If Dewey is a normal boy, raised in the suburbs outside of Seattle, and not of the river brethren in Pennsylvania, what do I need to know about him and his family that I didn't know before?
1) What are his earliest memories, and do those relate to his being gay?
2) What religion is his family? Why do they react so strongly when he comes out?
3) What relationships did he have with other kids growing up, since his hometown is far less monotype than the river brethren community would have been?
4) Does he have favorite foods?
5) Does he move to Seattle to go to school, but is cut off financially, and so must fend for himself (causing him to move into the house)?
6) Does he pick up an odd-job at the Farmer's Market?
7) Could the farmer's market be a more central crux? A new, downtown market, something Muriel is helping to start? Something that connects them all from Day 1?
8) For that matter, is Chigger a closet-case?
I wonder if the story does become more about creating family than about the individual senses of loss the earlier drafts focused on? I've always like the knotty elegance of three.
Something to consider when I open the story again - tonight? tomorrow - and see what I can find. And thanks again to Leslie Pietrzyck for jump-starting me back into Dewey's world.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Day 4: What About This?
Last night's class was such an unexpected treat. I say "unexpected" only because I am still reeling from jetlag and culture shock back at the office. "Such a treat," I say, because Leslie, our instructor, took us through a number of exercises (we writers call them "generative prompts" because we're fancy) that broke down our expectations about writing, and narrative, and connectivity, and then helped us rebuild them in unexpected (there's that word again) ways.
It got me thinking. Since I've been feeling this real reluctance to publish 150 words of my own, precious, pre-born prose each day, might it be freeing to simply complete a "prompt" a day -- something more free, more unhindered, expectation-free?
There are plenty of places to find prompts online and on the shelf of writing books I keep near my desk.
Maybe that's the trick?
150 words a day, completely unexpected, completely free?
It got me thinking. Since I've been feeling this real reluctance to publish 150 words of my own, precious, pre-born prose each day, might it be freeing to simply complete a "prompt" a day -- something more free, more unhindered, expectation-free?
There are plenty of places to find prompts online and on the shelf of writing books I keep near my desk.
Maybe that's the trick?
150 words a day, completely unexpected, completely free?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Day 3 - Relief
TODAY, I'm off the hook. I'm taking a class at the Writer's Center tonight--a 2 1/2 hour course designed to shake up my creative mind and get me writing.
So I'm sure to generate well more than my required 150 words. Whew.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Day Two - Family Myths
On my father's side of the family, we have a story that has become something of a myth.
Over forty years ago, my father's brother and his wife, lifelong Presbyterians from New Jersey, adopted three Inuit siblings from Canada. It may have been three Eskimo siblings from Alaska, but the details were something woven into my childhood, as were the lives of my three older cousins Carol, Larry, and Vernon. We saw each other each Christmas and Easter, and spent a week every summer in a rambling, salt-crusted house on the Jersey shore.
Over the years, it became clear the my aunt and uncle had a difficult, and charged relationship with their adopted kids. Carol, the eldest, fought haggard and shrill with Aunt Betty; one year, when we visited, Carol showed my older sister and I her room. The walls were covered in an angry scrawl of red and black permanent marker, a list in Betty's handwriting of the many, many things that Carol did wrong. Two years later, we visited Carol at a short-stay mental retreat at the end of a long line of evergreen trees. She was quieter, then, duller. We took her to a silver-clad deli for an awkward lunch.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Day 1 - Part 2
For the record, I did write a whole passel of new words (is "passel" even a word?), and began a major revision to The Tree Museum that I'm quite excited about.
The idea (tossing 3 characters, focusing much more closely on one character's journey, and weaving into two of the existing characters to explore what makes a family in a fractured world) feels right, and has been gestating for months.
It came to me very clearly in Barcelona one morning, post-the wedding when FAMILY, in all its full-cap glory, was so brightly at the front of my mind.
Wish me luck.
Day 1 - Category Unknown
When she first entered the office, she was relieved by how mildly grubby it was.
-Wow. Day one, and already, I'm having these massive misgivings about posting writing online. The above sentence could be a re-opening of the Muriel story, but as I was writing it, I felt, pretty powerfully, that I should not be posting these pre-writings, personal writings, fictional writings online.
I've struggled a bit with the whole online thing of late anyway. As lovely as it has been to connect with folks re: Facebook while in Spain (no internet in Morocco, until we found a cafe, by which time we'd decided that the disconnection was worth more than checking in), I've also been feeling as if the clutter of it all -- life -- is one of the reasons (excuses) I haven't been writing.
Should I keep these "150 words" to myself each morning? Will I even stick to it without the potential embarrassment of a "no-show"?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Name Change, Purpose Found
As I've written fairly often, I've not been sure about the purpose behind this blog.
Not that it even deserves the term, honestly: I've barely posted in months, and haven't been able to justify taking the time. (Wedding, seriously busy new job, blah, blah, blah...)
But this weekend I think I've gained a sense of purpose for this space. A reason for blogging. An actual goal.
Starting tomorrow morning, and taking a break between September 20 and October 13 (during which I'll be writing into a notebook in Barcelona, Fez, and Marakkech, far from electronic crutches like a laptop and email) I am going to use this space as my writing "home."
Every day, Monday through Friday, I will write 150 words.
They may not be good, they may not link together or inspire other ideas, but they'll be there.
And we'll see where they take me down the road.
I'm on notice. 150 words.
I'm committed to it. 150 words.
I've got to do it. 150, 150, 150 words.
Wish me luck.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Each Week
Every Wednesday at 11 a.m., the comic shop opens with a new crop of fresh-fashed, slick-covered, 32-page wonders for sale.
Most weeks, I try to go on Wednesday evening. If I'm busy, or distracted, I might go as much as a week.
But as soon as a few days past "New Comics Wednesday" and I inevitably get the itch. To flip through page after page of paneled costumes, dramas, and mighty adventure. To see what Wally is up to, or Donna, or that new girl called Armor, or Storm. To figure out why the newest "New" X-men is so predictable and so bad. It is a visceral thirst, if too many days swim past. What are Grace and Thunder up to? Can Gog really be what he seems? When -- o, when -- will the Legion of Three Worlds finally debut?
The moment itself is always subtly thrilling. The discovery of the comic shop. The smell of paper, cardboard, insecurity, hope. What will be on the list I expected to find? Which series will have been delayed? And (here the best of all), what surprises actually snuck through?
But that euphoria only lasts so long -- the first page through of all of them, the sorting, the choosing firsts and lasts. And, more and more often these days, the end result --the weekly result -- is let-down. It's almost as if the getting of comics, the imagining of the joy is far superior to the reading experience itself.
Like life? I wonder? Wedding, new jobs, writing fiction. Is the dream of fulfillment necessarily more rewarding than actual fulfillment itself?
Monday, August 11, 2008
Managing
Managed to almost finish a first draft of another story this morning before work.
I don't actually know if it's any good, but that honestly doesn't matter. What matters is that I wrote. Whether or not there's anything to it, whether or not it's any good, it does give me hope.
And a writer's hope is dearly needed right now, amidst too much of the stuff of life.
In Leslie Pietrzyk's August 7 "Work in Progress" blog, she describes the experience of a former student of hers who has committed not to a period of time, or a successful story, but to the deceptively simple task of writing 200 words a day. 200 words.
The concept resonated deep inside. I could do 200 words a day. Before the gym, on my lunch hour, at night before bed. 200 words. I really could.
As I struggle with life, wedding, partnership, full-time writing job, and some small attempt to lose the 20 pounds I've gained in the past year, writing hovers like a mosquito -- a vixen-fairy -- just outside my ear. I whine and complain, and only, occasionally, feel the gift of inspiration.
But 200 words?
When the 200 words are an Edinburgh church visit shared by the narrator and the best-friend's husband she knows she loves? Now that's something to keep hope in play.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
...And Another One Encourages the Dust
From another well-known agent, just the other day:
Hi Alex, I am so so sorry to be slow. I have been outrageously behind, and when I see the date of receipt of this ms I am horrified and so apologetic.
I had an intern read it a few weeks ago and she brought it to me with arelatively good report, so i started reading myself. My thoughts are these: you are a fabulous writer, and you create each of these characters with style and smarts. There is so much to admire in this book. BUT I find that I had trouble getting fully engaged in the overall plot and shape of the book as a whole, as I tried to become engaged in each of these lives you present. They are all done quite well, but I really respond much better to a novel that has a more centered plot. This plot works, I wouldnt deny that, but for me, a matter of taste more than anything else, it did not arouse passion. I think you are quite good but I dont think I am the right match for you. I am so sorry. But your talent is real, and I urge you to get other readings ... I wish I could help you but you need someone who has a strong vision for the novel and its place on the market, a vision which unfortunately I cannot provide to you.
I wish you much success with this, and I am so sorry I cannot help. BUT please keep faith in your work because you are truly a wise and talented writer.
Yours, XXXXXX
I have to remember that this is, in fact, a good thing. I just feel so close, and yet so dizzyingly, insurmoutably far. I simply have to remember that a response of any kind is a blessing, and that a response like this is a great, generous gift. There seems to be an accumulation of wisdom in these rejections--somehow, although the characters are engaging and the plot is successful the novel is not fully engagingor successful. I would give millions (if I had them) for a month of retreat to wade back into the novel's big pool.
Hi Alex, I am so so sorry to be slow. I have been outrageously behind, and when I see the date of receipt of this ms I am horrified and so apologetic.
I had an intern read it a few weeks ago and she brought it to me with arelatively good report, so i started reading myself. My thoughts are these: you are a fabulous writer, and you create each of these characters with style and smarts. There is so much to admire in this book. BUT I find that I had trouble getting fully engaged in the overall plot and shape of the book as a whole, as I tried to become engaged in each of these lives you present. They are all done quite well, but I really respond much better to a novel that has a more centered plot. This plot works, I wouldnt deny that, but for me, a matter of taste more than anything else, it did not arouse passion. I think you are quite good but I dont think I am the right match for you. I am so sorry. But your talent is real, and I urge you to get other readings ... I wish I could help you but you need someone who has a strong vision for the novel and its place on the market, a vision which unfortunately I cannot provide to you.
I wish you much success with this, and I am so sorry I cannot help. BUT please keep faith in your work because you are truly a wise and talented writer.
Yours, XXXXXX
I have to remember that this is, in fact, a good thing. I just feel so close, and yet so dizzyingly, insurmoutably far. I simply have to remember that a response of any kind is a blessing, and that a response like this is a great, generous gift. There seems to be an accumulation of wisdom in these rejections--somehow, although the characters are engaging and the plot is successful the novel is not fully engagingor successful. I would give millions (if I had them) for a month of retreat to wade back into the novel's big pool.
The Link-tastic Ascension of Neil Patrick Harris
This morning at the gym a commercial for one of the Harold and Kumar movies strobed the screen. And although Matt and I have had both "White Castle" movies on our Netflix queue for a while, we've never actually managed to watch one.
Despite our deep and abiding love of Neil Patrick Harris.
Now, this is not a new love, but it's not one that either of us had nursed for years, since those long ago days of Doogie Houser. No, we fell for Neil in the past two years, in appreciation for the delicious, "wait for it... awesomeness" of his comically brazen Barney on How I Met Your Mother on tv.
That show, while not as utterly madcap brilliant as It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, relishes its intelligence, rewards the viewer for paying attention, and showcases, again and again, each cast member's talents and quirks. Alyson Hannigan's "Lily" is a close second to Harris' Barney, but --let's be honest-- he really steals the show.
Just watch the episode recapping his lost virginity, his fear of being slapped, or this season's ending close-up on his face. It will tell you everything you need to know.
Oh--I'm reading The Groom to Have Been, by Saher Alam. Just since I normally mention books.
PS: Links are fun!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Tonight!
Politics and Prose
7pm
Washington, DC
I'm on a panel representing Stress City: The Big Book of Fiction Featuring 51 DC Guys.
Come listen in.
7pm
Washington, DC
I'm on a panel representing Stress City: The Big Book of Fiction Featuring 51 DC Guys.
Come listen in.
Ignorance
This morning in a meeting I had the clearest sensation of standing in the middle of a windstorm. That I was the eye of a hurricane of all the things I don't know. Grayed, blurry concepts and facts and potentials and pitfalls swirled around me, not so fast as to cut me, but steadily enough that my view of the real, of what is right in front of me, was obscured.
A hollow, scouring noise filled my ears.
This new job is so potentially vast, Conservation International is so literally vast, that I am struck, again and again, by how ignorant I remain about the world. I am still 'discovering' countries, or discovering that countries I assumed were in one place are actually in a wholly other part of the world.
And I need to rent my apartment.
And the wedding plans (though solidifying steadily, and joyously) continue to whip by.
So it may not be ignorance I'm pelted with.
It may be, simply, life.
And the not-knowing what's next might be the best thing for me after all.
I need to write.
(These posts almost always come back to that.)
But how, with a brain unable to swim the information-swell much less surf it, do I make room for the blessed, muse-sweet ignorance that is the fiction in my head?
A hollow, scouring noise filled my ears.
This new job is so potentially vast, Conservation International is so literally vast, that I am struck, again and again, by how ignorant I remain about the world. I am still 'discovering' countries, or discovering that countries I assumed were in one place are actually in a wholly other part of the world.
And I need to rent my apartment.
And the wedding plans (though solidifying steadily, and joyously) continue to whip by.
So it may not be ignorance I'm pelted with.
It may be, simply, life.
And the not-knowing what's next might be the best thing for me after all.
I need to write.
(These posts almost always come back to that.)
But how, with a brain unable to swim the information-swell much less surf it, do I make room for the blessed, muse-sweet ignorance that is the fiction in my head?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Provincetown
We got back from Provincetown last night, ate Duccini's pizza, read through some wedding RSVPs, and went to bed. It's 6:34 a.m., and time to rediscover the gym.
It's also time to see if, once again, I can hold on to the powerful creative wellspring that Provincetown always seems to connect me with. And time to wonder, once again, how best to take the writing insistence and translate it into everyday life.
It's a question many struggle with, and a lucky struggle to have, but I do still wonder:
How, day-to-day, do I choose writing over other things?
I'm getting married, and the to-do list seems neverending, constantly crowding my mind. I'm busy and engaged at work (blessed be!) writing stories about animals, people, and projects from around the world. I have a partner I absolutely adore, a ready family, a cacophony of friends. I have twenty extra pounds on my frame.
And I have these characters and places and conflicts pushing against my brain.
Today, I will take "Nina" (the newest member of "the British women" cast) to work with me. Try to steal time at lunch.
But that's the problem isn't it? Stealing time.
Why do I feel unable to make time instead of steal it? When does -- How does -- the writer win out?
It's also time to see if, once again, I can hold on to the powerful creative wellspring that Provincetown always seems to connect me with. And time to wonder, once again, how best to take the writing insistence and translate it into everyday life.
It's a question many struggle with, and a lucky struggle to have, but I do still wonder:
How, day-to-day, do I choose writing over other things?
I'm getting married, and the to-do list seems neverending, constantly crowding my mind. I'm busy and engaged at work (blessed be!) writing stories about animals, people, and projects from around the world. I have a partner I absolutely adore, a ready family, a cacophony of friends. I have twenty extra pounds on my frame.
And I have these characters and places and conflicts pushing against my brain.
Today, I will take "Nina" (the newest member of "the British women" cast) to work with me. Try to steal time at lunch.
But that's the problem isn't it? Stealing time.
Why do I feel unable to make time instead of steal it? When does -- How does -- the writer win out?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Good Things
Project Runway is back on TV,
My new website is live,
Alyson wants The Tree Museum,
(an agent might be interested, too).
We leave for Provincetown in two days...(sigh)
and
Matt bought me a new Maggie O'Farrell novel last night.
Sometimes, buried deep inside the madness resides a ridiculous passel of joy.
My new website is live,
Alyson wants The Tree Museum,
(an agent might be interested, too).
We leave for Provincetown in two days...(sigh)
and
Matt bought me a new Maggie O'Farrell novel last night.
Sometimes, buried deep inside the madness resides a ridiculous passel of joy.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
A Blessing and a Rant
I've been under the weather this week, and Matt's being very sweet. This morning, he gave me a hug while saying, "You really do have a lot of congestion." Oddly enough, it melted my heart.
I've also been working every day while feeling poorly, so my patience with perceived incompetence is wearing thin. Hence, today's blog about Cosi. How is it possible that wherever you are, whatever store you select, whenever during the day you arrive, and whomever serves you, the service is uniformly, insultingly, offensively bad??
I'm no snob--I recognize and appreciate a chef's heartfelt creations right alongside the mastery of Five Guys burgers from a grill--but the lack of awareness, urgency, or common sense exhibited by Cosi staff amazes me again and again. It even underscores my love of their certifiably AMAZING bread.
I just don't get it, so I'm going to send them a note this morning.
You should too.
I've also been working every day while feeling poorly, so my patience with perceived incompetence is wearing thin. Hence, today's blog about Cosi. How is it possible that wherever you are, whatever store you select, whenever during the day you arrive, and whomever serves you, the service is uniformly, insultingly, offensively bad??
I'm no snob--I recognize and appreciate a chef's heartfelt creations right alongside the mastery of Five Guys burgers from a grill--but the lack of awareness, urgency, or common sense exhibited by Cosi staff amazes me again and again. It even underscores my love of their certifiably AMAZING bread.
I just don't get it, so I'm going to send them a note this morning.
You should too.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Post-Birthday World
Lionel Shriver is mean, unflinching, direct, and eviscerating. She writes the moments and insights that readers (OK, that I) flinch from in real life. And not in a Jodi Picoult way--there are no kidnapped children or siblings with cancer here. Shriver writes, in the post-birthday world, about the innumerable small choices, concessions, measurements, triumphs, assertions, avoidances, and realities of day-to-day married life.
Though the novel has --rightly--gotten more notice for its Sliding Doors toggling futures structure, what's amazing to me is Shriver's ability to unearth the tiny moments none of us want to admit to in our relationships.
Matt and I have had a few stark talks since I've been reading the novel. Has anyone else found the post-birthday world a helpful, if disconcerting, marital tool?
Though the novel has --rightly--gotten more notice for its Sliding Doors toggling futures structure, what's amazing to me is Shriver's ability to unearth the tiny moments none of us want to admit to in our relationships.
Matt and I have had a few stark talks since I've been reading the novel. Has anyone else found the post-birthday world a helpful, if disconcerting, marital tool?
Rejection/Delight
This, from a well-regarded agent with a number of best-sellers on his list:
Dear Alex,
Several of us read THE TREE MUSEUM and we really enjoyed it. You have a lot of talent and it’s a well-crafted novel. It does, though, lack the tightness and structural perfection we look for in multiple voice novels, which are always harder to sell and need to be amazing for publishers to pick them up. Maybe this is a personal reaction, but some of the voices worked better for us than others. But that said, while we’re passing on this, we definitely would like to see more from you.
Argh!!!!! I've now sent THE TREE MUSEUM to eleven agents, and received rejections from eight. And while I fully recognize that eight rejections is nothing in context of what some authors go through, it's beginning to feel dispiriting.
Equally dispiriting, oddly, is the preponderance of really good rejections. Of those eight, only three were stock rejections. The others say things like the above: clearly talented writer, enjoyable characters, well-crafted, almost took this on, and more. I know I should be -- and ultimately I am -- terribly grateful for these thoughtful responses, but I just so desperately want one of these smart, savvy readers to say "Yes, it has flaws, but I love it. Let's get to work."
Maybe I need to rethink the novel myself... take it back and get to work on my own. There is a clear confluence of ideas among the kinder rejections...there seems to be a theme as to why, so consistently, the novel falls just short of something they want to take on.
So is it back to the drawing board? Dive back in and figure out which characters deserve the spotlight and which can recede? Or do I wait until rejection #11 comes through?
Dear Alex,
Several of us read THE TREE MUSEUM and we really enjoyed it. You have a lot of talent and it’s a well-crafted novel. It does, though, lack the tightness and structural perfection we look for in multiple voice novels, which are always harder to sell and need to be amazing for publishers to pick them up. Maybe this is a personal reaction, but some of the voices worked better for us than others. But that said, while we’re passing on this, we definitely would like to see more from you.
Argh!!!!! I've now sent THE TREE MUSEUM to eleven agents, and received rejections from eight. And while I fully recognize that eight rejections is nothing in context of what some authors go through, it's beginning to feel dispiriting.
Equally dispiriting, oddly, is the preponderance of really good rejections. Of those eight, only three were stock rejections. The others say things like the above: clearly talented writer, enjoyable characters, well-crafted, almost took this on, and more. I know I should be -- and ultimately I am -- terribly grateful for these thoughtful responses, but I just so desperately want one of these smart, savvy readers to say "Yes, it has flaws, but I love it. Let's get to work."
Maybe I need to rethink the novel myself... take it back and get to work on my own. There is a clear confluence of ideas among the kinder rejections...there seems to be a theme as to why, so consistently, the novel falls just short of something they want to take on.
So is it back to the drawing board? Dive back in and figure out which characters deserve the spotlight and which can recede? Or do I wait until rejection #11 comes through?
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Swingtown
Out of nowhere, I think I have a new favorite show, Swingtown.
(How 'bout that orange shag text? I'm so tech these days.)
After the first episode, I wasn't convinced, but now (four episodes in, watched, unintentionally, out of order), I'm hooked. And it's the surprising development of Susan's original friend Janet--the cartoonishly repressed suburban joke-in-waiting--into a conflicted, beautifully complex character that's done it. Susan, like Janet, is also revealing layers of salty-sweet depth, as is the initially one-note Trina. A snap of the three women (arms linked, at a party) gives me shivers of hope and joy. If you aren't watching Swington, do.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Relativity
I'm a little bit sad, today. Yesterday, when I bought myself the post-birthday world by lionel shriver at d.c.'s beloved, iconic, and a little bit pompous Kramerbooks (which is, gratifyingly, open at 8a.m. before the office opens its doors), I noticed that the paperback version of Maggie O'Farrell's Esme Lennox was not on the shelves. In fact, I'd gone in to Kramerbooks that morning looking for other novels by O'Farrell, and found none.
The Borders downtown coughed up a similar lack of her work.
Then, last night at the Borders in Clarendon, I noticed piles of the hardback Esme on the discount display, priced at $3.95. It just doesn't seem fair.
Now, post-birthday, on the other hand, spilling forth in copious piles from the front table at Kramerbooks and Borders, is certainly a worthy novel. Deeply, almost viciously observant, the novel is an encyclopedic journey through one woman's mind preceding and --primarily-- following a decision with repercussions beyond any she imagines, or plans. So it's worthy of its audience, for sure.
But shouldn't Maggie O'Farrell have a place at the superstar's table? And for that matter, why did my sweet little first novel wither so quickly on the vine?
The Borders downtown coughed up a similar lack of her work.
Then, last night at the Borders in Clarendon, I noticed piles of the hardback Esme on the discount display, priced at $3.95. It just doesn't seem fair.
Now, post-birthday, on the other hand, spilling forth in copious piles from the front table at Kramerbooks and Borders, is certainly a worthy novel. Deeply, almost viciously observant, the novel is an encyclopedic journey through one woman's mind preceding and --primarily-- following a decision with repercussions beyond any she imagines, or plans. So it's worthy of its audience, for sure.
But shouldn't Maggie O'Farrell have a place at the superstar's table? And for that matter, why did my sweet little first novel wither so quickly on the vine?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Post-Birthday Book
Last night Matt gave me (a) a new iPod, (b) Mary Oliver's new poetry collection Red Bird, and (c) a 'coupon' for a book of my choice.
Surfing her words, I cried twice at Oliver's God-exposing poetry. I dreamt stories overnight; there is this crashing swell of creativity swirling around me. It's heady, but (awake at 5:30 a.m., typing madly about adulterers in Britain and a terrified boy in an invented world) also suggestive of an undertow.
And this morning I chose the post-birthday world by Lionel Shriver. Kismet. Like Matt, it was meant to be.
Surfing her words, I cried twice at Oliver's God-exposing poetry. I dreamt stories overnight; there is this crashing swell of creativity swirling around me. It's heady, but (awake at 5:30 a.m., typing madly about adulterers in Britain and a terrified boy in an invented world) also suggestive of an undertow.
And this morning I chose the post-birthday world by Lionel Shriver. Kismet. Like Matt, it was meant to be.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Facebook, My Birthday, and Me
Today is my birthday, and it is a wonderful thing.
I turned 37 last night, sound asleep next to Matt, after a quiet day at home getting things done for the house, reading the Sunday paper, and sharing a sweet meal (he cooked and cleaned-- a major, blessed treat). Church was about"grace" and the concept of receptivity to beauty and wonder and light.
This birthday I feel very graced with blessings, and grateful for whatever is to come. I also feel unmoored. In the past 24 hours I've gotten many "Happy Birthday" wishes from family, friends, and that confused new category--facebook friends.
Now don't get me wrong (blessings, grace, blessings, grace) I know how lucky I am on every level--simply to have a computer and the time to facebook is a gift probably only 1% of humanity can take for granted. But combined with the large percentage of my facebook-friends who I know--primarily--through my work at the restaurant and the fact that I published a novel, there are also a lot of "Happy Birthday, When will the next novel come out?" emails in the queue.
It's a bit demoralizing that I don't have news about the new novel (the one that's out in agents and publishers hands) to share. Last night I said to Matt, "I hope my birthday comes with happy novel news." And I hope it does.
So my birthday promise this year is to be thankful for every victory and misstep, every success and failure, every attempt and every pause. And to be utterly, unabashedly grateful for every "Happy Birthday" that comes my way.
Happy June 30th to all.
I turned 37 last night, sound asleep next to Matt, after a quiet day at home getting things done for the house, reading the Sunday paper, and sharing a sweet meal (he cooked and cleaned-- a major, blessed treat). Church was about"grace" and the concept of receptivity to beauty and wonder and light.
This birthday I feel very graced with blessings, and grateful for whatever is to come. I also feel unmoored. In the past 24 hours I've gotten many "Happy Birthday" wishes from family, friends, and that confused new category--facebook friends.
Now don't get me wrong (blessings, grace, blessings, grace) I know how lucky I am on every level--simply to have a computer and the time to facebook is a gift probably only 1% of humanity can take for granted. But combined with the large percentage of my facebook-friends who I know--primarily--through my work at the restaurant and the fact that I published a novel, there are also a lot of "Happy Birthday, When will the next novel come out?" emails in the queue.
It's a bit demoralizing that I don't have news about the new novel (the one that's out in agents and publishers hands) to share. Last night I said to Matt, "I hope my birthday comes with happy novel news." And I hope it does.
So my birthday promise this year is to be thankful for every victory and misstep, every success and failure, every attempt and every pause. And to be utterly, unabashedly grateful for every "Happy Birthday" that comes my way.
Happy June 30th to all.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Joy
I almost can't describe the degree to which I love The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox. I love books regularly -- in just the last three weeks I've devoured Finn and The Secret River and The Monsters of Templeton. I've loved moments in each of them. Characters. Narrative verve. But I haven't wholly and utterly fallen for a novel the way I have for Esme in a long time. Here's what I wrote on goodreads.com.
6/20/08 I've only dipped my toe into the still, warm waters of this novel, but I'm thrilled. By the simple, realistic, yet stunning concept, and by the incredibly fine-tuned prose. You can see everything.6/23/08Now I'm hurting because I've passed the halfway mark and cannot stand the thought of finishing. I've actually found myself slowing down, not reading another section, pulling away, so as not to miss a thing, or let it move to fast. I'm absolutely in love.6/24/08And the twist I can't bear, wasn't expecting, and somehow knew must happen has arrived. I jaw literally dropped agape. I could not love this novel more. And the fact that I have only 35 pages left makes me want to cry.
6/20/08 I've only dipped my toe into the still, warm waters of this novel, but I'm thrilled. By the simple, realistic, yet stunning concept, and by the incredibly fine-tuned prose. You can see everything.6/23/08Now I'm hurting because I've passed the halfway mark and cannot stand the thought of finishing. I've actually found myself slowing down, not reading another section, pulling away, so as not to miss a thing, or let it move to fast. I'm absolutely in love.6/24/08And the twist I can't bear, wasn't expecting, and somehow knew must happen has arrived. I jaw literally dropped agape. I could not love this novel more. And the fact that I have only 35 pages left makes me want to cry.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
This Week
Another mid-week without word from any of the four agents, or the editor at my old publishing house, who are considering my new novel.
It's a mixed bag, this lack of response. One one hand, there is a relief that comes with silence--a cessation of anxiety, a freedom to dream of new stories, new projects, new work. On the other hand, it's too easy to wonder what it all means. Is the manuscript being read carefully? Or have some agents read it, and are considering thoughtfully whether to take me on? Or, has it been considered and discarded, leaving me in limbo evermore?
Luckily, I'm not as dramatic as all that, but I do wonder when, and what, I'll hear about The Tree Museum. Is it going to find a life outside my computer and the kind hands of friends? Do I dive back into it and refresh it in the hopes of sending it back out, or do I let it sit, and let it go, and instead discover just what Nina (a new character) is going to do with Peter (her best friend's husband) after all?
That certainly feels more titillating than all this sitting around.
It's a mixed bag, this lack of response. One one hand, there is a relief that comes with silence--a cessation of anxiety, a freedom to dream of new stories, new projects, new work. On the other hand, it's too easy to wonder what it all means. Is the manuscript being read carefully? Or have some agents read it, and are considering thoughtfully whether to take me on? Or, has it been considered and discarded, leaving me in limbo evermore?
Luckily, I'm not as dramatic as all that, but I do wonder when, and what, I'll hear about The Tree Museum. Is it going to find a life outside my computer and the kind hands of friends? Do I dive back into it and refresh it in the hopes of sending it back out, or do I let it sit, and let it go, and instead discover just what Nina (a new character) is going to do with Peter (her best friend's husband) after all?
That certainly feels more titillating than all this sitting around.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Raised Pinkies and the Brains
OK, that title is a stretch, but I'm currently bemused by the recent scientific finding that proves, somewhat definitively, that the brains of homosexuals are different from heterosexual brains. It's a neurological study, not psychological, so it really is the brains we're talking about, and what's been found is that -- for certain brain structures -- the male homosexual brain is closer to a female heterosexual's than to its straight male counterpart. (Try writing this without constantly reusing the same few words!) Similarly, the heterosexual male and lesbian brains are in many ways alike.
What does this prove? Perhaps nothing, but perhaps quite a bit. More and more evidence is confirming that "gay" is inherent rather than learned.
Which begs a few questions: Does this mean people will someday be able to select for (or, more likely, against) the 'gay' gene? Does this mean that hormones present in the womb are "to blame"? (Or to applaud?)
And why, selfishly, does this just seem to confirm that there's a reason I was always most comfortable working for, and with women? That I was a fundraiser, and am now in communications, and can't conceive of accounting or business or sports? It's not my emotive mother and sister? It's not the fault of the divorce?
So, no real revelations here, except that who I am is who I've always been, which I could have told you from my toddling memories of rapturous adoration of the male lifeguards at the pool.
But it is somehow comforting to know that if we are born this way, we are inevitably part of God's plan. That does feel good.
And hopefully will help sway some of those "God's-plan"-ers who have such a hard time with the homosexuals in their midst.
What does this prove? Perhaps nothing, but perhaps quite a bit. More and more evidence is confirming that "gay" is inherent rather than learned.
Which begs a few questions: Does this mean people will someday be able to select for (or, more likely, against) the 'gay' gene? Does this mean that hormones present in the womb are "to blame"? (Or to applaud?)
And why, selfishly, does this just seem to confirm that there's a reason I was always most comfortable working for, and with women? That I was a fundraiser, and am now in communications, and can't conceive of accounting or business or sports? It's not my emotive mother and sister? It's not the fault of the divorce?
So, no real revelations here, except that who I am is who I've always been, which I could have told you from my toddling memories of rapturous adoration of the male lifeguards at the pool.
But it is somehow comforting to know that if we are born this way, we are inevitably part of God's plan. That does feel good.
And hopefully will help sway some of those "God's-plan"-ers who have such a hard time with the homosexuals in their midst.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Six Down
So the rejections just keep coming. It's hard. I won't lie--I knew this novel has flaws, but I also feel it has a lot going for it. I still believe that, and the rejections I'm receiving seem to confirm it.
Most of the agents seem to be reading it through to the end, and more than a few have sent me very thoughtful, constructive comments. Now if only one would sign me on!
Luckily, I've got a few days between jobs (leaving the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, joining Conservation International) and I can make some important revisions to the plot and depth. I think the novel needs to be richer, with a clearer focus. Perhaps six equally weighted characters isn't what this novel needs. But is it two? Three?
Monday, April 28, 2008
But he don't fall down.
OK, I rallied. Found three new agents last night, two with whom I can establish tenous (even not-so-tenuous) connections, and will spend tomorrow morning sending queries to them all. This novel is good, and it is true to me. I am not a snide, smartypants, Brooklyn whiz kid. I write caring novels about good people in tough situations. The kind of love to read. I have to believe that others might too. Stand up, dust off, walk tall. Happy Monday, all.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Weeble Wobble
Tonight I received my first rejection. This newest round of showing my neck is in service to my new novel, The Tree Museum, for which I've just sent a round of 8 query letters to agents. Two agents--as I knew they would, due to friendly author connections--agreed to read it. To my stomach-churning joy, a third agent emailed on Friday morning saying she'd like to read it as well. Tonight, she said "No."
It's hard. I mean, I'm well aware that this life of mine requires a thick skin, and I think I have one--I told Matt that I'm like a weeble wobble where rejections are concerned. Even a short one like I received tonight--friendly, but curt--can be considered a blessing if I twist and turn it long enough. But it still hurts. This novel--every novel every dreaming novelist writes--is a precious, precious thing. It hurts to have it turned away.
So I'll seek out more agents (there are still 7 great ones in play) and send more queries, and keep believing in this novel, for as long as I can. And if I stop fighting for it, I pray it will be to make way for the next one. I've got some ideas. I don't stay down.
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