The Snark Zone: Letters from the Editors
Theryn “Beaver” Fleming

Photo Credit: Patrick Lauke

Last summer, when I moved the community half of TC to WordPress, I indicated that we’d eventually get around to moving the journal as well. In truth, I planned to put it off indefinitely because the amount of work it was going to take seemed overwhelming. But four months of easy-peasy article posting spoiled me. When I sat down to put together the December issue the old-school way I knew that was it. It was time to stick a spork in the hand-coding and switch over the journal. The obvious launch date: March, with the first issue of 2014.

Normally, I am all about process. But this was not something I wanted to do so much as something I wanted to be done. I’d set up the database in the fall and got the layout sorted out, but then I just let it sit. I was busy with other things; there was lots of time till March!

Until, of course, there wasn’t.

It was January, and we’d just sent the shortlist notifications for December. That meant our shortlist for the March issue was complete and it was now time to read and make our selections. And it also meant I had less than two months to get the transfer done.

Finally, I stopped procrastinating and started. First, the easy part: the submission guidelines, the contest guidelines, the issue covers. The pages that would become, er, “Pages” in WP-speak. That part wasn’t so bad, and once I had it done I felt like I’d accomplished something, and I had the bones of the journal in place. All that was left was to flesh them out. That was the part I wasn’t looking forward to. So instead I set up categories and tags. I fiddled with the permalinks. When there was nothing else left to do, I took a stab at Volume 1, the smallest volume in our archives. New post, copy, paste, futz, save. It was going to take forever to do it this way. I didn’t have forever. I searched the WordPress plug-ins again and found one that imported static HTML pages. Whoa, game-changer. It wasn’t perfect; the resulting pages (“Posts” in WP-speak) all needed to be dated and tagged and individually checked for formatting issues, but it was a giant leap forward and gave me the kick in the pants I needed to finish this project. The hard part was done; what was left was the polishing.

Still, polishing can take a long time, if you want to do it right. I got the posts all dated and tagged, and then started in on the formatting. For the last month or so, every time I’ve had a free moment, I’ve worked my way through another issue. One more down, how many to go? It was boring and repetitive. Still, wishful thinking wasn’t going to finish the task. I kept plodding, slogging my way through it. Watching TV? Work my way through another issue.

As I crossed the fifty-percent done mark, the weight of the task lifted.

It always does.

From past experience I know if you have to do something 770 times to complete a task, the first time will take you the longest. You haven’t worked out your rhythm; you might miss a step and have to go back, and so on. The first time isn’t the worst, though, because you’re not bored yet. Once your learning curve plateaus, that’s when the weight of the task settles down on you, the reality of how long it’s going to take you really sets in. I have how many of these left to do? Sigh. I am never going to finish this task. And yet, the only way to finish is to continue. To plod-slog your way through it.

Plod.

(One more, you can do it.)

Slog.

(And another.)

Plod.

And then somehow you’re over the peak and you’re rolling downhill, picking up speed. It’s easier now because you can see THE END—it’s within reach, an “I’ve got this!” not a distant “maybe…”

The only way to get yourself through the first part of such a task is to keep your eyes on your reward for completion: why am I doing this? In this case, to make running TC easier, to save tons of time in the long run. But as you get closer to the end of the task, when the hard part is behind you, you can start to appreciate it for itself. Sure my main motivation was the backend and automating all the tasks that I’d been doing by hand for thirteen years, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t also pleased that TC was getting a fresh look.

When I was a kid, I loved the kind of toys you could build things with. We had wooden blocks, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs, even some of our dad’s old Meccano—and, of course, Lego. I liked putting things together, one piece at time, the process–figuring out what to put where next–and the product–seeing what you could make from a bunch of disparate pieces. It always seemed a little bit magic. The thing was, we only had a little bit of each, so while we could build different things, the projects necessarily had to be small. That meant beginning and ending were compressed without much of a slog in the middle.

I probably could have stood to do more slogging.

At the same time I was snapping together bricks and criss-crossing logs, I was writing my first stories. They were uniformly terrible, mainly because I always wanted to leap directly from beginning to end. I’d have a premise, set the story up—and then I’d jump straight to the conclusion. I’d inevitably skip the middle—you know, the actual story. That middle part, well, it just seemed like too much of a slog, too hard to write it all down (writing made my hand tired!) and couldn’t you just read my mind instead? I was used to things being easy, quick. Slogging was not in my repertoire.

But slogging is how you get big things done. Brick by brick, word by word, page by page. You keep plodding, and then one day, you realize you’re not slogging anymore. You’re sprinting, you’re sailing, you’re flying. What once seemed like an impossible task is almost done—and it was you who did it! What an accomplishment. You feel amazing.

I know all this now, but still. Starting will always be hard. It’s hard to counter the resistance, to ignore “the omg, this is too much, it’s going to take forever” refrain in my brain, to just begin. And yet, it’s the only way. If you don’t lay the first brick, or the 429th one, you’ll never get to lay the last one. And it’s the last one that’s the sweetest.

We hope you enjoy the “new” TC, and whatever your own big project is, keep on slogging.

Email: beaver[at]toasted-cheese.com

The Snark Zone: Letters from the Editors
Theryn “Beaver” Fleming

Photo Credit: ghost of anja

“In knitting,” she said as she began to cast on again, “you can fix everything.”
… At last, here was something I couldn’t ruin.
Something I could do over, and over, and over. —Ann Hood

One Saturday, I found myself in Michael’s, the craft store, picking out a skein of yarn. It was during the period of my life when the losses were piling up, like logs being split and stacked for winter. What was done could not be undone. All I could do was stack the pieces off to the side, neatly so they wouldn’t tumble down and crush me, and wait for the next hewn log to be tossed my way.

I chose a variegated cotton, the type of yarn that makes a pattern on its own. If I’d been following the hipster script, I would then have picked out knitting needles to match. But I was writing my own script. A couple crochet hooks had been rattling around my sewing kit for decades, untouched since my mom taught me to crochet when I was a kid. I didn’t remember how, but perhaps it was like riding a bike. I thought I could figure it out. Besides, if I got stuck, there was always the internet.

Back home, I dug out one of those crochet hooks and sat myself down with the skein of yarn and a movie for company. And after a few false starts and, yes, with some help from the internet, I did. I made a scarf, of course. A skinny, crooked scarf. Not a masterpiece, just a practice sketch.

Several years ago, I remember saying I didn’t understand the knitting craze, by which I didn’t mean I didn’t understand the urge to make things—I’ve always been a maker—but rather, why knitting in particular? What was it about knitting that drew people, especially those taking their tentative first steps into making, to it rather than to, say, drawing or quilting or pottery or origami or woodworking?

But now I think I understand. Knitting doesn’t require a lot of equipment to get started. It’s portable; you can take it with you. It doesn’t require a dedicated space or make a mess that you have to clean up afterward. The repetition of the process is calming, meditative. You don’t have to worry about lopping a limb off if you zone out or drift off. And when you finish you have something functional. Anyone, given enough practice, can master it well enough to create something they wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear or give as a gift.

Mastery is easier to achieve with knitting and crocheting than with other crafts because no mistake is too big to fix. No matter how far you get into a project, you can always tear it up—rip, rip, rip—and undo your mistake or start over from the beginning. You don’t have to invest in new materials to try again; your equipment never wears out. You can keep tearing a project up and starting over until you’re happy with it. Even once a project is finished, it still holds the possibility of being reworked. If you tire of an item, you can undo it and remake it into something different. If you itch to redo some of your early projects, bring them up to your current skill level, you can do that, too.

Nothing is wasted. No, not even time. For each stitch, even if it is ephemeral, is practice. Everyone knows the more you practice, the more skilled you get. Ultimately, a finished product doesn’t consist only of the stitches you see, but also all the ones you don’t see, everything you did—and undid—along the way.

NaNoWriMo has just finished and some of you are basking in the glow of writing 50,000 words in month. Others are wishing you’d never heard the word NaNoWriMo. What’s the difference between succeeding and failing at NaNoWriMo? Beyond not making excuses about time or the lack thereof, I think it’s a willingness to make mistakes. Those who succeed are willing to write a steaming pile of words, knowing that they may have to rewrite every single one of them.

I recently read an anecdote about a writer who writes a complete first draft, sits down and reads it, then throws it away and starts over from scratch.

Did you gasp? I admit it took me a few minutes to work through my thoughts about that. I’m not sure I could be that brave. At the same time, I understand the impulse. The first draft is a discovery draft; it’s figuring out your story, what works, what doesn’t, taking chances, making mistakes. It’s practice. Even if you don’t literally throw it away, if you’re really rewriting with each subsequent draft (not just nitpicking the details), chances are very little of that first draft will be visibly left in the final one. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. It is. Every word you write, even if it’s ultimately deleted, contributes to the final draft. Backing up, starting over, rewriting are all integral parts of the writing process. They’re not a waste of time. If you’re not throwing away words you’ve labored over, you’re not reaching your writing potential.

Write. Throw it away. Start over. Don’t try to recreate the first draft. Take it in a new direction. Make it better. Repeat.

Like yarn, words are infinitely reusable. You’re not wasting them. You’re not going to run out of them. Write, tear it up, rewrite.

No mistake is too big to fix.

Email: beaver[at]toasted-cheese.com

The Snark Zone: Letters from the Editors
Theryn “Beaver” Fleming

Photo Credit: Markus Schöpke

The internet is always teaching me something. For instance, I recently learned that you’re not a geek if you can’t display an in-depth knowledge of particular pop culture phenomena. (I’d elaborate, but I can’t because I lack sufficient geek cred.) Say what? You’ve just robbed me of my life-long belief that I’m a geek, internet. I haz the sads. (The dictionary still has my back. Whew.) I also just learned that displaying your diplomas makes you a tacky, pretentious douche. Thanks, internet! (The classy thing to do, if you’re wondering, is to put them in a box “somewhere” and then “forget” about them.)

Now that my whole worldview has been upended—ah, kidding. One should never take internet wisdom too seriously, of course. I just wanted to illustrate that what one group holds to be a common understanding will often astonish or perplex another. We develop our ideas of what constitutes common knowledge based on the people around us, and it’s often not until we collide with someone who is baffled by something we consider common sense that we become aware that our perspectives are not as universal as we might think.

Which brings me to the bane (and occasional delight) of every writer’s existence: star-ratings. Perhaps nowhere am I more aware of how much perspectives can conflict than with book reviews. When I started keeping track of the books I read on my blog, I didn’t rate them. I even tried to avoid calling my posts “reviews”—my rationale being that my posts aren’t reviews in the classic sense, but more like my reading notes and reflections, a part of my reading process. Then I joined Goodreads with its tempting little stars. At first I thought deciding how many stars to give a book would be difficult. That’s when I noticed the hovertext. This is what it says:

5 stars — it was amazing
4 stars — really liked it
3 stars — liked it
2 stars — it was ok
1 star — did not like it

While choosing stars on their own seemed an enigmatic proposition, these little descriptions clicked with me. They made sense. It was surprisingly easy to slot any book into one of those categories. From my perspective, only the one stars are truly negative reviews, and no book’s getting a five unless it had a profound impact on me. Most books are going to land somewhere in the middle, and most of those are going to be threes. You know, average. Not life-changing but not terrible either. And yet, I’m clearly in the minority in taking this approach. It’s so unusual, it might even be considered weird.

In the majority camp, you have readers who give four or five stars to practically everything. This group includes writer-readers who are reluctant to say anything remotely critical about a fellow writer, sometimes out of kindness, sometimes out of fear of retaliation. Their positive reviews tend to be genuine; they simply omit reviewing books they didn’t like. It also includes readers whose star-ratings don’t match their written reviews. That is, they’ll write a ‘this book was ok’ review but then give the book four stars. I can only surmise that this strategy is an attempt to avoid conflict with the writers of the books in question. The third group are readers who would clearly prefer a binary ratings system: loved it/hated it, like/dislike, thumbs up/thumbs down. With this group, everything’s a five or a one.

On the other side of the reading equation, you have the writers, many of whom seem to have developed the expectation of receiving five-star reviews. Frequently I see writers flipping out over two- and three- and even four-star reviews, in despair because from their perspective anything less than a five means “I hated it” or angry because they think an uninformed and possibly jealous reader is out to get them. Some will fume to their allies, seeking sympathy; others will attack readers head-on, rebutting each criticism or even bullying readers into changing their reviews.

This, I shouldn’t have to point out, is egregious behavior. As writers, we absolutely do not have the right to dictate what readers think of our work or what they write about it. A great deal of the conflict over reviews, I think, arises from writers misunderstanding readers’ motivations for writing them. Reviews have multiple purposes—they can be for personal reflection, to enter into a discussion with fellow readers, or to provide information to potential readers—but unless the reviewer is the writer’s publicist (or a friend providing UPOP), they are not for the writer.

Once a work leaves our hands, it ceases to be ours alone. Whatever words we have put on the page, with each new reader, each new reading, the meaning is reinterpreted, the story reconstructed. Each story is a tango, a negotiation, between writer and reader. A story that one reader finds moving and meaningful, another might find sappy and maudlin. And that’s ok. No, really it is. It might make you sad that a reader didn’t find your story as wonderful as you think it is, but it doesn’t mean they’re doing their reviews wrong. It means their perspective is different than yours.

The good news is, that means sometimes two stars equals “guilty pleasure!” not “blech.”

Email: beaver[at]toasted-cheese.com

The Snark Zone: Letters from the Editors
Theryn “Beaver” Fleming

Photo Credit: Joanna Penn

You’re probably familiar with the saying, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” People love to malign teachers, talk about how easy they have it. Those people have obviously never stood in front of a classroom of ninth-graders.

What is most difficult about being a teacher is not teaching per se, but the many things that get in the way of teaching and learning. Perhaps the most disheartening of these is dealing with students who insist on framing the teacher as The Enemy, turning the classroom into a combative space rather than cooperative, collegial one. Inevitably, such a student thinks the teacher is out to get them because they think the teacher “gave” them a grade they didn’t deserve.

The conversation that transmogrifies a disgruntled student into one who thinks the teacher is The Enemy generally goes something like this:

• Student (unhappy face): “Why did I get this grade?”
• Teacher: *explains reasons*
• Student: “But I did what the assignment asked!”
• Teacher: “Yes, you did the minimum, and your grade reflects that. To get a higher grade, you would need to do more.” *explains how student could have improved grade*
• Student: “But I’m an A student!”
• Teacher: “Grades aren’t based on a student’s track record. When I grade an assignment, all I have to go on is the work you chose to hand in.”
• Student: “This grade will destroy my chances of getting into [college / university / med school / law school / grad school]!”
• Teacher: “This is one assignment worth only x% of your grade. If you earn an A on all your subsequent work in this course, as you have indicated you are capable of, it will have a negligible impact on your final grade.”
• Student: “You’re doing this because you hate me!”
• Teacher: “Why would I hate you?”
• Student: “You gave me this grade because don’t want me to succeed!”
• Teacher: “I’d love to see you succeed. My office hours are from y to z on the days we have class. You don’t need to make an appointment; you’re welcome to drop in. I’m always happy to answer any questions students may have about course material or assignments.”
• Student: “You’re out to get me!”

And so on in circular fashion until teacher cuts off student or student angrily stomps off, dissatisfied. The only satisfactory response, of course, would have been for the teacher to respond, “And what grade do you think you deserve? An A+? Oh, fine. Consider it changed! Have a nice day!”

At this point, perhaps you’re thinking this conversation is too absurd to be realistic. Or maybe you’re wondering why I’m telling you this story… Ahh, yes. Let’s replay the preceding scene with two new characters.

• Writer (unhappy face): “Why is there all this red pen on my novel?”
• Editor: *explains suggested edits*
• Writer: “But I used spellcheck!”
• Editor: “Yes, and your manuscript has very few technical errors. However, a good story consists of more than just proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation. To improve your novel, you need to do more than just clean up the typos.” *explains how writer could improve manuscript*
• Writer: “But I’m very successful in my [non-novelist] career!”
• Editor: “Your novel’s merit isn’t based your track record as a [butcher / baker / candlestick-maker], even if that’s also your protagonist’s occupation. When I edit a manuscript, my comments are based on the work you provided to me.”
• Writer: “This edit has ruined my story!”
• Editor: “Mine is just one opinion. If you’re not happy with my suggestions, you don’t have to incorporate them. You’re also welcome to seek out another editor for a second opinion. In fact, I encourage it.”
• Writer: “You’re doing this because you hate me!”
• Editor: “Why would I hate you?”
• Writer: “You tore my manuscript apart because don’t want me to succeed!”
• Editor: “I’d love to see you succeed. I’d be happy to work with you to make your manuscript the best it can be. My rates for developmental editing can be found on my website. I’d also be happy to recommend another editor if you’d rather work with someone else.”
• Writer: “You’re out to get me!”

Does the conversation seem so absurd now?

Editors aren’t the enemy of writers any more than teachers are the enemy of students. Just as teachers want to work with students to help them succeed, editors want to do the same with writers. Some writers seem to find this hard to believe. I think I know why.

I think there are writer-writers and there are editor-writers. You’re probably a writer-writer if you love, love, love writing first drafts and find editing and revising to be a painful chore. You’re probably an editor-writer if you want to stab an icepick in your skull while writing a first draft, but can barely contain your glee as you start tearing it apart for draft two (three, four, five… twenty-seven…).

There’s a riff on the saying I opened with that goes: “Those who can, write; those who can’t, edit.” I think this is what writer-writers believe, that editors are only editing because they’ve failed at writing, and that’s what leads to the belief that editors have it in for writers. I think writer-writers hate editing so much they find it hard to believe that there are people who love editing as much as they love writing, who, in fact, prefer editing to writing. But it’s true. Editor-writers aren’t gleeful about tearing apart a first draft because they love destroying things, they’re gleeful because they can see how to put it back together in a way that makes the story better.

Some of us edit because we love it and we’re good at it and we want to share our passion and skill with others instead of hoarding it all for ourselves. When an editor makes suggestions at a writer’s request, they’re not ambushing the writer with an unexpected punch. They’re extending an invitation to enter into a cooperative working relationship, one that in time can grow into a collegial partnership based on mutual respect—but only if the writer accepts the invitation.

Email: beaver[at]toasted-cheese.com

The Snark Zone: Letters from the Editors
Theryn “Beaver” Fleming

Photo Credit: alex:

You’re probably familiar with the sentiment that on one’s deathbed, no one ever wishes they had worked more.

I don’t believe it. I mean, I’m sure there are people who wish they had worked less. But I’m equally sure that there are some who wish they worked more.

“No one ever wishes they worked more” is a myth arising from the cultural framing of work as a necessary evil, drudgery to be endured until rescue by retirement, lottery or—these days—building an app that Facebook buys out for $1 billion. But whether you think you worked too much or too little depends on how you view your work. On what you view as work.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman once explained that she was inspired to write “The Yellow Wallpaper” after a doctor’s advice to never write again nearly drove her insane: “I cast the noted specialist’s advice to the winds and went to work again—work, the normal life of every human being; work, in which is joy and growth and service, without which one is a pauper and a parasite—ultimately recovering some measure of power.”

Who’s ever heard of a writer who wanted to write less?

As a young mother, Alice Munro was always conflicted about spending time writing. She wrote anyway, because writing was what was most important to her. You might think, well that’s fine for her, she’s Alice Munro. But she wasn’t the writer Alice Munro back then. She was Alice “housewife finds time to write short stories” Munro. And you can be sure Jane “doesn’t find time to write short stories” Jones from next door was giving her the side-eye. Think about our collective loss if she had decided that Jane’s opinion of the state of her living room carpet had mattered more than getting an hour of writing in.

You’re probably not spending what could be your writing time trying to perfect your impression of June Cleaver. But most of us do spend too much time worrying about what other people think.

Most writers aren’t lacking in empathy. Most of us want to be liked. We feel guilty putting our work ahead of the people in our lives, so we tell ourselves that our work isn’t important. That when we look back on our lives we won’t care about the incomplete projects, the things we planned to write but never got around to. We lie.

If you put it on your wish list, would your family or friends give you the gift of writing time? If not, why not? If they ignore, devalue or belittle your writing, is it because their love is conditional on you behaving in a way that pleases them? Or is it because you’ve framed what’s most important to you as unimportant?

I’ve read a lot of author acknowledgments this fall, and one thing I’ve noticed is successful writers typically have other writers in their lives. People who not only support them, but understand them. It’s stating the obvious, but I’m going to say it anyway: if you’re the only writer in your family, if none of your friends are writers, if everyone around you thinks writing is a big waste of time, you’re going to have a harder go of it than if your spouse or sibling or parent is also a writer, if you’re surrounded by creative friends, if everyone around you wants to be the first to read the next thing you write. That’s not to say you can’t make it without support and understanding. Of course you can. It’s just harder. So give yourself a break. Stop treating it as if it doesn’t matter.

It’s time to reframe.

If you haven’t expressed to the people who are important to you how important your writing is, do it now. If you have done so and still no one cares, you’ll need to develop a thicker skin, learn to ignore their negativity, and be firm about your writing needs (“Enjoy the movie. I’m going to write.”).

Go ahead, feel guilty. But be like Alice: write anyway.

Maybe one day you could be a writer of Munro’s caliber. You’ll never know unless you actually sit down and write—regardless of what the people around you think. As Marge Piercy once wrote:

Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.

Email: beaver[at]toasted-cheese.com

The Snark Zone:Letters from the Editors
Theryn “Beaver” Fleming

Photo Credit: Theryn Fleming

Celebrate (verb): to observe a notable occasion with festivities

This issue, I could have chosen to write about writers who bully readers who aren’t sycophants, those who feel compelled to rebut reviews, or those who just take matters into their own hands and write their own. So much material! Perhaps next time. This time, I’m going to press pause on the snark.

As I was mulling over potential topics, my eyes drifted over to my calendar and I saw a reminder I’d added at the beginning of the year, when I realized I had three ten-year milestones coming up in 2012.

The first was in April, my ten-year runniversary, which I celebrated by… going for a run. The second, which is this week, is my anniversary of going back to school. I’m celebrating that one by writing this editorial and setting myself the goal of being done by the time eleven rolls around. (Ok, now I’ve probably jinxed myself.) And the third is my ten-year blogiversary, which is coming up in October.

I don’t think I’ve ever celebrated my blog’s anniversary. But ten years, that seems worth celebrating. Especially when I see bloggers celebrating 4, 5, 6 years all the time (and inevitably claiming to be old-timers). I’ll probably celebrate by posting and linking to my (incredibly unexciting, yet somehow very revealing) first post. Ten years later, it’s all pretty much true: I’m still a procrastinator, I still futz with aesthetics when I should be writing, and I think I still have one regular reader (though it’s a different one now).

I never did get comfortable with blogging about myself, though I did try in the early years. In year three, I found my niche when I started keeping track of the books I was reading. That led to a reboot and the evolution of my blog into a commonplace book. I know it’s not really of interest to anyone but me, and I’m ok with that. It’s not only the longest I’ve ever journaled consistently, which is a success in itself, but every time I’m writing and I go to my blog to find a quote or refer to a book post, I think: woot! That’s why I keep at it.

Intellectually, I recognize these milestones as achievements. Emotionally, I have a tendency to downplay things, be they positive or negative. Okay, so it’s more than a tendency. You could say I don’t do drama. Which is, you know, kinda weird when you’re on the internet all the time, because it’s simply at odds with how the internet is. The interwebs loves the dramz.

It’s easy to get distracted by individuals who insist on creating drama where none exists (yes, I’m looking at you, writer going berserk over a one-star review) but what interests me more is watching the real dramas of everyday life play out online.

As I scroll through my feed reader or thumb through Twitter, I frequently run across people exploding with happiness and occasionally, crumbling with grief. I see people go all out to mark every occasion, the good, the bad, the big life events—birthdays, graduations, weddings—and all the smaller moments in-between. Things like typing “the end,” acceptances, signing book contracts, book launches and the like.

I remember once telling someone about Toasted Cheese and her asking if we had launch parties for the new issues. The question made perfect sense—print journals traditionally celebrate each new issue with a party. But honestly, until she said it, it hadn’t really occurred to me. I currently celebrate by sleeping in the day after a new issue goes up. While I’m sure I could make a convincing argument to my fellow introverts that sleeping in beats a party (some of the time), it’s not exactly a celebration.

In the past year or so, I have, amongst other things: run a half-marathon personal best, completed my comprehensive exams, written (and revised) my PhD research proposal, said goodbye to my fuzzy buddy, put out another year of Toasted Cheese—and learned how to be alone. And yet, I can’t remember the last time I did something extraordinary—something beyond picking up something nice for dinner—to mark an occasion.

I keep doing things, but it’s like I’m on a treadmill. I make note of the achievement, but I never pause to celebrate, it’s just right on to the next thing. I looked at everyone else’s celebrations and decided I needed a reward—before I launch into my dissertation.

Two weeks ago, I took a mini-vacation and stayed in a fancy-pants hotel. I booked the room through a site that offers discounts by not revealing the name of the hotel until you’ve paid. As I was choosing my mystery hotel, I noticed I was kind of excited—and not about the savings. I was thrilled about the surprise. Finding out the name of the hotel was like unwrapping a present when you genuinely don’t know what’s inside, but you know it’s going to be good. I loved it.

And that was when I realized just how much I need more festivities in my life.

Most writing-related advice focuses on getting to various goal points in the writing process. There’s not a lot of advice about what to do once you’ve accomplished a goal—except move on to the next one. Perhaps that’s because most people don’t need to be told to celebrate their accomplishments. But if you’re anything like me, here’s a reminder: don’t forget the confetti. Take the time to celebrate.

Maybe we do need to have Toasted Cheese launch parties. Hmm…

Email: beaver[at]toasted-cheese.com

The Snark Zone: Letters from the Editors
Theryn “Beaver” Fleming

Photo Credit: Brandi Korte

We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand. If I don’t seem as depressed or morose as I should be, sorry to disappoint you. —Randy Pausch

In the speech usually referred to as The Last Lecture, Randy Pausch says that being a Tigger or an Eeyore is a choice, and obviously, he chose to be a Tigger. Obvious because he has a positive attitude even though, at the time he gave the lecture, he knew he had only months to live.

Eeyore and Tigger are, of course, two of Christopher Robin’s stuffed animals in the Winnie-the-Pooh books by A.A. Milne. Eeyore is the pessimistic donkey. He expects the worst. He puts a negative spin on all events. His best mood could be described as not unhappy. Tigger is the optimistic tiger (though he’s always referred to as a tigger). He expects the best. He puts a positive spin on all events. His best mood could be described as exuberant.

Tiggerish people are popularly portrayed as aggressively cheerful individuals. Eeyorish people, portrayed as cynical realists, perceive Tiggers as phony. In the Eeyore’s mind, that irritatingly upbeat Tigger at work is only fake-happy (because, according to Eeyore logic, everyone is miserable). At home, the Tigger cries herself to sleep (as all Eeyores do). In other words, Eeyores see tiggerness as being a superficial characteristic, a costume or mask the Tigger wears in public, but casts off in private. Eeyoreness, according to the Eeyore, is the real human condition. Internally, everyone is an Eeyore. The difference is that Tiggers hide their misery, while Eeyores do not.

The same is not true from a Tigger perspective. Tiggers do not visualize Eeyores as being stealth Tiggers (grumpy on the outside, gleeful on the inside). From the Tigger perspective, Eeyores are most definitely Eeyores, and Tiggers are most definitely not. Tiggers know they are Tiggers through and through. What’s on the outside is a manifestation of what’s on the inside, not a cover-up. But that is equally, if not more, problematic than being fake from the Eeyore’s position, for, in this world, anyone who truly isn’t miserable must be a shallow and unthinking person:

To live in our society sometimes feels like living under the tyranny of Happiness. Much more important, perhaps, to be engaged with life and all that life offers, to be curious about people and experiences. To feel things deeply, and not to be afraid of unhappiness, of feeling the magnitude of life. —Nicole Krauss

Krauss, I think, captures the essence of writerly feeling about the Tigger/Eeyore divide. To a writer, eeyoreness is a badge of honor. Tiggers are tyrannical bullies wielding capital-H Happiness that must be resisted at all costs. Like Eeyore, serious writers think they should carry their problems (or the problems of the world) around like a storm cloud of gloom that matches their monochromatic clothing. Angst is to be prolonged and mined for all it is worth. No self-respecting writer wants to be like Tigger, an airhead bouncing around in a zany orange and black faux-fur coat.

But is that really all there is to Tigger? I recently reread The House at Pooh Corner, and I realized it’s a misconception that because Tigger is optimistic, his mood never changes. While Tigger was bouncier than the average stuffie, he wasn’t redlining the cheerfulness at all times. He had his ups and downs, just like the others. He couldn’t find anything he liked to eat. He got stuck in a tree. Rabbit tried to lose him in the forest on purpose!

Here are some lessons I learned from Tigger:

1. Try new things.
2. You won’t like everything you try. (No worries. Try something else.)
3. Eventually you will find something you like. Keep doing it.
4. Take risks.
5. Sometimes you will fail. (It’s ok.)
6. Sometimes you will be scared. (That’s ok too.)
7. Don’t dwell on your failures. Dust yourself off and move on.
8. When you’re optimistic, someone will try to quash your enthusiasm. Pay them no mind.
9. Be kind and helpful, even to your frenemies.
10. Bounce. It makes you look bigger.

Turns out, being a Tigger is about much more than just blind optimism. He’s got some pretty good strategies for life or for writing. As a short person, naturally my favorite is number ten: bounce. Piglet sees Tigger as being big, although Pooh notes that Tigger really isn’t big. He just seems big because he bounces. This reminds me of how I once mentioned to a friend that I always forget how little I am until I see myself in photographs with other people. She told me I have a tall personality. Maybe what I really have is a Tigger personality.

I can’t tell you whether choosing to be a Tigger (or an Eeyore!) is right for you. But Tigger isn’t bouncy just because he literally jumps around, but also because he bounces back after hardship. Being a Tigger doesn’t mean you can’t ever be unhappy, can’t ever go through a bad time, can’t ever be depressed or angry. Of course you can. But when you’re a Tigger, these are acute feelings, ones that fade over time, as the wound heals, just as a physical trauma does. Tiggers are able to let negative emotions go when they no longer serve them, while Eeyores collect snubs, real and perceived, like medals.

If you’re a writer who’s living in an Eeyorish permafunk, ask yourself if that attitude is serving your writing or a detriment to it. Are you busy tallying up criticisms and rejections, unable to fully enjoy successes because you’re always looking ahead to the next slight? Have you become so absorbed with keeping current with publishing trends that you’ve lost the joy of writing? Maybe it’s worth thinking a little more like Tigger. You don’t have to go all in, just dip a paw. Try something new. Take a risk. Extend a white flag to that fellow writer you’re feuding with. And if you’re really feeling brave, bounce.

Go ahead. Do it now. I won’t tell. What have you got to lose? At the very least, it’ll make you appear bigger.

Email: beaver[at]toasted-cheese.com