Yellow stack

...and here is Pen on Fire, Danielle, quite rumpled and used.

More Grace

I like this Salon interview with Grace. A lot of great stuff here on process (voice, content/context). What an interesting writer she was.

The Green Shelf

More on Grace Paley

A lovely essay about Grace.

I got out two of her story collections last night. Plots may not have figured highly in her work, but man, does she have voice, that most elusive--and vital--of all writing elements.

Grace Paley died

I've loved her writing since I discovered it in the late '70s. She has died of breast cancer. Here's her obit

My wonderful students

In the summer when it grows too warm to sit around my dining room table, we meet in the front yard. Here is my essay class, now over, though some of my students will continue in the fall with the memoir class. We do have fun.

Are you more cat or dog?

Light Sunday fare....

I'm a sucker for these sorts of silly quizzes. You can click on the link below to take the test. Here are my results:

You Are: 40% Dog, 60% Cat

You and cats have a lot in common. You're both smart and in charge - with a good amount of attitude. However, you do have a very playful side that occasionally comes out!

Are You More Cat or Dog?

Report back with your results.

Harry Potter Harry Potter Harry Potter

At an Angels game last night, as we took our seats, I turned around and saw yet another person reading the latest Harry Potter.

Am I the only person I know who has not finished an entire Harry Potter novel? It's great that J.K. Rowling gets kids reading, and entrances adults as well, but I just cannot get into these books. I don't tend to not go for fantasy or science fiction (though I loved Dune and Stranger in a Strange Land) and never have. Not that I haven't always had a ton of things in my life from which I'd like to escape.

When I read fiction, which is most always, I'd rather spend my time with realism (however far-fetched): a literary/main stream novel or suspense. (I just read Diana Abu-Jaber's Origin, which fits both of those categories. She was just on the show. I loved the book.)

I have a good friend that adores Harry Potter. She is bright, funny and well-read. We talk about how reading inclinations evolve.

You Harry Potter fans out there--is this your favorite type of writing? Has it always been? Or was there a transforming moment where one minute you were, say, a lover of D.H. Lawrence or Lawrence Block, and the next moment it was Harry Potter? Seriously....! Inquiring minds want to know. This mind, anyhoo.

A few writerly web sites

If you are in need of prompts, here's a great site. Check it out.

Also, are you familiar with GoodReads.com? Writers and readers talking about books. I quite like it. Click here.

And paperbackswap.com (thanks to Judy) is a great place to request books and swap them for books you want. Read more here.

At the site for the American Society of Journalists and Authors, you can read the public section of The ASJA Monthly, which I edit. Click here and scan down the left side for The ASJA Monthly.

I know I missed a ton. I will post more in the coming days. And if you know of one you like, or even your own, please post it here.

Subscriptions survey

The other day as I was going through old Utne magazines, it occurred to me, once again, how much I love this magazine. I always seem to find articles that are priceless, and because Utne reprints articles found in other articles, I discover new journals--new to me, anyway. Brick is one such journal. In this particular Utne, I was reading about what Annie Proulx would be if she wasn't a writer. Cabinet maker was one. The article pointed to the issue of Brick that it was originally published in, so I went to the web site (Brick's) and ordered the 2003 journal. love Utne.

Then I began thinking of the magazines and papers that find their way into this house:

Utne
Los Angeles Times
Wall Street Journal
Poets & Writers
The Writer
Writer's Digest
Westways
Country Living
Interweave Knits
Yankee (a gift subscription from Noreen)
Boy's Life (Travis' magazine)

I used to subscribe to the New Yorker, but they arrived too quickly. I still have a pile I'm trying to get through. I also recently subscribed to The Atlantic Monthy, Food & Wine, Conde Nast Traveler, Travel + Leisure but let them lapse.

What do you subscribe to, and what do you love most?

Fantasy writers wanted

I can't remember where I saw it--it was on one of the publishing reports, yesterday, I think--but I read that agents and publishers are looking for the next Harry Potter/J.K. Rowling. If you're a fantasy writer for adults and children, this may be your time.

I was thinking of my former student Lacy, who now lives in Colorado. Lacy....Lacy....you out there? How's that novel coming, the one that we loved so much?

Did anyone else see that write up? Where was it?

Back to Starletta's Kitchen

In Mosley's book, This Year Your Write Your Novel, which I mentioned in the last post, he talks about why it's important to work every day. I've also talked about his essay on writing in which he says you must visit with your work daily, and if you let three days go by, the dream of the work evaporates. (Google "Walter Mosley New York Times Writers on Writing" and you will find the essay I'm talking about.)

Starletta's Kitchen sat untouched for three weeks or more while I worked on the proposal and so when I picked it up this morning, it took a while to realize where I was at. I saw the blue pages of the new draft (Ron Carlson said he types different drafts on different colored paper so he knows what draft to grab for readings) and realized I had already gone through the entire mss., crossing things out, deleting, making notes for places to add, and had already begun typing out a new draft. Duh.

And so was reminded of Walter Mosley's advice to visit your work daily, else lose the drift, lose your place, and lose motivation.

.....

Travis and I were watching the Food Network last night and Bobby Flay (and if you watch the Food Network, you know who he is) said, "If you're not nervous about your passion, you're not passionate about it." I ran and wrote this down to share with you. So true. Often we misinterpret nervousness or anxiety and stop doing what it is that makes us anxious rather than throwing ourselves into it.

Cross your fingers

I spent the last three weeks or so getting another book proposal finished and in the mail. It's an illustrated journal, a spin-off of Pen on Fire. After Pen on Fire was published in late '04, I began receiving emails from readers who wondered if a journal was in the works. No, I'd say. And then more letters arrived and I started thinking, Hmm.....Maybe there should be.

So I teamed up with Andy Mitchell, a longtime student and illustrator (www.ajmitchellart.com), and put together a proposal. Of course it took longer than I would have liked. Doesn't everything?

But I got it into the mail last week and Delivery Confirmation confirms that the proposal was delivered.

It's a longshot. (Everything's a longshot, when it comes to publishing.) So we're waiting. Crossing fingers and waiting.

And tomorrow I will return to Starletta's Kitchen. In the hours before my son wakes up, that is. (I let him stay up late so he'll sleep in and I can use those early morning hours for writing.)

I feel so far away from the book now, having been away from it since June.

Have y'all read Mosley's This Year You Write Your Novel? I love that book. I should read it again.

How're your projects progressing? Do things slow down for you in the summer?

A letter

Every so often you receive an email from someone who was affected by your writing, and it serves to remind you of why you do what you do. Emails like the one below are one of the perks of slogging through and seeing your work get published. It brought tears to my eyes.

"After our correspondence last week I clicked over to your blog and finally (finally!) decided to read Pen on Fire. I’ve been resisting for a few years now, sort of like how you should go to the doctor and solve your health issue, but knowing that when you bite the bullet and do it you’ll have to make lifestyle changes that you’re not quite willing to make yet? Yep, that’s why I didn’t read it for a long time, but finally I was ready and I just could not put it down. Every chapter touched on something important that either reassured me or taught me something new. You’re a terrific teacher and a talented, honest writer, and I appreciate it so much. Good luck with your novel." - Gretchen Roberts, www.smartsimplewoman.com

Nice, huh?

Emails can go either way, of course. You can receive something that can dent your day, too.

Any recent emails in your life that simply made you glad?

Those who can ... teach!

Susan's comment on my last post got me thinking.

Every so often you still hear the cliche: Those who can't, teach.

Not true.

I know so many accomplished writers who teach not because they need the money but because they enjoy teaching or they feel teaching allows them to give something back.

Sure, teaching can be a drag. But after an all-day class like the one I taught today at UC-Irvine, I remember how much fun teaching can be. I have such respect for my students who could have been doing so many other things on this beautiful summer day but they chose to be sitting under florescent lights progressing their writing. There was gobs of talent in the classroom today, so much so that I felt invigorated.

This goes for all of my students. I'm lucky I get to help them along their path.

Desert heat

We're in the desert for our annual end-of-school vacation. Yesterday, as we left the Blue Coyote in Palm Springs, the car's thermostat said 120 degrees. Or was it 122? I can't remember; I was delerious.

Actually, it's not that bad. It's balmy at night in the pool.

Here are Brian's glasses. Well, his old glasses. Because the sun and the heat cracked them like marbles dropped in a kettle of boiling water.

My first summer vacation book: Sideways by Rex Pickett. I loved it. Absolutely loved it. Laugh out loud funny and a tearjerker at the end. Enjoyed the movie and have been curious about how the book was. Some of the writing wasn't great but overall I loved it. A guy's book. Very enjoyable. Anyone else read it?

What are you reading and recommend?

Amy Tan snippet

Today, Reuters has an interview with Amy Tan.

At the end of the interview, she says, "I never talk about what a new book is about as it will leave me. There is a story in Chinese where a man goes to a magical place and is overwhelmed by the beauty and the peace. He has to leave and they tell him that if he tells anyone where this place is he will never find it again. That is the metaphor for writing. You are in a secret place and discovering it but once you tell people it is gone."

I write about this very thing in Pen on Fire, how talking about a work can cause it to evaporate. I used to talk about my works-in-progress so very much. Dangerous stuff.

Hence, shhhhhh........

Darfur

Real quick.....

Have you donated to Darfur yet? I just did. I've been meaning to, but you know how it goes.

So my class just ended, Trav is at a friend's, Bry is at a gig, and I turned on the TV--wishfully hoping for Angels baseball snippets? Instead, my attention is captured by images of a refugee camp accompanied by a Tony Bennett soundtrack and then Tony comes on and urges the viewer--me!--to donate to the cause, and I got right up and marched to the laptop and did it. TV rarely moves me to do a thing. I was moved.

Only $100, but it's something.

It's serious over there. I can't even imagine.

A cool web site I just discovered

I just came across this portal to all sorts of literary links. It's called New Pages.

Utne Magazine, one of my very favorite magazines (to which I subscribe), says, "NewPages.com, the best overall Internet portal to the alternative press, independently organizes pages of links to hundreds of magazines, independent publishers and bookstores, literary magazines, newsweeklies, and review sources. NewPages.com also publishes unique book and zine reviews, and an interesting weblog broadly covering the world of arts, publishing, and libraries."

Check it out! (Just don't spend so much time there that you forget to write.)

Fee-charging agents

A friend wrote to me and said a friend of his was interested in an agent who charged a "registration fee." This wasn't a fee to read the manuscript, the agent said.

Sounded like a crock to me.

So I asked Linda Konner, a literary agent in NYC that I met through ASJA (American Society of Journalists and Authors), and here's what she said:

"Registration fee? Hmmm... What precisely are you registering for? It does sound like a convenient variation on a reading fee which, as we know, isn't charged by respectable agents, eg, members of AAR (Association of Authors Representatives). Some agents will charge clients minimal expenses fees associated with the submission and follow-up of proposals and related author materials. But unless this agent is promising something beyond the standard agent duties, no up-front fees should be paid."

Enough said?

Can you spot a fake smile?

(If you tried this link the other day and it didn't work, try again; I re-pasted it.)

I don't generally go for tests and such, but this one was fun, and gave me much to--ahem--smile about.

Click here to take the test.

Report your results. I got 12 out of 20, which surprised me. I thought I knew fake smiles!

Cormac McCarthy and Oprah

There's an article by Eric Miles Williamson in today's Los Angeles Times about Cormac McCarthy and Oprah's concern with moral fiction.

Click here.

.

Anyone else see it?

Through the second draft--or is it the fourth?

I've reached the end of the second draft of Starletta's Kitchen, or is it the fourth draft? In his new little book, This Year You Write Your Novel, Walter Mosley says that reading through your novel completely is considered one entire draft. I've read through it twice, outlining it, making notes, following Carolyn See's directions on revising, so I guess that means I'll be going into draft number five.

Done through chipping away, every day, an hour or two, sometimes more. Making it a priority.

I have so much work to do! But the book is coming into focus. I need to take a look at the plots/subplots. Make sure enough is happening, make sure the structure is solid.

So, actually, there's still no end in sight...

Endings are hard

I'm at the end of the draft novel--the last four chapters or so. I've been spending days on it. Endings are so important. The climactic scene is here and trying to decide, Should it go this way or that? How much to tie things up, or not? I like when books don't end entirely neatly, when there are some things left undone, left a bit vague.

I'm also working and reworking a love scene. How it should go--should they get together or not? What's enough and what's too much? If this were a romance novel, it seems that it would be easy. I could have heaving bosoms and rippled chests and purple prose. And that would be fine.

But what the protagonist ends up doing with her high school sweetheart is telling, in terms of her character, and his, and so I keep tweaking.

Love scenes are--ahem--hard to write. Elizabeth Benedict's book, The Joy of Writing Sex is so good. Benedict is a literary novelist and essayist. I always enjoy her writing.

I never planned to read The Horse Whisperer, but I saw it in the UCI-Extension lending library and I borrowed it. It contains a very short but strong love scene close to the beginning. I was impressed with how Evans handled it. I've only read a little bit of the book, but I can see already why Redford bought it to make into a movie.

Complex characters

So I'm down at the beach, it's low tide, and I'm searching through the rubble of shells and rocks and sand for seaglass when this man, late 60s, yellow teeth, with a little white dog, and rich (I think this because I saw him leave one of the multimillion dollars up on the hill as I descended the path; he didn't look like the help), and asks me what I'm doing.

It's illegal to pick up shells or sea life at this beach and I figure that's what he's going to ask me about, but he's aggressive and wears a scowl (and as I said, his teeth are yellow) and so I say, "Why?"

"Because it's illegal to take shells from this beach!" he says.

"I live here; I know," I say, "I'm picking up glass--"

"--I live here, too," he bellows.

I tell him I'm offended and he says, "You're offended because I asked you that? You're offended? Well, that's too damn bad!"

Which is when I say, "I think you had better get out of my face," and he backs off, huffing and puffing. He goes away, joins a woman wearing a visor, and I continue to pick up glass (which is what you see here, my find for the day), and all the while I'm thinking, If only he'd had a better tone. If only he'd been nicer, we could have had a conversation about how horrible it is that people come down to the beach and steal sea life and are wrecking the tide pools. I find myself feeling sorry for the woman, and the little dog, thinking: If this is how he treats strangers, how must he treat those close to him?

And I also begin thinking about tone in general, how so much is in the tone of how you say something.

E-mail can be a problem because the tone just does not come across. You think you're being funny and someone takes offense.

And in fiction, tone is vital. Without scene setting, gestures, the facial expressions of our characters, the tone can be a problem.

The man wore a permanent scowl. Had probably been a bigwig at a corporation, used to ordering people around, used to being a pain in a butt. And so now he felt he needed to rule his beach because he no longer had a company.

But he was also picking up trash, not just being a jerk, and so there you have a complex character....a nasty person who cares about the environment. Which is also what we need to do in our fiction: create complex bad guys that are difficult to hate.

Thoughts on self-censoring

I tried to get a parking space at the Starbucks in my neighborhood (it's close, but not close enough to walk carrying a laptop and files and books) but it’s street cleaning day so while one side of the streets are empty of cars, the other side is full.

So I drove back here, to the Starbucks near UCI, and I settled in. Mid-morning is even nicer—sunny. It’s spacious, light, and I like the music, which is loud, Latin. I hear voices but I can’t make out what they are saying. Some of the same faces, some different. Saw someone I know from the radio station and he stopped to talk for a minute. I like talking to John, but it was writing time and I began to worry that the morning would be taken up with conversation. My mind darted about: Where else could I work that was close to home but not too close? And then he returned to the counter to pick up his snack.

I have been thinking about self-censoring, how writers are so prone to that. My post yesterday about the downside of the Starbucks in my neighborhood….I considered deleting the part about the surgically enhanced boobies. I don’t want to offend and it’s also such a personal opinion. Then I thought: But it’s what you feel and think about working at that Starbucks. So I left it. We’re too often worried about offending—to the point that we drain the life of our work because we’re afraid to say what we think.

So I left it. No disclaimers, no apologies (almost none, anyway).

These photos are from my beach walk prior to writing. That sign in the first one is a bit nerve-racking.

A different Starbucks, and later

So after a couple of weeks of going to The Office (Starbucks or Gypsy Den) like a job, every morning after I drop Trav at school, I realized that I was getting no exercise--unless you count carrying the laptop from the car to the table. I used to walk first thing and then tried working at home, to no avail.

Which is why I started working at a cafe.

But then, no exercise.

So I've adjusted things a bit. Now I walk as soon as I drop Trav at school, come home, shower, dress and then go to Starbucks. And a different Starbucks at that. One right up the street. I didn't want to go there because I don't want to be recognized by people in the neighborhood. But in mid-morning, I doubt that will happen. (Most moms from school--and dads--get their Starbucks fix right after they drop off their kids. There are no other writers that I know of...)

So while this Starbucks up the street has lots of women with surgically enhanced boobies in workout outfits prancing by on their way to the rest room, it doesn't have the corporate workers wearing ID tags around their necks, marching in to get their coffee. It's always something, right?

Friday at Starbucks

I almost didn’t make it today. I awoke at 4:00 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep until after 5:00. When some orchestra or another on the clock radio blasted me awake at 6:21, what I really wanted to do was go back to sleep.

Then Travis came into the bedroom, told me he was going to take a shower and I willed myself to get up and start his breakfast.

But I mulled not even getting changed, driving him to school in my polka dot pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers, come home and rest.

But then I told myself: Only two hours. You only have to work for two hours. Walter Mosley was in my head. He was on my show yesterday talking about his new book, which I love: This Year You Write Your Novel. His work ethic can make the best of us feel guilty. He says you should write every day. You should not miss one day.

I agree in theory, but on weekends, it doesn’t work for me. There is weekend stuff—things with Travis, church, the flea market, schtuff, and more schtuff.

So this morning, after I made Travis breakfast, a PP&J sandwich for his lunch (that’s all he wants!), washed and dressed and got myself and my writing things together, I took him to school and let my vow to work five days a week on my novel draw me to Starbucks near UC-Irvine.

I ordered Awake! tea, took it to a round cherry wood colored table and sat before my laptop.

Next to me a student was online. That’d be easy, mindless, fun, I thought.

But I vowed to not check email here at The Office.

And so I got to work.

The Starbucks Chronicles

Wednesday morning at Starbucks.

A wall of windows opens onto an expansive courtyard with tables, benches, and red geraniums that pop out against the gray day. Beyond, on the street, commuters flock to the companies that surround this Starbucks and to UC-Irvine, just down the street.

“He’s So Fine” blasts over the speakers.

The sounds of barista's voices: “Rachel!” “Emilio, Nonfat mocha grande!” “Tall nonfat cappucino!”

Across the room a man in a white shirt and groomed beard tears the paper sleeve holding his slice of zucchini bread, smears butter on the bread, and takes a bite. Then he sips from what looks like iced tea on his left as a steaming double-cupped coffee sits to his right. He dunks his bread into the hot drink and chews as he wipes his fingers with brown napkins. He dunks another piece, chews, gazes through the window, and dunks again.

I should stop studying him, and turn my attention inward to my novel. But I have been working since I arrived. I copied all of my chapters to one file because it has been a major pain in the behind trying to find certain scenes or lines of dialogue: Did the mother character say that, and if she did, where? Does Starletta’s friend, Madeline, ever show up in the flesh or only over the phone? Does Quinn have a blond hair to his chin or gray gelled porcupine-quill like hair?

So many things to lose track of in a novel. Flannery O’Connor said fiction is messy. Indeed. I still have separate chapters, too, but each time I revise one, I will copy it to the “entire revise” document for when I need to search, and find.

Publishing Perks

One of the perks of publishing a book is meeting people you would probably never otherwise meet. My new friend Sherry, a talented writer whom I met at an event where I spoke last year, asked me to speak to a group of professional, fundraising women in La Habra.

So last night I drove north—sometimes crept--on various freeways and streets, past Disneyland, past Angel Stadium.

The din of the group flowed onto the sidewalk as I headed up the walk to the front door.

The group crowded in the living room and kitchen of a member’s home. There were prominent women in the community—some whose families had streets named after them.

And they wanted to hear what I had to say. Sometimes, when I’m speaking to certain groups, I have a sort of out-of-body experience. I flash back to being lil Barb who almost quit high school, who, for a time, circled the drain, who, for a time, had friends who were bad to the bone, getting arrested, being sucked down the drain.

And somehow I bypassed—ahem, was plucked?—away, rescued from the nowhere path I was on, from that sort of life. (Was it grace or my Guardian Angel? Was it serendipitous? I tend to go with grace...) And somehow I made something of myself. Something more than what I was headed for, anyway, even if I feel I still have a ways to go.

One of the best parts of speaking to groups is inspiring people to follow a dream, whatever that dream may be. It sounds so hokey, so corny, and yet, it’s hard to figure out what the point of it all is without dreams and aspirations, without something to aspire to, however simple. Because even if I never move any further along my path, never attain that which I wish to attain, what I’ve been given is more than I ever expected I’d have, and I'm at a better place than I expected at my lowest point.

And now, the next morning, at Starbucks, as I write this (and save as a Word doc to upload later), as I drink white tea bought using the gift card that the group gave me, a sweet token for coming to speak, I feel grateful for small kindnesses, and large. New friends, the chance to inspire, gift cards—all perks of publishing a book. Thanks, Sherry….

Back at Starbucks and bestsellers

I’m back at Starbucks. It’s not so perky here today. An old gray sheet hangs below the Southern California sunshine, making it cozy inside with the South American music playing, lights hanging from the black ceiling, the clink of cups and din of conversation. It helps that there are no waitpersons here as there are at the Gypsy Den. No one walking up to me asking if I’m okay, if there’s anything I want. Just to write, I want to say, willing to pay to just sit without being bothered by the nice woman with the short hair and skimpy top, so young and worried looking.

I felt guilty at the Gypsy Den for not buying more so I’d leave a larger tip than was required. But here, at Starbucks, you step up to the counter. You order. You hand over your Starbucks gift card, drop a quarter into the Plexiglass container, and you’re done. No one comes up to you as you revise revise revise and asks if you’re okay. No one cares.

Oh, both places have their advantages. I love the eclectic quality of the Gypsy Den. I like the soft cushiony booth seating here at Starbucks. Like how there’s more room to spread out my papers.

It makes me all the more want that writers’ space. I will call a Realtor this week and see if such a place is possible

On another note, here's an interesting story about bestsellers in theNew York Times. It reminds me of what's been said before: that no one knows why some books make it and others don't.

Writing someplace new

Today I bypassed Starbucks for the Gypsy Den (as Catherine mentioned in a comment yesterday), which is an indie coffeehouse/restaurant near South Coast Plaza. And instead of white tea, I’m drinking a cappuccino. How daring!

It's 7:40 a.m., just opened and there are few people here. Instead of a black Starbucks tee shirt, the barista/waitperson wears plain black with a red and black scarf around her head. On her feet--white high-top Converse. The floor is sandblasted cement and little birds—sparrows?--hop about, pecking at crumbs which are pretty much absent at this early hour.

“Place is fate,” said fiction author Ron Carlson at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books a couple of weekends ago. He was talking about writing fiction, but I wonder how this place, the Gypsy Den, will influence my fiction.

I’ve begun thinking, again, that as well as starting an author speaking series here in the O.C., I want to find a building to make a writer’s space, to rent desks and space, a place away from home to write--for me and for all the writers who really need to get out of the house to work on fiction.

Anyhoo, here’s what I see from where I sit at my table in the corner….



















































So then I left, to use the rest room, and brought all my gear. (the rest room is on the compound, but not in the cafe). This waterfall sculpure is out back on the way to the restroom, so I thought I'd continue working here, but it was so noisy and bright.

From where I sit

I know you're all dying to know about this Starbucks that I go to each morning like it's work. So today I bought zee camera and shot a few from where I sit. See...I really do go to Starbucks every day.

If you have a site, post pictures of where you work and post your link under comments. I want to see!

Coffee houses

I'm still at it, going to Starbucks after I drop off Trav, but I do wish there were other coffee houses to choose from. Berkeley has something like 70+ independent coffee houses to choose from and we have a handful in the O.C. The independent ones I can think of that are nearby have tiny tables and uncomfortable chairs.

What's a girl to do?

Keep going to Starbucks, I s'pose.

I think about it all the time

Diet Coke.

It's sad but true. I gave it up. Again. Over the years I keep giving it up. Why should it be so good? A bunch of food coloring and artificial sweetener. Oy. Vey.

So it's Sunday afternoon and I'm watching the Angels vs. White Sox, my other addiction--the Angels, that is. (Yesterday went to the game with Brian and Travis. The two of them went today...)

When I'm watching a ball game, or when I'm writing in the afternoon, I want a Diet Coke.

Now I drink water. And white tea or green tea or black tea without the caffeine. I love the smell of coffee but I won't drink it. Makes my heart go all aflutter. One of the best things is sitting down to write with a cup of dark roast coffee. When I lived in Vermont, I drank espresso with a sliver of lemon peel.

The Diet Coke habit came later. I don't use artificial sweetener in anything, but I love it in Diet Coke. Bizarre.

What do you drink when you write? Or have you given up something (like coffee) and are developing a habit of something else?

A Starbucks regular

You know you've been showing up at the same place for days on end when you step up to the counter and the barista says, "White tea?" and gives you a little smile. I hand over the aqua insulated cup that I bring every day and she hands it back with steaming tea.

I am more than halfway through the revision. Flannery O'Connor's words, that writing a novel is a messy business, pong about my head. Sure is messy! So many pages, so many scenes, characters and lines of dialogue to keep track of. Where is that scene? I wonder. Did so and so say such and such to so and so, and if so, where???

I refer to my notebook where each chapter is sketched out, according to Ms. Carolyn See, and that has helped keep track. I can see the value of having a couple of huge files containing all the chapters so when you wonder these sorts of things, you can easily do a search, but I didn't do it that way. Each chapter is its own document.

It takes time, revision does. And patience. And lots of white tea.

Writing at Starbucks

It's still working. I started last week, and so far have been there each morning this week for two hours. The noise isn't even as distracting as email. (I've kept my vow of not checking email while I'm there.)

This morning a huge group of older adults, mostly dressed well and wearing jewelry, came in and pushed a bunch of tables and chairs together and took over the place. The din rose to the point of when I was on the phone with my chiropractor, I had to go outside to hear the person on the other end of the phone.

Still, I found that noise less distracting than the distractions at home when I'm working on fiction.

A few years back I was diagnosed as being an ADD adult so I wonder if the noise makes me focus in.

Too personal...or not personal enough?

I have a friend who thinks I'm being a bit too personal about my writing woes. This friend thinks I should zip it, and just write away. And if I'm dealing with any obstacles, to just keep them to myself. This friend also doesn't think I should go out to a cafe to work. He/she thinks I should just stay home and buckle down.

So tell me, does it make you uncomfortable when I, or any other writers with blogs, talk about what they're dealing with, whether it be procrastination, writers block, or not being able to write at home? Seriously, i want to know.

.....

The LA Times Festival of Books was stellar, as usual. My friend Allison and I decided we liked the humor panels best. The panelists on the one I moderated (Allison Burnett, Merrill Markoe, Pamela Ribon and Amy Wallen) were hilarious. The other two humor panels we went to were great, too. Allison and Amy are going to come on the show in July, methinks.

.....

Leaving home....

....to write. Well, to work on fiction. I've done it sporadically over the years, but finally realized I had to do it like a job. So I went out and bought a new battery for my iBook, one that lasts almost four hours.

It works like this: I drop my son at school and go to a cafe. One morning it was Kean, the next Starbucks near UC-Irvine. I work on the revision of Starletta's Kitchen for two hours and then I leave. I vow not to check email, although my original intention was to work at cafes that are not wireless. But now the world seems to be wireless and it's difficult to find a place that isn't. Maybe the beach, or a park. But I want to work at a table. Monday through Friday, unless something comes up that I have to take care of, this is what I plan to do.

At home it's too difficult to not get distracted. And as Dennis Palumbo has said, email is death to writers.

***

Today is the first day of the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at UCLA. I'm moderating a panel this a.m. on fiction and humor. So many great panels. I believe BookTV will be broadcasting some. Anyone going?

The ASJA conference in NYC last weekend was stellar. Great panels there, too. (They're for sale at www.asja.org.)

***

I like what Melissa Bank said at the panel on Voice at the ASJA conference. She said she has a drawing of a rhinoceros being airlifted and it reminds her that writing is difficult.

What techniques do y'all use to get writing done?

The ASJA Annual Writers Conference

Are any of you going? I'm leaving on Thursday for the three day affair in New York City. I love New York. My father grew up in Harlem, then the Upper East Side (he was from Sicily, but took a ship to NY as a teen and never looked back). In the 11th grade, we bussed up to the city from my Pennsylvania hamlet and went to Times Square and Radio City Music Hall. One New Year's Eve when I was 17, I went to Times Square. A man grabbed me and kissed me. Yuck.

Such a people watching city. Great food. Great shops. Personality.

Mostly, I'll be at the conference, which I'm co-chairing. Great panels. Great people. Friends I haven't seen since last year this time. But we also plan to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Little Italy.

And next week, as you know if you've been reading this blog for a while, is the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. I'm moderating a panel on humor and fiction on Saturday morning. Another great event for writers and for readers.

Writers conferences and retreats and talks and panels are food for writers. I always come away with inspiration or new ideas or new contacts and new friends. In the summer of '92, I went to Squaw Valley Writers Workshop, one of the best West Coast conferences for literary writers. I met one of my idols there: Clarence Major. Of course, me being me, I didn't introduce myself until my last night there; he so intimidated me. Later, when I had a show, he came on my show and after that, our interview was published in a book about him.

Beginning in June, for those in Southern California, we're starting a speaking series called Novel Voices. I started yet another blog where I'll be posting info as we get it (http://novelvoices.blogstpot.com).

If you know of any stellar events for writers, wherever you are, post them here.

Kurt Vonnegut died

He influenced so many writers. I love these Vonnegut quotes:

"Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be."

"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."

"Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae."

"Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops."

"Human beings will be happier - not when they cure cancer or get to Mars or eliminate racial prejudice or flush Lake Erie but when they find ways to inhabit primitive communities again. That's my utopia."

"I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different."

"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center."

"People don't come to church for preachments, of course, but to daydream about God."

His books--Slaughterhouse-Five, Sirens of Titan, Player Piano and God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater--affected me. I was in college, becoming a writer.

We should have memorial services for Vonnegut all over. Read his work aloud. Remember.

Dolor de cabeza

When I have a migraine, which seems to be more often lately, there's little I want to do. Cooking is hard. I can read okay, but it's hard to concentrate on writing most anything at all, except for e-mails. So I apologize for being remiss and not posting.

My librarian said she's been to the ER three times with migraines. Mine have never been that bad, fortunately.

I also had a student who rarely made class this last session because of migraines. The best she could do was get to work. I feel for her.

Today I took Excedrin Extra Strength and the migraine is at bay. It's there, lurking, like a parking meter cop, waiting to swoop down at the first chance it gets. I even said a prayer to St. Jude, the saint of lost causes.

I cannot think of one man who gets migraines. They seem to be a female thing.

What do you do for migraines?

Book abuse

In the New York Times last week, an essay by Ben Schott in which he talked about abusing books*. You know, turning down the corners, leaving them splayed open, marking them up.

I love it when readers of my book tell me their copy is all marked up. I don't consider it abuse. I consider it love.

Although I did loan a friend a brand new book and it was returned to me, abused. Coffee stains, wrinkled. And it made me unhappy.

But I must admit to you here and now: I am a book abuser. An inadvertant abuser.

I left the book that you see on the table on the back patio last summer. I brought it out to Travis who was on the chair hammock and we never brought it back in. I figured others would look at it, namely Brian's guitar students or their parents. It seemed, of all the books I own, the one book that should be available to the public, to kids.

Through the searing sun, through the rain, through the Santa Ana winds and the itinerant cats in the neighborhood, and who knows what else, the book has remained on the patio table. Sometimes it's positioned in such a way that I'm sure someone has been looking at it, maybe even reading it.

I suppose I abused the book, but look how sturdy it is, for a mere paperback.

How are you with your books?

* If you go to the NYT, you probably won't be able to access Schott's essay unless you pay. I found it on this blog, unabridged.

Shameless self-promotion

I was going to write about deleting thousands of emails and how long it takes and then I was going to write about Joan Didion's play, written up in the Los Angeles Times, but then I thought, no, I'm going to plug a few writerly events that I'm involved in.

During the third weekend of April, in New York, the ASJA Annual Writers Conference takes place. A great conference geared to nonfiction writers/journalists, with a bit for the fiction writers and screenwriters, too. Two days at the Grand Hyatt. I'll be there (I'm co-chair this year).

Then, the following weekend is the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, which always takes place the last weekend of April at UCLA. A ton of great panels and lots and lots of books. I'm moderating a Saturday morning panel on women and fiction.

In September, the Central Coast Writers Conference in San Luis Obispo, north of Santa Barbara, takes place. I'm on a couple of panels/workshops and so is one of my favorites, Earlene Fowler. Eric Maisel is the keynote speaker.

Take a writerly vacation. You'll learn something, meet new writer friends, and write it off, too.

The Namesake

I love it when a movie stands up to the book. The Namesake does this. I loved the book and I loved the movie. I read the book a few months ago and found it moving and wonderful. The movie was moving and wonderful, too. I've been to India a few times and have had many Indian friends, but even so, even if I'd never been there and had never been immersed in the India community, I think I would have found it all there and not felt that I was missing something. Same thing re: the book. If you haven't read it, you won't find you're at a loss. (Although I would read the book after you see the movie to fill in details.)

I had that experience with Little Children. I loved the book but really didn't like the movie very much at all--and especially didn't like the narration.

In The Namesake, the only thing I thought was off a bit was why Ashok wants to name his and Ashima's child Gogol, but that could be the trouble of my memory and not the movie.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

This morning Travis and I came out to find this vignette, created by Lonnie the Leprechan (or Brian....)....

Pet stories

I am a sucker for these sorts of pet stories:

Here a dog and monkey are inseparable.

And here, Nora the cat plays piano.

Okay, back to writing.....

Freewriting on anniversary

Happy news, now. It's our anniversary. 13 years. Yikes. Not yikes at the number 13 (we married on March 13, believing 13 to be not an unlucky number) but 13 at making it this long. I never even lived in one place this long.

I did a freewriting with my Tuesday night workshop on the words "musings" and "melancholy" and here's what I came up with:
.......................
I love holidays, birthdays and anniversaries. This morning I awoke to flowers crowding the dining room table. Brian's doing. Brian likes to celebrate, too. Any reason to celebrate is good enough for him. There were daisies and hyacinths and orchids, lilies, cyclamen, irises and other tiny purple flowers. Thirteen pennies were scattered about the table. Thirteen, for good luck. We were married on the 13th, 13 years ago.

Seven ceramic angels also loitered about. A heart angel and hope angel and wishes angel. Later Brian went out to buy the wisdom angel, which he said he meant to get but didn't, the one with the book, but no wings like the others.

"It looks like your mother," Brian said to Travis over a dinner of kung pao tofu, kung pao shrimp, vegetable egg rolls, and pizza for Travis.

We three looked at the angel, her head down, a book on her lap.

"Why's that the only one without wings?" said Travis.

"Because it's me," I said. That's me, a fallen angel. I have books, but no wings.

Every day should have such propitious beginnings. Melancholy stayed away today.

My friend Mimi said Brian should give classes to men on how to properly celebrate a holiday. Brian's mother says he always been like this. Musing, she said, he's all of the good rolled into one.

Thirteen years. Yikes.
........................................

Editors and Predators

Do you know about this site, where you can get the lowdown on agents?

Here it is.

Sylvia Ladeau-Bring 1917-2007

My half-sister, Sylvia, passed away last night. "Passed away..." Those two words always give me pause. Sylvia is so much a part of the reason that I survived my childhood.

We're sitting there--anywhere, the dining table, the sofa--and Brian says, "Why did you sigh?" and I shrug.

I lie along the top of the sofa (it's wide, it's sturdy) like the cats do and stare. A bit numb. Missing Sylvia. Not feeling like doing anything.

Sylvia was older than my mother when I was born, my father's second daughter with his first family, the family that his marriage to my mother broke up. She was half sister, half mother to me. The most upbeat person I know. Or is that knew? When someone dies, does knowing them pass into "knew them?"

Oh, the minutia of it all.

I do know this: Sylvia will leave an unfillable hole in my life. As it should be.

Schtuff

I've let too much time go by without posting.

We're back home, missing snow.

I'm revising Starletta's Kitchen and planning to give a writing workshop at a major insurance company tomorrow for a dozen of its marketing folks.

And I'm keeping watch, via phone and email, on my half-sister back east who is close to death. Sylvia is who I write about at the beginning of the chapter in Pen on Fire called "Using the Ones You Love," the chapter that begins with: "Multiple marriages, remarriages and bigamy run in my family. My dad married my mother while he was still married to his first wife. My half-sister divorced her first husband, married her second husband, divorced him and remarried the first; and when he died, she remarried the second, who had been waiting for her for ten years."

After I sent Sylvia the book, she said she liked it, "especially the part about me."

Sylvia was from my father's first family. She was older than my mother, so you can imagine the jolt to her family when my father, a native Sicilian, left her mother and the family for my mother. Must have been a major drag for everyone involved.

So now Sylvia's in the hospital. I spoke to her the other day. She told me she hoped she would get into heaven.

"If you don't, Sylvia, none of us will."

"I don't know," she said, kinda slurry.

There were a lot of "I love you's" and she then she said, "I'll see you in heaven." So she must have decided she would get in after all. Yesterday a priest gave her Last Rites.

100 words for snow?

It's debatable whether the Eskimoes have 100 words for snow. Doesn't matter. Today we have blotla, which is blowing snow and tlapa, which is powder snow.

This shows the view outside the condo.

I love snow.

Here's the beginning of a poem by one of my favorite poets, Diane Di Prima (a podcast of her on my show is at http://writersonwriting.blogspot.com).

"First Snow, Kerhonkson" - for Alan

This, then, is the gift the world has given me
(you have given me)
softly the snow
cupped in the hollows.....

(You can find her poem in its entirety here: http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage/writers/diprima.html. Just scan down a bit.)

I do love snow.

We are going out
into the snow
now.
Make a new memory
with snow.


Trav and me...

On vacation, you do little revising

Here's what I saw this morning at sunrise from my window.
We're at Mammoth Lakes with our inlaws (at their condo) and while my manuscript is here with me, I've done little with it other than think about it. How can you work when there is so much snow around you, calling you to go out into it? There is sledding, for one. And when you have a snowboarding boy who wants nothing more than to get up in the morning and go directly to the mountain, how can you say, "No. I have to work." You can't.

Although this morning, at--gulp--7:30, he went off with the inlaws to the mountain. I stayed behind at the condo, making a bean soup and doing some minor tasks in regards to revision. I brought a DVD with me: So, Is It Done?: Navigating the Revision Process, hosted by Janet Burroway. A few authors I like are on it--Rosellen Brown, Ron Carlson--and it will be interesting to hear what they have to say about revision (though, again, Carolyn See's method is tops, far as I'm concerned).

I do love the snow (as those closest to me are tired of hearing, I'm sure).

And more on rejection

A friend wrote to me about her novel that has been rejected from enough agents to give her pause, to ask me what I think she should do. Some agents have said they didn't like the "voice," and the last agent said she didn't like the writing.

Here's what I said, more or less:

All I can say is sometimes you just have to move on. I wrote two novels and 100 pages of another before I wrote PEN ON FIRE. The first novel I sent out to only one agent and she said, “The characters are navel gazing, but I like the writing,” and I thought, You’re right, they’re just sitting around talking, and I put it aside. If I’d had a passion for it, I would have sent it out more, but I realized it was the novel that taught me what writing a novel was all about.

The 2nd novel I worked hard on. I compiled a couple dozen rejections from agents. There were some really good parts but the main male protagonist no one liked. During that time, I began writing PEN ON FIRE because ...why? I loved inspirational writing books and wanted to write one, wanted to combine instruction with memoir. I had two agents who compiled a couple dozen rejections. I put it away for a year or so, hired a freelance book doctor/editor who didn’t know me to give me feedback, and I rethought the slant, researched what was out there and how could I make my book different. Came up with a new title and the aspect of time—using little time to write.

This time the book worked. I got a new agent and a great book deal. And it was 8 years from the idea to publication.

Was that time wasted writing the novel and working on PEN ON FIRE? I don’t think so.

All writing goes toward becoming a better writer. Fiction is a hard one. Many novelists write at least one novel, usually two,sometimes more, before they write one that sells. This may be your practice novel. It may not. But maybe you should put it away for a while and start something new, learn as much as you can about the art of fiction, read a ton of books on technique, read a ton of novels, and write something new. You may end up bringing this one back out and revising it so that it sells. You may not. But right now it seems it’s not happening.

Work on voice. If you don’t understand voice and what it is, read up on voice and study authors who have strong voices.

It may seem daunting now, I know.

On the other hand, if you believe strongly in this book of yours, then send it out more and don’t put it away until you have more than a few dozen rejections from agents. Or approach a small publisher whose advance would be too teensy to get an agent involved, and see what happens.

There’s no easy answer. You put a ton of work into this book. But so much of writing is about process, and certainly with fiction, this is true. Even novelists with books out occasionally write one that their agent feels isn’t right and shouldn’t be out there and they move on and write the next.

After she's already published a few novels, bestselling ones, my friend, the late Barbara Seranella, wrote one that her agent thought wasn't right somehow. Barbara wasn't happy about this, but she was a professional. She put it away and barreled on, wrote the next novel and sold it and even won an award, I believe, for that book. (I miss you, Barbara!)

Any bits of advice I missed here? What would you say to my friend?

Revision part 2

I'm still at it, more than halfway through with step 2 of Carolyn See's method. I read through the entire manuscript and then started over, detailing each page. It can be painful, but as Carolyn told me the other day via email, it saves a lot of time and mess later.

I've been searching out various methods of revision, and so far Carolyn's is the best.

ASJA Writers Conference in April

If you can only go to one conference for nonfiction writers this year, this is the one (and there's a little for fiction writers/screenwriters, too). I'm co-chair so I Will Be There.

Click here.

Anna Quindlen on writing

I love Quindlen's essay in the current issue of Newsweek. It talks about the value of writing in anyone's life and echoes a chapter in Pen on Fire in which I talk about keeping a journal for your kid or sharing a journal with a significant other. Read Quindlen's essay here. Moving piece.

A toast

Very sweet of my internet friend, Deborah
to send me a bottle of wine to celebrate finishing my novel (from wine.com). Very thoughtful. Thank you, Deborah...

Hermes 2000 ... Who uses typewriters?

I wrote about my Hermes 2000 typewriter a few months back. It's out again, being used. I'm ordering ribbons. And I want to compile a list of writers who use typewriters. Don DeLillo does. So does Joe Eszterhas. Larry McMurtry.

Who else?

Revision, according to Carolyn See

No work on the book this weekend, but a firm resolution to begin today, and I did, amazingly.

First I outlined the rest of the chapters--21 through 30--on this roll of newsprint that Travis used to draw on I wrote down the major actions of the chapters.

Then I re-read the section in Carolyn See's book, Making a Literary Life, on writing--in particular, revision. I love that book and I love Carolyn.

I took notes, and I give them to you now, here:

1. Reread the entire mss., making only the most minor of changes. Read, don't edit. You have to know what you have before you can begin sculpting.

2. Read again. On second reading, make a list: What I have/What I need. This should run 10-20 pages for a novel.

*Work only 2 hours at a time. After 2 hours, it's all blather.*

3. The third step is to make a one sentence summary of each of your chapters. (See says her ideal novel is comprised of 12 chapters with 30 pages to each chapter, giving you 360 pages.)

4. Do another "What I have/what I need" list, which should look sweeter and more barren than the first time you did it.

Read it through a couple more times.

Yikes.

So I did my newsprint roll outline and began reading. It's good to not make changes yet, because I'd be crossing out all over the place.

But I do make notes. On the typewriter, I wrote: "Put more food in it." It is, after all, called Starletta's Kitchen. My son, who's been typing on the Hermes 2000 lately, laughed.

The End

Lovely words, don't you think?

Well, I finally wrote them on the middle of page 395 of Chapter 30 of Starletta's Kitchen. Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hold that glass of champagne aloft and toast with me....

Now begins the task I'm actually looking forward to: revision. (I'm also dreading it, too, if that makes sense.) The manuscript needs so very much work, but I'm looking forward to it. Getting the words onto the page--the first draft--is the harder part, for me.

Ann Hood knocks me out

Ann Hood was on the show yesterday. I had been aware of her work for years, but it wasn't until Pages magazine asked me to review her new novel, The Knitting Circle, that I read her. I loved the book, a story about a range of women with stories. I then picked up her collection of short stories, An Ornithologist's Guide to Life and it knocked me out. The tone of the stories was much more flip, less serious than the novel (based on Hood's life), and with each story, I grew more and more impressed with her skill and seeming alacrity with which she writes. I want to read more of her stuff--all of her stuff, in fact. We didn't discuss this on the show, but I believe her book has been optioned by Julia Roberts, a confirmed knitter. Hood is especially great at short story endings. Every writer knows how hard ending a piece is and she does it just right, tying things up a bit, but not too much so as to seem contrived.

Barbara Seranella's Obit in the OC Register

Barbara. Last few days, thoughts of Barbara underlie everything. She had such vim and vigor. To the end.

Barbara Seranella ... sad news

Barbara Seranella
Born April 30, 1956
Died January 21, 2007

Barbara Seranella, 50, bestselling mystery author and resident of Laguna Beach and PGA West in La Quinta, died peacefully on January 21, 2007, at 4:15 p.m. EST (1:15 p.m. PST) at the Cleveland Clinic in Cleveland, Ohio, with her husband Ron Seranella and her brother Dr. Larry Shore at her side. Barbara, who died of end-stage liver disease while awaiting a liver transplant, leaves behind her husband Ron, brothers Larry Shore of San Francisco and David Shore of Woodacre, parents Nate and Margie Shore of La Quinta, and stepdaughters Carrie Seranella and Shannon Howard.

Private funeral arrangements are being made by the family. A celebration of Barbara’s life is being planned for February; details will be announced later.

For information, please contact Debbie Mitsch, Barbara’s publicist, at martinandmitsch@aol.com, (714) 743-6127.

............

I will miss her greatly. We were in a critique group together for a while. She was on the show a few times. Here's the podcast of the last show.

And something she published in the Times in December (Thanks, Bill Fitzhugh): Click here.

Book Soup, Dutton's, West

Rumor has it that Book Soup at South Coast Plaza is closing at the end of March. I had my first book launch there and liked the store, only I must echo that lousy refrain, Location Location Location. It's too hard to get to the store for book browsing. You have to park in the South Coast Plaza parking lot and hike a ways to get to the store. So much easier, I have to admit, to pull up to Borders and run in. Too bad. I do like the store.

I had my other book launch at Dutton's in Brentwood, one of my favorite bookstores of all time. All these little outposts circling a courtyard. But the landlord has other plans, wants to upgrade and keep Dutton's but Dutton's isn't so sure.

And finally, West, the magazine that accompanies that Los Angeles Times on Sunday will no longer be publishing fiction. The future of the magazine hangs in the balance, so I hear. I hope they bring the essays back. I always looked forward to them.

Palm Desert

I seem to have gotten into a habit of photographing my mantel when I change the books on its corner, so here is my January mantel.



Spoke before a wonderful group of women, PEN Women of Palm Desert, yesterday. Only a few chapters here in Southern Cal., and this was one of them. Educated, creative, productive women. Very worth the 2 hour drive each way. They sold out of books. But cold! Of course I love it, but it was odd. The last time we were out in Palm Desert, it was 50 degrees warmer--114 degrees, in the summer. They spoke of ice on the pavement early in the morning, and bougainvillea that was now black from freezing. And little dogs out for a walk, slip-sliding around.

Sobol contest cancelled

On my 9/14/06 post, I talked about contests and basically expressed a general disdain for them. Well, The Sobol contest was cancelled. There just weren't enough takers.

Here's the story.

Elizabeth Benedict on my show tomorrow

I love it when I love what I'm reading. Right now it's Almost by Elizabeth Benedict. Just finished The Practice of Deceit, her last novel, and loved it, too. Written from a male POV. She also wrote The Joy of Writing Sex and is going to be on the show tomorrow for the entire hour.

When I walk, I listen to Anna Quindlen's new novel, Rise and Shine, which I also love. Written in first person, past tense, it's a good one to study, re: great characters and a hefty plot. I'm not at the end yet--probably another 20 pages or so--so I'll report back when I've finished. I like that Quindlen was a journalist (still does essays) and turned to fiction. You can see her skill at reporting all over the place in her fiction and it works so well.

So for my question once again: What are you reading now that you love?

Back at work

Yup, Travis is back in school and I'm back at work on Starletta's Kitchen. Trying to get more food into the book. If I don't, I have to--eek--change the title.

I was just noticing that a lot of blogs by male writers are impersonal. Informational and interesting, but not personal. Just visiting The Elegant Variation (http://www.marksarvas.blogs.com/), which I like very much, and it got me thinking. So I thought I'd made a gross generalization. ; }

Everyone back to writing (if you took the holidays off)?

An interview on Wow-Women on Writing

Here's an interview I just did for "Wow-Women on Writing," with Annette Fix. The Web site has a ton of good information for writers, and interviews with writers. Also check out the interview with Diana Abu-Jaber and Cynthia Kadohata.

Yay...I slept in....

Well, I slept till 6:30, which is like sleeping in for me. Went to bed at 10 (we were watching Fahrenheit 451, which Trav has never seen, but I just couldn't stay up any longer). Hit the sheets and slept straight through, with dreams, even. Realized I hadn't remembered a dream in days, weeks.

So maybe Dr. Ron was right; he usually is. I was excited (i.e., stressed). We go all out: Christmas eve Mass and a family party, then gifts galore under the tree.

Now that Christmas day is over, those knitted gifts I didn't finish don't matter. It was a good day--a great day--though a bit bittersweet, as good days often are. It's as if I'm in the future, as well as the present, looking back, remembering. And now Travis is off school till Jan. 8, which I'm jazzed about.

I have a Jewish friend who said Christmas is just a bit odd and uncomfortable--all the hubbub that doesn't include her. I bet, I said. I tried to imagine living in Israel or somewhere where Christmas is a teensy blip on the calendar and Hannukuh or Ramadan is like a Kleig light against the darkness.

How has the holiday been for you?

It's happening earlier and earlier....

Waking, that is. This morning Brian had just come to bed (in from a gig at one). I lay there for a bit and was too awake; my mind was pinging about, thinking of this thing I had to do and that thing. I looked at the clock. Four a.m. My feet found my slippers and I went out to the living room and read The Glass Castle (by Jeannette Walls, who's going to be on my show on Jan. 4), which I like very much. After a bit I turned out the light and tried to sleep on the sofa. Wasn't happening. Got up, made a cup of tea and worked on a guitar strap I'm making for my son for the Big Day. The black sky lightened to gray. Soon Travis got up and we went to Trader Joe's and came back to make cookies and caramel corn.

My acupuncturist, Dr. Ron, said, "Maybe it's because you're excited."

"About what?"

"The holiday!"

"Oh! Hmm. Maybe."

I actually like that my day has become longer. It reminds me of the few times I returned home from India and I was awake when everyone else was sleeping. It was fun, but only for so long.

Tomorrow's Christmas eve.

In Travis' words, Happy ChristmaHannaKwanzika....to you all....

Is anyone sleeping?

It's 5:14 a.m. here in Southern California and I've been awake almost an hour. I awoke with my heart beating hard and fast. I did some deep breathing and soon the heart calmed down. But I was still awake. So I did what I always do when I can't stay asleep--I got up, fed Rosie (JoJo is in absentia), made a cup of tea and sat down at the computer to prepare for my show (Michael Datcher and Francine Prose are on) and catch up, before I take Trav to school and go to Dr. Ron the acupuncturist and do more holiday shopping and hope that the appliance repairman comes today to fix the oven so I can actually bake cookies.

I just don't sleep the way I used to. Too much on my mind? Too much caffeine (tea?)? Too much to do? I dunno.

I tend to not write when I wake up earlier than I would like. Although this may just be a recent thing, since my plate, which has turned into a platter this fall, overfloweth with work/tasks/obligations other than writing fiction, which is sheer luxury.

One resolution for the New Year is to scale back onwork work, and finish my novel. Maybe another should be to sleep more. Although perhaps 6 - 7 hours sleep is enough for me.

What are your sleep habits? Do you wake up earlier than you would like? And when you do, what do you do?

Resolutions?

I don't know that I would call it a resolution, but I've been so busy with teaching and deadlines and Christmas that I've hardly worked on my novel in weeks. Things will be slowing down in the next week or so and not speed up till around the third week of January, so I really really really really really hope I can finish the first draft of Starletta's Kitchen.

Anyone have any writerly--or otherwise--resolutions brewing?

Oh, I've been remiss....

.....without intending to be. Just have been so busy. Teaching five classes has winnowed down to two, which helps free up time. But it's busy as ever and in my ongoing search to cut back, I've come up with nada. Anything I'd pull back from I fear would make me flakey. I used to be tres flakey. Got a lot of people mad at me because I'd flake at the last minute or break a date with a girlfriend for some guy. Oh, bad bad behavior.

As it is, I look forward to the next month and a half when things will be on the light side and I can perhaps finish the first draft of my novel. Still hovering at the 350 page mark.

How are all of you about now?

(Anyone else love pomegranates? I do, but all those bothersome seeds....!)

What are you reading ...

... and what books have you read this year that you'd heartily recommend?

I just finished On Beauty by Zadie Smith, which I Loved. I'm now reading White Teeth, her first book, which I like but don't love. She's a great writer but her first book isn't as compelling to me as her current one.

Any books you read that you wanted to get into, but couldn't?

An exercise

What is your earliest musical memory? Is there a song that stands out from when you were sixteen? Who were you with? What were you doing? What about when you were twenty-one? Thirty-three? Forty-six? What played at your wedding or when your child was born? For fifteen minutes, write down these musical memories.

Experiment. Play different types of music and write. Write to silence as well. How does what you listen to—or not listen to—affect what you write?

Put on music you like, set the timer for fifteen minutes and write whatever comes through. Don’t try to make it into something else. Not yet, anyway. Let the music take you and your writing with it, and see what happens.

Work with similes, too. Set the timer for fifteen minutes and start with what you hear right now. What does what you hear remind you of? What does the rain sound like to you? What do tires moving past your house sound like? the whistle of the teakettle? Pay attention to sounds as you sit and write, as you walk, as you do what you do, and bring those sounds into your writing.

Don't buy new books

This isn't my advice, but AOL's advice, yesterday, on their home page, I'm told. This is such lousy advice. Anyone who doesn't know the publishing biz may not think this is bad advice, may in fact think it good advice. Yet, how could anyone not know that an author makes no money on used books. Buying used books counts in no way toward an author eventually getting royalties.

A couple of weeks ago a friend--bless her heart--told me she found my book online at a great price. I was speechless. She thought I'd be happy and I could see she truly did not know that I'd much rather her paid a little bit more for a new book at that same online store.

So listen....if you want to keep the publishing industry alive, buy new books. Go into bookstores--indies, chains, even online--and buy new books. Only buy used books if the book you want is out of print or way out of your budget. It's sort of like poetry; so many people are budding poets but they never buy poetry books and the poetry market is rolling in the dust.

Stranger than Fiction

Go see this movie if you haven't already. It's wonderful. This is a writer's movie. Great acting, moving, inventive. That's all I'm going to say. No spoilers here. Just go see it so we can talk.

Start with a photograph

It's an exercise I often give to my students, to start with a photo--preferably an old photo--and see what it sparks.

This is an early photograph of my parents. I hadn’t planned on writing the poem below, but this photograph--along with another photo of my mother, years later--inspired me. This is what I wrote:

Fading Pictures

In the photograph, Mom and Dad sit on naugahyde
chairs. Mom wears that wide smile, now mine,
that she hates so much because her gums show. Dad
glimmers like a secret that yearns to be told
and squeezes a cigaret between two erect fingers.
A gold-framed photo of my brother
sits on the table between them.
I have not yet arrived.

They seemed so happy then, before Dad spent
his money on women. Before my brother
grew too old for his dreams. Before I married
beneath an ancient oak tree, sure that I would save
my children from the earth by having none.

Dad is long passed and Mom is far gone. Encased
in her tract home with an upstairs she never
uses. She boils chicken wings for her
Pomeranian that spins as it barks.

In the latest picture of Mom, she sits at her
kitchen table. Clutching a cigarette, she gazes
through the blinds at the barren winter landscape.
Empty chairs surround her table and I have to look
away from this already fading Kodak color.

The sadness in her eyes, the brittleness
of her crooked index finger. I cannot help
but wonder where the woman is who once tempted
any man who came near, who embarrassed
this daughter with her sexiness. Mom’s diamond
pendant, now mine, stuck in her cleavage. Men
just could not look away. With my small chest,
I cannot offer any place in which to wedge
that stone.

...................................................................

I ended up sending this to a local literary contest a bunch of years ago. The poem was a winner and was printed in Poetry Flash, a Bay Area literary journal.

Happy halloween!

Everyone reading this dresses up tonight, right, and goes trick or treating? Or stays home to treat the tricksters--in costume?

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. When I was a kid, I convinced my mother that we had to begin three days early so we could visit all the houses in our somewhat rural neighborhood. I had three costumes, one for each night. Rather than stocking up on candy, I just wanted to be able to celebrate for longer than just one day.

Three nights prior to Halloween, my mother would drive me to the far reaches of the neighborhood. A typical scenario went like this:

I knock on a door. The light goes on and someone answers. They see me, alone, in costume, at their doorstep.

"Trick or treat!" I say, and hold out my bag.

The homeowner (nobody rented back then, not in our neighborhood) looks confused. "Is it Halloween?" he or she says.

"I begin early so I can visit everyone," I say.

"Oh...well....let me see what I can find." Inevitably, they throw change or a piece of fruit into my bag. Few are ready, yet, with candy.

...

My mother had no idea, and I suppose I didn't either, that trick or treating was only done on Halloween. My mother was raised with eight siblings by parents who were from Italy, who never even learned English, and couldn't have known the ins and outs of the American custom of Halloween.

These days I only dress up on the 31st, instead of two and three days prior, and so does Bry. We accompany Travis trick or treating. My costume tonight: a plastic surgeon. I bought an emergency room doctor's costume and plastic wrap to wrap about my body, here and there.

Should you dress up but stay home, try writing while in costume. See how it affects your writing. Or become the character you are dressed up as and write from that character's point of view.

Boo!

Richard Ford in today's New York Times

Richard Ford talks about his new book, The Lay of the Land in this New York Times story.

Also...I've been thinking a lot about why authors live where they live and how you find writers in certain areas more than in other areas.

For instance, where I live, in Orange County, California, there are few authors. UC-Irvine is here, with the MFA program that most writers would kill to get into and when they don't, no matter how talented they are, it scars them for years, it seems. But when writers graduate from UCI, most leave the area. They go to Los Angeles, Northern California or far away. Is it just the cost of real estate in these parts, or is it something else?

A friend from ASJA said there are some 500 writers, agents and editors who belong to a group in Montclair, NJ, who get together and do events. 500? There was a piece in the New York Times a while ago about how Brooklyn is overrun with writers.

I've been wanting to leave the O.C. for some time, but I doubt it's for the same reasons that other writers don't stay.

Just mulling.....if you have any thoughts, let them fly. I want to hear.

What I see from where I sit

A map of Vermont hangs above my desk. (One is behind it, too.)








A glass of wine, a framed photograph of Travis.









A birthday plant from Elle.









Our cats, doing what they do best.











The mini-waterfall we bought at Ace Hardware that constantly runs and whispers to me that what I long for is the sound of a creek just outside my window. The aqua toaster burns toast but reminds me of a different time. So we keep it.


I want to see what is on and around your desk, what you see from where you sit. If you have a blog, take some pictures and post a link.

Raining cats and dogs

You know how I feel about contests. Still, I saw this in Publisher's Weekly and thought I'd pass this on to you. If you have a dog or a cat and you're so inclined....

(This is our Rosie, who loves boxes, bags and, well, empty water bottle cases.)

Anne Tyler's Digging to America

You know how when you read a book that you love, you are elated and then when it's over, you're sort of depressed, because you think there will never be another book that you'll love as much--and then there is, and you're elated all over again?

I'm reading Anne Tyler's newest novel and I will say, I love it as much as I loved Accidental Tourist, which was not only a great book, but a great movie adaptation.

This book also interests me because I sense Tyler infusing the book with her life, and I'm always interested in how we translate bits of our lives into fiction.

(Actually, I'm listening to it on CD, with Blair Brown--Days and Nights of Molly Dodd, with the wonder David Strathairn--doing a stellar job reading.)

What are you reading that you love?

Life simulates art ....

...or TV, in any case. Ever see the Showtime TV show, Weeds? More specifically, the intro in which a line of SUVs (Range Rovers, I think) are exiting subdivision? I saw this this morning, the Corona del Mar version, that is.

I went for a walk and on my way home I was coming down the alley and at opposite ends of the alley, black SUVs were pulling out of their garages at the same exact moment, same angle, everything. Then they passed one another. One guy was on a cell phone. Of course.

Remember that old Animals' song with the lines: We gotta get out of this place / If its the last thing we ever do / We gotta get out of this place / 'Cause girl, there's a better life / For me and you ...

Uh, yeah.....the song is very much on my mind. The show is interesting, but I don't want to be living it.

Stayin' alive, stayin' alive...

In today's Los Angeles Times, there's a story about how independent bookstores that want to stay alive pretty much need to do more than just sell books. They need to sell food, hold performances, form membership programs, and hire employees who can talk books--imagine!

Interestingly, the piece also talks about how there's been a turnaround, that indie bookstores are opening at a rate of "60, 70, 80 stores" each year.

Sounds great to me.

What do you think about bookstores needing to take on additional roles, other than just selling books?