Photos of the Crazy Book Lady's Living Room

So here it is. And notice, I haven't even filled all of the shelves yet!!

Back to School

Well summer is officially over...I am back to school again. This semester I am teaching three Intro sections...back to back two days a week. I suspect I'm going to feel like a broken record by the third class, but I like that my schedule isn't spread out all over the place like last semester.

Yesterday P and I spent the entire day re-doing our livingroom. My entire body hurts today. I painted...Pebble Path is the color. During the day it looks like Dijon mustard, and at night it looks like a latte. Very strange. P assembled four gigantic floor to ceiling bookcases, and now we are officially the "crazy people with a whole wall of books." Poor sap didn't know what he was in for when he married me. Speaking of which...it's been eight years today since we got hitched. Some pretty great years.

On the writing/book front...some renewed interest and possibilities for Two Rivers. Also, I plan to get back to the super secret summer Scranton project this week. Too long of a hiatus.

Off to start my marathon teaching session in about an hour...writing from a brand new used computer in my office at school. Beats the hell out of the Windows 95 monstrosity I had before.

A New Blog

So, I have now created a blog that's just for my photography stuff. Check it out!

The Ephemera Files

Summer's End

Just got back from almost five weeks in Vermont. This is such a sentimental time of year for me. Bittersweet...I love the onset of autumn, but everything about leaving Vermont, about starting school again, about the inevitable end of summer makes me feel melancholy.

Vermont was wonderful, as always. The first two weeks belonged to me and the girls. Swimming every day, long hikes through the woods, pancakes for breakfast and reading half the night. I wrote over a hundred pages. And I even wrote a children's story (a story within the novel), that I think might be good enough to stand on its own. Patrick came to visit right after my parents arrived, and the visit got increasingly more busy, which was also fine. Lots of family visits. A night in Burlington, and my visit to Bread Loaf, which (though short) was everything I expected. It's like summer camp for writers. I wish I could go for the whole conference sometime. I met some wonderful people there, got some work done, and then took a beautiful ride back to the Northeast Kingdom through a part of the state I had never seen before. I took over seven hundred pictures, and wound up with a handful I'll use in my show in November.

Now, we're back. And today I took Kicky to her first day of kindergarten. I was surprised by how emotional I got...I could barely keep it together long enough to get back to my car. Kicky, on the other hand, was fabulous...calm, cool, collected. I also appeared to be the only one feeling so completely overcome by things.

School starts for me next week: three sections of 81 (back to back no less). I also become official chauffeur next week: ballet lesson, gymnastics. Oh God, I'm a mom.

Any way, here are some pictures...

S'mores

The Treehouse

Painting Rocks

Lemonade and Art Stand

Swimming

Twilight at Newark Pond

I made The New York Times Book Review!

(Well, a Letter to the Editor I wrote did anyway.) Check it out...it's online today and will be in the Sunday Book section tomorrow:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/15/books/review/letters3.html

Super Secret Secret Summer Project

So I am fully in the throes of what we've been referring to as "The Super Secret Secret Summer Project" around here. The excitement and thrill was at a high yesterday when I spent an hour on the phone with a woman whose situation is eerily similar to my narrator's. I found her on the web, and she graciously has given me the details of her story as well as invited me to her home in Scranton to look through her papers. Her generosity is overwhelming. We may have to start calling it "The Super Secret Secret Scranton Summer Project." Argh...I am so superstitious. My horoscope forbade me to discuss the details of this artistic endeavor, but I'm just about losing my mind over it.

We leave for Vermont a week from Sunday, and I am so excited to have a whole month to dedicate to working on my own work. I am going to be a writing, picture-taking fool for a month. I also plan to spend a pretty large chunk of time floating around in an inner tube with the girls.

Also, I just entered a small portfolio of work in Aperture's annual contest. I'm not expecting anything, but it was good to help me focus on selecting the best pictures I've taken so far.

Here's one:

"Sleeping Beauty"

Yes, we let our children play with firecrackers.

Ohh Mermama

Ooooh am I back on track. Writing, writing, writing. Can you hear the tappety-tap, clackety-clack?? What a little Ocean Beach Street Fair can do for inspiration:

A Nose Knows

I did it.


I swear. It's there! A teensy tinsy ocean-colored gemstone,
my left side.

I will post more OB Street Fair pictures soon. I am exhausted and jet lagged and ready for beddy.

What Remains

So, talk about serendipity....I was clicking through the On Demand library last night looking for something to watch while P was at a baseball game, and on Cinemax I found "What Remains," the documentary about Sally Mann. It was incredible. And it hit close to home for more reasons than I had expected. For one thing, there is this incredible scene in the film when she finds out that the NY gallery where she is scheduled to show her latest exhibit (a collection which took her four years to create) cancels. It is heart-wrenching. It made me really, really think about how very precarious an artists' ego is. And how even established artists...truly accomplished and celebrated artists...face self-doubt and the anxiety that they are no longer creating anything of value. Needless to say...it was relevant. Besides, it really confirmed what I suspected about her both as a photographer and as a mother. What an incredibly humble and committed artist, mother, and wife. It's a great film...check it out on Cinemax this Friday (at 2:45 a.m. or some ungodly hour).

Off to teach my Intro to the Novel class tonight. I wrote almost 4000 words this week. A breakthrough for me. I hope.

Chili Cookoff!!!

Check out the party they're having for my birthday in Ocean Beach!!

http://obstreetfair.com/2003Video.shtml

I am so excited to go to San Diego. Who would have thought that what used to be home would one day be a vacation spot?

Writing Without Writing

I have all sorts of free time now, and I cannot...for the life of me...seem to get to work. I find myself googling photographers, studying pictures, making treks to bookstores for photography magazines, and suffering what may very well be carpal tunnel in my right index finger from snapping so many pictures. I have submitted CD's to two different fine arts magazines...what the hell am I thinking??? And all the while, despite this sort of manic high that taking pictures is giving me, I feel the same sort of guilt I always felt as a kid when I had to pick which stuffed animals to sleep with and which ones were relegated to the floor for the night. It's the Catholic in me...I can feel guilty about just about anything. And the fact that I am getting so much more out of images than words lately makes me feel like an infidel.

Anyway, next week is my 29th birthday. Again. I'll be in San Diego at the Ocean Beach Street Fair -- my favorite holiday (the street fair, not my birthday). My forever-friend Heather and I are going to get our noses pierced at Dr. Jeffe's and then drink a lot of beer and take pictures of the freaks. It seems like a silly thing to do...the piercing not the drinking and picture taking...but why the hell not? The girls are thrilled by the prospect of Mommy having a pierced nose. I've psyched myself up for it by watching people getting it done on youtube. There's something for everyone there, isn't there?

Anyway. Just checking in. Procrastinating. Writing without writing. Maybe that's what the little catch phrase for the blog should be.

Here's a picture Kicky took of me taking pictures of her.

And pictures of Kicky taking pictures of Esmee. I've really started something here, I fear:

Change of Plans

I haven't been steamed up in awhile. It actually takes a whole heckuva lot to get me really, really going. But you know what? Sometimes that's where the good writing lives. I must (reluctantly) admit that I have, as of late, completely lost interest in the book in I wrote in November. The thought of revising it has actually makes me grimace. So...I started sketching some things out last night, and the story just came...materialized out of the great frustrated ether of my mind. For a change, I think I'm going to be hush hush on this one, but it's more personal than some of the stuff I've spent the last few years writing. Maybe I'm just getting more fickle.

Anyway...it's firefly season here again. But this year I've got a good camera:

Black and White?

So I just finished a book that has, in many ways, stirred up something inside of me. Lots of things actually. The timing is serendipitous, I think, and perhaps if I had read this book even a year ago I might not have reacted so strongly to it.

Anyway, Dani Shapiro...whose wonderful novel, Family History, I reviewed for the San Diego Union Tribune a few years back has a new novel out called Black and White. It is based, according to the author, on her imaginings of what an adult child (and former subject) of a famous photographer might be like in the aftermath of her mother's fame. The connections to Sally Mann are no secret...and the author makes no bones about this in her interview on NPR. But while the book truly was compelling, well-written, evocative etc... I just kept feeling like there was something wrong with what Shapiro was doing. I mean, Sally Mann is very much alive, as are her children. And while this is fiction, and (according to Shapiro) she used the photos as a jumping off place for this book, the art itself is almost identical to the actual, controversial, Mann photos: a Popsicle-stained chest, a pee-stained bed, a black eye, a child hanging (though from a rope rather than a hay hook). I don't mean to suggest that the novelist has any particular allegiance to what is now a part of our culture...art becomes, to a certain extent, part of our cultural inheritance, a part of our collective visual vocabulary. However, it is not necessarily the assimilation of Mann's now iconic images by Shapiro that bothers me. It is, rather, the premise of the novel itself...that photography, and the photography of one's own children, is, by nature, exploitative. Of course, she does not come out and say this explicitly, but the story is told via Clara (the grown daughter of the fictional Ruth Dunne) who, in her early thirties, is reunited withe her estranged mother after fourteen years. She is so angry, so paralyzed, so stunted by her mother's "work," that she can barely function. The now dying Ruth is depicted as a manic, egotistical, and impossible artist who is completely unable to see beyond her own nose (or camera viewfinder). Fine, fine, and fine. But what really irks me, is that we side with Clara. We have to. She is the heroine of the novel, and the victim or her mother's art. The end of the novel...I won't give it away...means to offer some hope, some resolution for Clara, but, to me, it lacks credibility, because we never really see Ruth as a mother. Not really. We see her through Clara's very own viewfinder...distorted, warped, and larger than life. Now, fine, fine, fine...but what about Sally Mann? I mean, the real woman. The photographer. The mother. What does this mean when an author takes an artist's work, a living artist's work, and then fabricates a life, full of motives and agendas, for that artist? Never mind that in addition to the familiar images Shapiro borrows, there is one fictional photo (published in Vogue) which makes Ruth's character just plain wicked. And there is no such photo in Mann's portfolio...not that I know of anyway. If I were Sally Mann, I would be furious. Indeed, I am so curious to see if there is any fall out from this. Besides, and I hate to knock what is, for all intents and purposes, a very well-crafted and riveting novel...it's been done before. Exposure by Kathryn Harrison is a terrific novel based on the shattered life of a child muse. And, more recently, The Effects of Light by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, examines what it means when childhood and art reside together. Beverly-Whittemore, who herself has modeled for Mona Kuhn, gave a much more compelling argument for the inherent complexities, the gray areas, if you will of the photographer's ethical responsibilities: to her subjects, to the truth of experience, to art.

I started reading this book after I spent the afternoon photographing my own children gleefully running naked through a sprinkler in the backyard. And it plucked a raw nerve. I truly believe that artists, particularly photographers, look to capture moments. To preserve them. I know that I do the same as a writer. Art, for me, is the beauty in my life. And I have spent my entire adult life trying to replicate that beauty with words, and now with pictures. I would hope that Shapiro, as both a mother and a novelist, might understand this too, but I fear that the revelations Clara has come too late and without nearly enough to evoke them. And lastly, I worry what people might infer about Sally Mann, who strikes me as a terrific mother, based on this novel and its sometimes uncomfortably close comparisons to the real artist's work (if not life).

Then again maybe this is all intentional...the author distorting the truth, "staging" the picture, to her own ends? Is writing a novel of this sort any different from the photographer who exploits or manipulates reality in the name of art?

Rant/review over.

Home Again

Just what I needed. The lake was exactly what I needed...a little bit of quiet, but mostly a change of venue. Strangely, this photography kick has made me realize how very similar one day is to the next around here. (How many pictures can I take of my children jumping into an inflatable pool or lounging on a cushy couch or examining bugs on leaves?) The three hours in the car, trying not to hit any bumps which always seem to piss off the temperamental dual mini-DVD players that are strapped to the headrests like mental patients, the juice bag disasters (I will never, ever buy a bag of juice again), the fruit roll-ups stuck to the upholstery, the "are we here?"'s (Yes, we're here, I said every time. Where else would we be??) -- none of it mattered when we finally pulled up to -- no joke -- Serenity Now -- the haven on the lake. My pulse slowed down to a crawl the second I got out of the car and the kids were free.

The girls were delirious. I had some nice grown-up time with old friends and some cool new folks, and then twenty-four hours later, we left again to return to the city...but I feel salvaged somehow.

My beauties...

To the lake

The reading last week went well...though I didn't know anyone in the audience. Everyone I knew who planned to attend had things come up, and actually it was nice, because my nerves disappeared looking out into a see of unfamiliar faces. I read some of my poems, and realized, about mid-way through the first one how very intensely personal my poetry is. My fiction is so, I don't know, fictional. This felt weird. You know how you're supposed to visualize the audience naked? Well, I kept envisioning myself naked. Anyway, I have a new respect for poets. And strippers.

We're headed off to Deep Creek Lake this weekend. The girls are so excited to go to "the beach." I'm excited to be near the water again too. It's been hotter than hell here, and a lake will be a nice change from the kiddie pool. Though Esmee and Kicky don't seem to mind our suburban beach much at all:

The One Trick Pony's Lament

I am struggling trying to figure out what to read at my reading on Sunday at The Writer's Center. I know they'll be selling books and I should read from one of the novels, but to be honest, I am so tired of reading from those three books. They're old. They don't really even represent who I am as a writer any more. I imagine it's (on a smaller, less rockstar- oriented scale of course) what The Rolling Stones must feel like when they are asked to play "Satisfaction." I'm tired of them (my novels not the Stones). I actually found a discussion about my work on a website (yes...I search every so often to see if anyone is still reading my books. All of you writers do it. Don't pretend you don't care), and someone referred to me as a "great writer but not very prolific." I've written three whole novels since Undressing the Moon was published! (Granted one was a real stinker, but still.) I want people to hear/read what I'm writing now. I think I may just throw caution to the wind and read my poetry. What have I got to lose?

Aperture

So I am having a hard time getting back into my book. I actually knew this was going to happen...maybe this is why I've been Martha Stewarting the house for the last week instead of revising. It's ironic really, since I am just finishing up teaching a Revising the Novel workshop this week. I mean, I know how to do it...it's just daunting, and, frankly, no fun at all. The characters are inconsistent. The pacing is off. It is, indeed, a bit maudlin, and I am second-guessing every single word. It's not that I'm giving up. I actually got up at 5:30 a.m. filled with good intentions. I even sat down, coffee in hand, by 6:45. BUT, I should have known it wasn't going to happen when I heard the pitter patter thump of two pairs of feet at 6:05. Yes, that's right...twenty-minutes of uninterrupted work. Jesus. Anyway, wound up doing nothing this morning...read some of the book I'm editing, ate four muffins, watched "The View." Jesus. It doesn't help that I got two poetry rejections this week: The Iowa Review and Tor House. I expect they'll come pouring in soon.

Lastly, I am still obsessing over my new love. I can talk f-stops and exposure all over the place. I got shutter speed and white balance on my brain. No room for writing???

Oh, I almost forgot to mention Mother's Day. It was soooo nice. Patrick gave me a tripod. Kicky made an art installation on the front door. And Esmee? Well, just look at her. that's gift enough. We all went to The Capitol Lounge for brunch and then spent the afternoon in the backyard. I even fell alseep in the hammock...though I awoke to a size 11 toddler foot in my face. All in all, I'm happy to be a mermama.

School's Out for Summer!

I'm done! I'm done, I'm done, I'm done. I am in vacation mode...but first, I had to make order out of the chaos that was my home. I just waded through six months worth of crap that had piled up on my dining room table and "office." What remains is a beautiful workspace. Novel-writing worthy! I have a few more organizational things I want to get done before I implement my new summer writing schedule, but I'm getting there.

Meanwhile, I am obsessed with my new camera. I have two pictures that I am certain will be included in my upcoming "show" at The Atlas. Here's one of Esmee.

I am trying for a Sally Mann sort of feel to these pictures...I just adore her work, and there are so few photographers who approach children in the way she does. I feel like I'm starting to capture something with the girls...though I'm not sure what. Lucky for me, they are both quite at ease in front of the camera.

Anyway....I am on a summer vacation high right now. How many grown-ups get to have that??!!

And then there's maudlin...

Finally heard back from Henry...he likes the beginning of the new book, though he warned against being too maudlin. I think maudlin might be my specialty. Anyway, we had a nice chat about it, and I plan to dive in again soon.

Good news here is that school is OVER come Friday. I actually teach my last class tomorrow morning. I have a hell of a lot of grading to do, but at least I can park myself in the hammock to do that.

I am always buzzing with a sense of possibility this time of year...one of many carryovers of childhood, I think. I am making lists all over the place...summer projects, reading lists, writing goals, etc... I am so excited to work on my photography. The new goal is to have an exhibit of work up at the Atlas's gallery by the end of the year. Poetry is not going so well, and I am debating whether or not I should quit. I'm actually starting to dread writing the poem a day (and, to be honest, I'm a few days behind). I have over a hundred poems, and I think I miss my novel. Would that just be terrible? I hate quitting things, but I also don't want poetry to become a sort of torture either...

Oh yeah....other big news here is that I got my hair cut. A lot. It's the best haircut I've ever had. I feel like some sort of sassy mama now :)