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.

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.

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

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.

—Sylvia Plath

I could stare at this photo for hours…

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

Night Llamas. Comprendes?

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.

Karma, karma, karma!

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.

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!