snow day

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on February 12, 2010 at 4:49 PM

We’ve had more than a foot of snow in the past two days. This is unheard of. It snows so little, so infrequently in Texas that my primary memory of snow is when we got some small, scattered flakes that didn’t stick when I was in fourth grade. It was such a big deal that all of the classrooms in every grade got to go out to recess right then, just because for some of us, it would be the only time we saw snow in person.

Granted, I live about 200 miles north of there now, though still in Texas, and snow isn’t quite as exciting here as it was back home. But for me, and the hub-a-bub, it still is.

And, apparently, it is for a few dozen college students from various small towns where snow remains the Loch Ness Monster of Texas. Everyone’s heard of snow days, but only a handful of veterans have experienced it. Thursday afternoon and Friday, UNT canceled classes and closed the entire university. Us kiddos went out to play.

Kyle and I stayed cuddled up inside until it got dark, amazed at the silence falling from the sky for hours on end. Eventually, though, restlessness set in and Kyle wanted to take his Forester out to test its four-wheel-drive and maneuvering capabilities. I knew he’d do this sooner or later, and I figured I’d rather be there when he cost us thousands of dollars in auto repairs than listen to the story later.

As Kyle pushed my worry-filled little heart to its limit around town, we ran into some really cool, really funny stuff. Exhibit A: The people who built the giant igloo outside Bruce Hall (a dorm on campus). It was really, really awesome. The entrance was tall enough to walk into standing up, and the top was even bigger. We drove by slowly, looking out our windows, and Kyle noticed that their roof was caving in. Bummer. We started to drive away, but then I told Kyle to back up.

I rolled down my window and said, “Hey, I don’t know if you guys know this, but if you light a candle in there for just a little while, the inside layer of snow will melt and then when it refreezes, it’ll make a shell so your roof won’t cave in again.” The guys just looked at me with these big, surprised eyes.

Then one of them laughed and said, “Have you done this before?”

“No, that’s what the Eskimos do.” (PC term is Inuit, but most people don’t know that, so I went with the traditional so they’d think I as slightly less crazy.)

“Wow, well… thanks.”

Tehe.

Exhibit B: Soon we came across people sledding on cardboard down this steep hill by one of the buildings across from the Rec. Kyle parked and we got out to go watch the ones closest to us. They were taking forever to build up their nerve, though, and the wind brought just a tiny snippet of the three boys down the way, “Okay, so once you’re airborne…”

Needless to say, they had built a snow ramp and were planning on doing a ridiculously hilarious/suicidal jump that would probably take them into the side of the building. We left for sanity’s sake.

On our way back, we encountered a couple mackin’ in the snow. Cute. We saw a whole family of snowmen outside someone’s house, each playing a different musical instrument. Also, some super drunk girls walking home from a bar that asked us our names and repeated them about twenty times before leaving us alone. We had a snowball fight and made a failed attempt at a snowman (I didn’t have gloves). Then we came inside and warmed up. 😉 (What? We’re married now!)

It was a fun night.

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Searching for Pineapples

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on February 10, 2010 at 2:41 PM

As my regulars know, I’m in the tedious process of extending the word count of my novel, St. George’s Eve. Adding words, phrases, and sentences here and there on every page takes forever, and honestly, isn’t much fun. What I have found, to my surprise, is that (at least the way I’m doing it, which is very discriminately) it actually makes my work better. So, it’s a lesson learned. But what is fun, more often than not, is adding entire new passages. Simply because it doesn’t take so long and it feels more natural to me.

Being the slave-driver that I am, I don’t allow myself to do these passages as I come to them. Even though they’re more enjoyable, they take away from the time I’ve set aside for the page-by-page process and I end up procrastinating.

So as I scroll through, adding bits here and there, I eventually come across a portion that can be expanded drastically by adding an entirely new section to the text. Not wanting to get sidetracked, I simply type “PINEAPPLE” and highlight it in yellow. Then I trudge along my merry little way with tiny snippets that take forever to add up to any 0’s in my final word count.

Once a week, I allow myself to search for pineapples.

I find all of them, with my “find” tool under “edit,” and choose the one that best suits my creative mood at the time. Then I get to really stretch my legs and go for a jog—metaphorically, of course. This is fun.

Why once a week? My critique group meets once a week on Tuesdays. I like to have something to take to that, or it feels like wasted time. And since I will have to write all of the pineapples eventually anyway, I always write one in time for this. It’s like a weekly allowance to reward myself for good endurance. And this week is sucky for me, so I’m getting an advance on my pineapples.

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dream poetry

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on February 6, 2010 at 5:11 PM

I’ve blogged before about thinking of poem ideas as I’m falling asleep. But last night, for the first time, I realized that I actually write poetry in my sleep. No kidding.

When Kyle got up this morning at 5, it was still midnight-dark outside. The soft sounds of his getting dressed woke me directly from a dream… about which I was composing poetry in my head… while still asleep. This is hard to believe even as I write it, even though it happened to me. I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life.

I was sort of composing as the dream progressed, being inspired by the things happening to me in my mind. Either that or I was writing in my head and dreaming images to go along with it. But I think it was the first one, because I have the impression of searching for phrasing that would match perfectly.

I was dreaming about a close friend from high school that I eventually had to give up to loss. She was giving me a necklace that my brother actually gave me when I was little: a gold chain with a little ballerina on it. This girl was in dance with me, so it makes sense. We were under this enormous oak tree in a field I didn’t recognize, lying on our sides together on the old sleeping bag/blanket that my parents used to use for stuff like that.

The field was the most amazing shade of green, the exact color in my favorite bridal picture. The whole scene was green and gold from the sun, the leaves of the tree were a deep, rich burgundy. She was behind me with her skeletal-thin arms wrapped around me, the one beneath me coming up under my armpit and the one above me wrapping to clasp her other around my neck.

The leaves from the tree started to fall, detaching loudly and scattering softly. I knew it was time to leave. When she felt me start to sit up, she wouldn’t let go of me; her arms tightened too much. The weight of her on my shoulders became lighter. She started to dissolve a little while she grabbed me, like some profane swamp thing trying to suck me down.

I remember this wording so vividly: She was like an old house that I used to inhabit, but it was time to move. I stood in the overgrown yard and looked up at the windows, like black, vacant eyes, and knew if I didn’t leave I would never be happy. I made the choice. I turned and ran from that house, and I never looked back.

When I woke up, I jumped up and wrote it all down, thinking it was so amazing. But the poem is useless; it makes no sense. It’s a misguided brain jumble with beautiful phrasing… a disjointed creation of my uninhibited mind. But it wasn’t a totally lost cause, because waking up brought me to conscious awareness of my mind’s poetic mood. Before I went back to sleep I wrote a real poem (about something else) that I love.

How many other poems have I created in my dreams that never got written down? I remember when I started taking German in high school, my Grandma said that you know you’re really fluent when you starting thinking in German. Does dreaming in poems mean I’m fluent in poetry now? Have I crossed some barrier that I never would have realized if Kyle hadn’t woken me up? Cool.

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(non)fiction

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on February 1, 2010 at 8:10 PM

My best friend and my mom both seem to prefer nonfiction to fiction: memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies mostly. When I asked Kitty why, her answer was, “because it’s true. When I read fiction, I know it didn’t happen, so it’s less valuable.” Okay, so maybe that wasn’t an exact quote, but it’s the gist of it. She needs to know that what she’s reading is valid, possible, and worth something.

I’m not a big fan of nonfiction. When I read an autobiography, for example, I find myself questioning the outlandish things they say happened to them. They’re exaggerating for comedic effect. They’re lying, to sell copies. They’re claiming more importance to mundane events than they actually feel, to connect with their readers. All of these thoughts and suspicions knock me out of the story. I can’t enjoy it if I think someone’s misleading me.

With fiction, there’s an automatic suspension of disbelief required to even start reading. There’s no “this wouldn’t happen” syndrome, for me, because none of it happened. I don’t feel cheated or lied to, because I know going into it that none of this is claimed to be true. I can get over that before I even start reading, and off I go into a highly entertaining read that doesn’t once make me wonder, “Is she making this up?” I can follow the story for its own worth.

I think the primary difference is one of belief. How trusting are you? How willing are you to accept words for absolute truth? If the answer is “not at all,” like me, fiction is the way to go. If the answer is that you generally believe people are honest, nonfiction might be more suited to your tastes.

When it comes to human nature, are you a believer or a skeptic?

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Happy birthday, Mr. Poe.

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on January 20, 2010 at 1:33 AM

I’m writing this in the last technical minute of Edgar Allan Poe’s 201st birthday. It seems fitting to wish it at midnight. Ann Rice perhaps, I would say happy birthday to at 3am–the witching hour–but for my dear friend Poe, the 12th toll of that old ebony clock seems the most appropriate, don’t you think?

I discovered that sacred old orange copy of the collected works of Poe on the top shelf of our bookcase when I was only in grade school. I believe that he was the first author I read on my own that I truly, passionately enjoyed. I still do, more so than any other author. Poe wrote horror before horror was a fad. He was elemental in the creation of the gothic genre. He wrote scary when quality was still a prerequisite. These are obvious reasons that I love him.

Poe was a poet before my namesake was even born (his name’s in the word, people). He’s a master–and my artistic inspiration. “The Raven” is still, to this day, the best poem I’ve ever read. Kyle says I get so into it when I read it out loud that it’s really, really frightening. I like that. “The Raven” is the reason that I dare to write horror poetry. I’m sure there are others, but I have never met anyone besides me who attempts what he attempted.

Did you know that Poe was also the creator of the detective story? Seriously, without Poe there would almost certainly be no Sherlock Holmes, Nancy Drew, or even Dr. House. Many people recognize him in big ways in the science fiction genre as well, which I dabble in. Poe was also a literary critic, something I can see myself doing in the future. But perhaps most importantly, he was the first famous American writer to write as his sole career. He paved the way for me on many fronts.

I’ve decided that the best way to honor this literary forefather of mine is to reread some of his works. In 201 years, I don’t expect or even hope that anyone will grieve me as a person. But if they can read some of my work and get pleasure from it, I’ll be a happy ghost.

The good little children (like my sane husband) are tucked safely under the covers dreaming of puppies. But we… we goblins are out in abundance tonight. There’s magic in the air, folks, and I’m going to go revel in it.

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