Stepping stones.

The stepping stones are finally done. It's hard to tell from the picture, but each one is a mosaic made from a billion marbles and broken pieces of glass. Do I have too much time on my hands? Obsessive compulsive disorder? A little of both. Look what happens when I'm not writing!

Blitzkrieg

I am feeling frustrated and tightly wound today...I think it's the transition from the madness of the end of the semester to a virtual stasis in my routine. Sort of like those first few staggering moments runners have at the completion of a race. I have also already been challenged by a student regarding her final grade...though I shouldn't be surprised; this usually happens once a semester despite every effort I make to be fair and gentle with my grading. I hate grading. It's inane in a creative writing class. I've had to penalize terrific writers who were lazy and reward mediocre writers who simply worked hard. I am glad the semester is over.

On a brighter (brilliant) note, Henry and I discussed submission plans. A blitzkrieg to editors at every major house beginning the week after next. Hopefully it will blow at least one of them away. I sat down here in my office last night re-reading the latest version. I think it's good. This is the most confident I have felt about it yet, though I'm not sure whether or not my confidence is simply a coping mechanism.

Speaking of which, I just finished The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. What a heart-breaking life. I'm not sure how I feel about the book yet. There were some miraculous observations about grief, but it left me feeling melancholy. For Didion. For all widows and widowers, mothers of lost children.

80 bolts. 600 pounds of sand. 2 happy girls. 1 exhausted mama. 

Here we go.

Henry called this morning and said the book is (finally) ready to go. Next week we will start to prepare a submission list, and sometime in the next two weeks I'll start crossing my digits (fingers, toes, eyes, etc...) Joy. I have worked so hard. I hope he can find a good, good home for it.

Last night P and I went to the Levine School of Music gala. I spoke to Knight Kiplinger...yes, the Knight Kiplinger, about my books (of all things). He was so goofy and happy to talk. Life is so strange. We also got to see Sweet Honey in the Rock and eat some of the best roast beef I;ve ever tasted.

Today I spent three hours building a boat sandbox. There were eighty bolts. EIGHTY BOLTS. And while I was sweating and cussing, surrounded by a thousand little pieces of boat, Esmee and Kicky were Lord of the Flies in the backyard. At one point Esmee got ahold of the knife I opened the box with and she looked like she was about to cut her stuffed dog's throat. I'm exhausted.

What did I tell you?? 

Bird Mama 

How Not to Hang a Hammock

Today is my last class at GW until the fall. I am bringing Kicky to be the guest lecturer. She plans to discuss Hide-n-Seek.

We spent most of the weekend working on the backyard. We got a new patio set, and, in the spirit of Gatsby, I strung lights all along the deck and bought a new tealight holder that circles the umbrella on the table. We also tried hanging the hammock, but physics was never my thing, and we (me, Kicky, and Esmee) quickly came crashing to the ground. No broken bones, but my spirit sure was crushed. Anyway, the irises are blooming, almost pornographic, in the front yard. The boat-shaped sandbox I ordered for the girls should be here on Thursday.

I'm worried about the dove babies. There's a one-eyed cat (I kid you not) that has been lurking, stalking. I tried to shoo it away yesterday, but it didn't flinch. Ruthless. It just stared me down with its one good eye until I ran it out of the yard.

Patrick is closing on the castle, I mean house, on Florida today. I finally went to see it last week. It's beautiful: ten foot (tin) ceilings, rooms shaped like jigsaw puzzle pieces, so much light. They're renting it out to a thousand Greenpeace interns. Anyway, his partners are coming up after the closing to celebrate. Hopefully, it'll be warm enough to sit out on the back deck.

Did you know that Fitgerald only sold 26,000 copies of The Great Gatsby before he died?

Still no word from Henry.

Nesting

How can you not have hope when you see something like this? Two mourning doves have built a nest on top of our fence. These are the unattended eggs. The mama bird went crazy when she found me, some sort of avian paparrazzi, taking this unauthorized photo.

I am still reeling from last night. The reading was incredible. A.M. Homes was so funny, acerbic. I bought her newest novel, This Book Will Save Your Life. Now, that's a title. But afterwards, as I was pulling out of the parking lot the most horrendous thing happened. I heard a thumping sound on the back of my car, and I stopped. A man was glaring in through my window at me. "You hit me!" he yelled, and I rolled down the window. I was falling all over myself, apologizing, offering to call 911. He said his wrist hurt. And then he started talking about insurance, and settling things, and said he'd go to the doctor later. Then I start thinking that maybe I didn't hit him at all...maybe he hit me, and was now trying to get something out of me. So, I start fumbling around in my purse for my insurance card, and then I thought, I am alone in the dark in the parking lot with a man who claims I hit him with my car. I felt like that Mama bird, all fluttery and frantic. So, I offered again to call the police, an ambulance, but he refused, still talking about "working with me." Finally he took my insurance information and left...without giving me his name. I drove home rattled and confused. I am still a little rattled...the power of guilt is something else. My initial reaction was a horrific sense of remorse, and to have that gut instinct manipulated by a stranger is so unnerving. I've also never had anyone think that I was someone they might be able to get money out of. (This certainly never happened when I was driving my '63 Bug or the Volvo wagon.) Anyway, the insurance company said that he likely won't actually try to make a claim...but still, my head is swimmy with last night.

As for the book, Henry said that he hopes to read the latest version this weekend...maybe we can get things started next week. I am ready.

Precipice/Precipitation

I am feeling so damn ambivalent today. I think it's a reflection of the weather. All morning it's been alternately sunny and verging on a storm. I feel the same way, though I can't quite get at the source.

I'm reading The Great Gatsby for the first time in 20 years. The last time I read it was in Mr. Tavares' American Lit class at Lyndon Institute when I was a sophomore. We all had such a huge crush on him...I don't remember much about Gatsby (or The Crucible, or The Scarlet Letter, or The Old Man and the Sea for that matter), but I do remember spring, and Mr. Tavares sitting on a desk at the front of the class talking about books while we melted. Anyway, the book is so small. I don't remember it being so short. It's lovely though, and it makes me want to buy Patrick a pair of white flannel trousers...

Tonight I am going to see A.M. Homes at Politics and Prose. I feel like I'm going to see a rockstar. I've even been trying to figure out what to wear...

Hunting.

I am a terrible mother. I allowed Kicky and Esmee to eat so much candy on Sunday that Kicky actually threw up. In the middle of the night. All over her bed. The walls. Other than that, we had a great weekend. Company over for a barbeque on Saturday, and the egg hunt on Sunday. Kicky swears she saw the Easter Bunny's tail through her window. Esmee can say "treehouse" now. I made a mosaic stepstone for the flower garden (one down, nine to go).

I am getting antsy to start a new book. I'm waiting until I hear from Henry that the book is ready to go though....

School ends at GW in two weeks. Though I hate to see my students go, I can't wait to have my time back.

The reading corner.

The porch is finally almost done. It's unbelievable that so little money and time could turn a crappy junk room into an awesome place to hang out. (I should probably have posted the before pix: wood paneling, indoor-outdoor carper, broken windows...) I am also going to add a poster print of the treehouse at Newark Pond above the couch.

Kicky asked me yesterday if we can get a bookcase for the porch. Now, that's my girl!!!

Done with the novel, for now, just waiting to hear back from my agent to see if it's ready to shop. Finishing up the semester too. I have got my arms wide open for spring and summer.

Our new porch. 

Cherry Blossoms.

This weekend we went to see the cherry blossoms. So did everyone else in the entire world. It was the most claustrophic I have ever felt outside. They were beautiful though, and the idea that a zillion people came out just to look at a bunch of trees was pretty life-affirming.

The latest round of edits are almost done. My goal is to get things off to my agent (my agent!) by Friday. I am fighting a nasty cold though that has gotten to both P and E. Kicky and I have been okay until yesterday. It probably didn't help that I spent TWO HOURS at Home Depot this morning trying to buy tiles for the porch and a sconce for the hallway. Do you realize that a price check on a sconce at Home Depot can take upwards of 45 minutes??!! Needless to say that by the time I started lifting the one hundred pound boxes of tiles into my trunk I was about to pass out. Good news is that the porch remodel is coming along wonderfully. The contractor is a sweetheart, and they are working like madmen to get the new windows, ceiling, and floor in. I can't wait to paint and make my little writing corner. I'll post pictures when it's done.

At the edges

I am inside the book now. For so long I feel like I've felt at the periphery of the story, the consummate spectator, voyeur. But lately, I like I am becoming a participant. Alive. Inside. I didn't write all weekend, but the scenes were turning over and over in my head. It's real now. Really, really, real.

This weekend was so easy. P planted a perennial garden in the winter-wasted spot of lawn in front of our living room window. The possibility of all of that blooming, that color is thrilling: roses, irises, black-eyed Susans, flox. The girls were so good, sweet. I went shopping: for little treats for the girls, a new gauzy blouse for myself. For food. I made buffalo chicken chili with bleu cheese and scallion corn pancakes. We watched movies, I stole moments while the girls were playing to read. I took about a half dozen photos of Esmee today because I couldn't stop looking at her. People are always saying how much she and Kicky look alike, but I am starting to love the beauty of their subtle differences: their mouths, their scowls, their furrowed eyebrows. And God, P is so happy with his new bike. I only wish that spring would finally arrive, instead of this awful teetering at the edge. Still cold.

I think there is a direct correlation between this anticipation of spring and the way I feel about my work right now. It's freezing in here...I am bundled up like an Eskimo, but I know that soon (soon, soon) spring will arrive. It's enough to sustain me through these last purgatorial weeks before the sun finally comes.

Working. Still.

I love Betsy Parker. God, how could I have ignored this element of the novel for so long? Sometimes the disparity between what's in my head and what's on the page is almost startling. Here, I've been thinking that Betsy is this luminous character, when she is, in fact, dead on the page long before she's dead on the page. I am meticulously combing every scene, reworking her character to show just how magical she is -- why Harper does what he does when he loses her.

My new agent suggested I read Endless Love. Now, I had no idea that the movie "Endless Love" was based on a novel, a National Book Award nominee no less. I remember being in the sixth grade when it was on HBO, sneaking a peek at it during a sleepover with one of my best friends. The novel is incredible so far. Scott Spencer has captured exactly the sort of crazy devotion and adolescent passion I want for Harper.

On the home front, we are about to start the next remodel project: the back sun porch. I have visions of a sunny, bug-free place to write while the girls romp around in the backyard.

Esmee said "butterfly" the other day. I almost cried.

The Longing Itself

So we went to a Wizard's game last night with people from P's work. Our seats were incredible...center court only about seven rows from the floor. It was fun; the Wizards won. But of course I can never enjoy an experience just for what it is, but find myself consumed by all of its underlying implications. So, the whole time I should have been drinking beer and cheering, I just kept thinking about how great it must be to be an NBA basketball player. You train, you play. You either win or lose. And you get paid. A lot. The results of your work are tangible, immediate. I think there's a part of me that longs for that. But then again, I remember somebody talking about desire once in a Philosophy class I took at UVM. How desire is what we really want. It's not the object of our desire at all, but the longing itself. What would I really do if my books were suddenly in every airport newstand? Probably start writing the next one, I guess.

Today I am going to dive back into the book...head first and flippers flipping.

When it rains...

It must be my lucky week. After the whole agent thing yesterday, I got an e-mail from another agent who represents a screenwriter who is interested in the film rights to Nearer Than the Sky. She has done an indie film that looks terrific. I am going to talk to her more about it on Tuesday.

Back to work.

At last.

I have an agent! I have an agent!!!!! He called today and was so happy with the changes I've made over the last three months. He does want one more revision, but I am ready to get back to work. He thinks Betsy needs more of an edge. I agree.

I am relieved and excited. SO excited!

Yippppeeee.

Parsnips and Patience

OH MY GOD. So now I have to wait another day. He kindly e-mailed that he would have to call tomorrow (and I should just be grateful for the heads up, I know), so now I have one more excruciating, sleepless night to endure. I can't take this waiting.

I've been channeling all of my creativity into the new website and food. Tonight it's lamb and two potato stew with fresh rosemary and parsnips. I haven't had a parsnip since I was six years old. I started to peel it and was immediately transported to my first house in Concord, Vermont, where we had a garden as big as my current backyard.

Til tomorrow. AGH.

Soon

The agent is supposed to call this morning. Oh my. I am a bundle of nerves.

This weekend was so nice. I needed it. Saturday was such a loungey day...I even managed a nap on the couch. And yesterday we got up early to go to Patrick's race -- the St. Patrick's Day 8K downtown. The girls got a kick out of it, especially the Irish dancers. Afterwards, we went to The Diner for breakfast where we met a couple of our friends. I had a Monte Cristo sandwich for which I am almost certainly going to go to hell. Last night I made the most amazing biscuits with a shrimp and vegetable cream sauce (another sinful dinner), and then I read myself to sleep.

I am on spring break right now, which I think is really helping me feel more like a person and less like a teaching machine. I also finished the freelance project. I'm also still working diligently on my website, which I think is going to be really really cool.

Keep your fingers, toes, and other appendages crossed. Will update soon.

ick

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I have had this prevailing sense of something since last night. I hardly slept, my heart was racing (though my mind was remarkably still). And the weird thing is, there is nothing tangible that I can use to explain it away. It's just this sick unease. I mean, I know what is making me feel stressed out, but it's more complicated than that. I feel on the verge of tears for no real reason. Last night, I went and looked at the girls while they slept, and I was so overwhelmed I had a hard time leaving their room. And it's not sadness. It's something larger. Like sadness and anticipation and joy and horror all mixed up together. I feel like some wires have gotten crossed in my brain. Not to worry. I'll snap out of it.

On a lighter note, I stayed up late watching the finale of Project Runway. I think Chloe's collection was incredible except for that godawful stick-of-hot-pink-cotton candy dress. What do I know? I haven't even bought a new dress in two years. I've got one pair of shoes I ever wear and all of my jeans are too big.

Maybe tomorrow I'll have some news. If it's good, I'll go buy myself some jeans that fit.

Spring Break!

The reading (Chris Abani) the other night was amazing. What an incredible story he has (a political prisoner in Nigeria, a novelist at the age of 16...) His writing was absolutely luminous as well. READ him.

I may have an answer from the agent in two days. TWO DAYS. This is excruciating. I feel like I keep getting turned down for things; his acceptance would disrupt the natural rhythm of my rejections. I even had to beg GW to give me two classes next semester yesterday after the director told me he only had one to offer.

I've been working on my website...it's going to be really cool, I think. Each page is like a little treasure chest. I have 2 and a half pages done. A long, long way to go.

Nichelle Tramble is planning to post her interview with me this Friday. Keep your eye out. You should check out her blog, she gets all sorts of wonderful writers to talk about their creative processes.

The new babysitter was great. The girls adore him. At least that situation is resolved. And next week is spring break. It's off to Fort Lauderdale! Lots of beer drinking and reckless driving. Bikini contests etc... Just kidding. I'll be here. I figure the agent's news will either make or break my break.

Fun with Implosion

Now that my mental state is better, my body is falling apart. Actually, it feels more like my head is on the verge of implosion (is that possible?). This is the second sinus infection I've had in three months, and it is making my teeth ache and my cheeks throb. Good news is that the agent started reading the manuscript today and hopes to have an answer for me by the end of the week. I suspect that the sinus infection will either clear up at that point or mutate into the flesh-eating virus and find its way through my sinus cavities to my brain. So let's all hope for good news!

Kicky made me a bracelet yesterday with alphabet beads that spell F-U-N. I am going to wear it until it falls off. It's a reminder. Every time I check the place where my watch used to be.

Tonight is the dinner and reading. Tomorrow is the new sitter's first day. It's going to be a long week.

The Demon Seed Myth

I am feeling much, much better. Yesterday, I taught my last Characterization class at The Writer's Center. It seemed like all of the students were really happy with what they accomplished over the last six weeks. Patrick started his Georgetown program this week, so we had to hire a sitter to watch the girls. Well, obviously the old one was out, so instead we had one of Kicky's teachers come over. All the way home from class, I had these terrible daydreams that her teacher would say what a nightmare Kicky was, that she was, indeed, a demon seed. But...

When I got home, Esmee, Kicky, and her teacher were all snuggled up on the couch watching a princess movie. The kitchen counter was covered with drying paintings. There were miniature fairies which they had made out of silk flowers and beads teetering on wire legs all over the house. Kicky's teacher said it was the easiest babysitting job she'd ever had. That the girls were a dream.

I love my merbabies.

Today I'll be working on an article about a new office opening in China. I will also start biting my nails again. The agent said he'd get to it by early next week. Does Sunday constitute "early next week"????

Tomorrow night I'm going out to dinner with a GW guest novelist/poet, Chris Abani, before his reading. Tayari Jones invited him to come, and I'm hoping she'll be at the dinner as well. I love that the faculty does this. It creates such a nice, intimate way to get to know the readers. I also love the restaurant, Cafe Lombardy.

Tonight we're having friends over to watch the Oscars. Of course I have seen only one or two of the movies nominated, but it's all about the dresses really, isn't it?? Speaking of which, I got SOOO sucked into the marathon of Project Runway yesterday. I had never seen it before, and I couldn't stop watching. I even skipped Curb Your Enthusiasm to watch them make dresses out of flowers and plants.

Stew

I have not had a worse day than this in awhile. I spent the entire day reading and responding to a series of nasty e-mails from our sitter who, at twenty (and childless), has deemed herself an expert on parenting, and has also deemed me to be the worst parent in history. (Note, her frustration stemming from the $32.50 she would have received had I not decided to stay home today.) For this reason, she felt compelled and justified in accusing me of never disciplining Kicky (little does she know of the time-outs, the toy confiscations, the screaming!). She also said some other cruel things having to do with old sippy cups and runny noses that, despite being way off base, still stung. I stuck to the high road. I didn't remind her that on more than one occasion I had to wake her up when I got home (at 11:00 a.m., no less) as Esmee napped, that my house was always trashed after she left, that she once put Esmee to bed with only a diaper and a bib (a bib!) on, and that she was always, always fifteen minutes late, but that I continued to pay her for those precious minutes. I didn't complain that she made Kicky feel like the ugly stepsister, that I never once saw her read them a book, or that I'm spending half of the money I make teaching to have her watch the girls (she's also underpaid, apparently). Sorry. I just had to let that out. It's been bubbling. A terrible stew.

Endangered Species

I woke up today with the worst pit in my stomach: an absolutely debilitating melancholy feeling. I think it mostly has to do with the sitter coming while I'm at school this afternoon. The idea of Kicky having to spend three more hours with her when things are so contentious makes me more than uneasy. Kicky had nightmares all night last night; I even crawled in with her for awhile because she kept crying out and talking in her sleep. So I cancelled class and told the sitter not to bother. And she had the nerve to e-mail back that I should have given her more notice, that she was counting on the money. Am I insane or does it seem like when you quit a job with one day's notice, the employer doesn't really owe you much of anything? Anyway, I'm feeling like a mama bear, and my claws are out.

I think that the weather is also messing with me. It's gray and cold and rainy. This morning there was a terrible accident on one of the freeways here; everything just seems so grim.

And our neighbor says that there's an adolescent bald eagle that is stalking his coi. He saw it this morning and took some photos. Something about a bald eagle circling around the top of New Hampshire Ave with its high rises and strip malls is really, really disturbing to me today.

My bad seed

Just when I think I couldn't be any more stressed out, I get home from teaching last night and my babysitter quits. She's threatened to do so on about a zillion occasions, and I finally had enough. So I pull a Johnny Cochrane and tell her she either needs to commit or to quit, and she quits. God, and poor Kicky (her reason for leaving) is trembling and teary at my side. And to top it off, it's the sitter's birthday, and Kicky has made her a lemon cake and a card covered with glitter glue and pom-pons, which the sitter ends up leaving behind. I have never felt so heartbroken for Kicky before. The truth is, every other sitter we've had has adored her. Her teachers love her. Maybe this is why this hurts so much. The idea that someone wouldn't fall head over heels with her...who would think she is a bad kid even, some sort of cherubic looking demon seed...is unbearable. I trust Kicky's instincts about people though, and she's never been thrilled with this set-up. I think it's basically a case of favoritism. When I got home, the sitter was feeding Esmee cake and Kicky was in a time-out. The sitter likes babies, and Esmee is the baby. What's a four year old to do but make messes and act out???

Anyway, this afternoon I'm interviewing a teenager from up the street. He's had CPR and sitter training, and is available for the hours I need. I just hate this. I don't like it when people come into my life and then exit abruptly. It upsets the entire equilibrium of things.

As for the agent, I wrote a neurotic note to which he responded SO kindly. He promises to get to it next week. He even says he's "inclined to want to work with me" and will give it "the most serious consideration." He also told me I don't need to start biting my nails yet (little does he know of the bloody stubs that remain).

Think happy thoughts. Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean...

Hissy Fit

Okay. So I'm crazy over this, but not as bad as this poor kid:

http://www.ebaumsworld.com/videos/hissyfit.html

No word. Still.

I have a brilliant student. Being prone to procrastination, I waited until this morning to read the stories for today's class. And so bleary-eyed and not yet caffeinated I sat down to read and was absolutely blown away (goose-bumps and all) by one of the stories. I have never really had that happen before. I have definitely had talented students, but not of this caliber. I'm not even sure how to go about critiquing the story.

Still no word from the agent. I woke up at 4:00 again this morning and realized that I should probably come up with a back-up plan. I have no idea what to do with this book if he doesn't want it. I have warned P that I am on the edge of losing it. That I might just take the MCATS and go to medical school I have one more failure with my writing. I know it's extreme, but my ego has been so battered in the last few years, I'm ready to do something that has tangible -- and immediate -- rewards. I probably should opt for something that won't put me further into student loan debt. I have a friend who just went to Africa and helped build a house for Habitat for the Humanities. Maybe that's what I should do. I wonder if they let you bring along toddlers.

Esmee is obsessed with the movie, "Annie." She watches it every morning. She still can't form a sentence, but she can wordlessly sing the soundtrack with perfect pitch. When she was an infant, she could replicate any note I sang. It was a little creepy.

I'll be hanging out waiting today. Banging my head on my desk.

Through the Looking Glass

So I had the nicest grown-up Sunday...Patrick watched the girls, and I spent hours wandering around Politics and Prose, looking for something to buy with my gift certificate. I wound up with a beautiful art book of Lewis Carroll's photographs and Atonement by Ian McEwan. I'm obsessing lately over Carroll's sepia colored photos of children. I think the secret to my next novel is somewhere inside that book. I was missing my grandfather the whole time. When I was little we took field trips to book stores where we spent hours and hours. Afterwards, I went to Trader Joes and got some nice cheese and then I made the most incredible soft black bean and chicken tostadas for dinner. Ifell into this blissful sleep until 4:00 this morning, when there was some weird scuffle on our street...teenagers yelling at each other, a car parked in front of our house. I think it was the girl who lives next door and her friends, and I can't quite figure out where her parents were. The cops finally came, and they were chuckling after speaking to the kids, so it was probably something ridiculous. It's scary though...a teenaged boy here was just killed by a cop the other day after he and his friends left an IHOP without paying their tab. The head of my bed is right by a window, and I always have this irrational fear that a stray bullet is going to get me while I'm sleeping. I know, I'm such a country mouse.

So, today has potential to be either terrible or wonderful (or just another excruciating day of waiting). I dreamed the other night that I had called Christy (my old agent) to tell her that I had found someone new to represent the book.

The Longest Weekend

I've figured out how to make a weekend last forever...just have something you're waiting for on the other side of it. I'm hoping/fearing that I will get word from the agent on Monday. Not sure why Monday except that he promised to get to it quickly, and he hasn't broken a promise yet.

So I had a book-related, guilty-happy moment this weekend. James Frey has apparently lost out on his seven figure book deal following all of the Oprahooplah. I actually think his crucifixion has been a bit extreme...come on, it's just a stupid book for chrissakes. But, I cannot forgive him (or Jonathan Franzen for that matter -- by the way, you should check out this funny discussion of his author photo) for really screwing us other hard-working writers over. What I mean is...the last time something like this happened (i.e. an author disrespecting Miss Winfrey), she gave up the book club. The lottery for contemporary writers was shut down, the easy-pick tickets ripped from our tight hopeful fists. When she did bring it back, she played it safe picking books by dead authors. Now what is to happen? Do you really think she'll take a chance on someone who might further undermine the book club?? I think not. Thanks, James Frey. Losing your seven figures might make you think about all of the legitimate story-tellers out there you &*&%%!!!***ed over. Sorry about the hostility. I'm typically marshmellowy, but this really gets my goat.

Big plans for the weekend include writing an article about Making Workplace Safety a Priority. I finished Tayari Jones's lovely but disturbing novel, Leaving Atlanta, so I'm looking for the next book to suit my mood. I'm thinking about The Falls by Joyce Carol Oates. I have now had three people recommend it to me. I also have been avoiding painting the ceiling in our basement because I HATE PAINTING CEILINGS. I haven't painted a single ceiling in this house. When people come over, I just hope they don't look up.

I also have a new vice...a little late, I know...but I am obsessed with Curb Your Enthusiasm. I can't get enough of it. We just got HBO, and I feel like I've just crawled out of a cave. Larry David is a genius.

Monetizing a Value Proposition

Okay. So I am writing like crazy about marketing strategies, sales, and service. And the scary thing is that I get it. I really, really get it. It's like this weird puzzle I've figured out. And the greatest distraction on earth from the reality that my entire future hangs suspended like some teetering aerialist.

You know, I was watching the ski jumpers tonight on the Olympics, and it just made me want to throw up. What sort of insane person just hurls their bodies five stories into the air? And then I thought, this is sort of what this is like. Throwing myself out there, wriggling around like I know what I'm doing, and hoping to God I don't smash into a wall or, worse, land on my head. Metaphoric thinking. It'll get you every time.

Did I mention I got a gift certificate to Politics and Prose for Valentine's Day? (In addition to the pound of chocolate which has been gone for almost a week now.) Me, I'm the thoughtful type. I registered P in a St. Patrick's Day 10K.

Esmee can say "elevator," and Kicky has decided to be a "vermician" when she grows up. You know, so she can do magic.

Waiting

So I think I am so anxious I'm having some sort of psychosomatic attack...I feel fine, but I've got a temperature of 101. I am really, really tired, but no runny nose. No headache. Nothing.

Anyway. No word from the agent yet. Plugging away at the laboratory supply company newsletter. Ever heard of Process Effectiveness. Me neither! It's like learning a new language.

Speaking of which, Esmee can say "George Bush scary." And Kicky was speaking made-up Spanish in her sleep a few nights ago. The poor kid is so confused. She goes to a Jewish pre-school, and in her wonderful toddler logic, she thinks kabbalah is the Spanish word for "stop." She was muttering it in her dreams, kabbalah, kabbalah, kabbalah.

Fear and Self-Loathing

I just sent the manuscript off to my agent-in-waiting. God, I am petrified. I seriously can no longer tell whether the book is a masterpiece or a piece of shit. I've added and subtracted so much, it's the same book but entirely different. I am so scared. If he decides, again, to pass, I'm not sure what to do next. I have no back-up plan. Every egg I've got is in this little basket. Please do send fairy dust and a little voodoo directed toward New York City where my novel sits and waits in the agent's in-box.

The girls are climbing the walls; I've been at the computer for a week solid. I'm a terrible mother. Kicky is disciplining Esmee as I write. When she starts cooking the meals I should probably worry...

Unfortunately, there is no rest in sight. I've taken on a freelance job writing a newsletter for a laboratory supply company. Am I insane? Also, my classes are in workshop mode, so I am either reading or critiquing continuously from now until May.

Valentine

Here are the things I love today:

Patrick
the merbabies
snow
poetry
bread pudding with Irish creme sauce
a pint of amber beer
new books delivered to my door
Esmee's first stabs at "I love you."
my mother, father, sister
the smell of the chocolate brownies I just baked
Esmee's breath in my ear
waking up to the padding of four tiny feet
one warm sleeping body next to me
music
the certainty of trees

Nor'easter

This is what we woke up to this morning. Snow. Glorious snow. What quiet. The girls played outside until their boots were filled with snow and their mittens were sopping wet.

This afternoon Kicky and I are going to brave the weather and head out to catch "Curious George." Tonight P and I are going out for an early Valentine's filet mignon. Maybe to Utopia. We always wind up there; we're both such creatures of habit.

I have one week and two days to finish my revisions.

Can't a Girl Get a Break?

So I didn't get the position at George Washington (a one year visiting writer appointment). I didn't really think I would, but there was this tiny little glimmer of hope. I wonder sometimes if I'll ever have a full-time teaching gig. Then I wonder if I really want one. I think I just really want to be compensated. There is nothing more frustrating than working and working and working and getting paid in peanuts or working and working and working with no guarantee that I will ever be paid. Welcome to the writing life.

Good news is, nothing like adversity to light a fire under my heinie. I have been revising like a madly. My benevolent agent-in-waiting is now waiting for the whole revised enchilada which I have promised to send by February 20th.

Esmee, my late-talker, can say her name now, but she has to say it in two syllables...and with much coaxing. EZ. MAY.

I'm feeling blue. I really wanted this job.

My "New" Office

The last few weeks have been spent re-doing the basement which is fast becoming my favorite room in the house. My office has been revamped (with a mural -- above), the godawful paneling has been painted, and all of the girls' toys are in tidy little bins in a giant cubby bookcase (lookout, Martha). We have a sleeper couch, a TV, and new carpeting as well. There's a sweet reading corner with all of the girls' books and a cozy chair for us. It's been well worth the time and money spent.

I have also been madly revising. I think I've got about three weeks left, if I stay on schedule. I'm finding that I have really learned the value of economy. I am forcing myself to cut one page per chapter. This makes for much tighter writing. My agent-in-waiting continues to give me positive feedback, and I feel encouraged.

The pre-school issue has been resolved. The school is grandfathering current students and their siblings, so both girls will be going half-days next fall. I haven't heard yet about the position at GW (a visiting writer position I applied for), but having them in school will open up my schedule a bit.

I went to hear Tayari Jones read at GW a couple of nights ago. We share a mutual writer friend, Nichelle Tramble (http://www.nichelletramble.com). Nichelle is going to post an interview with me sometime in the next couple of weeks. Tayari was terrific. She read from her first novel, Leaving Atlanta.

Today I teach at The Writer's Center and then it's home to play with the merbabies and do some more work. Did I mention my desk faces their play area? Multi-tasking at it's best.

New Year

Sorry for the long hiatus. We were in Flagstaff for the holidays...and waiting for the arrival of my new nephew, Liam, who was born three days before our departure (at home, au natural by my superhero sister-in-law). While away, we took a trip to the "North Pole" via the Polar Express (aka The Grand Canyon Railway), threw a birthday party for Esmee (she's TWO, where have my babies gone?), ate Mexican food every other meal, and generally overindulged in food, drink, and sleep. It's terrible to be back.

Actually, I am excited to be home. I have gotten back on track with the revisions. The plan is to finish within the next few weeks. The new/prospective agent/angel is holding my hand through these revisions, and I am actually excited about the book again.

It's been a rough week back...started school again (lovely, lovely students), new carpet in the basement, new cable/phone/internet install, alarm system repair, a pre-school open house (we're leaving the old one because they are requiring a 7-6 schedule and a super tuition hike -- wrote a sad/angry letter today which has so far been ignored), and, finally, today a dual pediatrician's appointment which culminated in (between the two girls) four shots, one TB test, two finger pricks, one cup of pee (most of which went all over my hand on its way out), hearing tests, vision tests and general naked chaos. Esmee is a total nudist and went into a wild dance as soon as we stripped her down for the doctor. Luckily, both girls seem to be in terrific health, though Esmee is still a bit on the miniature side.

This weekend, I am painting the godawful pine paneling in our basement and trying to make some more headway on the book.

Quitter

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...

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.

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.

The merbabies in a sea of leaves. Autumn, and everything is falling. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 :)

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Princess and the Pea Party 

In search of the Pea. 

Words from the new sage

29. Phew. It doesn't feel much different than 29 did last year. Had a lovely, though relatively uneventful birthday. The girls and I met Patrick at The Diner in Adams Morgan for lunch. As Esmee downed her first ever milkshake, I devoured a Philly cheesesteak and fries smothered in gravy. That alone made the day worthwhile (and life-threatening!). Later, Lon, Jonathan and Jason came up for fajitas and fireflies. Lon made a chocolate frosting-ed lemon cake. Mmmmm. Slept like an infant and woke up feeling not much older than I did before.

I've selected the books I'm going to use for the GW class. It's incredible how difficult the decision was. I was suddenly so self-conscious. I know it's silly, but really, I want these kids to like me. I also want them to like what they're reading. So, the choices have as much to do with gaining their trust as it does with want I want to teach them. I am using the Scribner Anthology of Contemporary Short Fiction (all post-1970 stuff). It's a good selection of some of my favorites. I'm also using a book which outlines all of the elements of fiction...important for an intro class. For the poetry portion, I found a book of exercises created by poet/teachers and an anthology called From Totems to Hip-Hop which is a sort of canon-blaster, including Tupac alongside Plath. It's got an angry introduction from the editor which if I don't assign, I'm fairly certain they won't read. Anyway, I am more drawn to the poetry than to the multi-cultural message it's trying to send...we'll see how it goes. It's always fun to add a new stack of books to my shelves. I also got several B & N and Borders gift cards to extend the Greenwood Lending Library.

I finished The Collector (John Fowles) today...the end was completely creepy for cheapy. It actually made the hair on my arms stand up. Next is The Known World by local yokle Edward P. Jones. Patrick gave it to me for my birthday (along with a gorgeous necklace and two citronella tiki torches). Anybody who is getting compared to Toni Morrison on a fairly regular basis deserves a try as far as I'm concerned.

Today was the street fair in Ocean Beach. We got calls all day. It made me homesick. The street fair is my favorite OB event. P's mom is in town, lavishing the girls with gifts and love. We had a crabfest tonight; the house still smells of salt, Old Bay, and newspaper ink. Tomorrow is the 3rd Annual Princess and the Pea party. I stayed up late last night prepping the art project -- magic wands which, unbeknownst to the princesses -- will glow in the dark. We're having strawberry shortcake, a pea hunt, and (for the mamas) sangria. I think there will be ten girls under five here tomorrow. All vying for the coveted tiara that the "real princess" (the one who finds the pea) wins. There just may be some tears.

Haven't touched the novel in almost a week.

Another year (older and wiser?)

Tomorrow I will be turning 29 (again). I am so ambivalent about birthdays lately. It seems like no matter how hard I try not to, I always have great expectations, and I am almost always disappointed. I'm not sure what it is that I expect. Waking up to a barbershop quartet singing "Happy Birthday" at my bedside? Mimosas and nothing to do all day but read and soak up sun? Non-stop phone calls wishing me a happy day? Maybe. Reality is, I'll wake up the way I always wake up: Kicky whispering loud enough to wake up Esmee, "Mom, is it morning yet?" Then Esmee's morning cry. Coffee, if I remember. A flurry of craziness until P leaves for work and then hours upon hours of PBS kid's shows (if it rains) or (if there's sun) grass-stained knees, mosquito bites, temper-tantrums (mine and theirs), and maybe a stolen chapter read during a nap. Birthdays used to be so crazy...on my 25th I started drinking shots at noon and wound up with three marines in my living room at 1:00 a.m. (long story, not nearly as risque as it sounds). I have got some old champagne in the fridge...maybe a swig of orange juice left in the carton. Patrick has invited some friends over (God, we just don't have friends here yet...I haven't had time to lament my lack of a social life) for a barbeque. I am so hungry for a social event. We used to always throw parties in San Diego...every few weeks. The last time we had people over was for Easter brunch.

Anyway, another year has passed and what have I done? Finished the first draft of the novel, celebrated the girls' first and third birthdays, moved cross-country, bought our first house, started a new teaching job, secured another one, spent the rest of the NEA money, and lost all of the baby weight. Not too bad for a year.

Now that I have the girls, I always think of my mother on my birthday. This day really belongs to her. I think about what she must have been feeling thirty - ahumph years ago. She was so young...eighteen. The doctor didn't allow my dad in the room. They gave her ether for Christ's sake. I was born in the early evening. My mother said I had so much black hair the nurses were able to make a little cupie-doll swirl on top of my head. She said she counted my fingers and toes. The first pictures of me are in a plastic laundry basket. Eighteen. She had just graduated from high school. What on earth was I doing at eighteen?

I digress. And digress. (That's what old folks do, right?) The outline is done. 31 pages. Exactly one tenth of the whole novel. I have some work to do.

Flitterflies

For weeks now, thousands of fireflies have been congregating in our front yard at dusk. Kicky and Esmee go to bed before dark, so about a week ago I captured one, hoping to show them its magical green belly. But once inside the jar, it just refused to glow. It was like it knew it had been caught and was punishing me. I kept it a whole day, and not a single flicker. So last night I convinced Patrick that we should let Kicky stay up well past her bedtime to see them. I have never seen her so excited. "Flitter-flies, flitterlfies!" I wish I could capture that in a mason jar.

We all went to bed last night happily tired from. But despite the blissful weather...only 6o something. . .I couldn't sleep. I was up half the night writing in my head. I think I've finally figure out what this book is about. All this time, I've thought it was about forgiveness. Truly, I thought that the whole point, it's very raison d'etre was to illustrate the necessity and power of forgiveness. Of course, atonement and such do play a major part, but freedom. That's it. And you know what? It came back to those damn flitterflies. Harper does this to Betsy. He captures her in this pretty little jar. And no matter how hard he tries, she just won't, can't glow. He only wants to hold on to her, to contain her, but without her freedom, she loses everything about her that he loves. This isn't in the book yet. Not fully anyway. But now, at least, I understand.

I woke up feeling full of purpose. I met with the director of creative writing at George Washington. It was such a pleasant interview. And, he offered me a class this fall. I am so thrilled. I love teaching adults, but there is something so exciting about teaching kids again. Kids at the brink of their futures. I remember how desperately sad and happy and anticipatory I was at that age. It was like every moment belonged to me. I can't wait to surround myself with that again. I feel so lucky.

Twilight

I finally finished "The History of Love" yesterday. Hmmm. It's likely that I just don't have the necessary concentration, but all of the tangled mysteries, complexities of the plot left me a little confused. It's sort of like a knot I'm just too lazy to untie right now. I did, however, love much of it. Particulary the last moments of the story. I'm reading "The Collector" now by John Fowles. It was written in 1963 or something like that...I feel like it's a book Harper might have liked. It's got a trashy feel to it, though I suppose it's literary. Regardless, nice for summertime

I've mapped 169 pages of my novel. I try to give myself little encouragements along the way to counteract all of the "Crap, crap, crap" comments. Nice! Good transition to the next chapter! I should buy some of those metallic stars I loved back when I was teacher's pet. I think the root of the problem is that I don't know Betsy outside of Harper's eyes. I'm beginning to think she didn't love him nearly as much as he loved her. This could be critical.

I started teaching a new workshop last night...a characterization class. It's large (15 students registered), but the dynamic seems quite good. It's also SO late (7:30 - 10:00). I'm on my third wind by then. I had to stay up until nearly midnight to wind down. Wound up watching the first hour or so of "The Big Chill" on cable. I like the idea of a story which revolves around a character who is dead. Hmmm. I am also meeting with the director of creative writing at George Washington U. this weekend to discuss the possibility of an adjunct position this fall.

This weekend is Father's Day. Today I mailed off the gifts to my dad: an electronic golf score keeper and "On Bullshit" (a sweet little book by a Princeton philosopher). Patrick already got his gift -- a glorious monstrosity of a gas grill. The backyard is starting to be a little piece of heaven. We bought a playhouse the other day, put it together at dusk as the fireflies came out. It was the most beautiful twilight time. I didn't even mind the mosquitoes feeding on my calves.

Back to the book. Still calling it "Two Rivers" because no one has suggested otherwise.

Backyard Paradise. 

Revision madness. (The anal outlines of a dangerous mind.)

It's come to this...good old obsessive compulsive me is back with a vengeance. Above is a screenshot of the outline I am creating of every single scene/paragraph in the novel. I have, indeed, created a spreadsheet which details not only what is in the novel, but what needs to be in the novel. The point of every scene, sentence, word.

Madness.

I bought a used laptop yesterday to bring with me to Vermont. It's slow as sap, but at least I'll have something to write on.

The heat has descended upon us. Misery. Today it's only 78 degrees (as opposed to the 90 degree days earlier this week), but the humidity is 72%. The only good news is that there are fireflies at night. One even made its way into our bedroom during a thunderstorm earlier this week. And blueberries. That's another great thing. $2.00 a pint. yesterday I let Esmee eat a whole basket all by herself.

Liberty

My publisher doesn't want my new book. I just got the call today. The editor loved the writing but not the story. And, apparently, not the sales of the previous books. Funny, this ridiculous business. They bought the books. They did nothing to promote the books. The books didn't sell. And now they're passing on the best book yet because they don't think it will sell either. Where do I fit into this?

I feel simultaneously disgusted, bruised, pissed off, and elated. I'm free.

I also have tremendous resolve now. This book will get all of my love and attention this summer. By fall, it will be like the fat girl who loses weight over the summer and turns all the boys heads when school starts in the fall.

Maybe I should change my pen name so that my miserable sales record won't haunt me. Sort of like bad credit, isn't it?

Trompe L'Oeil

The door.

So here is the fruit of my procrastination. One glorious phony panelled door and a colorwashed tomato soup dining room. It actually looks pretty fantastic...making me wonder (again) if I misheard my calling. Painter, writer, painter, writer?

Patrick came home from San Diego yesterday afternoon. I forgot my cell phone and didn't realize it until I was already hurling along 95 toward Baltimore. I figured I would just call him from a pay phone at the airport and tell him where to meet us. No such luck. Verizon payphones will only allow you to call a cell number with a non-Visa credit card. You can't use coins. JUST Mastercard. So, I parked by the first baggage carousel, figuring he'd find us. I even managed to borrow someone's cell phone and leave a message for him. The moniter said the flight was landing, so we waited. I told Kicky she'd have to hold it because I didn't want him to miss us. Well, that was bright. By the time Patrick called back on the borrowed cell phone to let me know his flight had gotten in 40 minutes early and he was about ready to catch a shuttle because he couldn't find us anywhere, Kicky had started to pee all over the floor. Gallons. Smack dab in the middle of the Baggage Claim. Fortunately, I had three remarkably absorbent diapers with me which I used to sop up the mess. I used the Zip-lock bag I had put a snack of carrots in to hold her panties and the diapers. I could have wept. By the time Patrick found us, the evidence was gone, and he was ready to explode. Lesson: don't ever leave your cell phone at home. But above that, if your three and a half year old says she needs to pee, chances are, she needs to pee. And lastly, have no sympathy for people who've just been basking at the beach for five days while you've been home with two kids and a massive remodeling project when their flight comes in EARLY (for Christ's sake, when has that ever happened?).

Oh yeah...the cocoon hatched. Out came one ugly brown Gypsy Moth. We set her free yesterday. Kicky mourned her freedom with a good long cry.

Today I started reading my manuscript from start to finish. So far, the beginning is a big fat mess.

Tomato soup and an almost-migraine

Someone's been reading my mama's blog!

What a lovely surprise to see a comment in response to one of my posts. Thank you, Avid Reader. You must truly read avidly if you've managed to find my work.

Patrick is off today to San Diego for five days; the ride to and from BWI early this morning went alarmingly well. The girls were patient and good. As soon as we got home I began to dismantle the diningroom in preparation for its transformation. No small task: I had to disassemble the table as well as take a hundred pount ugly mirror off the wall (which despite falling three feet to the ground did not break -- does this mean seven years of good luck??). Tonight I'm going to paint the base...a sort of scary tomato soup color. On Friday and Saturday I will paint the tinted glaze over it (a more benign brick). Am I avoiding the novel? Let's just say I've figured out how to faux finish the ugly door to the basement to look like natural wood.

I've had a headache for two days now that isn't responding to anything. When I'm not worrying about brain tumors (thank you, "House"), I'm in blinding pain. I'm sure the paint fumes and five days alone with the kids will help make it go away...

Patience.

I've been grappling with something huge lately...whether to push to get the book submitted while my agent is out on maternity leave or to just resign myself to the idea of waiting until she's back after Labor Day. While her assistant has been helpful - offering some very good comments (as well as some not-so-good ones) - I feel like she (and my agent's partner) don't really have any real vested interest in my future, or the future of this book. Christy, on the other hand, has always been a tremendous champion and fan. She's also a terrific critic, and I haven't even gotten her feedback (other than her general sense of how the book is working) yet. I have had to ask myself why I feel this intense need to get it done NOW ("Right Now!" as Kicky would say). I think it boils down to finances. It sure would be marvelous to sell the book NOW, but at what real cost? Argh.

A lot of what got me thinking about this is the book/signing event I went to at Politics and Prose the other night. Nicole Krauss ("The History of Love") seems to be enjoying the antithesis of what I have experienced with the publishing industry. She's on a huge book tour. Barnes and Noble just named her book one of the Discover New Writers books. THOL is the #1 Booksense pick for May, and The Today Show picked her book for this month's Book Club selection. Though she was articulate, bright, and (goddamnit) nice, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy. How much of my slumpy bumpy career is simply due to bad luck and bad business?

SO...I plan to revise like mad all summer so that the book will be waiting for Christy when she comes back. Patience. Patience.

In the meantime, we're enjoying this amazing spring. Today we're going to have a picnic at the Mall. The caterpillar should be emerging any day now from it's cocoon. Roses, irises, and peonies are in bloom. Patience.

Almost rich.

so close...

Last night, for a few hours, my father was a multi-millionaire. His bank notified him that a significant wire transfer had been made into his savings account. They wouldn't disclose the amount. When he checked his statement online (after much sleuthing to figure out his own password), he found a balance of $110 million dollars. Needless to say, we had it spent within hours (in our imaginations anyway, as there was a hold on the funds). We had foundations built, debts paid off, convertible Jaguars in the driveway, and houses built all over the country (including a custom designed lighthouse playhouse in our backyard). We tried to think of the multi-millionaires in our lives who would have felt suddenly consumed with generosity toward my parents. We also tried to figure out what kind of lawyers we would need. Then, this morning, the money was gone. And my dad was charged $38.00 for the wire transfers. My sister went to work. My dad went golfing. And I tried to figure out how it is that this sort of thing always, and I mean always, happens to my father. This is the same man who once got five out of six numbers right on a lottery ticket (which is, surprisingly, worth only about $1000). I also sighed a little sigh of relief. Really. What kind of dangers would come along with that kind of loot? Now, if somebody wants to make a slightly more modest deposit into my account...say maybe a million?

Ladybugs.

The merbabes.

Today we captured ladybugs and are housing them in a temporary Tupperware shelter. They took to their new environs right away and have been making love like mad since this morning as their inch worm buddy blushes.

We also read Eric Carle's "The Grouchy Ladybug." Now Kicky keeps saying, "Hey you, wanna fight?"

Just ordered "The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss. Again, always a sucker for lit-hype. She's reading at Politics and Prose this month. If nothing else, I'm building quite a library of signed first editions.

Home

Funny, I've only been back from San Diego for just over a week, but the whole vacation has this sort of dreamy, hazy quality to it: like a weird thick marine layer. It was not what I expected, making me more homesick than I had anticipated. It also gave me a sense of delirium, forgetting at times where I was, that the beach was no longer my home. On return I told the lady I was on my way to San Diego. She said, "Honey, you're in San Diego." I copped a jet-lagged, weary, world traveler stance and corrected myself, "Baltimore." I came back to two cases of pink eye and one strange virus which I managed to get a slightly milder version of. Nothing like eye ooz and swollen glands to bring you back to reality.

I also came back to an e-mail from my agent that she's excited about the book, though she has some fairly major revisions she'd like to see made. And then, yesterday (before the notes/comments arrived), her baby made an early arrival. Now it may very well be until Labor Day before I can proceed. I am frustrated and anxious. I feel like I'm waiting for something huge to happen, and someone just told me I had to hold my breath until it does.

So I'm filling my time. I just signed up to teach an additional class this summer. I also put my feelers out again for the murals. A few bites today. I've got a request for some safari animals in a basement stairwell. I'm thinking elephants and giraffes. Maybe a baby gorilla.

Anyway, all that aside. Here's a recap of the trip: I had a chimichanga the size of a small child. I also had my favorite pizza, hot pastrami sandwiches, and more beer than I should have. I got to meet little Bella, my friend, Heather's new baby. I also napped. NAPPED. It truly was a much-needed respite from the real world.