Sad Santa Barbara

beach1My son and I were visiting his cousins when it happened. My husband, at home in Los Angeles, called me early Saturday morning with the news. I felt the same shock thousands of others were feeling in my town. The sun didn’t come out Saturday. The cloud cover was literally the pall we all felt.

But I have a child and he has young cousins. So I took them to breakfast by the beach and then I took them on the beach and we found a large crab shell, pointed at dolphins just off shore, and ran like crazy. So I took them to the Sea Center on the pier and despite having been there a million times the children eagerly studied shark egg sacs through a microscope, put on a marine puppet show in the booth provided by the center, and for about 5 minutes my son explained to me that sperm whales dive deep and eat giant squid and have scars on their bodies from fighting the squid.

In the gift shop, the salesgirl asked me how I was. I just had a feeling she was a college student and I asked her how she was holding up. She immediately told me she lived in Isla Vista, had heard the gun shots just as she was sitting down to eat dinner, knew people who were killed by the ‘lunatic’. “I’m in shock,” she told me. “It’s a nightmare.”

The children didn’t hear any of this. I told the salesgirl to take good care.

mission3Later, we walked my son and his cousins over to the Santa Barbara Mission to look at the iMadonnari chalk ‘paintings’ in progress. The paintings were beautiful, filled with positive messages celebrating our planet. It was dusk. The mission glowed serenely in its lighting. From the top steps, we could see all the way down through the city to darkening ocean.

On the steps, I closed my eyes and sent a prayer, a feeling, a bit of light, as much as I could muster.


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I-5 Pretty

In a previous post I regaled our drive from Los Angeles to parts further Northeast known as Tracy, Stockton and Sacramento. Namely, that interminable length from the end of the grapevine to whatever that KABOOM exit is that has Corral in the title, but all the locals call it Coral, even though it’s spelled Corral…

5on3I didn’t take any pictures of the I-5’s generous weather display that I described in the post, which is good as I was driving–but my husband took 2 pictures, something I discovered only yesterday, roughly 2 weeks after the trip. I think. Time is a strange invisible fog around here—is, furthermore: compressed eons filled with daily heroes, homework challenges for extremely young individuals, and many internal debates on sanity vs. naps–because napping means missing-out-on getting things done, in addition to strength. Feel the scales tip.

Bottom (helpful) truth? Beauty is everywhere (I hope)? Even on the I-5, along that grueling, Dante-ish bit of freeway between here and Tracy.

Yours in endless revision,

P (revising everything) B


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Spring Break Snoozing (Wide Awake Edition)

During this luscious week of no school for the Kindergartner, we snooze well.

Except when we are awakened from chasm-sleep somewhere between 2a.m. and maybe 4:30a.m.—after the bars have closed, but before the rooster across the alley busts its lungs—after we’ve been asleep since pre-midnight eras, but before we’re ready for homemade banana pancakes (secreted with carrot puree and a teaspoon of some famous Vegan’s famously grassy powder). That iffy chunk of night when, if one should gasp to consciousness, one might plunge effortlessly back into sleep, as if nothing sleep-distracting had ever happened. Or, one might experience toe spasms (all 10), dreads thought dead, that the bedroom clock ticks, the inconvenience of 8 pillows on an outdated mattress gone (only at this time of night-morning) nails.

What happens:

16lb orangesicle kitten in repose.

16lb orangesicle kitten in repose.

I sit up with a soul-freezing gasp, the dog’s nose pushing into my palm. Staggering to the patio door, I let the dog out, falling backwards into the piano keys with a moan because the yard’s sensor lights flick on and are so very bright, just like they are every night. Toes cramping, I hobble outside: the dog’s barks are low and vicious and he’s just a friendly yellow lab who insists on love instead of peace—and there’s my 16lb kitten way out in the North 40, hunched on the wall, staring at something on the other side and I’m terrified he’ll jump or be attacked and I’m about to trek across the grass when back in the house the conure tucked in his bird mansion screams and my husband emerges from a giant’s shadow, shout-whispering WHAT THE HELL GET IN HERE PB as one of the 2 ancient cats does his all-is-lost Egyptian-tomb-echo yowl and I wonder why we even try to sleep, because really we’re missing out on so much—writing time, the black night’s silky cool, that strictly poetic mist gyrating around my kitten balancing a wall’s precipice, the magnificent pose of our dog protecting what he believes is his in fading sensor light—the Kindergartner’s sleep, undisturbed—my husband and I hovering over him, hand in hand, watching beauty in action.



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A Weekend Of “Instead-Of’s” (Big Beach Edition)

Instead of the LA Times Book Fest, the beginning of my son’s Spring Break:

Instead of the LA Times Bookfest Poetry Tent, this:


Also a cave (!):




Er–and this (at a different beach–a short while later–if whiles can be short–why certainly they can be)


But this evening? Spring Break or no? After 8pm (hopefuly 7:35pm for all involved), this:


Happy Book Fest, Happy Beachfest, Happy Spring Break, (happy weather?) Happy Writing.

P (forging ahead) B.



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Spring Spirit 2014

Trafficjamoninterstate5atpyramidlake[1]We’d hoped to leave our valley by 10am. 430pm we were finally on the road. The little boy erupted in sneezes and coughing fits at the top of the Grapevine. When we stopped somewhere on the other side of the mountains to purchase cough syrup, Advil (for me) and really-bad-for-you popcorn (for the dadda), the dadda, the boy and I got out of the minivan and froze. Literally. Ahhhhh! Where Winter went! we said, ours having been depleted by the onslaught of heatwaves since Summer 2013.

The normally insufferable 5 Freeway offered views of wide, distant rainstorms. Sun penetrated clouds in glowing shafts—celestial sleeves (I said), until they turned green and became: Greeeensleeeeves, a lightshow on fields. Ahhhhhh! we remarked when the windshield wipers were activated. Weather! Rain! Glorious! Most beautiful drive up the 5 I’ve ever experienced. I’m always telling my son there is exciting weather in this world, weather that has nothing to do with consistent scorch. He finally believes me.

Driving to Citrus Heights.

Driving to Citrus Heights.

830am the next morning I was in Citrus Heights, which is a bit beyond Sacramento, and there was coffee in the community center’s main huge room and tasty treats, like donuts and things I never eat and totally did and enjoyed every last crumb. What could be better than coffee, donuts and Jay Asher giving the keynote? After listening to him, I decided not to let any potential rejections bother me for the rest of the year.

The conference sessions began. Okay, Spring Spirit organizers–Patricia Newman, Catherine Meyer and their crew–have the conference running like a well-oiled BMW. Sessions began promptly, were well presented and topics were timely for published to unpublished attendees. As for the attendees: So friendly. On breaks, we shared writing experiences, backgrounds and info—a fulfilling experience all around. Plus, I got to chat with writer Beth Hull, perhaps the biggest treat of the day for me.

Nikki Grimes gave the closing keynote. She talked about the importance of patience when writing and how she doesn’t have much of it, yet has loads. But not really. Which is how books happen. If you can ever hear her speak, you should–she has a great story to tell.

View of Midtown from the Magpie.

View of Midtown from the Magpie.

Suddenly it was over. How the HE** did that happen? On my way out of the center, I picked up my manuscript (first 25 pages of), which had been critiqued by a professional, an option offered by the conference. Later that night, after dinner with my niece at Magpie in Sacramento, the drive back to Stockton, too many chocolate chip cookies and a big glass of my father-in-law’s favorite zinfandel from a local winery, I read the critique and was stunned.

My critiquer was generous with her thoughts and comments in a constructive, positive manner. I could tell she really took the time to comb through those 25 pages and with the touch of a critic genuinely trying to help a writer. A wonderful end to the day.

Feed your Writer-You and go to the Spring Spirit. This was my second visit. I’m looking forward to next May. You can count on SS to give you more than what you’ve paid for. And who knows? You might see some weather. And hopefully my writing mentor  giving the keynote.

And here is a bird. Watching. You. Revise.

And here is a bird. Watching. You. Revise.

Yours in productive writing experiences (with Advil, if necessary, and cough syrup standing by, no donuts, but definitely coffee and hopefully some rain, although we’re back up to 95 degrees in our perpetually broiling valley),

P (achoo) B


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Discoveries (Balancing Edition)

It's good to go outside.

It’s good to go outside.

The huge benefit of being thrown by a horse and not being able to exercise for over a week or lie down on the bed without screaming in pain or do anything in between carrying on as a mother except sit in a high-backed chair in front of my computer with a cup of coffee, a bowl of organic strawberries and painkillers at the ready, is that I’ve re-learned the lesson of how much writing is required of writing.

I try to balance my writing schedule with exercise (an hour a day). I’m not a spring chicken and I have a six year old, so it’s very important to me that I am strong for my son. I want him to remember an energetic mom who ran with him in parks (he never has to know how much I am, sometimes, yearning for a nap during those runs). I don’t want him to see me always in front of the computer working, or always hastily vacuuming because I’ve spent so much time exercising and writing that the house is falling to dusty pieces around us.

Balance, I tell myself.

Yet—cutting out the exercise and vacuuming and having daily four hour writing stints of late? Talk about getting up close and deeply personal with a novel. I understand, now, why writers go on solitary writing retreats. I don’t want to go on a solitary writing retreat, but I get it.

Now that I’ve been given the all clear to (slowly) start exercising again, I’m wondering if I can get to bed earlier and rise earlier in order to allow more time to write. Unlike my husband, who rises at 530am each day to go jogging, I’m not a 530am type. 630am, okay, but by then it’s time to make the boy’s breakfast. It’s going to be interesting.

Because the happy truth is: I love that I like writing or revising for 4+ hour blocks, instead of 2 hours here and 2 hours in the evening, or 3 hours here and dashing to the computer in between flipping pancakes or while the meatloaf bakes and the boy watches a show, or while the boy is in the bath with his toys, etc. (My pancakes get 2 mins each side, so if I’m flipping a dozen, the minutes add up, but still–it’s just not the same, is it?) I’d go 5 hours, even 6 if I could, but then chaos would take over the world as no one would get fed and I wouldn’t be showering, so that’s out.

“I find it easier to get up early in the morning, and I like to get through by one or two o’ clock. I don’t do very much in the afternoon. I like to get out doors then if I can.”
—John Dos Passos

Yes! (And maybe still run to the computer in between flipping pancakes…etc.)

Yours in evolving writing schedules,


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Article At ‘Through The Tollbooth’!!!

My mentor. Absolute diamond herself.

My mentor. Absolute diamond herself.

My writing mentor, Kathryn Fitzmaurice, was interviewed by Catherine Linka (I’ve heard Catherine speak at SCBWI events–she is positively famous in our SCBWI Los Angeles circles) over at Through The Tollbooth. The interview is about Kathryn’s mentoring experience–er, of me! I read with my heart in my throat, and afterwards found a box of tissues. And now I am getting to work with gusto as I told Kathryn I would be sending her the revised first half of my novel along with (drumroll) the newly revised 2nd half, all the way to The End.

Check out the article! Check out Kathryn’s blog, A Twisted Clump of Seaweed.

Just one of Kathryn's many diamonds.

Just one of Kathryn’s many diamonds.

Read her multiple award winning books. If, like me, you are deep in the throes of creating and/or revising your middle grade novel, you’ll be so glad you’ve read Kathryn’s books. Every. Single. One.

And if you, too, think it’s high time you had a mentor, check out the SCBWI/California North Central site and read up.

Right–get to work!

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Falling (Whinnying Edition)

IMG_0402Leapt down the vastly spaced steps to the stalls, rounded the corner, Indy saddled up and ready to go, I talked to him, rubbed his cheek as I led him to the ring, a man opened the gate for me, in we went as I was informed my instructor was on her way, looked up, the sky was its special Spring blue, though it’s too early for Spring, but tell that to the buds and blossoms and nest-building finches fluttering around the eaves of the stalls, fixed the stirrups to No. 7, clicked my guy around to the mounting block, put one foot in the stirrup, other leg in mid-air as it headed over Indy’s back when he bolted–partial rearing, followed by crazed bolt towards the rail, when I pulled the reins they were longer than my body and my thighs weren’t even in the saddle, I was already tilting back and I knew I didn’t stand a chance of getting any kind of a grip, I was going to fall, so I let go and in the brief time it took to hit the ring’s coarse sand, I thought: land between your shoulders, don’t land on your spine, you’re a mother, you’ve got to walk, land between your shoulders and WHAM, I was down and in my periphery I saw Indy still bolting to the far side of the ring and I heard myself gasp and I thought: you can’t lie here, get up before you seize up and I said, Can someone help me up, please? and a man said, No, stay still, don’t move, but I had to move and when he wouldn’t help me, I rolled to my hands and knees and the man said, Look at you, you’re Superwoman, I thought you broke your arm, but it wasn’t my arm, it was my back and getting my breath to fit between my shoulders and this was difficult, but then the man helped me, I think he helped me up and then he disappeared and the stable hands just stared at me from behind the fencing, terrified, they watched me place one hand on the rail and one hand on my hip and try to breathe and suddenly one of them passed me leading Indy and I shouted, WAIT, WAIT! and staggered to Indy and stroked him and soothed him and told him he was such a good boy, what a good boy, that it was okay, everything was okay and Indy’s head jerked and his ears twitched and he was still partly in spook-mode, but I was so glad I petted him, so glad I assured him he was fine before I lurched to the minivan and drove off while calling my husband and then I was in tears, not for me, not for the pain, but because Indy had had such a bad scare and I didn’t know why and they hate it when their riders fall, they’re so sensitive, and suddenly my husband was saying he was hanging up and then he called back with an Urgent Care location because my doctor was ‘booked’ and I drove to Urgent Care and limped inside and they said, Ah,  it’s you, we’ve been expecting you, and they put me in a room where I wept and wept and apologized for being a big baby and then they pulled up the back of my new gray collared riding shirt that I picked up in the men’s section at JC Penney’s and they said, Oh wow and the doc took a picture of my backside with his phone and showed it to me and most of my back looked like it had been ripped up by tiger claws, but I don’t remember getting dragged, just slamming down, but before I could comment on such weirdness, they shot me in the arm with something and cleaned me up and prescribed ibuprofen, and another pain killer, and a narcotic painkiller and an antibiotic and then my husband was at my side and he drove me to get xrays and when we got home he helped me into bed and said, Oh, I guess they padded your butt for you, but it wasn’t padding, it was an extra black and blue butt that had blossomed on what used to be my original butt, although I didn’t feel the pain because I’d taken the narcotic pain killer with the other painkiller thinking I was taking ibuprofen with the other painkiller as I was told I could do and suddenly I felt goooood, so good and lay down and now it’s Friday and the scratches are healing and we looked at the xrays with the doc and he pointed out: absolutely nothing wrong. You are lucky, he said. You could have been Christopher Reeve (yes, he did actually say that). You are lucky and I am lucky and our son is lucky, said my husband. Whether I ride another day with a clear conscience instead of feeling like an irresponsible mother remains to be seen. One thing I learned despite all the weeping I did? I’m stronger than I ever realized. Lucky. Stronger. Grateful.

Good to know.

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Spacks Street


Painting by Jack Smith

Sunday, a memorial for the poet Barry Spacks took place. I arrived at Santa Barbara’s Museum of Contemporary Arts 10 minutes early for the service to find it mobbed. Wonderful! Seats went fast. I sat next to the poet Dan Gerber. The last time I saw Dan was at a “Moon” poetry reading at the art gallery Sullivan Goss  (Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara), which was the last time I saw Barry Spacks. Dan Gerber, Barry Spacks, poet/songwriter Will Jennings and I each read poems in honor of full moons and the art of Lockwood de Forest, whose “moon” paintings were featured in the SG gallery at that time. A bonifide full moon ringed its light through a heavily misted Santa Barbara. Twinkle lights twined every palm tree. On the gallery’s front balcony, artists sketched the moon and sketched the mist as guests mingled and admired Lockwood’s creations. And there was Barry with his moon poem, his eyes radiating his own trademark twinkle.

Santa Barbara Poet Laureate Chryss Yost started off the (standing room only) memorial by letting us know what a blessing it is to have many more friends than chairs, and then she turned the mic over to Barry’s family, close friends, musicians, artists—you could say Renaissance Man, absolutely, to describe Barry–poet, actor, musician, artist, teacher, mentor to so many, including me—he was a dedicated explorer of life.

Barry’s art will be featured at Sullivan Goss Thursday, April 8th. Each piece will cost $108, the money benefitting a charity he believed in. Spacks Street T-shirts will also be for sale. If you don’t know what Spacks Street is, go to and have a read. After visiting Spacks Street, if you didn’t know Barry, you will wish you had.

My little tribute to Barry was posted in the museum with other tributes. Here it is:

When I was 17 years old, I was cast in a production of Tartuffe’s, ‘The Miser’, at Santa Barbara City College. I played Marianne, the naif slated to marry the miser himself, who was played by Barry Spacks. In the make-up room, Barry sang. A lot. His eyes were constantly twinkling as he powdered up and he was full of a bubbly (yes, bubbly) energy that infected cast and crew. He walked around in his costume tights as though he wore them every day. He was unselfconscious, really friendly and always interested in what others in the cast were up to or their opinions on the works of Moliere and the play. Then he’d get on stage and be this nasty miser guy that scared the bejeezus out of me. One thing I remember so well is how, in the makeup room, powder and hairspray wafting everywhere, he would proclaim how excited he was that his Lady Love was either going to be in that night’s audience, or he was all excited to be joining her for some fun evening after the show. At 17, I had never heard a man call his woman a Lady Love before. I never forgot that. When I was 18, Barry was the first “real” poet to critique my weird fledgling poetry. He was very generous with his comments. He gave me words of advice I remember to this day (luckily). In the theatre, it’s so important to be able to trust your castmates. Everyone trusted Barry. He went for his ‘Miser’ role with major, humbling gusto. In the decades to come, whenever I saw Barry, we shared a giggle about ‘The Miser’. I am so very grateful to have known him. I always have and will continue to learn about poetry through his work.

Thank you, Barry.

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The Women’s National Book Association

Kathryn Fitzmaurice, Keynote Speaker!

Kathryn Fitzmaurice, Keynote Speaker!

I was made aware of the WNBA/LA thanks to my middle grade writing mentor, Kathryn Fitzmaurice (ask me if I am lucky to have her as my mentor and you will hear amplified hell yeah’s).

She gave one of this weekend’s conference keynotes. It was very exciting for her to prepare this speech as she was expected to talk for 45 minutes. A one-woman show, indeed!

Kathryn is as good a choice for a keynote speaker as she is a mentor. She reminds me of Glinda the Good Witch, but wicked smart. Kind, enthusiastic, wise and filled with patience and writing news and constructive criticism, Kathryn is also extremely book-business-savvy, not to mention generous and the list goes on and on. If you’re a middle grade book writer, you must read her novels. You will learn so much and enjoy yourself while learning.

Kathryn and I share a huge love of the ocean, beaches, seashells (her blog is called ‘A Twisted Clump of Seaweed’). Since my middle grade novel centers around all of these things, she is, truly, the perfect mentor. I am very grateful.

If you are looking for a mentor, then keep watch on the SCBWI CA/North Central site for news of the next mentorship program.

And do it.

If you’re looking for an organization within which to network and attend conferences and panels, then definitely visit The Women’s National Book Association LA, or check to see if they have a chapter in your state. They just might.

I really wanted to be at Kathryn’s keynote, but I have a 6 year old with the stomach flu and a hard working husband. I am positive every second inside of every minute of the entire 45 was worth listening to.

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Farewell February

IMG_5131Because it’s my birthday month, because it’s not only a pink month, or red for hearts, or purple for amethyst (birthstone), because I had a milestone birthday and went all crazy in the head and panicky in the days (who am I kidding: months) leading up to my birthday, because having the penultimate birthday led me deep into thanks and recognition of a multitude of blessings in my life, because I will use anything for an excuse to have a toast with a glass of good Chardonnay—even though I don’t have any Chardonnay, good or bad, in the house at the moment—I bid you, O Valentine February, a fond–yes, that’s right, fond, not resentful—farewell. I have grown up so much in your 28 days and have calmed down since blowing out the singing blue thing on a birthday cake so perfectly round and sweetly topped and chocolatey I cried and ate more than two pieces. I look forward to growing for the rest of 2014 (not growing huge from eating lots of cake, but growing wiser) in areas of motherhood, spousal partnership, writing, and staying in the damn saddle during my lessons. I am so happy to be here, in this unique world of opportunity and creativity. Thank you, February. In your final hours, go and be good to others—send Muses and excellent grammar to writers, confidence to ever-vigilant mothers and fathers everywhere, and apple carrot cookies to horses.

And don’t forget to write.

The singing blue thing, lights blown out.

The singing blue thing, lights blown out.

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Speaking of Passivity

Ice_Cream_dessert_02It went like this: Google. Amazon. Facebook. Facebook IM. Back to Amazon. Weather (from Bing– is too hideous). Figuring out how to make Bing stop showing up whenever I clicked on a new tab. The Holy Checking of Email. And then I was about to launch into important revisions of my ms when I blundered into Grammar Girl and a post regarding the passive voice. Recently, on Facebook, friends of a friend were all hot and bothered and up in arms about the passive voice and when it is or isn’t and Grammar Girl is quite helpful and succinct and admits that even though was might be in a passive voice sentence, it’s not necessarily the reason the sentence is in the passive voice, but is, rather, a clue that the sentence is probably written in the passive voice or something like that and Ben & Jerry’s just came out with CORE ice cream, did you read about that? Let’s go get some. Right now. And switch into present participles. Before we become too passive. And. You know. Fragmented. And let’s be Advil swallowing! Using wine.

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Staying The Course

iggySaturday morning I rose when our son (impossible to wake on a school day) woke at 5:30a.m. to begin a weekend of attending birthday parties, completing school projects, and constant verbalized hankering for Minecraft (it was Survivalcraft, until we realized the animals “kill” and, therefore, the player must “kill” the animals in order to survive–wolves, lions, it seemed as if even the donkeys attack?—yes, I discovered the non-violent Survivalcraft playing mode after completing Internet Research For Freaked Out Moms Like Me, but in a city whose buses are currently emblazoned in pictures of Liam Neeson wielding a gun, to which my son responds–as I drive him to Kindergarten–COOL–safe or non-safe Survivalcraft must just, seriously, be banned in our happy home.

dragonsNo, you’re not nuts–I’m still writing within the parentheses: As a kid, I was forbidden to watch The Flintstones, or Scooby Do. My mother despised how the Flintstones yelled at each other. Probably because she and my dad did a good job of that on their own. I don’t know why she objected to Scooby Do, specifically, but all would probably have been well by banning those programs IF we had not lived in England at the time, where The Flintstones was ridiculed,  but Scooby Do was HUUUUGE. And, because Scooby was an American show, I was expected, by my peers, to know what was going on episode to episode. I was trying to make new friends in a foreign country and I was forbidden from watching one of that country’s most popular shows amongst its young…

Still in parentheses and lunging for parallels: My son’s Kindergarten pals rave about Survivalcraft. I am the mom saying, NOOOO MY LITTLE LOVECUP . We become our parents? Although, I was never referred to as LOVECUP by my parents…I want him to know about the games his peers are playing–but he’s only 6. He’s only 6. He’s only 6…)


Books–the ultimate antidote for anything troubling

O Weekend! Your sun shines, your parks and beaches and birthday parties and independent bookstores with gratifying children’s books sections are calling as your device screens are touched—–to black.

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Poems By Lantern Light

pome4Well, the Good Luck Bar never disappoints, does it? The red and tasseled lanterns are BIG, which is an extremely smart decorating move as they make an instant impression when you trip over the threshold into the semi-seamy (but not really) sparkle-darkness of one of the coolest bars in town. Rhapsodomancy, under the astute eye of Wendy Ortiz, comes on in and turns the bar’s faux opium den into a poetry reading den and it works, it all just works and magic takes over and everyone chats with people they’ve never met before and listens well as they sip their drinks, all cozy on the lounge-like (vaguely tasseled) seating. It’s the sort of bar that transports you into a time you enjoy not actually placing. At least, that’s what happens to me in there. You go on, now, go and see for yourself in April, at the next reading.

I read this poem, among others. It’s one of my favorites, one of the first I wrote coming out of my fog of sleepless motherdom. Askew Poetry Journal first published it. All hail Phil Taggart and Marsha de la O, editors–a truly creative duo.


Sun the fog’s ball snagged by a suburban barrier
of giraffe-necked palms. My lawn in recess: churched
(this formal stillness, fog-tuned).
My lawn is Winter’s readied bride, her chill-
wrap tight over tips, her delicate sweat.
Here, the deciduous
mutter off their leaves by the evening’s folding light
as I watch 2 boys chasing impulse
in cold separating the fog, setting the moon
risen so early in her hypocrisy of flaws
(O pocked resilience).
Run, run.
Their rocket gasps, blood-worked,
tidal energy
pushed the length of my yard’s
walls of safe. I search for comfort
in time-traveling domesticity and grippable
martyrs: books I resented others
owning until I arrived
in this pocket of breathy Eden, clueless.
Cold frills the air. I watch
the Cyclops bent on counter-
clockwise logic, its eye’s glass-cuts
old trickery I won’t translate. Won’t.
Run. Run.
Sun shatters into anemone sky.
My speck-titans so suddenly famous:
they in their sweet hides, I in my cloak-bane,
howling with half-sight, knocked (I get: you),
ever on the chase.

hee hee

hee hee

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Rhapsodomancy Reading Tonight


Well, it’s finally here–I’ve had it on my events bar for about a year and tonight I get to be a part of the coolest Los Angeles reading series in all of the county and beyond. Hooray for poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and bars that remind you of a 1930’s mystery/detective movie. Stick an umbrella in it. And. See. You. There.

FOR MORE INFORMATION CLICK HERE, or look right at the Twitter feed, or below that the events thingy.


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Double Rainbow (Rainy Day Edition)

Not long ago a man left a nasty little comment in my comments section calling my blog piece sophomoric and trite and something else I can’t remember and why this person was so unevolved as to blog-roam and drop his little bomb of negative energy on my page is beyond something I care about, really, although at the time I was annoyed, so annoyed, in truth, that I took his email (a silly email with his name and THE THIRD in it, not Jr. or Sr., but THE THIRD) and subscribed him to several pregnancy sites that would promptly be checking in with him to see how his first trimester was going, if he needed Dr. So and So’s bottle nipples, all-cotton diapers, Butt Cream, etc. And then I deleted the blog piece, not because I agreed with his comments, but because the piece had a fine layer of scum on it and needed to be wiped down and it will reappear eventually, without THE THIRD’S comment, of course, and hopefully THE THIRD has gone back to Goodread’s, where obviously he belongs (with so many others who feel entitled to critique without manners or explanations beyond this annoyed me) and will never visit my nicely swept and cared for doorstep again–because, really, what’s the point? Doh!

I hear rain on my roof, finally come to kill some dust in this desert/valley. That’s either the dog snoring or the rumble of a distant semi truck. The creamsicle cat stretches in his sleep. Even the conure is quiet. This flu of late is receding, so much so I can see my manuscript again.

Away, murk! So much work to be done. And, mostly, a reading this Sunday to prepare for. Right on.

Yours in fought-for clarity,

P (zinc and vitamin C’s) B

primary and secondary rainbow with Alexander's dark band, ie., double rainbow, people, double rainbow

primary and secondary rainbow with Alexander’s dark band, ie., double rainbow, people, double rainbow

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Notes From The Retreat #2: Critiques

Yes, I am going to go here.

Out of the 10 copies of the first 25 pages of my novel returned to me, scribbled on by the writers in my core group at the SCBWI retreat, I kept 4. Those 4 contained thoughtful, constructive criticism. The 6 I discarded were: mean, rude, and 1 writer actually crossed out my sentences and replaced them with her own as she attempted to turn my story into what she wanted to read instead of the story I am telling.

I found this quite shocking. Not to mention a bad idea.

If you’re a writer, you are well acquainted with criticism. So–be professional. By which I mean: respectful and mindful when offering criticism and far more creative than unhelpful one-liners such as, this is annoying, I don’t like this, doesn’t work. As the red, red nib of your pen hovers over another writer’s work, keep in mind how you’d like your own work critiqued and dig beyond one-liners which are way too easy to come by (key word: lazy).

SCBWI provided a Critiquing Sheet to all retreat participants—healthy, practical, professional guidelines I continually referred to as I poured over manuscripts. I wish more of the writers in my group had taken the guidelines to heart. Or bothered to read them at all.

And look! Here is a book to keep you from turning into Linda Blair at her foamiest in The Exorcist when you are critiquing: The Writing & Critique Group Survival Guide: How to Make Revisions, Self-Edit, and Give and Receive Feedback, by Becky Levine

I am very fortunate to have a writing mentor who immediately, before the words were hardly out of my mouth in yesterday’s video chat, encouraged me to ignore the mean comments and the rewrites of my work. My mentor has many Middle Grade books published, her own beautiful library created through care and sweat (and no doubt blood and guts). She has experienced plenty of criticism and critique groups and now has a group she trusts and consistently benefits from—not because her group isn’t candid about her work, but because she is surrounded by writers who know how to critique without turning into vicious, nasty a******s. “Your critique group is out there, PB,” she told me. “Now, let’s get to work. Tell me everything the editor at the retreat wrote about your novel and let’s discuss. This is so exciting!”

Love her.

Moving on, now. Moving on.

And here is a writer:

cat pic

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Notes From The Retreat #1: Books

At last weekend’s SCBWI retreat, 4 editors imparted useful information–and shared book titles they love–Picture Books (PB), Middle Grade (MG), Non-Fiction (NF) and Young Adult (Y the effing heck A). I know what the abbreviations mean. YOU know what they mean. But, you know, my mom doesn’t, so…

Luckily I was able to decipher my own handwriting:

Charles and Emma: The Darwin’s Leap of Faith, Deborah Heiligman (MG and up)

Watership Down, Richard Adams (someone was having a delightful re-read)

Anything by MG author Sharon Creech, especially Walk Two Moons

Anything by Gary Schmidt, especially Okay for Now

One is a Feast for Mouse, Judy Cox (PB touted for having a gratifying story arc)

One Beetle Too Many, Kathryn Lasky (PB NF-ish–more Darwin)

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, Jacqueline Kelly (MG award winner, w/grasshoppers)

Shadow and Bone, Leigh Bardugo (YA–first of a forthcoming trilogy)

For the editors (Candlewick, Simon & Schuster, Houghton Mifflin etc., Henry Holt) these books are NOT too quiet, contain irresistible hooks that draw the reader in, have characters with distinct voices and——-

Maxed out on last weekend. Was all good, nice to be hosted by cheerful friars who dined with us (their steamed vegetables were delicious–but were they organic???) and meet so many writers, but brain (such as it is) must rest. Will read Proust to knock brain out. And here is a picture of a grasshopper.


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2014 Rhapsodomancy Reading

Sunday, February 9th, 7:30pm, The Good Luck Bar, 1514 Hillhurst Ave., Los Angeles 90027

goodluck2Ah. I am so happy to be a part of this Los Angeles reading series. So many writers I admire have participated–Chris Abani, Louise Mathias, Amy Gerstler to name a few–writers I learn so much from. The Good Luck Bar is in my old Los Feliz/Silverlake stomping grounds. Always fun to visit that eclectic pocket of Los Angeles. Marty and Elayne are still going strong at the Dresden–although not on Sundays. Sorry. But what better bar for a pre-poetry cocktail? (other than The Good Luck itself, that is–doors open at 7:00p.m.) Here is a link with the details and bios of the other readers. I’m looking forward to hearing their work. Hope to see you there.


Yours in (oh Marty, oh Elayne—how do you do it?) Dresden sidecars (I actually haven’t had one in possibly a decade–but I have definitely and fairly recently had chardonnay with poetry at The Good Luck Bar)


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2013 Middle Grade

Oh, productive, on-the-button-always (not the panic button), well-informed you—you’re already aware of this list. I’m just getting to it. I think I’m most excited about Holly Black’s book. Quite creepy!

The Goodreads Best Middle Grade & Children’s 


Any flagrant omissions from this list? Besides Kathryn Fitzmaurice’s beautifully crafted, Destiny, Rewritten?


Information is always appreciated.

Yours in captivating, well-written books,

P (where are my reading glasses) B

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Walking to Floats (SoCal Edition)

Rose Parade Floats Viewing, January 2nd:

float1I walked my son several blocks down a typically—for Pasadena—vast and nicely swept boulevard to another major boulevard (wider than the Rio Grande and as sungleamy in our December heatwave) mobbed by people like us eager to see parade floats. As we waited at the intersection, pedestrians were distracted by a car horn—and booming, deeply anguished voice:


As is typical when it comes to anyone in my immediate sight-range who might be in distress or acting out, fainting, starting a brawl, tripping drastically on pavement, lost, unknowingly dropping items from a stroller, losing a wandering child or dog, unaware of a pending bee swarm, etc., the crowd around my son and I melted away and there was only me and the stranger in his big shiny car, honking and yelling as though his best friend had just been destroyed.

I stepped to the curb.

Float viewing, sir.
I raised my arm and pointed up the boulevard we were about to cross. In the distance, colorful float tops were visible.
Yes, sir. Right up there. Float viewing.

Immediately, the man calmed. The WALK sign blazed. My son and I moved off. People in the crowd commented on the man’s frustration. They laughed critically and uttered unkind remarks.

Sometimes, I told my son, bracing his arm as he jumped up the typically—for Pasadena—steep curb. Sometimes, people just need answers.

Mama, look over there, he replied. Shaved ice!

Shaved ice was far more captivating than the space dude float.

Shaved ice was far more captivating than the space dude float.


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As 2014 Looms (Looming Edition)

Palm of the Happily Burning variety.

Palm of the Happily Burning variety.

The minivan’s A/C died just in time for the Christmas heatwave of 85+ degrees. As I ferried us home from a visit to the ocean’s cool and calming vastness (all windows dooooown), I remembered my one and only Christmas poem, which includes (apart from Christmas scotch, a hungry coyote and an ill-looking full moon) a palm tree I once saw burning in a supermarket parking lot. For this California native, it is absolutely a tiny bit horrifying, watching a palm tree burn. They are such emblems here—mascots, well studied still life, living flagpoles heralding flip-flops and shorts and sunglasses year-round, dear, lanky constants—except, of course, when Santa Ana winds rip the dead fronds from the trees, cartwheeling them to Earth where they (quite heavy in death) dent the hoods of cars, terrify cats and dogs and unfortunate pigeons and hopefully don’t kill anyone.

From Full Howling Moon

…California’s brittle December:
swells, surfboards, red skin, Christmas BBQ
next to a slide-dunked swimming pool
blooming algae, all palms standing by—city logo,
city tattoos.
The Hollywood Hills Gelson’s Market rescues
its delicacies when a parking lot palm tree’s head
explodes, ignited
by a derelict power line, resembling
a single birthday candle,
Hello, New England? Hello, DC? Hello, Dear Baltic.
LA calling. Keep your troikas and furs and ploughs,
but send all bells and much of your ice.
The trees are on fire. The palm trees are on fire.
It’s December the 24th. I am…
O my longing, my
longing…And here it comes,
cataract-riddled eye rising lazily
over shuffling Pacific. We carol
(rote, stoned, brown) from Hollywood
to the post-eutrophic canals
of Venice Beach, in a Santa Ana twisting
in from desert, snuffing
scented candles in wide open windows
(O frankincense, O myrrh)
rippling cranberry punch
in the communal wassail bowl.
We fear nothing
coasting through our toasty season.
We enjoy our lighter shade of blonde,
our token brown, parties, dancing strangers
lit by hard-boiled moon—pitted sadsack
belly up over fuss (O dead
thing). Stars bloom…

Etc. This poem was written back when I was bold enough to write a line like post-eutrophic canals. Now? Even if Venice’s canals are post-eutrophic, I would never actually write post-eutrophic. I would write: alligator water, or: puddled hilarity, or: rotting batik. Okay, maybe not rotting batik. But I cop to the others.

O how we evolve.

Happy almost you-know-what. And if there’s anything else you’d like me to throw into italics, feel free to share.

Also: Save the palms!


P (shut up and drink yer Christmas punch) B

No palms were harmed in the taking of this photo.

No palms were harmed in the taking of this photo.

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December Whinny

Sitting on the patio at Peddler’s Fork, alone out here as it’s a SoCal pre-Christmas bit of chilly, i.e., 60 degrees, way too cold for the cycling clan packing the tables indoors, brrr, but perfect for me as I’m the kind of writer who likes to wear sweaters, for once, and watch the mallards fuss about down in the gurgling creek and the squirrel pforkscurry by my riding boots as I wait for a visit from my muse—and gear up for a riding lesson that terrifies me. Not the horse, the horse is a generous Majesty. It’s the effort I shy from, of being gaspy only half way through the lesson and a noodly wreck afterwards instead of composed and powerful enough to food shop, pay bills, scrub the bathroom, make homemade chicken nuggets, rake the Ponderosa, be a mother, be a GREAT mother (this typically involves playing the Dr. Seuss I Can Do That game, thus hopping around the Trick-A-Ma-Stick with a rubber ball between my knees), be a Taxi Mother,  draw the bath, ready the pajamas and the lullabies, and write, all in one, hours-stingy day. But I tell myself:

I can do it.

Something I never let myself in on until I became a mother. And even as I say it, I feel the terror surrender and climb meekly into the newspaper boat I made for it and sail off down the gurgling creek and into the dark drainpipe, instant ghost ship, abandoned. Gone.

Each day, over the last 6 years, the terror that I won’t be able to accomplish what I want to goes away a little bit faster.

May 2014 be full of this kind of s***.

Yours in goals,

P (if you give a horse a carrot…) B

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Kickstarted (Coffee Blend Edition)

Back again—homing pigeon style—at Peddler’s Fork, I ordered a cup of the restaurant’s Kickstand Blend and a macadamia nut infused scone that tastes more like somebody’s gourmet birthday cake than scone, which is why I ordered it, and carted my spoils outside to the restaurant’s deck, even though it’s Arctic-California in Old Calabasas these days. I can’t resist the view of the vaguely gurgling creek several feet below the deck, and the 2 mallards residing there, birds you know are aware of each other even when she’s paddling for worms and he’s off playing tug-of-war with a morning glory vine. If she paddles too far South, he quacks, sternly, vine in beak, facing not her, but tree. I find this sort of voyeurism priceless, possibly essential, hunched in my little magical pocket of Los Angeles that is Peddler’s Fork at 8:23 in the morning on any Wednesday, sipping Kickstand Blend (better, even, than Starbucks Holiday Blend’s soft and layered, and served year round) with a smile that means I might actually write something new, rather than revise, revise, revise.

I hate it when poets impart bits like: The poem overtook me, or, I knew not myself I knew only the poem, or, I was a conduit for Life, or, Aliens invaded my psyche and messed with things, etc. And yet…

Pure synchronicity.

Pure synchronicity.

I’m thinking the dreams I had somewhere between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning lingered in my psyche, producing a poem that surprised me because a) I was actually composing a poem and not revising, yah, yah), and b) the poem is so different than anything I’ve been writing lately. Product of incubation? Is nothing for certain except the Muse, or are her paths (if they do appear) elementary—i.e., far from beyond me and my little muddled maps?

Why ask why? Something came knocking at my icy table on the deck at Peddler’s Fork and I let it in. I might even have offered it a sip of my coffee.

Quack, she said.

Right on.

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Bathroom Reading (Scouring Edition)

While holiday cleansing the bathroom, on my knees scrubbing corners usually in my blind spot, I glance up and notice books also, apparently, usually in my blind spot.


I have no idea when Dylan Thomas arrived. Definitely wasn’t me who brought him in. I just–I don’t think I could do it, although I could read anything he wrote while soaking in a bubblebath. The last time I had a bubblebath was around 2005 and we were housesitting (pre-engagement, pre-wedding, pre-sleepless-baby, pre-purchase-of-house-in-scathingly-hot-suburbs, i.e., pre-everything) for my cousins who have an exceedingly deep Jacuzzi tub in a masterbath with a view of: a tranquil, leafy canyon, and then: the entire San Fernando Valley as seen from the wild hills of Sherman Oaks. Coyotes howled and a gazillion Valley lights twinkled in their best Vegas imitation as bubbles frothed like a mini-rapids, no Dylan Thomas or any reading material at hand—except, of course, for what we read in each other’s eyes, newly paired as we were, ha ha, sipping champagne, flicking water at each other, wheee, no idea of the five years of sleeplessness ahead of us–although we would do it all again in the wink of a giggle–or something like that.

Same goes for The Turn Of The Screw. I could never read that in the bathroom, not even in a bubblebath and certainly not in a bubblebath lit by candles at midnight, with a storm raging outside.

I could, however, wear Nicole Kidman’s dress in The Portrait of a Lady movie, you know the dress I mean. When Nicole/Isabel meets disgusting Malkovich/Osmond. That satiny one that looks pretty enough to eat? Is bubblebath one or two words? I prefer it as one: b u b b l e b a t h. Truthfully, I’d rather it was already January 1st, 2014, and that we were driving to Disneyland. Pretty sure the cat did something behind the commode it should have done outside. Also noting the importance of opening bathroom windows when cleaning bathrooms, even if using 7th Generation products to, you know, clean and I’ve discovered (or have I always known) I’m very good at not cleaning even when I insist that I am, in fact, reaching around the back of the toilet with a trembling, severely rubber-gloved hand…

Did Henry James read in his bath? Did Hesse bathe?

Under The Sea belongs in here, in this bathroom decorated in shells and several portraits of starfish (knobby, brittle, sluggy, etc.). Some people call them sea stars. Tut!

The Millionaire Next Door, bingo! Utterly apt bathroom reading. I don’t think our next door neighbor is a millionaire. Although he did just install solar panels on his roof…Oh–I see: WE are the millionaires next door. Ha ha! Got it. Where’s my champers? No? Right, a cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend and hanging out with my chirpy Kindergartner in our sparkling-clean bathroom as he bathes in honey scented bubbles with his super hero toys—yes, I am a rich woman indeed. Put THAT on your bathroom bookshelf and read it. Or possibly on your bathroom wall. Or any bathroom wall, really–those you’ve cleaned, those cleaned for you and especially those located inside Greyhound Bus stations and Motel 6’s. Also, this: zzzzzzzzzzz…

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