This Too...

Holy Cow That Actually Stuck

2012-02-02T07:30:00.000-05:00

I want to write a little bit more about the SCBWI conference. The keynote speaker, Chris Crutcher, (described as one of the most successful and frequently banned authors of realistic fiction for teens) was incredible. If I could bottle that speech up and send it off to all of you, I would. But I can't. So I urge you to listen to his interviews on YouTube.

My favorite quote in the speech:

The truth, as you know it, is what will get you published.

And I heard a lot of that throughout the conference.

Write what you love.

Your work will always find the right readers.

If there's heart in your writing, it will shine through.

A lot of agents and editors spoke of how they find what they want in a book and fall in love, stars in their eyes, fates aligning, I know it when I see it.

And then the harsh cold reality of a well-respected panelist: Make no mistake about it. We're looking for best-sellers. This is a 'hits' business.

Ouch.

But we already know this. Publishers are out there, molding best-sellers, throwing all of their publicity dollars into big glitzy series and in-your-face books that yell loudly. At first this depressed me. To think of it exclusively as best-seller or nothing.

But then I stepped back.

I know a little bit about what it is like to work in a hits business, working in the toy business. And no one could have possibly predicted the hits over the years: ugly babies delivered by a stork (Cabbage Patch Kids), a vibrating, giggling monster (Tickle-Me-Elmo), mechnical hamsters (Zhu Zhu Pets), fluorescent trolls (um...trolls), wacko alien plushes singing (Sing-A-Ma-Jigs), gumball machine treat playsets (Squinkies) or rubberband animals on your wrists (Silly Bandz). And it should be noted that these are big-scale hits. There are many, many more small-scale hits too.

Everyone who worked on these toys will tell you: they knew. They knew they had a hit. They planned it that way. Of course.

I am here to tell you, as someone on a team of people behind two of these hits (and when I say 'behind' I mean, I was in the very last row, trying desperately to see over big hair) that they. did. not. know. In fact, they threw it against the wall and stood back in stunned silence, completely unprepared for the holy-cow-that-actually-stuck result.

In the toy industry, all the glitz and glamour items with big marketing campaigns and humongous advertising budgets sell. They sell because they are deemed safe.

But, make no mistake about it, they are not hits.
The hits, both big and small, come as surprises, when a risk is taken. And the risks dictate what will later be safe to sell. I think that's important to remember.

From the Footbridge

2012-02-01T07:58:00.000-05:00

I cross this footbridge (just one block from my apartment) at least twice a day. It extends over a heavily trafficked highway, the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. I'm sure that every time we cross we are taking minutes off of our lives as we inhale toxic fumes and take in all the noise pollution.

This church, however, gives me great joy. I have never been inside. But I've walked by and heard its song.

No matter what mood I am in when I pass, the view yanks my chin upward. There is something so majestic about the clock tower and that little sea foam gothic window. The steeple climbs so high, you can see it from across the river at Governor's Island. It marks the spot. As I approach it at the end of each day, I know I am close to home.

I have taken a picture of this church from every possible angle. I like this one best.

Things I Learned at the SCBWI Winter Conference

2012-01-31T08:00:00.000-05:00

You asked, so I promised posts about the SCBWI Conference. Here's my brain dump.

This is what I learned about the children's market. And I apologize for those of you who write for adults but perhaps some of these learnings are still relevant.

I realize what is to follow isn't the style I usually employ on this blog. I don't like to make grand statements like this and I promise things will be back to normal tomorrow.

But.

I heard all of this straight from the mouths of smart people (I promise). Anything I relay here is something I just kept hearing again and again.

(Oh my goodness, Melissa, get on with it.)

(Oh my goodness, Melissa, you're talking in 3rd person.)

* Middle Grade is the thing. I repeatedly heard editors and agents say they are actively looking for strong middle grade stories. If you're writing middle grade, this is your cue to smile.

* This is nothing new. If you're here, you're mostly like already there. But the blog, website, facebook, twitter, get-yourself-a-platform thing is still...well...a thing.

* There was a lot of talk about enhanced e-books for kids and what this is going to mean for picture books. Print picture books are still seen as the primary way young kids are going to read but publishing houses see dollar signs for e-books. As an 'also' (not an instead).

* Everyone likes to throw around the word transmedia. This is something I heard tossed around in the toy industry about two years ago. I guess it has made its way to the publishing industry. Basically, no one knows what it means but people like to say it. You should say it.

* When you send out a manuscript to an agent or editor, they do not want be your first reader. They prefer to be your 5th or 6th reader.

* Agents and editors really want to be able to explain a book to everyone they meet in one sentence. Thus, writers should be able to explain their books to everyone they meet in one sentence.

* Lists at the publishing houses are much, much smaller. Everyone in the industry is acting in a very conservative way right now. It's a 'duh' fact but I feel it is important to note.

* There was a small rumbling about a potential resurgance in contemporary/realistic fiction. I say a small rumbling because it wasn't as emphatic as the middle grade sentiment I kept hearing (over and over) but I definitely heard it more than once.

* Holes in the market: Middle Grade (did I mention that?), compelling chapter books for grades K-2, and non-fiction for young people (though the latter is a very, very, tough sell. You are forewarned.)

* And the usual. I know you've heard it before but it bears repeating. Never write just to fill the hole. Don't write to a trend. Write what you love. Love what you write.

In the Center of New York City, Fifth Avenue

2012-01-29T23:05:00.001-05:00

There is so much to say about the SCBWI conference I attended over the weekend. But I'm still digesting, still thinking it all through. Look for more posts throughout the week.

In the meantime, I'm about a week behind in everything, so I leave you with a visual of last weekend. Unable to sit still (it's a problem, I'm working on it), I walked 56 blocks down the heart of Fifth Avenue, something I hadn't done in years.

As a New Yorker, there are areas to avoid unless you must go there out of necessity. SoHo. Times Square. Macy's. Rockefellar Plaza. To name a few. Fifth Avenue is another. Unless you have a relative or friend in town, it can be overwhelming, lined with tourists window shopping, figure skating, waiting park-side for carriage rides, getting to elevators that will take them to the Empire State Building or the Top of the Rock.

I am so often looking to hide away, to sit in tiny restaurants tucked on named streets, to find quiet along the river or under a bridge at the northernmost tip of Central park. In a city like New York, to survive, you must walk to the edge of things. That's where you find running paths and quiet playgrounds. It's where astronomical rents fall, too many blocks away from transportation, a sanctuary from the office towers stretching to the sky.

And so, sometimes, I forget what it means to be at the center. To get lost in the rush. To never know darkness under all those bright lights.

Going there last weekend, being reminded of all that, was, to sound as sentimental as possible, magical. That's the only word I can think to use.

Thoughts on John Green's The Fault In Our Stars

2012-01-26T07:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I mentioned that a certain sentence in John Green's The Fault In Our Stars struck me. Today, I'll say that many things struck me while reading this novel and it doesn't seem fair to have highlighted just one sentence.

But I believe there are all kinds of copyright laws that prohibit me from copying the entire book in this blog post. So...I won't.

All this, to say: there is far too much to say. All of it said better by Green himself.

What impresses me, about all of his books, is the way he portrays young people. They are always wildly intelligent, sharp individuals who seek answers to the big, important questions about the world they live in.

As a teenager, I always felt, among all the adults I knew, there were two kinds. Those that were amused by me, as if I was some kind of walking reality show. And those that genuinely thought I was a real person with interesting thoughts and ideas. I still feel that way, even though I am technically an adult. And I believe that Green falls into the latter category.

He respects the characters he creates. And while they sometimes act with gestures that seem too grande, while they engage in impossibly witty banter and ask huge philosophical questions, I accept and respect them too.

It's been a long time since I left a book feeling as if my heart is so full it could burst. This is one of those rare moments.

If you've read it, I'm curious to hear your thoughts.

A Familiar Sentence?

2012-01-25T15:41:00.000-05:00

I am in the middle of John Green's 'The Fault In Our Stars'. And perhaps it is because I am unable to sleep anymore, exahusted all day, wide awake as soon as my head hits the pillow, then ready for a deep sleep as soon as the day begins...but I was struck by this line:

As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.

Personally, I think that is a beautiful line, perfect for its simplicity.

But when I told Tyler, he thought it sounded cliche, a line he's heard a million times before.

Perhaps the simplicity of the sentence makes it feel familiar?

But I really don't believe I've ever heard love described that way.

What do you think?

The Muddy Flat

2012-01-24T08:00:00.000-05:00

I think of spin class today. I think of the muddy flat road we're told to experience. It's not quite a hill. But it's not easy breezy. It's not enough to leave you choking for breath but it's enough to peak your heart rate and leave an ache in your legs.

In this writing journey, I often feel as if we're all on the muddy flat for extended periods of time. I hear these terrible stories, the kind that are supposed to inspire me or make me pump my fist in solidarity but, instead, leave me feeling sick. I wrote ten novels before my first got published! I got 100 rejections before I landed an agent! No one wanted to publish my book for years...then I won a Pulitzer!

I don't know. Something about these stories makes the journey feel less like an uphill battle and more like a neverending muddy flat, tires trudging through the sludge.

Lately, I'm not interested in looking through this murky lens, feeling powerless as I let others determine my fate or watch others in my position get knocked down.

Because last night, I sat at my little desk, writing, and I met somebody new. I put words together, at first clunky, smoothed them out, and thought they might not be porcelain, they might not be gold, but they'll do. I felt the nervous excitement of a new world, its people stomping across the page.

I was where I needed to be, all nestled up inside what it's really about.

And I thought, screw this stupid sludge, this off-road drool. I'm not fixated on the muddy flat. I am flying straight through.

On Networking, Attending the SCBWI Winter Conference and Eating Hot Pot

2012-01-23T10:34:00.002-05:00

On Saturday, I will attend the SCBWI International Winter Conference here in New York City. I've never attended a writing conference before and I'm terribly excited. I'm trying to imagine what it will be like to attend a conference with a subject I am interested in. All the conferences I have been to in the past have been mandatory for my job.

I'm not very good at networking. I'll say this as elegantly as possible: I suck at it. When people are thrown into a room with the expectation to 'network', it feels fake to me, like wearing a poorly disguised veil.

For me, chit-chat is boring and I want no part of it. Most people don't suspect this of me but I can see right through to anyone's crap. If someone wants something from me, I prefer they come right out and say it. When I want something, I prefer to do the same.

But I know it doesn't work like that. People have to go on golf outings, attend business lunches, stand with a glass of wine in one hand, a pig-in-the-blanket in the other.

Once, I went out for Hot Pot (basically chinese fondue) with a friend. The entire meal, she barked orders in her native language while the rest of us sat back, feeling as if we were a bunch of mis-behaved children with our ruler-slapping teacher.

She explained that American's are wishy-washy, too polite, too passive. In her culture, it is necessary to be direct about everything. For example, if you receive the wrong order (as we did) there's none of this: "Oh, I'm sorry, can you please take this back? It wasn't what we ordered. Can we have this instead?" It is: "No. I do not want this. Give us green beans now." It is not impolite. It's just the way it's done.

I believe I could survive quite well in a culture like that. A place where people do not beat around the bush. It sounds efficient.

I'd like to attend a conference where the networking runs a little bit like Hot Pot.

But, in the meantime, while I still live in a society full of mandatory and polite chatter, I've decided to approach this conference differently. Personally, I like to meet new people. I like to talk with others.

I've decided not to worry about the networking aspect at all. I plan to concentrate on the meeting-new-people aspect and avoid the veil all together.

Thoughts on networking? Are you attending this conference? Please, please let me know if you are.

But It's Snowing!

2012-01-21T09:01:00.005-05:00

When I woke up this morning, I searched frantically for my glasses so I could run to the window and see this view of snow.

I have never considered snow bothersome.

During childhood, it meant that I didn't have to go to school. In college, it meant I could sled down Libe slope. When I lived in Boston, I was within walking distance of my graduate classes. And as I entered the working world in New York City, I never worried about whether or not I could get to work. The subway runs, my friends. It. Always. Runs.

I recognize that for some people snow is a real inconvenience. I have never seen it that way.

So, this morning, I leapt down the stairs to look out the front door and my little two year old neighbor, Margot, came out in her pajamas.

It's snowing! I told her, excitedly.

She came to the door with me, peeked her head out and said nothing.

Look at it! Isn't it pretty? Let's go play in it! I said, silently praying that this dear child would give me an excuse to play in snow.

She turned her attention to her scooter in the foyer. Do you like my scooter? she asked.

Yes. I like your scooter. But it's snowing!

I'm going to eat my breakfast.

Well then.

How An Optimist Thinks

2012-01-20T12:50:00.000-05:00

This week I had the opportunity to listen to a presentation by writer and speaker Michael Gelb who, according to his website, is: 'a creativity and innovation expert, an inspiring speaker, and a juggler.' I did, indeed, watch him juggle. And I felt reenergized after his presentation.

Gelb is learning from the masters. He aspires to think like Da Vinci and innovate like Edison.

Many things struck me during his presentation but one idea stayed with me: to be optimistic in life. I'd say that's a pretty standard inspirational tactic. But when he broke it down for me, I thought that taking optimism to a new level might be necessary.

To summarize what Gelb said, when optimists encounter failure, they believe that what happened to them is not entirely personal, that it's a temporary setback, and that it won't happen again. Pessimists believe the exact opposite: Their failure is completely personal, the current situation is never going to change, and they will fail the next time.

The reverse occurs when one achieves success. Optimists believe they are responsible for their achievements, that the moment is permanent, and that success will continue happening for them. Pessimists believe their success must be because of outside forces, it's a fluke, and will never happen again.

I consider myself a fairly optimistic person but there is always room for improvement. And I liked that kind of breakdown. Knowing how an optimist and a pessimist think is important. I'd like to follow an optimist's lead.

Thanks Michael.

So, what do you think? Room for more optimism in your life?

Book Covers Are The Fashion

2012-01-19T11:55:00.000-05:00

Cover Design: John Gall Photograph: The Sartorialist

This is one of the best things I've ever seen. Go look. Now. (Please.)

Sera Hur matched the famous Sartorialist's photographs with the book covers of Haruki Murakami.

This is everything I love: people and color and texture and style and movement and mood...and a book.

Stunning.

I am in love with the idea.

What Is A Book Review To You? -OR- How Should We Talk Books? (And Other Musings)

2012-01-18T13:19:00.000-05:00

I've been struggling, for a long time, basically since I started writing this blog, to figure out how best to write about books.

For a while, I tried a series called Tuesday Books For Writers. Mostly, it was a challenge to myself. To articulate what I learned from a book as a writer and relay it to you. But I often found it excruciating to write. I never looked forward to the experience so I stopped full stop.

While I am inspired by those writers that review books (I read so many book blogs, it is insane) I have never felt comfortable writing a so-called book review. When you review a book you must examine it. You must study and consider it. In some ways, it becomes a formal inspection. A military-like evaluation. And when you write a review you must give a critical report.

That sense of formality, that structure, gives me anxiety. What are the terms? How should a book's quality be measured? And what kind of balanced evaluation do you owe a reader (or the author for that matter)? How many books can you celebrate or attack before you lose a reader's trust? And, in the end, is it really about earning that trust at all?

In other words...I am in awe of those that tackle these questions and churn out reviews so that I don't have to.

But the reviews I love to read have none of that formality. They express a feeling, a guttural impression. They capture what it feels like to be with an author's words, to breathe them in, and be left breathless.

I want to do that. I don't know how. I will not call it a review. I might not call it anything at all. But I want to find the virtual equivalent of handing over a book to a friend and saying, I want you to have this.

Thoughts? I know you have them.

You Know You're At A Contemporary Art Museum When...

2012-01-16T17:18:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend I headed out to Beacon, NY. My thought was that I could get lost in the woods for a bit. But freezing temperatures thwarted my plan. Instead we sat in coffee shops, wandered through art galleries, watched glass-making demonstrations and visited the Dia, one of the largest contemporary art museums in the world. My hiking boots sat unused.

The museum felt like one long massive warehouse, light pouring in to the long halls, big enough to house some of the largest art installations I've ever seen. I was impressed. I know absolutely nothing about contemporary art. But I like to look at it. I like that it makes me think. And I'm fascinated by the things we say. The things we hear.

This is a sampling, in no way meant to trivialize the exhibitions we saw. Only to say, this was ordinary conversation. This, in my opinion, proves that we saw some incredible things.

Museum Attendant (into walkie-talkie): Yes. There are other spiders. (long pause) No. Ours is the third largest. There are two other spiders that are much bigger.

Me (to Tyler): You could be a geometric minimalist.

Tyler: You think so?

Me: Absolutely.

Exhibit features a framed piece of paper with instructions. I point to the stack of identical papers beneath it.

Me: It says I'm going to have an erotic experience if I follow these instructions. Do you think I'm supposed to take the instructions home?

Tyler: I think it's part of the exhibit.

Me: But it's just a stack of papers. Don't you think you're supposed to take it home?

Tyler: I don't know. I don't think so. I really think it's part of the exhibit.

Me: How do we know?

Tyler: We don't.

Tyler: What was your favorite exhibit?

Me: I liked the sculptures you can wear.

Me: So what is this made out of?

Tyler (looks at brochure): Plaster. Wax. Wood. Excrement. And Urine.

Me: Oh. But-- Oh...

We'll Go To Coney / And Eat Baloney On A Roll

2012-01-13T00:07:00.002-05:00

Winter is in hiding. I haven't seen snow since Halloween. Talk about a topsy turvy world.

Last Saturday, in January, temperatures reached 60 degrees and I rode my bicycle to Coney Island.

In my humble opinion, Coney Island is one of the most visually stunning places in Brooklyn. I like to go there in winter, to see it forgotten. The stillness of the rides, the empty boardwalks, the boarded up shops, inspire me. So much so that I wrote an entire novel that steals from its storied past (and present.)

I took the trip there on Saturday because of a new project I am working on. It's not a novel or fiction of any kind. I don't really know what it is. I'll let you know when I know.

But I've decided that Coney Island remains one of my favorite places in the world to be.

Hey Buddy, I know it was unseasonably warm. But it wasn't THAT warm...

Bonkers

2012-01-11T23:14:00.002-05:00

I am in this bonkers mood right now. I mean totally bonkers.

I've been talking about Murakami on this blog so much as of late -- just saw the film adaptation of Norwegian Wood (my favorite Murakami book.) I can not, will not, go into detail. I'll just say the film was excruciatingly slow. And long. Two and a half hours long. Well beyond what I can tolerate.

I'll add that I had to stop myself from laughing during one of the most dramatic and crucial moments. Part of it was the result of sheer insanity (It was just so long. So very long.) Part of it was nervous laughter. I had to pee like you would not believe.

When the film ended, I shot up from my seat. But no one moved. It was one of those films in which people felt the need to be with their thoughts. They felt the need to display that they needed to be with their thoughts by not moving. I nearly threw a tantrum. Eventually, I had to trample over the still-not-moving crowd and was consequently cursed out of the theater.

I've been bonkers ever since.

Came home, walked into the bedroom and had a giggle fit. Because, you see, the perfume I received in my stocking this Christmas, the one that has been sitting on my dresser for two weeks, that is featured in this lovely picture...

It's truffle oil.

Celery Tree: A Site for Authors With Books to Sell

2012-01-10T08:00:00.000-05:00

The lovely writer and editor Karen Jones Gowen over at Coming Down The Mountain: A Writer's Blog has a new venture I'm excited to share with you all: celerytree.com. In Karen's own words:

Celerytree.com came about because I know how hard it is to market and sell books. One day in 2010, this idea came to me: Why not build a website where authors support one another by agreeing to buy a modest amount of books from other authors each year.

If enough people join up, it can grow geometrically and make a real difference. 100 members buying 6 books a year is 600 books purchased from those 100 members. 1000 members buying 6 books a year is 6000 books purchased from 1000 members. 10,000 members is 60,000 books purchased from 10,000 members. You get the idea, right?

The more members we get the more books our members will sell, yet each member only has to ever buy 6 books a year, although most will buy more than 6. The more members sign on, the larger the pool of books and book buyers will be.

I like people with big ideas and I particularly like those who execute them. Since I am guilty of saying 'Wouldn't it be great if...' and not doing a darn thing, I'm thrilled to support Karen's idea.

I hope you will hop over to the site and see what it's all about. If you have any questions, Karen asks that you e-mail her directly at: karen@celerytree.com (that's the kind of gal she is, always making sure you're in good hands.)

Vine Leaves Literary Journal and my Vignette

2012-01-09T08:00:00.001-05:00

I used to do a lot of my writing in train cars. The Long Island Railroad and the New York City subway were my usual spots. But I have also written on Amtrak, the Euro Rail and the T in Boston. When I was not working on a particular project, I picked out a person on the train and began to write short pieces. Sometimes, I simply described what the person looked like. Other times, I stole a small moment and slipped it between the lined pages of my journal. Always, I imagined a life for them and let it breathe.

When I learned about the idea for the Vine Leaves Literary Journal, I discovered that I had been writing something called a vignette. According to the journal a vignette is:

a word that originally meant "something that may be written on a vine-leaf." It’s a snapshot in words. It differs from flash fiction or a short story in that its aim doesn’t lie within the traditional realms of structure or plot. Instead, the vignette focuses on one element, mood, character, setting or object. It's descriptive, excellent for character or theme exploration and wordplay. Through a vignette, you create an atmosphere.

Well. You learn something new every day.

On a whim, just a few hours before the submission window closed, I submitted a vignette to the journal and they published it in their premiere issue. Feel free to check it out here. As a tribute to my days writing on trains, it is called The Subway and it's on Page 6. I like tellng people I'm on Page Six! But you should read as much of the magazine as you can, such wonderful content there.

Inconclusive Thoughts on Murakami's 1Q84

2012-01-06T09:38:00.000-05:00

I recently finished Book 1 of Haruki Murakami's 1Q84. I had been looking forward to the series for a long time, waiting impatiently for them to release it in the states.

Turns out they released the series as one book. A 925 page deadweight. (As in, I can barely carry it. As in, I am experiencing physical pain trying to hold it up and read it on the subway.)

I don't particularly like long works of anything. I firmly believe a film should be no longer than 90 minutes. 925 pages does not exactly fit in the realm of 'what Melissa can handle without going completely bonkers.'

But I may have mentioned once or one million times that I will follow Murakami to the ends of the earth. So, I'm reading this 925 page book, because, when it comes to Murakami, I become Cyborg (or perhaps, in this case, sighborg?) Melissa.

What I love about Murakami's work is the straightforward manner in which his stories are presented. I am fascinated by his ability to stretch both the mundane and the extraordinary, to take you on the most underwhelming, are we there yet, journey, then wallop you with a ball meets bat crack.

In my mind, his books are not without flaws but that is also what makes them appealing, as if he is one of his own characters, simply making breakfast, getting on the train, making a go at this whole novel thing. He has a strange way of making a story feel painstaking and effortless at the same time.

I don't have too much of a desire to analyze his books. I like to be with them for a time and get on with my life.

But I wanted to share this. Because this is the only way I can adequately express what I love about Murakami. This right here:

The moon had been observing the earth close-up longer than anyone. It must have witnessed all the phenomena occurring -- and all of the acts carried out -- on this earth. But the moon remained silent; it told no stories. All it did was embrace the heavy past with cool, measured detachment. On the moon there was neither air nor wind. Its vacuum was perfect for preserving memories unscathed. No one could unlock the heart of the moon. Aomame raised her glass to the moon and asked, "Have you gone to bed with someone in your arms lately?"

The moon did not answer.

"Do you have any friends?" she asked.

The moon did not answer.

"Don't you get tired of always paying it cool?"

The moon did not answer.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: A New Year

2012-01-04T11:30:00.000-05:00

For weeks all my photos have been trapped in the camera. I lost my memory card reader. In other words, it was sitting quietly with all the other gadgets, right in front of my face. But it was not until I gave in and purchased another one that Tyler looked over and said, 'Hey, look. It's right there.'

So, I had been wanting to share my New Year's day in Prospect Park. For you to know me, really know me, you must know I am obsessed with trees. To spend the first day of a new year with them (oh and Tyler) was, in my mind, perfection.

Because the access to the pictures didn't quite match up with the day I say Happy New Year, again (waves).

And you have no idea, how much I wanted to join that boy in a tree.

Man On Wire

2012-01-03T14:30:00.000-05:00

I know this documentary, Man on Wire, came out years ago. Somehow, it stayed on my radar all these years as a film I wanted to see but never saw. I always remembered the blue cover and the tiny figure of a man, just a speck in the sky. I finally saw it the other day.

For those who haven't seen the film, it's about Philippe Petit, a wire walker who crossed (danced, tip-toed, conquered) a wire between the top of the Twin Towers in 1974. The film follows the journey from idea to execution. It is illegal to do such a dangerous stunt. To hear from the men and women involved in this enormous undertaking is fascinating.

Two 'images' struck me in the film. Both, just anecdotes. One from Philippe himself. He sat in a dentist's office and saw a photo of the planned Twin Towers in a magazine. They hadn't even been built yet and he envisioned a wire between the two. A wire he decided, at that moment, he would walk.

The second from his girlfriend at the time, Annie, who said Philippe had decided she would be his girlfriend, sent flowers, chocolates, made phonecalls, showed up at her door and asked for endless dates until she agreed.

This kind of certainty impressed me. To know what you want, to have such a singular purpose, and chase it until it is yours.

I thought it was an appropriate sentiment to bring to a new year.

Have you seen the film? Anything you wish you chase in this life?

I Wrote A Novel

2011-12-31T12:32:00.000-05:00

At the beginning of this year, I wrote on this very blog that I planned to write a novel this year. I started one and abandoned it, not quite ready for that story, or maybe the story was not ready for me.

I turned to a new story and went with it. I feel like I finished this novel at least six times this year because it had so many drafts. I've announced 'the end' far too many times.

But today was the most real of all the ends because, like I said, I wrote on this blog that I planned to write a novel this year. I am very stubborn. And it is the end of the year.

So I wrote it. I'm grateful to those of you who have read it. And I look forward to seeing what will happen to it, if anything at all.

And I hope to write another one next year.

Here are some words of it, so you believe me.

Happy New Year, my friends.

Adelaine sunk to the curb, let her hair tumble to her feet, let her chin fall into her knees. She pictured Reagan caught in the long strands of grass poking up from the edge of beach. Adelaine had never been afraid of the ocean, would go to it even in the pink of morning when the air was cold. She would let the shells nibble at her feet until she felt the smooth sand beneath her, until the ground disappeared all together and she was floating, arms out, the sun at the fall of the earth, toes gripping the cool water.

But Reagan always stayed behind, weaving the thick blades together until she had a crown of brown and gold. Adelaine would leave the ocean, stand over her, dripping, and wonder out loud why she would not go with her, not even let the water to her knees. “I can teach you, ya know,” Adelaine told her.

And Reagan wrapped the braid of grass around her wrist. A bracelet that, when she let go, unraveled to the sand. “It just seems like it would be so easy to get swept away.”

Getting There

2011-12-29T18:19:00.000-05:00

It's the end of another year and I feel obligated to reflect. To stop and do something I rarely do, look over my shoulder and see what I left behind. But that's difficult to measure. That's difficult for me to know. Because, on the surface, very little happened. From this day last year to this day, today, I live where I lived. I work where I worked. I love who I loved. I suppose there is comfort in that. Worlds can easily be thrown into upheaval. I feel fortunate mine has not.

All this quiet, this stillness, however, has afforded a major shift in perspective. I've been stirring inside. I've been scheming, as always, in the dark. And it would be hard for me to say that nothing has changed.

I might say 2011 was about laying foundation. I'm ready to say that 2012 will be about building.

Last night, I had one of those endless, frustrating dreams. I was trying to hail a yellow taxi in New York City. Not for me. For a friend. I stood on the corner, my arm out high, and I watched the cabs pass us by, one after the other. No one stopped.

I remember the dream-me thinking that I had too great a responsibility to this friend. Because the subway was not running. I did not have a car. The bus was headed downtown only. The taxi was, obviously, a hopeless case. The dream-me said, We're not getting anywhere.

But the real-me knows better than that.

Memory of Sintra

2011-12-28T11:42:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning and, for some reason, my head was here. In Portugal at the Palácio da Pena in Sintra. We walked the wet paths, clutching our umbrellas, through fairytale mist. The lush woodlands carved out this picture of slippery yellow and grey, dripping to just a blur.

We took the train back to Lisbon and, the next day, my friend Lynn and I met up with Graça, a stranger to me and, up until then, just a woman who penned work e-mails to Lynn. She was barely five feet tall, in a black suit one size too small, cheeks red and chubby.

Graça had a lot to say. About everything. Barely let us sneak in a word. She led us through the streets, always marching many steps ahead, forced baked goods into our hands, analyzed event spaces (Lynn was there on business. I was, as usual, observing...tagging along.) Her judgements were much bigger than her height. She was unimpressed with almost all that she saw.

You went to Sintra yesterday? Her eyes huge with disapproval. What a silly thing to do. To see one of the most beautiful places in the world, in the pouring rain.

I don't know why I think of Graça and Sintra today. But, for me, Sintra will always belong to the rain.

Multiple Conversations

2011-12-26T20:21:00.001-05:00

I've been told I am a good listener. I've also been told I am a terrible listener. I guess I listen to what I choose to listen to and ignore all the rest. Which is how I approach many things. Throw myself into what I love, sigh loudly at all the rest.

Part of the 'Melissa is a terrible listener' judgement is that Tyler believes I do not listen to him because I am able to have a conversation with him and, at the very same time, listen to an entire conversation that is happening elsewhere...between two strangers on the sidewalk, in a restaurant, or in a subway car.

This became apparent to him when I sat next to actress Michelle Williams at a restaurant in Brooklyn. When we left I was able to relay huge portions of her conversation to him. But Tyler had not seen me distracted throughout the meal.

Tyler doesn't think it's possible to be a part of both conversations and believed I must be fake listening to him. But it's just not true. It is possible!

I've started to think this is a skill that women have. To be able to 'engage' in multiple conversations, file them away and pull them out when necessary. But I also think it's a skill that writers have. Being present in our own lives while sneaking into a stranger's life for a time.

Are you a good listener? A selective listener like me?

Letting Go

2011-12-23T18:16:00.002-05:00

I'll head off to Long Island tomorrow to spend Christmas Eve with my parents, then fly to Jacksonville early Christmas morning to spend a few days with Tyler's family.

I had set today as a deadline for myself, to finish a writing project, to complete my novel, drop the old clothes off at Salvation Army, donate the mountain of books that had created a fort around my writing desk, clean the apartment, and many more items on a To-Do list that seemed to grow longer and longer.

I did most of those things.

I even managed to take a walk to eat the most amazing donuts I've ever eaten and walk the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights to get a glimpse of my city's skyline (it never fails to amaze me, even after all these years.)

Then I sat down, just moments ago, to unanswered e-mails, to a google reader with 400 items unread. It may sound silly to some of you but it bothers me to have too many e-mails ignored, to have a list of articles and blog posts yet to read.

But I looked at the screen and I did something nearly unprecedented. I just clicked 'Mark All As Read'. Even if the google reader had not been read. I filed the e-mails away to have a clear inbox. I apologized to the novel, told it that I needed more time, uninterrupted time, not this stop and start pattern I've been running in circles around.

It made me feel better. To mark the google reader, file the emails, be at peace with leaving the novel unfinished. I will not let it hang over me.

Lately, I think I've been holding on too tightly, clinging to something I can not define. I am ready to let go of my grasp. To live this Christmas, breathe in this winter, see another year through. There is no better time, I think, to close my eyes and let go.

Happy Holidays to all of you.

Dream Builders

2011-12-22T11:20:00.000-05:00

Lately, I feel as if all kinds of serendipitous things are happening to me. To be honest, they happen to me a lot. Fates aligning in a strange way. Connections being made at just the right time. And it is always why I write fiction based in reality and watch documentary films because magical things exist in real life, no fantastical world necessary.

When I opened my email inbox just moments ago, I found that my dear friend Lynn had sent me this photo because, she wrote, it sums up what you have been expressing lately.

And it also meant much, much more to me than she knew (to which I responded you are not going to believe this...) But, then again, the best of friends always know. And they always believe.

Book Buying: A Shift In Perspective

2011-12-20T00:19:00.003-05:00

Shopping, for me, is a torturous experience. This is true at all times of year. But it is particularly true this time of year. My vision of New York City warps itself into nothing but endless bodies parading the sidewalks, like sausages oozing out of the casing on every subway platform and store. I push through, sigh loudly in long lines, rub shoulders unwillingly.

At a dinner party the other night, I met some people who had made peanutbutter for all their friends and family for the holidays and I thought, Yes! Peanutbutter. Next year, everyone will get peanutbutter.

These days, my local independent book store is the only place I can navigate with any sanity. But I find myself frustrated even there.

Several times in the past few weeks, I have stood with sturdy hardcovers and debated. I have wondered, is this book worth it? I wanted, desperately, to buy Tyler's mother The Bhudda In The Attic by Julia Otsuka. Do you know how much that 144 page book is? Do you?

I did not purchase it. I walked away.

Lately, I have wanted books I can not find. Some written years ago, others, perhaps, just a little obscure. I walked to the register, asked if I could order them, and was told I was better off looking elsewhere because it would take a long time to order them or they weren't available at all.

I stood with Murakami's 1Q84. I stood with Joan Didion's Blue Nights. I stood with Erin Morgenstern's The Night Circus. I stood with Harbach's The Art of Fielding. All of them, in their hardcover forms, with prices that seemed just a little too high.

Do you know how much I love books? (you must, of course must) Do you know how desperately I want to read all of these books?

In the end, I walked out empty-handed. I went to Barnes and Noble and bought only the Murakami book because I am desperate to read it and I knew I could get it at 40% off there.

I also knew, in my heart, that I could purchase every single book I wanted on Amazon. Every. Single. One. You realize that they have them all.

I know I am but one person. A person who does not have an e-reader and therefore can only read library books or purchase physical copies. A person who spends an obscene amount of money on books as it is.

There are a lot of statements being made and debates being had about the way books are bought and sold today. But I don't think it's about (even if it is about) evil empires versus Mom and Pop. I don't believe it's about (even if it is about) what books are worth or paperback versus hardcover versus e-book versus used book.

I think it's deeper than that. I think it's about being in an independent book store, going to an online retailer, walking to the nearest chain. It's about standing with a hardcover, looking over at a paperback, being able to buy a book you loved once rather than a book you might love. I think all of these things are working together to create a major shift in perspective.

It's about peanut butter. It's about standing with a book and walking away.

Into Winter

2011-12-19T00:53:00.000-05:00

I had been holding out. Not wanting to move from the purple wool coat to the puffy down. There's no where to go from the puffy down coat. It's the warmest coat I have.

I walked through the farmer's market, the greens covered in icy frost, reached for parsnips and carrots, my fingers pale and numb.

We won't be back 'til spring, said the woman collecting cash. Tyler and I are at that particular stall every Sunday and even in October she is bundled in a hat, mittens, and her own marshmallow puff coat, mummy wrapped in multiple scarves. We always tease that she must be from a warm climate. It's a wonder she's lasted this long.

Here's a gift for you. And just like that, I was shepherded into winter with sweet potatoes in my hand.

What I Know

2011-12-14T12:58:00.004-05:00

Today I've been thinking something small about writing, though it is actually quite big.

It seems I can know in my heart something about a character or a story and fail to transfer it to the page.

When it comes to revising, I'm always worried that I won't know how to fix what is wrong. Sometimes or most of the time (just not all the time), I find that the key to a locked door is to bring to the surface what I've always known to be true about a person, place, or thing.

It's funny to me that I forget to share what I know best. That I am blinded by what I've always seen.

Such Stupid Things

2011-12-13T23:23:00.006-05:00

The other night I attended a party where I didn't know very many people. I'm not good at mingling. The idea of wandering around a room, never able to truly settle into one conversation, makes me crazy. I'm not sure how to engage in a real discussion when everyone is there and then off again, to say hi to so-and-so, get another glass of wine, grab some kind of puffed pastry.

So I become an investigative reporter. I ask hundreds of questions until people are sick of me and desperate to move on. It's the only way I know how to get through.

One of my grueling interviews involved a series of questioning about what it is like to have a child attend college. My 'interviewee' was worried about his son running off to do something incredibly stupid and I asked if that was because he, himself, had done stupid things in college. He hadn't. But he wished he did.

I thought back to my own days at Cornell, 'on the hill', as they say. Thought back to a few of the stupid things I did in a state of wild abandon. I swam in a lake during a severe thunderstorm. (And it was no accident, I intentionally went out during a thunderstorm to swim and later discovered that a woman drowned in that very lake the same day.) I walked down a crumbling path into a 200 ft gorge at midnight to swim under the haze of alcohol, barely 100 pounds and having had far too many drinks to do something so dangerous.

But when I think of those times, I do not fear what could have happened to me, though I realize both experiences could have had a tragic end.

I only fear what would have happened to me had I not done them.

Because I knew once what it felt like to swim between the rush of a waterfall and the rain pelting down, not knowing or caring which washed over my shoulders and soaked my hair. To descend into a gorge and jump, fully clothed, from slippery rocks into water, under moon and endless sky, and not know its bottom. Not know its end.

How Important is a Good Story?

2011-12-13T10:00:00.008-05:00

Last week, I was privileged to sit in on the final presentations of the toy design students from a nearby college. All of the students were brilliant and imaginative, even while designing for a very particular need, under a variety of limitations.

The students presented their toy designs along with samples, videos, powerpoints, and cardboard cutouts. Some spoke so softly we strained to hear. Others charmed us with wide-eyed enthusiasm and humor.

However, what I have learned working in the toy industry is that it is not enough to put a design in front of someone and quietly say, 'Hey, check it out. I made this.' It is also not enough to bedazzle with glitter and sparkle or even toys that fly, levitate, know your name, or recognize your voice. You have to tell a story.

I'm not going to say that you should have a terrible product with no substance and sell it with a story (but you guys know that happens, right?) I do want to say that what works, time and time again, when we stand in front of management with sweaty palms during our own presentations, trying to sell something we've been working on for months is to say: We started here. We took this road. Then that one. We ended with this. Let me tell you how it works. (Cue the: wooow. Er. Sometimes...)

So as I sat through each presentation and gave feedback, all of my criticisms rarely had to do with the toy itself (a testament to how inventive their designs were). It always came down to the manner in which it was presented, the way thoughts were organized or facts laid out. Every toy, every project, has a life, a story, a character. Especially when you're explaining how a design actually works. Some students dismissed that entirely. Others knew the power of a simple beginning, middle, and end.

After each presentation I would stand ready to chime in and address the presentations that didn't, always about to say, "Try to start here and end up there." And most of the time, someone jumped in ahead of me. Engineers, designers, marketers. They would say: "It doesn't make sense. Try explaining it this way instead."

It struck me during these presentations because I've always believed story is key. But then again, I write content for a living. Forgive me for how elitist and arrogant this sounds but, in recent months, I've been put in one situation after another in my professional life where I have seriously questioned whether a good story means anything to anyone else (maybe you've been there too?) These presentations helped me realize that it does.

Turns out people crave a good story in many different industries beyond publishing, film, or television. In fact, they demand it.

Exploring

2011-12-12T08:04:00.001-05:00

I love to explore my city. I love to walk the sidewalks, no matter how cold it gets, and see what there is to see.

There is always so much to see.

I have zero photography skills. My camera (or should I say Tyler's camera because he likes to say that I stole it, but what's yours is mine, I reply) is nothing special. But I like to take pictures. It's lucky that I live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

Thought I'd share some of the interesting things I've seen lately. Just because.

Pumpkin heads on their stakes (Cobble Hill, Brooklyn)

A rare sight: Plenty of places to sit (The Highline, Manhattan)

A sharp shooting, yo-yo-ing, unicyclist (Columbia Waterfront District, Brooklyn)

And our very own golden prairie right here in the concrete jungle (The Highline, Manhattan)

A Dream, A Love, A Need

2011-12-09T09:24:00.006-05:00

In order for music to live it must be sung. - Irving Berlin

I came across this quote from my favorite songwriter and it stopped me, as so many of Berlin's words do. He spoke them after composing Alexander's Ragtime Band which became a sensation for the most uncomplicated reason I can think of: people liked to sing it. So they did. The lyrics very deliberately and skillfully invited it. And that level of participation gave enourmous life to a song.

I've been struggling a bit lately, wondering about this intense desire to be published. It's a dream I've had since I was a child and I cling to it and pursue it because I trust the vision of that little girl more than I believe in the wishes of the person I've become.

I take a lot of joy in writing. I remember having an honest discussion with my tennis coach in high school. I really enjoyed playing tennis. But she asked me if I loved it and I could not commit to that. Only because nothing, absolutely nothing, in my mind and heart could live up to my love of writing. I have measured many things in my life against that intensity of feeling. And besides my friends and family, besides Tyler, there is truly, for honest-to-goodness real, nothing I love more.

So I've wondered, lately, why that isn't enough for me. Why the need for such validation? An agent, a book deal, a publishing credit in a magazine, a journal, a newspaper page. Should I not be content to sit at a desk and do what I love best?

I have very seriously considered writing only for myself. Not because of fear, not to protect myself from rejection but because I question the need for that validation. What is the opinion of an editor, an industry, a public? I should not need their acceptance or attention.

All this to say that I seriously question what is at the heart of wanting to be published, at the heart, even, of clicking 'Publish Post' when I finish writing these words. I wonder about a childhood dream. A true love. A silly, but real, need.

I also wonder about Berlin's words. About that participation. Because it is so very simple and true. A song is nothing if no one sings it. A story has no life if it isn't read.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: One Shoe

2011-12-07T09:14:00.005-05:00

So, I saw this. A mural in a schoolyard in Chelsea. I liked his look. How he towered. The strange sadness of a shoe.

"You're Afraid of Me"

2011-12-06T09:05:00.005-05:00

I rode my bicycle home from work yesterday, waited at a stoplight on 22nd and 5th Avenue. I waited in the street, my foot on the curb, ready to spring forward as soon as the light changed.

A pedestrian, an older man, stopped in the crosswalk, asked me if I was a 'racer'.

I shook my head, "No."

"Well you have a really nice bike. I like it," he said, still standing in the middle of the street.

I thanked him.

Then he patted me repeatedly on the shoulder, the way you would an obedient dog.

"So, you're not racing? You just ride around. From work or something?"

I looked to the stoplight, eager for it to change. "I just commute this way," I told him.

"That's a good thing." Then he pat my shoulder. Again.

He must have seen my hesitation because he followed with, "People are not nice to one another anymore. So this must be shocking to you. You're afraid of me. That's fine."

"I'm not afraid of y--" I tried. Because I wasn't. But he had already walked off.

I thought about this conversation as I pedalled home. I don't like to leave a conversation feeling as if I have been scolded, feeling as if I am an example of what 'people' have become. I wondered what level of engagement I owed this stranger, if I owed him anything at all.

But I also wondered, is it true? Are we no longer accustomed to 'nice'?

(It still does not change the fact that I do not like to be pet by anyone.)

The Characters That Stay

2011-12-05T10:08:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, a funny thing happened. Stuck wondering what to do with my novel, I thought back to another character I had abandoned years ago. She existed in another story with another set of lives.

But there are some characters that stay with you, that make you fall in love.

So I found a place for her, a small place, because she has always existed in small moments. And I was happy to have her because, my goodness, I needed her. It felt right that she changed everything, that she mended a little of what was broken.

Any abandoned characters you'd like to honor in the comments? Feel free. :)

The 'I Made This' Room

2011-12-01T09:25:00.006-05:00

Last night I had such a wonderful dream. There was a house I didn't know. An older couple I didn't recognize. Tyler spread out on the couch with pen and paper in his hands, writing. (Was I writing a press release? Tyler asked when I told him about the dream.)

The couple asked him if he needed inspiration, if he needed to go to a special place so the words would flow easier. And so they took him to what they called the 'I Made This' room. We made everything in here, they said. From the furniture, to the mosaic tiled floors, to the paintings on the walls. Nothing from a store. Nothing allowed in the room unless they, or someone they knew, made it.

Make something here, they told him.

When I woke up, I was so happy. I knew how special those people were even if I didn't know them. I thought how funny it was that Tyler was the one writing and I was no where to be found.

And I thought, someday I must, MUST have an 'I Made This' room. When I get one, you're all invited to make things there.

But I better work on my non-existent carpentry skills. Or you'll have no place to sit.

What's The Point?

2011-11-30T10:44:00.006-05:00

Today, I sat down with my boss to talk toys. It is, of course, what we always talk about since it's our job to make them. But we also talk music and life and family. He often takes home the toys we make and he has the best stories about his daughters' reactions. They always give him, and us, a heaping dose of reality.

After playing with a toy, this particular one bursting full of content, dozens of buttons and learning games that required pages and pages of logic scripts, a mind numbing amount of bug tests, and endless debates about whether it was too 'learny' (I've trademarked the term) or not 'learny' enough, after pressing every button, playing through every game, answering every question without a word, his daughter looked up and asked:

Ok Dad. I played it. But what is the point of this toy?

Oh my goodness, this made me laugh out loud.

And it made me think.

It's a very sophisticated question for a child to ask about a toy. It's a very sophisticated question for someone of any age to ask about anything. Because it's really a kind of prompt or plea. It says: Give me a reason. To believe in this. To stay with it.

I've questioned the point of many things. Small things. Like making the bed in the morning when you're just going to get into it again that night. Wearing a veil at a wedding. (As a side note: I was shocked to learn that questioning this would throw people into a state of rage, confusion, and a frenetic this-is-the-way-it's-done tizzy.) And big things. Like writing a novel. Having a career. Falling in love.

There are a million answers to each and every What's the point? question. But, whether it's a small thing or a big thing, I think it's important to note that people often ask it when things are just about to break, when they are hanging by the thinnest thread.

So I think it's important to ask it. I think it's important to find an answer. I believe it is not good enough to live your life inside a giant 'just because'.

Something's Coming

2011-11-29T12:47:00.003-05:00

I feel very quiet today. The words are in the stories. As I rework passages of my novel, toss out sentences, bring in new ones to replace the old, I find myself in an unusual position, caught in the breathless anticipation of something coming.

I've never been one of those writers who has a lot of ideas. To be honest, that's probably one of the hardest things for me when it comes to writing, coming up with ideas. It's a strange thing to say but, really, I just don't have any.

I don't know how to jump from one project to another with a dozen nexts stashed away. I generally sit down with nothing. A blank page. An empty space in my head. And I just think: fill it. Because that's how I approach my whole life. That's just what I do.

But, all the sudden, here I am with a little something. A someone. A fragment. One stitch of a seam. And, of course, I am not at all prepared. Not at all ready.

On Forgetting November and Hugo in 3D

2011-11-28T09:55:00.006-05:00

This past weekend was full of so many wonderful happenings, I barely know where to begin. The weather in the northeast has been extraordinary and I was reminded, as I am each year when November breezes through with its mild temperatures and canvas blue skies, of an old Professor who once said during an unbearably cold winter in Boston, Everybody forgets November. Remember how lucky we were in November.

Over the weekend I saw family, rode my bicycle great distances, ate Tapas, went to a college hockey game with friends, listened to my favorite radio show, and finished reading a book. I wrote and rewrote so much of my novel. Turned over a new writing project for review. I put up my little Christmas tree and experimented with new ice cream flavors (homemade butterscotch pie crumble-- yes, I made it up.)

And I also saw Hugo in 3D. Probably one of the most visually stunning films I have seen in a long time.

For those of you who love to go to the movies, I urge you to see this. It is an absolute love affair with film. There are films within this film itself. It honors the medium, its history and its future. It shows what has been done with the moving image, what can be done, what will.

As a writer, I will admit, there are major story problems. At times, my heart fell, thinking how extraordinary the film could have been if they got that part right. The pacing felt off. Convictions were unecessarily extreme. Characters gave in too easily. Backstories were overdone or nonexistent. Dialogue often trite. And, sometimes, longing looks and Bergmanesque holds on facial expressions were excruciatingly long.

But, as someone who loves beautiful things, who cries while listening to good music, who tries desperately to wake up to see a sunrise (and so often fails), this movie took my breath away.

Have you seen the film?

Sky in Flames

2011-11-25T17:11:00.006-05:00

Taken from my fire escape just moments ago. I went camera crazy, nearly dropped the camera from the window. Nearly fell out of it myself. Because you know how fast a sunset drops down from the sky. You know how quickly it all goes dark.

And I knew what I was seeing was my novel.

Not metaphorically. I mean, for real. This is it. This is what the world of my novel (Rabbit Island, the place) actually looks like. Right here.

A sky in flames.

My imagination on fire.

The Very Best

2011-11-23T12:50:00.008-05:00

In the past few months I've been restless and unsatisfied, thinking that I have to find a way to be a better person and live a better life. I've been wondering, what is next for me? What will happen? Will anything happen at all?

And so this time of year creeps its way towards me and I feel like an absolute fool. For thinking about next. And new. And better. Because all that is happening, all the now and here and today are so full. Bursting, really.

I will make a promise to myself and to you that I will stop. I will listen. And take a look. I promise to know, really know, that what I have at this moment is more than better. It's the very best.

I send my love and gratitude to all of you. Happy Thanksgiving :)

Recently Read

2011-11-22T16:15:00.010-05:00

I got into a great e-mail conversation with Tyler's cousin, Mathias, who is deep in his studies at Brooklyn College and will receive an MFA in Creative Writing at the end of this year.

Mathias always talks with great passion about books and language. And he is so incredibly well-read, I often leave our conversations feeling as if I should shed all of my responsibilities, sneak into the library, hide in the stacks, and stay overnight for the next year to catch up.

Our discussion was about lyrical writing. Fiction that feels like poetry. Sentences that hold together with the most perfectly chosen words.

He asked a simple question: Have you read any books recently that do this well?

I've read all kinds of books recently. I've even (you'll be surprised to know after seeing my list) read a lot of adult fiction recently. And I realize a few of these books have not been written recently. But I read them recently. And that was the question.

I also realize that what Melissa read recently isn't exactly a perfect sample to make grand, sweeping judgements about the state of literature. So, just to clarify, that is not what I'm doing here.

I'm just talking about the question. And the list I thought to share:

One Crazy Summer by Rita Williams-Garcia

You Are My Only by Beth Kephart

First Light by Rebecca Stead

The Sky Is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson

I've got to tell you. I was so very thrilled after I shared my list. This makes me happier than I can say. How amazing it? How incredibly lucky are all of these young readers? They have such wonderful books written for them. They are reading, in my very humble opinion, some of the most beautiful words.

It made my day.

What have you read recently that made you fall in love with the writing and language?

What Are You Wearing? A Blogging Conundrum

2011-11-21T16:58:00.006-05:00

I'm going to be honest. I struggle, sometimes, with this blog. I will often spend hours (hours, people, I'm not exaggerating) on a post and discover that no one has read it. Some days, I will take five minutes to write about a ridiculous outfit I am wearing and it will become the most highly trafficked post in the history of this blog (I'm serious).

I use this space to write what I enjoy writing, to share what I love to share, to learn what I can from all of you. I know that other blogs have a lot more to offer and I'm not interested in competing with them. I just give you myself and my thoughts and hope that's enough.

The friendships and connections I have made through blogging have been invaluable. So, I do not worry about how many followers I have or how many comments I get. But I do worry that there is a preference for posts I don't write...if that makes sense. That people would prefer I write about what I'm wearing (skinny jeans, brown boots, a long black sweater with a cowl neck. Yes, I believe in wearing black and brown together, fyi) or some other content I have not been giving.

Anyway, that's what I'm thinking about today. Or worrying about. Sometimes I feel as if I have a worry list and before I go to bed I check my worries off. Did I worry about this today? Did I worry about that? This issue I speak of is on it. I don't know why. Don't ask me. It just is.

I wonder, do you worry about content for your blog? Am I the only one?

Playing with Two Hands, Medleys, and Shards by Ismet Prcic

2011-11-18T10:01:00.020-05:00

I have a few things on my mind today but, mostly, a weird thought about playing piano with two hands because I'm reading this fascinating book Shards by Ismet Prcic.

When I was a little girl first learning to play piano I was really impatient about wanting to be able to play with two hands. And even when I did, finally, learn to do it my teacher always made me plunk out the notes of a song separately, let each hand settle into its role before allowing them to play together.

You think I would have learned something from that experience but no...to this day (though it has, admittedly, been a while since I sat down to play) I will look at a new song and automatically attempt to play it all at once. It's always a stupid mess. And I always have to step back, play each hand seperately, and put it back together again.

Last weekend I listened to the Sunday Show with Jonathan Schwartz. I'm totally obsessed with this show. It's crazy. If we have plans on a Sunday I become the most irritable person on the planet if I can not get my Jonathan Schwartz fix.

Anyway, he played this Irving Berlin medley (below) and I just thought how hard it must be to sing a song while the person, standing right next to you, is belting out an entirely different song. How you have to be all tucked inside your song and, at the same time, know the rhythm and feel of the other person's song.

So, this is what I'm thinking about. Having to know, I mean, really know, two pieces of something before you can put it together and have it make any kind of sense. I think Ismet Prcic, so far, as I am not yet through the book, is doing something experimental and wonderful with that idea in terms of the actual structure of the book and the theme of diaspora. Stepping back to understand all the pieces of a person before you understand the whole.

And here are Marin Mazzie and Jason Danieley singing that Irving Berlin medley. I apologize that it has the cheesy cabaret feel. It's the only rendition I could find on You Tube. I think it's worth sticking it out to listen to them sing together. IT'S CRAZY. It just blows my mind whenever I hear two different voices and two entirely different songs come together like that.

One More

2011-11-17T10:16:00.012-05:00

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about space. I live in a city that has always built up and out, that has taken every inch of available space and transformed it. As a result, I often find myself craving space, desperate for more room to spread out, to dream, to roam.

When I leave New York City, I am in awe of the vastness that surrounds me. Even something as simple as a restaurant looks massive. These huge rooms with doors that lead to other rooms. They have multiple bathroom stalls, empty stools at the bar, available tables. And it feels a little bit like boasting, a stick out your chest kind of pride, we have so much space, we can't even fill it!

Because it does seem that New York has already been filled to capacity. I stand in a crowded subway car, reaching for something, anything to hold on to, pressed up against strangers, tucked in the funk of another armpit and I think there is no way, it isn't possible, to fit one more soul. But the subway stops. And the door opens. And someone steps on.

Here, there is always room for one more.

One more person.

One more building.

One more restaurant.

I think people are daring enough to always ask that question: Is there room for just. one. more?

As a result:

A gallery pops up in an abandoned warehouse in Red Hook.

The tracks of a no-longer-used elevated train become a destination.

The piers of the Brooklyn waterfront become an enormous place to play.

So I begin to question my aversion to this cramped feeling. Filling up a space, reimagining it, takes courage. It takes wild ambition. I'm not advocating that we take all of our far as the eye can see fields and trample over them but I do want to view space differently, understand how I pass through it, what I want from it, and what I actually need. Because, as I've learned these past few months, to occupy a space, to step inside it, can be a movement.

Talk To The Listeners

2011-11-15T14:17:00.013-05:00

I sat in the dim lit Elephant Room. The once gold shine of beer and brass had turned Amsterdam-red. Elbows leaned. The tables wobbled. And the piano player, in his newsboy hat, his John Lennon wire framed glasses, rocked forward then back, so that he almost appeared headless. A too-slow shutter. A blur.

Soon the puffed cheeks behind the trumpet deflated. Hands clutched the instrument but the air abandoned the memory of its rasp. In its absence, only the din remained, the jangle, the tumble of voices, of laughter.

The man with the trumpet spoke. "It's loud in here."

He waited.

"I know it's a jazz joint. I get it. But we're playing up here. And it's loud. And people are trying to listen."

"So talk to us," a voice called out. "Talk to the listeners."

What Are We Qualified to Write?

2011-11-14T10:37:00.003-05:00

Most of the time, when I write, it begins with a character. A whisper leads me forward. I sit and listen to the story.

For my current novel, however, it all began with a place. I knew not a soul when I started. And, slowly (very slowly) people filled the space. Every one of them, when they came, when they walked the grey sidewalks and tread across the grass, surprised me.

To be honest with you, they marched in with histories that frightened me. Mostly because they were so far from what I knew. And for a while, I danced around many of their issues because I did not know how to deal with them. I had convinced myself that I was not qualified to tell their stories. That no amount of research could lead to an authentic telling.

What stilled me, what gave me pause, was this idea that I could not write what I did not know. That, as soon as a situation that I did not understand crept into the story, (and there were many) I was immediately held responsible for portraying it as accurately as possible. And how could I do that if I hadn't lived it?

There is no way we can know everything as writers. But I do feel there is an idea, when someone takes on contemporary fiction, that the writer must be qualified to write what he or she writes. I see it in examples of successful query letters, in interviews with published authors. A story about drug abuse is immediately followed with, 'I spent two years working at a rehabilitation center.' Even something as simple as a story that takes place in Louisiana is quickly qualified with 'I grew up in Baton Rouge.'

As if to say: I know all about this. Trust me.

When I look at my novel (still in revisions, still in the state of being nothing and everything all at once) I can't think of anything that qualifies me to write it except that I'm human. I'm compassionate. I tell the truth as I see it. But if I really stepped back, I could not find any qualifier like the examples I noted above. My main character is in a terrible situation that many young people experience but I have only been able to imagine. I do believe, however, that her hopes and fears are my own. That, I know. Deeply.

I always, always, think writers should write the story they want. Not the story they know. In my mind, those hopes and fears connect a reader to a character, and not the issues or situations the character is dealing with. But there is a part of me that wonders, do I know this? Can I ever really? And how does it affect the story when I don't?

What do you think of all this knowing and not knowing? What makes us qualified to tell a story?

Before I Die...

2011-11-13T17:42:00.004-05:00

Last night the never ending work on the F train forced me to take a detour to downtown Brooklyn en route to Manhattan. Instead of taking a snail paced, herky-jerky shuttle bus, which always leaves me dizzy and impatient, I begrudgingly decided to take the half hour walk. I carried flowers and a bottle of wine for a friend's birthday dinner, sweat in my purple wool coat, and sighed loudly as I stomped.

But then I came upon these words, this wall. The rainbow colored dreams of downtown Brooklyn.

...go to Paris.

...be a teacher.

...have a happy life.

...make music.

Thousands upon thousands of endings to one unfinished sentence: Before I die I want to...

It stopped me. It made me think. If I only had one piece of chalk, one fill-in-the-blank space to keep a no longer secret wish, what would I write?

What would you write?

A little more about the Before I Die project by artist Candy Chang:

It’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day and forget what really matters to you. With help from old and new friends, Candy turned the side of an abandoned house in her neighborhood into a giant chalkboard where residents can write on the wall and remember what is important to them. Stenciled with the sentence “Before I die I want to _______”, the wall became a space where we could learn the hopes and dreams of the people around us.

'Mister Rogers and Me' and Creating Content That Is Deep and Simple

2011-11-10T12:05:00.001-05:00

The lovely and talented Amy Kraft over at Media Macaroni alerted me to this film in a guest post: Beyond the Red Sweater, Mister Rogers and Me.

I eagerly anticipate its DVD release. (March 2012)

I think very seriously about the content I create for children. I always question the best way to release words and music and art into the world. I always think: these stories, these characters, are what inspire new stories, new characters. So I see it as a very important endeavor.

Fred Rogers dedicated his life to educating and inspiring young people (though he managed to inspire people of all ages.) And this quote from him, which inspired Benjamin Wagner, a real life neighbor of Mr. Rogers, to make the film, nearly took my breath away:

I feel so strongly that deep and simple is far more essential than shallow and complex.

I'm going to think about this. I want to figure out how to always create content with that in mind.

Winner of 'If I Stay' by Gayle Forman (and Being Ready To Leap)

2011-11-10T00:12:00.000-05:00

First I want to announce the winner of a copy of Gayle Forman's If I Stay:

Jennifer Pickrell

Please email me with your mailing info!

I've been feeling a little unfocused lately, unable to stay still with one thought. I sit here. I want to blog. But my mind races. It can not settle on a topic.

So I leave you with this picture. It captures how I feel today. Holding on to the edge of things, ready to let go.

And before you take this to mean I'm plunging to my death, before you call for medical professionals and straight jackets, and your nosey neighbor leans in to whisper Well, Melissa's gone off the deep end, I'll just say, that's not it. That's not it at all. I just mean to say, I've been holding on too tightly. I've clung to these walls. And now I'm ready to exhale. Ready to leap.

Interview with Writer and Musician Jessica Bell

2011-11-09T08:00:00.000-05:00

I first found writer and musician Jessica Bell because of her beautiful book trailer. I'm rarely impressed with book trailers but this one, in my humble opinion, was special. I'm so very happy to have Jessica on the blog. Her debut novel String Bridge was released November 1st.

First a little bit about String Bridge.

Greek cuisine, smog and domestic drudgery was not the life Australian musician, Melody, was expecting when she married a Greek music promoter and settled in Athens, Greece. Keen to play in her new shoes, though, Melody trades her guitar for a 'proper' career and her music for motherhood. That is, until she can bear it no longer and plots a return to the stage—and the person she used to be. However, the obstacles she faces along the way are nothing compared to the tragedy that awaits and she realizes she's been seeking fulfilment in the wrong place.

Can you tell us a little bit about your writer's journey? What is the first thing you remember writing?

Wow. Now I have to think … it was probably a poem I wrote when I was about 12, sitting by the Mediterranean Sea, on a huge rock with a castle on top called Monemvasia. I think I wrote something about the sea and sky being deep blue and the rocks being jagged like “you.” (who ever that was … I can’t believe I just conjured that memory!)

Like you, Melody, the main character in String Bridge, hails from Australia but lives in Greece. Can you describe how each place inspires your writing?

That’s actually a difficult question because I don’t feel like inspiration is different depending on where I am. Of course, there are environmental factors that come into play, such as weather, scenery, etc, but my inspiration stems from a “feeling” which I’m not sure I can describe very well. It’s a kind of happiness, but like a wave of thought, light-weightedness, a release from day-to-day responsibilities. And I get this feeling when my environment is relaxing. I don’t notice which country I’m in, I just notice that I have time and space to open my mind to what is going on around me.

In the book, Melody seems to think that she can not pursue her music dreams and be a good mother/wife, which is a theme I notice in a lot of women's fiction; this idea that women have to make sacrifices for their family that men don't. What are your thoughts on that?

I think it’s something that every woman struggles with regardless of how much gender equality has progressed in society. But it doesn’t have to do with women having to make sacrifices that men don’t. I honestly don’t believe that’s an issue nowadays. The thing is, women are always going to feel like this because we have an instinct to nurture. And when things begin to threaten our ability to do that, we feel guilty. It’s ingrained. Well, I believe it’s ingrained. I don’t have kids. But I still, with the freedom I have, feel guilty when I don’t have time to wash the dishes or make my partner some dinner. I want to look after him, to make him feel good, and I think that’s the mother in me spreading her wings I guess. It can’t be avoided. Unless we are somehow born with more testosterone in the future, I think this will always be a strong theme in women’s lives.

I'm fascinated by writers who are also songwriters. Can you share how your song writing influences the way you write novels?

I think sound is a very difficult thing to describe so it certainly helped me with that. I spent a long time trying to perfect those parts where music is illustrated. It was quite a challenge to be honest. But what helps, in general, is the fact that I thrive on making sentences with cadence. I love playing around with different words and sounds and seeing how differently they roll off my tongue. It’s just like singing without a melody. It’s writing to a tempo.

What are you working on now?

Muted is set in Arles, France, in a totalitarian society where it is illegal to wear clothes. In some streets, it's also illegal to sing without accompanying instruments. Concetta, a famous Italian a cappella singer from before “the change,” breaks these laws. As punishment, her vocal chords are brutally slashed and her eardrums surgically perforated. Unable to cope with living a life without song, she resolves to drown herself in the river, clothed in a dress stained with performance memories from her hometown, Milan. But Concetta's suicide attempt is cut short as someone grabs her by the throat and pulls her to the surface. Is it the busking harpist, who encouraged her to feel music through vibration, acting as saviour? Or a street warden on the prowl for another offender to detain? From this moment, the reader will discover how Concetta came to be in this position, and what will happen to her after the suicide attempt.

Muted will explore a variety of themes such as overcoming loss, coping with mental illness and disability, dealing with discrimination, loss of freedom, inhibited self-expression, motivation to succeed, escaping oppression, expression through art and music, self-sacrifice, channelling the thoughts of the deceased, and challenging moral views and values.

And some fun 'Would You Rather' questions based on String Bridge:

Would you rather:
See a live show? -OR- Perform live?

See a live show. Performing live freaks me out, but I think I’m going to have to find a way to overcome that.

Have a button pop off of your shirt during a presentation? -OR- Sit through an awkward conversation with an ex-boyfriend in a pub?

Ha! The latter …

Eat only Vegemite for a week straight? -OR- Eat only Feta cheese for a week straight? (With no risk of any and all digestive problems ;)

Feta cheese for sure. I love vegemite, but I don’t think I could handle it for a week!

String Bridge is available at:
Amazon.com
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble

The soundtrack is available at:
iTunes
Amazon.com
Amazon UK

All I Needed

2011-11-08T10:33:00.007-05:00

I went missing from the internet last week. Packed my things, warm-weather clothes because I hadn't yet put them away, despite the fact that the Northeast has already seen snow and freezing temperatures (even the air conditioning unit is still in the window. I am so very behind.) I took a plane to Texas, a place I'd never been, to explore and celebrate the wedding of a very good friend.

I like to be prepared for things but it has been a whirlwind few weeks (months?) so I did nothing for this trip. No research. I forgot to rent a car. Packed all the wrong clothes. Wore a wrinkled dress two sizes too big for the wedding. Its a wonder I didn't inadvertently flash anyone.

So when our plane landed, all I knew of Texas were the songs inside me. Amarillo By Morning and If It Wasn't For Texas (George Straight). I kept my eye out for Austin city limit signs, suns high in a Texas sky. Thought about bucking at the county fair. I sang loud and long in the car about the San Antonio Rose. Made Tyler drive to Luckenbach, Texas so I could get Back to the Basics of Love (Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson.)

And, as it turned out, I needed no plan. I needed only to wander, to take a listen, to give a look. Aqua pools carved out into white rock. Dry land that stretched out beneath blue sky. Rivers sneaking lazily through a city. Three dollar beers in dark jazz joints. Fingers skipping over piano keys. The loud thwack of the bass.

And all the songs I knew, the only part of these places I could know, were right. All of them creeping like the sigh of the wind, moving the way a person might mosey instead of walk.

Everything I got is just what I got on. And it does seem that's all I needed. Not much more.

If I Stay by Gayle Forman (And A Giveaway!)

2011-11-03T12:00:00.003-04:00

Gayle Forman's If I Stay had been on my to-read list since it came out so many years ago. I feel as if I missed the wave and now I'm wading in the ocean whispering, You out there. Did you read it? Can we talk?

It does seem appropriate, as misguided as I was to put it off for so long, that I managed to buy the book twice. At my local bookstore early last week. And then, without realizing it, tucked inside a too-large online shipment. So you, my friends, can benefit from my absentmindness and win the book! Because I don't need two of anything (except double ice cream scoops.)

There is much to say about this book. Most of it has already been said because I showed up so very late and emptyhanded to the party.

I will say that I was struck by the sheer goodness at the heart of this story and I found it refreshing.

Forman writes a main character, a seventeen year old girl, who is not brooding or sarcastic, who sits on the narrowest edge between life and death and, despite darkness, sees the light of her past, the possibility of her future. Parents who are fully present, quirky, wise and daring in their love for their daughter. A love story that is full of passion but not complicated by a third party, a series of cliched misunderstandings, or wild insecurities. Instead, these young, ambitious lovers are so sure of themselves and their love that it is their bold aspirations and dreams that threaten to tear them apart.

And despite some comparisons to Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones and Lauren Oliver's Before I Fall, I thought this book stood on its own. It is not about standing in purgatory to right past wrongs. It is about looking back on all of the quiet beautiful moments of the past and choosing to see love.

To win a copy of If I Stay please leave a comment below. If you feel like it, share a recent happy moment in the comments because my heart is full and happy after reading this book and I want to ride the wave for as long as I can ;) I will announce the winner November 10th.

Interview With Melissa Goodwin, Author of The Christmas Village

2011-11-02T10:00:00.001-04:00

I'm very happy to share an interview with Melissa Goodwin who just released her middle grade book The Christmas Village (which she'll tell you about below.) We also chatted about her experience self-publishing, her upcoming travels, yoga and writing, among other things. She is willing to answer any questions in the comments...so ask away!

Tell us about your book, please.

My book, The Christmas Village is a fantasy adventure targeted to readers age 9 and up. I say "and up" because it's the kind of children's story that grown-ups really like too! It's about 12-year-old Jamie, whose father has disappeared under somewhat shady circumstances. Jamie is hurt and angry and wishes that he could turn back time. He and his mother go to Vermont to spend the holidays with his grandparents. Grandma has one of those miniature Christmas villages. Jamie fixates on it, thinking that village must be a perfect place to live, a place where nothing ever changes and nothing bad ever happens. Several times, he makes a wish that he could there, and ....

One night just before Christmas, his wish magically comes true.

Jamie discovers that the village is called Canterbury, and the year is 1932. He makes friends and is taken in by the villagers, but now that he is there, of course he wants nothing more than to get back home to his own family in time for Christmas! If and how he will do that become an adventure with twists and turns and surprises to the very end. Along the way, Jamie learns a few things about life, people and himself. Ultimately, The Christmas Village is a story about family, forgiveness and friendships that last a lifetime.

Did you ever want to live in a Christmas Village like your main character, Jamie?

Oh my, yes! In fact, that's how the book came about. I was looking at our pretty little lighted village on the table at Christmastime a few years ago, and I started thinking, I wonder who lives in that house over there by the covered bridge? I wonder what song the carolers are singing? I wonder who built that snowman? And that's how it all started.

I'm always curious about people's writing journey. What is the first thing you remember writing?

The first thing I remember writing is a play that I wrote in high school. I don't remember much about it except that the main character was a court jester. Our class voted on which play to perform and they chose mine. I think they thought it had deeper meaning that it really did!

What made you decide to self-publish? How have you found the experience so far? Any lessons learned that others can benefit from?

I had an agent and we were about two months into the process of sending the book out to publishers. We'd gotten some nice comments along with some "it's not for us" responses. In the meantime, I had reconnected through Facebook with a high school chum who has successfully self-published three books. He was willing to be my mentor if I decided to self-publish. Then, my mother died and left me some money. I felt like events were coming together in a way that was encouraging me to take my destiny into my own hands.

It also helped a great deal that I had had two agents offer to represent the book, because that told me it had appeal. And my agent had been an editor, so I knew we had really vetted it. I have a very independent spirit, and suddenly it just felt right to take the leap. I was scared but the minute I took that first step, it felt right.

I can honestly tell you that my experience working with Createspace, the publishing arm of Amazon, has been exceptional. They were extremely professional and responsive. Everything was always done on time. They answered my questions quickly. I was especially pleased with my illustrator - she got my idea immediately, and I've gotten rave reviews about the cover.

Lessons learned? First, I'd say, if you are thinking self-publishing might be right for you, don't be afraid! They make it very easy for you.

Second, don't be defensive about your choice. The fact that you have self-published your book does not make it "less" than traditionally published books. Look at how many lousy books get published by traditional publishers. I'd be happy to work with a traditional publisher someday, if it made sense for me to do it - financially and otherwise. But I am also ready and willing to self-publish my next book.

Third, be ready to work hard at promotion. You'll have to do this no matter how your book gets published, but if you self-publish, it's really and truly Your Baby. Embrace it, run with it, and most of all, have FUN with it!

You are going to buy an RV and hit the road next year. What prompted this decision? What's the first stop on your adventure?

My husband is quite a bit older than me - he just turned 71. But he's a young 71, and has a wanderlust that I wasn't aware of earlier in our relationship! Both my parents passed away recently, and I think my husband and I are both feeling that "life is short" thing. There are so many places in the U.S. and Canada that I haven't been - Yellowstone, Yosemite, Jackson Hole, Nova Scotia. I want us to see those places together, while we are "young" and healthy.

I also like the simplicity of it - not owning a home and having all the care and worry that goes with that. And, I look forward to more time spent by the ocean, more time to write, and more time to spend with friends and family.

First we'll head east to see our families, and then we will head up through Maine to Nova Scotia. I've always wanted to go there, and I hope to spend most of next summer there. After that, we'll see!

You are a yoga instructor. Do you find connections between your yoga practice and your writing?

Absolutely! In fact, my yoga and my writing seemed to blossom simultaneously. I use meditation before writing to clear my mind and reconnect to my story. It helps to calm and center me. And in those moments of quiet, inspiration often strikes. The active yoga practice also helps you learn to focus. When doing a pose, you can't think about anything else, and developing that ability to focus is helpful when sitting down to write.

Stephen King recommends sitting quietly for at least 15 minutes before starting to write. He says to stay there until you can "see" your scene clearly, until you can hear the sounds and smell the smells. Only then, should you start to write. What he describes is very much like the meditative part of yoga. First I sit long enough to clear my mind of everything, then I allow my story to come in. King probably didn't think he was doing "yoga" when he described that process, but he kind of was.

Thank you so much for hosting me on your blog. I look forward to chatting with your followers, reading their comments and answering any questions they have for me.

Another Sort of End

2011-11-01T00:58:00.005-04:00

It always seems I finish writing drafts too late into the night. There is never anyone to tell.

I would never wake up Tyler.

And even though a strange part of me wants to knock on the door to the apartment downstairs, wake up five year old Leo, who is always shouting, 'Melissa! Melissa! Guess what!' with my own, 'Leo! Leo! You'll never believe it!'...I won't.

So I share it here.

Ahem.

[knock knock] You'll never believe it! I finished another draft of my silly novel!

No doubt there are rips and tears but not the gaping blackholes I left last time around.

And even though I'll read through it one more time. Even though I'll make some more changes. Even though I'll send it off into the world and everyone will tell me all I did wrong, I feel that there are a few things, very few, I've done right. And that makes me happy.

Chapters In My Life

2011-10-30T22:35:00.005-04:00

The wonderful Oliva Reader, my faraway friend, one of the first in this land o' blogs, asked me to do a guest post for her Chapters In My Life series.

I found it challenging (but ultimately rewarding) to think of five books that have defined the different chapters in this life of mine. I changed my selections countless times and I still wonder about my choices.

Because how can you actually define a life through just five books?

You can find the post here.

The Nice People. The Kind Ones.

2011-10-28T10:51:00.005-04:00

She's a nice person. Oh, yes, he's very kind. Phrases that people overuse. Perhaps a rather generic and dull way to describe someone.

But this week I've been thinking about these virtues. I value them above almost all else. I only keep those in my life who possess them. I try my very hardest to live with them always at the heart of what I do. It's never enough. But I try.

Sometimes, at my job, I get to work with young people. And I have the great fortune of working with one such young person who is pure light. Always laughing. Always smiling. Her eyes growing huge when she talks excitedly about all the things that are happening to her. I'm going to have hot chocolate! I'm on the student council! I'm going to learn chinese!

Her mother walks in with armfuls of books she wants to recommend. We thought of you, she says because we all discuss books when we see one another. When will we see you again? She always wonders, a look of geniune concern on her face that we may not see one another for a while. And I'm always surprised that it matters to her. That she cares.

What I'm trying to say is these are the people I am talking about. These kind people. Nice people. This is that mother and daughter pair.

Yesterday I talked with this mother about her daughter. How incredibly alive she is. And she told me that her daughter is so rarely unhappy, almost never upset. But when she is, because of course, it happens, it is an incredible sadness, deep and gutwrenching, like nothing else she sees in her other children. Her daughter just can not comprehend why anyone would be mean to her or anyone else. And it worries her.

It struck me because I remember sitting with my mother at the kitchen table. I don't remember how old I was or what had happened but I was in absolute hysterics. And my mother was getting upset because she could not calm me. I distinctly remember her saying: I worry about this, Melissa. I worry that this is going to be a big issue for you. For the rest of your life. You don't understand that people can be mean.

So, during a week of some disappointment, mean people stomping in and having their way, I think about this sensitivity. This flat out, I'll admit, naivete. And I think about my young friend. And all the other people in my life, who I keep in my life, because they don't understand the mean-person syndrome either. And I don't know if it is an issue. A problem. A worry.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: The Hum, The Moving Forward

2011-10-26T09:40:00.000-04:00

I found these abandoned trolly cars, on their track to nowhere, last week. I sat with them a long while. I've always been fascinated with trains. Not the mechanics but the feeling I get when I ride them.

I am unable to read or sleep while riding in buses, planes, and automobiles. But I feel at peace on the train. I can always write. Always read. Always drift off to sleep.

I think it is the hum. The moving forward.

I always thought, I'm going to fall in love on a train.

It didn't quite happen that way. But it's a nice thought.

Do you like trains?

Book Birthdays! You Are My Only and IQ84

2011-10-25T09:00:00.011-04:00

Today's the day. It's finally here. Two of my favorite authors. Two book birthdays that have me singing. I hope these books will not spit too hard when they blow out the candles and ruin towers of ice cream cake (because ice cream cake is the best cake. It is ice cream and cake...in one.)

I was fortunate enough to read Beth Kephart's You Are My Only early on. It releases today! (Congratulations lovely Beth.) My thoughts on this beautiful book are here. You can buy it here.

Spit-spot, I say, in my best Mary Poppins impression, a flower sticking out from my imaginary hat. Even though I'm always the one lagging behind, the one stopping to look at a pretty tree or a happy cloud, I have little patience for those of you who are lolling about when it comes to this book. It's time you read it. It's time we talk about it. In fact, I don't know what on earth you're waiting for. It's TIME. I just broke out a Mary-Poppins-I-mean-business impression. This is about as strict as things get in Melissa Land.

And the English translation of Haruki Murakami's IQ84 also releases today. I have long tried to understand and articulate my love for Murakami's work. I have since given up trying. My latest philosophy is: Don't question it! Just do it! (The Saturday Night Live Dora parody Maraka anyone? Anyone?)

I realize this kind of attitude can have only the most dangerous consequences. It is the same philosophy that left me blind, dazed and confused after seeing a recent Edward Albee play (His work is another one of my inexplicable, tongue-hanging, head-bobbing, whatever-you-say obsessions.) Despite the fact that IQ84 is a 932 page book, a three-volume series condensed into one 5 pound dead-weight in the United States, I'm ready to take the journey. I am, after all, just a cog in Murakami's robot machine.

Anyway, it's not often that, in one serendipitous fell swoop, two of my favorite writers send their books out into my world. It's a happy day.

Any book birthdays you'd like to celebrate?

Overheard: That's What Life Is All About

2011-10-22T09:03:00.006-04:00

She stood in line at the Met grocery store with a wild puff of uncombed brown hair. Ran her fingers across all the chocolates. Balanced on the edge of the shopping cart and did not flinch when she teetered. Huge blue eyes with razor sharp focus.

"What's your name?" she asked the woman in front of her.

"Amber. But I already know you. Emerson. Right?"

"Yup. I'm six years old and I lost three teeth." She stuck her neck out, grinned to reveal the gap.

"Wow."

"Six years old. Three teeth." She repeated. A serious measure.

Amber paid for her groceries, waved goodbye.

"You're Amber." She stated. And just like that she was off the cart, spinning on one toe.

"That's right. Amber. Goodbye Emerson."

"Goodbye Amber."

She did not look at Amber go. She did not look up to her father, who held her rainbow backpack. On his arm, it looked too small, too clumsy. Instead she was completely focused on her balance, arms out, toe pointed as she made her delicate turn.

"Daddy. That's what life is all about. Meeting new people."

This Is Where They Are

2011-10-20T16:26:00.005-04:00

I took the day off to write and read. Today is my birthday, so I gave myself that gift.

I was desperate to get through a passage of my novel which I have been struggling with for weeks. So I sat down with it this morning and I knew what a mess it was. I could not understand why every paragraph started on the off beat, why each word came in on the wrong note.

I sat for a long time. I rearranged. I rewrote. But it still wasn't right. Why couldn't I be in that scene? What was it I couldn't understand?

Then I said, "That's it. I'm going there."

I grabbed my notebook and a purple pen. I got on my bike. And I went to the pier.

It's only a few minutes away. Why hadn't I thought of it sooner?

I pictured all of my characters in the very place I sat. It was, after all, the exact setting I had imagined when I first wrote the scene.

And I wrote, far away from my little office, away from my computer. In these wild winds swooping across the pier. In the daylight. On paper. With a (gasp) pen.

And I thought: Yes. This is where they are. Exactly where I always imagined them being.

It was such a relief.

Somewhere to Be

2011-10-18T11:41:00.006-04:00

It's autumn and Brooklyn is beautiful, alive. But I seek quiet. I need space.

I've been thinking lately that I need a place to go. I need somewhere to be.

I'm looking for a just-mine spot.

Project Runway and A Question About Craft

2011-10-17T07:30:00.005-04:00

I'm in deep thought about Project Runway today. Thinking about one of the contestants, Anya, Miss Trinidad and Tobago, who turned to a career in fashion design. Who learned to sew something like three months before becoming a contestant on the show.

I used to work in reality television (Nanny 911, anyone?) I know that these shows tend to make up stories where there are no stories. I'll likely never know the real story. But the other contestants complain about Anya's poor construction skills. Whether it's jealousy or not (it's jealousy) they bring up valid points. 'I've been sewing all of my life,' they say. 'I've worked my tail off and dedicated myself to this craft for years and years,' they whine. And so, they are a little put off when Anya wins and her model allegedly had to be sewn into her garment because it wasn't executed properly in the first place.

But, here I am, in awe of Anya's impeccable taste, her sense of what is beautiful. She knows prints. She sees something in them no one else sees. And these models walk out in her clothes full of color and life and I drool and exclaim that I would buy every article of clothing she makes even if I would look like an absolute fool in anything high fashion.

And I wonder...

I read about these published writers, listen to them on panels, these writers, who, seemingly, wake up one day and decide 'I will write a book.' They say, 'I came up with the idea in the shower, then I wrote it in a creative frenzy in just two weeks!' Whether it's true or not (it can't be true, can it?) there is a question:

What is merely good? What is great? Does it matter if it takes a writer two weeks and a bottle of shampoo or forty years and a lot of tears over endless bottles of bourbon to write a book?

There are books that wow you with the jazz hands, that make you want to buy, buy, buy, even if they have awkward sentences and strange plot holes. And there are books that are written over time and with love, that prove the people who wrote them know their craft.

I've enjoyed both kinds of books (even if the former makes me angry). I've much more often celebrated the books that take care with language. But I do wonder about all this. Thoughts?

Overheard: If You Were In My Position

2011-10-16T14:03:00.004-04:00

He couldn't have been more than nine years old, swinging around and around the pole on the F Train. He wore an oversized hoodie. Freckles ran down his face. He stopped spinning. Considered things.

Dad, I need to know how you really feel about this XBox situation.

Dad's eyebrows rose up above the newspaper.

Put yourself in my shoes. If you were my age and in my position, would you like an XBox?

He spoke just like that. I could imagine his 'position'. A very serious one.

Pay It Forward Blogfest

2011-10-14T09:31:00.004-04:00

I love the idea of paying it forward...in all aspects of life. So when I saw this blogfest I had to participate. The thought behind it, so simple, to share three blogs I love to read and send you there. Because *there* is where you should be.

Becca's Byline is a blog new-to-me. And I think she writes such thoughtful posts in an easy-going style that makes me feel cozy and in safe hands when I'm there. I like it. I feel as if I am thinking and learning whenever I visit.

I don't think Write Meg needs me to send any traffic to her lovely pink-treasure blog. But I'll send you there anyway. She reviews books, posts beautiful photos, and tells the most wonderful stories about life, love, and all things pumpkin flavored. She is such a gifted writer and I always look forward to her posts.

And Allison Writes. When I read her blog, I am inspired to go out and live my life. Because she is always off on an adventure, snapping pictures in abandoned asylums, sleeping in wigwams, getting philosophical about The Flintstones. I always wonder where she is and where she's going next.

So off you go.

Nothing

2011-10-13T09:52:00.004-04:00

I started this blog post 3 times with the following first sentences:

I just blew my nose into a post-it.

My eye has been twitching for 2 days straight.

I would like to be Mary Richards from The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

I mean, really. Where do you go from there?

Sorry friends. I'm tapped out. I've got nothing.

Let Me Back In

2011-10-11T20:40:00.003-04:00

I'm always getting metaphorically locked out of my own manuscript. The characters start nanny-nanny-poo-poo-ing behind the door, running around in superman capes, dipping their fingers into peanut butter jars, coloring all over the walls.

Today I said, I've had enough of you fools. I erased a moment they'll never have again. Ripped away a memory. Sent them back a week. Turned their day into night.

Ready to Fail

2011-10-11T06:00:00.008-04:00

Tyler took on the topic of failure at the OOM blog last week (the post is here) and so it became a dinner conversation, as so many blog topics do in our household. I discussed it over sparkling wine (Tyler had a beer) because I am one of those people who drinks champagne whether or not there is something to celebrate.

The gist of Tyler's post is that we've all heard the cliches from highly successful people: you can't succeed without first overcoming failure. But now, there are studies to back it up.

As Tyler writes: "By looking at the brain activity of students during moments of failure, they were able to determine that some people react to errors by brushing them aside and moving on, and others by dwelling on them and learning from them. Those people believe they can get better at anything."

I thought about it during our conversation. I wondered about this kind of growth mindset. Did I have it?

As the bubbles went to my head I tried to yell over the restaurant's steady hum: Yes! I do!

Hello my name is Melissa and I write fiction. And, so far, I have been nothing but an epic failure at it. I'm not fishing for compliments. This is cold hard fact. I've got countless unpublishable short stories. Terrible novels and screenplays abandoned in a drawer. I send my work out to agents and editors and journals and magazines, every piece of paper, every digital file like a little legendary unicorn that no one else can see. No one has ever said 'yes' to me on this path to publication. I'm not lying. I have never, EVER heard the word 'yes' when it comes to my fiction.

I have no reason to believe I will succeed. I have every reason to believe I'll continue failing. But all this 'no' has never once deterred me.

I did not understand until Tyler presented the facts. Failure is sadly misunderstood. Failure makes you better. Failure is something to celebrate. Thank goodness I always have sparkling wine at the ready.

So what do you think? Are you ready and willing to fail with me?

My Grandmother the Snow Angel

2011-10-09T20:46:00.019-04:00

Today, on this beautiful October day in the Northeast, I think of my grandmother, my father's mother. This photograph is always how I see her in my mind because I think it captures her perfectly. I don't know when it was taken. Her hair had turned snow white when she was very young. Her name was Angelina, which means 'little angel'. And because of her hair, I always think of her as a snow angel.

She had the softest, smoothest skin of anyone I have ever known. She used to hold both of my hands in hers when I was a little girl. My hands are like ice. They've always been like that. She held on to them for hours at a time to keep them warm. I liked it that way.

My grandmother spoke very softly too. She told me that she used to sing on the radio. I never knew more than that simple fact. To this day, I wonder about it. I imagine she must have had a beautiful singing voice. And even though she did not have a lot of money, I remember that she had exquisite taste. Her clothing was absolutely impeccable. She had all of these beautiful treasures in her tiny one bedroom apartment. The most fragile Lladro figurines, ceramic sculptures, and stained glass lamps. She let me touch everything. I never once heard her raise her voice.

She had the largest stack of coloring books I had ever seen. When I stayed with her, she colored with me for hours. I was never happier than at my Grandmother's kitchen table with my cousin Priscilla, all of us making our way through endless pages of coloring books. We would show one another our creations. How beautiful, one of us would remark. We always signed our names in the bottom right hand corner and dedicated them to one another before we moved on to the next page.

When I was older I remember sitting at her kitchen table talking with her and she said, " You know something, I feel like having a cigarette. I haven't had a cigarette in 40 years." She stood up, opened a drawer, and took out a pack of cigarettes. She had kept that pack there for forty years in case she ever felt the urge.

I can't imagine it tasted very good forty years later but she sat and savored that one cigarette and, as far as I know, never had another one. But, then again, it was like her to always practice such tremendous restraint.

It was such a strange and wonderful moment. And I think of it often. My grandmother sitting with legs crossed, in her silk blouse and pearls, smoke curling up around her perfectly coiffed hair.

As With All Matters Of The Heart

2011-10-06T06:07:00.001-04:00

Your work is going to fill a large part of your life and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on.

~Steve Jobs

Some Words from the Work In Progress

2011-10-05T08:05:00.002-04:00

I don't think I'll ever be able to figure out what this blog is about. But the writing is at the heart of it. And I haven't talked much about writing lately, which has probably led most of you to believe that not much of it has been going on.

But it has. Very late into the night. Every night. My days have become endless. After working a full day, it feels as if I begin an entirely new one when I return home. I walk in the door at 8pm, I cook, I eat dinner, and then it's time to write for a few hours.

It's been like this for months and, I'll admit, that the schedule is about to break me. But then, I think, I am healthy. I don't have children to take care of. I have time. So, really, I could be working harder. I should be working harder. I promise, I will.

So that you believe me, so that somebody out there (besides me) knows, here are some words from the current work in progress. Because I really do need someone to know.

What are you writing? I'd like to know too.

He kicked his heel back into the leg of the elephant, reached up for the belly of it, hammered against the metal, drummed out a hollow beat. The way he fidgeted reminded her of a little boy, always tinkering, snapping tree branches, running sticks through the sand. And it saddened her that she had become so perfectly still, so terrified to touch or disturb a thing.

“Where you going now?” he said, as if it weren’t a question, but a plea. Stay.

“Why does it matter?”

He stared at her as if he were looking into a camera and had forgotten to take the lens cap off. As if he were gazing into darkness and couldn’t figure out why. “Com’ere. Look.” He ducked underneath the massive elephant structure.

She hesitated.

His voice echoed. “Come on.”

A Vacation To Read

2011-10-04T09:15:00.006-04:00

Lately I've been pretty unsatisfied in my reading life. I have been going through my worst reading funk to date and I don't know what will pull me out of it.

It's funny. I keep a list of everything I read. And if I look at that list, scan past the abandoned books (lately there have been far too many to count), and note the books I did manage to finish, I would say, in almost every case, I liked that book.

So it's not the books.

It's the experience of reading that leaves me wanting. I just don't feel the same joy I used to when I read. Reading has become a wild stop and start pattern. From one subway stop to the next. In the five minutes while I wait on line. Just before I drift off to sleep. In the fifteen free minutes between stirring the soup and writing for the night. It's an in-between kind of reading. A squeeze-it-in when and where I can.

I just don't know where to find the hours to sit and read. I want to read from start to finish. I don't want to have to stop. I just want to go until I can not go anymore.

The reading moments I remember are always the moments when I was able to sit and read for hours and hours. On a hammock. On a beach. In a bed. On a train.

It's the book more than the place. And it's the feeling more than the book.

I'm thinking of taking a reading vacation. And I don't mean a vacation from reading. I mean a day off. To settle in. And read.

Who will join me? Where will we sit? What will we read?

A Frolic, A Wedding and, Oh Right, the HAIR...

2011-10-03T07:00:00.003-04:00

My dear friend Krista got married this weekend.

Krista is the girl who wakes me up at ungodly hours to go for walks. She knows the best games for long car rides. She will sing with me, at the top of her lungs, no matter where we are. She once taught me to frolic properly through the Cornell plantations. I'm pretty sure you think you know how to frolic. But you don't. Not unless you have received proper instruction from Krista.

I don't know why but she entrusted me with the task to do her hair for her wedding. I would not consider myself someone who is good at this kind of thing. I've had the same hairstyle since first grade. My idea of high style is a ponytail. But she asked me and I could not refuse.

And even though I had no idea how to turn her curly, curly hair into wavy hair (seriously, Krista? Seriously...) I pretended that I knew exactly what I was doing.

The truth is...I was terrified. I was pretty sure I was going to ruin the whole day.

The good news is...I didn't. Because when you're working with someone as gorgeous as Krista, it's hard to mess up.

It seems appropriate that she'd take us to the top of a mountain for her wedding. That she'd send us up the narrowest of roads into fog so dense we joked that the headless horseman would appear in the mist. She always takes us to the best places. Always sends us higher than we think we can go.

I realize this photo is blurry but I think it is the right kind of portrait. Krista is not so easy to capture, always frolicking through life like that. Spike, I wonder, how did you ever catch her?

People Love to See What People Do

2011-09-30T09:15:00.001-04:00

This lyric popped into my head today. From the musical Ragtime, lyrics by Lynn Ahrens. The character singing it is a filmmaker and I've always loved it because I think it may be the simplest, truest explanation for why we read stories and watch films. Yes. People love to see what people do.

life shines from the shadow screen
comical yet infinitely true.
people love to see what people do,
here where everyone is someone new.

Don't Mess With the Lobster Man

2011-09-29T11:00:00.006-04:00

I feel the need to share this.

There is a restaurant around the corner from my apartment. A cozy French restaurant specializing in fish. We are not quite regulars but we do go there often, particularly in the winter when it's too cold to walk too far.

Some time ago, the owner, a proud Frenchman who always wears a Fedora, became the subject of many blog posts and articles. Apparently, a patron sent back his lobster twice because it was undercooked and, like any proud chef, the owner did not appreciate this because, he yelled, it was not undercooked and he only serves the freshest and finest fish at his establishment.

Then... the owner threw a lobster at the customer.

This, of course, makes me ridiculously happy because I happen to love crazy people. And I especially love crazy people who are passionate about food.

Last week, the owner opened a wine bar next door to the restaurant. I will, no doubt become a regular there because I like wine. But he just announced the name of the bar. And guess what he named it?! Guess!

The Flying Lobster!

I'm dying.

Sorry. I don't get out much.

Wait For Me

2011-09-27T14:40:00.008-04:00

Blerg.

If I spoke that is about all that would come out. Or the wa-wa nonsense talk that comes from the adults in the Peanuts cartoons.

Apparently, I was a well-behaved child. But... my God you could whine, says my mother. I was very particular about how to make a proper cheese sandwich. I did not like to leave the swingset. I refused to stand on long lines.

Nothing much has changed.

I live in a neighborhood full of children. When I walk to the subway they crowd the sidewalks on their wobbling scooters, spill out of yellow schoolbuses, run when they're supposed to be walking.

Always, there is one little girl standing at the top of the steps, dragging a too-heavy backpack, sun stinging her eyes, hair in a wild tangle at her waist. And she's so ridiculously dramatic. The frivolous girl in a period piece. The one who is in constant need of smelling salts. Wait for me. She always cries. Whhhhy will no one waaaaait for me? Puhlease somebody just waaaait for me.

I hear ya, kid. Lately, I can't catch up to anybody or anything. I can't quite seem to get there.

A Stolen Story- Celebrate The Joy

2011-09-25T22:09:00.007-04:00

This weekend I visited Tyler's Aunt and Uncle in Connecticut. They are moving from their fairytale house, a geodesic dome, with acres of runaway land. Butternut squash moves through their vegetable garden like a swamp thing. The wood burning stove stretches way up to the dome ceiling and the fire cackles as they make their way through endless bottles of wine.

But they're ready to leave it, much to everyone else's dismay, and a new home waits for them in Maryland, while they wait to sell the dome. And so they find themselves in a holding pattern. In their minds, they are in Maryland already. They are ready for that new life. But, physically, they are in the same place they've always been.

I sympathize with this feeling. In recent months I've felt that I know where I want to be and I can't quite get there. I'm ready to be married to Tyler but we've somehow been caught in an unintentional, epic-long engagement. I know where I want to be professionally but it's taking a while to get there. My goal of published author is now four years in the making (at least twenty-four years in the dreaming stage) and it doesn't seem any closer, no matter how many words have been written, no matter how much I'd like to measure progress in other terms.

But Tyler's Aunt told me about an experience in a recent yoga class that changed her attitude and, after hearing it, it changed mine.

While stretching on her mat during class, her hand brushed against her husband's and so they stayed that way, for a moment, holding hands. When the teacher instructed they go into a resting pose, they immediately let go, shifting, following instructions, getting into the correct position.

Apparently, the teacher had seen them holding hands and told them to go back to that moment. "Celebrate the joy you have," he said.

Of course, she told me that story, and it touched me. I knew I had to have it. It's probably time I admit that I don't have any of my own stories. I steal them. I sneak out with them through the always open door.

We Fix Computers

2011-09-23T06:35:00.002-04:00

For some reason I've held on to my Dell laptop for almost ten years now. It has been through a lot. At one point, the hard drive died and I temporarily lost everything I had ever written. A few years later, my backup drive died and I officially lost everything I had ever written.

That was the day an entire writing life vanished. I spent a few weeks in denial. Technically, the work still existed. I just couldn't retrieve it. When it hit me that was a problem, I did not panic. I actually became completely zen about the whole thing. I thought, It doesn't matter. Maybe all that work was meant to be a secret anyway.

Over a year ago, I dropped the laptop and a screw disappeared. Apparently, the screw was important because the laptop screen managed to detach itself from the keyboard. Somehow, and I do not, for the life of me, know how this is possible: it still worked. And, so, I went about my days, using hefty books to lift up the flopping screen, moving the laptop around the apartment, trying to figure out which wall would work best for me to prop it up on, so I could continue with my work.

"How do you work like that?" Tyler asked.

"I don't know. It's not a big deal."

After working like that for about a year, I was walking through my neighborhood and saw a Grand Opening flag and a sign that read: We Fix Computers. So I walked into a nearly empty room which had just one folding chair, a desk, and a few empty bookshelves. I walked up to a young man, his dark hair sticking up every which way, huge wire-framed glasses that took over his face and I asked, "Do you fix computers?" And he said, "Yes. We fix computers."

So I gave him my computer, shook his hand, found out his name is Ken, and became the first customer at the no-name We Fix Computers store.

Before Ken fixed it, he asked me how quickly I needed it back and whether or not I needed it for work. I shrugged and said, "I don't really need it. I just write on it."

And Ken said, "You're a writer?"

Despite the fact that I write things. Despite the fact that I actually write for a living, it did not exactly occur to me to refer to myself that way. "I guess so."

"If you're a writer than you must really need this computer."

Again. Dumbfounded. "I guess so."

"I'll order the parts and fix it as fast as I can."

I see Ken nearly every weekday. Our lives are timed in such a way that when I leave the subway, he heads towards it. And we smile and wave and nod.

I am grateful that Ken was there. Is there. To remind me that the work matters. That it is a big deal. That it doesn't have to stay a secret.

I Do Write This

2011-09-22T09:18:00.006-04:00

Today, I'm reporting over at Laurel Garver's blog for the Thestral Gazette.

I've never really been one to try fan fiction but when Laurel came up with the idea to start a newspaper based on Harry Potter and she asked me to write a piece or two, I thought it might allow me to live out a fantasy I have to write fake news for The Onion.

And it did! It has been fun.

I often put myself in a box when I write. I think, I don't write fan fiction. I don't write flash fiction. I don't write essays. I don't write book reviews. I don't write historicals. I don't write...

My goodness, what do I write?

Lately, I want to stretch myself as far as I can as a writer. Maybe I do write this. Or that. To use the old cliche, how will I ever know if I don't try?

So, if you feel so inclined, hop over to my post and see what happened when Gilderoy Lockhart, a celebrity author who actually erased his own memory, decided to write another book.

And I'd love to hear your thoughts about stretching yourself as a writer, about taking on projects you never thought you would take on.

Mary Karr, Nelson George, and a Story Sorta Song

2011-09-20T06:15:00.005-04:00

On Sunday, I attended the Brooklyn Book Festival. It was quite a treat to be surrounded by so many books and authors. To celebrate books so close to home. The amount of panels and signings were overwhelming. Unmanageable really. So, like everything in my life these days, I had to choose carefully how to spend my time.

I decided to attend a talk with memoirist Mary Karr and the author and music critic Nelson George who were there to discuss music and literature. I'm embarrassed to admit that I have not read any of their work -- soon to be remedied because I actually felt real fear that Mary Karr would smack me or eat me alive if I didn't read her books, no real basis for that, just a feeling -- but the topic interested me more than any other on the schedule.

Among the many things discussed, there were musings on the rhythm and movement of cities, how each place has a specific music history, and the way musical styles influence writing styles. For example, George feels that Karr's writing sounds like whisky and honky-tonk. When he writes, he is attracted to a style that is concise but forcefully expressive, like James Brown.

Karr told a story about waiting for a singer to show up to a recording session for a record she is working on. When the singer did arrive, four hours late, she nailed the song in one take and left everybody in the room so overcome with emotion, they were sobbing.

Both Karr and George think that this rush of feeling, this immediacy, is what writers try to capture when they write.

Since music is important to the story I am telling right now, since I'm working with two singing fools in my novel, poor Adelaine and Luna, this discussion sent my brain into overdrive. I apologize, in advance, for the brain dump that comes next.

As many of you know, I love musical theater. But I know that a lot of people do not. They dislike the idea of telling a narrative through music and spectacle. I argue that musicals are not always about the big happy-clappy-snappy numbers. They rarely follow that show within a show structure anymore. The musicals I love are the shows that allow characters to speak and then step out into an actual and metaphorical spotlight and express their feelings through song.

I want to write a book that feels like that kind of musical. A story that steps away in those big moments and assaults you with the emotion, the way a powerful ballad does.

I don't think it's possible to take the feeling of live music and trap it inside the pages of a book. How could it ever feel the way a real voice or instrument feels? It can't be possible to tame the beat and measure it in words instead of notes.

But, in the same way that cities have their own music histories, I think that people have their own music histories. Music must flow through a life the way it moves through a space. Without getting too heady, too out-there (too late for that?) I think there must be a way to make music run through a character and come out in a way that feels a little bit like a recording, at least, of a song.

So I'm going to try to get my story sorta song right. I'll most likely fail. But, it seems I can only do one thing at a time these days (try as I might to do a thousand.) And this is time well spent.

In The Words of The Golden Girls' Theme Song: Thank You For Being a Friend

2011-09-18T21:26:00.005-04:00

I just sat down to write, looked down at my attire and realized I had to share it with you all right away:

Black and white polka dot flip flops.

Pink and black paisley silk pajama shorts.

A red and white college tee-shirt.

A formal black wrap sweater that I would usually wear to work.

Rather fancy green dangly earrings.

And somehow my high ponytail just morphed into a high side ponytail.

I don't know how this outfit came to be. I would take a picture but...honestly... Somewhere under a fashion week tent in Bryant Park, Tim Gunn just wept.

I don't have anymore to say. Except thank you for being a friend. I realize what a challenge it must be. Especially during fashion disasters like these.

Everyone Stopped

2011-09-16T06:00:00.001-04:00

Last night, I walked to the subway from spin class, thinking about all I had to do when I got home. I thought of all the people who might be calling on the dead cell phone I had forgotten to charge. My empty refrigerator which would not be so helpful for dinner. So many unanswered e-mails. A manuscript in shambles waiting for me to tend to it.

As I stopped at the corner of 14th street and 6th Avenue, eyes focused on the walk signal, all I could think was that the stoplight could not change fast enough, that there just wasn't enough time in the day to do all the things I needed to do.

But then I noticed all of these phones lifted up all around me. What was it that everyone had stopped to photograph? I looked to the moving traffic beside me, the deli across the street, the crowded sidewalk behind.

And then I looked up.

A purple sky. And all the once-silver buildings reflected gold.

Of course, there was no way for me capture it. No way for me to hold on. And I thought it was all the more beautiful for that.

Ten Things About Me & Winner of the Beth Kephart Giveaway

2011-09-14T06:00:00.009-04:00

First I'd like to announce the winner of my Beth Kephart giveaway (I calculated the results through random.org):

Wendy @ carbibousmom

Please e-mail me at: thistooblog (at) gmail (dot) com to claim your prize. I feel very strongly about sharing these books and I hope you love them as I much as I do.

Susan Kane at thecontemplativecat tagged me in this post. She is such a great storyteller and I hope you will follow her blog. She challenged me to share ten things about myself. Since there are some new followers here I thought it might be fun. So here goes...

1. I really, really love to wear dresses. I get sad when the winter comes and all of my dresses get stored away.

2. I have a strange obsession with Julie Andrews. When I was sixteen years old, in a wonderfully embarrassing moment, my friend Leah and I created a life-size cardboard cut-out of her and stood outside of The Today Show with the hopes that this kind of crazy would allow us to meet her after her interview. Katie Couric did find us in the crowd (my goodness, how could she not?) and we had a relatively long chat. She promised she would try her hardest to help us meet Julie. In the end, it did not happen.

3. I have never met a cheese I didn't like.

4. I have the illogical belief that I can walk any distance. I'm pretty sure I could walk across the country and not get tired.

5. For a long time I was afraid to talk to people I didn't know. I have conquered that fear and now I have a tendency to babble to innocent strangers because of all those years without practice.

6. I love, love, love trees. I think they are so beautiful.

7. When I was a little girl, I lived next door to a woman who did science experiments on turtles. One summer all of her turtles got loose around the neighborhood and it became the summer of many strange turtle incidents. I firmly believe that this summer made me into the odd person I am today.

8. I used to send all of my letters without stamps when I was a kid. I would just switch the return addresses so that the letters would be 'returned' to them.

9. Outsmarting the US postal service was as rebellious as things got in my life. I received detention once in high school for cutting the first and only class I ever cut. When I walked into the detention room, the Vice Principal laughed at me and told me to go home.

10. Even though I love the outdoors more than the indoors, I have never been camping because I do not like bugs or sleeping anywhere but in my own bed.

Guess what? You're all tagged. Just go for it, my friends.

Attached to Books

2011-09-13T08:00:00.002-04:00

I think my posts have been getting a little too long on the blog. I am constantly trying to edit myself but, sometimes, I just run away with words...

Today I'll be brief. I promise.

I've been thinking about physical attachments to books. I may have mentioned once or one million times that I live in a small apartment. There is simply not enough room to keep a massive library (though I dream of one...like in Beauty and the Beast, where the ladders fly across the shelves and I can sing as I browse.)

I came to the conclusion that I would not have a problem donating almost all of the books in my library.

As I have come to know a few authors recently, I have several books that are signed specifically to me and I would most certainly keep those.

But other than that, I only have a few select books that I feel the need to have in my home. I'm not a re-reader. I just like the idea that those books are near me.

So tell me. Do you have a physical attachment to books? Are there books you need to carry with you always? Are there books you need to have in close proximity so that you can read them again or do you simply need to know they are there?

Today is the last day to enter my giveaway for a collection of Beth Kephart books. So click and enter if you haven't already. I will announce the winner tomorrow!

A Home For the Past

2011-09-11T15:49:00.016-04:00

I took a long walk through my neighborhood today. Through, what some would identify as, Carroll Gardens proper. New Yorkers are in epic disagreement about neighborhood borders (it is an endless conversation at dinner parties) so I can't give you the cross streets. Only to say: you know Carroll Gardens when you see it.

Streets canopied with trees. Gardens that stretch from the front steps of each brownstone to the sidewalks. Young professionals with baby bjorns and strollers, toting canvas bags from a trip to the Sunday farmer's market, bicycle helmets clipped to their messenger bags.

But there are also old women sitting on their stoops. Steeples of Roman Catholic churches creeping up towards the sky. And if you really look, you'll see them: Italian social clubs where men sit on plastic folding chairs playing cards.

As I bought an armful of used books, as I rummaged through boxes of old photographs and sheet music, as I continued to walk and look, I realized that it is a neighborhood trapped in a constant state of remembrance.

One shop after the other, desperate to hold on to an old Brooklyn. There are coffee shops with boxes and boxes of vinyl records lining the walls. Hamburger places that aim to mimic old soda shops. A modern day pharmacy (now called the Farmacy) that sells egg creams, sundaes, and tuna sandwiches at it's counters.

And it is a neighborhood that fights hard to preserve it's history. Tirelessly working to restore the nearby Gowanus Canal and conserve the gardens for which it gets it's name.

Today, I walked past a storefront I'd never seen before. To be honest, it looked more like someone's old apartment. Though it was closed, I looked through the window to find a shop full of junk. Faded newspapers scattered everwhere. Dolls and books and clothes in heaps on the floor. There was no order, that I could see, no rhyme or reason to anything.

But the sign in the window said it all: I appreciate all your donations to my store but I am overstocked. Please don't leave any more items at my door. Thank you!

And on a day like today, when there is just not enough room to hold all of our memories, when we wonder where we will keep them, I thought: this is what I love about Carroll Gardens. It is a place where it doesn't seem right to throw away the old. A place where someone is always looking to find a new home for the past.

It Wasn't A Dream! It Was A Place!

2011-09-09T09:54:00.007-04:00

I'm feeling random today so this is just a mashup.

Because you can never get enough Beth Kephart in your life (just a personal philosophy) you should check out this Treasure Hunt. Two lucky winners will get a signed copy of her latest book You Are My Only and a 2,000 word critique on a work in progress. Did you catch that? Did. You. Catch. That? Writers, I think you should jump on the opportunity.

And of course, you can still win a collection of Beth Kephart books from my blog because I want you to fall in love with her books, as I have.

I did two things on the blog this week that I rarely do. I posted my fiction. And I put together the aforementioned givewaway. The only reason I have held back on doing these things in the past is because of fear.

Maybe you understand the hesitancy to put my work out there. But I'm sure you're wondering who, in the world, would be frightened to give away books? Me. That's who. Every time I post something on this blog I wonder: who will care?

And I'm always amazed, absolutely floored, that all of you do. You think I would have figured it out by now with all the times you've been there...but let me have my Dorothy-wakes-up-from-Oz kind of moment. Oh, but it wasn't a dream! It was a place! And you - and you - and you - and you were there. But you couldn't have been, could you?

Could you? You were. You are. So thank you.

The Balancing Act

2011-09-08T04:00:00.004-04:00

While tuned in to NPR as I drove between Alabama and Georgia on Sunday, I listened with great interest to an interview with Sherry Turkle, a Professor of the Social Studies of Science and Technology at MIT.

Among the many topics discussed, there was an in depth conversation about our attachment to technology and how being constantly connected can lead to a new kind of loneliness and a new found social anxiety.

I found myself nodding vigorously as the conversation progressed. Yes, I know how that feels, I thought, as the interviewer confessed a compulsion to check her e-mail constantly, to obsessively follow up on blog comments, to answer every e-mail in her inbox before it becomes unmanageable, to post facebook statuses that look as if she is witty but not trying too hard. And to do all of this while being fully present in real life.

I don't think this anxiety is news to anyone. I suffer from it: big time. I'm nervous that I'm not living my actual life to it's fullest because my finger is scrolling to find a new e-mail. I'm worried about not being conscientious enough with my responsibilities in the digital world ('she read my blog today, what happens if I don't read her blog today?')

What did surprise me is that this panic is widespread, that people are desperate to find the right balance, that, as a society, we are unhappy about not being able to find it. And Turkle is not some kind of luddite. She's not recommending we shut out the digital world entirely. Technology is her life's work. She's been advocating for it her entire career. Instead, she's ready to start a dialogue about it.

This conversation was eye-opening for me because I feel pretty good about most of the ways I balance my time on the internet. A lot of the 'inadequacies' I feel in the digital space, I've been able to accept. I can't get to everyone. I can't do everything.

Except for one thing: I am very worried about my obsession with checking my e-mail. I used to have a really great system. I only checked it once a day and answered all of my e-mails in the evening. I felt really good about that system.

Since getting a smart phone, however, my finger is constantly at the ready, desperately searching for the alert that someone e-mailed me. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that I check it at least 100 times a day and it distracts me from many other things. (As a side note: all of this started when I began querying agents last year.)

So, I've officially decided to leave my smart phone home during the day and go back to that system of checking and replying to my personal e-mail only in the evening. By the way, I don't want anyone to read this post and stop e-mailing me or something. Because it would make me cry if all I got were ads. (See. Anxiety.)

I'd love to know if you're worried about striking the right balance between your real life and your digital life? Does it freak you out that there is actually a distinction between the two? (It totally freaks me out.)

And a quick reminder about my giveaway to win a collection of Beth Kephart books. You do not want to miss this.

200 Words. A Challenge.

2011-09-07T16:39:00.006-04:00

I took on the First Campaigner Challenge. A 200 word piece of fiction that must begin with the words "The door swung open..." It is inspired by an abandoned church I discovered in my travels.

I hate rules. Only because I am doomed to always follow them. But this begins as I was told to begin it. And I am proud to say it is exactly 200 words. It is #275 on the linky list.

The door swung open and my wrists fell limp at the keys, fingers caught in memory, the abrupt halt of a note half heard. I kept my back to her, legs stuck to the sturdy wooden piano bench.

“Keep playing.”

I shook my head. No. That was not why I had gone there. That was not why she had come.

In the darkness of the empty church, faded hymnals rested at a pulpit where no one stood, and I was there, breathing in the stale air, so that no one would hear. I was there because it was a place that had been forgotten.

I imagined her blackened feet against the wooden floor as she approached. “It’s outta tune, I bet.”

“I like it that way. That’s how I want to hear things.”

“But how’ll you know you got it right?”

“I don’t want to get it right.” I was too used to getting things wrong.

She sat beside me, her long hair dripping down her tiny shoulders like honey. And she leaned forward, tired, as if she were only resting her elbows on the kitchen counter, smashing into the keys, ripping apart the silence.

It sounded like a sigh.

A Giveaway in Anticipation of Beth Kephart's You Are My Only

2011-09-06T04:00:00.010-04:00

I have mentioned Beth Kephart on this blog before, mainly to say that I love her blog (which you must visit) and her books (which you must read) but not much beyond that. Not because I haven't wanted to say more, only because I have tried to understand why I love her books and have found it very difficult.

The experience of reading her young adult books is deeply personal for me.

I know it's not enough to say that the 'why' can not be expressed. It can be. I just haven't tried until today.

When I read her books, I am in them. Truly inside of them. A very safe place to be. These main characters, these girls, I know them, even if their experiences are vastly different than my own.

They are girls who are searching, who are curious, who want to understand and know. They are girls who are on their way to becoming and no matter how old I get I am still that kind of girl, always searching for a better someone to be. I'm always aware of a kind of ache in Kephart's books. Like resting inside of a long sigh. And I know this ache. It is familiar to me.

Her latest book, You Are My Only (due out on October 25th and available for pre-order here) is also a book about a desperate search. Two quests, really. Emmy, a young mother, searching for her lost child. And Sophie, who begins to question her world, seeking the one thing she doesn't know to look for. All of it culminating to a discovery that left me with sweaty palms and a racing heart as I turned each page.

There is color and hope and life in this book. When I imagine it (and I always try to imagine how a book really, truly feels) I think of paint against canvas, technicolor film on a page, every image, feeling, and character bursting, so real and vivid and bright.

As I read, I was let in and out of each scene at just the right moments, enough to feel that I was there, but aware of something just out of reach. And that's the shadow. The contrast. A secret. It is also what keeps Emmy and Sophie restless and yearning. What keeps me reading Kephart's books and writing my own because I, too, am desperate to know what eludes these girls. Girls like me.

I consider a good book a gift. And the way I see it, Beth Kephart has given me many gifts: her blog (a wealth of inspiration, a treasure), her books, and her friendship. And we are all so lucky because she is an amazingly prolific writer, the gift that keeps on giving, if you will, with twelve books out there in the world, two more coming out soon, and more in progress than I would know what to do with. So, in anticipation of the release of You Are My Only (October 25th. I'll wait here for you to put it in your calendar), I want to give the gift of four of her young adult books to you.

All you have to do is comment on this post and I'll randomly draw a winner and you'll have a chance to win four of Beth Kephart's young adult books: Undercover, House of Dance, The Heart Is Not A Size, and Nothing But Ghosts.

So the rules:

Comment on this post before September 13th.
If you blog about this contest you get 2 extra entries: +2
If you tweet about this contest you get an extra entry: +1
If you follow my blog or you become a follower of my blog you get an extra entry: +1
You must add them up and put that in your comment because I don't do math.
:-)

Basement Thinking

2011-09-01T04:00:00.003-04:00

Guess what? I managed to finish the first edit of my work in progress, Rabbit Island, which involved a lot of rewriting, reorganizing, and rearranging. Now that there is a decent framework, I realize that there are a lot of plot holes. There are new scenes to be written. There is a new storyline I wish to weave through it all.

On to what I'm calling Edit # 1.5 because it doesn't feel like an Edit #2 just yet.

I know I need these particular scenes and this new storyline. What I find so strange is that I don't know how all of it will unfold. It seems that so much of writing is thinking. And though I am a person who wants to do, do, do, write, write, write, I need days where I do not write at all.

I need to think.

But the kind of thinking I need to do is, what I call, basement thinking. The thinking that happens when I do other things. It's not like Rodin thinking where you sit in a garden and get in position to think. You don't pose for it. It happens in metaphorical darkness, in the basement level apartment of conscious thought, when you're not even aware.

Do you set aside time to think about your novel? Or do you do basement thinking?

Or are you the kind of person who always knows what you want to say? Sometimes, I wish I was that kind of person.

I Eat

2011-08-31T04:00:00.002-04:00

So...I have a strange habit. I take a picture of almost everything I eat. I have no idea what compels me to do this. There are, literally, hundreds of photos on my phone. They sit there. They serve no purpose. I'll admit. It's a little weird.

So, I share them with you. In the hopes that you'll want to go to these places or make these dishes yourself.

Hurricane Irene Lasagna @ My Kitchen

Chicken Cacciatore Concoction @ My Kitchen

Linguine with Clam Sauce @ My Kitchen

Caprese Salad with basil from my fire escape garden @ My Kitchen

Caprese Salad with no mozzarella because I forgot to buy it @ My Kitchen

Blurry Spicy Pork Ramen @ Momofuku Noodle Bar

Connecticut Style Lobster Roll @ Red Hook Lobster Pound

Cherry Lime Rickey I only ordered because it sounds like something from a book @ Tom's Diner

Do you have any weird habits you'd like to share? This is a safe place.

Tuesday Books for Writers! The Book Thief

2011-08-30T04:00:00.009-04:00

Two things first.

1. In recent months Tuesday Books for Writers has been all but non-existent. The idea behind it: to better articulate why a book works...which, for me, is a difficult thing to do. I decided to give myself the challenge and have, more often than not, failed to get the posts up. So I have decided to retire the idea and talk about the books I read in another way.

2. Yes, I realize I am quite possibly the last person on earth to read Markus Zusak's The Book Thief.

Now this.

I read The Book Thief during Hurricane Irene. I curled up in it on the couch, then the bed. Back and forth. It is quite possibly the best book to get lost in during a hurricane. But it is not necessarily the best book to finish during a hurricane. Mainly because it is not a book you can easily leave behind. It's hard to look up from a book like this one and put yourself back inside the day.

I have never in my life sobbed so hard for a group of characters. I have shed tears over words and pages...but not like this. This was the kind of emotion I would only be able to sum up in cliches because it would be too exhausting to find the right way to say how it made me feel.

There are so many reasons a writer should read this book. I'm not smart enough to know all of them and list them here. But here is what I can tell you:

The world of this book is huge, all-encompassing. You are in it and you know it. You feel the streets. You know what it means to be there. A remarkable thing.

The words and the way they are strung together are beautiful. Even though so many of the words themselves are strange and ugly. I would never think to put them next to one another and, yet, when I saw them together I would think, there is no better way to say this. Even if there are a million ways to say it.

The characters are really wonderful (understatement of the year.) And you only need to read the book to understand. There's not much more I can say about that.

But there is one device in the book that is used over and over again. And it's the only thing I was able to define and pass along to you and think about using in my own work. (The rest, I could only hope to absorb through a powerful kind of osmosis.)

The Bomb Theory!

Which I learned about from Mr. Alfred Hitchcock. Have you heard about it?

Two people sit at a table having a conversation and Boom! a bomb goes off. That's 15 seconds of surprise.

Two people sit at a table having a conversation and we, as viewers, see a ticking bomb underneath their table. And we wait. And we know what's going to happen. That's 15 minutes of suspense.

You know which method Hitchcock used.

As I read The Book Thief, I could think of no better example of how to effectively use the bomb theory in a book. It's hard for me to say it's a device because it sounds gimmicky and it is not used that way in this book. But almost every chapter begins and gives away the outcome of the scene. And we read, desperate to find out how the book gets to the place we already know it will get to. It's bold. It's risky. And it works in this book.

There is a lot more to say about this wonderful book but this is, at least, some kind of start that will have no end.

I do feel it is a good place to end Tuesday Books for Writers until I find a new way to talk about the books I read on this blog.

If you've read the book, please let me know your thoughts!

Hurricanes and Other Thoughts

2011-08-28T18:16:00.009-04:00

Along with so many others on the east coast, I spent the weekend with Hurricane Irene. We live just one short block away from the mandatory evacuation zone. And while I questioned whether there are such specific paths of destruction, whether devastation has such distinct borders, we decided to stay put and wait it out.

We bought flashlights, bottled water and other non-perishables. We stocked the wine fridge. I filled my bathtub with water because The Weather Channel said I should. The city emptied. Public transportation shut down. And we had no other choice but to stay put or rely on our feet to get us anywhere. We sat. We watched. We waited.

She came late on Saturday and we heard the wind, the rain. The windows shook. The branches and leaves slapped the windows. I heard sirens about every hour. In the darkness, I never knew what brought the authorities. And when I woke up...all was well.

The city hoped for the best and prepared for the worst. We were lucky to experience minimal damage. I know that others in the path of Irene are not so lucky. They are still without power. Trees have been uprooted. I know that people have lost their lives.

My parents are still sitting in the dark. I have family on Long Island who are wading through floods, who will have to repair their homes. But they are safe. They are okay.

When I was four years old, Hurricane Gloria came through Long Island. It was especially memorable for my family because a tree fell on our house. The whole side of the house was damaged but we were all fine.

When the storm had calmed my Dad took me outside, put me on my tricycle and set me down next to the massive fallen tree. He made me pose for a photograph, made me put my hand to my mouth as if I had knocked over the tree with my tricycle: Oops!

He thinks this is a funny story. He still tells it. He likes to think the picture made everyone laugh.

He always tells me things can be replaced. People can not. I always try to remember that.

I hope that everyone in the path of Irene is safe. My thoughts are with you.

Taking Risks

2011-08-24T23:03:00.005-04:00

When the weather cooperates, I ride my bike to work. I gather my things, my backpack bulging on my back, and I ride over the Manhattan bridge. The first moments of my morning are spent looking at the skyline of lower Manhattan. The Hudson River glistens underneath the sun. And you can see the Statue of Liberty in the distance. I see it all again in the evening as the sun sets in the sky.

Lately, I haven't stopped to take it in. Because I am just trying to get where I need to go. And, the past few weeks, it seems that everyone is on edge. Even more so than usual. The traffic is maddening. Other bikers are not paying attention. Cars are whizzing past me like I am invisible. People are smacking their cab doors into my hand and I am left purple and bruised.

I am not a reckless biker. I follow the rules. I stop at lights. I use the bike lanes. I try my best. But it seems I'm not getting anywhere.

And I watch other bikers as they ride the wrong way down the streets, as they cut in front of cars, ring their bell through intersections where they don't have the right-of-way. Yes, it's dangerous. No, if I were them, I wouldn't test it.

But, you know what? They are getting somewhere.

As someone who has spent most of her life trying to do the right thing, I wonder about this. A lot.

How can you be seen and heard and still follow the rules? How do you get somewhere and still play it safe?

When I write, I think: here is a place to take risks. Here is a place to be reckless.

I don't know how many times I've asked myself why I write. There is no real answer, I'm sure. But I think that must be one of the reasons. And I hope I am taking enough risks there. I hope I can find other places in my life to take the right risks.

The Bad Blogger

2011-08-24T11:13:00.009-04:00

I have to apologize because I've been neglecting this blog lately. Please know that I read all of your posts and follow your lives, your projects, your brilliant minds but these days I've been more of a passive participant in the blogging community due to lack of time.

Work has been very demanding. As many of you know, I write and produce content for toys. It's hard for me to talk about my job on this blog because there are a lot of restrictions to what I can and can not say (crazy, I know). Just know that when my development schedules slip (and would you look at them go? slip sliding away, she sings), the engineers get grumpy, the sales teams get frantic, the big chain stores yell 'where are my toys!' Everything explodes. And somewhere...a spoiled child cries. And that's the gist of each day.

My nights are far more exciting as I frantically edit my work in progress, Rabbit Island. Goals of finishing the first edit by next Wednesday are just out of reach. I stay up as late as I can but there is a point when exhaustion takes over.

And that’s when the travel comes in. I will be leaving for far-off lands (Georgia…Alabama) next Wednesday for the holiday weekend in the states.

All this to say: I’ve been a bad blogger. I’ll try to be better.

Part of that effort: I joined Rachael Harrie’s Third Writer’s Platform-Building Campaign. Will you participate with me?

And tell me, how have you been spending the final days of summer?

A Trip to the North Fork

2011-08-22T04:00:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, Tyler and I left the city to visit the North Fork of Long Island. We will be getting married out there next May and there are wedding related things to care of but, to be honest, we took the trip to escape the city and enjoy the excellent food and wine the region has to offer.

We do not own a car so we rely most often on our feet to get us places. It felt like a luxury to rent a car for the day, to ride east next to that long yellow line.

We discovered 88.3, WBGO, the jazz station, and listened with great interest to a program called Singers Unlimited with Michael Bourne. I was pleasantly surprised to turn on the station at the exact moment Rosemary Clooney sang out 'The Man That Got Away' which is, oddly enough, a song important to Rabbit Island, the work in progress I am frantically editing away at-- cutting and pasting and rewriting to get a framework worth working through.

I had forgotten what it was like to be in a car, to listen to the radio, to see a glimpse of something through glass and watch as it drifts away.

There were horses and farm stands, wine tastings and lunch beside the water. We found The Winemaker Studio, a little wooden tasting room where the winemakers in the region are selling their private labels. And when I learned what that meant, it took on even bigger meaning for me. Instead of making wine for the wineries and their owners, instead of adhering to the standards of an already established brand, they are making wine for themselves. And that's interesting...that makes me want to know more...

And of course, any time there is a sign pointing the way to cheese, I am happy. I am in a kind of heaven.

Penn Relays

2011-08-15T13:07:00.010-04:00

I woke up this morning with a memory. I don't know how it connected to what I may have dreamed before it. It was just there. And when things are there and they don't belong anywhere else I put them here. (Just so you know how this works.)

When I was in high school I ran track. I was a sprinter. I never had the legs to endure long races. I was the kind of person who believed she could do anything in the shortest distances. I would run until my feet bled, until my legs ached, until I couldn't breathe, until I needed to vomit, whatever it took to get it done.

My sophomore year, my coach invited me to go to the Penn Relays, the largest track and field competition in the states, but I wasn't allowed to race with the rest of the girls, a team of seniors who had more experience than I did. I was to go...to learn. And before I could even get on the bus, I was forced to watch endless videos of past relay teams from our high school as my coach analyzed every start and finish, every baton hand-off, the way the girls sprinted the straight-aways, how they took the turns.

All of this, so I could sit in the stands and watch everyone else run.

My coach told me it was a privilege to miss school and attend this event. But I wanted to race.

When I thought of the Penn Relays this morning, I pictured the blazing burnt orange track beneath me (it may not be orange but this is how I remember it) so far away from the blur of colors I sat with.

I have mixed feelings about this memory. On the one hand, I think what a brat I was to believe I somehow deserved to race before I was ready. On the other, I wonder why this coach made me attend so I could sit by myself and hope to one day be there for real. (I was never invited again.)

I am not a patient person. I know this. And so, I wake up every day wanting to do a million things and I say to myself: Take your time. Sit back. Learn.

But I also know that I am the kind of person who falls so easily into the role of observer rather than participant. Sometimes I accept the fact that I am invisible and I remain unseen.

Lately, and I don't know what has triggered this, I am sick and tired of reigning myself in. Lately, I do not feel it is privilege be there. I do not feel it is enough to stand back. I want to be in it.

Brooklyn Public Library Increases Hours

2011-08-15T04:00:00.002-04:00

We've all heard the abysmal news about libraries. The budget cuts. The closings. I don't need to recount it for you here.

So, I give you this headline, this link, just to say: keep the faith.

Brooklyn Public Library Increases Hours by 21 Percent.

I knew I lived in the right town.

What's going on with the libraries in your neck of the woods?

'Firing Off Rat-a-tat-tat-tat'

2011-08-11T09:44:00.010-04:00

I spent a lot of time at the library when I was a teenager. When I look at the crazy schedule I had back then (tennis, track, Lit Mag, French club...the list goes on...I was a classic overachiever) I do wonder when I found the time to read the amount of books I read. And I especially wonder how I found time to read 812.

When I say 812, I am referring to the dewey decimal system. 812 is American Drama. And for some reason, my teenage self found it necessary to read 812 in it's entirety.

Some clarification: We're not talking the Library of Congress here. We're talking the Hicksville Public Library. 812 consisted of about four shelves of loosely packed, hard-cover plays (I only mention that because paperback would be much thinner and take up less room, allowing for more plays in the section) and it was my goal to read every one of them.

I did.

Add that to semesters of playwriting and screenwriting classes. Tack on a few months transcribing documentaries and several years writing scripts for children. And you have a person who is obsessed with dialogue. Who is in an ever-constant investigation of the spoken word as it is written on the page. Who struggles every day to write dialogue that rings true, voices that rise and fall a certain way, conversations that one, two, one, two back and forth at just the right moment for the time, the place, the mood. Like I said, it is my writing obsession. When I write, when I read, I pay careful attention to dialogue. And maybe I'll get it right someday in my own work. For now, all I can do is study and try.

(insert transition here)

Enter 'One Crazy Summer' by Rita Williams-Garcia. Here's a book that I admired for it's many dead-right, spot-on qualities but one I especially admired for it's beautiful dialogue. So if you're struggling, if you're investigating, as I am, this book is, in my opinion, a resource.

Just a sampling from the book of this trio of sisters: Delphine, Vonetta, and Fern. Who speak in poetry (And their rhythm of speech is dissected here. I told you. Like a resource. A guide.) It is wonderful.

When my sisters and I speak, one right after the other, it's like a song we sing, a game we play. We never need to pass signals. We just fire off rat-a-tat-tat-tat. Delphine. Vonetta. Fern.

I said, "What if all the people could recite all of your poems?"
Vonetta: "And they said them on the radio."
Fern: "And you became famous."
Me: "You couldn't hide then."
Fern: "Surely couldn't."