Category Archives: day in the life

Published: September 7, 2008

Terminal

I’ve done so much flying in this last month that all the airport terminals have blurred together in my memory.

So while I can’t remember exactly where this happened, I know it was down by the baggage claim, relaxing and participating in my second favorite sport: watching people.

It was a slightly out-of-the-way corner of the terminal with a light scattering of folks who were waiting for their luggage too. Standing off to the side was a young mom with a couple little kids in tow.

She was obviously tired, and was doing her best to keep an eye on her kids while at the same time making sure that her luggage wasn’t molested by terrorists, gypsies, communists, or whatever flavor of bad guy homeland security is trying to frighten us with this week.

The kids were having a great time. The little girl was just wandering, staying close to mom and looking at stuff. But the little boy had invented a game. He would build up to a run, then flop down and slide across the smooth floor on his belly.

It was obviously a lot of fun, and adding to his enjoyment was the fact that his mom didn’t want him to do it. She stopped him once, but then he got out of arm’s reach and she couldn’t catch him without leaving her daughter and the luggage behind.

I should make it clear that the baggage claim area was far from bustling. It was quiet, and the kid wasn’t getting in anyone’s way. Neither was he wandering very far afield. He stayed in mom’s line of vision. He wasn’t being naughty, he was just being a kid.

Mom wasn’t being needlessly strident about it, either. She didn’t get all huffy or shriek qt him. And while she wasn’t happy that he wasn’t listening, she didn’t view this as a major challenge to her authority. She was just trying to do her job, which is to say she wanted to keep him from hurting himself, being a nuisance, and getting his clothes dirty.

She tried to corral him as best she could, but he ignored and avoided her, run-flopping all over the place. I was tempted to try it myself. It looked like a good time. However, the square-cube ratio is harsh on adults, and I worried that if I flopped onto the ground, I would rupture something vital in my guts. Plus I expect airport security would have tazered me for being a deviant.

So, because I was living vicariously through his exploits, I was watching him when he flopped harder than he meant to. It wasn’t a bad fall, but he bumped his head a little and lay there for half a second, hurt, angry, and confused. Then started to cry, picked himself up, and ran over to his mom.

Now this is the fulcrum of the story. The point at which it could pivot one way or another. The young mom could have cussed him out. But she didn’t. She didn’t shout or say, “I told you so,” or try to turn it into some sort of moral lesson. She picked him up, hugged him, and nuzzled her face against his head to make him feel better. And it worked.

That’s what moms are for. They give us good advice and we ignore it, running around like tiny Visigoths. Then we fuck up, hurt ourselves, and come running back so that they can make everything okay again.

It was a sweet thing to see. And honestly, it broke my heart.

Some of you know that my mom died not too long ago. I don’t talk about it very much, but the fact is, I think about her all the time.

Whenever I think too hard about it, I become uncertain about what I should or shouldn’t post here on the blog. Generally speaking, when I think something might be of interest to my readers (like an interview, or an appearance at a convention) I post it up. The same is true when I think of a funny story or a good piece of advice.

Part of the reason I haven’t written much about my mom is because I worry it will come across as maudlin, and I assume that people come to the blog to be entertained, not depressed.

On the other hand, if this blog is supposed to be a little window into my life, not writing about her at all feels dishonest. If the things I write here are supposed to reflect my real thoughts and emotions, how can I not mention her?

I get the feeling that I’m going to spend the rest of my life thinking of questions that only she could answer. Like how she kept the rabbits from destroying her garden even though she didn’t use a fence. The truth is, when she died it was like someone burned down a library, cut off one of my legs, and took away half of my laughing. Some days are okay. But other days I don’t know if I’ll ever be smart, or steady, or happy in the same way again.

But the thing I really miss is that she loved me like nobody else ever could. I grew up my whole life surrounded by that constant, unobtrusive, unquestioning affection. It has a lot to do with the sort of person I am today. That doesn’t mean she didn’t call me on my bullshit, or make fun of me, or point out when I was being a dick. But the love was always there, indifferent to my Visigoth behavior. Unconditional.

When you grow up surrounded by something like that, you don’t notice it consciously. It’s like the humidity in the air. You don’t even notice when it’s gone, either, except that something is different. Something isn’t right. Then you start realizing that you’re thirsty all the time, and you can’t figure out why you’re constantly tired, or getting nosebleeds.

Then, eventually, you realize the problem is that the air is too dry. Only then can you take some steps to try and get some moisture back into your life. Only then can you start trying to make adjustments so things can feel, at least a little bit, like they used to.

I think that’s the point I’ve finally reached. I’ve discovered that my life is drier than I’d like, and I’m trying to figure out what I can do about it.

So I think I’m going to start mentioning my mom on here from time to time. Not a lot, probably, but some. It’s a shame you can’t meet her, but I suppose the next best thing is you getting to know her through some stories.

I’ve turned the comments off for today, because I’m not looking for sympathy or consolation. Similarly, if you know me, don’t feel obliged to send me an e-mail, trying to cheer me up and gently dancing around the question of how I’m doing. How am I? I’m fine. Sad? Yes. Melancholy? Sure. But also fine.

I mean it. Few things are as irritating to me as someone trying to cheer me up when I’m in a perfectly good bad mood.

Stay tuned for next week, when I’ll continue spilling out the convention stories that I’ve built up over the last month. Hint: catgirls will be featured prominently.

Fondly,

pat

Also posted in emo bullshit, mom, the man behind the curtain | By PatLeave a comment
Published: July 31, 2008

The Pat Rothfuss Escort Service.

Today I was driving downtown and I saw a momma duck walking down the middle of the street with six little baby ducks following her. Downtown Stevens Point isn’t really a bustling place, but there’s still two lanes of traffic, and she was walking right down the center line.

I did a quick job of parallel parking, which turned out even more lousy than my usual. Then I hopped out of the car and made sure that they got out of the road okay.

The babies were still really young. They still had their baby fluff, and were smaller than tennis balls. Mom was taking small steps to they could keep up, and they were all trucking along to keep up with her, none of them ever falling behind by more than a foot and a half.

The other thing I noticed is that if she stopped moving, all of them sat down immediately. They did it in unison, six little duck butts hitting the pavement all at once. Then when mom started going again, they all bobbed back to their feet and started following her again.

Momma duck eventually headed off the road to the sidewalk and hopped up the curb. I was surprised that the baby ducks could make it up there too. But they did, bouncing up a sheer wall three times taller than they were. It was really cute. Hallmark cute.

I walked with them the five or six blocks to the river, stopping traffic when they needed to cross the road. I thought I might need to herd them too, but momma duck knew where she was going, and I only had to steer once to keep her going the right direction.

That said, she really didn’t like having me around and made it clear whenever I got too close. She would snap her beak, and the feathers on the top of her head stood up. I had no doubt that were I to cross some invisible line, she would bring all sorts of momma-duck wrath of god down on me.

A lot of the drivers I stopped of didn’t care for me much either, and their mouths made similar snapping motions behind their windshields when I stepped in front of their cars and held out my hand for them to stop. Luckily, this is something I can do with incredible authority. I worked in a parking ramp one summer, and that was the skill I carried away. I can stop a car at thirty feet with a hand gesture no matter what the driver might think of me.

However, people didn’t stay pissed for long. Once they saw what I was doing, everyone was full of smiles and willing to help. I believe, given the chance, the vast majority of people are eager to do the right thing. I believe that people are good, and that most of the ugliness in the world comes from folks being thoughtless, or misinformed, or simply inattentive to the world around them. No one willingly runs over baby ducks, but it happens all the time because people aren’t careful.

Sometimes you need someone to step out in front of you and say, “No. Stop. Look at this thing that’s about to happen. Think about what you’re doing. Attend. Be mindful.” Whatever you call this impulse, I have a great deal of it, and it’s constantly leading me to step out in front of moving cars. Metaphorically speaking.

Everything said, it took about an hour for me to escort the ducks to the river, and the milk that I’d left in my car got hot from sitting in the sun too long. But the truth is this: walking those ducks to the river was the best time I’ve had in months. Maybe longer. I felt good afterwards, better than I’ve felt in a long time.

It’s strange for me to admit this, but a lot of my life has felt very hollow lately. Many of my days are not particularly good days, though I would be hard pressed to explain why this is the case.

I’ve had fun, don’t get me wrong, but a lot of it has been fun like eating one of those giant Pixy Stix. It’s great while you’re doing it, but afterward, you don’t really feel…. good. It’s not a substantial experience.

I need to think on this. If an hour spent helping some ducks feels like the most worthwhile thing I’ve done in a months, I probably need to re-examine my life.

That’s all for now folks. Have fun, but look out for ducks while you’re doing it. And if someone steps in front of you and holds up their hand for you to stop, you might want to slow down whatever you’re doing and have a second look around, just in case.

Fondly,

pat

Also posted in babies, baby ducks | By Pat57 Responses
Published: April 29, 2008

Spring in Wisconsin

Today is April 29th. It is two days away from Beltane.

Today I made a snowman in my yard.

A careful observer will note that Sarah’s lips are wet, and her cheeks are pudged out. That’s because she was eating a carrot. (You can see what remains in her hand.)

I told her that wasn’t a cool thing to do. Eating a carrot right in front of the snowman you’re making is rude, and just a little macabre. But, as always, she didn’t listen to me…..

Have a good day everyone.

pat

Also posted in Sarah | By Pat21 Responses
Published: April 20, 2008

Following Diogenes

The other day I was getting dressed, and I experienced something unfamiliar, something I couldn’t remember ever experiencing before.

For this to make sense, I need to explain something first. I’m a sensation seeker.

Some people with this personality trait call themselves “thrill seekers,” but that’s not really appropriate in my case. I don’t feel the need to jump off bridges and go snorkeling with sharks. I’m not an adrenaline junkie — I simply like to experience new things.

And if you have my peculiar type of curiosity, there are new things all over the place. This is part of the reason I like meeting people and going places. It’s why I like reading books, which is like meeting people and going places except you don’t have to take a shower and find your pants first.

Hmmm…. I still feel like I might be giving the wrong impression. I’m not talking about going anywhere exotic. A few years ago I really enjoyed visiting a small town called Amherst – population: not much. They had a great river, and the locks on the public mailboxes were really cool. New York was interesting too, but despite all the museums and landmarks I saw, the thing that I liked the most were the pigeons and the sidewalks. The sidewalks in Soho are really great.

It would probably be fair to say that I’m a thrill seeker with simple tastes. If you’ve ever been driving around central Wisconsin and seen someone running his hands over the bark of a tree, or staring intently into the water that’s running along the gutter and into a storm drain, it was quite possibly me.

The point of all this is that I am tuned to the sensation of a new experience.

So a few days ago, I was getting dressed. I was halfway thought putting on my socks when I realized that I was experiencing something new…. But for the life of me I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

It took me the better part of a minute to figure it out: I was sitting on my bed while I put on my socks.

The socks weren’t the new thing. The new thing was sitting on the bed while putting them on. Normally I put my socks on standing up. Part of the reason I do this is because I have ninja-like balance that I use at every opportunity, lest I dull my keen fighting edge. But the main reason I’ve always done it this way is that for the last 15 years I haven’t owned a bed.

Where do I sleep? Well, with the exception of a few years of futon while in grad school, I’ve usually just slept on a mattress on the floor.

I use sheets, mind you. I’m not an animal. I just never bothered getting all those other parts that go together with the mattress to make it a bed.

While I was sitting on my bed, thinking, “Hmm. This is different,” I realized y’all probably have a terribly inaccurate idea of what my life is like. You’ve come in at the end of the story, so to speak.

It would be reasonable for you to assume that my life has always been this luxurious, full of beds, posh coffee drinks, and Chinese food delivered directly to my house. But the truth is, for most of my life I have practiced simplicity of living. As a philosophy, it is very appealing to me. And, as a bonus, when you aren’t worried about making a lot of money, it frees up a lot of your time for writing.

Simplicity has come naturally to me over the years. It’s easy when you don’t have much money. I live cheaply, move often, and don’t focus on frippery. Please don’t compare me to Thoreau. While he made some good points, Thoreau was kind of a poser.

No. Ever since I studied the Greek philosophers, I’ve done my best to follow in footsteps of Diogenes. The man who threw away his bowl after seeing a boy drinking out of his cupped hands. The man Plato called, “Socrates gone mad.” Brilliant, bitter, barefoot Diogenes.

This means for most of my adult life I’ve only owned one pair of shoes, one coat, and one pair of pants. I’ve eaten a lot of ramen. (Chicken Maruchen ramen, given a choice.) Before selling the book, I never paid more than $250 a month for rent, or more than ten dollars for a piece of furniture.

No, wait, that isn’t true. I paid 80 bucks for a desk back in 1998. It was one of those plywood assemble-it-yourself kits. Two years later I moved, and when I realized it couldn’t be taken apart, I just ripped the top piece off and laid it across two filing cabinets. That’s what I still use for a desk. That’s what I’m typing on right now.

Do I have a point? No. Probably not. Except to say that life is strange. I have lived most of my adult life happily poor. (Though I have never been truly desperate or destitute by any means.) Now I have a bed. A real bed with a box spring and a frame and everything. I recently bought a dishwasher. I have a house — or at least a mortgage in the shape of a house.

I’ve been up all night, writing and thinking. And before I lay down in my new bed in my new house and catch a refreshing day’s sleep, I’m going to go out and buy a couple copies of the Sunday edition of the New York Times. This is another thing I’ve never done before. I wonder how heavy three copies will be? How much does the Times cost?

I’m buying a Sunday paper because there is a full page ad for The Name of the Wind in there today. A full-page color ad. And though I don’t know the specific numbers, I expect this ad cost the publisher more money than I made in a year of teaching at the university. It is terribly flattering. It is a glamorous gesture of faith and support. It shows that they really believe in the book.

Today I have a full-color ad in the New York Times, and my life is strange. This is not a bad thing. After I post this up on my blog, I will take a shower, put on my only pair of pants and walk downtown to buy a Sunday paper for the first time. Spring is finally here in Wisconsin, and though the trees are still dark and leafless, the ground has thawed. It is almost fifty degrees out. More luxury. More than I deserve. I will celebrate by leaving my only pair of shoes at home and make my way barefoot, pretending for a while that I am still following Diogenes.

Take care everyone,

pat

*** Edit – 9:45 AM ***

First off, it turns out it isn’t a color ad. That makes me feel better, actually.

Secondly, they reallydon’t want to let you into the grocery store if you don’t have any shoes on. Even if it’s just so you can buy a paper. Even if it’s just for a minute so you can buy a paper that has an ad for your book in it.

If it wasn’t for the authority of my majestic beard, I don’t think they would have let me through….

Thirdly:

(Click to Embiggen)

Whoot!

pat

Also posted in cool things, Diogenes, the man behind the curtain | By Pat38 Responses
Published: February 6, 2008

Daily adventures: The Dentist.

So today I went to the dentist.

This might not seem like a big deal to y’all. In fact, for a lot of you, I’m guessing a trip to the dentist is no more of an event than going to get the oil changed in your car or buying a new pair of shoes. That is to say, its falls under the category of routine maintenance for your life.

But you see, I haven’t been to the dentist in a while. A long while. An amount of while that would be considered obscene by many people.

Yes yes. I know everyone puts off going to the dentist. You’re supposed to go every six months, or a year. But you forget, or you avoid it, and one year stretches into two, or three, or five.

But, as with all things, I’ve taken it to the next level. For me it’s been so long that I can only dimly remember the last time. My last dentist was a huge Italian man with fingers like sausages. He looked like an honest-to-god mobster, and when he mentioned that I wasn’t flossing, it sounded like something out of the Godfather. Like if I didn’t floss, he was going to send someone around to my house to straighten me out….

Also, the brand name of the little workstation they had next to the chair? “Cavitron” I shit you not. The thing was called The Cavitron.

It would be funny to say that that experience traumatized me, and that’s why I haven’t been back for so long. But the it wouldn’t be the truth. I thought all that was funny as hell.

The truth is, I just never think of going. And when I DO think of going, I worry that when I show up they’re going to say something like, “Well, it’s too late. Our only option now is to surgically remove your whole mouth in the most excruciating manner possible.”

So, of course, it’s easier to avoid the whole situation.

How long has it been? It has been, at my best guess, eleven years. Maybe twelve.

And I don’t floss. At all. It would be impossible to floss less than I do, unless you somehow invented a machine that made negative flossing possible.

So, to cut to the chase, I went in to the dentist and got to experience the new tool. Apparently that sharp metal pokey thing was getting blase. Now they have much cooler high-tech version of that. It combines all the pokiness of the metal tool, with a tiny spray of water and a feeling like…

You know when someone runs their fingernail over a chalkboard and you feel it back in the base of your neck. It’s like that. Except it’s the pokey thing and my teeth making the noise. Huzzah for science.

But deep in my heart I know I’ve earned this. This is Penance. It’s fair. This poor hygienist wasn’t planning on dealing with this today and they probably scheduled my cleaning thinking that they’d only need the regular amount of time. I can’t blame them for being a little rough and a little hurried.

Still, part of me wonders if there is an upscale dentist option out there. I mean, I don’t think Brad Pitt goes in to the dentist and has someone scrape away at him like this. It’s just undignified.

Anyway, it’s good for me. Not only because my teeth did need cleaning, but because I haven’t practiced my Buddhist meditation lately, and I typically only do that in situations like this.

Here’s my philosophy. Any wanker can meditate at home, listening to Enya and sitting on his yoga mat. That’s for sissies. You managed to clear your mind from all distractions? Wow. Congratulations. You want an organic, sugar-free walnut and raisin cookie to celebrate?

Me? I’m badass. My thought is that if you can relax, clear your mind, and contemplate the four noble truths while someone is drilling your teeth, then you’ve got your place in the universe pretty well sorted out. Meditating while under extreme conditions is like going running while you’re wearing leg weights and occationally stopping to have a fistfight with a shark. Except, y’know, with your brain.

So I meditate in the dentist’s chair. I meditate while flying through a thunderstorm sitting next to a mom with a screaming baby, while getting stitches with no anesthetic at the doctor’s office, and, once, in the fourth row of a Gwar concert. Keep your circle breathing to yourself, hippie. I’ve got so much pranjna I don’t even know what to do with it all.

And the end of the story? I’m fine. No cavities. No trouble. I’m the first to admit that this little story would work better with a moral at the end. But that’s just not the way some stories actually happen.

Goodnight everyone,

pat

Also posted in being awesome, my dumbness | By Pat45 Responses
Published: December 21, 2007

Fried Rice and a new Interview….

So the other day I order some Chinese food, because having someone bring food directly to your house and eating it in your jammies is perhaps the most decadent pleasure that exists.

I ordered some food for my girlfriend as well. This is partly because I’m sensitive and thoughtful and awesome. But, truthfully, it’s also because if I didn’t, she would just eat half of mine and then I’d be sad and hungry.

Just as the food arrived, my girlfriend called me and told me she’d be late getting home from work. I tell her that I’ll wait dinner for her, again because of the awesome, and resist the urge to open the bag to get at the egg rolls. Instead I set the paper bag on my bed and cover it up with a blanket to keep it warm until she gets home.

Eventually she does, and we eat it, and it’s lovely.

But that’s not the end of the story. The end of the story is that now my blankets smell like chicken fried rice. You’d think this would be a bad thing, but not so much. Truth is, it’s kinda nice, actually.

Ah yes. There you go. Another little peek into my life.

Why am I writing about this? Hell, I don’t know. Why do I write anything? I suppose because it amuses me, and because I hope it might amuse you too.

If you’re looking for more odd ramblings of mine, you can find them in the newest interview I’ve done over HERE at the Book Swede.

We talk, among other things, about monkeys.

Later all,

pat

Also posted in Interviews | By Pat12 Responses
Published: November 13, 2007

Today, I suck at life….

I was ready for today to be a cool day. A super-cool day even.

My star seems to be in ascension. A couple days ago I got a super cool review on NPR. As if that wasn’t cool enough, superhero librarian Nancy Pearl is the one doing the reviewing and recommending.

If you don’t know who Nancy Pearl is, you should. And you know that any librarian with her own action figure is a force to be reckoned with…

If that weren’t enough, I also recently got wind of a review in Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine. Michelle West wrote such a flattering, descriptive, spoiler free review discussion of the book that I realize I will probably never have much luck being a reviewer myself. I don’t think I have the knack.

Anyway, my point is that things were looking pretty rosy moving into today. Two embarrassingly good reviews, my student’s tests were graded, and my amazon rank was ridiculously high (#240). I was half convinced that the local woodland creatures were going to wake me up, sing me a song, and help me get dressed for school — Cinderella style.

Because they didn’t show, I had to find my own socks and consequently I was running a little late. So I drove onto campus and found a spot right in front of the building. It even had 20 free minutes on the meter. Better and better.

Then I end up having a disagreement with the local photocopier. I want to make copies of the grading rubric for my class. The machine wants to take a big old shit on my day.

Ultimately the machine wins. It even manages the trifecta by denying me my copies, devouring the one and only copy of the rubric, and making me five minutes late to my own class.

Everything went downhill from there. The class was a trainwreck. Because dealing with the photocopier took all of my class prep time, I looked disorganized and clueless. I wrote all over the dry-erase board with a big bright red non-dry erase marker. (Not my fault, someone left it there.) I looked like an idiot several times and some of the students actually were talking to each other and laughing at me.

Lastly, toward the end of the class I said something in response to a student’s comment that was meant to be a general statement for the class, but I think was interpreted as me being bitchy at that student. *sigh* I don’t know.

It’s strange how quickly your day can turn to shit. In some ways it’s even worse because everything else was really good before that. If you spend the day picking up dogshit it’s not going to be a great time, but at least you know what you’re in for. You’re braced for it. It’s different if you’re just having a picnic and someone hits you in the face with a turd.

And with that lovely image, I will leave you. Hope your day is going better than mine.

Best,

pat

P.S. 204. That helps a bit.

Also posted in reviews, the man behind the curtain | By Pat31 Responses

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