JUNE SOBEL

"You can get what you need to write (as opposed to what you need to make a big nuisance of yourself at cocktail parties) by shutting yourself in a room by yourself for twenty minutes a day and reading aloud from E.B. White's CHARLOTTE'S WEB, and going on from that to other works of skill, until you begin to see, by hearing how much the choice and arrangement of the words contribute to the impact of the story, even when no sound is uttered in its reading."

I have recently become a fan of audio books, especially for long drives alone or when I find an acclaimed work that for some reason or another I can't finish in book form. I am a big time E.B. White fan so rather than listen to myself read aloud, I decided to revisit CHARLOTTE'S WEB on a CD from the library. Within a few minutes, I was in a "faux" 21st century state of shock. Fern had a doughnut for breakfast and Avery brought a gun, an air rifle, on the school bus! I can't imagine an editor today allowing this scenario to pass for publication. Avery would have been sent to Juvie, after his school was put on lock down for bringing an unconcealed weapon to school. Mrs. Arable's parenting skills would have been brought into question for feeding her children doughnuts for breakfast even though a baby pig had disrupted the normal routine. Still there is an innocence to this situation viewed as "incorrect" in our current cultural climate. I had reread this book in the past ten years but somehow this scene slipped by me. Hearing the words magnified them, made me pause in way I hadn't with book in lap.

Pruning and A Cuddle Muffin

2012-01-05T09:03:00.000-08:00

In spite of the false summer that leaves an errant bloom amid dying leaves, January is the time to prune roses in Southern California. I have always been tentative about slashing the throny branches to the bone, leaving a gray skeleton to sit in the slant of the winter light. Last year I learned to be merciless and my prune led to a multiflorous spring filled with more rosebuds than I could have ever imagined. My timidity reminded me of editing my own writing, slashing that beautiful sentence hurts as much as beheading a hardy rose. Yesterday as I wielded my pruning shears, I found a shoot of a bush that must have been eight feet long trailing up a nearby orange tree. Like a rambling paragraph that does not move my story along, it had to cut despite the possibility that a flower or two might appear in a few months.

This morning I found one of my favorite on line reviews of The Goodnight Train. A mother wrote that the book turned her 21 month year old son into "a cuddle muffin!" The magic of words, 273 to be precise. So many lines were thrown to the side of tracks as I wrote this book. Maybe if they stayed the cuddle muffin would have turned into a squirm bucket, annoyed by the author's self indulgence of a pretty turn of phrase. Like rose bushes, all growing stories long or short need to be pruned.

Bye Bye Twenty Eleven

2011-12-31T09:33:00.000-08:00

As I toss the days of the past year up like confetti, certain times and events land with sparkling clarity. Waking up to the vista of Lake Louise. The calving of the Edith Clavell glacier. My hands hurting from applause at the end of The Book of Mormon. Knowing last January that our dinner at Pacific's Edge would be the best one of the year. Singing Broadway show tunes at Marie's Crisis. Learning The Goodnight Train kept chugging along. Hearing that Adam proudly announced he never read my blog. The bounty of wonderful books. The writer's workshop in the house with the concert hall. A snowy Memorial Day weekend at Fallen Leaf Lake. Making red velvet cookies that actually tasted good. Lunches at True Food Kitchen. The yoga retreat at Casa Maria. Seeing a finished book is in reach. Finding a character I love. The inspiration of The Beautiful Outcasts class. The unborn picture books on my white board. The serendipity of finding a diapered toddler reading B is For Bulldozer on YouTube. Winning the $200 Grand Prize for answering a Yoga Journal survey a few hours after I donated my school visit fee. Conversations with Dudley.

As 2012 dawns, hope floats for the prospect of the coming year. I will continue to make my lists with the full knowledge that everything will done...eventually. My real chore is to chip away at the multi tasking chaos in my life, ignoring the time eating trivia that keeps my goals at bay. Here's to another year of good health, adventures and the wonder of words!

The Slow Hunch

2011-10-15T08:09:00.000-07:00

Before I read Steven Johnson's Where Good Ideas Come From: The Natural History of Innovation, I considered my slowness to move forward with any project was a flaw of my contemplative nature. The family joke is that I get everything done - eventually. Now I realize a turtle's pace is not a bad thing and many of the greatest inventions did not come about from a light bulb over the head but a hunch that comes in and out of one's mind over time. I have been creating a middle grade character for the past few years, writing vignettes about this person in search of a plot for her life between the covers of a book. For a while I felt like I was going no where fast. This past week the churning of this little person, her flaws and her idiosyncrocies have turned into a plan, a plot for a real story. I am finally ready to hold my nose and dive deep into the pool of overwriting chapters, tackling the heartache of a murky middle and the victory of a last sentence. Stay tuned.

2011-09-24T09:11:00.000-07:00

Percolation

2011-09-06T09:27:00.000-07:00

Four years ago I started a picture book text about a fire fighting plane. My close brushes with Southern California fires was the seed for this idea. When flames threaten your home, an airplane dropping water or fire retardant becomes a hero in the true sense of the word. Every cliche about the bravery of firemen becomes a fact when you watch these men put their lives in harm's way to save families and their homes. After our last neighborhood incident, I was inspired to try to write about the fire fighting planes with the same spirit I brought to B IS FOR BULLDOZER and THE GOODNIGHT TRAIN. Easier said than done.

My original story has undergone countless revisions. When I thought it was polished enough to send off to editors, I had no takers. After a while , I had a sneaking suspicion the subject was alien to the urbane New Yorkers who were hopefully reading the story. Seasonal fires were not in their repertoire of experience. Discouraged and on to other work, I put my text to rest. Yesterday as I watched the news of a fire approaching homes in an LA canyon, I saw the intrepid yellow plane drop water from the nearby ocean on a hillside above a neighborhood. The story of Scoopy, formerly Rain the Fireplane, had been sleeping in Word for nearly two years. I opened the text to look at it with fresh eyes and spent last night tweaking the words. This morning I slashed the word count. I do not know what will happen with this story but I savor the joy of rereading my work with the courage to select and hit delete.

My Literary Gush of the Year

2011-09-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

After I finished Rules of Civility by Amor Towles, I did something that I only did once before with Richard Flanagan's Gould's Book of Fish. I went back to the beginning and started to read the book again. I needed to see how the author "did it," how he structured the story. It was delicious to read the preface once more for hints of the story to come. How do you string a connection between George Washington's rules of behavior and the snappy repartee of Depression Era Long Island swells? How does a man write from a woman's point of view and have it sound so right. This is a story that plumbs truth and deception in black and white 1938, a polished world of satin dresses and glossy hair. The author's visual capture of the time goes beyond setting. It saturates a world I only know from movies and my parent's stories, an age I imagine was defined by a certain sense of comportment. Yet despite this stylized setting Rules of Civility tugs at the heart with a timeless tale about love and choice. For me, the bar has been raised to impossible heights for the rest of 2011's books.

Check, Check, Check, Check, Check

2011-08-21T10:46:00.000-07:00

For the past week or so, I have been on a rampage, urgent to clear my space and drawers of the accumulation of stuff that piles up over the years from neglect or the once good intention that I would need or want "it" someday. Via a friend of a friend on facebook, I learned my cleaning frenzy may be attributable to a combination of: Mercury retrograde (reviewing your past), Uranus retrograde (revolution!), Neptune retrograde (dissolving illusions so that you can see more clearly) being supercharged by this August Full Moon! If that explains it, I have certainly been under the spell.

Yesterday in my office, I found a notebook filled with scribblings from a class on parenting, that mysterious process that brings educated human adults much angst. Part of the curriculum was to make a list of five things that you wanted. Some 17 years ago I wanted Adam to grow up healthy and get a great education, to be creative again, to invest my money wisely, to go on more vacations and to get in great shape. Mired in toddler hood, these were all things I desired that seemed to be missing in my life. Nearly two decades later, I can check off each of these things with confidence. Adam is well and at Stanford. My money has grown despite the roller coaster ride of the past few years. We've taken countless wonderful vacations. Being creative and being in "great" shape is relative but I definitely feel healthier both mentally and physically. I am glad I saved that black spiral notebook. It was an unexpected marker, a reminder of how far I have come

I Love John Prine

2011-08-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

in spite of myself...

Tweeted Treasure

2011-08-11T12:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a serendipitous click leads to a torrent of unexpected wonder. Here is my happy accident of the day: http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2011/08/08/letters-to-the-children-of-troy/ It is a collection of letters written in 1971 from writers, actors, musicians, politicians, artists of the day to the children of Troy, Michigan on the importance of libraries and reading. Take some time and treat yourself to browsing through the original correspondence:
http://troylibrary.info/letterstothechildrenoftroy .

Here is one of my favorite letters:

A library is many things. It's a place to go, to get in out of the rain. It's a place to go if you want to sit and think. But particularly it is a place where books live, and where you can get in touch with other people, and other thoughts, through books. If you want to find out about something, the information is in the reference books---the dictionaries, the encyclopedias, the atlases. If you like to be told a story, the library is the place to go. Books hold most of the secrets of the world, most of the thoughts that men and women have had. And when you are reading a book, you and the author are alone together---just the two of you. A library is a good place to go when you feel unhappy, for there, in a book, you may find encouragement and comfort. A library is a good place to go when you feel bewildered or undecided, for there, in a book, you may have your question answered. Books are good company, in sad times and happy times, for books are people---people who have managed to stay alive by hiding between the covers of a book.

E.B. White
April 14, 1971

A Headache in My Stomach

2011-08-09T14:22:00.000-07:00

I love to clean my office when my creative energy is low. I am calmed and settled by bringing order to disorder, clearing the air for my muses to come out to play. A week or so ago I printed out worksheets called Platform Brainstorm & Inventory: Website or Blog. I came across these via a link to a link and saved them for that day when I decide to discover my social network brand slash persona. Yet it seems to be counter productive to blog about this but I am bothered by the narcissistic limiting notion of quantifying oneself by hits and answering questions about installing analytics. Do I really need to be re-purposed, like I didn't have one before my alter ego emerged on the internet? Do I need to try MailChimp for free!! I already have a pet.

I am all for purposeful marketing, targeting potential buyers and readers. It's the limiting self aggrandizement that makes me cringe. I am of the build it and they will come school putting the fate of any of my work in the hands of the universe. I would rather be surprised by the wonder of the "Charlie" video (see below) than working at hoping something like that might happen. Maybe I am naive but I refuse to brand myself in a narrow tube and create a skewed personality to please and attract an audience. I am a person of many facets and cannot be defined by a tag line or a brand. I would rather spend my time working than publish my word count as no one will care.

I am often asked by children at school and library visits, if I am famous. I tell them "no" as I have never heard of myself. Until I have the need for one, the effort of building a platform escapes me.

The Morning Stretch

2011-08-03T09:33:00.000-07:00

B IS FOR BULLDOZER...still revisited

2011-07-29T17:07:00.000-07:00

A Fantastic Flying App

2011-07-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

After the electronic carnage of two of my picture books, which were reproduced for the Kindle without my or the illustrator's approval, I have become a cynic about children's ebooks which seem to lean more towards games than literature. Then today through the random miracle of Twitter, I came upon a transcendent wonder by William Joyce called The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore. It's not a book, game or a movie but a love story to what lives among the pages of our beloved tales. Books become alive in a way I have never seen depicted on paper. I hope this book will raise the bar for a standard of excellence. It's the first app that brought tears to my eyes.

If you want to get a taste of what I mean, check out this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Ncx0CYTWtU

Dreampop

2011-07-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

One of my secret dreams is to be a nature photographer, one of those people who gets up at dawn to catch the magic of a new day and sits at sunset to watch the evening close it's eyes. It is one of those yearnings on the very back of my back burner. In the meantime I am having fun with Hipstamatic, my iPhone app, filled with virtual vintage film and a questionable gap between what I see and what finally appears on the screen. Photography fascinates me with the world the viewfinder finds, forcing you to look, really see what's in front of you. I am slow to frame my pictures. I like to discover what I have never seen before like the graphic reflection in the coffee table in the photo above. Exploring the commonplace with diligence brings a new dimension to the surface. It's not the camera but the eye of the user.

When Adam was 3 or 4, I gave him a throwaway camera to attempt to teach him how to take pictures. At first, it was click, click at everything, cutting off heads, boring pictures of driveways and passing cars until he brought the camera to preschool. He took pictures of his classmates. All the children had an innocent sense of self usually never captured by adults. I grasp for words to accurately describe their expressions when they posed for each other. I continued to encourage Adam to take photos and thousands later, I think he has developed a pretty good eye.

Keep an eye for more photos as I continue to be mesmerized by the possibilities of stretching my vision with the surprises of KodotXGrizzled film, a Buckhorst H1 Lens and the flash of a Dreampop.

Free Fuel!!

2011-06-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

This wonderful quote from Anne Bernays is the best case for 'butt in seat' I've read in a long time:

"If the writer's engine is persistence, then the writer's fuel is the imagination; unlike real fuel, we have an endless supply of it and it costs nothing. Imagination is there in all of us, just waiting to be released."

A Standing Ovation

2011-06-28T13:49:00.000-07:00

Very rarely does a book make me want to stand up and clap hard, until my hands hurt like they did after the finale of The Book of Mormon. Gary D. Schmidt's Okay for Now is one of those once in a blue moon reads. I read a lot, probably over 50 books a year. Although my Kindle hides most of my selections, on any given day there are probably five books on my nightstand and a few on the floor next to my bed. Many books make me laugh but few fewer make me cry. Okay for Now brought tears to my eyes twice, maybe three times. Every emotion swept through me as read through the trials and tribulations of a year in the life of Doug Swieteck. I sort of hate that this book has to be categorized as a children's book. It is a story for former children of all ages who will find some touchstone of their past in the pages. Okay for Now is okay forever!!!

And speaking of standing ovations, I have to give one to us - for me and my husband, Mark for coming through 25 years of marriage which we celebrate today. If anyone told me my future that sunset on a boat in Marina Del Rey, I'd never believe it could be true. As everything is more than okay for now, here's to everyday miracles and another magical 25.

Eavesdrop of the Week

2011-06-26T08:06:00.000-07:00

In the Gelson's parking lot: "unindicted co-conspirator"

Letters Lost

2011-06-17T08:12:00.000-07:00

I have just begun The Paris Wife by Paula McLain which has made me yearn for letters that long forgotten form of communication in our texting, tweeting, IM world. The texture of a sheath of thin, ink filled papers conveying ones thoughts cannot compare with the evanescence of a message on a tiny hand held screen. About a decade ago in mother's frenzy to clean her house, she sent me a box of all the letters I had written in college, a window into the younger me that seemed silly and annoying. When my husband was in India around the same time, his communication was limited save for a few a letters on hotel stationery that was more romantic than any email, skype or text could possibly be. My last letter of recent memory, aside from a sporadic thank you note, was a heartfelt message from a librarian about my recent author's visit. Tucking it into a scrapbook, I saved that communication like a cherished treasure.

The countless emails I receive vaporize with the next day's silent delivery of more. For this reason, I have managed to document my son's record of his freshman year by cutting and pasting his emails and IM's into a file that I will print and bind into a book of memories. I'm sure my grandchildren will laugh at these one day but I will remind them that when I was a little girl you needed something called a stamp to send something called a letter.

Random Things About Me - Update

2011-04-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

About two years ago I made up a list for facebook - 25 Random Things About Me. As I prepared for an upcoming book event, I racked my brain for interesting facts about myself and realized I missed a few. So here are a few more little known or inconsequential facts:

1. My brilliant son Adam NEVER reads my blog.
2. I was always picked last for teams in gym and didn't care.
3. I can be bribed with good chocolate.
4. My life is controlled by 14 pounds of fur with a pair coaxing doggy brown eyes.
5. I want to walk across England while I can.
6. At 4 years old, I cut my best friend's hair and didn't know why that was a bad thing.
7. I swung my little sister off a bridge and a didn't know why that was bad either.
8. I was always the star of school plays until puberty hit.
9. A poem I wrote at nine resembles a book I wrote as an adult.
10. As teenager I wanted to be a famous fashion designer.

iPad Magic

2011-04-09T17:21:00.000-07:00

I have spent most of today entranced by my new iPad 2 trying to bring order and understanding to this glassy new world on my lap. Setting it all up has been a time suck and I am still frustrated by my photos and my contacts somehow disappearing into the wires that sync all this stuff up. This is a fun toy that I know will become a tool once I get into all to operate as seamlessly as it should. I know someday I will look back and laugh at this the same way I do today when I look at the photo of myself throwing up my hands in wonder as the first fax came through on my $1,600 machine that I had to buy from a special vendor. I'm strapping myself in for the speed at which we will probably move forward in the next few years.

The Joy of Eavesdropping

2011-03-04T17:50:00.000-08:00

I love to eavesdrop. I embrace the proximity of conversations I have no right to hear. I admit to being gleeful, while my husband cringes, when we sit down at restaurant with people too close for comfort on either side of us. I have been known to have what my mother called "a long ear," a gift for hearing stories that are none of my business. Eavesdropping is a window into others' stories, unexpected snippets of strangers' lives in which I read between the lines creating my own scenarios. Today I had a good eavesdrop, one with a twist, that proved despite my good listening skills I do not have a handle on the truth.

Yesterday morning, I was in the Ventura County Courthouse coffee house serving time as a juror. Jury duty in my county comes complete with a barista and a sunny courtyard to while away the time so it isn't the worst way to waste a day. As I nursed my latte, I overheard a conversation between a man dressed in gray and an overweight woman who I assumed to be a lawyer discussing a settlement.
"How does 1250 a week sound?" she asked.
"That's fine. She's angry and I don't want to make it worse." he replied.
I spun a scenario of an insane ex-wife as the lawyer and the man left to call in the settlement. That seemed to be a generous amount of alimony and/or child support. I wondered if he was a cheater or had just had enough of her shenanigans.

A few minutes later as I replied to an email on my iPhone, a voice asked, "Are you tweeting Charlie Sheen?" Oh no. It was the divorced man engaging me in conversation. I laughed. We discussed the Sheen situation and the media coverage. He confided he would like to live Charlie's life for just a day. Eventually he revealed why he was in the courthouse. His family house sat for a woman from his church for a few weeks. The woman had a brain tumor and was prone to erratic behavior. Even though the man claimed he left the house in pristine condition, the owner said it was trashed and he owed her $800. This was not a divorce case but a small claims court claim. The woman with him was not a lawyer but a mediator. He was settling to pay her $12.50 a week. I was so wrong. The universe chuckled. This was a church going man who believed God would take care of this matter and perhaps grant his wish to be Charlie Sheen for a day. My eavesdrop was not what it seemed. That's what I get for listening to conversations I am not supposed to hear.

In the afternoon, I heard another snippet from a bunch of twenty somethings in the same coffeehouse. They were discussing flavored coffees. One said her grandmother made the best coffee adding a splash of mint flavor and sprinkle of ginger. She said, "It smelled like Christmas...and grandma." I smiled to myself, reveling in the joy of a good eavesdrop.

The Wow of Wao

2011-02-23T12:17:00.000-08:00

As I thought I was going to drive alone to Palo Alto tomorrow, I went to the library to get an audio book to help pass the hours as I wound myself northbound up the 101. I usually don't listen to books as my driving, with the exception of those rare rush hour treks into LA, tends to be so short and local that I would be lucky to hear a paragraph. A few years ago I began The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz and found the book difficult. I was so thwarted by the dialect and excessive footnotes that I went on to read something else. When I saw the book in audio form I thought I'd give it another try as it had received stellar reviews from friends not to mention The Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.

A few days ago I found out I was not to be driving alone so I started listening to the book in snatches, the short errands of my daily life. I have been captivated by the voice of this story, a window into an immigrant world so far from my own. I have read Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose. This audio tape could be my own Listening Like a Writer. The authority of the narrator's voice, the delicious use of adjectives, the melange of English and Spanish, the way the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Listening to this book has presented me with a litmus test to become a better writer. One of the tenets of picture book writing is to write for the ear. I think all books should strive to write for the ear filling the solitary, silence of reading with the orchestrations of the author's world.

Shifting Sands

2011-02-22T07:07:00.000-08:00

As I ponder the digital transformation of reading from the page to the screen, I am reminded of the statement, an alleged Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times." Last weekend was the first time, the New York Times Review of Books listed eBook sales in details alongside the old fashioned models with spines and paper pages. I think it is a matter of time when Barnes and Noble will go the way of Borders, the monsters who have eaten a slew of independent booksellers meeting a similar fate. My opinion of all this madness swings like a pendulum. I love my Kindle. I was an early adapter, gleeful about carrying thousands of pages in a slim leather case and smug about purchasing a new book just before take off on a flight. However the demise of book stores saddens me when I think about the evening hours I have spent perusing the aisles, snatching bits of stories from authors unknown to me. The delight of a knowledgeable salesperson passing hand to hand the treasure of a wonderful new work is all but gone already. I have watched independent booksellers fall like dominoes as aging owners fail to find a younger person to carry on their unprofitable enterprise.

On the other hand, I am delighted by the future for stories. I think the content will have to rise to the occasion, pass the Kindle, eReader test, the first chapter peek to lure you to buy the book. Avid readers embrace the digital world even those who wax poetic about holding real books in their hands. Last week I met a woman in her early twenties who confessed she never read much until she bought her Kindle. Now she reads at least forty minutes a day and gushed with enthusiasm about the books she read in the past few months. Of course, I contemplate what all this means for me as a writer, the perils and pleasures of living in interesting times.

Shavasana

2011-02-10T08:01:00.000-08:00

I am almost finished with Claire Dederer's wonderful book Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses. It is beautifully written and seems to be more about life than yoga. However, her descriptions of various poses are so pointed that I found myself taking her words to my yoga class yesterday. A new pathway has been embedded in the creases of my brain as I twist and bend with precision and mindfulness towards my perfect pose. The whole point of yoga and meditation is to empty your mind to concentrate on breath and the moment. As I lowered to the floor for the final pose of Shavasana, so relaxed that I hardly felt my body, my muses saw this as an opportunity to make their voices heard.

My tricky little inspirations seem to relish in assaulting me at times when a pen and paper are far from reach. When I am working on a problematic story, they present their solutions with the authority and flow that I wish would come when I am in a creative rut sitting at my desk. Maybe my quiet mind is an open door for them, an opportunity to shout and be heard. I am grateful for their glorious words. I embrace my muses' visits even if they playfully inspire as I drive down a twisted canyon road with one hand on the wheel and another searching for a pen. No matter how inopportune the moment I have learned to listen to any inner help I can get to move my work along.

Quote of the Day

2011-02-05T13:57:00.000-08:00

"If the book tells me to do something completely unexpected, I heed it;the book is usually right."

-Madeleine L'Engle

Mama Tiger

2011-01-19T14:30:00.000-08:00

There is much ado and outrage about Amy Chua's Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. I must admit that I cringed listening to her interview on NPR but the reality is that I am more like her than the average American mother who values self esteem over excellence and brawn over brains. From early on I saw that I had a very intelligent child and I sought to help him become the best he could be but not at the expense of his personal happiness. From kindergarten on, I stressed that A+ was the goal, the carrot at the end of the stick. If the best he could possibly do was a B that would be fine as long as he was giving it his all. Video games like PlayStation and Xbox were forbidden in our house as I saw them as a time suck, a way to become disengaged from more creative outlets. The origins of this rule had it's seed in an incident that occurred way before our son was a twinkle in our eye and will be the subject of a future blog post as it's a long story. Adam played the piano because as a toddler he seemed to have a simpatico with music mimicking the end of symphonies from the car seat. When he wanted guns and explosions, I gave him the 1812 overture which he soon professed Peter Tchaikovsky had written "just for him." When I saw any weakness in his studies, I addressed them before they became a problem sending him to Kumon and a dreaded remedial speed reading class. I hate to sound like I am patting myself on the head but I am. Whose son is freshman at Stanford? When I read about Amy Chua's parenting techniques which border on child abuse, I know there is a more effective path to guide a child's education and development. With direction and support, I believe children can become self motivated embracing passions and subjects that are meaningful to them. I never had to ask Adam to practice the piano because he loved to play. I never had to hound him to study because A+ became his goal not mine.

Parenting is about cultivation, finding your child's talents and passions and helping them grow to be the best they can be. I think this book has hit a raw nerve as American parents disguise their laxity with outrage over the results of the Superior Chinese Mother method. Maybe this book will be a wake up call. I hope so because we are continuing to fall down a slippery slope towards idiocracy.

Picture Book Dreams

2011-01-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

A few years ago I was a guest speaker at a CP sophomore high school English class involved in a project writing picture books with third graders at a local elementary school. These were your glib average half asleep students who would be bored silly by any adult speaking to them with a modicum of intelligence. However, they lit up when I asked them to tell about their favorite picture books. The mining of this memory, tucked away in a pocket of their teenage brains, brought new life to my discussion. They sparkled with smiles and descriptions of The Hungry Caterpillar, The Cat in the Hat, Goodnight Moon and a bounty of other favorite picture books.

A special childhood book is a connection that can be recalled at a second's prompt. "The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat side by side at the table sat..." I know this poem by heart not because it was a great work of literature but because it was a part of a ritual, a story my father enjoyed reading aloud as much as we enjoyed hearing it. Why does a child want to hear the same book over and over again. Comfort. The same person reading those same words night after night brings security and expectations that allows them to feel safe. I remember being a little miffed that Adam did not want to hear The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat more than once. I wanted him to enjoy my favorite but he didn't like it at all. I soon realized what mattered was that he wanted to hear me read his chosen stories over and over again. Again is the magic word every book writer dreams of hearing from his little listeners.

Advice for a Bad Day

2011-01-06T10:04:00.000-08:00

They don't come often but sometimes the ground beneath your feet slips away like a magician's vanishing carpet. Without revealing the details of my present situation, I feel like a duped dope, a trusting Pollyanna, an inexcusable Candide. When I dig down to my optimistic core, I am quick to find 10 things that can make me happy on a bad day.

1) Dudley's brown eyes
2)The blue sky
3)The love in my life
4) A Sprinkles cupcake
5) My work corner
6)My good health
7)Hot coffee and rosebud lycee nut tea
8)Percolating ideas
9)A deep breathe
and finally...
10) CHOCOLATE

I'm off to have piece a right now!!!!

Quotes of the Day

2011-01-04T09:31:00.000-08:00

"Picture books are imagination factories." -Bridget Heos

"Wanting to meet an author because you like his work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like paté." -Margaret Atwood

One-One-One-One

2011-01-01T08:26:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like the fresh slate of a new year, better yet a new decade filled with promise and new adventures. Every prior decade was the best and I look forward to the great expectations of another ten. I am excited about this eleven year as I was born on May 11th. I have lots of close friends born on the eleventh. We have our own smug secret club that in our hearts knows the eleventh of the month is the best day to be born. I have not made my resolutions yet because my approach to life is more or less a to-do list rather than goal circumscribed by the calendar. Here's to a new day, a new year filled with sunshine, peace and hope for all!

Dis Does Dat

2010-12-31T06:58:00.000-08:00

I was more than disturbed the other night as I watched two toddlers mesmerized by their parents' iPhones. Their fingers did the walking, slip sliding, as they changed the images on the little screen. The computer was a part of Adam's world from birth just over nineteen years ago. He would sit on our laps, click the mouse, press on the keyboard mesmerized by the screen in front of him. Then came the day sometime between his 2nd and 3rd birthday when he made the connection. Pointing to the mouse and then to the screen, he proclaimed, "Dis does dat." He realized the mouse controlled the image in front of him. This was soon followed by the morning when he toddled up to the computer in his blue blanket sleeper wiggling his forefinger and repeating like some miniature zombie, "Double click. Double click." He realized what he had to do to control the image on the screen. This was the beginning of his love affair and mastery of his digital world.

The little boys and their iPhones did not have to figure out that "Dis does dat." Their fingers moved shapes, changed colors, created animals as if it was an extension of their beings. There was no need to figure it out, no need to establish a connection, a relationship between the actions of the hand and the eye of the mind. Maybe this is an evolutionary baby step, a post millennial transition to digital literacy. I enjoyed my preschool world of building blocks, forcing sticks into Tinker Toy spools and switching doll's heads. The cause and effect of a child working with their whole hands is essential to their developmental growth. The swipe of a tiny finger on a glass screen provides instant rewards for so little effort there isn't even time to contemplate that 'dis does dat.'

Start Me Up

2010-11-29T09:29:00.000-08:00

At Walter S. Boardman Junior High School in Oceanside, New York, my fellow fourteen year olds and I were early fans of The Rolling Stones. Keith was my Rolling Stone because my friends and I choose to be equitable with our fantasy boyfriends. We could discuss and admire them without conflict. Pam Pritzker had Mick. Judy Rosen had Charlie Watts. I can't remember if the other Judy had Brian Jones or Bill Wyman. The Stones were forbidden fruit unlike the cute, neat Beatles. There was something wild and stirring about them that was unseen in the boys in our classes. When a local radio station held a contest to write an essay or poem about your favorite Stone, I entered with the same serious effort I would apply to a 9th grade term paper. Of course, I chose Keith and won tickets to a concert at The Academy of Music on 14th Street in New York. As a winner, I watched the concert from side of the stage armed with my Brownie flash. The staging was spartan by today's standards but Mick's electric performance was captivating. I just unearthed my fading photos and found a close up of Keith. I never remember getting that close but I guess I did. Our admiration continued throughout high school, where Pam, at 5 feet tall, perfected a pre-karaoke imitation of Mick Jagger. For the senior talent show, we dressed as our British idols and mimicked The Rolling Stones. As Keith, I received many dubious compliments about how good I looked as a guy. Unfortunately there is no documentation of this stellar performance!

I just finished reading Keith Richard's LIFE, an autobiography that belies the image of the hardened aging ex-heroin addict. LIFE has reassured me of my teenage choice. My husband looked askance when I told him he was like Keith Richards without the drugs and musical talent. Keith was not a prima donna but a man uncomfortable with the spotlight. Despite his reckless path, Keith is a sweet, good person whose passion for his music was the glue that held the Rolling Stones together. The next time The Rolling Stones have another final concert tour, I will be there, maybe with Pam Pritzker at my side.

Thankful Thursday

2010-11-25T08:44:00.000-08:00

I have no intention of being the "bah humbug" of Thanksgiving, a holiday that fills me with memories of stuffing, eating tangerines and watching the Macy's Parade in an overheated house. The attitude of gratitude is analogous to Valentine's Day, a day to proclaim your love to all your beloveds. We should always being acknowledging a sense of thankfulness for the love in our lives for more than two manufactured days a year. I love Thanksgiving for the food, the tradition, the togetherness so in deference to the message I am going to initiate Thankful Thursday on this blog. I might just be thankful for seeing the apricot roses on Dudley's walk to the park. I might be thankful for the cloudless sky and the crisp leaves sailing to the ground. I will be grateful for the big as well as the little events of the day. I am thankful for the idea to embark on such an adventure and see where my words take me.

Long Lost Voices

2010-11-18T08:44:00.000-08:00

For years a little gold foil covered box containing reels of audio tapes from the late sixties has been stuffed into the back of one drawer or another, lain dormant by archaic technology. A chance conversation at the gym resulted in the save of the long gone voices of my grandfather, my mother and my aunt. I found an odd, cluttered store in Encino that converts old reel to reel audio tapes to CDs. One tape was correctly labeled as a conversation between my mother and my grandfather. The other three tapes were a mystery and labeled as such with the subtitle "The Three Day Blow." Yesterday I picked up two CD's. One was the telephone conversation from December 1967 and the other 75 minutes of the unknown.

I returned home to listen to a wonderful conversation of my mother urging my elderly blind grandfather to recite his poem about a retiring NYPD cop nicknamed Peach Pie Jack who helped on regular basis setting up the news stand he owned in front of 26 Court Street in Brooklyn. The other tape turned out to be a conglomeration of family conversations and recorded TV musical appearances by Donovan, Peter, Paul and Mary, Tom Jones punctuated by my sister, who was probably 9 or 10, singing "If I Only Had a Brain " from The Wizard of Oz. I listened to this during a brutal 2 hour drive to Pasadena during rush hour. These snippets of my life at One Grove Place was a disorienting blast from the past. It was so funny to hear my mother yelling at my sister and shrieking with laughter only to be interrupted by an odd discourse by my father telling an unknown doctor not to take an X-ray of my grandfather's brain. Why these conversations were recorded is beyond my comprehension. The annoyance of the traffic slipped away as I relived the long gone voices of a long gone life. The revived memories of ordinary days become precious with the decades. Even a detail such as the price of shoes become a touchstone, a marker for a time gone by. These long silent voices are now pressed for posterity in the silver circle of a CD.

Chugging Along

2010-11-14T08:12:00.000-08:00

It is so good to know I am part of a baby's bedtime arsenal!

http://jkrbooks.typepad.com/blog/2010/11/the-goodnight-train-june-sobel-and-laura-huliska-beith.html

Done!!

2010-06-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I finished Goat Head Soup. The adventure of writing this book was no less of a journey than the one Mindy Budgor took last summer going through Maasai warrior training. When I started to write this book I was attracted to the project because I was enamored of the idea of a woman going on a seemingly reckless adventure so out of the realm of her everyday life. I remembered the "what the hell" gut reaction I had when I first met Mindy and heard about her project. I asked myself if I would have ever embarked on such a journey. My answer was a resounding NO. Aside from being a creature of comfort, my mother wouldn't have let me go. I thought the message of this book would be about risk taking but as we reached the last pages I found myself surprised by the turn the story had taken. Writing this book has been my warrior training. It has been a lesson in problem solving and discipline as well a gift. A compelling story is a writer's best gift. When people have asked me how I can stay at my computer I tell them I don't want to do anything else. My house is mess. My garden is ragged and munched by rabbits. because I have been living, breathing Goat Head Soup for the past five months. With tears under my eyeglasses,I pecked out those last words of Chapter 20 We did it. Mindy and I wrote the funny book of my dreams.

Leaving Loita

2010-06-22T07:20:00.001-07:00

I am about to leave a place I have never been, say good bye to people I have never met. For the past five months, I have lived in Loita, a settlement in Kenya's Forest of the Lost Child, recreating Mindy Budgor's adventure living with the Maasai. Yesterday I spoke to one of the main "characters" of the story, Lanet a 25 year old university educated Maasai warrior with the wisdom of a sage. Although I never met him, he felt like an old friend as I had full knowledge of his personality quirks and views on life. He is a young guardian of his culture that remains threatened on many fronts, strung between their traditions and the lure of 2lst century attractions and comforts. Lanet is on facebook but doesn't use a match to light a fire when he is home, a remote place without electricity or running water. Last week forty elephants stampeded his enkang. Lanet also brought the news that Yum Yum another character in the story is getting married. These people and places who have inhabited my world, have made me look at my own circumstances with new eyes. They live in the moment without having some Oprah guru telling them to do do. They are connected as a community, connected to generations living with a set of rules that seem odd but compared to our legal system is no less rational and convoluted in it's fairness and operation. However they are not without their problems such as drought and alcoholism. There is a gentility to their spirits and a link with their land that we should learn to embrace bringing a bit of Maasai to the Muzungu way of life.

Ode to English Teachers

2010-05-24T12:35:00.000-07:00

Having spent the past months more or less glued to my seat in pursuit of the completion of Goat Head Soup (a title change is in the works), the voices of my troika of splendid high school English teachers resound in my head. Miss Newman, Miss Musante and Mrs. Fine were far from the most fun women in the world, at least in the classroom. The two "misses" were stern grammarians who rarely cracked a smile much less a joke. We diagrammed sentences, memorized forms of speech to the point where the usage became as natural as hopping on a bike after years of not riding. The rules and tenets of good writing seared such deep pathways into my psyche that my tolerance for grammatical gaffs is non existent. Today I am thankful to these women who often made my stomach tighten with their harsh demeanors and extreme standards for the written word.

One day, Miss Musante broke free of her usual character and became wistful. Even at fourteen , I recognized the oddity of the event. Her voice altered it's strident pattern and softened a bit. I will paraphrase what I can remember:

"When I look over the classroom at your shiny heads with the sunlight coming across your hair, I realize the beauty of youth. My hair does not shine like that anymore."

She was probably in her forties with dark hair which had a few strands of gray. I can't even imagine what transgressed to bring her to abandon a sentence structure exercise for a personal thought.

Mrs. Lillian Fine was more haughty than the other two. Her great claim to fame was being the wife of Benjamin Fine, education editor of the New York Times which she assumed made her superior by association. She was so buxom that she couldn't cross her arms over her chest. Her falsetto voice was reminiscent of 1930's society women gossiping in a parlor. Although she was a decent grammar teacher, her love of literature came through most of all. She made me love The Return of the Native but Silas Marner remained an exercise in torture.

These three women deserve my salute and gratitude as their instruction carried me into the world of words I love so much today.

No Rules

2010-04-14T06:49:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago I had the pleasure of seeing Ian McEwan speak and read from his latest book SOLAR. Putting a face and a voice behind the words of a favorite author is always a pleasure and a treat. Over the years I have listened to many authors speak about writing and their process. Everyone has their tricks. That is not a fair word to use. Everyone has their methods.A few months ago I read how John Irving created the ending for his latest work first and then evolved the story to get there. Mr. McEwan's first requirement is black ink. I was fascinated to learn that in one book he didn't write the beginning until well into the middle of his work. One of his most interesting revelations was that he read his work aloud as he wrote it. I always thought that was the practice of picture book authors whose works are written to be presented aloud. Then I realized that all authors write for the voice in the reader's head. If those words don't work for the ear, they will never work in their silent recreation.

For me the three basic rules for writing are:
1. SHOW UP
2. SHOW NOT TELL
3. WRITING IS REWRITING

Ian McEwan writes 5-6 drafts of his books! It's no wonder they are filled with an easy precision of expression. Writing is hard work that requires a patience and fortitude as well as a story that begs to be told. As I slog towards the middle of my present work, I realize the journey is not for the weak of heart and feel blessed to have a story that jingles in my pocket like a lucky penny.

Yesterday's Treasure

2010-03-06T08:11:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, after my book THE GOODNIGHT TRAIN was released my aunt came across a poem I had written in 4th grade called My Trip to Dreamland. It was printed in the school newspaper. Proud of my first publication, I cut it out, glued it to a pink sheet of paper and mailed it to her. It was such a thrill to rediscover this decades old work and see the parallels to my newest book. I include a photo of the printed poem in my school presentations as a reminder to students to save all your your creative efforts as you never know when they might inspire you in the future. I cherish this first poem and keep the copy above my desk. A few days ago my sister sent me an envelope filled with a variety of personal memorabilia that she rescued from my aunt's apartment after she passed away. There was a 25 year old magazine interview, a few press releases and the original handwritten copy of My Trip to Dreamland. I was shocked to see this even existed, an unexpected treasure in the morning mail.

Innocent Authority

2010-03-05T13:39:00.000-08:00

Everyone should spend at least one day a year in a kindergarten class. I just spent the morning reading my books to five kindergarten classes at a local elementary school. Bursting with enthusiasm about the wonders of life, the outbursts of these children are a delight to me. Their expressions are random to the subject at hand. One girl told me she was related to Sir Frances Drake. Another showed me her polka dot painted nails. A boy described the book he was writing with his grandmother about a remote control plane stuck in a tree. One child told me how to go to sleep. Another whispered that I looked familiar. I love the authority in their voices, a conviction of the importance of their words that gets lost as time passes by. It is that magic mixture of innocence and assurance that tugs at my heart.

Only five year olds could burst into contagious laughter over a classmate donning a rubber ducky lifesaver around their waists. Watching them see how funny it is makes me laugh, too. School visits like today's are the wondrous benefits of being a children's author. I love to connect with my new readers seeing their excitement and enthusiasm for books and stories yet to be told.

Book Trailer Trek

2010-02-28T06:59:00.000-08:00

My head is still reeling from the footage of my friend's whirlwind trip to the other side of the globe to shoot video for the book I am working on with Mindy Budgor. This trip was a difficult journey over washed out roads amid mosquitoes of "biblical proportions" but it afforded me more than the two hours of filming for a minute book trailer. It was a peek into a world I couldn't imagine still existed in the 21st century. Even though I am helping to write a story there is a part of me that feels like I am unfolding a mystery. The people of the Maasai village of Loita had never seen a book until Mindy brought them A Confederacy of Dunces. Warriors start a fire with precise teamwork using the friction of a spinning wooden stick over a smudge of elephant dung. Small children carry babies on their backs. Adults look out for each others backs. For all our wealth, we seem impoverished compared to the community and connection this group of people have woven through their daily lives.

Flying High

2010-02-24T10:17:00.000-08:00

I love the Olympics because I am so far from being able to accomplish any feat of physical recognition that I can live vicariously through the strength and precision of these superb athletes. Speed and coordination have never been my forte. I am a born klutz. I was always picked last in gym. I didn't even care because I put more value on being smart than fast. Last night my mind raced along with the amazing women who sped downhill in the ski cross, four at a time flying blind in white out conditions. When I ski I am happy to get down the hill in one piece. I like to stop and view the scenery; sometimes I go fast for me. In my dreams, I would love to be the winner from Whistler who blew her competitors away as she flew to the finish.

With the exception of endurance, writing is far from being an Olympic sport. It is about the process not crossing the finish line. Sports are about moving; writing is about sitting. Sometimes I get to fly when the words flow from my fingers and I get a bit of air from the speed of my thoughts. There are days when I am stuck in a snow bank and can't lift those words from a mire of muddle. There are no rules for doing it right, no special equipment for making a story better. On some level a writer and an athlete should abandon caution to reach their goals and carve their own paths.

In the meantime, I will take the chair lift up to my next chapter...

Muse is Gushing Out All Over

2010-02-08T09:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I answered questions for a blog interview about the creative process in writing. I spoke about my muse and how she hit at inopportune times. I guess she was sitting on my shoulder as I complained about her. Last night I had a dream that my muse had set out ideas for future books on plates at a dining room table. She seemed very pleased and told me no one had done anything like the stories she served up on the plates. If you think I'm going write them down here - dream on. Needless to say I woke up feeling happy!

The Short and Long of It

2010-02-02T08:53:00.000-08:00

Now that I am helping to write a "long" book, I realize that writing picture books has given me the precision tools to craft a better story. On some level it doesn't make sense that writing for pre-readers would be training ground for writing for adults. The text of a picture book is spare. Every word counts. Every word must move the story along, delight the reader and the listener. The text must be sensory, creating pictures and places, conjuring up smells and tastes. Most of all the story must move from beginning to end in less than 32 pages.

I am co-author of an incredible tale of the first woman to become a Maasai warrior. I urged my friend to get it all down, just record it all while it was fresh in her memory. Editing would follow later. Within a month or so she had over 300 pages of recollections. It baffles me that a nice Jewish girl managed to survive twelve weeks in the wild and eluded the jaws of a lion, leopard or hippo! I had been helping her gather her thoughts and provided guidance through the rewrites expecting to be one of those names in the afterwords who is thanked for their help and support. One thing lead to another and I am now the co-author of Goat Head Soup.

I have realized that one of the biggest challenges is preserving the voice of the storyteller, making sure to keep the original personality in tact. This whole process is analogous to creating a clay sculpture, scraping away one page and building up another. This is also fulfilling one of my long time dreams to write funny. I love reading laugh aloud books because I love to laugh. This book is laden with hysterical moments, heart racing scenes and soul searching. I am really having fun and am contemplating clotheslines in my office to keep track of all the papers!! I need to print out after I write. I like holding the pages in my hand to edit which I know is not ecologically sound or efficient but it's what works for me.

Back to my long book...

Rain, Rain, Can't Complain

2010-01-22T13:50:00.000-08:00

On the 5th, or is it the 6th, straight day of rain in terminally sunny Southern California, I am enjoying weather. Light rain, Heavy rain. Hail. Lightning. Thunder. Billowing clouds, Patches of blue. The rain gauge approaches fives inches. A welcome respite from baked sidewalks, yearnings for Maine and 90 degrees in January. Mushrooms appear between the pavers. The hills turn electric green. Buds sprout from barren trees. Children and dogs fall into storm drains. Weather is news. The rain is my ark. My savior from the flat line boredom of sunny and fair.

Rain helps me write. It's sound and presence prevents the distractions of barking dogs, leaf blowers and lawn mowers. It turns me inward into the world of the story I am writing or editing. There is no sun slanting into my window and onto my computer screen - just the world of words as I mold a paragraph, cut and paste, delete, delete. I've welcomed this wet week and wonder when another one will come our way.

Resolved

2010-01-03T09:11:00.000-08:00

"Make it work!" Tim Gunn's words echo off the walls when I clean out my closets. Today they are stamped in red over my 2010 resolutions.I always begin the year with grand plans which often take a year or two to get checked off my list, my mantra being if it's on the list it get's done "eventually." This year rather than go big I want to think about going for less of the things that clutter my time time and my life. Less laundry. Less errands. Less cooking. Less mess. Less barking. By doing less, I think I will have more time to write, and complete the unfinished projects that litter my life.

A Fine Year For Books

2010-01-01T07:17:00.000-08:00

In the swirl of recollections of a devastating decade pirouetting towards a reign of idiocracy, I think about 2009 and realize it was a fine year for books. So many books so little time! I raced through THE HUNGER GAMES and CATCHING FIRE. I sipped the portrait of an Irish immigrant in BROOKLYN. I followed the unlikeable, unforgettable OLIVE KITTERIDGE through small town life in Maine. I was swept up in ADMISSION a fiction more revealing than any non-fiction college application advice book. I reveled in the GIRLS LIKE US singing the songs of my teenage years through the lives of Carole King, Joni Mitchell and Carly Simon. I LET THE GREAT WORLD SPIN it's story. I finally read a biography of THOMAS JEFFERSON. I was staggered by Deo's tale in STRENGTH IN WHAT REMAINS and tearful at the end of UNDRESS ME IN THE TEMPLE OF HEAVEN.

I was a beggar at a banquet stuffing myself with paper pages and Kindle screens of author's delights. I found APPLES AND ORANGES: MY BROTHER AND ME, LOST AND FOUND and longed for trip to Washington's apple country. I met Frank Lloyd Wright's wives in THE WOMEN. I celebrated an IMMOVABLE FEAST:CHRISTMAS IN PARIS. I laughed out loud reading HOWL, a collection of dog wit. I relished the popular AN AMERICAN WIFE, the thinly disguised portrait of Laura Bush. My favorite picture book of the year was 14 COWS FOR AMERICA, the story of a gift to assuage the pain of 9/11.

I am skimming the top of my iceberg recollecting the stories that stayed with me. I would be remiss to forget Hope Anita Smith's MOTHER POEMS whose words and pictures resonate with magic and raw pain.

I raise my Kindle to new books and my blank journal to untold stories. Here's to delicious tales and words in 2010!

Goodbye to All That

2009-12-31T06:37:00.000-08:00

An awful decade for the world in general but for me it was a time of highs and lows. In the early full moon last morning of "the aughts," I'd like to say hello to a new ten years to be filled with surprise and hope as well as a new focus. Within the next year, my mother job will diminish and I look forward to solid blocks of creative time that I have missed in the past 18 years, not that I would ever trade this experience for all the money in the world. I'm already juiced with the tears that I know will flow this coming June evening of high school graduation. I am ready to get on with the work of the new year. I am antsy for that perienniel clean slate of new calendars and resolution lists to begin. Here's to the ten's!!

Return of the Blogger

2009-12-21T06:33:00.000-08:00

Due diligence has cast it's fate to the wind this past fall. The household stress of nagging about college apps, the unexpected preparation for a last minute trip to Copenhagen and the disruption of having a sometimes moody teenager home at mid day has thrown my daily life off kilter. It is inexcusable that I haven't written anything since October. Sometimes one of the balls in juggling life falls and my pen in hand has gone astray for a few months.

Lately I have been sitting on the other side of the writer's fence helping a friend edit her fascinating story of becoming one of the first female Maasai warriors. I have always wanted to be one of those names in an author's note that thanks an anonymous person for all their insight and support. My friend is not an experienced writer but the content of her tale reigns supreme over sentence structure and grammar. Doing this is perfect for the sporadic blocks of time I have to concentrate and has made me realize how being an avid reader makes one a good writer. An authentic voice must come through the words. A skilled editor must strike a delicate balance to keep that voice in tact.

I have to reinstate daily discipline into my schedule. Helter skelter scribbling will not produce my next book. I look forward to order and a sprinkling of quietude on the dawn of this new decade.

The Red Pen

2009-09-18T15:24:00.000-07:00

After absorbing the notes of my Working Writer's Retreat weekend, my red pen has been pointed and ready to scratch. I have spent the past week viewing my four alleged complete picture book manuscripts with a fresh eye. I have pressed select, delete on my keyboard with confidence. Last Monday, I was a bit dispirited by some of the weekend's negative comments i.e. "Where's the plot?" As the week worn on I found my self becoming more discerning and critical of my work than anyone in any of my critique groups. Sometimes you need a kick in the pants to get back on track. Rewriting is hard work. I have wondered what has taken me so long to see the obvious flaws

I have realized for a plot to move forward there has to be dis-ease - not an illness but a sense of discomfort that builds suspense - the sense of a problem that needs solving - the sense of a character moving towards resolution despite the obstacles. I have realized you have to write your heart out before you point that red pen or press that delete button.

I am glad to have had a chance to retreat as I am now refreshed and ready to write.

Retrenching after Retreat

2009-09-13T15:33:00.000-07:00

Just returned from a working writer's retreat that felt like a two night sleep a way camp peppered with critique, comradeship and rediscovery. It was a delight to spend solid blocks of time devoted to the review and analysis of one's work. Everyone's opinion is just that - an opinion. I am always fascinated by the continual retooling of a manuscript that seems perfect. I will be fascinated to see where the publishing industry will be in 10 years. I can't decide whether book publishing is at a crossroads or the edge of a cliff. In the meantime, I shall scribble, scribble, scribble on the path to the completion of my next book.

Can't Hurry Love

2009-09-09T10:29:00.000-07:00

This weekend I am going to a writers' retreat where we will critique, have free time to write and share our works with two editors. As I prepare for this event, I realize that my first attempt at a middle grade novel is no where near ready to begin it's first chapter. I am still exploring and creating my character's world, having a wonderful time watching my words come into focus. Some days are frustrating but today has been good. I found the seeds of my plot and have fleshed out my character's world. As I enjoyed this morning's a-ha moments, I was reminded of the Supreme's song YOU CAN'T HURRY LOVE. I can substitute the word "plot" for love and that would express how I am feeling these days.

I need a plot, plot
To ease my mind
I need to find a story to call all mine
But mama said

You can't hurry plots
No, you just have to wait
She said plots don't come easy
Its a game of give and take

(With apologies to Diana Ross and the writers of this song...)

Hungry for More - Part 2

2009-09-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

Horror of horrors! I finished The Hunger Games last night, eager to jump directly into the flame of Catching Fire when I discovered the sequel was not yet "kindle-ized!" I was so smug that technology would seamlessly allow me to read on from one to book to the next. Now I have to wait for our local Barnes & Noble to open to continue Katniss' adventures. As a writer I can't help but read with an analytical eye. I marvel at the captivating spell this book has cast upon me. It is YA fiction that targets a demographic that could include my grandchildren had I become a mother at an early age. One of the driving forces in the story are the continual planting of seeds of doubt and distrust. You are never sure of any one. This sense of discomfort lures me through the pages even though I know the heroine will endure.

36 minutes to go...

Hungry For More

2009-09-02T11:12:00.000-07:00

Unlike my dear husband, I do not entertain a fascination with the post-apocalyptic world of Mad Max, and Bladerunner. Literature reveling in the demise of western civilization, with exception of Brave New World and Fahrenheit 451, does not interest me - until now. I am swept up in Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games. I will be reading Catching Fire the moment I finish this one on my beloved Kindle. It also heartening to see such a strong female character in this dark world. This book deserves it's popularity. It is a gripping story with a fast paced tightly woven plot for both young and old adults alike!

Scribble, Scribble, Scribble

2009-09-01T08:40:00.000-07:00

Peck! Peck! Peck! That's what it's all about. I am not talking about the hokey pokey. Now that August has turned into September, Laurie Halse Anderson's month of writing prompts is no longer part of my morning routine. These 15 minute exercises are probably the best ones I have seen to provoke and improve a work of fiction in progress. They have helped me turn a character inside out and expand her world beyond my imagination. These prompts have also made me realize the examination of my life experiences hold a wealth of stories beyond my wildest dreams. I can stir them into my pot of fiction and create a newer, truer story. I have also realized the fact that sounds like something Gertrude Stein would say - the more you write the more you write. The more time spent writing the more likely the muse is to sit on your shoulder and press her words into your ear. She's whispering now and I must go - scribble, scribble, scribble...

Le Joie de Boeuf

2009-08-25T17:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think it's good to do things that are against one's nature. It's good to get out of your comfort zone and try things that seem impossibly complicated. Today I made Julia Child's Bouef Bourguignon. Last Sunday after seeing the wonderful Julie & Julia, Mark noted that our orange Le Creuset dutch oven was in the movie. I proclaimed that I would make Boeuf Bourguignon just like Julia in our starring pot. Media mimicry has always been a part of my life. When I was 5 years old,I would change into a skirt and put on my mouse ears every time the Mickey Mouse Club came on the TV. Making this recipe was another version of this deviant behavior.

Today seemed like a good day to do this since the tree men were here. I could not count on silence and lack of interruption to spend any time writing. I also wanted to be home to monitor the chain saws. Little did I know that Julia's recipe for servantless American women would eat up half my day, chopping, slicing, sauteing, stirring, timing, etc. My confidence level is nil when it comes to mastering a complex recipe that even requires the simmering of bacon rinds! By noon I was ready to start sipping the unused wine in the measuring cup. I still had to braise the pearl onions and saute a pound of mushrooms in an unspecified amount of butter. It would be nearly 3 more hours of cooking at a low oven temperature before I would have to strain the meat over a pan and reduce the simmering sauce.

I did taste the stew and it is excellent, much better than anything I'd buy in a Costco package and heat up for 20 minutes. Like Julia, I love to eat but the truth is that I would rather not spend my day cooking. Yet I am glad I did it. My ode to Julia Child. Tonight I will raise my glass in a toast to her joie de vivre and my mastery of boeuf bourguignon.

Picture Book Laureate

2009-08-18T13:52:00.000-07:00

A wonderful interview with Anthony Browne, U.K.'s newest Children's Laureate with a wonderful shout out for picture books. Anyone listening??!!

http://www.schoollibraryjournal.com/article/CA6676285.html?nid=2413&source=link&rid=

Right to Write

2009-08-16T13:49:00.000-07:00

I just received an email from a friend who said she wished she could do something else as writing was so hard. Of course it is. As my husband would snidely say, "That's why they call it work." For me writing is fun yet confronts me with the same challenges that a climber would find on Mt. Everest. It is something I continue to do because on some level I don't know if I can. Publishing has nothing to do with any of this. It has to do with a crafting a lean yet delicious story. I am reading South of Broad by Pat Conroy one of my favorite "popular" authors who graces us with a book every ten years or so. His language is an endless butterscotch sundae. He makes hard work look easy which is why we probably get such a good book once a decade.

Nothing Like a Good Eavesdrop

2009-08-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

I have always had trouble with writing dialogue. My written conversations seem forced devoid of the reality of a real exchange. I just read about an exercise for writers in which you sit near someone and write down everything they say. Try to avoid arrest in the process.

I have always enjoyed those seats in a restaurant when you sit too close to a strange couple and can hear every word of their conversation. My husband finds these situations uncomfortable. I find them to be fascinating. Last year in Livingston, Montana we sat next to a pair on their first date. He was a 50-ish tennis playing, Vietnam combat veteran who grew up on a chicken farm and apparently made enough money to own a small ski resort. His decades younger date spent her youth on military bases on a variety of Pacific Islands and played golf. Of course, he was divorced, his ex was "nuts" and his kids were trouble. Their conversation was so compelling that I hardly spoke to my husband as I ate and sipped my second pineapple chili flavored margarita.

There was something not quite right about this guy. Something that reminded me of my pathological lying neighbor when I first moved to Los Angeles. He lied that he taught at the School of Visual Arts and even gave me lesson plans that were quite helpful. He could exchange war stories with Vietnam veterans for hours even though he was never in the service. There was something about that man at the next table that reminded me of my old neighbor. A gut reaction about something being not quite right.

Eavesdropping can prove to be useful in the creation of conversation. You can learn about the cadence of dialogue and perhaps the difference between truth and fiction.

Shot in the Arm

2009-08-09T08:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I broke down and went to one day of the Los Angeles SCBWI Conference at the Century Plaza Hotel. I have not attended this event in years due to a combination of vacation conflicts and tedium - final days when I needed toothpicks to hold my eyes open during late afternoon sessions. With the recent upheaval in the publishing industry I felt it would be advisable to put my ear to the rails and find out first hand just how dismal or good the world will be for future children's books. It was fun to connect with old friends and fellow writers, to smile, commiserate but most of all share our love for the written word. Sessions ran the gamut from inspirational to horrific yet I left with a much needed shot of ABC12 to get my ink flowing bring a little "Yes I Can" spirit to my quiet hours in front of my computer.

I Hate Vampires

2009-08-07T09:10:00.001-07:00

This will prove to be an unpopular post for all those blood sucking wanna-be's. I hate vampires. I have no interest in watching or reading about pale faced live forevers with pointy teeth that bite necks and wreck havoc in the lives of us regulars. If I was a teenage girl and found out that the cute boy who sat beyond me in math transformed into a blood sucking maniac I'd request a seat change. Keep these imaginary deviants away from me! Watching True Blood and the surgery scenes of ER is in the same category - entertainment torture. I don't want to watch a half dead lifeless girl on the floor with blood seeping out of her neck or see guts on a gurney when I sit on the couch for a little mindless viewing. I want a compelling story, snappy repartee, incisive satire or a good laugh.

The real reason I don't like vampires and for that matter zombies, ghosts and werewolves is they do not celebrate life. They exist in the fictional dark side. They live in the realm of horror, a world I choose to avoid in a book or on the screen. It is sad commentary on modern popular literature that bookstores have vampire sections when stacks of wonderful works on fiction and non fiction live a few aisles away.

Cowgirl at Heart

2009-08-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

When I was five years old I really thought I could grow up to be a cowgirl. I really thought that was career option for me to become a 20th century Annie Oakley. I'm not even sure how I heard of her at that age but since she was a famous cowgirl I considered her someone to emulate. Maybe I saw the movie "Annie Get Your Gun" on TV. The closest I have come to realizing this dream is to live on the west coast even though "out west" is really east of California. Why did I want to be a cowgirl? I don't even ride horses. A cowgirl seemed independent with a mind of her own. She could wear a cowgirl outfit and have a gun in her holster. Now a half a century later, I still can't ride horses, am an opponent of guns but somewhere under my suburban exterior I am a cowgirl at heart!

At Stake

2009-07-31T08:00:00.000-07:00

Every so often I dig out my copy of STORY by Robert McKee to remind myself what is at stake when I write. Although this is a book about screen writing, his advice can apply to the the simplest of picture books. No writer is ever sure when they cast the nets of their words. I felt assured about my latest picture book text when I read this book. At stake is an important concept in any narrative. It goes hand and hand with "what if?" If there is nothing at stake there is no story, no driving force to move the character through their days.

Playing the "what if" game is a lot of fun and leads you down roads and streets you might not have traveled just writing. Creating a character is a daunting task. You have to feel invested enough to want to get to know, be committed to this fictitious being. My friend Hope has always said the character tells her what to do and where to go. Her silent conversation with this uninked being directs her narrative and tells her what's at stake.

I am reminded of Adam's childhood speech impediment with his "S" sounds. We used to joke is it a steak or a snake as when he pronounced them they both sounded the same. Now I think a snake and what's at stake go hand in hand winding through a story coiling and slithering through the pages to a satisfying "The End."

Eric Carle interview

2009-07-30T14:17:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yAeC2IFMSiY#

The Way Life Should Be

2009-07-21T08:03:00.000-07:00

When you cross the invisible line that separates Maine from New Hampshire, there is a sign that says Welcome to Maine - The Way Life Should Be. The slogan resonated throughout our week long tour of coastal Maine. Back in California I realize I am living the way life should not be - hot, flat and crowded. Surprises and beauty abounded in Maine. The first rest stop resembled a library or bookstore filled with hundreds of free books and pamphlets about the state's offerings. The place was run by informative friendly retired folks eager to help and engage in conversation. Another rest stop had a gallery of works of Maine artisans which included wooden chairs that sold for $2500. It was clean filled with pristine food court restaurants, a welcome respite from the hold your nose stops on California's freeways. This slice of roadside life tells me we've lost our way in this state not to mention our money! More on Maine to come. Now it's off to unpack, do wash and shop for food...Oh to remain in Maine!

Ready, Set...Stop!

2009-07-05T07:55:00.000-07:00

As I prepare, pack and deliberate our trip to the East Coast, I realize that the part I look forward to most is slowing down. I can't wait for the three days when we stay in one place. Stillness is a treat these days when my time is chock filled with driving and to-do lists. Yesterday as I mapped out the college to college visits, I had a singular cathartic moment. You can only go to one school. All these details on times and tours will slip away once you've made your choice. It is obvious yet profound because the place you choose after they choose you alters the course of your life. The four years of college have a timeliness that carries memories and friendships for a lifetime. When you look back it seems that choice unlocked the door to the path you are on today.

Sight & Insight

2009-06-30T14:57:00.000-07:00

Once again I am compelled to write about my eyes as I am filled with the wonder of precise sight after my years of blunder with bad eye doctors and prescription fillers. I just picked up my new "computer" glasses and the clarity of the letters I type is as equally amazing as the defined leaves on the trees I see outside with my sunglasses. There is a part of me that is mad at myself for not tending to this situation sooner. Better late than never - oh happy eyes!

From sight to insight. I came across this wonderful talk by Joyce Carole Oates on creating characters although I am bemused by her statement about poetry. It is certainly worth watching especially as I dip my toe into the first weeks of hell!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LgJ809QKmas&feature=fvst

Travels with Dudley

2009-06-29T09:16:00.000-07:00

Some things you just need to get out of your system. About 20 years ago when we lived in Santa Monica I was obsessed with riding the then-new Ferris wheel. When I finally rode the big wheel one warm summer night, the view was spectacular but my stomach flip flopped and I couldn't wait to get off. Still I was happy to have fulfilled my wish. Traveling with your dog is sort of like that.

This weekend we took Dudley on his first trip to a hotel in La Jolla. Thirteen pounds resting on my lap for the two and a half hour drive. I longed for Dudley to see the ocean not that it would really matter to him. I wanted him to see sea lions not that that would register in this curious little mind either. We stayed at a perfect dog accepting hotel across from the park near La Jolla Cove. He sniffed and "marked"every palm tree. He ran across the grass scattering scores of sea gulls. His excitement over going to a new place was palpable. However my stomach flip flopped here as well. We could not take Dudley to dinner or breakfast so we left our whimpering friend alone in the room secured by a Do Not Disturb tag on the doorknob. I did feel constrained by the limits of having to tend to the dog. Still I was happy to have fulfilled my wish for Dudley to see the sea.

Gushing Over Maira

2009-06-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

The mornings when I click to find Maira Kalman's brilliant art and words have an inexplicable levity and delight. I don't rush to my computer the last Friday of each month to find the latest installment of The Pursuit of Happiness. I like the "oh happy day" surprise to find her luscious paintings and poignant parables revealing themselves on my screen. I am an unbashed fan of this woman who I met a few years ago at the now defunct Adventures for Kids bookstore in Ventura. I was impressed to learn she the member of a rubber band club.

Her series of musings in the NY Times have the distinction for me of being one of the few works of art that surpasses the book form on the computer screen. There is the black background and the act of the scroll down that for some reason is more tantalizing in it's revelation than the page turn. I marvel that her paintings and words have an immediacy that took hours to create. Today's musings on Thomas Jefferson and Monticello are profound yet wry. See for yourself and you will become a major fan as well.

http://kalman.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/25/time-wastes-too-fast/

Dreams and 2 Toll-free Numbers

2009-06-25T09:36:00.000-07:00

I love to capture dreams before they slip through the lashes of my awakening eyes. Grasping the evanescence of these nighttime stories is a gift. Last night I was pushing a little Adam in a stroller down a neighborhood street except this time the sides of the road were bursting with blooming roses. I arrived at the health club, put him in child care and went off to exercise. Before long I was eating lunch at a table with fellow members. Everyone began to smoke. I stood up and yelled at everyone exclaiming it was not only against the law but unhealthy. I went to off to report them to people at the front desk. I think hearing Barack Obama speak about smoking planted this seed in my REM cycle.

Back to the rose lined road. When Adam awoke this morning he checked his SAT 2 test scores. He received two 800's! We have never rewarded grades beyond two words - good job. That has proven to be more of a motivational tool than any gift or green bill. The satisfaction of a job well done goes to Adam. He owns it. However today I am one proud moma!

Meeting My Muse in Maine

2009-06-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

On scorching summer days when the soles of my shoes are seared by hundred degree plus heat, I have longed for a July morning in Maine. I have longed for the cool of a fog bank, the salt ridden breeze of ocean air. In a few weeks we will be along the coast of Maine escaping the oppressive temperatures that have plagued the past few summers in Southern California. I have not visited Maine in over 35 years, a post college journey to Kennebunkport with Chris, Meta and the weird Eric whatever-his-name. I look forward to lazy days kayaking, hiking and filling my face with lobsters and blueberries. It is funny how the East Coast that I left lures me back and I expect to find my muse again on a pebbled beach outside of Camden waiting to whisper the name of my next book.

Musings on the College Thing

2009-06-20T07:21:00.000-07:00

I find it strange that I am more enlightened about the college admissions process by a work of fiction than any of the non-fiction how-to-apply books that I have read in the past year. I am in the midst of reading Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz, a former reader for Princeton. Her story brings up interesting questions and insight into the American way students are admitted to selective institutions.

As the mother of a rising senior, the ball of admission has started rolling. I hate to say when I was in high school...but here goes. When I was in high school, I sent away for 3 college catalogs in October of my senior year. I always knew I would go to college but it never loomed large. Now it starts looming in kindergarten. When Adam was 8, he was obsessed with Cal Tech. One night before he went to sleep he asked what he would have to bring to school and if he could come home on the weekend. Now that prospect is little over a year away. We visited Pomona College this past week. Having experienced both the intimacy of a small school and the vastness of a university, there is a part of me that would hope he'd select a place with small classes and opportunities to establish relationships with professors over graduate students. But that is not my choice. I went to college. This is not my journey, something many parents seem to forget.

To Tweet or Not to Tweet

2009-06-11T10:41:00.001-07:00

Yes - a while ago I joined Twitter, another way to fritter away time. Maybe Fritter should be the next big thing. Actually that would probably be a better name. I signed on just before the Inauguration thinking it might be fun to follow the reports of my friend's son's adventures in Washington DC. It turned out to be pretty boring i.e. "we're in the subway" or "we're on the mall but can't see a thing because a tree is blocking the jumbo-tron." Then I tried to follow a woman who was going to a writer's conference in New York. That proved to be equally boring as if I cared that she had Thai food for lunch. Twitter is only adding to our social self-absorption. It is particularly peculiar to see writers reporting that they are writing. They are not writing. They are twittering, frittering away those precious hours that they have to do their work which by the way I am aware that I am not doing right now. Hey - I needed to vent which brings me to my next peeve de jour - twitter trash!! Lately I have been getting "followers" thinly disguised as alleged friends who want to sell me real estate or health insurance. Do these people think I would buy their services over the pitches I receive daily from telemarketer recordings?

I would much rather hear a tweet from a bird.

Cloudy With a Chance of Petunias

2009-06-10T10:44:00.000-07:00

I revel digging in the dirt. I don't like to wear gloves to keep my hands clean. I like the mud under my nails saturating my fingertips. Gardening is an overwhelming never ending task. My goal in life has always been to be a good gardener. An old friend's father was a master gardener defying the Southern California heat and clay soil to plant glorious gardens with tulips, lilies of the valley and fields of daffodils. I always admired his devotion to his flowers. There is the continual challenge of learning what works where as well as the mystery of incredible blooms that emerge from ignored plants. I love to garden which makes me wonder why I oscillate between being attentive to my plants and forgoing playing in the dirt for other activities.

The weather has been wonderful with the so called June gloom marine layer penetrating our valley which is ten miles inland from the ocean. I can stay outside to work at a stretch without frying in the morning sun. I look forward to my petunias and impatiens bursting in their beds and my miniature thyme thriving between the pavers by the pool.

Beginning With The End

2009-06-06T09:02:00.000-07:00

This morning I watched a NY Times interview with John Irving on his writing process. One of my friends has been struggling with creating a new beginning of a book she has been working on for over a year. Common sense tells us that one should work in progressive order of beginning, middle and end. John Irving's approach defies logic. He starts with the last sentence first. The finale of his latest book came to him in a doctor's office and he grabbed a prescription pad on the nurse's desk to jot it down. Muses take joy in inspiring at inopportune times. From this one sentence, he created the whole story that marched behind it. His perfect first sentence arrived seven months later. A gift in his mind as his prior first lines usually arrived a year after he started his first sentence.

Here is a another short interview with John Irving that would be helpful to all writers:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1TbTCDHKRY

Next...

2009-06-05T09:37:00.000-07:00

Somedays I am tempted to click the next button on my blog to visit my cyber seatmates who "sit" next to me in the discombobulated vapor of the blogosphere. The click heard 'round the world. In less than a minute I can visit Digital Scraphouse or a blog about addiction to 4 TV channels, Bento-Santo Brasil or the coincidental A Sober June and Polikwaptiwa - Butterfly Sitting on Flower Growing Each Day. Most times I don't discover anything worth following amid the random cute newborns, pet photos and life chronicles. Every so often I have hit the jackpot like the blog of a schizophrenic living in a small town in the deep South. My comedy gem is a collection wacky letters to corporations by someone named Gabe. I have laughed myself to tears reading these aloud.

I wonder if someday someone in China will click "next" in Chinese and wonder what the heck this page is about as well.

Bark-a-tive

2009-06-04T08:11:00.000-07:00

How am I supposed to concentrate when a thirteen pound fur ball of insistent noise reverberates throughout the house? I suppose Dudley's proclamations are well meaning, warning me or expressing his distaste for errant bunnies, squirrels or cars he might spy out the window. His decibel level jars the quiet morning at my desk.

My human assessment of Dudley's vocabulary is either a figment of my imagination or another wonder of dog-kind. Regular visitors to our house get what we call the royal Arrrrr-rohr (excuse my attempts at canine translation.) Dudley tilts his head back announcing their repeat presence in his realm with singular authority. If I close the back door leaving him stranded outside, he gives repeated short barks to get my attention. In the morning he mimics me with a playful yawn stretching his jaw wide open to say "Aaaaaaaahr." One of my favorite behaviors is "the silent treatment" relegated to barking dogs he might pass on a walk. Refusing to engage in canine conversation, he trots by to the park.

Right now I have a treat - silence.

Ode to Cupcakes

2009-06-03T09:10:00.000-07:00

It all started last Friday night when Mark brought home a dozen tastes of heaven in a brown paper bag faintly inscribed with the magic word - Sprinkles. Spending the weekend resisting a box of irresistible cupcakes was a feat of self control. I only ate 4 in two days and split one on Sunday. Had I thrown caution and diet to the wind, I would have had no problem eating through the box if only to find out which flavor was which. In pursuit of more information I visited Sprinkles web site to find this artful mathematical looking chart of flavor availability. A chart like this appeals to my intellect as well as my stomach. Would analysis of cupcake choice make me seem like less of a glutton? These clean color coded dots are the antithesis of these dense little moist cakes topped with sinfully sugary frosting. As much as I craved these cupcakes I wanted to be rid of them. I was so conflicted by my temptation!

I brought the remaining cupcakes to my writer's group on Monday. We cut them in quarters and inhaled them in place of lunch. Bad girls! If only our writing could be as irresistible as Sprinkles cupcakes. That should be the new personal standard - stories as satisfying and sweet a as red velvet cupcake.

Lies & Fiction

2009-06-02T10:58:00.000-07:00

The true stories that come into my life are often so preposterous that if I recorded them verbatim they would be scoffed off as ridiculous and cliched. When I contemplate writing these tales I wonder if my alterations to protect privacy are lies or fictions. I consulted Webster for the answer to my question as I needed to know what formed the line between a writer and a liar. Fiction, I learned, is something invented by the imagination or feigned. It is "an assumption of a possibility as a fact, irrespective of the question of it's truth." A lie, however, is "to make an untrue statement with intent to deceive; to create a false or misleading impression."

The leap from fact to fiction is the diving board called imagination. The intent to deceive disappears once a writer seeks to craft a story to enlighten and entertain. I guess every story must be preambled with a disclaimer to confuse the players in life's true stories. There is a part of me that is concerned with good manners and I would be hesitant to betray the confidence of a true story of someone close to me. The tale told of a friend of a friend of a friend seems to be fair game especially if it could be crafted into a compelling fiction. The housewife found hanging in the clean Orange County cul de sac garage is as up for grabs as the dangerous scavenger hunt by a bunch of teenage girls. I love good gossip not the malicious "did you see what she wore" type. Good gossip is a story that shakes your perceptions of truth, revealing an unimaginable situation. These springboards are gifts to a writer in pursuit of inventive fiction.

End of the Year Treadmill

2009-05-30T06:49:00.000-07:00

I am rushing through the final days of my "next-to-the-last" school year. After 12 years of speeding through the weeks between Memorial Day and mid June, I am looking forward to a different set of markers to punctuate my year. Time passes quickly in anticipation of the lazy summer schedule where the requisite 5:40 weekday wake up is erased. Counting the days to a slower pace.

Eavesdrop of the Week

2009-05-17T08:49:00.000-07:00

Overheard in the waiting room of the orthodontist -

A mother questioned her daughter dressed in a parochial school uniform.

"What are you getting in Bible?"

When the girl answered, "87" the mother looked at her with disgust.

The Kindle Test

2009-05-12T10:20:00.000-07:00

I think every book before it's published should be required to pass the Kindle sample test. Before I purchase a text I usually download a portion of the first chapter to see if I really want to read the novel I selected. I keep a running list of books that pique my interest. Last week while driving through Malibu Canyon I listened to an interview with Elizabeth Stout the author of Olive Kitteridge. I was taken with the concept of linked stories about an unsympathetic character. Yesterday I finished my sample chapter and couldn't download it fast enough so I could continue reading. Shouldn't that be a litmus test for all books? Shouldn't stories be so compelling that a taste drives you to want to know more? Some people bemoan the end of books as we know them with the advent of electronic readers. I believe this format will result in better literature and perhaps more discerning readers.

The Weekly Bounty

2009-05-07T17:47:00.000-07:00

Why does going to the Farmer's Market make me so happy? I am dazzled by the bounty of purple potatoes, honey tangerines, succulent strawberries and tubs of cherries picked by the light of a full moon in Fresno. Overwhelmed by the plethora of plenty, I inhale the ripeness of the hot afternoon. We are lucky to have a market with a spectacular view of the Conejo Valley that stretches to the fog banked coast of the Oxnard plain. All this choice. Dinner's decisions. Dessert's delight. Unfold before me fresh from the earth or the branch of a tree. Maybe I don't need to figure out why the treasures of the Farmer's Market reveals a smile.

The Trouble with Memoir

2009-05-02T08:43:00.000-07:00

The Sorrows of an American by Siri Hustvedt has a wonderful line that sums up the problem of recreating one's past in memoir.

" There is no clear border between remembering and imagining."

Who is to know the integrity of an author's recreated memory? It's the big lie that's the problem. Passing off a totally fictitious past as fact get's one in a heap of trouble. A collection of little half truths can be the pepper that makes a story palatable. Often this is done in innocence like the childhood game of Telephone where a secret message is passed around a circle. For lack of listening or hearing the final message is usually different from the original. I am reminded of our family tale of my blind grandfather being run over by a subway only to lose a kidney. For over fifty years I accepted this story as fact. A few weeks ago when my son interviewed my father about his heritage, it was revealed that my grandfather was hit by a trolley car and ran away after the accident. If I had written an account of this would I have been accused of James Frey's crime?

The lack of borders between remembering and imagining is a gift to a fiction writer, a license to create a stew of fact and fiction. The concept of "what if" brings mischief and drama to the creation of a story. I have an idea for a salacious YA novel but I hesitate to start as I don't know if I wish to be associated with such tawdry true material. For the time being I think I will just continue to horrify my middle aged Mom friends with the details. None of us remember or imagine ever being like the girls in this yet to be written tale.

Festival of Books

2009-04-25T17:19:00.000-07:00

After hearing reports of a downsized LA Times Festival of Books, I approached my signing at today's event with a bit of trepidation. Would the aisles of booksellers be empty? Would anyone want to buy one book in this alleged dire economy? All my fears were assuaged when I sat in the long line on Sunset Blvd. to get into the UCLA parking lot. People still love books and are willing to wait and fight crowds to make a momentary connection with a favorite author. It was a brilliant blue California day and the peaks of the white book filled tents shuddered in the wind. Music of all sorts sang from the stages. Best of all Angelenos bought books. I spent an hour signing my books and sold out of one title. The enthusiasm I sensed confirmed my belief that love of reading will prevail!

Eavesdrop of the Day

2009-04-14T16:19:00.000-07:00

At the Brentwood Mart I overheard a woman lamenting, "He didn't get in. I can't believe he didn't get accepted."

The man by her side offered consolation: "He did get in to Yale and Brown."

Listen & Go Buy This Book

2009-04-11T10:51:00.000-07:00

That is an order! Also have some tissues nearby.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102824597

I am honored to call Hope Anita Smith a friend.

A Life Examined

2009-04-10T17:25:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, Adam had a Spanish project entitled Mi Herencia - My Heritage. He had to give an oral report (in Spanish, of course) about his family heritage. He chose to investigate his great grandfather's past through an hour long conversation with my father, his 94 year old grandfather. As a result of this discussion my desk was covered with post it notes and pages of scribbles on the details of the Sobel family history. Adam asked me to type this up in my free time which I just finished doing. It has been a memorable experience to record these tales. I always think my heritage is not that remarkable but as I read through my notes I realize the joy of knowing the stories of these long gone relatives. I learned so many new things about my "historical" past. My great grandfather had secret meetings with Theodore Herzl in Odessa about the founding of Israel. One of my great uncles, a peddler, kept two fountain pens in his jacket so he would look educated. My great grandmother dipped her head in a bucket of ice water when she felt tense!

Stories make up our lives and memories. It is not just the facts but the details that paint a full picture. Personal histories of ordinary lives can often turn out to be extraordinary.

The "Eyes" Have It

2009-04-09T08:40:00.000-07:00

My husband affectionately mocks me when I insist on going to the "the best" doctors. Since we have moved to the Conejo Valley - Bunny Valley in English, I have been less than satisfied with my eyeglass prescriptions. They are never quite right and I often bring them back to be redone . I can't believe this level on incompetency for something that I consider to be pretty basic. I just want to see clearly! Serendipity led me to the best of the best. I walked into an eyeglass store in Malibu just to browse for new sunglasses. I told the store owner I needed to get a new prescription as my last one was a disaster for which I had to return three times and it's still not right. She gave me the name of a doctor in Santa Monica who she insisted would give me a prescription that would have me seeing like a 16 year old.

I have worn eyeglasses since I was nine years old. I am familar with the procedure and could not distinguish one visit from another. However yesterday I experienced the most thorough 2 hour eye examination of my life which included drawings of the shape of my optical nerves as well as a lengthy lens correction session. What I came away with has nothing to do with my eyes but the pursuit of excellence. I was in awe of her knowledge and attention to detail. If everyone no matter what they did, myself included, could pursue their jobs and lives with this sense of being the best, the world would certainly be a better place.

Throw Me A Poem!

2009-04-06T09:57:00.000-07:00

A few months ago my poet friend Kris George told me the story of a funny typo. Her children's poetry book about origami, FOLD ME A POEM, was erroneously referred to as THROW ME A POEM. As I read about all the celebrations and blog-o-ramas in honor of National Poetry Month, I once again thought of this serendipitous error. What if we actually had a National Poetry Throwing Day? Writers, students, young and old would write poems on paper, either crumple them up or fold them into airplanes and toss them at a friend, enemy or stranger. Maybe you could do some virtual poem throwing "You've Been Hit" via email, facebook or twitter (144 word limit.) I think Barack Obama might be moved to participate hitting hard with his powerful words. What if every senator and representative threw a poem at their constituents? Yes - even Republicans. We'd have a better world if everyone now and then people were hit by poetry both figuratively and literally. Poetry has to power to transform a moment bringing a musical cadence to words.

Here is delicious link to quotes about poetry -
http://www.quotegarden.com/poetry.html
Whet your appetite, pick up your pen and get ready to throw!

Perils of Publicity

2009-04-05T08:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes children ask me if I am famous. I always tell them "no" since I have never heard of myself. Last week this was brought to mind when a small photo appeared in the NY Times of myself with my three sisters posing with our father. Other than my father we were not identified. It accompanied an article written by someone we knew on the tax implications for one's estate depending upon where they lived. The excitement that ensured over this minor public acknowledgment by my sisters was grossly out of proportion with the matter at hand. Today's news is tomorrow's trash. I am very circumspect about public acknowledgment. I have been on CNN, news of my books have been in national magazines and newspapers. This has put a few cents in my pocket but that's it. I am not a shy person but I become timid with public words and pictures. It tends to distort or give a snippet of information. The connections I make with readers is far more important in the grand scheme of things than a photo, quote or complimentary paragraph.

Random Thoughts on A Sunday Morning

2009-04-05T07:09:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking about two things this morning - an expression that annoys me and words that move me to tears. For the past few years I have seen something called "Amuse Bouche" on menus, ads and foodie articles. When I eat something identified with these two words am I supposed to snidely smile and say (probably in French), "Ah these flavors amuse my mouth." No. A good appetizer, which is what this dish is, should be out right delicious and satisfying. I am not lured by this pretentious description of a little dish. I enjoy fine dining and good conversation but it will be a cold day in hell when you hear me say, "My mouth is amused!"

Why do certain words move one to tears? I am an avid reader and it is rare that the juxtaposition of letters strikes an emotional chord with me. I just finished Susan Gilman's UNDRESS ME IN THE TEMPLE OF HEAVEN, a riveting true story of a harrowing trip the author experienced after graduating college in 1986. Years later the author returns to China and has an unexpected reunion with a woman, Lisa, who had helped her during a difficult time. She had given her a gift of half of a set of matching bracelets. Lisa, who had aged beyond recognition, identifies the author with the words, "You gave me the bracelet." I lost it. The other tearful incident occurred reading Michele Longo Eder's SALT IN OUR BLOOD- The Memoir of a Fisherman's Wife. It was a simple description of her son having put aluminum foil under a menorah so the wax would not drip on the kitchen counter when he lit the candles that evening. He went out to fish that morning and never returned.

As I write this I realize both these stories are linked by simple acts of kindness and an authentic human story. I doubt either author had any idea that their words would move one reader in such a way.

Out of the Pens of Babes

2009-04-03T07:11:00.000-07:00

Last night I was a guest speaker at the Young Author's Night of Gladstone Elementary in San Dimas, California. The best authors of the school were honored at a special night with the publication of their book of stories. As I read through the student's work I was taken with a recurrent theme that many aspiring adult authors fail to master - a sense of voice. These children regardless of the content of their stories have honest voices. They write with an authority that the reader cannot doubt. Why do we often lose this as we grow up? We can sniff out a forty year old trying to sound like an angst ridden teenager without much effort. I think true voice gets lost when a writer thinks more about what they think the reader wants to hear rather than what they want to say. If you are writing as a 14 year old you have to dig deep to recapture and create a teenage spirit that will become a believable character.

Every time I do a school visit I come away with a memory that sticks with me. One mother told me her daughter was writing so she could sell her novel and buy a horse. A laughable notion especially when the truth of the matter is that most published authors are grateful to pay the rent with their earnings. I went home to read this fifth grader's piece and I have to say if she continues to write, honing her voice and and sense of story, one day she will have a barn filled with horses!

Doubloons

2009-03-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

Today I visited three kindergarten classes where I read SHIVER ME LETTERS. Every time I get to the letter "D," I pause to engage in what I call a teachable moment. In my pirate themed alphabet book, D is for doubloons. I ask if anyone has heard of this word. Most times the question is answered by a precocious boy who has seen Pirates of the Caribbean and knows they are ancient gold coins often found in treasure chests. Today an absolutely adorable little girl earnestly raised her hand and proclaimed that "da blues" are when you feel so sad that nothing can make you happy!

Living History

2009-03-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

I have reached a point in my life when events from my life are now in my son's American history book. I feel like an original reference when I tell him stories of the Vietnam War protests, the Kent State student strike, women's lib and my brief meeting with Eugene McCarthy during the 1968 Presidential Primary. Adam seems to enjoy my first hand accounts of my feelings during Kent State as well as the workplace frustrations I experienced at a time when sexual harassment was yet to be viewed as a problem. At the time I viewed myself as a light weight with regard to the issues of the time. I was not a radical. I guess I was a moderate hippie with my paint splatted denim hip huggers marching in Saratoga Springs and manning petition tables in Father's Hall at Skidmore College. Collectively the people like me transformed our country and like the Obama campaign I am proud to have been a part of that time.

The Hungry "Peppapillar"

2009-03-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

Today is the 40th anniversary of Eric Carle's The Very Hungry Caterpillar as well as the first day of spring. This is one of my favorite picture books. It was a nightly ritual for months when Adam was somewhere between the ages of two and three. For some reason known only to linguistic experts, he identified the caterpillar as a "peppapillar." We even nicknamed him The Little Peppapillar. The simple language entertains, haunts, comforts, teaches colors, foods, days of the week and the possibility of transformation in 200 words. A daunting task that most writers fail to accomplish. In a tribute to Eric Carle, a new spring and the millions of parents and children who have enjoyed this book, I would like the say, "Happy Birthday Hungry 'Peppapillar!"