Quote For The Weekend (Seminar Edition)

Pet the dog, people. Pet the dog.

Some writers, critics, and other assorted literati sniff at plotting as a tool of craft. A synonym of plotting, in this mindset, is slumming, something decent people just don’t do.  

—James Scott Bell

Whose seminar I attended this morning in Burbank for almost 3 hours, using my hair to cover my right eye so no one would notice the burst blood vessel I received from yesterday’s yoga session (that’s what I get for not remembering to breathe in the Superman pose). My stomach wouldn’t stop growling. Loudly. I think it was agitated by the aroma of the free mints on the table I sat near, and the fact that I’d had only a smoothie for breakfast. I heard my stomach. So did others. I also heard the following: LOCK SYSTEM. A great plot is the record of how a character deals with death. Why is something a formula??? Because it works!!! At this point I suddenly became distracted by a movie poster of Scream 3 on the wall. Was that Chris Rock’s face? From where I sat I couldn’t read the credits. I began obsessing on whether or not it was, in fact, Chris Rock and if it was, what the he** was he doing in a Scream 3. I haven’t seen Scream 3 (obviously). I haven’t even seen Scream 2. But I had to know if it was Chris Rock. I HAD TO KNOW. Since the classroom was smallish and I was seated in the 2nd row,  it suddenly occurred to me that JSB might notice that I was craning my neck and squinting at the poster. My stomach growled. My red eye twitched. I pulled myself together and floated back into the seminar. And I heard: Q FACTOR! Translation software for your imagination. Types of lead characters. Pet the dog. Beginning. Middle. End. THE STAKES MUST BE DEATH. At this point, I really wanted to look at that poster again—but I didn’t. Instead, I heard (and copied down) a quote by Robert Newton Peck: A plot is two dogs and one bone. Clips from City Slickers, Moonstruck and The Fugitive were interspersed between more advice and more quotes, such as this one by Alfred Hitchcock: A great story is life with the dull parts taken out. Oh, I learned much today and was startled to discover that aspects of the “formula” referred to throughout the seminar actually live in my children’s novel–which was written organically, with non-organic coffee standing by and not a plot-sheet in sight.  As I mentioned earlier, reading about craft, attending lectures and seminars on craft? Difficult for me. But I’m making myself read and listen because it’s just not a bad idea to revisit some basics. Plus, I wouldn’t have been given the wonderful term PET THE DOG if I had skipped the seminar (my monster eye, general fatigue—I have good excuses to be a homebody and honor a certain little man’s request to sit in his room of primary colors and play with the Bat Cave). JSB is a thorough lecturer. And he’s read The Hunger Games. In fact, I think he’s read every book on the planet and seen every movie ever made. He is a walking/lecturing resource. Go see him if you can.

Oak Ents

Most bewitching oaks in Los Angeles

This was the morning: camellias and oak trees. And koi ponds, a small, very green lake with coots and mallards drifting, a Japanese garden with an unattended snack bar my son immediately took over, stepping behind the counter (which came up to his nose), ordering me to order french fries and a hangaburger, then ordering me to speak to his bird (which he ‘materialized’ from a refrigerator that wouldn’t open). He held the bird out to me on his hand. When I took the bird with my forefinger and spoke to it, he took it back with his forefinger and gave it many kisses. Oh, life. 8 years ago if someone had showed me this little scene? I wouldn’t have believed it. Miracles abound. In wastelands, in previously established routines, in Los Angeles. And I don’t know what the bejeezus it is about oak trees, but they are magic. They calm me, shutting down panic-bits I wasn’t even aware I was harboring. When there are enough oaks to make a puzzle of the sky, I can’t help but stop and gaze and listen. Old and snaggle-leaved, branches wending with startling grace, a definite peace transferred to the gazer…Someday I hope whatever house we live in is surrounded by oak trees, indefinitely.

Speaking Of Poetry

reading writing typing typing typing

Askew , a poetry journal, accepted a poem of mine for their May issue. It’s nice to have an acceptance so early in the year, providing me with impetus to keep submitting my work even when the day starts at 5:30a.m. and could end at 9:00p.m.—unless I ignore my pillows and cozy bed and write, revise or crawl into huluplus for an hour (a wretched temptation). I’ve read Askew for years and am an admirer of co-editor and poet Marsha de la O. There’s an earthy, mysterious quality to her work that I respond to—and I’m forever interested in the work of Californian poets. Plus, Askew is Ventura based—a local. So grateful when locals accept my work—Chaparral, Solo, Runes (very sad they’re gone now), Santa Barbara Independent. I feel so much more part of a writing community. When I start writing things like, so much more part of I know it’s time to sign off. It’s almost 10p.m. Do you know where your favorite writing chair is? Phoning the corner bar and telling mine to get its indented (and unfortunately patterned) cushions home this instant.

Yours in poetry and nimbly (numbly?) typing fingers,

PB

Quote For The Weekend (Pulled Muscle Edition)

making spinach muffins, scrubbing toilets, picking up dog poop, Googling Albert Einstein, surfing the Ikea website, pain...

“Writers are notorious for using any reason to keep from working: over-researching, retyping, going to meetings, waxing the floors–anything.”

—Gloria Steinem

I opened the door to my son’s classroom and an invisible  claw grabbed the muscles in my right side and clenched. Twisted while clenching. Clenched as if my muscles were Playdough. Or my sad morning cinnamon waffles. I sank into a kiddie chair with a fixed smile on my face, repeating, ”Ha ha ha!”, as though I was laughing. A teacher hurried over. In soft (so as not to arouse kiddie suspicion), urgent tones and many run-ons, she said: “Are you all right? Should I call a doctor? What are you feeling do you want some water? Can you describe the pain is it your muscles kidneys? Have you experienced this before what day is it today? What planet are you on? When was the last time you studied Einstein’s theory of relativity? Is this a stunt to avoid your writing? Why did you tattle on that one girl when you were in the 2nd grade who’s your daddy?” Etc.

I wanted to primal scream in a roomful of four year olds. I wanted to rip my right side from my body and feed it to the classroom pet bunny. I wanted to run screaming into the playground and impale myself on a kiddie rake. Instead, I pretended I was fine and, because I couldn’t walk, stalked to the minivan, still smiling.

I screamed the entire five minutes back to my house. FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT, I pleaded into the phone as I writhed upon the bed. My husband was a professional masseuse in another life, but he couldn’t leave the office to come and save me. He spoke to me in polite fragments (because the whole office was listening): Hot shower. Breathe. Advil. Pillows. Under. Knees! Tennis ball. Below. Lower back. No screaming. Breathing. Forgive. Self. For not knowing. String Theory. Write. Write. Write.

I took 4 Advil, screamed into my favorite pillow and lay on the bed regretting skipping my yoga workouts since December 29th, when I got that stomach virus followed by the flu followed by a cold followed by insomnia. Were the yoga goddesses punishing me? Was I clenching up from lack of sleep? Was I feeling guilty for not understanding time/space continuums, therefore taking my ignorance out on the muscles on the right side of my body? Was I coming up with fresh and particularly horrifying ways to avoid my writing?

2 hours later I got off the bed like nothing had ever been eating me alive and drove to pick up my son. Currently, apart from a faint twinging if I reach out with my right arm, it’s like nothing happened. Yet……Tomorrow I will start with 10 sun salutations and ease back into Om. Right? Yes, of course. I can imagine myself doing sun salutations. In imagination lies hope (who said that???).

It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. My husband is taking our son to the library so I may experience some quiet writing time. I think a cat peed on the bathroom tile. The dog’s ears still need cleaning. The washed muffin tin has residue.

There’s just no escaping some things.

I Told You So

We hit town late afternoon-ish and I immediately honor the request for the museum and its entertaining dinosaur footprints indented in cement, pgymy mammoth bones, taxidermied (the fraying sort) mountain animals and vultures, buttons igniting barn owl shrieks and snake rattles and of course there is the excavating pit filled with sand and paint brushes and impossible-to-completely-uncover plastic bones and although he nixes the planetarium show, I admit the gift shop is fun with its bottled goo and Jupiter Juice, dinosaur eggs and display of alarmingly priced, richly colored pashminas I almost can’t resist. When it is time to leave, I try again: The beach? No, he quips, blowing into his straw so intensely the carton of organic milk sounds like a mini-cauldron in full boil. It isn’t until we’re half way to the beach that the solution hits me: Tide pools? Silence. Then, Yes, yes, yes! Hermit crabs! And he carries on from there, so that when I pull into the beach’s lot, he is antsy to escape the car. I roll up our jeans and ferry him, like the little lord he is, across the parking lot to the rocky path and down we go, hand in hand, into five o’ clock sun dazzling our eyes as it jazzes up the water, the surf mild, the tide out, exposing rocks adorned in colonies of button-sized sea anemones and tide pools teeming with hermits and, to his joy, the bare feet of fellow children. He joins a pack of exploring kids as I perch on a rock, controlling urges to shout at him to be careful, biting my knuckles when he slips into a pool and soaks his jeans and most of his shirt. When he picks himself up and laughs at the gold sky, I take a breath. And another. Mental notes for my ocean-infested novel(s) come so fast I scold myself for not showing up with a pen and notebook in my pockets. As he cavorts, splashing and screaming with the others, I steal glances at the ocean’s mingling ribbons of plum, sapphire, teal and, eventually, out there, beyond that island’s rolling spine, shocking fire-pinks. I feel so grateful when I’m by the sea. Slapped awake in a dream. Pushed into reverie that is not so vague, not so misty. It’s why I keep coming back. Well, and because I revel in his (fickle) love for it. When he commands me to look as he jumps from the same rock he first slipped from, back into the same deep pool, I do, with applause. The first beach visit of 2012 reddens our cheeks and, by the time we head for the minivan—soaked, sand-caked—we are ravenous. I knew you’d like it, I think, but don’t say because I told you so bothers me, even though I told you so is not what I mean. After buckling him into his seat, I pull a shell from my pocket, its ridges striped white and black. He takes it from me with a tiny gasp, turns it over in fingers no doubt younger than the shell. Usually I throw the good ones back, give them a second chance for obscurity (preservation?)—but (unlike the dashing pashminas at the museum) I couldn’t resist it, secreting it in my pocket, waiting for this moment, the sort only poems accurately describe—and inevitably embellish.

Quote For The Weekend (Another Sunday Late Edition Blrrrrgh)

The blood jet is poetry/there is no stopping it.

—Sylvia Plath

I could stare at this photo for hours…

Spring Spirit 2012

Road Trip

Recently writer Beth Hull turned me on to the Spring Spirit conference, an annual SCBWI California North/Central event held in Rocklin, CA. This year, I’m excited to say I will be attending. The lineup is top notch, including the YA Muses I am always mentioning (wisely), there are lectures/panels to choose from and for one full day I get to do nothing but learn in the company of MG and YA writers and illustrators. I have enjoyed my local SCBWI Writer’s Days, especially when my novel won that SPECIAL MENTION I’m mentioning again, however this day-long conference is a whole other—it’s late, I’m just going to say animal. Worth looking into if you’re in the area—or not, like me. I may even stay overnight at one of those things we have in this country called HOTELS, ALOOOOONE, use an indoor pool and “free” gym, order room service—ALOOOONE*—and watch HBO revise my novel, having been so inspired from the conference. Looking to be a very un-cruel April.

*Will, however (although not perversely), miss my husband and child the entire time and be longing to share my hotel experience with them, should I have one. Seriously.

Yours truly,

Ms. Homebody

Time Spent

Night Llamas. Comprendes?

Roaming the house looking for my reading glasses when on top of head entire time: a good 15 minutes (additional minutes tacked on when distracted by each room’s white elephant: mound of clean yet hopelessly wrinkled laundry on guest room bed, the way the dining room table has become a disorganized desk, the half eaten cereal bar on top of the printer, dust bunnies in that one corner of the bathroom…).

In search of my cell phone after promising myself I would never need to go in search of it again: 10 agonizing minutes (during which husband is emailed to please call so cell phone will announce its location—he calls—after I’ve found it—in my Ugg boot behind the chair piled in rough drafts of my children’s novel, the top page of which has been shredded by kitty claws).

Time spent ransacking kitchen drawers and cupboards for the bread machine blade/dough kneading gadget even though not making bread until weekend: 7 agonizing minutes (husband put it away, so…)

Time spent fuming about that one thing that one ex-boyfriend said twenty years ago that still chaps my hide—until I catch myself fuming and take deep breaths, focusing on LETTING GO OF THE PAST and FORGIVENESSSSSSS: really only a few (progress!).

Time spent staring out living room windows at struggling yard imagining new decking, Mexican-red umbrellas, voluminous bougainvilla hiding unfortunate paint job of back wall, shiny silver BBQ number with exciting extra burners, patio table set in beading pitchers of margaritas and desert rose patterned trays filled with savory tapas, twinkle lights twinkling from eaves, smily visitors lounging, laughter and fun as I don a fashionable sombrero, wave gaily at my son trotting the llama around the lawn and signal the mariachi band to begin their set: too numerous to count.

Time spent revising children’s novel: 2 hours (at patio table covered in pine needles from latest windstorm and set in plastic tumbler filled with  protein drink, a pile of remote control toys that need new batteries and a struggling potted lavender plant).

Number of minutes spent procrastinating, fuming about past or daydreaming during 2 hours of revision time: none.

Ahhhh. There we go, PB. Bliss. Just get there a little faster. And maybe dispose of that cereal bar.

Quote For The Weekend (Sunday Late Edition–Oops)

Karma, karma, karma!

Lifted directly from Spiritual Now Dot Com. The Dalai Lama’s 20 ways to get good karma (believe it or not). Compare to Gandhi’s top 10 fundamentals for changing the world. Live well, long and, of course, prosper as you wash dishes, mow the lawn, stuff laundry into the machine, play with your son and his bat cave toy, soothe fevers, feed pets that pee on your bare leg, and generally enjoy domestics (seriously, I savor it all):

Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.

When you lose, don’t lose the lesson.

Follow the three R’s: -  Respect for self, -  Respect for others and -  Responsibility for all your actions.

Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.

Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.

Don’t let a little dispute injure a great relationship.

When you realize you’ve made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.

Spend some time alone every day.

Open your arms to change, but don’t let go of your values.

Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.

Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you’ll be able to enjoy it a second time.

A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life.

In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don’t bring up the past.

Share your knowledge. It is a way to achieve immortality.

Be gentle with the earth.

Once a year, go someplace you’ve never been before.

Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.

Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.

If you want others to be happy, practice compassion.

If you want to be happy, practice compassion.

Under The Never Sky

Discovered in the dusty urban jungle that is my front porch

Finally, my Amazon pre-ordered copy of Veronica Rossi’s debut novel arrived. This afternoon I heard a thump on the front porch, opened the door and found the package (it was sealed at the time, of course). The UPS man placed it in the stroller for me. He rocks. I urge you to read Under The Never Sky and read all about Veronica’s exciting adventure to publication at her website and at the ever-thoughtful and thought-provoking YA Muses. Can’t wait to get started reading this evening. In the meantime, I will admire the beautiful cover between playing with the Batman Cave toy with my son and folding laundry. Happy reading!

A Little Nap Reading

Would like writing to breakout instead of face

I’m terrible when it comes to reading (cue echoing god-voice): books on craft. I used to ride horses that shied when the wind picked up, theirs withers trembling, nostrils flaring noisily. Hold Donald Maass’ book up before me and I’ve got the same reaction, stupidly side-stepping into appliances and laundry baskets. I suppose I’m afraid I’ll squash organic creativity by reading (cue the voice): craft tips. But here’s the thing: I’m tired. I’ve had broken sleep for the past 5 years. I pretend to be an early riser for the sake of the doodly-woodly-delicious-wicious early rising little boy I would do anything for–but inside, I’m dreaming of flannel-covered down. Tiredness takes a toll on the writing mother. I want to be more effective during the revision process and (with the other 2 novels I’m working on) creative process and so I’m going to do my best to read Mr. Maass’ niftily laid out book without whinnying to the skies—I mean, sighing to the stars. And then I’m moving on to Bell and what’s-her-name, dang it, you know—the brilliant one—Autobiography Of Red, HER ALMIGHTY, yes, Anne Carson. Sigh. See? I need help. And so I’m going to find it. And learn and persist. Because, tired as I am, I’m the one in control (see previous post). Iamincontrol. And now, instead of blogging about reading, I’m going to read during naptime. Or—sleep for 30 minutes and then read. How about 10 minutes of sleep and 85 minutes of reading. Huh. Did you know it’s 2012? Ah. I didn’t think so. That’s why you’re here.

When I Despair, I Remember

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s Top 10 Fundamentals For Changing The World

1. Change Yourself
2. You are in control
3. Forgive and let go
4. Without action you aren’t going anywhere
5. Take care of this moment
6. Everyone is human
7. Persist
8. See the good in people and help them
9. Be congruent, be authentic, be your true self
10. Continue to grow and evolve

“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it–always.”

Quote For The New Year

Tick Tocking Along

We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched.  Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives… not looking for flaws, but for potential.

~Ellen Goodman

Happy 2012, authors. May the potential overflow into publication. And then some.

Writing During The Holidays

Multitasking abandoned

My laptop sits on the kitchen counter as I cook. Right hand stirring the dumpling mixture, my left hand’s floury fingers type (not skillfully), Have you a mind to sink, the woman weeps to those gathered in the room, to no one. The sound of something shattering out on the patio. “Oh, Man,” groans my Mother-In-Law as my son squeal-giggles. All three dogs are barking.

Dressed in my Christmas blouse, which is really a summer blouse because the Santa Anas have ravaged this valley for 3 days, stewing us in heat, forcing us to pull out the boring shorts and flipflops at Christmas, I sit on my bed with my laptop, pretending I can’t hear the many beloveds arriving for dinner. I should have left her alone, he muttered, searching the channel for the rowboat. She’s killing me. “Mama! Wook!” My son bursts into the bedroom wielding a candy cane, which is like giving Crank to a kitten. “Where are the mutilated poems, Polly asks,” I whisper, chasing after my son and vowing to remember this line if I’m ever alone with my laptop again.

Just as I collapse on the couch for the first time in many madcap centuries and haul my laptop to my pajamas-covered legs, my eye is caught by my husband staggering for the bathroom, hand over his mouth. I write: baffled as to why the albino twins rile her, and set the computer aside, providing hand towels, encouraging whispers and plumped pillows, my son and I playing with the Bat Cave toy for the next 22 years.

Far beneath the dining room tile, she senses a rumble.

My son orders me to look at his plate. “I ate all my bweakfast!” Widening my eyes and uttering exclamations of (genuine) appreciation, I finish writing: Just how many roadside tacos did he eat? Ella wonders, her stomach churning when she imagines Love or even Front Row Red socking Frankie in the face. “No, Mama–you’re not wooking!”

I am in the guestroom bed. Behind me are miles of fun with my child and whatever I could give my suffering spouse to ease his agony. In attempt to keep one of us healthy, my illness-plagued husband and I sleep in separate beds tonight. I relish the Christmas revelings of late, this sweet family life I am so grateful for, but at last: some time to write. When she turns to him, the passenger seat holds only her bags of clothes, her potted plants…

When she turns to him…spin the sky…when she turns…whale’s spout…when she turns…O enormous yawn! You are not welcome here. O moon, O moan…

Why don’t the f***ing books f***ing write themselves…

No Sickness (O My Stars)

What would Christmas be without slow cooked chili and chive-flecked dumplings?

I remember using the mini food processor chopper thing to within an inch of its life, opening cans of Christmas delicacies like organic kidney beans, tomato paste (yes, organic tomato paste—who knew) and what is Christmas without ye olde Christmas mandarin oranges (but not in syrup). I recall pouring an entire bottle of pear cider into a saucepan, followed by a bottle of white wine and spoonfuls of mesquite honey and a dozen little logs of cinnamon which jammed appealingly, but failed to get the house as eu de Christmas as I wanted. I will never forget the cats huddled on the couch in the garage, their eyes thick with traumatization because of the visiting dogs invading their land—oh always cookies shedding the precious sprinkles to carpets, a stint for the martini glasses and wedding flutes and maybe no cranberry goat cheese log, but right on with the homemade chicken salsa and holiday chips, the slow cooked chili with chive-flecked dumplings and the potato and leek soup (there we go, a little more Christmas than anything besides the cider) and always the sense of keeping the sickness at bay by backing my smile with another of steel, by not acknowledging dubious splotches on floors and definitely by playing the piano with my own brand of semi-composed Edwardian passion as the company moved to the summery patio where the boy painted a birdhouse and the martinis resurfaced and the dogs tore through (up) the spartan yard and how could Christmas be Christmas without schedules utterly knocked off their hinges? Sunday, you speak to the stars, speaking showing your charms, you are books, you are bones, are you right—right for wishing?

But of course.

The view from the couch is so cheery I will never come down with the colds guests showed up with or that thing that is making my husband hug the commode today as the cats reclaim their cushions and nooks and our dog snores from 2 days of unfamiliar exertion and the boy—the beautiful, blue-eyed Christmas babe we lived all of Christmas through—naps.

It is boxing day. I am unwrapping my soul after disinfecting doorknobs. I am settling my eyes in sun and I have no further suggestions…Except, possibly, these: vitamins, juice and a fateful leap of the mind—right into 2012—quickly—before the next round of holiday trampling, before the neighbors throw another party in molto forte, before the boy wakes and we begin re-exploration of the Bat Cave toy, before the stars can even pretend they don’t hear a word I’m thinking. Leap——breathe.

Quote For The Weekend (Christmas Edition)

Positively ponderous, I tell you!

The best sitting room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled room with a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could have driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens, were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the candles burnt bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and merry voices and light-hearted laughter range through the room

===Charles Dickens (from The Pickwick Papers of course)

I shall one day have a capacious chimney and branchy candlesticks. You watch. Ho, ho!

Miss MOL Break

Sometimes I live vicariously through Miss MOL, an art curator by-the-sea. I love her recent sojourn. She hits all the cool places and makes me laugh. Check out her latest post on the Springs.

THREE DAY TOUR.

Bit Of Info

From Writer’s Digest. Because I, anyway, always learn something (except how to make the perfect cup of coffee, I can never seem to learn that…):

The 18 Most Popular Articles on Writing of 2011

We posted more than 1,300 articles to WritersDigest.com this year and, quite frankly, that’s a lot. It’s hard to sift through all of that, so I’ve gathered the 18 most popular articles to share with you—a mix of fiction, nonfiction, writer’s rights, agenting, publishing and a bit of humor. Bookmark these links and reference them as much as you need. There’s something for everyone here, so read on. Your manuscript and writing career will thank you.

Without further ado, the 18 Most Popular Article on Writing of 2011:

1. The 7 Deadly Sins of Writing
2. 8 Ways to Write a 5-Star Chapter One
3. How to Craft Compelling Characters
4. 3 Secrets to Great Storytelling
5. How to End Your Chapters (the Right Way)
6. The 7 Tools of Dialogue
7. A 12-Day Plan of Simple Writing Exercises
8. What Writers Need to Know About Copyrights (FAQs)
9. The 90 Top Secrets of Bestselling Authors
10. 10 Ways to Launch Strong Scenes
11. Are You a Word Nerd? Take This Quiz.
12. The 4 Pet Peeves of Freelancers (and How to Tackle Them)
13. How to Be a Successful Ghostwriter
14. How These Writers Got Their Agents–And What You Can Learn From Them
15. The 5 Essential Story Ingredients
16. 25 Ways to Improve Your Writing in 30 Minutes a Day
17. Read These Successful Query Letters
18. How to Revise Your Work (& Awesome Editing Symbols You Should Know)

Writer, Activist, Leader (And The List Goes On)

RIP

“I would be glad if it was felt that I have done something generally useful. I don’t care much about personal fame or popularity. I would be satisfied with the feeling that I had a chance to help with something in general, something good. That history gave me that chance.” —Vaclav Havel

I’d say beyond useful.

When I heard the news, I went in search of my copy of Open Letters: Selected Writing, 1965 – 1990. I couldn’t find it. Still can’t. Not only is it not next to The Golden Notebook next to Bukowski next to Auden’s Collected Poems next to A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius next to the Brontes next to The Odyssey next to The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo next to Dylan Thomas next to Savage Beauty next to Toni Morrison’s Love, but it is also, perplexingly, not next to Woolf’s essays and letters next to Sylvia Plath’s unabridged jounals next to The Bell Jar next to Anne Carson next to Symborzka’s Miracle Fair next to everything Anne Sexton next to everything Elizabeth Bishop next to Dr. Spock, a battered Fear Of Flying paperback on top of the filed. Where, where is my Havel? In a fit of exasperation, desperation I even checked my Middle Grade and Young Adult shelves and my son’s picture book collection. Not there! This cannot be a home without some things Havel. I move off to Amazon and my Prime free shipping and here to read and remember a man who should have been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. I wish he could have stayed for another 20 years.

PLASTIC PEOPLE OF THE UNIVERSE HERE

Quote For The Weekend (Pre-Holiday Edition)

Aw.

“One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don’t clean it up too quickly.” – Andy Rooney

I am going to remember this quote on Christmas morning, refuse to allow anyone to clean up, sit on the couch with my cup of Christmas coffee, gaze blissfully at my son playing with his Batcave toy, enjoy family and inhale the scent of toasting bagels. Wait a minute—who made the coffee and who is toasting the bagels? Arrrgh! Why isn’t anyone listening to me—AS USUAL? Get in here, sit with the boy and chill! Step away from the wrapping, grandma! IT’S CHRISTMAS! WE’RE GOING TO SIT IN THE F***ING MESS! Er–candycane, anyone?

PS. I would never say such an “F” word in front of my child, much less on Christmas—but truthfully it might slip out if I’m in vexing traffic—which is pretty much every day—and when I might quickly counter with: “I mean, Ohhhhhh—-fuuuuuuuuuudgerama, there are so many cars! Fudgerama! Cars! Fuuuuudge. Bunnies. Eat carrots. Aaaand, the sky is blue. Can you say: Einstein?”

Waiting For Clause

Impatience, mostly, from everyone in the mall except those of us in line to see Santa, because we all have children and are too focused on distracting their impatience (pointing out Christmas lights, analyzing the 6 potbellied, dancing-on-hind-legs, oversized reindeer heralding Santa’s stage, asking what the giant packages under the 3 stories of Christmas tree might contain, resorting to bribes involving candy canes) to have time for any impatience of our own.

Wafting from the cheesy gold star at the top of the three stories of Christmas tree: Cobwebs, startling me.

A man ahead of us wears his jeans tucked into his Uggs.  I find this fascinating and can’t stop staring at a certain concept-in-action.

At the mall-cart closest to the line for Santa, the salesgirl wears a fake hairpiece—a giant, bounding ponytail that doesn’t move and is a fraction darker than her real hair. Eventually I realize she is wearing the piece because in addition to the glittering tiaras and rhinestone encrusted butterfly clips she sells, she also sells hairpieces in every color imaginable. Most of them strike me as having just been lifted from the horse. Or unlucky pony. Or, in some cases, the magic pony…

A girl behind me, say 10 years old, bumps my purse repeatedly. Each time I am bumped, I turn to her. She gazes at me with Princezzin-eyes that I swear plead for a conversation with my soul, but when I broach a greeting, she turns away. This goes on until my son returns from gallavanting the mall with his father, pushes to my side and immediately confronts the girl, demanding to know what she thinks might be in the fake presents beneath the 3 stories of Christmas tree with the cobwebs wafting from the cheesy gold star. They study the presents together, converse. Easily.

Oh, this is a good Santa. He looks the part—round face, real spectacles and believable (enough, anyway, believable enough) beard. My son consents to sit on the plush knee. He tells Santa about the Bat Cave toy and Santa tells him a joke as he pats his other knee for me to sit on, indicating the arm of the fabulous fir-green chair for my husband. It’s only when we’re leaving the stage that I realize Santa and I never made eye contact, no matter how hard I smiled and stared at him and I realize part of me felt as if Santa was sad, despite his wonderful, jolly performance. Perhaps he was tired. Or maybe I reminded him of someone—I honestly do get that frequently, the old, “Have we met?”: Our vet the first time I brought the dog in, and the second time, my son’s first pediatrician, and the second, more than 1 Trader Joe’s clerk (but I’m a regular, so it would make sense). Perhaps there’s another me out there making the city-rounds before I do and perhaps Santa thought I was her and that’s why he wouldn’t look at me. Perhaps she did something ghastly that made him sad—a Christmas pie in the face, say, or the return of a gift (unopened), or a snide comment about his weight, or she stole his magnificent, ice-glazed, Mr. Clause pen, or—

My husband’s deduction: Merry Christmas, PB (swinging our child up to his shoulders, then quickly down when our child protests)! Time for lunch.

And, just like that, our stint of waiting 40 minutes to see a man in a costume is over. Hello, Christmas: Your (not sad) bells are ringing. Or that might be the kitten’s collar. Ah, well. Whatever. We’re merry!

YA Muses Giveaway

Another tantalizing giveaway at YA Muses, a site I check in with every day (even if I’m on a tight schedule). The Mon-Thurs Muses all have books coming out in 2012. One, Katherine Longshore, is giving away an ARC of her novel, “Gilt”. The premise is fascinating. Go see! Friday Muse has a turn coming,  I’m sure (and a baby!). Such a wonderful, informative site no matter your writing genre. I can’t recommend it enough.

Quote For The Weekend: Just Barely December (Clumsy) Edition

Not every writer can wear a turban with admirable aplomb.

“I do like Christmas on the whole…. In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But it is clumsier every year.”
– E.M. Forster

Especially if you have a preschooler fascinated by the endless de-hanging possibilities of tree ornaments, a kitten almost a cat, but with severe kitten-interests (involving shatterable tree ornaments), a dog who becomes nervous and insane when attention is lavished on the preschooler and not doggy and steals stuffed animals that are not his—and, now, tree ornaments (shatterable or otherwise), two older cats who hate: 1. Birth of the boy, 2. Adoption of doggy, 3. Kitten and express hate by defiling area rugs, pillows-in-cases, treeskirt and human skin when the peeves strike. Ohhhhh! I get it: Clumsier every year. Ah. Okay, then. Come on over. I have pear cider and I pretty much have the gingerbread-loaf-baking down, and probably the Christmas chili with chive flecked cornbread, and, hopefully, the Christmas cookies for the preschool party, perhaps a few carols on my sticky piano, but definitely the eggnog and definitely all Cheer. Not a newspaper in sight in this tiny pocket of suburbia—no TV (unless you count DVD’s)—radios, yes, we have radios for musical relief from carols in our annual Christmas CD collection, therefore we are subjected to snippets of clumsy commercialism, but look: In the house of sleepless parents and neurotic pets, we are pretty much clumsy with everything except Cheer, we are not clumsy with that, or Peace and Goodwill, we are not clumsy with our P&G supply, no, no—we have plenty, E.M. (just don’t walk by the tree barefoot, and please, we beg you, pet the dog).

PS. I know E.M. Forster is dead.

Library Peeking

A Peek Inside the Libraries of Famous Writers

Colm Tóibín’s library and workspace. Photo via.

I think Colm’s library is my favorite because of the floor-to-ceiling shelves–but Kipling’s cuts a close second because of all the wood paneling and beams and Pullman’s is wonderful because he has books stacked on the floor and I can absolutely see that happening in my library and then there are the oddities, like Agatha Christie’s low shelves and the busts in Faulkner’s library (Don Quixote, I know, I know) and that spookiness of Twain’s library, but probably because the photo is B&W and the view Dickens had and the way my breath sucks in when I see Her, Anne Sexton, in Her Space—O marvelous lady. I could peek into such libraries all day, way too easily—so you go, now—click the link at the top of the page and peek—you take over. I must be one with the armchair and write myself into a library of my own.

Quote For The Weekend (Late Edition As Was Holiday, No? Blrrrrgh)

E.W. looking very disciplined indeed.

A work of art is not a matter of thinking beautiful thoughts or experiencing tender emotions (though those are its raw materials) but of intelligence, skill, taste, proportion, knowledge, discipline and industry; especially discipline.

—Evelyn Waugh

Farewell post-turkey-day sandwiches of turkey, mashies, yams, cranberry sauce, creamed onions, coleslaw and smoky bacon biscuit dressing all squished together between slices of tasty whole wheat bread! I ate 2 of you. Hello again yoga, smoothies, hard boiled eggs and evening writing schedule. Yes! Discipline! (Oooo—leftover chardonnay in fridge!)