excited to both write something for the meeting and try to be a bit more active with my opinions on other people's pieces.

After the murder of his wife, the Peacock started behaving strangely. On routine trips canvassing the city, he took to flying too low and was often seen weaving in and out of the tree line. Photos in the next day’s Daily Thunder were accompanied by op-eds that wondered if he’d actually been out policing the streets, or if he’d just been flying around aimlessly, fully costumed, and thus still getting paid, wasting everyone’s tax dollars.

It’d been a week and our reputation was taking a hit. Plus, it was getting on my nerves, having to avoid the issue, everyone saying that he just needed some space.

“David, I think we should talk a moment,” I said, as he landed at the furthest edge of the Aviary. As I walked over, he kept quiet, looking out into the sky, eyes focused into the distance.

“I think you forgot these.” I opened my hand to display a dozen inch-long metallic feathers. “They’re being found all over the city. People have been sending them back addressed to you.”

Turning his gaze from the horizon to my hand, David carefully picked up one of the feathers. He ran his thumb along one of the razor edges, drawing a thin smear of blood. He flicked the blue feather over the edge, watching it twirl down and away.

Leaping off the edge, I raced down to catch it, and then floated back up to face him. “Look at me, damn it. You can’t do that. You could kill someone from this height.”

“Is that so? Could I?” he said, his eyes finally flickering to life.

It's been a packed week of SF and I've been quite the industrious little helper. I helped George run a few car errands, I bought blazing 150 watt light bulbs for her lamps so we can have enough light to read by (I hate wishy washy lights when reading, it makes me sleepy), I huffed and puffed a few things into Amy's new apartment, and I was Dann's little elf when did he ran his speed dating thing. Plus I set up Jaz with Twitter. Who's next?!

Clearly I've had not much to do this week so any group activities people suggest, I'm in for. It annoys George that I don't group reply, to which I answer, "I'm coming, it's a given. What else do I have to do?" When my days actually fill up with things to do that don't involve group hanging out or dinners and such, I'll be sure to hit that Reply All button. My general policy is to just email the person organizing and say I'm coming. I don't know why but it's similar to my anti-responding-to-Evite policy. I don't reply to Evites unless absolutely necessary, and sometimes not even then. I'm not sure why this is but I hope I have a good rational reason for it somewhere. Maybe not. It could be a totally annoying social faux pas actually.

If it is, maybe I need to Tact Papers myself. "Stop pretending like you're more important than other people and reply all/respond already. Asshole." Oh related news, Lilly and I's long talked about fun project just got off the ground. Tact Papers: When you don't know what to say, we'll say it for you! Please? It's still in beta, or maybe even alpha, but we're taking requests now.

I've also been trolling Meetup and Craigslist for activities and groups. I need to find a life fast and it begins with finding some fellow writers. So far I've sent out queries to a few writing groups that are meeting next week, I've signed up for an art history salon on Friday mornings (we'll see if I ever wake up for that one), I'm working up the courage to volunteer or workshop at 826 Valencia, and I'm hoping to check out a few writing organizations and maybe even take a class or two. And of course there's book clubs and board game nights to explore. I may have to introduce the Bay to Squabble, one handful of people at a time. I'm hoping to be the Johnny Appleseed of that movement.

Here's the thing I'm realizing about looking for other writers: I'm realizing that it's going to be unlikely that I can find a group that's predominantly 20s-30s unless I go ahead and start one -- which I'll try to do I think. Everyone I've contacted this week has seemed to be older than me, sometimes by a lot. While there's a lot to be said for a diverse range of age, experience, and interests, I guess I'm still stuck in this idea that the people I would like to talk books and writing with would be people I might also be friends with. I need to separate out those two things. Friends are friends and writers are writers. If the two should dovetail that would be awesome but by limiting myself to some idea of a similarly aged peer writing group, I'm probably closing off multiple avenues of exploration. I need to get over my age-ism, quick.

I read about this one semi-famous spot in SF where writers of all types gather every week and they just read aloud to one another. Bring in up to six pages of work, read it to the group, and then shut up while they critique it and offer opinions. How scary is that? I gotta do it one of these days. Gotta.

Two years ago I went to this planning retreat for an Asian-American arts showcase, to get some information about being involved for the fall exhibitions, but I couldn't follow through because I left the Bay soon afterwards. Now I'm hoping to jump in there again, and try to stick around for a few events and to work behind the scenes on something with other people. Bring some of that old college collaboration back. I miss things like that. If there's one thing I really think post-college life needs, it's a project to get involved with. It's something I wish you could do with just friends. Pick a hobby or a project and just sit around and do that with your free time. I love hang out time and social outings but there's also more too right? I like leaders, I like followers, I like group dynamics, I like unified goals, I like teams, I like accomplishment.

Dann was kind enough to give me the chance to watch him do his speed dating thing (there's a post about observing the actual event coming soon, it was quite fascinating and educational). He's started running some speed dating nights and it involves setting up the venue, hosting the event, and then all the post-organization stuff like logging matches, posting photos, etc. It's always fun times watching a friend be in charge. I like it when friends are in charge. It's a side of people you don't usually get to see -- unless you went to college or worked together -- and it totally reveals a new side of them.

Please invite me to come visit you at work or any activities where you're in charge. I'll be unobtrusive, I promise. Plus I take directions well and am an excellent helper. References available upon request.

Did you know that Jack Kerouac often ended up back at home, living with his mom, in-between his crazy adventures and cross country jaunts? When stuck in a hard place or needing some down time, little Jack would run on home to Mommy Dearest in Long Island. Towards the end of his life he never left her side, eventually passing away before her, when he was only forty seven. I mention this because somewhere in this tale marks my Mom's greatest fear. That I'll continue to run home whenever I need a place to stay. "But," I say, "Jack Kerouac lived with his mother until he was forty seven and look at what a great writer (arguably) he turned out to be." I leave out the dying part though.

I can't even say for certain that this is my up and out moment. I'm going to San Francisco "for reals" in two days but that may last only a few months or through the summer. I mean, the last time I left San Diego was two years ago and I eventually mosied my way back home after a brief stop in Orange County. My original deadline for moving out of San Diego was last September, or was it June? Now everything is up in the air again and who knows where I'll be in six months since it's contingent on so many things.

But shit's exciting that way. I like the unknown.

The only thing I really have to do in the next month or two is figure out what my next book will be about. My original fleshed out synopses were semi-rejected. I submitted them back in December and felt pretty good'em. However, I talked to my editor recently and while they like the two ideas I expanded on, they prefer I stick to a female protagonist. That's great because I'll write anything they want me to write but I'd really love to get away from celebrities, shopping, and the world I created the first time around. While they didn't ask for a direct sequel, they thought maybe something set in the same universe, perhaps using some side characters, that kind of thing, would be nice. In some ways, that's a grand suggestion and would be super easy to do but I'm not sure where to take a story that doesn't follow my original main character. Then again, isn't that what I'm getting paid and contracted to do? To be creative?

The best book I've read so far this year is "Special Topics in Calamity Physics" by Marisha Pessl. There was all this brouhaha about how her book got a lot of coverage because her author photo looked like this. Haters said that she was getting play just because she was a "drool worthy" new debut novelist. Then other people were upset that her author photo was too good looking, because in reality she looks more like this.

While I've always loved the title, the various debates about whether Pessl was hot or not made me decide it wasn't worth a read. How wrong I was. The book is fantastic and full of amazing passages, descriptions, and beautiful writing everywhere. I don't care what Pessl looks like, I think she's brilliant, and I haven't read a book that's made me want to copy down so many quotes in quite awhile. Here's a small selection:

(pg 97) "I'll admit I almost leapt from my seat and boasted, 'I've saved a life too! My shot gardener!' but thankfully I had some tact; Dad and I held in contempt people forever interrupting fascinating conversations with their own rinky-dink story. (Dad called them What-About-Mes, accompanying said phrase with a slow blink, his gesture of Marked Aversion.)"

(pg 206) "It was the cause of many of Dad's outrages too, when people elected themselves his personal oracle of Delphi. It was the grounds for many of his university colleagues going from nameless, harmless peers to individuals he referred to as anathemas or bete noires. They'd made the mistake of abridging Dad, abbreviating Dad, putting Dad in a nutshell, watering Dad down, telling Dad How It Was (and getting it all wrong)."

(pg 246) "Sometimes people say things simply to fill silence. Or as a way to shock and provoke. Or as exercise. Verbal aerobics. Loquacious cardio. There are any number of reasons. Only very rarely are words used strictly for their denotative meanings."

(pg 309) "Not returning phone calls is the severest form of torture in the civilized world."

(pg 422) "My heart landslided. My legs earthquaked."

I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I didn't move immediately, thinking that someone had accidentally bumped into me. Turning my head slowly around, I was greeted with, "I think we've met before."

I did a quick once over of her face. It was the girl I'd seen outside the café as I was heading out for a smoke. We'd made accidental eye contact as she sat talking on her phone. She'd looked vaguely familiar but in that every Asian girl looks the same until proven innocent way. University Heights isn't exactly a normal haunt for me and I didn't know anyone who could possibly be coffee shopping in the middle of the day, unless it was Lilly or Hong, and they were already seated right in front of me.

"Michelle's friend?"

Ah yes. Everything clicked. Michelle, ex-marketing manager at Omnis and one of Hong's good friends. I had last seen her at Izzie's going away slash birthday party, held at an old dentist's office last July. I had gone solo and ended up spending most of the evening hanging out with Michelle and her friend. What was her name? Something hard to pronounce. They were wearing party themed appropriate Eighties costumes then.

Now, the girl's almond shaped hipster glasses, her grown out mussy hair, and the contemporary clothing had changed her look entirely. But I remembered her and we exchanged hellos as she sat down at a table immediately to my left. I pushed my chair back so we could talk around the wall that had previously separated us.

My mind raced trying to dredge up details about her, or anything from our conversations before. I remembered that we'd had a few good talks and we'd gotten along well but nothing specific was springing to mind. If I was Evie from "Out of This World," I'd have paused the scene right there and run to check my friend files for background information. No dice. Instead, I picked up my coffee -- which I finally noticed was a chai latte and not a vanilla latte -- and began to furiously sip to buy time.

Oh right, she lived on Alabama Street, possibly a few houses down from Jennifer. I'd mentioned that I was down there all the time and that we should play board games. Some prediction that turned out to be, since I haven't been down there much at all, especially post-July. My brain was going into overdrive trying to recall something else but I was drawing blanks. I still couldn't remember her name. With my memory putzing out on me, I quickly made the "These are my friends" move to figure it out.

"Nochi." Um right, there we go. Hong had met her before too, a long time ago.

I asked her what she was doing at a café in the afternoon and she said that she was studying for her hair stylist test the following week. Now the mental floodgates opened and I remembered what we'd talked about before. Lots of hair and fashion. I was still wrapping up the book and we talked about fun words and procedures I should incorporate into it. Fortuitously, I had packed one of the advance copies into my bag earlier that day and was able to pull it out to show her my make-under scene, for her amusement and assessment of hair dressing veracity.

As she flipped through the book while we chatted, the only other guy sitting in her area spoke up and asked, "You're a writer? Can I ask what it's about?"

Surprised that a total stranger had poked his head into the conversation, but kind of intrigued, I answered that it was a young adult book for teens. In the future, I should probably leave out the "young adult" part since it's redundant with "teens." I have to get better at describing what it is I do. Much better. I tend to just mumble my way through a deflating explanation.

"I'm a writer too," he said, with a head nod indicating his laptop. I glanced over and tried to surreptitiously read what was on-screen. Too far away.

"Really? What are you writing?" I replied. This was like an exciting moment, meeting a fellow writer in a coffee shop in the middle of the day? That's exactly what I want my future life to be like. The downside was that he was probably the least interesting looking person in the place -- everyone else was overtly trendy or semi-hipster intriguing -- and seemed to just be a regular bald white dude. But don't judge a book by its cover I guess. Or do maybe.

Waving a hand over his keyboard, he said, "I'm working on something more theoretical, sort of philosophy."

"Oh, I was a philosophy major." Now my interest was really piqued.

Turns out that was as exciting as it got. While he was a very nice guy, recently emigrated from New York, his project was still in the alpha stages and sounded like one of those "I had a life epiphany and it involved Buddha and spirituality and now I want to write about it." You know, something I'd want to write if I didn't already realize how cliché it was. And how ultimately it would only be of interest to one person: myself. You could launch a paper Titanic with the number of personal epiphany manuscripts waiting to be finished (written most often by thirtysomething males).

In the back of my mind, I kind of wanted to say, "Actually, my agent is sitting right around the corner, you should go talk to her about your exciting project." But then Lilly would have killed me and deposed of my corpse in her client slush pile. Writing career over, friendship sullied.

With fading enthusiasm about having met a fellow writer, I instead turned my attention to conducting the conversation between the three of us. I found myself trying to balance the conversation ratio between not being overly rude and disengaged versus making sure Nochi wasn't bored. I tend to ask follow up questions to everything, especially with strangers, and I couldn't prevent myself from firing away at him. I mean, he was pretty interesting, even if he was a bit of a Chatty Cathy. Actually, he was a lot of a Chatty Cathy and thirty minutes later I was ready for him to go.

I couldn't feel out what Nochi thought about him though. I mean, this was the second time we'd met ourselves. If it had been Lilly and I trapped in that situation, we would have been halfway down the street laughing about it ten minutes ago after shared mental eye rolls and one of us feigning sickness (her) and the other playing concerned friend (me).

Through Nochi's responses, I was trying to gauge if she was just being nice or she was genuinely interested in what the guy was talking about. By the time Nochi's friend appeared out of nowhere to join the table, I'd decided that the best case scenario was to just butt out and let the conversation run its course. I'd jump back in later after he left.

This is what I mean by my increased social anxiety over the years. I'm hyper aware of everything, I try to measure how everyone is feeling all the time, and then I feel this need to have everything in equilibrium. Why I feel the need to conversation conduct is beyond me. I must have volunteered for it sometime in a past life, even though nobody posted a sign-up sheet. I never used to feel this way, at least consciously. Now this increased self-awareness is useful for educational (and de-briefing) purposes but it just makes me jittery during the actual interaction.

I think I'm going to practicing shutting up more often. I think it'll be good for me. Other people might like it too.

On a related note, I'm taking pre-orders for my life epiphany book, tentatively titled, "What I learned after Ameer pinned me to the ground and shoved sleeping pills (or placebos) in my mouth. A novel."

It's resolutions time. I've never made resolutions before, aside from general ones, but this is the year to start. Since I have no job, I decided I should be approaching my life like a job. Long and short term goals, accountability, reporting, and slacking off when the boss ain't looking. To that end, I looked up this "Free Tools to Manage New Year's Resolutions" thing and it said to use the S.M.A.R.T. method of setting goals and objectives. SMART means be Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic, and Timely.

Basically I'm avoiding the broad resolutions in favor of really small ones. I'm aiming for a high score here, maybe even an A. There's nothing I like better than having an application to track my progress so I'll be using Joe's Goals, which is still in beta but seems easy to use and display. Except apparently, right now, when I'm trying to set it up. Day one and I've already failed. Computer error. That figures.

Forget it, I'm moving on to 43things. Maybe I'll use Joe's Goals for the ones that require daily tracking and then 43things for the biggies. Or I could do a spreadsheet. I fear that I'll be bogged down by the organizational aspect of resolutions and do nothing. Never, I'm strong of mind and full of willpower -- or shit.

I think the big mistake in making New Year's resolutions is that people make them for the entire year. That's very hard to do. Life can change so fast that in a few months, weeks even, your goals may no longer be the same at all. What I've resolved to do is just set down some goals for the next three months, from January through March. After that my life will probably be totally different, I'll be super accomplished, and then I can make a new list of a dozen or so things.

After looking through my list, most of my objectives center around my potential career as a writer. I want to be either writing, practicing writing, or doing something to prep for EC to launch. Build a website, figure out some grassroots marketing to do, hold fan club elections, that sort of thing. I should also try to lay some groundwork for future books and freelance pieces. So those are on the list too.

The writing daily thing is huge too. Currently if I'm not working on a book (Book 3 ideas are submitted but they've yet to get back to me) I'm not really writing at all. I should be doing something, or going through a grammar or style book, but I'm not. Gotta get on that.

The other thing I really want to focus on is the performative aspect of being a writer. I've been watching a lot of TED talks recently (they are money on the iPhone) and I'm so impressed at how eloquent and humorous the speakers are. It would add some nice versatility to my repertoire if I could perform like that, and not just in a totally informal setting like job training or blogging workshops. Authors and writers need to multi-task these days, I think. I can't be afraid of being in front of people, of being interviewed, or of standing up and engagingly and clearly talking about my book(s). I was reading the first few pages of EC to someone the other night and I was appalled at how much I stumbled and muttered. I can't even read right right now. Putting a fix on that is priority quickness.

I don't have much of a performer in me but it would be challenging and potentially fun to do something like a Mortified, a poetry piece, anything that might allow me to get away from the computer and out in front of real people. Thus the memorizing thing. I can't memorize for shit right now and I need to work on it. Related to that is taking an acting class. My friend told me she takes this acting class and it's been revealing to have to open up like that. I hate/fear acting but this is something I think I should do, even if it's one drop-in class where I sit glued to my chair until it's my turn to play the quiet Asian. I'll call that a success.

The other short term goals include doing something physical on a regular basis (swim if I'm at home near my pool, ball anywhere else) and being a better friend. The last one is nebulous and ongoing but I think I need to learn to show people my appreciation more. Be it tokens, thoughts, words, white doves, something.

So there it is, my Jan-Mar 2009 resolutions. Bring it on.

Oh, I had been talking about having a resolutions accountability partner but so far there doesn't seem to be a likely candidate -- plus my goals are so tiny that I should be able to get a handle on it. I don't want to have someone trying to check in on if I did my writing homework or something every day. They'd get bored really quick. I think I will be able to find someone on some of the writing goals (D, you hear me?) and she's amazing motivation already.

Listening to: Kimya Dawson, "Tire Swing."

What to make of 2008? I can't say it's been a hard year but to be honest, it's been a hard year. If 2006 was the year of discovery, 2007 the year of recovery, then 2008 is the year of, well, something that rhymes with -covery. Whatever. I'm not even going to begin to complain because I haven't had a job for one day this year and the next time that'll happen will probably be awhile. Have I used all that free time wisely? Certainly not, but it hasn't been totally unproductive.

I've been going over past pictures, blogs, and journal entries in an effort to encapsulate what 2008 was about. For the most part, it felt disjointed, like big momentous things happened but then sped by to be replaced by long lulls where I sat home and itched for action. Let's just start with the stats of it all.

Best movies: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Iron Man, Planet B-Boy
Best books: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (M.Chabon), Love is a Mix Tape (R.Sheffield), How to be Alone (J.Franzen)
New friends made: Six
Contact lens prescription: -5.00 (left) and -4.75 (right), both increased slightly
Car odometer reads: 206,632 miles
Money wasted on online dating sites: $34.99
Web addresses bought: Two (jonwow.com and exclusivelychloe.com)
Twitter updates: 459
First five picks, fantasy basketball: C. Paul, A. Jefferson, C. Billups, A. Jamison, C. Anthony (currently number one)
First five picks, fantasy football: S. Jackson, L. Fitzgerald, M. Colston, R. Bush, J. Cutler (ended season in third place)
Buy a copy of EC (May 2009) and I earn: $0.40
Tagged photos of me on Facebook: 145
People kissed: Four
Music on repeat: Adele, Shortbus soundtrack, Girl Talk
Days I've been 30 years old: 122
MVL stock bought / sold: $30.25 (May) / $32.81 (Sep)
Money made from MVL stock: +$230.40
Colored iPhone apps: 18 blue, 8 red, 7 green, 15 orange/tan, 8 purple, 4 steel/neutral
Lowest Brain Tuner time: 15.62 seconds
Moblog entries: 293 (73 in August)
Blog entries: 63 hyperwest, 109 jonyangorg, 30 next thursday
Journal entries: 79
Movies seen in theaters: 37 (10 A, 12 B, 11 C, 4 D)
iTunes: 25,049 songs, 106.2 days, 123.84 gigs
Haribo gummy bears consumed: Infinity plus a handful

I collected approximately nine months worth of unemployment -- originally only six months, but George W. was kind enough to sign an extension during the summer. That allowed me to not only increase my savings but combined with living rent free at home all year, I didn't think about money once. Actually, I thought about it a lot but only how to use it. Would I buy new clothes, could I take more trips, should I buy trinkets? In the end, I didn't exactly splurge on anything, in an effort to conserve money for when unemployment ends, but I didn't penny pinch either. It was fun. For so long I've lived with the specter of having no money, or having to borrow, that I really enjoyed not even blinking at paying for things, or paying for other people's things. It's nice to buy people stuff, even if it's just a drink or dinner.

Unemployment ends in a week or so. My job hunt begins soon and barring a miracle, I'll be back at some terrible entry level job I hate. The trade off will (hopefully) be that I'm out of San Diego and moved up to somewhere like San Francisco. I dread the prospect of returning to a job but I won't even bitch about it because everyone else is dealing with real adult things like layoffs and keeping their jobs while still juggling bills. I have no job sure, but I also have no bills. And yes, I'm thirty.

As for writing, I've begun to become comfortable saying that I'm a writer. Until I could see the finish line for this book, I wasn't willing to say "writer" to describe myself unless pressed. Now, with it finished and completed, I'm willing to say, "I'm a writer," when someone asks what I do. I still feel like a sham about it but you are what you say you are. Unless you aren't. Either way, one of my goals for 2008, to actually try and start freelancing, failed miserably. I haven't technically had any writing responsibilities since July or so but I never got my act together to even try submitting articles, queries, or anything of the like. That goal will have to rollover I guess, like my minutes.

I attended four weddings this year (Stacey, PZ/Amy, Tien, Susan). I was not a bridesmaid for any of them, despite the release of Made of Honor in 2008 -- which I never saw, perhaps my fatal mistake. I guess that life goal will remain unchecked. My list of potential female friends who might even consider me to be bridesmaid status is quickly getting pared down though. So far nobody's been woman enough to shake things up and throw a great guy friend up there. C'mon people, someone be original. I'm running out of time! I've got a few dear friends planning weddings for next year so I'm keeping hope alive. I'm a size six and I look good in white (t-shirts).

The amazingly hopeful beginning of the year, filled with plans to travel to Southeast Asia with my fellow Dirty Thirty club members (James, Lynn, George) fell through. My grand plan to move to New York for the summer? Also fell through. The end of the year finds me where I swore I wouldn't be at the beginning; back at home, slumming in San Diego. Basically I'm all talk. I didn't move anywhere. No Hawaii, no overseas, no big international trips. I did manage to spend August in New York, make four separate trips to San Francisco, and a side trip to Washington DC. I could rally and go somewhere in January but that might cost me a month or two of rent when I move. Rent, trip, or new laptop? No brainer: laptop. Real brainer: rent. Not coming soon to an airport near you: me.

I guess it's okay though because now 2009 can start fresh and alive. "Hope" you know? On the very last day of 2008, the people I've called or talked to tonight to wish Happy New Year and such, the people whom I'm in constant daily contact with, are an entirely different group than a year ago. In fact, it feels a little bit like my close friend circle has changed. The old stalwarts, the people who've long dominated my late night, daily, and random but strangely consistent phone calls have all changed in the span of twelve months. This might not seem like much to you but for me, the bedrock of my general happiness and mini-socialness lies in these phone calls/texts/emails. So to have the whole bunch switch over has been really interesting.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I realized this had happened, when I'd fully replaced my habitual almost daily phone call person with someone new, that I saw the changes for what they were. The people I interact with, talk to, or know what's going on the most, are mostly people I didn't even know (or barely knew) last year. I'm not sure what that means exactly except that people move on, habits change, and my list of frequently dialed numbers has been altered for better or for worse.

On a sidenote, I'm currently working on a personalized friendship roles thingy based on this NBA Archetypes Hierarchy. More on that when it's done. I'm excited about it because I'm a retard and I get psyched about this stuff.

Part of what has made this year seem so topsy turvy is that matters of the heart have taken me far afield and into places I'd never expected. Technically speaking, I've been single for about a year and a half. As I navigate a continued friendship with my ex, I'd resolved to stay single for as long as possible to avoid hurting others (and myself I guess). Well that didn't exactly work out.

In the middle of the year, two really close friends and I got into this big old messy situation where we basically played two boys, one girl. As you can imagine, it was an awkward and emotionally wrenching couple of weeks. Not only was I facing the prospect of feeling alienated from my absolute best friend, it was also tied into complications and a new definition of friendship with my other friend. We sought solutions other than the obvious one of backing off, or having her choose, but in the end, I kind of just decided that I couldn't do it. Three way, open way, no way. I stepped out of the situation and to be honest, the awkwardness and emptiness of it all hasn't evaporated yet. C'est la vie.

I was either not brave enough or not crazy enough. Take your pick.

What I've learned (not necessarily from this situation), or hope to learn, is that it's not necessary that every time there is mutual attraction, there has to be a jump to hyper speed and a relationship. That's not an easy lesson to let sink in after years of indoctrination in the "date for marriage" school of thought. If anything, I'm incredibly fearful that I only know how to react to romance seriously, instead of lightly or from a "let's see what happens" approach. It'll be a nice lesson to explore and learn because I freaking suck at serious romance.

I tried to stay attachment free heading into 2009 (and flippantly I always said 2010) but in the end, I kind of failed. But happily. I'm sort of, kind of, definitely dating someone now and while that's an entirely scary thought with my horrendous track record, it is exciting and hopefully results in only the best. I think I learned quite a bit from my last attempt at a relationship and those lessons will ideally carry over into the new year, and into this new thing. "Keeping it real," as a friend of mine always wisely says. Wish me luck.

I guess that about covers it. 2008 in a nutshell. I'll end this with five great times, in chronological order.

(1) Going to the Super Bowl in Arizona with James, as an indentured servant for Okapix.
(2) The Celtics win their 17th championship. I misplace a $1500 winning ticket. Whoops.
(3) PZ and Amy's Wedding and the New York trip in general. Seeing Amit every day for like a month.
(4) Re-meeting my cousins, Cleo and Tiana, after seven years. They're totally grown up now and super fun and amazing.
(5) All the San Francisco trips, complete with oyster shucking, mash up parties, Little Mermaid sing-a-longs, 30th birthday celebrations, and Stevie Wonder-full.

I had a poetry class with Charlie (Black Eye Sunrise) years ago, at UCSD. I'd never written any poetry before, not really, and it's absolutely criminal that we were in the same class. I think his pieces are incredible and I could read them all day, which I basically do.

No More Poems to the Dead
Listen,
Be still for a moment.
In the year that I lost you
I drank more than I ate,
Roads stank of curbs
Which reeked of red
And peered over
Looming space.
I said:
Hear now, in the hour of my undoing,
I reject you, oh my dead friend,
Your fearful symmetry cannot fold me
Into the syllogism of paper cranes.
We are done,
Finally.
There is nothing left of us
Not even a memory,
Not even love,
And this evening is just
Another crest
Against the chest
While my heart still beats
To be broken.

After and during a Thanksgiving meal at my uncle's house, I was embroiled in discussion with a group of not-so-young teenagers. My cousin, now nineteen and a sophomore at Berkeley, had two of her childhood friends over. One was a year older, the other two years younger. They represented a perfect focus group for me. After giving them a thorough interview about the things they read as a young adult, scrolling through their iPod Nanos, and asking them about their obsessions, I got onto the topic of how they perceived their social status in high school. That somehow led to this gem:

"So when you did stop being shy?" I asked.
Sarah, the oldest one and seemingly very outgoing and probably the most comfortable with who she currently was, reminisced for me. "Like maybe sophomore year of high school."
"Oh yeah? Why?"
"I got my braces off." That answer, cliche because it's absolutely true, dissolved us all into laughter. It was the perfect response and her charming smile afterwards drove home the point.

For most of the evening, I'd been intently studying Ashley and her friends, watching them and more importantly, listening. What I realized is that I hadn't really captured the way real teenagers act/talk like very well in the Chloe book. I wrote teenagers as I've read them before -- it was a rendition based on a rendition. Even though I've been told that my dialogue represents female teens well, I noticed that I really did a piss poor job of capturing the little details that really highlight the way lines are spoken and a conversation is exchanged.

For example, the contrast between the hyper kinetic way one of the girls talked versus the slowly measured way my cousin chose her words and how that difference in energy changes the way you listen and react. And how talking really really fast tends to make a girl seem younger, even if her words are wise beyond her ears.

Plus I didn't put in enough physical cues, the sort that really capture a person. I stuck in some "beats" of course, but they were generic and not so much revealing as functional. The hardest thing I had to learn writing this book was working with dialogue. My first drafts read like screen plays and I found it an entirely new experience to have to vary the visual space of having people talk on a page. I kind of wish I had recorded parts of yesterday's conversation so I could practice recapping it in book fashion.

I've been trying to listen more to the world around me, in an attempt to become a more observant and better writer. It's difficult for me because my memory is terrible nowadays. I purchased a beautiful perfectly sized orange notebook a few weeks ago to carry with me, mainly to write down bits of conversation that I hear. It's not easy though, because people talk faster than I write. And I'm not in the habit of jotting things down quite yet. But I can work at it. For now, I'll just keep my eyes and ears open and find some more teenagers to study.

It's crazy to me how with it teenagers are. From re-meeting and interacting with my sixteen year old cousin this past fall, and exchanging weekly emails with her, I've realized that there really is no intelligence gap. There's an experience gap, a maturity gap (arguably), but there is no intelligence or worldliness gap at all. If anything, teenagers tend to have more stimulating conversations than the ones I'm typically engaged in with my peers, maybe because they (still) possess nimble curious minds and seem to have opinions about everything. Given a choice, I might very well prefer to hang out with the teenage crowd than the post-collegiate crowd. They seem to be more full of life, excitement, and possess this boundless optimism mixed with a wariness that's studied but not yet experienced. It's certainly a more invigorating combination than alcohol and banalness.

Advance reading copies of the book have arrived. Right into my grubby little hands. I spent a few hours at the bookstore today (and together with a partner in crime, amassed a dozen or so books, many of them for $2 apiece) and remarked on how anything put in book form automatically read so much better. And then magically my manuscript arrived all bound and pretty, and with a cover! This isn't the final version, of course -- that one won't be out for months (with a dedication page for damn sure) -- but it's pretty near complete. Start saving up now kiddies, everyone on your list will need one.

I wonder if I can go public with this thing yet. I mean, my greatest fear whenever a book is getting done is that it's all some big dream and if I reveal anything about it I'll wake up. Okay, keep it real, this has only happened once before. But still. I'm afraid to talk or speak about it because it feels like they can take it back at any point.

But now that the advance proofs are here, they're committed right?