Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig

Happy St. Patty's Day!

My paternal grandparents came from Ireland, and my father even spent some of his formative years in The Glen of Aherlow, County Tipperary. Someday I'd like to visit this country I've heard so much about, but until then I have to satisfy myself with the next best thing, Chicago.

On St. Patrick's Day, being Irish and being a Chicagoan are synonymous. I've been celebrating in this city since before I could stand (and, during some of my college years, I could barely do that!). There are so many things I love about my hometown, and this holiday brings out some of my favorites:

1. Dyeing the Chicago River green:

Isn't it gorgeous? The city uses some top secret vegetable dye concoction I probably don't want to know too much about. It doesn't last long, which makes us all appreciate it all the more.

2. The St. Patrick's Day Parade, downtown Chicago. It isn't what it used to be, but it's still a great experience for the kids. When I was younger, it was always held on the actual holiday, but that resulted in too many kids ditching school. Um, not that I would have done anything like that. One other thing I wouldn't have been caught dead doing is adding Peppermint Schnapps to my Shamrock Shake. Never. Uh-uh.

3. Irish Dancers--before Riverdance, before they started wearing heavy pancake makeup and crazy wigs, young Irish-Americans learned how to dance a jig in smelly Catholic school gymnasiums. Now, there are Irish Dancing schools popping up everywhere, with kids from all walks of life practicing reels and begging their parents to take them to an Irish feis.

4. Green beer. I don't even drink beer and I think it's cool.




5. Irish Folk Music--Chicago has long been home to incredible Irish folk bands. Numerous friends and cousins drifted in and out of these groups, but one from my teenage years is still performing and sounds incredible: Baal Tinne. Have a listen to the band at Milwaukee Irish Fest.

So, Happy St. Patty's to you all! Wear green--everyone's Irish today!

Reading Recap

I read like my boys eat--I gulp down so much, so fast, it's impossible to keep track of how much I've consumed. I have no idea how many books I read during 2010. A safe guesstimate would be fifty-two (one a week). Some I liked, some I didn't, but some absolutely stunned me. Here are the titles from that list:

My Best of 2010:

YA

1. THE SKY IS EVERYWHERE by Jandy Nelson
2. DIVERGENT by Veronica Roth (OK, this doesn't come out until May `11, but this one...omg, this one...It will be on your list next year.)
3. THE DUFF by Kody Keplinger
4. GIRL, STOLEN by April Henry
5. THE CLOCKWORK ANGEL by Cassandra Clare
6. THE BODY FINDER by Kimberly Derting
7. FORGET YOU by Jennifer Echols
8. THE DEMON'S COVENANT by Sarah Rees Brennan
9. NOT THAT KIND OF GIRL by Siobhan Vivian
10. CRESCENDO by Becca Fitzpatrick

Adult

1. A RELIABLE WIFE by Robert Goolrick
2. ONE DAY by David Nicholls

Non-Fiction

1. THE CYNICAL IDEALIST: A SPIRITUAL BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN LENNON by Gary Tillery
2. AT HOME: A SHORT HISTORY OF PRIVATE LIFE by Bill Bryson


I'm currently reading two books I'm certain would have made the list if I'd finished before typing this: JUST KIDS by Patti Smith and ANNA AND THE FRENCH KISS by Stephanie Perkins.

Got any titles to add? Disagree with my choices? Tell me!

(I'll be busy finishing up a project over the next two weeks, so this is my last blog post of the year. Happy Holidays to everyone!! Thanks for reading!!)

A Christmas Story

In early December 1993, I was living in Astoria, a working class neighborhood at the end of the N subway line in Queens, NY. I took that train home every day from my job writing for a trade magazine, a position I loved, even though it paid next to nothing. Like many other people my age, I lived paycheck to paycheck.

The first Friday of that month I came home from work and wrote out all of my bills. On Saturday morning I confidently tossed them in the mailbox. On Sunday morning, I got around to balancing my checkbook. I'd been careless. Unless I wanted to bounce a check, I had $8 left in my account. I had less than five in my wallet. I'd done some Christmas shopping for my family, and, it embarrasses me to write, my credit card was at its pathetic limit.

At first I didn't panic. I caught a ride with a friend most mornings, and I had a subway pass for evenings. I could eat what was in my pantry. Two weeks wasn't all that long. I'd be fine until payday.

Then I took some inventory. The only edible items in my apartment were a half empty box of Cheerios, a bit of milk, some butter, and a stack of Saltine crackers. I didn't keep much in the house because I was used to eating out. What can I say? I was young.

I ate cereal for dinner that night, and for breakfast the following morning. I bought a slice of pizza for lunch. I had a few dollars left.

If I spent my remaining money on a slice the next day, I'd have nothing. I panicked. I ate Saltines smeared with butter for lunch on Tuesday. I had the same for dinner. I went to bed with a growling stomach, my brain running too hard for sleep.

I could have called my parents. They would have wired some money immediately. But that would have been admitting failure. The worst kind. Do you know how many people said, "If you can make it there, you'll make it anywhere" when I moved to NYC? Too many. They would know I didn't make it. That I didn't have the stuff. Starvation was preferable.

I knew I could hang out at my cousins' over the weekend, and they would feed me. That was something to look forward to. I remember that Thursday we held a staff meeting where bagels and cream cheese were served. I think I ate two and snuck one in my purse. On Friday I endured a long lunch with our ad exec, Charlie, because I knew he would pay. A loud, sexist holdover from those Mad Men years, Charlie believed in drinking his lunch and pinching the waitress's bottom. We went for Indian. I was so grateful I didn't care that the entire restaurant could hear him tell me dirty jokes.

For whatever reason, I couldn't go over to my cousins' on Saturday. I was crazy hungry. I had two dollars.

I went to a Chinese restaurant near my apartment, figuring my credit card check went through and I'd have some room on it for a meal. I ate. The bill came, and I murmured a prayer as I handed over my Visa. When the waitress returned with my card, I knew by her pinched look it had been declined. I promised to return the following Friday to pay my bill. She said that would be fine, as long as I left my driver's license as collateral.

Humiliated, I ran home, tearful and angry. I knew what I had to do. I unplugged my VCR, stuffed the cord in my purse, and hopped on the subway headed for the city. I got out at 42nd Street, found a pawn shop in Times Square (it wasn't the family fun Disneyland it is today), and walked out with 25 dollars.

I went back to the Chinese restaurant and paid my bill. It felt good to slide my license back into my wallet. I went to the grocery store and bought peanut butter, a loaf of bread, some cans of soup.

I made it. The following Friday I stopped at the pawn shop after work and bought back my VCR. I took myself out to dinner. I went to the movies. I fell into a deeply restful sleep.

But I haven't ever forgotten how badly my stomach hurt when there was nothing in it for far too long. I remember the panic, the desperation, the anger, the embarrassment. I remember how much time and energy I had to put into figuring out a way to eat.

I didn't have children then, so I can only imagine what this feels like when you are responsible for people other than yourself. I can barely stand to think about the amount of families going hungry during these horrible economic times.

I doubt many of us are wealthy, but if you have a little extra, please pick up some non perishables next time you're at the supermarket, and drop them off at your local food pantry. If you have no idea where your local facility is, google it. You'd be surprised. Even upscale neighborhoods have them. Or, if your search doesn't bring anything up, shoot me an email and I'll find one for you. Seriously.

Being hungry sucks, but being hungry during the holiday season is its own kind of hell, you know?

Thankful for Inspiration

In my literature class, we've been talking about allusions, particularly with poets making reference to artists who came before and paved the way. In part, an allusion allows the writer to acknowledge her influences, to thank a mentor, to show literary genealogy.

I am so proud to write stories for young adults. I wouldn't be doing it, though, if not for these artists, whose influence is lasting and ongoing:

1. Judy Blume: During my middle school years, we spent part of every summer at my grandparents' house, 20 miles from my friends. I always brought a JB book with me--DEENIE and TIGER EYES were my favorites. I fell so completely in love with the stories I didn't notice the loneliness so much.

2. S.E. Hinton: I remember being completely blown away the first time I read THE OUTSIDERS, but TEX is my all time fave. It just felt so real. Reading Hinton was my first lesson in characterization (Paul Zindel, too. PARDON ME, YOU'RE STEPPING ON MY EYEBALL! is a good one).

3. John Irving/William Goldman: OK, technically not YA authors, but these guys taught me about plot, narrative structure, and how to manage reader expectations. In their books, you grow to know the characters so well, but what happens to those characters is constantly a surprise.

4. Sarah Dessen: I picked up a copy of DREAMLAND while I was writing my first YA novel. Dessen tells such a good story you don't notice the impact of the emotional journey until everything comes together in the final pages, and you realize how skillfully she's led you to that point. Her books are always so well structured, allowing the reader to become fully immersed in her heroine's world. (I'd put Meg McCafferty in this category as well--her book SLOPPY FIRSTS is just about perfect.)

5. Susan Isaacs: If you haven't read the book SHINING THROUGH (watching the craptastic movie version doesn't count) then grab your Borders coupon (50% off today!) and buy it! I've read ST four or five times over the past twenty years and I still don't want to put it down while reading. Why? A complex heroine you desperately want to succeed. A love interest that is quite her match. A familiar setting (WWII New York) that turns unfamiliar (Germany in the grip of the Nazis). All of Isaacs books taught me about how to engage a reader on multiple levels, and how to make it all work.

(I'd also like to add a few other YA authors whose artistry continues to inspire: Jandy Nelson, K.L. Going, Simone Elkeles, Jennifer Echols, Kody Keplinger, and Maureen Johnson. Thanks!)

So...how about you guys? Which authors do you give thanks to?

LoNyWriMo

I'm in.

Not officially (because I've already started my novel), BUT NaNoWriMo here I come.

I'm about 20,000 words in on my latest. I figure it'll finish somewhere between 60 and 70,000, which means I'll write roughly the same amount of words as an official participant.

I've always been a little conflicted about NaNoWriMo. Maybe I'm a little uptight about slapping words on the page to make my daily count. Maybe it feels too much like quality takes a back seat. I'm an "edit as I go" kind of writer. It's hard for me to type without thinking too hard, which is--let's face it--what I'll have to do if I want to get 50,000 more words on paper. But hey, Kerouac wrote ON THE ROAD in three weeks. Of course, he was fueled by benzedrine. I'll be using green tea and fun size candy bars.

I'll post word count occasionally, and I encourage you guys to do so as well. Good luck! I'm definitely going to need it!

RIP Burning Dan

I never met Dan Gordon-Levitt. Yet, when I heard about his death yesterday, I felt a deep sense of loss. I wrote about Dan on this blog a few months ago. He taught fire dancing and flow arts to everyday folks. He describes how he came to this profession on his web site:

"The first time I saw anyone spin fire, I was transfixed and inspired, but it was so far removed from my vision of myself that it didn't occur to me that I could do it. Subconsciously, I thought that Other Kinds of People do crazy things like that.

Six months later, I went to Burning Man for the first time. I found myself in a supportive, encouraging, inspiring community that helped me break through that myth. I realized that there are no Other Kinds of People. Anybody can do anything. I can do anything. YOU can do anything."

I love this message. In teaching this art to others Dan helped to unleash the creativity within each student. Watch him dance--isn't it easy to imagine the flames as words or music or paint? The process is so freeing.

His life's work made total sense to me.

Being dead at 36 doesn't make any sense at all.

Hard Times

(OK, epic fail on the unplugging thing. I still twittered. I might have facebooked once or twice, and I read a few fabulous blog posts. But I did get over the hump with my latest project, and I feel a lot better about the revision as a whole. So much better that I could actually write something else. Here it is...)


Tara Kelly, author of the fantastic novel HARMONIC FEEDBACK, recently tweeted this: "What I need to see more of in YA: non-white MCs, poor kids, kids who have to work, girls who have curves, girls who don't, gay MCs."

Amen, sister. On all fronts. This blog post, though, will concentrate on the first three.

Our country is in a state of economic transition. Ok, that was probably a bit mild. Our economy is in the shitter and will be for quite some time. I realize that isn't exactly earth-shattering news. We all know people who have lost jobs. Maybe you've lost yours. At the very least the thought of being "let go" is probably swimming laps in your brain, surfacing steadily, rhythmically.

The official unemployment rate is currently 9.6 percent. That figure doesn't include the underemployed, the people who have exhausted their unemployment benefits, the folks who can't take it anymore and have just given up. So the unofficial rate, according to a variety of sources, hovers around 16 percent.

Yes, that's awful. But do you know what the unemployment rate is for young adults (the age group 16-21)? 26.3 percent, according to the Department of Labor. Based on purely anecdotal evidence, I'd say it's much higher for minority teens. Just to give a little perspective, at the height of the Great Depression one out of every four men was out of work. 25 percent.

Teens are not adults. I get that. They aren't chiefly responsible for paying the rent or mortgage, the grocery bill, the utilities. The thing is, though, as more and more adults are losing their jobs, teens are increasingly responsible for helping to keep their families afloat. Some teens have always lived their lives like this. For some, economic instability is a new kind of pain. Add it to the everyday strain of adolescence and you get some stressed out kids.

And that added stress dramatically ups the risk of those kids dropping out of school, suffering abuse, drinking and drugging, making unwise sexual choices, etc. This is their reality.

But back to Tara's tweet. Should we be writing about this? Or better yet, do teens want to read about it?

During the Great Depression, people flocked to the movies for escapist fare--screwball comedies, musicals, stories about cute kids. In contrast, the top selling novels of the era reflected the desperation of the times more accurately: THE GOOD EARTH, THE YEARLING, and Steinbeck's story of the Oklahoma Joads fleeing the Dust Bowl in search of a better life in The GRAPES OF WRATH. (Incidentally, all of these books still show up regularly in high school teachers' lesson plans.)

I think tastes in literature and film in the Great Recession will prove similar to the past. A movie like Grown-Ups takes in 160 million, while Stieg Larsson's stark DRAGON TATTOO series tops the bestseller lists. My explanation for the disconnect is this: sitting in a movie theater is a group experience in entertainment--you laugh/cry/boo with others. A book, even if one reads it on a cold, hard Kindle, is much more intimate. You might be reading in bed. Or at the breakfast table. It feels safer to open a few more emotional doors.

There are a lot of stories grounded in realism out there, waiting to be read. And there is an audience for them, a nation of teens looking for acknowledgment, looking to connect to their reality through literature. Let's make sure they have the opportunity.

The Dullness of Perfection

My kids have school pictures this week. I was looking over the various packages, trying to figure out which one gave the most bang for the buck, when I noticed a new option. For a small fee, the photos can be retouched, brushing away blemishes and scars, birthmarks and moles. For a second I was tempted; my little guy has a honking mosquito bite right under his left eye. My fifth grader has something (Is it a zit? Bug bite? Boil?) hanging out at the tip of his chin. If I checked the box, my kids could have faces as smooth as GAP models. Very tempting...

But then I thought about my husband's fourth grade photo. The weekend before picture day he'd gotten into his first (and only) fistfight with his younger brother. Tom walked away with a split lip; his brother rocked a black eye. Those photos look like stills from The Little Rascals. And every time I look at them, I tell myself the story.

When I took my senior photo, my mom talked me into wearing this blue and white cotton sailor dress (??) because according to someone it was all the rage (I suspect she'd been browsing a 1936 Ladies Home Journal at our elderly dentist's office.). I showed up looking like Popeye gone rogue while my classmates all wore black, fake cashmere sweaters and pearls. Flip open to the senior section of our yearbook and you'll see row upon row of Betty Drapers with Bon Jovi hair and frosted lipstick. Then you'll see me. My eyes show embarrassment, humiliation. Something in my smile, though, reveals the faintest hint of defiance, and maybe, if you look closely enough, dignity. I'm proud of that girl, but no, you are not seeing that picture!

I love that my little guy spent every moment he could this summer running around outside with his friends, mosquitoes be damned. I love that my tween is at the start of all those changes guaranteed to wreck havoc with his complexion (among other things!). I want to remember those stories in twenty years; I want to glance at those photos and feel all the things I'm feeling now come back in a rush. I look forward to it.

The Falcon and the Snowed

I couldn't look at my news page without seeing Falcon, the six year old boy we thought might have flown away in a homemade hot air balloon, and his father, the one who thought exploiting his children in the name of a reality show was a good idea.

It got me thinking about reality, and our collective definition of the word. We've come to accept reality as being subject to editing, and, though that's super attractive to my writerly soul, it lessens our appreciation of basic human experience. Love, friendship, family, career, food--all of the elements of our day-to-day existence are now subject to documentation and manipulation. This destructive media influence goes beyond peppering fashion mags with models so severely photoshopped their heads are wider than their hips, it confuses the lines of what is natural and contrived until we just can't tell anymore.

Contemporary, realistic YA fiction offers one antidote to this. Stephanie Kuehnert, author of The Ballads of Suburbia, discusses this in a recent blog post. As she says, the characters depicted in these novels may undergo completely different experiences from those of the teens who pick them up at the bookstore, but the dialogue that follows validates the realities of the readers' individual experiences. Yes, we're talking fiction, but teens are classic "reader response" critics--their understanding of literature relies heavily on what they know of the world, and what they're curious about. They make it all about them, and in this case, I think that's a good thing.

I wonder, for these teens, how growing up in the age of created realities will affect how they view themselves and the world, as adults. What do you think?

Your #1 Fan

Ran over to the public library to pick up some of your awesome book suggestions only to find it's closed until October 12! I felt like Clark Griswald pulling up to the gates of Wally World. Wha??? Closed?? So I hopped on my bike and pedaled to the next suburb over where the library is perfectly decent, but significantly smaller. They didn't have anything I was looking for, and I was in a hurry, so I picked up something just because the author is from Chicago (feeling a little Chi-town sentimental after the Olympics debacle). The title? The Amateurs by a guy called Marcus Sakey. Crime thriller, not my usual genre, but oh, man, I COULD NOT PUT IT DOWN. Kept my eyes pried open until the wee hours just to get to the finish line. So exhilarating, no?

After finishing a good book, I usually bask in its glow for a while, thinking about the characters and the story and the art of putting it all together. Then, until this week, I'd return the book to the library or slide it back on my bookshelf, talk to a few friends about it, and that would be that.

But this time, armed with the @ sign and a Twitter account, I contacted Mr. Sakey just to let him know how un-put-downable his book was. I wrote a charming message in under 140 characters, hit enter and...felt like Annie Freaking Wilkes. I wrote a fan letter. I am truly a dork.

Or am I? Do people often do this? Do you? Social sites have definitely made our world smaller, ushering in an era of overfamiliarity. I felt well within my rights to contact Mr. Sakey directly, a far cry, I thought, from sending a letter to Ralph Macchio in care of Teen Beat magazine, complete with rainbow stickers on the envelope and purple ink. But, really, are they not essentially the same thing?

Then again, Ralph never wrote me back. I got a message from @MarcusSakey in less than 24 hours...hmmm...

Scattered Brain

I'm all over the place today.

First off, my Mad Men obsession was off the charts after watching last night's episode. I won't give any spoilers away, but Mr. Weiner outdid himself, from the shocker opening to the "Company Man" song playing as the final credits rolled. Everything about this show is well-done, with a depth and richness not usually seen on television. I could have used last night's episode to teach my literature students about symbolism (the Victorian chaise? the Hermes scarf? The eclipse?). At one point, we're clued in on the exact date of this episode, July 23, 1963. The rumblings of the cultural earthquake to come are being felt by everyone, and we have no idea how each will come through in the end. I LOVE that.

OK, on to the next topic. Will someone please explain to me the allure of fingerless gloves? I saw some really cute handmade knit gloves on Etsy, but upon closer inspection I realized they had no fingers! Do I not understand this because I'm from the Midwest? Please, someone explain!

And, finally, the F-word. I've already posted my issues with saying it, but I apparently don't have much of a problem with other people using it on national television. There's a big brou-ha-ha over some chick on Saturday Night Live letting the f-bomb fly during this last week's broadcast. I've seen the clip, and you know what? Who cares? I probably wouldn't have given it a second thought. And, for those who complained about young ears hearing the word: if your children are up at midnight and watching SNL, then you've got bigger issues than dealing with a curse word.

Enough with the random. Happy Monday!

Sea of Love

No computer yet, and I'm tired of writing my WIP in longhand. I definitely missed my calling--my chicken scratch handwriting is better suited to signing a prescription pad than writing out dialogue. Oh, well. I never would have made it through organic chem anyway...

So...about a couple of hours ago I was tired of writing and tired of cleaning the house. I'd finished grading papers and taken a long walk and eaten a healthy breakfast, and for the first time in about ten years, I found I had little to do. This concept is completely foreign to me. As is the concept of turning on the television while the sun is still shining. I never do it, but today...I did. 500 gazillion channels and nothing even remotely watchable. Finally, just as I was about to break down and suffer through Regis and what's-her-name, I spotted a movie I haven't seen since it came out in--get this--1989. Sea of Love with Ellen Barkin and Al Pacino. The only thing I could remember about it was I liked it once upon a time, so I settled in for the show.

And what a show it was. Murder, lust, loneliness, suffering, dissatisfaction, mid-life crisis--it was all there and more. The interesting thing was, I really felt it, the humanity of the story, even though it was a pretty by the numbers thriller. The acting was great, the script sharp, but what really got to me was something more. These people looked like real people--feathery lines about the eyes and dark circles underneath, frizzy hair and blemishes, a little bit of tummy hanging over a belt, a slightly deflated butt. These were people approaching middle age, and the director let them look it. No botox or sculpted bodies. None of them had the hollow-eyed, alien-like stare that comes after too many facelifts. And, you know what? The worn look is sexy, a messy but confident sexuality that only comes with experience. Ellen Barkin absolutely glowed with it, and you could see every line on her face.

When I think about some A-list actresses today--Jennifer Aniston and Nicole Kidman come to mind--I can honestly say their vanity erases all sexual allure. Messy is good. Aging is interesting. A little wear and tear in the face sparks the imagination, no? Where has this woman been? What has she done? (Hopefully she'll never tell you, as the fun is in the guessing.)

When people inflate their lips and breasts and various other parts, or poke poison into their wrinkles to erase lines earned through living, something is lost. This is so apparent onscreen, particularly during love scenes. It's hard to believe someone who has iron-fisted control over her appearance would let loose in bed. Let me tell you, though, Ellen Barkin and Al Pacino had the windows steaming up in my family room. I'd add it to my netflix list, if I were you!

Being There

So, um...I'm a pretty liberal democrat. No big surprise, right? I voted for Obama and really want him to do well while in office. Plunged into crisis last January, a crisis not of his doing, President Obama went into battle knowing it was going to be fought charging up a steep, steep hill.

The thing is, I trust he's doing his best, but he hasn't done enough to remind us of why we should trust him. I do not feel the presence of Obama in daily life. I'm reminded of when Bush was in office and I could go months without thinking of the US as actually having a leader. Obama is not spending most of his first term on a ranch in Texas, though (short Martha's Vineyard vaca aside), he's been in the Oval Office. Where he should have been is in our living rooms.

During the Great Depression & WWII, Franklin Delano Roosevelt frequently addressed the country via radio, using his "fireside chats" to gather support for his New Deal programs and, later, for the sacrifices necessary to win WWII. They were enormously popular, and usually resulted in Roosevelt getting what he wanted, legislatively. Now, I recently discovered Obama's weekly address is available on YouTube. I didn't know this. Did you? Part of Obama's appeal is in his eloquence and logical analysis of the issues. As he goes to battle over health care for all, we need to see him, to listen to him, to really feel like he's got our backs. I'm not a marketing guru, but I know the present administration has access to the best. Let's hope they make use of it.

Calling Mr. Givenchy...

Right now I'm busy with final edits on my novel before it goes on sub to publishers (!!!!). In order to give myself a break every so often (translation: to keep myself from freaking way out) I peruse catalogs, browse online, comb through magazines in search of--Ta-Da!--the perfect fall ensemble.

Summer clothes don't do it for me. And Chicago weather makes spring a wet, muddy disaster. Forget winter as well--we hearty folk cover ourselves in down and wool. But, fall, or rather, autumn, is absolute glory. The clothes attached to this season are perfect as well. Knee-high coffee color leather boots. Herringbone tights. Corduroy jackets with leather patches at the elbows. Cashmere everything--scarves, sweaters, even socks! Ooh, la-la!

There's one problem, however, with my fantasy of waltzing into Prada or Burberry, or even the much-more-likely Target, and choosing my fall outfit: My husband and I are saving to remodel our kitchen, so my clothing budget doesn't really exist.

It's a good thing, then, that my look hasn't really changed all that much over the years. I don't rock a mullet or wear acid-wash, but my style is definitely that of a woman whose girlhood was spent watching way too many old-style Hollywood movies. One example: I wear ballet flats, all the time, and have for years. In fact, years ago, before ballet flats came back big-time, I'd buy real Capezio ballet shoes and have them soled at the shoe repair dude. That's my homage to Audrey Hepburn. My other purchases over the years have been reflective of my obsessions with Diane Keaton in Annie Hall, Ali McGraw in Love Story, Katherine Ross in The Graduate, and Katherine Hepburn in just about anything. Oh, and Cher during her gypsy phase. More recently, the feast for the eyes known as Mad Men has made me want to scour every vintage store in Chi-town for tight cashmere sweaters and pencil skirts.

When borrowing heavily from the past, though, it is important to find balance in your presentation. I've made mistakes with this. Like Paris Hilton, ridiculous in head to toe Juicy Couture, I've gone all-vintage and ended up looking like a museum exhibit. A few key modern pieces must be added to the mix. It's kind of like creating a character based on someone you know in real life (You knew I'd bring this back to writing somehow, didn't you?). If it's a mere recreation on paper, then it's kind of a cheap copy, no? You have to add a little creativity to it, a little bit of you. Then the character really jumps off the page, right?

I'd Rather He Lived In My Head

I had a rare block of free time this weekend, and I wanted to do two things I never do: go to a makeup counter at Nordstrom's and beg someone do something with my face (inspired by those ubiquitous Mad Men makeovers) and/or go see a movie in an actual movie theater. Well, I got the face done (green eyeshadow--seriously, not so bad if it's the right shade!), but when it was time to choose a movie I was stumped. My first choice, 500 Days of Summer, wasn't playing anywhere near the mall. The next two in line, The Time Traveler's Wife and Julie & Julia, were, um, problematic...

I've read The Time Traveler's Wife three times. I want to live in that book. Henry is like, my Edward--I'm borderline obsessed with the character. I know exactly what he looks like, and it isn't Eric Bana (put a photo of Eric next to one of Corey Feldman--separated at birth, no?). To me, TTW was punk rock, and the movie trailer, well, showed a whole lot of easy listening. Does that make it a bad film? I guess I can't judge yet, but it makes me cringe to think that people who haven't read the book yet will go and assume TTW was written by Nicholas Sparks. So, even though the showtime fit my schedule perfectly, it was a no.

Julie & Julia was my final option (Couldn't do GI Joe. Could not.) Now, I've read both Julie Powell's book and My Life in France, but I didn't have the blood connection to those books as I did to TTW. And, with Nora Ephron directing, how could I go wrong? She's pretty much incapable of making a movie that isn't a crowd pleaser, but...

I couldn't do that film either. I guess because I knew the punchline. Julie Powell's book was very personal, and reading it was like peering into someone's diary, so I kind of felt I'd lived the experience with her already and I wasn't up for a repeat. I also saw, before she stopped talking about it, an interview with Julie during which she discussed problems in her marriage, a relationship portrayed onscreen as perfectly supportive and loving. I couldn't deal with the disconnect. If the movie was a bio pic of Julia Child's rise to fame, I might have done it. Instead, I hung out in the Barnes & Noble cafe' until it was time for me to head home.

I'm a a total loser? Too picky? Overthinking things? Yeah, probably all three. But, don't get me wrong--I really wanted to sit in the same spot for two hours, eat popcorn, and lose myself to another world. I just couldn't handle being disappointed.

Now, so you don't think I'm a Negative Nellie, I'm desperately trying to come up with movies that were as good or better than the books that inspired them. I think I'm the only person on the planet who's actually read The Graduate; the book was a bit perplexing, but the movie is probably my favorite of all time. And I guess the aforementioned Sparks did better onscreen with The Notebook, and...um...I can't think of anymore. Can you guys?

Good Old-Fashioned Grit

Some writerly friends of mine recently finished a challenging revision on a manuscript. They stuck to it, day after day, setting goals and reaching them, reviewing and editing, over and over, and now this new version of their book really rocks the house. They're proud of it, and rightfully so. But they should also take pride not just in the end result but of their mastery of the revision process.

Ho-hum, you say? Don't all writers work like this? The answer is a resounding, no way.

I've known a lot of writers in my time. I've worked on magazines, newspapers, and currently freelance for a company where the MFAs far outnumber the MBAs. I've spent time as a grad student in the English department of a university well-known for its creative writing program. I was friendly with some of the MFA students, but the line between them and us teacher-track nobodies was drawn pretty thick.

I was jealous of the creative writer folk. They were brave, glamorous, eccentric--and loved for it. I wanted to be in their crowd, but the fear of sharing my work with any of them was so acute, I never signed up for a single workshop. I went to their WIP readings, watched them in our shared offices, rowdy as if they were in a bar at 2am, but I never joined in.

Being an observer (ok, maybe a loser) does have its benefits, though. After a while I noticed how much these people talked about writing. And how much they drank. And flirted. And postured. What I didn't have any idea of, however, was how much they wrote. Or rewrote. After spending two years learning, partying, existing in tandem, I had a pretty good idea: not nearly enough.

I saw this when I was in the working world as well. Talented people. Very, very talented people of all ages and walks of life, with half completed novels and notebooks full of ideas, but somehow the work never got done. Life got in the way, at times, but more often than not it was the lack of something else, something defined quite well in a recent Businessweek article about the power of stick-to-itivness. Intelligence and creativity will open many doors, and keep them open, but a better predictor of success, according to a recent University of Pennsylvania study, is good old-fashioned conscientiousness and perseverance. In other words, grit.

And I was recently given a real-life lesson in this, from my writerly friends. We roll our eyes when starlets tell People magazine, "It's all about the work." But you know? They're exactly right. It's a lesson I've learned the hard way, but it's one I don't think I'll soon forget.

Freaky Friday

The Friday morning list looks to be a staple of most blogs. I'm totally going to be a follower and subject you to my five bits of randomness. Here goes:


1. Feel good fact of the day: The iconic "Woodstock couple" is still together after forty years. Check it out: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1206558/Forty-years-Woodstock-happened-couple-photograph-defined-generation.html (In the bottom photo, don't you just love the "Hippies Always Welcome" sign?)

2. While driving to work, I saw a girl on a bicycle, dressed exactly as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's--dress, pearls, hat, oversized sunglasses, black elbow length gloves. I stared so long and hard I almost got into an accident. And this was no drag queen my friends, just a slim-hipped, Audrey-esqe gal. Where was she going? What was she doing on Elston & Belmont (not exactly a hot spot)? I must say the mind reels...

3. Girl crush of the week: Carla Bruni. I love her music. I love that she looks like she'd slap anyone who disagreed with her. I love that it's only a matter of time before she demands the French people give her The Palace of Versailles as her personal party house. I would give anything to see her take on Michelle Obama in a catfight. Barack would be embarrassed, but Sarkozy would LOVE it.

4. Mad Men. Sunday. AMC. Season 3 is here my friends. I love everything about this show--the set, costumes, subtle plotlines, the square-jawed manly-man that is Jon Hamm. But what I dig most is that history is gonna come a'callin' and these folks had better be ready...

5. I make my own deodorant. It's super easy. 1/3 cup of Aloe Vera/1/3 cup of Witch Hazel/2 tablespoons Vegetable Glycerin & a few drops of your fav essential oil (lavender is a good choice for it's anti-fungal properties, but I like patchouli--and, no, I don't smell like I follow Phish around and hang in the parking lot!). You will still perspire (our bodies are supposed to) but you will not reek. I promise.

Anyhew, have a great weekend!

Twirritated

OK, I know the whole social networking discussion (Good or Bad? Effective Marketing Tool or a Great Time-Suck?) has been done to death, but I'm going to drag it out one more time, because I haven't seen this issue addressed: What happens when someone cyber-exhausts you?

This may seem a bit disingenuous coming from someone who's written four blog posts in less than a week, and is active on both Twitter and Facebook, but I'm going to do it anyway...

There is this author I follow on Twitter. Let's call her Miss X. When I first joined Twitter, I saw Miss X on a friend's follower list. Cool, I thought. I loved reading her books, so I knew the girl could really put a sentence together. I was curious to see what she could do with 140 characters.

The first time I logged in after following Miss X I thought my Twitter was stuck on repeat or something. Her face lined the left side of my screen. Post after post after post. Some mildly interesting, some not, some strange, some inside jokes, some randomness, some bordering on insanity.

New to Twitter, I read every post. It felt kind of rude not to. After a while it felt like a chore. After more of a while I found myself skimming, then avoiding, then sighing while clicking rapidly through whatever she felt needed sharing at just that minute. I know what you're thinking, why didn't you just stop following her? Well, I couldn't. It felt rude. Or, I thought, she would know I made the conscious decision to ban her thoughts from my day. Bad karma, see.

But it's painful. And, disappointing, like meeting your favorite actor and realizing he's shorter than you (Not referring to the Depp-ster, here!). Will I buy her next book? Probably. But then, after the trip to Borders, I'll de-follow her. I figure the karma will even itself out.

That Story Again?

We all have them. The story you tell, again and again, because it's entertaining, or definitive of your personality, or just mind-blowingly strange. The one your friends ask to hear again and again; the one you truck out at parties when the conversation has dulled; the one that makes your spouse roll his eyes when you begin. Here's mine, notable because it's just so darn embarrassing:



Early 90s. Viper Room on Sunset Blvd. I'm about 22 and my IQ is hovering around that number as well. I spot a really hot guy just hanging out by himself, and, after a few glasses of whatever, muster up the courage to ask him to dance. He declines, graciously, and explains that he works at the bar so it really wouldn't be appropriate. I vaguely remember him wiping some tables and clearing glasses, so I'm not too insulted. I stumble back over to my friend, Susan, who is staring at me, mouth hanging open. "What were you just saying to Johnny Depp?" WHAT??? After a few "oh my gods" I laugh it off. A while later a tray of shots appears in front of my little group, I look over and HE gives a little wave, nothing flirty, just a friendly little "have fun" kind of wave. I get a little greedy with the shots, so there are a few gaps in rest of the story (apparently I danced with the guy who played Sal on 21 Jump Street!) but I guess we were among the last to leave that night. As I tripped out the door, Mr. Depp put a fatherly hand on my arm and asked Susan if I was going to be OK. "Of course," she said as I lurched forward, caught my boot on something and landed on my ass on Sunset Blvd, River Phoenix style. Baby-doll dress up around my neck, feet in the air...lovely. HE runs out with a couple of other guys and they all help me to preserve my remaining shreds of dignity and get me up and into the car. I can even remember him smoothing down my dress!



On the flight home the next day I threw up so many times I thought, at one point, the airplane toilet had sucked down my stomach. Even in my total humiliation, though, I could remember that Johnny Depp hadn't looked at me with disgust but with kindness. That helped. A little.



So, what's your story? We won't be judgy-judgy. Honest!

What's In A Name?

When I was a freshman in high school, my friend Chris invited me for a sleepover party. This was mucho exciting because 1. Chris had 11 brothers and sisters, which meant parental supervision was spotty, and 2. Two of the 11 siblings were only a few years older than us, male, and HOT. Sleepover at Chris's house? Oh, yeah.



So I arrived for fun and games. But when Chris introduced me to the hottie bros, they mumbled "Get back, Loretta" and giggled to themselves. I had no freaking clue what they were talking about. Every time I saw them that weekend--passing through the hallway, eating in the kitchen, sitting on the front stoop--they'd repeat it, "Get back, Loretta", until I thought for sure I'd done something wrong, or they just didn't want a geek like me hanging around their house and were trying to get me to go home. Finally, I asked Chris.


"You know what they're talking about, don't you?"


I told her I didn't.


"It's the Beatles," she explained. "Get Back is a song, you idiot."


My parents were not music people. My mom had some Elvis albums from when she was a kid, and my dad played Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff occasionally, but that was pretty much it. I wasn't much better. There was a brief, unfulfilled flirtation with Michael Jackson in junior high. A fascination with Madonna. A longing to slip my hands in the back pockets of Springsteen's jeans after viewing the album cover for Born in the USA. I thought Duran Duran was as close to pop perfection as I would see in my lifetime. But the Beatles? I knew who Paul McCartney was (He did Say, Say, Say with MJ, right?) and I thought he was cute. I also had a vague recollection of John Lennon's death, and memories of watching Yellow Submarine on TV in the 70s. That was it.

Something told me I needed to find out more, though, so I went a-searching at Wax Trax Records in Evanston, and came home with a bunch of albums (yes--vinyl): Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sgt. Pepper.

You know that scene in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy wakes up and everything is in Technicolor? That was precisely my experience when I first heard what John, Paul, George and Ringo had done, more than 20 years before I placed those albums on my dad's turntable. Those four boys handed me a new life, one of creativity, imagination, freedom.

Good art can do that. The door opens, you pass through, and when you get to the other side you are still you, only better, enhanced.

I can only hope my writing can do this for someone someday.

I write books for young adults because high school is the time when there are so many doors, so many chances to grow, to choose, to start building who you want to be. It's an exciting time. Much has happened in my life since then, but those experiences are so fresh in my memory, and age has given me the opportunity to see how they continue to shape the woman I've become.


So, without any more ancient stories from the 80s, I hereby inaugurate this blog, in which I will discuss writing, life, music, joy, and what-not. Mostly what-not.