Ugh. I never quit anything. Well, not many things. (I did quit that job as the architect's secretary.) But I finally quit the nanowrimo insanity marathon last week. My sister came into town, I finished up two classes at The Writer's Center, and I threw a Peter Pan birthday party and had thirteen four-year-olds show up. I cooked a seven dish Thanksgiving dinner, a 20 pound turkey, a homemade cheesecake and a pumpkin pie. I also got really, really sick. There. Boo-hoo. I still feel like a quitter.
Back to business. School is out in a week, and I am going to cuddle up (burrow in, tackle) Two Rivers. I have one month of freedom to get all of the new edits done.
Tomorrow night I'm doing my first public event in D.C. I am nervous and excited. The faculty is taking me out to dinner first, which I am simply thrilled about after all of the cooking I've been doing...
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
A Light at the End
33,300 words.
I am tumbling through this new book like some wild animal, ripping off pieces o fthis and that with my teeth, gnawing on them a while and then scurrying off into some other dark place.
Good-ish news, a benevolent agent is combing through Two Rivers with me, offering so much valuable criticism. I am hoping that after revisioning the book again, he'll be captivated enough to take it on. Right now, it's not ready. I knew this, but I needed help. I am so, so grateful for this. I feel like the novel will have a new life soon...
Anyway, back to my beautiful diversion:
After she was gone, a certain peace descended on our house. It was like those soft moments in movies, a montage, a sort of collage of happy snippets set against an upbeat soundtrack.
When I remember those first few days, I still remember music instead of words. My father and mother smiling, holding hands. We got a real Christmas tree for the first time that year. Here is my father throwing the white limbed metal one in the trashcan. Here is my mother pricking her finger on a needle as we sat together in the kitchen stringing cranberries and popcorn onto an invisible thread. Here I am, standing knee deep in fresh snow in a new pair of boots that I saw and wanted and my mother bought and gave to me later wrapped in a green tissue paper. These moments are strung together in my memory on a thread that sang Bob Denver carols. The Carpenters. Each red berry against the whiteness of popcorn, the whiteness of snow.
But at the movies we know that the montage is never at the end of the movie. It always comes right before everything falls apart.
The string, pulled too tight. All of the berries spilled onto the floor.
On Christmas Eve, Tara walked into a diner on _________ Street, ordered a slice of pumpkin pie, a cup of coffee. Before she had even finished the coffee, she went to the restroom, sat down on the toilet, and swallowed three red capsules: a Christmas gift from her boyfriend. She returned to the counter where her coffee had grown cold and the waitress had taken away her plate. She sipped the coffee, felt the capsule hard in her throat. And then, she her fingers disappeared. Then her wrists, her elbows, her arms. She threw off her coat, expecting that he arms had dissolved; she couldn’t feel them anymore. Her waist, her hips, her legs. She tried to get the waitress’s attention, tried to let someone know that she was the invisible woman, that soon, the only thing left would be the clothes that hung on her transparent bones. Neck. Face. Eyes.
We got the call that Tara had overdosed on PCP on Christmas Day. She’d been admitted into Bellevue after she wandered out into the middle of the street. She’d been struck by a car but not hurt. She was convinced it was because she had no body anymore. That she’d left her body on that red vinyl stool at the diner.
My father didn’t say much to the doctor on the other end of the line; he only nodded, his head like a toy, bobbing on his shoulders. I felt sorry for him, in his Christmas tree sweater my mother had given to him. I can still remember that feeling; it was like chewing on tinsel.
“Tell them she’s emancipated,” my mother said. She was holding a pair of Santa and Mrs. Claus candleholders. It looked like she was strangling them. “She’s not our responsibility anymore.”
My mother took the tree down the day after Christmas, dragged it out to the trash all by herself. She vacuumed up the needles, muttering that we’d never get a real tree again. But even after the tree was gone, after every needle had been removed, the scent of pine lingered.
My parents did not go to get Tara from the hospital. She was released and fined for possession of an illegal substance.
A month later, I saw her picture on a cover of a magazine, and I didn’t recognize her face.
I am tumbling through this new book like some wild animal, ripping off pieces o fthis and that with my teeth, gnawing on them a while and then scurrying off into some other dark place.
Good-ish news, a benevolent agent is combing through Two Rivers with me, offering so much valuable criticism. I am hoping that after revisioning the book again, he'll be captivated enough to take it on. Right now, it's not ready. I knew this, but I needed help. I am so, so grateful for this. I feel like the novel will have a new life soon...
Anyway, back to my beautiful diversion:
After she was gone, a certain peace descended on our house. It was like those soft moments in movies, a montage, a sort of collage of happy snippets set against an upbeat soundtrack.
When I remember those first few days, I still remember music instead of words. My father and mother smiling, holding hands. We got a real Christmas tree for the first time that year. Here is my father throwing the white limbed metal one in the trashcan. Here is my mother pricking her finger on a needle as we sat together in the kitchen stringing cranberries and popcorn onto an invisible thread. Here I am, standing knee deep in fresh snow in a new pair of boots that I saw and wanted and my mother bought and gave to me later wrapped in a green tissue paper. These moments are strung together in my memory on a thread that sang Bob Denver carols. The Carpenters. Each red berry against the whiteness of popcorn, the whiteness of snow.
But at the movies we know that the montage is never at the end of the movie. It always comes right before everything falls apart.
The string, pulled too tight. All of the berries spilled onto the floor.
On Christmas Eve, Tara walked into a diner on _________ Street, ordered a slice of pumpkin pie, a cup of coffee. Before she had even finished the coffee, she went to the restroom, sat down on the toilet, and swallowed three red capsules: a Christmas gift from her boyfriend. She returned to the counter where her coffee had grown cold and the waitress had taken away her plate. She sipped the coffee, felt the capsule hard in her throat. And then, she her fingers disappeared. Then her wrists, her elbows, her arms. She threw off her coat, expecting that he arms had dissolved; she couldn’t feel them anymore. Her waist, her hips, her legs. She tried to get the waitress’s attention, tried to let someone know that she was the invisible woman, that soon, the only thing left would be the clothes that hung on her transparent bones. Neck. Face. Eyes.
We got the call that Tara had overdosed on PCP on Christmas Day. She’d been admitted into Bellevue after she wandered out into the middle of the street. She’d been struck by a car but not hurt. She was convinced it was because she had no body anymore. That she’d left her body on that red vinyl stool at the diner.
My father didn’t say much to the doctor on the other end of the line; he only nodded, his head like a toy, bobbing on his shoulders. I felt sorry for him, in his Christmas tree sweater my mother had given to him. I can still remember that feeling; it was like chewing on tinsel.
“Tell them she’s emancipated,” my mother said. She was holding a pair of Santa and Mrs. Claus candleholders. It looked like she was strangling them. “She’s not our responsibility anymore.”
My mother took the tree down the day after Christmas, dragged it out to the trash all by herself. She vacuumed up the needles, muttering that we’d never get a real tree again. But even after the tree was gone, after every needle had been removed, the scent of pine lingered.
My parents did not go to get Tara from the hospital. She was released and fined for possession of an illegal substance.
A month later, I saw her picture on a cover of a magazine, and I didn’t recognize her face.
Friday, November 11, 2005
More (25,000 words and still alive...)
After the student left the hotel, there were others. Not many, but a few. I remember them now by colors rather than names; because when I close my eyes now, it’s colors that appear, not words:
First, white. His hands were fat and freckled, the wedding ring cutting into his finger like a fishing line. His skin was like the inside of a shell, but freckled. He was only a mussel. A gritty, slimy mussel. He told me he loved my face, but I knew he was lying. He couldn’t look at me when he said that, and the whole time, I thought, Look at you, you ugly oyster. What have you got on me? But I let him slip his tongue in my mouth. Other things.
Then, blue. Blue was kind. Thin, just a boy, a heartsick boy my own age who carried Rose around on his shoulders, piggy-back. His mother and father both died before he was grown all the way up. He had no family. He stuttered, and I could feel his want in every one of his words, even the small ones. You. Today. Kiss.
Last, black. Under the boardwalk, he ripped the skin between my legs with his teeth. The saltwater came in after and burned the places that he had torn. I let him, and didn’t even cry. I wondered if this is what it felt like to have a child. He had a long scar from where someone tried to gut him like a fish. I never asked why someone would want to do that to him; it was obvious.
I don’t remember the ones in between. They blur together now like a gasoline rainbow on pavement.
First, white. His hands were fat and freckled, the wedding ring cutting into his finger like a fishing line. His skin was like the inside of a shell, but freckled. He was only a mussel. A gritty, slimy mussel. He told me he loved my face, but I knew he was lying. He couldn’t look at me when he said that, and the whole time, I thought, Look at you, you ugly oyster. What have you got on me? But I let him slip his tongue in my mouth. Other things.
Then, blue. Blue was kind. Thin, just a boy, a heartsick boy my own age who carried Rose around on his shoulders, piggy-back. His mother and father both died before he was grown all the way up. He had no family. He stuttered, and I could feel his want in every one of his words, even the small ones. You. Today. Kiss.
Last, black. Under the boardwalk, he ripped the skin between my legs with his teeth. The saltwater came in after and burned the places that he had torn. I let him, and didn’t even cry. I wondered if this is what it felt like to have a child. He had a long scar from where someone tried to gut him like a fish. I never asked why someone would want to do that to him; it was obvious.
I don’t remember the ones in between. They blur together now like a gasoline rainbow on pavement.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Screaming baby
Esmee is screaming, screaming, screaming because she has decided that she wants to brush her teeth all day every day. TEEEEEETH! TEEEEEETH! Good lord, I never thought oral hygiene would be the source of a tantrum.
I have almost 20,000 words of the new book which is nothing short of a miracle what with all the racket here.
TEEEEEEETH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here's another passage from my madness:
This is Tara.
She is a box. She is a dirty, wet box I found in my parents’ basement. The picture on the outside is supposed to show us what’s inside, but the picture is destroyed by water. It’s too damaged to tell what’s supposed to be inside. But inside. Inside there are beautiful things. Trinkets. Scraps of paper with beautiful words. Shimmering things, loose glitter.
She is the girl who smeared her ear wax on the white headboard behind her bed.
She is a coy animal, playing like a child and then biting. Rabid.
She is the girl who pressed her finger so deep into my belly button, I felt like she was touching the inside of me. The girl who wouldn’t stop until I was crying.
She is the shimmering scales of a dead fish washed ashore.
She is a word. A series of words, each one with more syllables than the last. She is a villanelle. A sestina. A haiku. She is a raunchy limerick. She is the tumbling line that falls off the page. I have made her this, done this to her, because keeping her inside the margins of a piece of paper, inside the pages of a book is the only way I know how to keep her safe.
I have almost 20,000 words of the new book which is nothing short of a miracle what with all the racket here.
TEEEEEEETH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here's another passage from my madness:
This is Tara.
She is a box. She is a dirty, wet box I found in my parents’ basement. The picture on the outside is supposed to show us what’s inside, but the picture is destroyed by water. It’s too damaged to tell what’s supposed to be inside. But inside. Inside there are beautiful things. Trinkets. Scraps of paper with beautiful words. Shimmering things, loose glitter.
She is the girl who smeared her ear wax on the white headboard behind her bed.
She is a coy animal, playing like a child and then biting. Rabid.
She is the girl who pressed her finger so deep into my belly button, I felt like she was touching the inside of me. The girl who wouldn’t stop until I was crying.
She is the shimmering scales of a dead fish washed ashore.
She is a word. A series of words, each one with more syllables than the last. She is a villanelle. A sestina. A haiku. She is a raunchy limerick. She is the tumbling line that falls off the page. I have made her this, done this to her, because keeping her inside the margins of a piece of paper, inside the pages of a book is the only way I know how to keep her safe.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Manic Monday
15,460 words and counting.
This is the strangest thing I have ever written. I am having a blast. killing myself. 60 pages in seven days. I think it took a year to write the first 60 pages of Two Rivers.
Anyway, here's a snippet:
Rose doesn’t know the details of her mother’s death. She’s a smart girl though; I’m sure she has an idea.
When she was very small, I used to tell her a story about the night she was born. Some of what I told her was true. Some was not. She did come early. A whole month before she was supposed to arrive. She wasn’t due until March, but on Valentine’s day, Tara woke up and knew that she would arrive that day. Tara told me the story once, not long before she died, told me that she’d been shooting up all night, and when her water broke she thought she’d simply pissed herself. I told Rose that Tara spent the day walking in the Village, waiting until the pain was too much to bear before she took a taxi to the hospital. I told her that she bought flowers, candy for herself. That she was wearing a red scarf that day that blew out behind her in the cold February air. The only color in the grey, sunless, bitter day. I told her that finally, when she knew it was time, she hailed a taxi and not but an hour later Rose arrived in the world. That the first thing Tara asked for after she was born was a cup of hot chocolate. That she was her mother’s only Valentine. I spared her the unnecssary details: the fact that she stole the flowers from a Farmer’s Market and was chased down by the vendor who spat in her face and called her a dirty whore. I left out the benevolent taxi driver found her crying on a curb and took her to the hospital, where she was taken to the psych ward before they realized that she was in labor. That she was too doped up to notcie that the baby was crowning between her legs. She did ask for hot chocolate. And she told me that when she saw Rose’s face, her lapis colored eyes peering up at her, it was the first time anyone had ever loved her.
Rose. I didn’t know what I was doing, still don’t. But I’m doing my best.
This is the strangest thing I have ever written. I am having a blast. killing myself. 60 pages in seven days. I think it took a year to write the first 60 pages of Two Rivers.
Anyway, here's a snippet:
Rose doesn’t know the details of her mother’s death. She’s a smart girl though; I’m sure she has an idea.
When she was very small, I used to tell her a story about the night she was born. Some of what I told her was true. Some was not. She did come early. A whole month before she was supposed to arrive. She wasn’t due until March, but on Valentine’s day, Tara woke up and knew that she would arrive that day. Tara told me the story once, not long before she died, told me that she’d been shooting up all night, and when her water broke she thought she’d simply pissed herself. I told Rose that Tara spent the day walking in the Village, waiting until the pain was too much to bear before she took a taxi to the hospital. I told her that she bought flowers, candy for herself. That she was wearing a red scarf that day that blew out behind her in the cold February air. The only color in the grey, sunless, bitter day. I told her that finally, when she knew it was time, she hailed a taxi and not but an hour later Rose arrived in the world. That the first thing Tara asked for after she was born was a cup of hot chocolate. That she was her mother’s only Valentine. I spared her the unnecssary details: the fact that she stole the flowers from a Farmer’s Market and was chased down by the vendor who spat in her face and called her a dirty whore. I left out the benevolent taxi driver found her crying on a curb and took her to the hospital, where she was taken to the psych ward before they realized that she was in labor. That she was too doped up to notcie that the baby was crowning between her legs. She did ask for hot chocolate. And she told me that when she saw Rose’s face, her lapis colored eyes peering up at her, it was the first time anyone had ever loved her.
Rose. I didn’t know what I was doing, still don’t. But I’m doing my best.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Word Count
4900 words and counting. Here's a sample:
I knew that Tara was more beautiful than I from the time we were old enough to share a tub. It was in the bathtub that I studied her, the intricacies of her face and body. The nature of her gestures. All of her exquisite mannerisms. Even at four years old, there was something eerily captivating about Tara’s face. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, and too large for her face made most people turn away. Great beauty has the power to do that. To embarrass. To frighten. Two years younger, I watched my sister with both fascination and desire. I wanted to be near her. I wanted to be her.
I also learned from early on that Tara hated the world. Perhaps for someone of such terrifying beauty, the world could only be ugly place in comparison. In the bathtub, she pulled my mother’s hair from the drain and draped it across the smooth expanse of her chest. She dug the mold out of the grout with her fingernails and held it under my nose to smell. Even at four years old, Tara knew that under every perfect stone there were worms. Maggots. Roaches. Germs.
I, on the other hand, have always been a poet. Not beautiful like Tara. Not captivating to anyone’s eye. But I know how to find grace in the hideous. It’s a skill only the plain and ugly tend to hone. I made beauty because it was not given to me.
I knew that Tara was more beautiful than I from the time we were old enough to share a tub. It was in the bathtub that I studied her, the intricacies of her face and body. The nature of her gestures. All of her exquisite mannerisms. Even at four years old, there was something eerily captivating about Tara’s face. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, and too large for her face made most people turn away. Great beauty has the power to do that. To embarrass. To frighten. Two years younger, I watched my sister with both fascination and desire. I wanted to be near her. I wanted to be her.
I also learned from early on that Tara hated the world. Perhaps for someone of such terrifying beauty, the world could only be ugly place in comparison. In the bathtub, she pulled my mother’s hair from the drain and draped it across the smooth expanse of her chest. She dug the mold out of the grout with her fingernails and held it under my nose to smell. Even at four years old, Tara knew that under every perfect stone there were worms. Maggots. Roaches. Germs.
I, on the other hand, have always been a poet. Not beautiful like Tara. Not captivating to anyone’s eye. But I know how to find grace in the hideous. It’s a skill only the plain and ugly tend to hone. I made beauty because it was not given to me.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Secret
Here's a secret: I registered with Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) and am writing a novel this month. 2400 words and counting. It's a modern-day Sleeping Beauty story. The "Queen" is a heroin addict model whose infant daughter is raised by her younger sister in 1980's Atlantic City after she overdoes on a New York subway. I'm structuring the novel like a villanelle. (I'm teaching traditional poetic forms to my students right now and my brain is full of it.)
Here's the first paragraph:
There must be word for the moment in which fall acquiesces to winter. It can’t possibly be as subtle a surrender as it appears. I like to think that it’s a kind of quickdeath, a gunshot to the head. No long suffering illness. It is not a cancer but a precise stab. Of course, you argue that autumn (fall, fall) tumbles headlong and sure into the certainty of winter, but even the suicide, who knows exactly what’s coming, has a moment in which his life ceases and his death begins. It’s that moment I’d like a name for. That single second in which autumn dies, it’s soul rising into the cloudless sky. I might call it Tara. She’d like that.
This is fun. It's so liberating to worry only about quantity and not quality for a change.
Here's the first paragraph:
There must be word for the moment in which fall acquiesces to winter. It can’t possibly be as subtle a surrender as it appears. I like to think that it’s a kind of quickdeath, a gunshot to the head. No long suffering illness. It is not a cancer but a precise stab. Of course, you argue that autumn (fall, fall) tumbles headlong and sure into the certainty of winter, but even the suicide, who knows exactly what’s coming, has a moment in which his life ceases and his death begins. It’s that moment I’d like a name for. That single second in which autumn dies, it’s soul rising into the cloudless sky. I might call it Tara. She’d like that.
This is fun. It's so liberating to worry only about quantity and not quality for a change.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Cheever
Last night in a cold-medicine induced haze, I started reading John Cheever's journals. How comforting to find such an American literary icon so utterly vulnerable and scared. I'm allowing myself this departure from reading fiction for a bit. I simply can't bear to read the latest "It" girl or boy's contribution to contemporary letters. And so Cheever it is. But more interesting even than his neuroses are my grandfather's annotations. The book is a borrowed copy from the Craig Camp Library which I brought back from Vermont this summer (along with Cheever's letters). It is fascinating to decipher my grandfather's life via the mysterious checks and underlines and exclamation points in every one of his books. This summer I found the copy of Undressing the Moon that I had given to him. He passed away before we ever got a chance to discuss it; I feared that after his stroke he had not been able to muddle his way through. But inside the pages were his glorious scratches and notes as well as the date he finished it. He has left small treasures everywhere. Last night as I read it felt like I was reading two stories -- Cheever's and my grandfather's.
I haven't talked much about the girls lately...perhaps because they are so everpresent in my life, there's no room left in my writing? The fairy costumes are almost done. I have sewn battery-operated Christmas lights into the wings, bought sparkly shoes, and sewn tu-tu's filled with silk flowers. Kicky is beside herself in anticipation of Halloween and Esmee is, as she almost always is, blissfully oblivious.
I haven't talked much about the girls lately...perhaps because they are so everpresent in my life, there's no room left in my writing? The fairy costumes are almost done. I have sewn battery-operated Christmas lights into the wings, bought sparkly shoes, and sewn tu-tu's filled with silk flowers. Kicky is beside herself in anticipation of Halloween and Esmee is, as she almost always is, blissfully oblivious.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Back on the Horcycle
So, after wallowing in self-pity for the requisite 24 hours (that's all I usually need even for the greatest disappointments), I am back on the proverbial horse (or is it bicycle)? I have approached some respected agents whose clients I admire and have sparked some interest in a couple. It certainly seems a little easier this time around. However, I don't want to get my hopes up just yet. This time I am finding myself so much less desperate than the first time...now my biggest concern is finding the perfect fit. This book is too important for me to leap blindly into a new relationship. I need someone who will stick it out with me...somebody who's in this for the long haul. I also need someone who has connections with the perfect editor for this book. It is so much like breaking up with someone. There's all this sadness, but a simultaneous thrill at all of the possibilities.
I am reading a terrific book called "The Forest for the Trees" by Betsy Lerner. She's a former editor, turned agent, and this book is the most honest look at the publishing industry I have ever read. She is so acutely sensitive to the precarious ego of the writer as well as the temperament of both established and fledgling authors. I so rarely pick up books like these, but the timing seemed serendipitous.
I am reading a terrific book called "The Forest for the Trees" by Betsy Lerner. She's a former editor, turned agent, and this book is the most honest look at the publishing industry I have ever read. She is so acutely sensitive to the precarious ego of the writer as well as the temperament of both established and fledgling authors. I so rarely pick up books like these, but the timing seemed serendipitous.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Upheaval
So...things are not what I expected. Not. At all. Not in the remotest sense of the word.
My agent finally got back to me after five weeks (six months if you count the month before she went on maternity leave, the four months out, and the one month since she's gotten back), and the verdict is not good. Despite her earlier (May) enthusiasm (Very excited to have a new one to work on together esp one with so much promise....), now she seems to think the book needs to be turned on its ass, spun around and sent flying into outerspace. At least that's how I interpreted her comments. Actually, it just suddenly seems that she wants it to be a different book than it is or should be. She wants it to be about the civil rights movement, about Harper's mother's experience in Mississippi. Suddenly, everything that I see as peripheral to the story, she sees as potentially integral and vice-versa. She sees it as a woman's book that doesn't appeal to women. Figure that one out. And here's the kicker, she thinks the changes required are so enormous that there is no way she could possibly handle them. Argh. Initially, before all of the work I did this summer, she thought the changes needed were entirely manageable. It's like some terrible Twilight Zone episode, though not nearly as entertaining.
Anyway, we went back and forth a few times...sparring and bruising. And ultimately, essentially, we broke up. Call it the seven year itch...but what I believe is going on, is that now, with a new baby at home, there isn't the time she feels she needs to give to her lesser clients (read, the ones whose book sales are as miserable as mine). I have no idea what caused her to change her mind about the book itself; I'll probably never know.
However, I have what I believe is a terrific novel in need of some minor editing. It's been seven years since I've written a query letter, and I am rusty, but I'm jumping right back on this dang bicycle. So...if anyone out there knows a hot shot agent who would like to take this challenge on....you know where to find me :)
My agent finally got back to me after five weeks (six months if you count the month before she went on maternity leave, the four months out, and the one month since she's gotten back), and the verdict is not good. Despite her earlier (May) enthusiasm (Very excited to have a new one to work on together esp one with so much promise....), now she seems to think the book needs to be turned on its ass, spun around and sent flying into outerspace. At least that's how I interpreted her comments. Actually, it just suddenly seems that she wants it to be a different book than it is or should be. She wants it to be about the civil rights movement, about Harper's mother's experience in Mississippi. Suddenly, everything that I see as peripheral to the story, she sees as potentially integral and vice-versa. She sees it as a woman's book that doesn't appeal to women. Figure that one out. And here's the kicker, she thinks the changes required are so enormous that there is no way she could possibly handle them. Argh. Initially, before all of the work I did this summer, she thought the changes needed were entirely manageable. It's like some terrible Twilight Zone episode, though not nearly as entertaining.
Anyway, we went back and forth a few times...sparring and bruising. And ultimately, essentially, we broke up. Call it the seven year itch...but what I believe is going on, is that now, with a new baby at home, there isn't the time she feels she needs to give to her lesser clients (read, the ones whose book sales are as miserable as mine). I have no idea what caused her to change her mind about the book itself; I'll probably never know.
However, I have what I believe is a terrific novel in need of some minor editing. It's been seven years since I've written a query letter, and I am rusty, but I'm jumping right back on this dang bicycle. So...if anyone out there knows a hot shot agent who would like to take this challenge on....you know where to find me :)
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Home again, home again
I am so delinquent with this post...many apologies. We returned from Vermont at the end of August refreshed and happy. It was an amazing month. I finished the novel revisions, planned my class at GW, and, in between, enjoyed the bliss of being at Newark Pond. The girls had a fantastic time being back at the water...though I doubt mermaids could survive in the murky depths of the pond. Esmee spent most of the month naked. Kicky swam and picked blueberries and blackberries and raspberries. We at at The Miss Lyndonville Diner about a dozen times...the best breakfast in the entire world. We went to the Caledonia County Fair. The day actually coincided with the chapter in Two Rivers which takes place at the fair (there must be a way to write off the admission!). All in all, it was a much-needed visit home.
However, returning to DC was also exciting. Kicky has started school again. We've had our kitchen gutted and are "camping" urban-style. We're hoping the re-do will be done by the end of the month. Meanwhile, we've learned to live with the drywall/cabinet guy...it's like having a houseguest overstay their welcome -- a really loud houseguest. I am teaching two classes...one at GW and one at The Writer's Center. The two groups couldn't be more different, but I think I am learning much from both.
Anyway, just checking in. Christy has the book now and hopefully will appreciate the tremendous efforts that went into the revisions.
While I was on the pond, I dreamed that I was Harper...waiting for Betsy to come to a school dance. My knees were weak with love for her. Boy, lines between fiction and reality get fuzzy near the end...
However, returning to DC was also exciting. Kicky has started school again. We've had our kitchen gutted and are "camping" urban-style. We're hoping the re-do will be done by the end of the month. Meanwhile, we've learned to live with the drywall/cabinet guy...it's like having a houseguest overstay their welcome -- a really loud houseguest. I am teaching two classes...one at GW and one at The Writer's Center. The two groups couldn't be more different, but I think I am learning much from both.
Anyway, just checking in. Christy has the book now and hopefully will appreciate the tremendous efforts that went into the revisions.
While I was on the pond, I dreamed that I was Harper...waiting for Betsy to come to a school dance. My knees were weak with love for her. Boy, lines between fiction and reality get fuzzy near the end...
Friday, July 29, 2005
To the pond
Last post for a while...the girls and I are to Vermont for the whole glorious month of August. I'm hoping to finish the novel revisions while there. I also plan to hide a letterbox (http://www.letterboxing.org) on the island...with a poem that Harper wrote for Betsy.
Adieu, adieu.
Adieu, adieu.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
With gratitude
Thank you to all of you who offered up your adolescent tragedies. With your assistance, I found a perfect but small and innocent way for Betsy to break Harper's heart. Patrick went out last night with friends and I hunkered down to write. Finally, at about 11:00 it all came together. I went to sleep feeling happily pleased with the chapter and with the progress. (Did I mention the book has already grown 20 pages and I'm only 60 pages into it? At this rate I may surpass John Irving's page total!) Anyway, Patrick came home around midnight, and then at 1:00 the ceiling fan stopped. Outside was the wildest thunder and lightning storm we've had yet this summer. The air was so tight, it was literally bursting. We stood out on the back porch just to cool off...without electricity, the heat was unbelievable. The girls both slept and sweated through it.
We're leaving in one week for Vermont. I am so excited to vacate this oppressive humidity. I am also excited to have a whole month to work on the book. I am hoping it will be enough time to get a really, really good draft done by Labor Day when Christy should be returning after her maternity leave. I am grateful now for her baby's early arrival...it send me into a sort of revision whirlwind I've never experienced before. I have learned great patience in so many ways this summer.
We're leaving in one week for Vermont. I am so excited to vacate this oppressive humidity. I am also excited to have a whole month to work on the book. I am hoping it will be enough time to get a really, really good draft done by Labor Day when Christy should be returning after her maternity leave. I am grateful now for her baby's early arrival...it send me into a sort of revision whirlwind I've never experienced before. I have learned great patience in so many ways this summer.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Soliciting Small Sorrows
I'm going to do something I've never done before here. I'm stuck and I need help. For anybody reading this who can assist, I'm soliciting minor heartbreaks. I need to write a new chapter in which Betsy breaks Harper's heart in some small way (though not necessarily romantic). They're thirteen years old or so. If you have a small sorrow of the adolescent kind to share, I'd be ever-grateful. . .
Here is the chapter's opening paragraph:
Betsy broke my heart a thousand times. She didn’t mean to; she was never deliberately unkind. But the moments (disappointments both small and fantastic) are still like tender scars: each one a tiny but certain fissure. And like anything that has been broken and then mended over and over again, I was weakened by her. And she didn’t even know it.
Thanks.
Here is the chapter's opening paragraph:
Betsy broke my heart a thousand times. She didn’t mean to; she was never deliberately unkind. But the moments (disappointments both small and fantastic) are still like tender scars: each one a tiny but certain fissure. And like anything that has been broken and then mended over and over again, I was weakened by her. And she didn’t even know it.
Thanks.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Supercalafragalistic
The revising is going quite well...despite the number of balls (bananas, sippy cups, and binkies) I've been juggling. I have been doing work for my old boss, planning my GW class, finishing up the Characterization class I'm teaching, planning the kitchen remodel, entertaining guests, and trying to find a sitter to watch Esmee this fall. I am about forty pages into the book now (which is growing exponentially, it seems)...just sort of methodically going though the chapters, adding and subtracting, tinkering and making full-blown changes. One things that is emerging as I do this is that Harper's initial crush on Betsy is completely unreciprocated. I guess I knew that, but dramatically it just wasn't evident before. I'm also really pleased with the prologue, I think. I made some fairly significant changes throughout. I want it to be as tight as the prologue in Nearer Than the Sky, but sometimes I feel like I got sort of lucky with that one.
I bought John Irving's new brick, I mean book, "Until I Find You" (800 some-odd pages). It's coming to Vermont with me. It's gotten relatively bad reviews, but I'm always optimistic which is surprising since I was so put off when I saw him speak that one time in Seattle. He was on tour for "A Son of the Circus" -- he refused to sign any books. Now, isn't that sort of your bonus gift to your fans after they spend $25 on your book? He was also not at all what I expected (wanted) him to be. Hard to explain...I just remember feeling incredibly disappointed. I think I've always made a pretty big attempt to be much more approachable and accessible to my readers (all six of them!).
This afternoon I am interviewing Nanny #1. Mary Poppins should be landing at around 1:00.
I bought John Irving's new brick, I mean book, "Until I Find You" (800 some-odd pages). It's coming to Vermont with me. It's gotten relatively bad reviews, but I'm always optimistic which is surprising since I was so put off when I saw him speak that one time in Seattle. He was on tour for "A Son of the Circus" -- he refused to sign any books. Now, isn't that sort of your bonus gift to your fans after they spend $25 on your book? He was also not at all what I expected (wanted) him to be. Hard to explain...I just remember feeling incredibly disappointed. I think I've always made a pretty big attempt to be much more approachable and accessible to my readers (all six of them!).
This afternoon I am interviewing Nanny #1. Mary Poppins should be landing at around 1:00.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Firecracker, firecracker
Took a break from the book for a few days. My sister, Ceilidh, was out from Flagstaff for the 4th. We took her to the Mall for a picnic and later to the Takoma Park fireworks celebration...one of the oldest in the nation, apparently. The history of this area continually blows my mind. Forgot the bug spray and am now paying for my recklessness with giant itchy welts on my ankles and legs.
KK has left, but we have a new houseguest: Ella the Caterpella. Apparently (based on extensive research on the web) she will eventually become a Tiger Moth. Kicky caught about twenty fireflies to keep her company the other night. She put them by her bed and stayed up well into the night watching them. We set them free in the morning. (They certainly are sluggish creatures in the wee hours.) It's getting hotter everyday; the girls have spent more time under the sprinkler than not.
Back to revising after KK's departure yesterday. . . still struggling with the first chapter. It's so convoluted. I feel like I'm trying to cram too much in such a small space. The chronology and tense are all messed up. I'm beginning to realize that Christy's maternity leave has been a gigantic Godsend...I would never have been this scrupulous if I'd rushed to get it submitted this summer. It doesn't feel leisurely exactly, but thorough. I do want to submit this section for the Maryland State Arts Council grant application (due 7/28), so I need to make some progress soon.
KK has left, but we have a new houseguest: Ella the Caterpella. Apparently (based on extensive research on the web) she will eventually become a Tiger Moth. Kicky caught about twenty fireflies to keep her company the other night. She put them by her bed and stayed up well into the night watching them. We set them free in the morning. (They certainly are sluggish creatures in the wee hours.) It's getting hotter everyday; the girls have spent more time under the sprinkler than not.
Back to revising after KK's departure yesterday. . . still struggling with the first chapter. It's so convoluted. I feel like I'm trying to cram too much in such a small space. The chronology and tense are all messed up. I'm beginning to realize that Christy's maternity leave has been a gigantic Godsend...I would never have been this scrupulous if I'd rushed to get it submitted this summer. It doesn't feel leisurely exactly, but thorough. I do want to submit this section for the Maryland State Arts Council grant application (due 7/28), so I need to make some progress soon.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Revision
It's time. I've finally started the excruciating task of not only recognizing the book's flaws but actually trying to fix them. Last night I tried to write a new first page. Painful. It's almost easier to write a first page when you don't know what is going to happen next than when you know everything that happens. It's too much retrospect. The vantage point shifts from a very limited one (full of promise and surprise) to a sort of terrible omniscience.
There's something I've been avoiding the whole time, and that is the fact that Harper needs to at least acknowledge the racial element of his crime. It's certainly not the impetus for what he does, but he also has to know that it would appear to be so to anyone else. It's completely inauthentic for him to pretend that he doesn't even consider the man's race. But it's a slippery slope. I have to tread lightly here...this is dangerous terrain for Harper, and for me as the author. I'm not sure this acknowledgment belongs on the first page, but then, last night, there it was. I feel rusty.
I am so worried that my writing is taking the back seat (the way back) to everything else (my editorial stuff, teaching, housework, etc...). I'm starting to feel resentful of all of my other obligations. We're going to be spending $10/hr. on a nanny so I can teach this fall, but I wouldn't dream of hiring someone to watch the girls so I could write. It's almost like writing has become the hobby I just don't have time for instead of my occupation. I fantasize about having a few hours to really focus on my work. I am hoping that being at the pond will give me what I need to finish. We leave in one month.
There's something I've been avoiding the whole time, and that is the fact that Harper needs to at least acknowledge the racial element of his crime. It's certainly not the impetus for what he does, but he also has to know that it would appear to be so to anyone else. It's completely inauthentic for him to pretend that he doesn't even consider the man's race. But it's a slippery slope. I have to tread lightly here...this is dangerous terrain for Harper, and for me as the author. I'm not sure this acknowledgment belongs on the first page, but then, last night, there it was. I feel rusty.
I am so worried that my writing is taking the back seat (the way back) to everything else (my editorial stuff, teaching, housework, etc...). I'm starting to feel resentful of all of my other obligations. We're going to be spending $10/hr. on a nanny so I can teach this fall, but I wouldn't dream of hiring someone to watch the girls so I could write. It's almost like writing has become the hobby I just don't have time for instead of my occupation. I fantasize about having a few hours to really focus on my work. I am hoping that being at the pond will give me what I need to finish. We leave in one month.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
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