To Do

I really thought that having two mornings a week completely to myself would be exactly what I needed. I imagined myself writing away, being pro-active with my lesson plans, and cooking lavish and healthy meals to be served to my adoring family come dinner time. What has actually happened is that when the door closes and the rest of the family is gone, I find myself filled with anxiety, making elaborate lists of menial things that need to be done and then spending thenext several hours trying to prioritize and execute these items, feeling guilty the whole time that I am neither writing nor planning nor cooking anything other than my own daily breakfast burrito when I realize I've forgotten to eat. For example. Today I envisioned making a reading list, outlining some major scenes for the book, and actually reading some. What I did do:

• balanced the checking account
• stressed out
• paid the car payment
• stressed out about the clunking sound that's happening somewhere in my driver's side wheel
• went grocery shopping (the kids went to school with the most ridiculous excuses for lunch ever -- plums, hard-boiled eggs, and juice boxes)
• planned my lesson for tomorrow
• sent out a bunch of e-mails trying to procure either payment for the various and random jobs I do, or to actually procure the jobs themselves
• said "Hi" to P, who came home to grab the car emissions test paperwork
• stressed out about the car emissions test
• said "Bye" to P, who probably sensed how stressed out I was and decided that anywhere might be better than here
• made a breakfast burrito while talking on the phone to someone about payment for one of my various and random jobs, spoke to someone else about a new possible job
• returned my dad's call
• and now it's 11:30 and I have a half hour before I leave to pick up the girls

I've been having dreams where my entire world is falling apart. Last week I dreamed that we lost Kicky in an airport. I also dreamed a bunch of hippie kids took over the treehouse and turned into a sort of hip after hours club. Last night's dreams were too bizarre to mention. They've been lingering with me all morning though. I need to cut down on the caffeine. I need to get back to writing. I need the beach.

Same 'Ol Girl, Brand New Website

Sorry about the earlier post. Bad day.

Anyway, I decided to post the new website. Why not? I was going for a sort of treasure chest effect. If nothing else, at least the info is all current. I hadn't updated the old site since 2001. So much for dynamic content.

Here's the link: www.tgreenwood.com

If this is your first visit to Mermama (via the link on the new website) -- Welcome to my mad, mad world.

ARRRGGGGHHHHHH

House of Cards

The"A Prayer for Owen Meany" post-show discussion at The Round House Theatre was really fun. First of all, the performance was incredible. It was perfectly cast, and Blake Robison did an amazing job of interpreting Simon Bent's script. I was pretty nervous about getting up on stage, but the audience (for the discussion) was both small and receptive.

Did I mention my new method for plotting? I've been lugging around these spiral bound notecards lately. Everytime I get an idea (for a scene, an image, a character), I jot it down. I'm hoping that by November the book will be full, and I'll simply have to sit down, pull them out, arrange them, and write the next book. It seems pretty simple, but I've found it so liberating. usually I keep all that crap in my head until it's time to write. They're like little magic recipe cards...at least in my imagination anyway.

I need to get a full time teaching job. I am working so, so, so hard...teaching a full load without any of the financial (and other) benefits full time status. Oh, woe is me.

Real World

So after four debaucherous and languid days at the beach, I am home and thrust right back into the throes of the real world. San Diego was amazing. We got to meet our friends' new baby: Rowan, who is truly, truly, truly one of the cutest I've seen. It seems impossible to me that Esmee was nearly two pounds lighter than he is. Such a small, small peanut.

Dan and Angie's wedding was beautiful (on the beach, her dad officiating). The reception was fun and the food was fantastic: fajitas, fajitas, fajitas. I am growing softer and softer around the middle with each foray outside of the DC Metro area.

Back at home, I've started teaching again. My classes are early (8:00 and 9:35), and the back to back schedule makes me feel a little like a record skipping.

In an effort to stay sane about the book, I've been furiously jotting down notes for the new one. My plan is to write it during nanwrimo in November. I spent five years on Two Rivers, to no apparent avail. Undressing the Moon took only five weeks. Maybe I just work better in marathon mode.

On Sunday I am going to be the guest at the Roundhouse Theatre's Post-Show Book Club discussion of the stage adaptation of A Prayer for Owen Meany. I'm nervous but excited as well.

Fall is descending...and I am starting to get that lovely autumn feeling of possibility. That back -to-school hopefulness.

Painting Rocks. 

I'm back!

I am home again, home again, jig, jig, jig from Vermont. The month was terrific, but full of activity. I frankly wish I'd had just a few more days where I wasn't on the road or visiting, but when you only get home once a year you really are forced to cram things in. The girls had a blast...trips to Santa's Village, the County Fair, Ben & Jerry's factory, Lake Champlain, and their first Chinese Restaurant experience. They swam in the pond, ran in the yard, climbed up into the treehouse, and ate s'mores. My best friend and her kids visited a lot, and they were so good to the girls. Summer cousins...

This year, my grandmother decided it was time to part with a portion of my grandfather's library, as well as with his Underwood. So, I came home with seven boxes of books, an antique typewriter, and an Andrew Wyeth print I gave him year's ago that hung in his study. I can't wait to unpack everything in their new home. My parents are also bringing down his Alice/Lewis Carroll collection (about twenty books) for me. This may be the most exciting inheritence of all.

I am feeling overwhelmed by everything I have to do this week. School starts at GW (and for the girls) tomorrow. That always knots my stomach up. Patrick and I are also leaving on Thursday for San Diego. We're going to a wedding and, possibly, greeting our other friends' new baby (if he arrives in the next few days).

Today is also our seventh anniversary. Boggles the mind. Seven years.

No (good) book news yet. Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean...

Sick and Tired

I am sick and tired of summer. Literally sick. And tired. (Two more days to prep for this trip and I got hit with some upper respiratory malfunction. Does it sound like I am always sick? I'm not, I'm really not. And actually the whole stomach thing has gotten quite a bit better.) I think it's this hellish weather that brought it on. This heat is the most oppressive and depressing thing I've ever experienced. Our entire family is crabby and snotty and wheezy (except for P who rarely gets anything). I can't wait to get to the pond.

I've been reading Franny and Zooey again. I want to create my own Glass family. I think that's where this new book is going. As much as families are integral to my other books, they are really peripheral to the central story (except for, maybe, Nearer Than the Sky). I want the family to be the main character of this next one. I'm dying to see "Little Miss Sunshine" for this very reason. It looks terrific. Greg Kinnear, Steve Carell, the southwest, a roadtrip and a child's beauty pageant at the end...right up my alley.

Anyway, this may be the last post for a bit. Little access to the internet in Vermont. Probably not a bad thing for me...

Shiner

So there's a whole new attitude that goes along with the shiner. We're calling her "Bruiser" these days.

I've written what I think will be the first chapter of the new book...though you never know. I'm having a hard time deciding on the point of view, but my cast of characters is coming into focus. I also have a pretty good sense of the plot. Go figure.

I've been mostly reading about hunger and fasting, including Kafka's "A Hunger Artist" this morning. I also checked out "Hunger" by Knut Hamsen.

princess and the pea

The party was a tremendous success. Kicky found the pea for the first time and got to wear the tiara. After the shortcake, a rousing game of "Pin the Pea on the Mattress," and a terra cotta pot and glitter glue craft project, everyone went home exhausted but happy. Esmee and Kicky jumped in the pool and knocked heads. So...today the Princess has a big-ass lump on her head.

Before and After

I had a dream the other night that I was eating nails...it seriously felt like I was digesting straight pins.

Close Call

Last night I went out with L.D. for dinner. We decided on Utopia because my stomach is such a mess that I can't eat anything even remotely spicy. We had such a nice time, catching up. I had the seafood bisque which should be illegal, and then at around 9:30 I headed home.

So there is this intersection (Georgia Ave. and Aspen), which I drive through every day. I just made a comment last week to P that I'm worried that I'm going to get hit there someday. Every time my light turns green at that intersection, I make sure to look before going ahead...I've seen a lot of people blow through the red light, and so I always wait a second or two to go. But last night when the light turned green I waited a couple of seconds, and then I got the sense that I should wait a few more seconds. It was like some weird gut feeling that if I pulled forward something terrible would happen. And then, as I'm at a dead stop with the green light to go, a car coming down Georgia (on my left) at about fifty miles an hour runs right through the red light. If I hadn't waited, that car would have crashed into the driver's side of my car. There is absolutely no way I would have lived through that. I have no idea what stopped me. Maybe it was just me being cautious, overly cautious, or maybe it was something else. I don't know. I'm just glad I'm not dead today.

Stomach still hurts like a mother...L.D.'s going to send me some anti-inflammatory diet info. All the stuff I hate: dark green leafy things, whole grains.

The Princess Party is this weekend.

I have started the next book. It's about hunger.

Firecrackers 

Firecracker, firecracker, boom, boom, boom

Finally, something great happened today. I used my B&N gift certificate my sister gave me for my birthday to buy Miss American Pie (a memoir based on the author's childhood journals) and The Rich Man's Table (another Scott Spencer novel). The package came today after a violent storm, and I opened it up to find that the Scott Spencer book is signed. What a perk.

Did I mention that I think I'm getting an ulcer? I had the same thing happen when I was in college, and I'm worried that it's happening again. It's hard to believe that this stress is on the same level as the stress that caused that to happen, but maybe.

Tomorrow night I'm going out with one of my longest friends (she's actually quite a bit shorter than me -- ha, ha). She's got a great shoulder though.

Outage

I haven't written in so long, I feel like I'm calling up a friend I've neglected. Remorse over laziness.

I don't understand this place. Last week it rained for days. Days and days and days. Our porch roof leaked, an eighty foot tree two houses down just fell over one night, decapitating a telephone pole and leacing us powerless/phoneless/cableless for more than a day. And then, just as things started to look up, yesterday (the 4th of July, for Christ's sake), it came back and last night I spent six hours in a pitch black house while the air outside was exploding...I didn't know whether it was thunder or fireworks or some terrible Korean missile. This weather is killing me. It was also ninety degrees without even a whisper of breeze. The poor girls were drenched in their beds. I sent P to our friends' to celebrate the holiday...he would have gone mad, I think, in all that hot darkness.

Despite the recent weather, my birthday weekend was so nice...a visit from P's mom, rhubarb pie, and a night out which included Mexican food. Amen.

Only a few weeks left until the girls and I make our way to Vermont. P will be joining us for a whole week this year. I am looking forward to working on the new book. Meanwhile I'm reading like mad...just finished Men in Black (no relation to the movie) by Scott Spencer. I am his newest biggest fan.

29

Tomorrow is my birthday. I am wondering how many more 29th birthdays I can get away with. Maybe 2 or 3??? No big plans. P's mother will be in town, and so on Saturday night we're going out. I told P I want Mexican food. I'm pretty easy. I do require a rhubarb pie, however. I'll probably have to both make it and eat it though. The rest of the family doesn't share my passion for the 'barb...

This is me when I was really 29. I don't look that much older, do I?? (Notice I haven't included a recent pic for comparison.) 29 was a good year. I published my first novel, got engaged, got a big grant. Maybe this 29th will be spectacular too.

I've been going through the girls' old clothes and artwork...after watching an episode about hoarders on Dr. Phil, I got motivated to go through the boxes of onesies and mountains of fingerpaintings that have been gathering in the corners of our house. It's so hard to throw/give away that stuff. I finally got the collections down to a manageable size; there are some things I just won't part with. At least I don't keep tuna cans and cereal boxes, I guess.

I'm starting to think a lot about the new book. I think this one is going to have multiple points of view. I start teaching the Intro to the Novel workshop this weekend. The timing is perfect.

Squawk! Hallelujah.

I am totally obsessed with photographing these baby birds. Watching them is fascinating. I think the fourth egg is a dud. It still hasn't hatched.

I finished Holy Skirts last night. It was amazing. I checked Housekeeping by Marilyn Robinson and Ordinary People by Judith Guest out of the library the other day. I have found that getting books out of the library makes me read faster...knowing that I have to bring them back really helps me get to the end.

I am starting to get excited about going to Vermont this summer. I spoke with my grandmother this morning. She wants me to go through my grandfather's things...including a virtual library of books...and bring back anything I'd like. Time to get more bookcases. He has THREE encyclopedia sets, a leather bound set of the classics, an entire bookcase of philosophy books as well as shelves and shelves of poetry and fiction. Nevermind the files and files of ephemera he so meticulously kept. In my file is a pop-up book of Hansel and Gretel. Their house is like a giant treasure chest. I am also going to bring back his Underwood to add to my typewriter collection. I inherited my other grandfather's typewriter when he passed away a couple of years ago. My most prized possessions.

Crack

Happy Father's Day to Daddy Robin! The baby robins have started hatching. There are three so far.

Last night was wonderful. We had friends (and friends of friends) over for a barbeque. It was an international night...only in DC. Our guests were from Israel, Africa, France, and Mexico. One of our friends brought some Vietnamese coffee, and another brought the most delicious homemade icecream I have ever tasted. We let the girls stay up and catch fireflies. When they finally went to bed, I put the container in their room so that they could keep watching them as they fell asleep. Esmee was simultaneously fascinated and freaked out by them. We all ate too much, drank too much. It was a blissful night...mosquitoes kept at bay by a new citronella lantern I bought. Terrific conversation.

One of the guys from France, who is my age, said that he recently started destroying all of his photos after a couple of years. This way his memory isn't skewed by the photographic images. I was horrified by this idea. I think that so much of my memory is intricately tied up with the images found in old photographs. He said it was either brave or stupid, he wasn't sure yet. Maybe a little of both?

Today is Father's Day and I bought P a fishing pole and tackle box, got him his fishing license. He's so excited. It is also my dad's 60th birthday. I need to call him and give him a hard time...

Blue Eggs, Blue Eyes

I forgot to mention a while ago that I went to check on the dove eggs one day, and they were gone. Just gone. No evidence of foul (fowl?) play whatsoever. And then a couple of days ago I noticed some bird activity in the exact same spot on our fence. And then yesterday, lo and behold, I found this: a nest with four perfect robin's eggs. This spot must be prime real estate for young bird families, I guess. They must not have heard about the last residents.

Esmee now says "Blue Eyes" when she plays "Peek-a-Boo." I think she's trying to say, "Surprise."

Arrival of the Fireflies

A dreamless night last night. Maybe it was because the fireflies have finally arrived. Last night I sat outside for an hour watching them. Took some pictures. The streak is me moving the camera to follow one of them.

This weekend we are going to barbeque. I am looking forward to having people over. I've felt remotely remote lately.

Also, I think I'm getting an ulcer. My stomach has been hurting for days now. My body is pissed off at my brain.

Nightmare

The dreams are getting worse. This morning, after getting up and reading "Little Quack" to Kicky who was feverish again and complaining of a stomach ache at 3:00 a.m., I fell back into a sort of death sleep in which I dreamed that my old agent had read the revised version of the novel and had nothing good to say about it. She said it was "worse than the first draft," that Betsy was a terrible character, that none of it was believable (or readable for that matter). And then there was a horrific moment when I couldn't figure out how she'd gotten a copy of it...was it out there, circulating the streets of New York, was I the laughing stock of the literary world?

I need a hobby.

It's gray outside, and George Bush is on every channel. Great way to start a day...

Gimme fever

There's a fever raging through our house. Esmee got it first: 103.5 at the highest. Kicky is now crashed out on the couch with a 104 temp. Last night it was almost 105. The weird thing is there are no other symptoms (besides the vomiting which I think was because of an Ibuprofen overdose). She is miserable. You can feel the heat coming off of her. So far I just feel a bit of a pit in my stomach (which very well just live there anyway). P seems fine too.

It's pouring rain outside, Esmee is asleep, and the house feels weird. Infected. Too quiet. I've been tumbling through my to do list and actually managing to cross things off. Planned for my class tonight, ordered the first season of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" for my dad for Father's Day, balanced the checking account. I lead a thrilling life.

I'm reading Holy Skirts now...picked it up again...and I think it's genius so far. Rene is a brilliant writer.

Plecostomus

I've been having disturbing dreams lately. While I was in San Diego, I had a dream that I was eating goldfish out of a fish tank upon the back of which a dirty, scabby, Ty Pennington was clinging and sucking algae like some terrible human suckerfish. Last night I had a dream that Angelina Jolie's body was stuffed under a manhole in my backyard, and I was the only one who knew about it. But while my subconscious is busy defiling celebrities, I've actually been feeling sort of strangely happy: a sort of calm before the storm feeling. Precipitous. San Diego seems to have rejuvenated me. I am finding that I have tremendous new reserves of both energy and tolerance with the girls. I am placid. Patient.

Reading This Book Will Save Your Life. Not my favorite A.M. Homes, but it's pretty good on the heels of a visit to southern California.

Ocean Beach

I'm back from the beach and a little melancholy. Being there made me as homesick as I suspected. It didn't help that the weather was perfect...sunny, seventy, with the coolest ocean breeze. I gorged myself on all my old favorites (New York Giant Pizza, chimichangas, etc...). I got happily sunburned after a languorous day in the sand, bought some kitschy beach stuff for the girls, and then had an awesome visit my girlfriend H. and her family. Her girls (3 and 1) filled the whole the merbabies left, but I was still so happy to see them this morning.

I miss the beach. It felt like I was home.

Vacation (All I Ever Wanted)

Starting to feel some pre-flight jitters. A lot of it has to do with my fear of flying, but I also think there's a little part of me that's afraid that going back to the beach will make more homesick than I already am. I love where we are, I really do (though it's been difficult these last few days with the temperature in the nineties), but there's still this little snarly thing in my belly. I'm worried that I'll get there and not want to come back.

I also know that I'm going to miss the girls. P and I are accustomed to these tandem vacations, but I've always got at least one of the kids with me. They're appendages really. Just extra arms or legs. Kicky's old enough now to miss me too; she's already asked me not to go. I do think four whole days with Daddy alone will be great though. For all of them.

I'm also hoping that this vacation will be a good distraction from the prevailing dread and anxiety and hopefulness and fear and anticipation for the book...

Entrance to the rabbit hole... 

The Blue Door

I spent most of yesterday painting the stairwell to our basement. It's what I call Breathing Water blue...to match the framed dust jacket P made for me (that I finally hung on the stairwell wall after the paint dried). It's shocking. The color. Kind of theatrical. I also faux finished the door to look like it has panels. It almost feels like you're falling down Alice's rabbit hole when you go down the stairs now.

Packing for my trip...bringing lots and lots of books. I always think that I'll read during my flights and almost always wind up so anxious that I can't get through more than a paragraph or two. But better safe than sorry. This trip I (won't) read This Book Will Save Your Life (A.M. Homes) and Preservation Hall (Scott Spencer).

I need to start writing again. I feel useless. I always think I'm going to enjoy my down time and inevitably end up feeling scrappy and disjointed. I think teaching the Intro to the Novel class at The Writer's Center will be a nice jump start to get me back to work again.

West Nile

I started reading Holy Skirts this morning while the girls splashed around in the mosquito infested baby pool...but, alas, it was just too hot to concentrate. It's 85 degrees inside and 90 out. So we came inside and Chelsea came over to cut my hair. She's amazing. It has been two years since my hair has been touched by a pair of scissors. It looks so much better. I look less like a crazy lady (the kind that sits on her porch in her slip with a bottle of Jim Beam and a shotgun threatening all the neighborhood kids) and more like a regular person.

P comes back from San Diego tonight. I'm ready. The girls have exhausted me. (One particularly bad moment in the bead aisle of Michael's yesterday almost put me over the edge.) I miss him too.

I am gearing up for my own vacation on Friday. I can't wait to dig my hole in the sand. A nice deep hole.

Slug

I am surviving the weekend without P. I actually thought I'd get some things done while he was gone, but instead I've been useless. It's hot, and I'm sluggish. I was going to paint the stairwell last night, and instead I got sucked into four hours of "Laguna Beach." God. How pathetic. Today my to-do list is novel length, though if the weather predictions (88 degrees!) come true, I will more than likely find myself crashed out on the hammock or sprawled uselessly under one of the ceiling fans.

I've got the Princess and the Pea party to plan. Invites this year will come with bracelets with "pea" beads. I also need to buy the paint for the stairwell. Chelsea, our neighbor, is going to cut my hair tomorrow. I also need to pick up a few things for my trip next week. All the while I've got to keep the girls from killing each other. They're going through a fighting phase (please let it be a phase).

I'm reading Ordinary Daylight, a memoir of an artist who lost his vision. My wheels are spinning for the next book: diving into some research. It's all a distraction really from obsessing about the fate of Two Rivers...

Chimichanga Envy

Okay so now I have a mindbrain...the book is going out this afternoon.

Thankfully, I convinced P to park at the airport which ultimately spared the rest of us from a 4:00 commute to Baltimore this morning. He called to let me know he arrived safely and then, the bastard, sent me a picture of a chimichanga. I could kill him. I'm going to eat chimichangas for breakfast. lunch, and dinner next weekend.

The girls are being sweet today. We went to the grocery store this afternoon and got everything we'd need to make homemade pizzas. They were so careful, artful in their designs. And they were good too! (Kicky was particularly proud, though she wound up picking off all the mushrooms, green peppers, and pineapple.)

Oh yeah. Bummed about Kat not winning American Idol and feeling a sort of withdrawal. Got the American Idol shakes today. But the bigger question is, "Am I desperate enough to watch 'So You Think You Can Dance?'"

Mindbrain

Tomorrow's the big day...the book goes out. I am one big fat bundle of raw nerves. P is also leaving tomorrow for his San Diego vacation. The girls and I have to drop him off at BWI by 5:30. That ought to be a fun trip. I am excited for him though...he needs a vacation, and unless he leaves town he doesn't ever really relax. While he's gone (FIVE DAYS ALONE WITH THE KIDS) I hope to do some fun things with the girls: a picnic on the Mall, a visit from some friends, maybe (if the weather permits) get the baby pool out. I suspect it's going to be a very, very long weekend.

Here are the latest Kicky-isms:

"Daddy, do you have a mindbrain?" (Translation: migraine.)

"Daddy, you need more fashion, more style, to be a rockstar." (Does he have some secret aspirations I don't know about???)

"Mommy, so when are we going to Hollywood anyway?" (Soon, baby, soon!)

Sidenote: Voted for Kat last night on AI, though that last song was the schmaltziest, yuckiest song I've ever heard.

Confession

It's been a sad week for me, though I'm ashamed to admit the source of my sorrow. I know writers are supposed to be scholarly and contemplative, writing and reading and discussing things of import all the time. But I (you may be relieved or disgusted to know) am not this sort of writer. I am an interminable sucker for TV. Always have been. Hours a day. Every day of the week. There, it's out there. And the aforementioned heartbreak started with Elliot's departure from "American Idol" on Wednesday and culminated in the end of "Will & Grace" last night. I wept for both endings. Even Sophie's Choice hasn't done that to me yet.

Speaking of which, this weekend I want to finish reading it. It's incredible. I wish I could write something so absolutely complex. If you haven't noticed I'm on a real 1970's lit-kick lately. I actually ordered a used copy of Scott "Endless Love" Spencer's Preservation Hall too which arrived a few days ago. ( I feel less guilty about my TV affliction/addiction, because I am equally addicted to buying books -- the used books feature on amazon is my heroin.) P's also got another 10K on Sunday. This time we won't go to the race, but we'll meet him at The Diner afterwards. I'm thinking about their Croque Monsieur. I am also teaching my final workshop until mid-June. I am ready for the break.

Oh, and lastly, next week the book goes out and I'll start my feverish trembling.

And this?  

The face.

Okay, so it's not a Rembrandt, but it does look like a face, no???

Prodigy

So I have been trying unsuccessfully to upload a photo to accompany this post...not sure if its impact will be as huge without it, but here goes.

Esmee is a prodigy. An artistic genius. A savant. Last week we found three faces drawn on the wall. We blamed Kicky who swore they were not hers. Initially we didn't believe her, and then P reasoned that the faces were likely simply a happy accident of (thankfully) washable marker. But then yesterday, while Kicky and Esmee were in the kitchen drawing, Kicky screamed out, "Esmee's drawing on the table!" What I found was a face. And body. With arms. Legs. Hair. Buttons. Scrawled all over the kitchen table. Still leary of Kicky's truthfulness, I got out a big pad of paper this morning and asked Esmee to draw a face. Here's the crazy part: she proceeded to draw a whole series of faces. Eyes. Noses. Hair. Smiles. I brought one of them to her preschool where I consulted with some of the teachers who were amazed. She just turned two in January. She hardly speaks. And yet, this, this genius!! I wonder when the galleries are going to start contacting us. Really. Goddang, I wish I could put up picture!!

Get back to work, you say? Start a new book, you say? I know, I know. WAY too much time on my hands...

swell

I am reading Sophie's Choice for the first time, fascinated by Styron's narrative gymnastics. It's truly a writerly book. The rain has abated (at least for the moment), and I have been sitting outside with that massive tome waiting for my hair (badly in need of a cut) to dry.

Last night was the GW English department's get-together to celebrate the changing of th guard (the old chair stepping down after eight years). It was terrific. I hung out with C.S., the youngest of us all, a poet, with terrific hair cut, and...as always...felt a tremendous sense of unhipness. The shoes that woman has. They're like little miracles on her feet. Last night's pair were gold with heels that actually looked like some sort of post-modern sculpture. I kept my feet tucked under my seat the whole night. Enjoyed the meatballs and baked brie. Almost cried during the farewell speech the department secretary gave.

I'm feeling that swelling up I feel when I'm not writing. I don't know where to direct my energy, and so it pools in pulsing wells somewhere near my throat and in my chest. My hearts been skipping beats againas well, which always sends me into a hypochondriacal tailspin. Nevermind that I almost electrocuted myself yesterday retrieving the "Disney Princess Stories" from the broken DVD player. I swear I still can feel a little bit of the current running thru me.

Only two and half weeks until I am seaside and sunning...

Happy Mermama Day!

Last night we barbequed fajitas, had a bunch of people over, and drank many a Corona with lime. The weather held out, verging on rain, but never quite following through.

This Mother's Day morning (finally raining outside), P let me sleep in and I awoke to two framed drawings by the artistes, a new basket for the porch (to hold the plethora of magazines that have previously been teetering on tables all over the house), and a gift certifcate for me to buy a new bathing suit for my San Diego trip. We lounged around all morning and then P watched the girls while I went to the closing of the Dada exhibit at the National Gallery.

It was amazing...such a tremendous selection of work. My favorite were the photos by Man Ray and many of the collages. So much of it reminded me of my grandfather, or the objets d'art at camp. (The "Fink" plaque, the wire sculptures.) I think the most interesting element of the exhibit was seeing the art juxtaposed against footage of WWI...which provided a real context for seemingly nonsensical pieces.

I also ducked into to see three Joseph Cornell (one of my favorites) assemblages. Afterwards, I went to the gift shop and picked up Rene Steinke's novel Holy Skirts (based on the life of Dada artist Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven). Rene did a blurb for Nearer Than the Sky, but we'd never met before. After the lecture (which was fascinating), I finally got to meet her. What a lovely, smiling face she has. Her son was with her...a curly headed cherub not unlike my own. Her writing is so lyrical; I can't wait to dive in. The Baroness was quite a muse, it seems...a woman who made a bra out of tomato cans and wore a flashing taillight on her bustle. A living, breathing work of art.

When I got home there were a pile of chocolate peanut butter cookies (still warm) waiting for me. I'm glad to be a mom.

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.