I'm a flooring estimator. This means that I look at plans and pick out whatever pages are necessary and print them. I highlight important info., jot down notes, take off the plans, and create a spreadsheet and proposal. I guess you could call the spreadsheet the “draft,” in a way, and the proposal the published piece. I estimate my days and how long it takes me to get things done; I estimate how much time I'll waste by leaving the house ten minutes later than usual in the morning, or heading home at 5 p.m. Versus 3 p.m. As it stands, any time after 3 is a nightmare to get into Lowell.

I spend my days worrying away at my inability to squeeze in time as I'd like it; to wake up late, and write first thing, when I'm fresh, versus getting home in the afternoon and word-vomitting all over a piece of paper. I estimate when I will next be able to visit my parents, my sisters, my brother; and how long I can spend with my boyfriend, and there is always this tension I feel building up in me, because by the end of the week, all I want to do is spend my time buried in a notebook somewhere, eavesdropping and scrawling out dialogue, or describing the angle of the buildings in downtown Lowell, or interviewing some people about what they do for work, and what they'd rather be doing.

I've learned over the last year that estimating can't be quantified in quite the way that my cheatsheet shows; it doesn't really take our union guys a day to install 120 SY of carpet every time; it depends on the type of carpet, and the size of the rooms, and their shape, and also how far the place is. Every hour is based on a note somewhere else. Nothing is straight forward.

With all my dreams of writing and editing and teaching full-time, I can only glimpse the possibilities, including the very real possibility of failure, which is why I continue to estimate flooring, at least for now, until the time is right to counter-balance my time in new directions, on stories and editing, when I think that I can get the hours just right.

When you first walk into a place like Circlet—publishing press of the science fiction and fantastic erotica—you might expect to stumble into an orgy of half-naked men and women engaging in all kinds of socially unacceptable actions: think whips, chains, and maybe even a stock, just for some humiliation fun. You get the idea. Sex in all its frivolity, a place of sexual freedom.

As for the actual place? Sorry, but the scene isn't quite like that. We take our shoes off at the door. Cecilia—founder and editor of Circlet Press—reminds us not to let the cats out, and offers us tea. She and her partner Corwin make dinner for us, those attending Circlet's Editorial Retreat, here at Cecilia's beautiful home in Cambridge. I stare at the books in her bookcases enviously, and I dream about finding the time to read them all, to be interested in them all: the bible, and the Koran, dozens of sexy anthologies, science fiction that I've mostly only heard of--Stranger in a Strange Land, and Last Call. Upstairs there are books about baseball and Harry Potter fanfiction, and erotic Harry Potter fanfiction. It's drool-worthy. I want to be the writer that Cecilia is, with my own flair—she writes erotica and romance, science fiction and fantasy, baseball and fanfiction.

I write memoir and personal essays, features and flash fiction, and a hodgepodge of short stories and several novels-forever-in-progress.

The editors and writers mingle. Bethany and Jules, Avery and Bliss. We discuss our favorite books and cats and how much we despise the real world. We hardly ever talk about sex, except in humor; sometimes it seems to be rotting in the bottom of my things to do these days, and for Circlet editors, who are generally working full-time jobs, and sometimes writing their own stories on top of editing anthologies...I'm sure getting to the delicious can seem like a lot of work some days.

The weekend is spent in lecture and exercise: We listen to writers talk about studying the anthropology of people in order to get a better sense of place; we listen to discussions about problematic Tolkien issues; and as this is a place safe for introverts, I wander away during one discussion to climb the stairs and pass out for a wonderfully relaxing hour and a half midday nap. On Sunday we discuss anthology topics, and my favorites are as follows:

• Historical
• Femdom/Male Sub
• Rural Fantasy
• Cowboys
• Gods/Goddesses
• Nautical
• Sidekicks
  
  

There is a lot of discussion over the weekend about biology and sometimes space, and marketing. Bliss rants to me about the impossibility of finding work adjuncting. My new nonfiction-writing friend shares sips of Mead with me. She is Canadian and is on the hunt for weed, which no one else at the retreat seems to have or care about searching for.

It is a wonderfully relaxing weekend, one that makes me feel more rested than I've felt in a year. My boyfriend came to the Friday night dinner, and Sunday afternoon lunch and wasn't scared away. Sometimes I feel like maybe we ought to be a little more outlandish at Circlet—do things that might freak people out, if only to fulfill their assumptions (desires). But you can read all about that in one of our anthologies--Like a Circlet Editor, if you really want to.
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I'm just going to keep on squeezing in time for writing and with luck one of these days I'll be the one hosting some editor and writer retreats—for writers of erotica, science fiction, memoir, and maybe even some YA authors if they're interested. The space for writing is something we each create.