A Writer’s World

May 16th, 2011 § 4 comments § permalink

One thing about being a writer is that when you’re not actively in a project, you feel unmoored. I had been feeling this way since I turned in the revision of my novel to my agent. Sure, I got a lot done. I co-chaired Teacher Appreciation Week with Beetle. I’ve been writing for our town’s overide, the Yes for Arlington campaign. I organized the spatula drawer in the kitchen. It’s a great spatula drawer now, by the way: quite pretty and crumb-free.

But none of these were a worthy substitute for the high you get when you’re lost in writing. I actually thought, “That’s it. I have nothing left to say. Maybe I’m a one-book author.” (Which the other three novels in my bottom desk drawer would belie; the novels I wrote but deemed not worthy of being released into the world.)

But then, one thing led to another. I re-discovered the album Red, Hot + Blue on iTunes, which put me in a Cole Porter state of mind. I began playing around with Ancestory.com, which put me in a historical state of mind. And on my runs, I let my mind go into free fall, refusing to make my to-do lists or sort out the day’s calendar while I ran.

And it happened. I got an idea. I got an idea I really liked. I don’t believe in talking about story ideas before the book is complete, but I will say that it’s a historical novel (taking place in the 1930s—if anyone has any good research materials on this period in New York/New Jersey, let me know!). As fate would have it, I was looking at the Grub Street web site and they were offering a class called Encountering the Past: How to Research and Write Your Historical Novel. Fate, no? With Adam’s blessing (blessing required because the class was for a full 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on both a Saturday and a Sunday), I signed up for the class.

That’s it, right? Now my head is spinning. I’m starting my research. I’m becoming immersed in 1930s New York. I’m finding books at the library, buying issues of magazines from the 1930s, finding people to interview. I’m taking a class that’s helping me expand my research ideas. I’m so in the mindset…

Until. Always an until. Until I get an e-mail from my agent: “While I’ve got your manuscript, maybe you want to start on the other components that I’ll want from you… I’ll want a brief synopsis, about the author, reading group guide, marketing/publicity and comparable titles.”

Nothing like a dash of cold water to jolt you from your writing reverie. Don’t get me wrong; I’m excited to be working on this. I’m a writer! This is real stuff! But the thing about noveling is you immerse yourself so completely in the world that sometimes you look up and are surprised to find your real life around you. My novel (which is titled, at the moment, Continuity, but that’s subject to change) takes place in the world of Orthodox Jews. To write the novel, I read books, both fiction and nonfiction, newspapers, blogs, articles. It also has a strong film element. So I watched movies. Like crazy! I scoured IMDb for movie tidbits. It’s about adoption. I read adoption blogs, researched how adoption works, how it affects children and parents. I listened to the music my characters would listen to. I tried to think as they would think. I was completely in that world. And now I’m in another. But I need to take a vacation from the 1930s and head back to Yiddishkeit.

I’m not sure how this will work, jumping from world to world. How do other writers manage this? And readers’ guides? Marketing plans? My palms are getting sweaty just thinking about it!

If I seem a little scattered the next time you see me, just give me a moment to catch my bearings, figure out if I’m in an Orthodox shul, a 1935 Newark apartment, or 2011 Arlington. And if I look truly befuddled, just hand me a martini and back away slowly.

What Writers Do

April 5th, 2011 § 4 comments § permalink

I’m revising my novel right now. Can’t you tell? This is me revising. La di da di da.

Okay, I’m not exactly revising. I’m blogging. But for the time being, blogging will have to halt as I really need to revise, now that I’ve gotten the feedback from my readers on my revision.

Is it really only 11:28? Gads. I’m finding this whole Fit Kids thing throws off my day, because it means I go running at 6:15 and then get to school at 7:15, so by the time I’m done, it feels like morning should be well underway rather than the school day just starting.

Am I digressing? I do that when I’m revising. I digress. I put soccer games in the calendar. I make appointments. I’m very productive when I revise. Well, except for the revising part.

Did someone mention gummy bears? No. Hmmm, then why am I suddenly thinking of them? I’m pretty sure I hear some calling my name from the kitchen. Hold on…

…Okay, I’m back. Very, very hard to revise without gummy bears. Perhaps, some might say, impossible!

I went into the kindergartens last week as a community helper. As a writer. I was told to bring my tools of the trade. But the coffeemaker wouldn’t fit in my bag, I will NOT share my gummy bears, and Adam put the kibosh on the martini shaker, so I was somewhat hampered. I ended up bringing in old writing clips as well as the tape of my interview with Harrison Ford. The kids were somewhat impressed by Indiana Jones. The teacher’s assistant was very impressed by Harrison Ford. I skipped the part where he got all snippy with me.

Things I told the kindergartners: I’ve worked as an editor. A copyeditor. I’ve gotten to go to the movies during the work day. I’ve written well over 100 book and movie reviews. I’ve interviewed celebrities.

What impressed the kindergartners: Sometimes I work in my pajamas.

What I learned from the kindergartners: Lots of them have pets. Some real. Some stuffed.

Okay, I’m going to go revise. Right after another handful of gummy bears…

Kvetching

February 18th, 2011 § 2 comments § permalink

I hate revising. I mean I really, really hate revising. Well, except when I love it. When I love it, revising is wonderful. But today I hate it. Today I feel lost in the morass of words that make up my novel. My novel is now about 6,000 words longer than it was. But are they good words? Are they words that further my plot, enhance the mood, create tension? Or are they just 6,000 more words?

To relieve the stress, I should go for a run. But, really, why? Because complaint number two is that my shot at Boston is gone. Okay, realistically, it was gone a long time ago, but I still had these dreams. My marathon PR is 4:13:46. I’m 42 1/2. At 45, the qualifying time for a woman is 4:00. Before I hurt my foot, that felt doable. Post-foot problems, I still thought I’d get my mojo back and succeed.

Not anymore. Oh, I still think I could make 4:00 by the time I’m 45. But 4:00 is no longer a Boston qualifier (BQ). Because the BAA deemed that too slow. Apparently, just anyone can run fast and the race sold out too quickly last year. So they made the times faster. And created a rolling admission. So even if, by some miracle, I could run the 3:55 that is now the BQ for 45 year olds (which I can’t), they’re going to let those who run it faster in earlier. Those who beat their required BQ time by 20 minutes or more or going to be allowed to enter the race on September 12. Those who beat it by 10 minutes, can enter on September 14. On September 16, those who have beaten it by 5 minutes get to register. On September 19, all those plebeians who just made the BQ are allowed to register. If there’s still room.

Complaint number three? My boy is sitting here and won’t get his finger out of his belly button. He is going to be in braces the rest of his life because he won’t get his finger out of his mouth, either. Seriously. That kid is not going to ever get a date for the senior prom at this rate. Because you can’t dance with one finger in your mouth and the other in your belly button. [He’s reading over my shoulder and says, “I don’t care! I hate the senior prom! Whatever that is.” Maybe I’ll remind him that there are no great rock and roll singers who suck their fingers. At least not in public.]

But it all leads back to complaint number one. I hate revising. Really really hate revising. Maybe I should start sucking my finger. Apparently it makes everything bad go away.

Random Musings

February 3rd, 2011 § Comments Off on Random Musings § permalink

–I’m not sure why my family doesn’t see it as an act kindness that I am willing to eat all the expired gummy bears by myself? What if they’re poisonous now? Why don’t they understand I’m simply taking one for the team?

–I don’t like to think of myself as a fair weather environmentalist, but I officially declare a hiatus on composting until the first thaw. If we could even get to the composter, I don’t think we’d be able to pry the lid off (sorry for the haze–the only way to take the picture was through the window screen):

–Yesterday was a snow day. A sleety/frozen rain/snow-covered snow day. The boy simply stayed in his pjs the entire day (the girl went on a playdate,so she had to dress. God FORBID there is a day without a friend in it!). But when he woke up in the morning, the first thing he did was go to his math workbook, where he has extra math that he requested from his teacher, and he did a few pages of algebra. “I need to warm my brain up,” he told Adam.

–My car got stuck in my own driveway today. Wheels spun. Wouldn’t move. “Move it up slowly and then hit reverse fast,” Adam advised. Um, there is no forward. Forward is only a giant snowbank. I did get it out eventually. “Maybe we should make our driveway double wide,” Adam said. “Maybe we should move our driveway to Miami,” I replied. “Um,” he said, “my way’s cheaper.” Yeah? So?

–I love that when I now use my “Can’t talk; noveling” mug, I no longer feel like a fraud about it.

–I think those gummies were poisonous! I definitely feel nauseous right now. I guess you shouldn’t eat gummies that have been expired for a year. Or maybe it’s that I ate all 3.5 servings in one sitting? And how is it possible that that one little bag could be 3.5 servings? No, it must be because they were expired.

Snow News Is (Not) Good News

January 31st, 2011 § 4 comments § permalink

I know everyone is tired of hearing about the snow. I was briefly enchanted when I heard the snow was being carted off to snow farms–I imagined a red barn and perhaps a petting snow area, tiny snow animals frolicking (because any snow farm I’m imagining is cage-free)–until I learned that snow farms are merely huge lots where they dump the snow. Not so very exciting, is it? And, according to Boston.com, we’re expecting up to 21 inches more. 21. That’s right. On top of all the other snow we’ve got (I assume that everyone has already seen the Shaq/snow comparison?).

Wednesday is pretty much guaranteed to be a snow day. There’s been speculation around the schools that tomorrow could be an early release day or even no school. And if it doesn’t stop early enough on Wednesday, we could have a snow day on Thursday. Without these snow days, school is already in session until June 24. Legally, they can only go till June 27, which is just one snow day away. I don’t know what happens after that. And, more importantly, I’m not sure how I’ll keep my children alive one more snow day. I’ve run out of activities. Scratch that. I haven’t run out of activities. I’ve run out of the will to supervise such activities. And it couldn’t come at a worse time because my agent gave me a ton of suggestions for my novel and I’m supposed to be working on a rewrite. So shoveling snow is not at the top of my priority list, nor is making snow forts, snow shoeing, throwing snowballs, or even making hot chocolate.

Hey, did you see what I did there? How cleverly I snuck in the “my agent” part? You probably didn’t even notice. So I’ll tell you again, a little louder this time: HEY, EVERYONE! I GOT AN AGENT!

That okay? Not too subtle?

For all of you people out there who do not toil in the world of publishing, I will tell you that this is A Big Deal. I know a lot of folks think, “Hey, you write a novel. You give it to a publisher. They publish it.” But unfortunately, it’s not so easy. First you write your book. That’s pretty much the only given here. You write and you write and you write some more. **Then you submit it to your friends, your neighbors, your family, to anyone who will read it and give you feedback. Then you rewrite. And rewrite some more. **Repeat from here as many times as needed, generally at least two times, but it can go on for seven or eight times.

And now you have your novel. But the thing is, so do, oh 30 zillion other people out there. So publishers won’t look at anything you send directly. Once upon a time they did. And people still try. Manuscripts sent blindly go into what is called the slush pile. And once every blue moon, some editorial assistant might go through it. I know. I was once an editorial assistant. Slush was always the last priority. But, as I said, most publishers do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. (From the Random House web site: “Like most big publishers, Random House only accepts manuscripts submitted by an agent–the volume of materials we receive is just too large to accept unsolicited submissions.”)

So you need an agent. Ah, the agent. The agent is, in a sense, the gatekeeper. Instead of publishers being flooded with manuscripts, agents are. According to former agent Nathan Bransford, “Most agents receive between 5,000 and 20,000 or more submissions a year.” Writers create a query letter–no easy feat, summing up your years’ of work and hundreds of pages into a single, one-page description that includes any credentials you might have. Then you send them out to agents you’ve researched (are they accepting submissions? is your book similar to something they’ve already done? do they represent the type of books that you write? You don’t want to send a sci-fi manuscript, for instance, to someone who only represents romance). The query letter is as important–maybe more so–than your novel itself. Then you wait. And wait. If they like your query, then they ask you for a partial, which is about 50 to 100 pages of your manuscript. And then if they like your partial, they’ll request a full manuscript (some agents just simply start by requesting a full; my agent requested the partial first).

And then, I got what is referred to as The Call. I actually thought I was being called to be told I was *this close.* Occasionally, an agent will call to give you suggestions and ask you to resubmit to them in the future. This agent who called me had tons of critiques for me. Really good suggestions. My fingers were itching to get started as she was talking. And then I waited for the kind let-down. But it didn’t come! Instead I got an offer of representation! Whoo hooo!

So now, it’s back to work. I have revisions to do! Lots and lots of excellent revisions. Once I’ve revised and submitted again to my readers and then revised a little more, I’ll send it back to my agent. At which point the process, basically, starts all over again, but with my agent doing the submitting. She’ll send it to editors she thinks will like the work and she’ll try to sell it to them. By no means is this a fast process. And there’s no guarantee the agent can sell your book. But the process is started and that’s all I needed for now. Not only that, but having an agent justifies the hours I spend writing. Today I spent a couple of hours in my “office” (my office being the cubicle in the back of the third floor of the library, where I’m not distracted by the crumbs on the floor nor by the siren call of the refrigerator), doing revisions. I am legit!

And I can’t wait to finish my revisions. You know. When the snow stops. In July.

(Did I mention I have an agent?)

Dear Diary

March 22nd, 2010 § 1 comment § permalink

Report cards came out last Friday and my son is brilliant. Brilliant, of course being a subjective mom’s interpretation of grades that run all over the place. Our town has this incomprehensible grading system of B, P, M, and E. B=beginning a skill, P=progressing on a skill, M=meeting expectations, E=exceeding expectations. Doodles had a healthy mix of Ps, Ms, and Es. Brilliant, right?

Anyway, I didn’t need a report card to tell me that the area Doodles needs to work the most in is his writing. But of course writing is the subject he likes least and the one he is most reluctant to practice.

Except on Friday, I had a brainstorm. A genius idea! I dug into the attic and found, from 1976 to 1978, my diary. With Strawberry Shortcake on the cover and a lock on the outside. And I read Doodles a few pages. The one that made him the happiest was this one:

(And I cringe reading this. How, at the ripe old age of 9 1/2, did I not know the difference between “loose” and “lose”? I blame my parents.)

Doodles needed a diary. Can I tell you how hard it is to find a locking diary that isn’t adorned in Hello Kitty or flowers or fairies? I thought I found a really cool one, but the price was, um, off putting. But I did find one that wasn’t great, but wasn’t “girly.”

The boy is addicted. Every few hours he jumps up and yells, “I need to go write something in my diary!” I’m dying to peer into his journal, but I respect his privacy. And, the fact is, I really don’t care what he writes. I just care how he writes. I want to know he’s spelling because and not becos, that he’s using capitals at the beginning of the sentence and punctuation at the end. I do, at least, know he’s writing neatly. As he sat down, I reminded him, “Now, you need to write well enough that your grown-up self will be able to read your handwriting,” and as I saw him go, he was making beautiful well-formed letters. So that’s half the battle. I plan on going at some point today to buy him a copy of Harriet the Spy. I think that will help to fan the flames.

And who knows? In thirty-five years, perhaps in his blog, he’ll scan in a page from his diary to show what he was up to as a kid. I just hope he spells “lose,” right.

On My Plate

March 2nd, 2010 § Comments Off on On My Plate § permalink

If there’s a greater torture to mankind than Wow Wow Wubzy, I have no idea what it is. This has got to be the most vacuous, vapid, piece of TV crap ever created. But Pie loves it. And Doodles is off at the Cub Scouts, weighing in his car for the Pinewood Derby, and little Pie wanted to go along too, but can’t because it goes past her bedtime, so here I am watching Wow Wow Shoot Me.

I’ve been pretty focused lately (which is why you haven’t seen as much of me here). I’m not really happy with where my novel is at the moment, but I’m probably within days of a complete first draft, at which point my poor beleaguered readers will have to help me parse what I can do to revive it. But it’s a good feeling, knowing that I’ll at least have the beginning-middle-end all in one piece,albeit one that will need to be dissected and rebuilt. But the body is there.

The crafty world has also sucked me in. For Purim I baked mounds of hamentashen (the ones with Fluff came out fabulously! I highly recommend. They come out tasting like toasted marshmallow and were a huge hit with the under-10 crowd). I’ve been baking my own bread. I’ve made turtles and homemade gummies. I’ve been knitting (see those hand warmers on Pie?) and crocheting (I made that penguin for Doodles when his class was studying penguins). My photo albums are slowly becoming organized. Waiting through dance classes and gymnastics classes and Hebrew school is much easier when I have something to do with my hands.

The final thing I have right now is running. I’ve signed up to do the Chicago Marathon in the fall with my friend Fish. I’m a little worried about him backing out, and I’m not going to go to Chicago on my own for a race, but I’ll have a back up marathon, just in case. But I’d like to get my marathon closer to 4 hours (from 4:13:46). It’s already giving me the motivation to run and I’m antsy to get out there. The hint of spring we’ve had is helping a lot.

So for now, it’s Groovy Girls (Pie received a mother load of them as hand-me-downs from Tab, and she wants to spend all afternoon with my playing Groovy Girls with her) and Wow Wow Wubzy. If you were doing this, you’d be anxious to run, too. Far far away.

A Faux Post

November 6th, 2009 § 2 comments § permalink

I want to start tonight with my faux-pumpkin bars. They were fabulous, and highly unappreciated in this house, although when I went to give a bunch of the leftovers to our neighbors, my boy did panic and say, “You’re not going to give all of it away are you?” They were spectacular faux-pumpkin bars. Once a week, we get a delivery from Boston Organics, a box full of organic fruits and veggies, and I’m on a quest to actually use all the items we get. (Never fear–it never goes to waste. I fondly call Beetle, my neighbor, our human garbage disposal, as she’s always game to take any food that will be uneaten in our household.) I’m also trying to cook as many meatless meals as possible, something which is not going over that well with the rest of my household members (read: Adam). For instance, on Wednesday we had a lovely cauliflower and tomato curry-like dish that I enjoyed and Adam tolerated. And today we had my lovely bars, a recipe I found online and then tweaked to perfection, replacing the pumpkin with organic delicata squash (hence the faux), mixing up the sugars, removing the chocolate chips and adding a cream cheese frosting. Mmmmm!

And now let’s move on to my faux-healthy daughter. She fools me every day, acting healthy and chipper and happy and then–wham!–at night, she has aches and pains that keep her for hours on end. Last night she awoke at 2 a.m., saying her “brain hurt.” Uh oh,, I thought. Here it comes. Piggy flu. Sudden onset. Headaches. But then she woke up with a lovely 98.7 degree temperature and an upbeat attitude. She went to school. On Friday we have our special Mommy-Pie time, as she’s done at noon and we have no activities till we pick up Doodles at 2:15. Today we went on a “hike” (read: woodsy walk), stopping frequently to read the book du jour, Chicken Soup with Rice. At the end of the hike, we had to walk up a small hill. And my daughter–the one I had always thought of as suspiciously smart–announces, “I’m going to roll up the hill!”

“You mean down,” I said.

“No!” She looked at me like I was crazy. “Up!” And then she proceeded to roll up this rather steep hill. Tonight Adam said to her, “You thought you could roll up a hill?” and she laughed at him and replied, “Daddy! I did it!”

And tonight, she’s in bed, with not quite a fever, but verging on one, snoring loudly and crying out in her sleep every now and then. So frustrating! We’re supposed to have a special Mommy-Daughter trip next weekend–I hope she’s healthy enough to go.

And now let’s end with faux time. Which is what I had today, after I dropped Pie off at school, ran some errands, and hurried home to get a few things done. But then I giddly looked at my watch and realized I had accomplished everything I needed to do faster than I thought and I had a precious whole forty-five minutes to write! It’s Nanowrimo month, and I’ve consciously decided not to participate as I don’t want to start something new; I want to finish something old. So I sat down at my computer… and saw I was late to pick up Pie. Huh? Look at computer. Look at watch. Look at computer again. Look at… stopped watch. Damn.

No more faux. Off to sleep. I’m hoping for the real deal.

Got a Fever Burning Inside of (Not) Me

October 22nd, 2009 § 2 comments § permalink

I’ve been getting grief from my father (hi, Peter!) for not blogging. I’m not completely sure why I’m not blogging, but I haven’t. Part of it is that I am writing, just not for you. I’ve been working steadily away on my novel. I’m at a rough place in it at the moment, not sure if it’s all gelling together. I need to just plug away at it. Part of it is also that I’ve lost that snark factor. Now that I have kids, I feel like I can’t let my bitch out. It’s one thing to alienate my friends; it’s something else to alienate my kids’ friends. But I go through this blogging crisis about once a year and the fact is that it’s been eight years I’ve been doing this, which is longer than I’ve done almost anything else in my life. The only thing more consistent in my life is Adam, as I’ve been with him for almost ten years. But I’ve never lived in a single place for eight years. I’ve never had a job for eight years. Eight years is something to be reckoned with, so here I am.

And right now is my writing time. I should be working on my novel. But my darling daughter pulled the old “I’m healthy but now you can’t send me to school” trick. Last night the boy was trying to get out of homework. Pie had just gotten home from a playdate and was cranky, but nothing out of the ordinary. But the boy! Oh the moaning, the groaning. “I can’t do my homework! My head hurts! I’m sick!” I feel his forehead.

“You’re fine,” I tell him.

“Nooooo! I’m sick! Take my temperature.”

Which I dutifully do. And he’s a lovely 98.4. Pie is standing there. “Shall we take your temperature, too, while I’m standing here?”

She agrees and I take her temperature. 102.5. I do a double take and take her and his temperature three more times, certain something is wrong with the thermometer. But no, she’s sick. Just doesn’t seem like it other than a cold.

So now I’m sitting on the couch as she overdoses on TV. We started with High School Musical: “The girl with the lipstick and the sparkly shirt, who’s hanging with the boy? That’s who I am. What’s her name? Gabriella? That’s who I am. I the character of her and the person of her [meaning Vanessa Hudgens].” Now we’re on to Berenstain Bears. She’s anxious to go out–because of course she’s had no fever all morning–but I can’t in these panic-y swine flu times take her anywhere where there might be children, so she’s won the TV lottery for today. Given Pie’s Law of Health, she’ll be chipper and happy all day, till about 5 p.m. when her fever is guaranteed to return.

In the meantime, I can leave you with just a few of the things that have been keeping me away from the blog:

Sukkah

For the first time, we built a sukkah. We have our lovely remodeled house, with an ample backyard and a place to store the sukkah in the off-season. So it was time. “What size should we get?” Adam asked me.

I looked over the Sukkah Project web site. “I think we should get the easy snap together kind.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I was told. “It has to be made with lumber. Or else you’re just cheating. What size?”

“Um, 8 by 12 should be fine.”

“No, too small.”

“Okay, 12 by 10.”

So what does he order? 12 by 16. We need a bigger table to fill it, but it was nice as we hosted Shabbat and two kid-oriented meals in the sukkah. I’d show you pictures of Adam and Doodles building the sukkah, but somehow I’ve misplaced all my September photos.


Cub Scouts
Let me say off the bat that I have very mixed feelings about the Cub Scouts. I despise many of their policies and I’m not crazy about some of the skills they teach. However, Doodles was so excited to do this. A troop advertised outside of his school and he was dying to join. I nixed it, as it was not the most sensitive to Jewish scouts. The first meeting, for example, was on Rosh Hashanah. Monthly meetings are on Friday nights. Doesn’t work for us and easy to say no. But then we discovered a troop (although that’s the former Girl Scout in me talking; Cub Scouts are not troops, but packs) on the other side of town that was not only Jew-friendly, but populated by many kids from our synagogue. The boy is so excited. He’s working his way through his Tiger book and is just about ready to earn his Bobcat badge. He needs to sell popcorn to raise money, and I’m not the selling type. But he’s begging to go door-to-door to sell. We compromised as I found a friend or two willing to buy and he suited up to go to their houses. If anyone reading this would like to buy popcorn, you know where to find me.

Apple Picking

The rain finally took a long enough break to get to apple picking. We went nice and early on Columbus Day to beat the crowd. We arrive, and I go to buy the small bag to fill. “We’ll fill that in no time. We need a bigger bag,” Adam insists (are you seeing a theme here?). So we get the bigger bag. Only Pie loses interests and she and Adam wonder off leaving me to haul around a honking big heavy bag of apples that I still haven’t used up.


Hockey

Recognize that player in the blue fleece? I got so confused when I saw her out there, given that last year, that was the boy’s fleece, so I kept thinking I was looking at him. But that girl really held her own and did just great. The boy is amazing, how much he’s improved since last year. Poor Adam: Doodles made the advanced beginner’s group, which meets from 8:50 to 9:30 and Pie is in the beginner’s group, which meets from 9:50 to 10:30, so he gets to spend his entire morning at the rink, while I’m off running. That’s what you get for saying, “Oh, hockey and the early, cold hours at the rink don’t bother me.”

And now, now it’s time to be a Mom again. To change the channel and make princess soup for Pie and to bake my next apple creation: Spiced Caramel Apple Upside Down Cake. Perhaps I’ll try to sneak in a bit of noveling today. You never now.

So, yes, I’m still here. At lea
st for the time being.

All the People Who Died, Died

September 14th, 2009 § 2 comments § permalink

I recognize that this is a very introspective (read: masturbatory) blog–the outside world doesn’t generally intervene here unless it relates to something amusing/maddening/strange a family member did.

And in a sense this is also a self-indulgent post. Because it’s all about how it relates to me. But for a few moments, we shall turn to the world outside of Adam, Doodles, and Pie.

Once upon a time I was a graduate student. I studied creative writing at the University of Washington. It was a magical two years when the only thing I had to do was write. And read. And write some more. My whole life revolved around writing. I read slush for the Seattle Review. I helped bring authors to come read at the university. I dated poets and fiction writers and English lit Ph.Ders. And I wrote, if not well, at least prolifically.

Every year, Seattle has the most marvelous of festivals, Bumbershoot. Bumbershoot is this amazing amalgamation of music, art, film, literature, food, and general fun. Bumbershoot, to me, is the epitome of Seattle. In my day, that meant putting on your Carharts, flannel shirt, and Tevas and heading out for a day of hearing “the coolest band” and mocking that “total sell-out” on the next stage. Of course, no one ever agreed which was which.

My second year in Seattle, two of us grad students, me and a poet, Laura, were offered jobs at Bumbershoot. And what a job it was. “Literary Escort.” Yes, it sounds like something out of a Woody Allen story. And, frankly, I thought it sounded kind of hot. I’d read the line-up of authors coming. “What, I get to sleep with Exene Cervenka?” No, I was told. I got to drive her around. Well, okay. That would be a close second.

So I took the job. It was just for the weekend. I was one of a team of escorts. We picked up literary greats at the airport, brought them to their hotels. Took them from their hotels to their readings at Bumbershoot. Take them back. Drive them to the airport again. We could attend the parties. We had backstage passes. We got walkie talkies to use. We got paid. Pretty f’ing sweet.

On my list? Exene Cervenka. Tobias Wolff. Patti Smith. Jim Carroll. A few others you probably haven’t heard of.

They were quite nice. I got into a car accident with Tobias Wolff. Actually, a bus sideswiped my van, but it suitably freaked me out, and Tobias had to calm me down, assuring me it was in no way my fault; I was stopped at a traffic light. Patti Smith was way more domestic than I would have guessed. Exene Cervenka was as cool as you’d think she’d be.

And Jim Carroll? Jim Carroll can only be described as a trip. From the moment I picked him up at the airport, he was high maintenance.

“Hello, Mr. Carroll, I’m Jenny. I’ll be driving you around this weekend.”

“Call me, Jim,” he told me. And so I did.

In the car, he immediately became chatty. And I ate it up. The original name dropper. “Yeah, did you know that last time I was in Seattle, I got a call from Eddie Vedder, wanted to hang out. Asked me to sing. Oh, is Patti here yet? You need to get me in touch with Patti….”

We got to his hotel. “Um, I think I forgot my i.d. Can you come in with me just to make sure I get checked in okay?”

Uh… okay. So I go in with him. And help him solve all his problems. “There’s no room service? Well, what’s the restaurant down here. Will they deliver to my room? Can someone get the food to me? What do they serve? I don’t know if I’ll eat that…”

I finally left, promising to call him a half hour before I was to pick him up. “Hi Jim, it’s Jenny. I’m leaving now to come get you….” Then I’d call him from the hotel, which in these days before the abundance of cell phones, meant my parking the van on a crowded Seattle downtown street, getting out, going into the lobby and using the hotel phone. “Hi Jim, it’s Jenny. I’m downstairs ready for you…. Hi Jim, it’s Jenny, I’m still downstairs waiting for….”

I took him to the parties. I took him to his reading. I lent him my Cartoon Network watch to wear onstage because he forgot his. Forget the rest of the other writers. My whole weekend was “Hi Jim, it’s Jenny. I’m waiting for you….”

His flight back to New York was at 9 a.m. “I’m always nervous about making my flights,” he told me. “I’d like to get there at least two hours early.” Note, this is years before 9/11.

“Um, okay.”

“And could you call me with a wake-up call? I don’t trust the hotel. Call me at 5:30.” 5:30. Of course now, 5:30 in the morning is par for the course. But in those days, 5:30 was an hour in which I might be falling asleep.

“Of course,” I told him.

So I called him. “Hi Jim,” I said, trying to hide the groggy from my voice. “It’s Jenny. It’s time for you to get up.”

“Could you call back in a half hour, make sure I’m still up?”

Half and hour later. “Hi Jim, it’s Jenny. I’m heading out now to get you.”

The ride to the airport was magical. I asked him all sorts of questions, growing bolder as we spoke. I asked and asked. I asked about the “people who died,” about who he dated, about heroin, about his fear of AIDS, about, about, about. All the way to SeaTac we chatted.

We pulled up to the airport. Before he got out, I nervously pulled out my copy of Basketball Diaries. “Would you sign my book?”

He gave me the most charming smile. “Of course!” he said, and he took the book. He signed it. I saw him drawing a tiny picture of the space needle before he handed it back to me. He gave me a great big hug and headed back to New York.

I give you this, my final one: “Hi Jim, this is Jenny.”

I still have the book. I’ll keep it forever. I look at it now. It’s Jim. So Jim. Jim inscribed it as only Jim would. He wrote, “For Laura, with love and all my thanks for your help. Jim Carroll. Seattle ’95.”

Rest in peace, Jim Carroll.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bOjc70f4p8]

Where Am I?

You are currently browsing entries tagged with writing at the pieces of my life.

  • Who I Am

    I read, I write, I occasionally look to make sure my kids aren't playing with matches.

    My novel, MODERN GIRLS will be coming out from NAL in the spring of 2016.

    I mostly update the writing blog these days, so find me over there.

    More about me and my writing.

  • Where to Find Me

    jenny at jennyandadam.com


    Instagram

    Follow Me on Pinterest

    Goodreads

    Writing Blog: Jennifer S. Brown

    Photo Blog: jPhone Jenny

  • Archives

  • Meta