Author name: Sandra Tayler

Snippets from the Weekend

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Our friend Mike got baptized yesterday morning. It was one of many decisions he has made to change his life from drifting and unhappy, into focused and goal-oriented. Mike has taken control of his life and is choosing who he wants to be. The fact that he picked our church brings us joy, but even more joyful is seeing how he chooses every day to do hard things because they take him where he wants to go. Most adults are not willing to dare to change so much about who they are. It inspires me to look at my own life and see if there are things that I am afraid to change.

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Yesterday evening Howard was grouchy and decided to get out of the house. He wandered his way down to the Provo Festival of Books where several of our published author friends were presenting. Within an hour he called me because he’d arranged for a whole group to head out for dinner. I set Kiki and Link to babysitting the younger two and then drove myself down to join them. The world is a wonderful place when we can gather a group of friends for dinner and then later realize that 4 of them are New York Times bestselling authors and one was a Nebula award winner. All that authorial importance at the table and somehow the evening was completely lacking in ego. I love being at the table with high-energy creative people. They work really hard and that is why they have succeeded. Just as inspiring to me were the other people at the table, the ones who have not yet earned banner success, but who are also high-energy creative people. Dinners like that one are one of the rewards for the fretting and work we do much of the rest of the time.

***

The snowball bush is finally in bloom. Usually the blooms arrive in mid-May, but they were delayed by the cool weather. This means it is time for the annual snowball bush flower fight. This is where the kids pick snowball-shaped clusters of white flowers and throw them at each other or fling them into the air like confetti. Also in full bloom are my irises. They’re swirling their petals like Spanish dancers and filling the air with a spicy floral scent. These things thrive despite my neglect of them in recent years. I hope that this summer I can spend more time with them.

***

The thought arrived during the closing hymn. We were on the second verse of “Be Thou Humble” when I knew that though my currently-in-query-process book and all my future writings will bring me criticisms, the good accomplished by them will far outweigh the negative criticism. It was a calming thought. I have been much worried about how bad reviews and hateful comments would injure me. My book is based in my life and it will be very hard to remain objective. I have some of the same concerns in my blog. I often have an impulse to leave things unsaid and thus shield myself. But the good will outweigh the difficulty. I can hold on to that.

***

The chore lists have been updated and placed on our bulletin board in the kitchen. Each child has a grid. Seven days of the week across and ten weeks down. Each day that they complete their list of chores they fill in a square. At the end of the week, each filled square represents allowance money. Each completely filled week adds to the bonus which they can earn at the end of the summer. It is a new iteration of an old system, and thus more easily understood by the kids than explained in words. They all contemplated their charts, running calculations in their heads about money they could earn and what they could buy. I look at the charts and hope that they will help tame the household chaos and teach my kids the value of daily effort. Howard and I also have daily household chore lists. We could learn the same daily effort lesson in regards to household maintenance. The system will probably fall apart. I just hope it is tight enough to last through 10 weeks of summer.

***

I sat on a stool in my kitchen reading out loud from a manuscript page. Kiki was rolling out biscuits as she listened. Link and Patch just sat in chairs, listening with bright eyes and smiles. Mom reading aloud is fairly common, but this story was about them. One of the rules I set myself for my book was that the kids would get ultimate approval about what I say about them. This was their chance to hear my words and tell me what they thought. They loved hearing the stories, even when the stories were about their mis-behaviors and childishness. We still have more to read, but thus far only Link has requested a change. It is a minor wording change which will leave the heart of the story intact. It is a small thing to do to acknowledge to my kids that their opinions matter to me.

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The Gateway to Summer

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It is the last day of school. Two of my kids are at their elementary school for an hour and a half. My junior high and high schoolers are both at home since no one takes role on the last day and they don’t see much point in wandering around in the halls carrying yearbooks. In 30 minutes I’ll retrieve the younger pair and the school year will be officially over.

The end of a school year is usually an event of high emotion to me. I’m either eagerly ready to be done with a year that is hard, or dreading the end of a year that was good. Often I feel both ways about different children, or even the same child, if the year has been particularly… interesting. For the past few years I looked toward the onset of summer schedule with dread. I panicked about organizing 6 people in one house all day long so that work was maximized and squabbling was minimized. I also tend to dread the influx of lunches. Fixing meals is not my favorite activity and with the kids at home I have three per day instead of just two. The end of the school year also carries with it much angst about what the following year will be. No matter how hard the current year was, it was at least a known quality. The year to come could be so much worse.

If you pay attention to tenses in the previous paragraph (but not too close, my tenses probably don’t hold up to intense scrutiny) you will notice that I talked about all that high emotion in past tense. It has all been absent this year. Today is the end of school and my entire emotional reaction has been to shrug and dust off the summer chore lists from last year. It is possible that I simply used up all my end-of-year hand wringing back in April when I helped my older two register for classes and filled out paperwork for my younger two to be transferred to a different school. All the choices are made and my psyche seems inclined to let them lay until (probably) sometime in August. Also there doesn’t seem to be much point in panicking about having all the kids home while I’m trying to work. I’ve done it before and sorted it out. We’ll figure it out again.

What I’m feeling is not apathy. It’s not that I don’t care. It is that I don’t feel stress. The calmness is nice. I can save all my panic for the upcoming book pre-order, book shipping, and three major conventions in six weeks. Perhaps it is simply that Conservation of Anxiety means that I’ve already met my anxiety quota for the summer and I don’t have any left to spill over onto the end of school. Except that I don’t feel particularly anxious right now. I feel like we’re going to move calmly and seamlessly into a nice summer routine.

Tune in next week for : Sandra finds her stress, a blog in four parts about how bored kids can squabble over anything.

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When Critiques Wound

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I tell the following story in support of Amy Sundberg’s post “You’re Not a Weenie if a Critique Makes You Cry” because I have cried at critiques, and what I did afterward is the reason it didn’t make me a weenie.

I was invited to join a writer’s group during the summer of 2007. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to, writing had always been a solo venture for me, but my good friend wanted me in the group and I wondered what it would be like, so I agreed to give it a try. At the time I had one professional story story sale and a small pile of drafted stories. The group included one novelist with several novel sales under his belt (who later went on to be a New York Times best seller), one multi-sale short story writer (who went on to win a Nebula), one novelist with several novels finished (who later was nominated for the Campbell award), my friend (who has since sold a novel and at the time had written 5 novels), a couple of wise readers, and me. The awards and amazing credits came later, but I knew before showing up for the first meeting what caliber of writers I was going to critique and be critiqued by. It was a little like jumping into the deep end of the pool after only a few swimming lessons.

The first meeting arrived. I had a story critiqued and while the process was difficult, the other folks in the group knew how to deliver a critique kindly. They said things and I could suddenly see gaping holes in my story. Equally important, they pointed out what was working in the story and why it worked well. When I offered my critiques of their chapters, I got to see enlightened looks in response. It all went very well, which is why I was so surprised that the first thing I did on arriving home was go to my husband and cry. The whole experience had been emotionally wringing. The fact that things went well did not change the fact that I had emotionally braced for it to go very badly. I’d been terrified that my critiques would be useless, that I would have nothing to add. I’d been afraid that they would see nothing of value in the work I submitted. I was still sorting out the social mix of people. I was trying to figure out when I could tease and when I needed to play things straight. I didn’t know what social landmines were buried in the group and I was terrified of stepping on one. I really wanted to be friends with these people because they were fun and because I knew I had tons to learn from them. My husband held me tight, stood me up straight again, and told me I had to go back the next week. So I did.

The second week was when I put my foot squarely on one of those social landmines. My story was being critiqued and I liked the new ideas that the critique was sparking. I was feeling more relaxed with the group and ready for further discussion. I responded to the critique with a mild defense of what I’d written, explaining what I’d really meant. I did not know that ‘arguing with a critique’ was a hot button for the most experienced novelist there. As soon as critique comments on my story were done, he called me on it. Looking back, his actual words were a mild reminder, a setting out of ground rules for this new group we were all building. Unfortunately I was in such an emotionally heightened and fragile place that I felt slapped down. I folded inward both emotionally and physically. My mind raced as I re-examined every single thing I’d said that evening and the week before, trying to figure out what other stupid newbie mistakes I had made. I was suddenly certain that I was only present on sufferance, that everyone else in the group wondered why on earth I’d been invited to join. The thoughts were not rational, but at that point I was completely unable to be rational. The group moved on to the next piece to be critiqued. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Then I tried to blink back my tears. Then I pulled my long hair from it’s ponytail so it could fall forward to hide my face. About the third time I sneaked a hand up to wipe away a tear I knew I was fooling no one and I fled to the bathroom.

I sat in that bathroom and cried. I cried as silently as I could, because the living room full of writers was a mere 15 feet and one door away. Sobbing can be done silently if you’re careful. The front door of the condo was also about 15 feet and one door away. I seriously considered slipping out. What did they think of me? I could hear their voices rumbling, they’d continued onward rather than waiting for me to return. I was grateful that my weakness had not derailed the evening for everyone. I could not face them. It was mortifying with the emphasis on “mort”, the Latin root meaning death. Adults don’t run to the bathroom and cry. Professional writers don’t hide behind their hair when given a critique, not even if it is a critique of how to behave during critiques. Minutes stretched in that bathroom and I slowly filled the trash can with wadded damp toilet paper.

This is the hard truth about critiques which rarely gets mentioned: If the critique hits one of your writing insecurities, or if you’re uncertain about the relationship with the person critiquing you, then the process can be emotionally injurious. And the writer is not the only one at risk, the critiquer is taking a risk as well. People can get hurt. I got hurt.

My plan to flee faltered on two points 1. I’d left my car keys in the living room with everyone else and 2. if I left I did not know how I would ever be able to come back. Not only that, but I would see these people at almost every local convention and event. I would have to face them at some point or flee from writing speculative fiction completely. I splashed water on my face and took a deep breath. I repeated that process several times until I’d achieved a state where everyone could quietly pretend to not notice how red my face and eyes were. Then I walked out the door and across 15 feet to rejoin the group. I sat down in my abandoned chair and proceeded to participate as if nothing had happened. There was a momentary pause when I entered, but then everyone followed my lead. We had a useful and productive critique session. I even managed to keep the waterworks closed down by focusing on the subject at hand.

The critiques were done, everyone relaxed a bit and began to enjoy the purely social part of the evening. I still felt unsettled though. I could not pretend my crying jag out of existence, so I turned to the writer who’d scolded me and deliberately laid open the subject of arguing with critiques. I apologized for my weakness. He apologized in return, he had not intended to be harsh. What followed was a very good group discussion on critiquing. By the time I left, I felt more comfortable with the group and I knew I would be back the next week. Of course, I cried more when I got home and told my husband the story, but then I dried up the tears and went back to work.

What matters most about this story is not “suck it up and get back on the horse” what matters is that I faced the hurt straight on, I addressed it with the other people involved, and through it we all came to a greater understanding of each other. Critiques require trust and an intention to help. This event proved to me that I had a stellar group who was willing to accept me despite my obvious human failings. They would not judge me as a person even if my writing was awful or if I fled to the bathroom in tears. This is imperative in a critique group. It is why that group was so invaluable to me and why I am still good friends with everyone who was there. When I had to leave the group six months later, due to scheduling conflicts, I was honestly grieved to no longer be a part of it.

Are you going to cry or be depressed because of critiques or reviews? Yes. That is normal and it is human. What matters is what you do afterward.

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Discovering Shawls

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Mary and I were in our hotel room getting dressed to venture into Baycon for the evening. I had a lovely short sleeved shirt, but once again came up against the knowledge that hotel interiors are invariably frigid. I could wear the shirt and feel pretty, or I could cover it almost completely with a jacket and feel warm. The jacket choices I’d brought were less than ideal. Mary turned to her drawer and pulled out a long piece of fabric. It was a lovely shawl which complemented my shirt beautifully. Mary had several of these and after a single evening of wearing one, I realized that they are now essential convention wear for me. I must always have a shawl. If I am too warm I can tuck it into my purse. If I am too cold, I can wrap it around like a blanket. A shawl is a good thing. Conveniently the hotel store had a stack of pashmina shawls for sale. I bought several in solid colors. Searching the internet has shown me many shawls with lovely designs as well. I suspect my collection will grow. I love it when beautiful things are also useful.

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Attending a Regency Ball

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One of the events at Baycon was a Regency Ball. Mary loves the regency period and had two dresses, so we dressed up and went to the dance. I found the process of dressing in period style fascinating. Mary told me all about the reasons for the various undergarments and what look the regency ladies were trying to achieve. It was fascinating. The look is very different than my instinctive preferences. I like looks that accentuate waists. But I felt lovely in the regency dress and am now thinking differently about the period styles.

The evening was fun from start to finish. They had a dance master on hand to teach everyone the steps. Since there were far more ladies than gentlemen, many of the ladies paired up as partners. Mary and I took turns in the gentleman’s position. I’ve read Austen books and after having attended a period ball many of those dancing scenes make far more sense to me. I’ll probably also be more interested in the dancing scenes in movies as well. We only danced twice. The second dance was quite fast and during the course of it, Mary lost one of her shoes. We found it again when the music finished, then made made jokes about the wild regency party. I kept being a little afraid that I would accidentally step on the lace trim of the dress I was wearing. Mary is taller than I am. Even though I was wearing 1.5 inch heels, the back trim kept threatening to get caught. I really did not want to damage Mary’s lovely dress.

I am now eyeing the dances at Worldcon and pondering the possibilities of costumes. I’m not certain I will follow through, life is busy and Worldcon is hectic, but I had enough fun that the idea really appeals to me.

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Thoughts in the Wake of the Convention

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The trip home from a convention always feels much shorter than traveling to get there. The oddness of this phenomenon is increased by the fact that I spend the trip out reading and generally trying to keep myself occupied. On the trip home I spend most of the time staring at nothing with only my thoughts to entertain me. Conventions are a serious overload of stimuli, new situations, new people, new ideas, and new information. On the trip home I begin to sort it all, rarely do I get the sorting done before the end of the trip.

***
As we were leaving the hotel room on the first day of the convention, I saw Mary take out two dollars and leave them on the bed for the housekeeping staff. It was one of those “of course I should be doing that” moments. Housekeeping staff often changes from day to day, and each one does helpful tasks. I happened to come up to the room about an hour later just as the cleaning cart was about to get to our room. The tiny woman pushing the cart nodded and smiled at me asking “I come back later?” I smiled back and answered that now was fine, I was just grabbing something. She smiled and nodded several times to me. She had a beautiful smile, it made all the wrinkles of her face into joy lines. Throughout the weekend our room was always cleaned first. She smiled and greeted us every time she saw us. Mary says there were even little thank you notes in broken English. So much gratitude to be purchased at the low price of $2 per day. Sometimes little things make a huge difference.

***
The whole weekend was remarkably free of guilty moments. In the past I have always received a phone call from a child who is having some sort of emotional crisis. The child cries, I attempt to figure out what happened and to problem solve over the phone. Usually I can only help things calm down some and I have to hang up without knowing how it will all be resolved. Then I feel worried and guilty for an hour or the rest of the trip. This did not happen during the weekend.

I liked the lack of guilt and have been trying to deconstruct why it stayed away so that I can repeat the experience. It is possible that everyone was focused on letting me have a break and so they made extra efforts to solve their own problems. If this is the reason it means that I have been assisting in the creation of these crisis moments by placing myself in the center of every crisis resolution. I need to be stepping back more so that they can learn to work things out for themselves. I must think on it further.

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Time to Go Home

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In about an hour I’ll catch a cab to the airport. As I sat on my bed this morning contemplating my upcoming travel, I realized I was feeling homesick. The odd thing is that I was feeling homesick for California not Utah. California is where I grew up, and usually when I come here I have a strong “not my home anymore” feeling. This time I found myself watching the palm trees, ground ivy, and the architecture. I think it is a reflection of a longing for childhood or a simpler time. The feeling is a very quiet one. I’m only sensing it this morning because all of my usual thoughts are packed away. Indeed the minute I opened my laptop and saw my email, my mind dashed back to Utah and the interesting projects which are ahead of me.

However I am a little haunted by a conversation I had with Mary.
“I miss palm trees.” I said.
“Obviously you need to plant a palm tree in your yard.” she answered.
“Palm trees don’t grow well in Utah.” I answered.

As soon as the words were spoken I could see the potential meta-ness of them. My mind set to work trying to parse out the symbolism of the palm tree. There may be some there, or there may not. Either way I’m glad I’ve seen it and written about it. This way I have a link to that quiet feeling, a thread I can follow even when the trappings of my regular life flow in to fill up most of my emotional space.

Having described the homesickness feeling, I discover that I am also looking forward to going back to Utah which is my actual and emotional home. I will slip back into it like a warm and familiar coat. As I understand it, having a coat will be useful as the weather there continues to be cold.

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Introducing Myself

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I’m still working on figuring out how best to introduce myself to new people here. The focus of who I am shifts depending upon the social circumstances of the introduction. So far I’ve been introduced as a fiction writer, a blogger, Howard’s wife, the manager of Schlock Mercenary, one of Mary’s alpha readers, and as Mary’s guest. It has been a fascinating opportunity to watch how I am treated based on the framing of the introduction. Unfortunately the usefulness of the experiment is somewhat foiled by the excellence of the people to whom I’ve been introduced. I’ve been uniformly spoken to with respect and interest. The shape of the respect and the follow-up questions is different, but if the conversation lasts for any length of time the other aspects of who I am also get touched on.

The one major role in my life that has not been my primary introductory lead-in is being a parent. Again, that gets mentioned but often much later. Once again I’m having the experience where I mention the quantity of my children and people are a bit startled. I’m still sorting the experiences and trying to rehearse so that I can introduce myself comfortably. The process is surprisingly similar to writing an elevator pitch for a book. I now have two sentence introductions for my blog, my Schlock Mercenary work, and my book. Having the pitches is really useful so that I don’t have those deer-in-the-headlights moments when someone says “And you are? What do you do?”

This convention is perfect for playing with the introductory options and pitches, because I’m not actually trying to pitch anything. I have no goals to forward, no people I need to seek out in order to advance my career. I am able to just meet cool people rather than seeking out people because I am hoping for something from them. It is a very pleasant way to attend a convention.

And now, to breakfast.

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Three Snippets from the Second Day of Baycon

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I was sitting at lunch with Mary and Kimmi. For them it was a discussion about Mary’s upcoming GoH interview with Kimmi as the interviewer. I was along for the food. The con was not in full bustle around us, but there were lots of interesting distractions. This was when my phone rang. The kids at home had locked themselves out of the house. I directed them to our backyard neighbor who has a key. I also spent several minutes calming a distraught Gleek, who was afraid that she would have to spend the night without the backpack full of security objects which had been locked in the house. They got the key, liberated the all-important back pack, and the kids went off to their aunt’s house for a sleepover.

I’ve gotten phone calls from home mid-convention before. I have one pretty much every convention I attend. It is often quite hard for me to stay calm because the calls bring out into the open whatever guilt I may be feeling about leaving the kids to attend the convention. This time I was not rattled at all. While the fate of the backpack was in question, I knew that two responsible adults were right there to help the kids deal with whatever outcome there might be. It was more amusing than anything else and gave me a story to tell when I got back to the table with Mary and Kimmi.

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Mary’s signing here at the convention was pretty much the antithesis of the perfect signing. It was held during the dinner hour, wasn’t in the program book, the dealer’s room had already closed (so no one could buy books), and she was tucked away in a corner room far off the beaten path. Mary was cheerful and amused about it. She and I sat and talked for an hour. We were joined after awhile by a member of the convention staff with whom we had a lovely conversation. He took notes about how things should be different in other years. As Mary said it, conventions always have troubles of one sort or another. Things get mis-communicated, double booked, or overlooked. The key is for everyone to learn from the errors. And the Baycon staff have been wonderfully attentive in every interaction I’ve ever had with them.

***

I sat at a table in the lobby next to the bar with an ever-shifting group of authors and editors. I’d been there for several hours already and never once been bored. As people came and went I always had someone new to speak with and learn about. I had several quite-extended conversations with people I’d never met before, but with whom I hope to keep in touch. The night extended into early morning and I was still in my chair half from inertia, I finally pulled myself from the group and made my way upstairs. Tomorrow I have plans for tracking down my new acquaintances and visiting more.

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Traveling, Baycon, and Getting Settled at the Convention

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I meandered through the San Jose airport looking at shops and pausing to admire several art installations. I had no one to mange but myself. It was odd. I counted back through my memories and came to the conclusion that I have not traveled solo since I was 19 years old, single, and a college student. Even then my parents came with me to the gate and Howard met me at the other end. (We were dating, but not yet engaged.) I was not afraid to be in an unfamiliar airport by myself. I’ve done enough traveling to know what to expect even when I don’t know the exact locations of the things I expect.

San Jose is a mix of things familiar and things new. I grew up only 45 minutes from here. I see the palm trees, ground ivy, yellow hills, and part of my brain says that I’ve come home. Right outside my hotel window is the Great America amusement park which was the cool place to go when I was a middle school kid. I was looking at the architecture as I rode in a taxi to the hotel. It is quintessentially California with all those early spanish influences. The colors and red tile roofs would be exotic except that they are so familiar.

Baycon itself is also a mix of things different and familiar. Other than Mary Robinette Kowal, with whom I am staying, and John Picacio, whom I’ve met briefly on a couple of occasions, I didn’t know anyone. I do now. Conventions are like that. After the Mingle with the Guests event, I have new blogs to look up and people with whom to keep in touch. The feel of convention hotel is very familiar. The vibe of the attendees is comfortable. Yet everything has a slight spin which reflects the local aesthetic and zeitgeist. The most different part is being completely at my own disposal.

On the first evening I discovered yet another small adjustment I need to make professionally. The very first moment I was called on to introduce myself I said “I’m Howard Tayler’s wife.” It was a useful hook because the other person then connected me with where they’d seen me before, unfortunately it also emphasized the wrong part of who I am. Here at Baycon I’m trying to be Sandra Tayler, writer rather than Sandra attached to Schlock Mercenary. Mary helped me rehearse a better introduction and has flawlessly introduced me to many people in ways that make me sound interesting. There was a moment at breakfast this morning where someone I’d been talking to for an hour finally connected me to Howard and lit up with delight. It made me happy, in part because having someone be delighted at you is always a positive experience, but also because it meant that the respect I’d been getting before was all earned by me rather than bestowed upon me by my association with Howard.

I was at the Mingle with the Guests event and Mary introduced me to a friend. I ended up telling about my writing for a little bit. In a moment when the friend was distracted by something else, Mary leaned over and said “Do you realize that you keep stepping backward like you’re trying to flee?” I looked down and realized that I was indeed at least two feet from where the conversation began. I had been slowly moving the conversation because I’d take a tiny step back and others would step forward to keep within good talking proximity. It wonderfully expressed the tentativeness I feel when presenting myself for my own works rather than the associations with others. I think I shall also find comfort in it because they did step forward so that we could continue to talk.

Thus far my conventioning without Howard experience has been a good one. There are edges of missing home and kids, occasional moments when I feel odd or misplaced, but on the whole I am having a great time.

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