We The People

Inauguration morning began for me in the soft darkness of dawn when my nephew dropped 6 of us off on the Virginia side of the Potomac. Our breath puffing out in clouds, our muffled footsteps the only noise, we walked on a pathway between the Iwo Jima Memorial and Arlington National Cemetery. It seemed fitting. The headstones of the young men, most no older than our three sons, served as a reminder of the price that has been paid throughout the years so that we could be doing exactly what we were doing. We were about to witness and celebrate the exchange of power -- an exchange that had come about peacefully. An exchange that we were all responsible for.

My eyes were wet from more than just the cold.

We crossed Memorial Bridge, the Lincoln Memorial in front of us, the sun rising behind it. The enormity of the day, of the change that had come, pulled us forward.

By 7:30, my husband and I were in place on the Mall, midway between the Washington Memorial and the Capitol.


I'd wondered how we'd while away the time until the ceremony began four hours later, but I had no need to worry. On the Jumbotron in front of us, the "We Are One" HBO concert from Sunday afternoon was being shown. So we danced ("Shout" with Garth Brooks) and sang (with Stevie and Usher and Shakira) and cried (Springsteen's "The Rising" with a gospel choir). The spirit of celebration and change and hope filled the crowd.

And then it all began.



And I'd thought I'd know how I'd feel, worried that I might be underwhelmed. I mean, what could compare to election night and his words in Grant Park? But this was so much bigger. I was witnessing history, a specific moment when everything changed and the world watched.

His words rang out and I felt myself relax. I trust him and his slim shoulders and his huge brain to carry the weight of the United States. I know the road ahead will be long and rough--but I trust him to lead the way.

He's already banned torture. With one flick of his pen, one scrawl of his signature.

And I was there. Along with several million other folks who I will never see again. But for that morning, we were family, united in hope and pride and optimism.

I'm still feeling the warmth.

Las Vegas, Redux

The first time I was ever in Las Vegas, February 2007, didn't go so well.

It began with me in tears, somewhere in The Venetian, dialing up my husband on his cell phone. He was there on business; I'd flown in to spend the weekend with him. I believe our conversation started off with me trying not to sniffle and whimper like a total girl, but failing miserably. I was completely lost, I'd been lugging my suitcase all over the fake Venice "marketplace" and I could no more figure out where the actual hotel started than explain the game of craps to you. My husband asked if I could tell him where I was. I looked around and then said, "Across from the Oxygen Bar." He told me to stay right there and he'd be there in a heartbeat.

Later, after a cocktail (Or, um three. Maybe four.), I apologized for my emotional meltdown. Then I made an appointment for a "raspberry sherbet pedicure." I felt better.



Then, the next evening we decided to walk down The Strip and soak in some of the ambiance. Ambiance that consisted of swarthy men handing my husband baseball cards which advertised "barely legal asian blondes." Hey, hello, I wanted to holler. Do you not see me? The blondish non-asian woman holding this man's hand? We're with each other. See, we have these rings which suggest marriage?

I decided a few more cocktails would help. They did.

By the time we left, I was referring to Vegas as "Disneyland on crack." And I'm not a big fan of Disneyland. Or crack.

So, why am I willingly hopping on a plane tomorrow to join my husband in Las Vegas? Well, um, it's practically free. There's that. And I believe in second chances. Plus, we'll be at The Bellagio, so maybe I won't get lost in plasticland.

But more than that, and more than two nights away with my husband (and no kids) in a fancy hotel with room service and beds I don't have to make and bathrooms with big plushy towels (and robes!! God, I love those hotel robes.), there's the fantasy aspect of it. (Stop. Wait. Get your heads out of the gutter.)

Specifically, Frank Sinatra.

Is there anyone cooler? (Maybe Springsteen. Or Dennis Quaid but they're not Vegas-y.) Now, I know that The Sands and The Stardust have both been razed. And I know Old Blue Eyes has been dead for a decade. But there's a coolness factor that he still knocks off the charts. (Or is that just me?) And I know that The Strip isn't the same as it was in the Rat Pack glory years. But I can pretend.

A cocktail will probably help.

p.s. Humor me this week, okay? Next week, I'll be back, nose to the grindstone, pen in hand, working on my next tome. But for now, I'm looking for Frank.

(cross-posted over at Channeling Erma)

Take Me Away--Books and Vacations

Last week I got to enjoy two of my favorite activities--travel and reading. The one thing that makes air travel bearable these days is knowing I'll have a few uninterrupted hours to crawl into whatever book I've stashed in my bag. Reading can even make the stale pretzels they give me seem tasty.

Now, I am always reading, always rearranging my TBR pile, choosing what to read next by whim or mood. So, selecting which book or books to take when I travel involves some planning, some guessing at what I'll have a taste for down the road. But one of the unintended results of reading while on the road is the synergy that can occur between book and place. When a book really transports me, thinking about it later or rereading it can take me back to where I was when the words first cast their power over me. And likewise, revisiting a particular place, in fact or in memory, can bring those pages alive again.



Rarely, has a book and trip ever meshed as perfectly as happened last week between my trip to Oregon and Amy MacKinnon's debut stunner Tethered.

I love mountains. And seacoast. Roads winding through pine forests. I love seeing a different geography than home. Travel introduces me to new worlds and so do books. This summer I've been lucky enough to visit parts of the US I'd never seen before. Montana, Idaho, South Dakota, Washington and Oregon. And I also got to see a lonely undertaker and funeral home and cold, chilly town on the East Coast. And the views blended into something that still has a hold over me.




Here's what I wrote to Amy when I got back from my travels:

Yes, there were things that were hard to read but the writing is so powerful and lovely. It's beautiful and brutal--kind of like the Badlands. And the message--that brokenness can be healed, that in reaching out to others in pain our own pain can be helped--was so right. And the last line is now in my top 10 (or perhaps top 5) of perfect endings.

This is an amazing book--and while I got to read it while looking at Mt. Hood, I know Amy's words would have transported me no matter where I was.

And no cheating and reading the last line first. But, mark my words, it will blow you away.

What a Short, Wonderful Trip It's Been*

Twenty-two years and four months ago today, I delivered my first child, a beautiful, tiny, baby boy born in the wee hours (minutes, really) of Easter Sunday morning. He arrived a month early. (I don't believe he's been early for anything since.)

One week ago today, I delivered that same baby, now a beautiful young man to his new life in Seattle where he has an apartment overlooking Puget Sound, a job he's been dreaming about since he started college 4 years ago, and, at least as far as I can see it, the world by a string.

And it all passed in the blink of an eye.

How did it all happen, I found myself wondering on our 2200 mile drive west. Where did the time go? In his grin and in his sweetness, I can still see the little boy who fell out of his chair just about every day in 1st grade. And I also saw his intelligence and determination as he figured out, several times, how to back up the 17-foot truck with a car being towed behind it. Often when I'd pulled it a smidge too close to the gas pump or the curb or the building wall in the alley. I'd first seen those qualities when he'd finish a puzzle without asking for any help or follow the painstaking directions putting a lego project together.

I remember back to those precious quiet moments you only get with your first baby, those hours of rocking and nursing and staring at this person who relied on me for everything (that's true terror!), wondering who he might grow up to be. I hoped he'd find a career he'd love, a career that would fill him in all good ways. I wanted a life for him filled with passion and joy and challenge and satisfaction. And he's making it happen. He picked his dream city and he sent out letters and resumes and he now gets to claim his life. I'm thrilled and humbled.

We had lots of time to talk on our drive, and it was a luxury I haven't had with him in I don't know how long. At home, we chat, but it seems always in passing. When he's been away at school, there's the occasional relaxing phone call, but more often it's a quick "How are you? Love you. Bye." But the road stretched out before us, mountains and plains and rivers, and we talked. About politics and the environment and music. But a good deal of the time was spent reminiscing. As parents, I think we often wonder what they'll take away from their childhoods. What will they remember and hold fast to? I wasn't always patient or creative. I remember being tired much of the time. Should I have done more of this or less of that? We wonder and worry and try our hardest and hope for the best. But even then we don't always know.

But then, somewhere in South Dakota (after the keys had been locked in the truck but before we'd discovered the brakes were a tad touchy), he told me what a great childhood he'd had, how he loved those summers of adding on to his fort in the backyard and exploring in the woods near the park, how our neighborhood had been just right, filled with kids of all ages to play with and learn from, and how he was glad he'd had such unprogrammed summers filled with inventions and activities the kids dreamed up, and I felt myself relax. I'd done good. And so had he.

So, after the drive and the unloading and the short few hours of sleep before my flight home, when I hugged him goodbye at the airport and kissed his neck, I knew we were both ready for this next part of our lives together. People have asked if I'm sad he's so far away or if I cried when I said goodbye. And I'm not and I didn't. There's nothing to be sad or weepy about--22 very short years ago, I set out on a promise to give him roots and wings. And looking at him now, I think I accomplished both.


* With apologies to Jerry and the rest of the band for the paraphrase

(Cross-posted at Channeling Erma)

GCC and Road Tripping

How appropriate that the book I'll be "touring" this week for you (as part of the Girlfriend Cyber Circuit) is Driving Sideways by Jess Riley and it's about a roadtrip of sorts and through the magic of "post options" on blogger, you're reading this while I'm on a roadtrip of my own as my son, his girlfriend and I drive a 17 foot U-Haul, towing her car behind us, from St. Louis to Seattle. They've each got spanking new college diplomas and dream jobs in their fields waiting for them--I have a hunch I'll garner some material for future posts (and maybe books!) along the way, but enough about me.

Back to Jess and her book, which tells the story of Leigh Fielding, a twenty-eight year-old kidney transplant recipient who—six years, hundreds of dialysis sessions, and a million bad poems after being diagnosed with Polycystic Kidney Disease—finally feels strong enough to pursue a few lofty goals she’s been mulling for years: find herself, her kidney donor’s family, and the mother that abandoned her over twenty years ago.

And what better way to do just that than a solitary road trip across the country? Well, maybe not entirely solitary, because Leigh suspects she may have inherited more than just an organ from her deceased donor. It’s this sneaking suspicion that takes her trip down some unexpected detours—and the juvenile delinquent who blackmails Leigh into giving her a ride is only the beginning.

Booklist calls it “Smart and funny without being forced, sentimental without being maudlin" and it's currently hailed as a BREAKOUT BOOK for Target!

It sounds like exactly the kind of read that'll keep me occupied (when I'm not driving, of course!) driving through South Dakota. Here's Jess in her own words:

1.) How did you come up with the idea for this book? Are you more driven by plot or by character?
For Driving Sideways, I began with a premise and very basic plot, but once the main character was born, she took the story in her own direction entirely! I think for commercial fiction, you need a healthy balance between plot and character. Things need to happen to hold a reader’s interest—and you need a bang-up beginning, solid middle, and satisfying conclusion, with believable character development along the way. So it’s really a mix.

2.) Who's your favorite character in this book and why?
Oh, I adore Leigh. But most people find Denise the most entertaining, repulsive, hilarious, dangerous, and wicked character. They either love her or hate her, because she’s larger than life, missing many of the internal censors the rest of us have due to familial, financial, and societal mores and constraints. I wanted to create a character I could egg on, someone who would say or do the things most of us are unable or unwilling to. Someone you wanted to slap and embrace, sometimes in the same hour. Someone you might suspect as lacking a conscience, but ultimately you conclude she’s a good-hearted sociopath. She was a blast to create!

3.) What's your writing process/writing environment like?
I have a little corner office I hunker down in: it’s so cozy, with just enough space for me and my dog. I wrote Driving Sideways in the mornings, during my summer months off, every day until I felt like stopping. Now, because I’m juggling first-book promotion activities while simultaneously trying to finish book #2, I find myself writing fiction late at night. I’m still trying to figure out how to balance the two. (And it’s a good problem—one I never thought I’d have!!)

4.) What's your favorite part of writing?
I love when my characters take on a life of their own and run away with the story. When you actually lose yourself and tap into the collective subconscious. That’s where the magic happens, and it’s the drug that has me hooked.

5.) What's the best piece of advice you've ever gotten about writing?
I think different bits of advice are appropriate during different phases of the writing process. As a struggling writer with no agent, what I connected with was “Never give up” and “You always have room to improve your craft.” After I had a book contract, that shifted to “Writing is a craft, publishing is a casino” and “You will be the biggest advocate for your own book (so get off your butt and self-promote).” The advice I would give any aspiring writer is to connect with other writers for support, growth, and community. The same applies to newbie novelists—it’s a lonely profession, and I’d be lost without the friendship and assistance I’ve found from other writers at the same stage in their careers.

So, until next week, when I'll have more book recommendations, happy reading and safe motoring!

Graduation Follow-up and Writers in Their Own Words: GCC

First, many thanks to all of you who sent good tidings for my son's college graduation. It was a great weekend/celebration filled with hugs and laughter and tears. I wrote about it today on the new group blog, CHANNELING ERMA, I've put together with four other writers/moms/friends. Please pop on over; I'll be posting every Wednesday.

* * * * *


Now, to more pressing matters. Melissa Senate joins us today to chat about her new book, Questions to Ask Before Marrying. The title sure grabs you, doesn't it? Here's some more scoop that'll pull you all the way in:

A very popular New York Times article lists fifteen questions couples should ask (or wish they had) before marrying. Ruby Miller and her fiancé, Tom Truby, have questions 1 to 14 almost covered. It's question 15 that has the Maine schoolteacher stumped: Is their relationship strong enough to withstand challenges?

Challenges like…Ruby's twin sister, Stella. The professional muse, flirt and face reader thinks Ruby is playing it safe. And that the future Mrs. Ruby Truby will die of boredom before her first anniversary or her thirtieth birthday, whichever comes first.

Challenges like…sexy maverick teacher Nick McDermott, Ruby's secret longtime crush, who confesses his feelings for her at her own engagement party.

But before Ruby can plan the wedding that may never be, Stella announces she's pregnant by a one-night stand whose name might be Jake (or James? Maybe Jason?) and who lives somewhere under the glittering lights of Las Vegas. Ruby and Stella hit the road to find him—with a lot more than fifteen questions.

And after three thousand miles, a stowaway relative and hitchhiking teen lovebirds bound for an Elvis wedding chapel, the Miller sisters might get some answers.



Now, let's hear from Melissa in her own words . . .

1.) How did you come up with the idea for this book? Are you more driven by plot or by character?
A: I was inspired by three things: The first was my love of the movie Sideways. Oh, how I wanted to write a road trip book after seeing that wonderful film. The idea of two very different people trapped together in a car, being on the road, really gripped me. Enter my estranged twin sisters, one a conservative school teacher from Maine, newly engaged but with serious feelings for another man, and the other a professional muse and face reader from NYC who is searching for the father of her unborn baby (would help if she knew his first name). These two hit the road with many questions and get to know each other—and themselves—very well three-thousand miles later. The second backstory is my divorce, which I went through while writing this book. I wanted to go “back to the start” and explore what you know when he slips that ring on your finger. The third was a New York Times article, the most popular of 2006, a simple and practical list of questions couples should ask before marrying or (wish they had). The article gave me my title and honed the theme for me, which is that asking questions, even questions without answers or answers you don’t like, is the most important thing you can do.

As for the second part of your question, I tried to be more driven with plot when I turned in the proposal for this book, but my editor MADE ME be more driven by character! She basically took away what she called my “plot gimmicks,” situations that gave the characters reasons for what they were doing. She wanted me to pare down the book to the essentials: these twin sisters and their issues. Best advice I’ve ever gotten and it has definitely shaped how I approach my work.


2.) Who's your favorite character in this book and why?
A: I love both sisters, but I must say that Stella stole the show for me. Even though she didn’t have her own point of view, she came so alive for me that I felt we did have her point of view. Her story, her past, was so emotional—the sudden death of her first love, her job as a “muse” to a married artist, her job as a face reader, her flitting from country to country, and her search now, for the father of her unborn baby, whose first name she isn’t so sure of. For the baby’s sake, Stella wants to get a grip, and her struggle to do so really captured me.


3.) What's your writing process/writing environment like?
A: I’m a single mom, and my son’s kindergarten is a half-day program, as were the previous two years of preschool. Three little hours! I didn’t even bother to write during his school hours because by the time I’d get the characters and storyline and threads in my heart, mind and soul enough to work, it would be time to pick him up. So I do my writing at night, with a lot of Coke Zero and on the weekends. First grade, coming in September, is SIX entire hours. SIX free hours. Child care and child care costs have been such a huge part of my life that I can’t believe this is really coming!

I like to write on my laptop, in my living room, on the Victorian-ish sofa, with my cat Blue curled at my feet (my other cat is not a feet curler), a tall glass of Coke Zero on the table next to me, and absolute silence. (One of the best things about living in Maine is the quiet.) I work from a detailed synopsis, which I then break into chapters and then scenes. I’ve never been able to “just write;” I need a road map. I always take detours, but I need to know the end destination and write to that. I always have my last line written in my head when I first start to write.

4.) What's your favorite part of writing?
I love being about 100 pages in, when I finally understand my characters, when I know them, have their voices inside me, heart, mind and soul. The beginning is such a struggle for me until I hit that point. Then the characters take over. Ruby, the conservative one, in Questions To Ask Before Marrying, really surprised me twice in this book.

5.) What's the best piece of advice you've ever gotten about writing?
Back to my editor’s suggestion for Questions To Ask Before Marrying: get rid of the gimmicks and focus on the characters, who they are, what they want, what they need, what they’re striving for. Raise the stakes emotionally, not plot-ally. (Yes, I know that is not a word!)

Thanks for stopping by, Melissa--and I for one am going love the non-word "plotally"!

Not Quite Malibu Barbie . . . but Darn Close

For the past twenty-one years, I've driven mom cars. You know the type--they can haul car seats, little league teams, coolers and ice for lacrosse practice, 7th grade social studies projects, and all sorts of car pool arrangements. Not to mention juice boxes, happy meals, and pizzas. Once the juice stains have faded (for the most part), you can load the car up for that first drive to the dorm. And then back home that summer. Then, load it up for that first apartment. Oh, and trips to the vet for the dogs so they can cover the windows that aren't open with nose prints and the ones that are open with drool. It's a car that screams MOM. MIDDLE-AGE. SUBURBS.






I went from a Taurus wagon for the first 7 years, to mini-vans (two!) for the next 6 years, to a Saturn wagon for the past 8 years. It's what my kids affectionately refer to as "The Silver Bullet." It's what my sons drove to learn to drive. They less affectionately asked if I paid extra for all the squeaks and pings it makes as I motor along. It shouts "practical" and "paid for."





What it doesn't shout (or even whisper or sing) is "fun" or "sexy" or "carefree."




But, this does.



And, in a week or two, I'll be behind the wheel of my first ever convertible. Now, I'm not a car person (exhibits A through C above!). But, there's something about a convertible that fills me with glee. It's impractical, I know. I'm 48 for cryin' out loud. Some of you might be wondering if maybe I'm having little mid-life-menopausal-type crisis. Nope. I'm just finally at a point in my life where what I drive doesn't have to take into consideration my kids. It can be, dare I say, for me. For fun. And when a friend mentioned last week after we'd had lunch that the lease on her 2005 convertible was up and it had fewer than 9000 miles on it (Yes. You read that correctly) and that she had a good deal to buy it but she wanted something else, I casually mentioned it to my husband that night at dinner (because, we'd been talking that perhaps it was time to hand down the Silver Bullet to one of our more-or-less deserving children) and the next day we took it for a test-drive on one of the first sunny, warm days we'd had since last October. And I felt like Malibu Barbie--only with brains and not in a bikini.

And no, the kids cannot borrow it. There's a perfectly good 2000 Saturn wagon they can use.

An Evening With the Boss

Not often, but every once in a while, I want to feel 17 again. Not the angsty, high school, I-hate-my-hair, I'm-not-sure-what-to-wear girl I was so much of the time back then. No, I want to feel limitless possibility. Wonder. Freedom. Confidence (or was it stupidity?) that had my friends and me wearing t-shirts that said "Go to Hell World, I'm a Senior." I want to feel like I'm born to run.

Now, next week, those days will be 31 years, two kids, a few (ahem) pounds, and lots of bad haircuts in my past. But occasionally, every once upon a time, I get to grab that 17 year-old inside and let her out for a ride. "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" always takes me there. I dare you to watch this and not bop around in your chair.




And Monday night, I got to feel 17 for three hours all thanks to The Boss (and my husband who bought me the tickets for Christmas). It was great (and I'm still recovering). I danced and sang and cheered and raised my fist high because tramps like us were just around the corner from the light of day and we were out on the streets (oh oh oh oh oh!) in the promised land.

And much later, when I was still singing along in my head and I couldn't get to sleep because I was still soaring, I thought how Bruce and I grew up together. And how we're both writers.

He gave me the anthems I needed when I was young and figuring out how to be an adult:

"Hey what else can we do now
Except roll down the window
And let the wind blow back your hair
Well the night's busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere"

Thunder Road is just about the most perfect song ever written.

And then, when I was an adult and was finding it a bit harder to navigate than I'd thought, I knew he understood:

"Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse?"

"God have mercy on the man
Who doubts what he's sure of"

And then, we both gained a few more years, and some perspective (and found the keeper spouse the second time around):

"Tonight I'm drinkin' in the forgiveness
This life provides
The scars we carry remain but the pain slips away it seems
Oh won't you baby be in my book of dreams"

He was a voice of loss and sorrow after 9/11:

"Pictures on the nightstand, TV's on in the den
Your house is waiting, your house is waiting
For you to walk in, for you to walk in
But you're missing, you're missing
You're missing when I shut out the lights
You're missing when I close my eyes
You're missing when I see the sun rise
You're missing"

And, in his title song, The Rising, he also gave us a sense of pride and hope.

And today? He's still writing the words that are on so many of our hearts:

"Who'll be the last to die for a mistake
The last to die for a mistake
Whose blood will spill, whose heart will break
Who'll be the last to die, for a mistake"

He's been a fine companion all these years--and an even finer writer. I can only strive to make my words resonate as well.

Oh, and he still looks totally hot in jeans.

I Love Book Festivaling!

As promised, here's the scoop (with photos) from the fun I had in Charlottesville at The Virginia Festival of The Book last week. In the top picture, from left to right, is: Me, Carleen Brice, Therese Fowler, Jenny Gardiner, and Kim Reid. I'd like it noted that no adult beverages are present in any of the pictures.

The panel I was on--with Therese and Virginia Boyd, my buddy from the Pulpwood Queen weekend was really fun--and since it was the very first day I was able to relax the rest of the time I was there.

One of the coolest things about festivals is hanging out with the other writers. No matter what, it's like we've been buddies since elementary school (or at least junior high) and just talk and laugh and have a blast. And it's not just because of the martinis. We even spend some of our time talking about writing--the process, the business, the feeling of "oh my God could we be any luckier? we get to do this for a job!!"

My first toast, the first night, with Jenny, Therese and Virginia, where we enjoyed, um, martinis and amazingly great Asian tapas (so great Therese and I went back there two of the next three nights!) was this: To us, published authors all. No matter what happens, no one can ever take that away from us!

I'm off to the west coast for a few days with family--more next week.

Wanna Read Like a Pulpwood Queen?

Since I love passing on book suggestions, and since I had such a blast at the Pulpwood Queen Girlfriend Weekend in January, I'm tickled to be passing Kathy Patrick's Pulpwood Queen picks for the next few months. Grab a book and start reading!

January 2008
The Pulpwood Queens’ Tiara-Wearing, Book-Sharing Guide to Life by Kathy L. Patrick, Grand Central Publishing

*Bonus Book
The Stylist: A Novel by Cai Emmons, Harper Perennial
From the Heart: Seven Rules to Live By by Robin Roberts, Hyperion

February 2008
Trail of Crumbs: Hunger, Love, and the Search for Home by Kim Sunee, Grand Central Publishing

*Bonus Books
The Sweet Life by Lynn York, Plume
The Big Beautiful by Pamela Duncan
March 2008
The Pirate’s Daughter by Margaret Cezair-Thompson, UnBridled Books

*Bonus Books
God Said Yes by Heather Hornback Bland, Berkley
The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible by A. J. Jacobs, Simon & Schuster

April 2008
Mermaids in the Basement by Michael Lee West, Harper

*Bonus Books
One Fell Swoop by Virginia Boyd, Thomas Nelson
All the Numbers by Judy Larsen, Ballantine Books

May 2008
A Model Summer by Paulina Porizkova, Hyperion

*Bonus Book
the memoirs of a beautiful boy by Robert Leleux, St. Martins Press
Women of Magdalene by Rosemary Poole-Carter, Kunati Inc.

June 2008
The Schooling of Claybird Catts by Janis Owens, Harper Paperbacks

*Bonus Book
My Brother Michael by Janis Owens, Pineapple Press
Myra Sims by Janis Owens, Pineapple Press

July 2008
The UnLikely Lavender Queen by Jeannie Ralston, Random House

*Bonus Book
Bringing Home the Birkin: My Life in Hot Pursuit of the World’s Most Coveted Handbag by Michael Tonello, William Morrow

August 2008
Same Kind of Different As Me by Ron Hall & Denver Moore, Thomas Nelson Publishing

*Bonus Book
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafo'n, Penguin

Books, Books, and More Books (All that and Big Hair Too!)

Oh, my, where to begin? First, with the tireless Kathy Patrick, author and book festival organizer extraordinaire. She gets authors and book lovers to come to Jefferson, Texas the third weekend of January every year, and I for one am here to say I'll be back any time she invites me (and maybe even when she doesn't!). It's fun, it's illuminating, it's wacky (see photo).

But, what it's most about is BOOKS. Loving books, reading books, finding new authors, reconnecting with old favorites, and spreading the word about the power of BOOKS. So, here goes . . .

New writer friends include Virginia Boyd, author of One Fell Swoop, Janis Owens whose most recent book is The Schooling of Claybird Catts, Darnell Arnoult, and her book Sufficient Grace, Lynn York author of The Sweet Life, Debbie Rodriguez author of the memoir Kabul Beauty School, and Paulina Porizkova and her debut novel A Model Summer.


Each of these books is now competing to be read next and I promise to post my raves about all of them.

I lucked into reconnecting with Ellen Baker (whose book Keeping the House I blogged about last summer) and Cassandra King, bestselling author (most recently of Queen of Broken Hearts) who generously provided this newcomer with a fabulous cover blurb.

These are smart, funny, friendly women. Good writers, too (but that goes without saying). We ate pie (lots of pie. Pie is heavenly. You've got to love a town that has a restaurant called HOUSE OF PIE.), barbecue, and jambalaya. Oh, and I do believe that some wine was also consumed.

The book festival--which was attended en masse by book clubs from all over--included all sorts of author chats and panels. One of the best aspects of it all is how "down home" it is. Readers and writers mingle non-stop (over pie!)--which seems right since readers are also writers and writers are huge readers. The culminating event is the "Ball of Hair"--and I can't even begin to explain it other than to say it's an absolute hoot--that's where the pictures were taken.

Okay, I'm off to read (and probably run to the grocery store).

Whoo-ee!

Um, okay, I've got tons to do and I figure my Pulpwood Queens' Girlfriends' Weekend Tales will need several posts, but here's a photo to tide you over.

And, Hallelujia, the luggage has been retrieved.

What once was lost . . .

Saturday morning my husband received a phone call from the Greyhound bus station in Grand Junction, Colorado. They claimed to have the lost luggage (see post below). How, a week after being in Denver it ended up in Grand Junction rather than St. Louis, no one knows, but they were going to ship it to St. Louis free of charge (yeah, what a deal, huh?). It was due to arrive the next morning. My husband went down to the bus station yesterday. Spent two hours waiting for the bus. No luggage but no buses either. He's headed down there again this morning. I'm optimistic. I'll keep you posted; keep your fingers crossed.

I'm recovering from an amazing weekend with the Pulpwood Queens (I'll be posting scoop and PICTURES!!!!) later today.

I'm also recovering from the Packers' loss last night--but, to keep things in perspective, what a fabulous season Brett and the boys had. If anyone had suggested they'd be playing deep into January for a trip to the Superbowl, no one would have believed it.

Travel Woes or Learning Some Hard Lessons

Lost Luggage. There are few phrases more terrifying. (Yeah, okay, I know most medical phrases are worse. But work with me.)

Try adding lost luggage WITHOUT a baggage claim number.

That's been my past 48 hours.

No, not my own luggage. I learned long ago to double-check and then check again that the baggage claim number was in place and, more importantly, that the destination tag was firmly attached to the piece in question. (I also learned not to travel by Greyhound Bus, but I'm getting ahead of myself.)

In a nutshell, here's what happened:

My 20 year-old son was heading to Breckenridge with two of his buddies for a non-refundable ski trip that included everything except getting there from St. Louis. The boys, as boys are wont to do, had assumed that one of them would be able to take a car. Yeah, right. So, two days before the trip, they realized they had no transportation. They got busy and figured out they could go by bus. When I delivered them to the bus depot (which, I hate to say, was grungier than even they'd expected), two of the boys had luggage exceeding the 50 pound weight limit, so we had to pay extra. They got on the bus. 24+ hours, one missed connection, one transfer that failed to materialize, one suitcase misdelivered to Vail, and one $150 taxi ride later they arrived for four days of skiing and hi-jinks (I'm assuming the hi-jinks considering they were with 10 other college friends). Now, it was time for the return trip. They got to the little station for the bus to Denver. It never showed. They waited 5 hours, knowing they'd already missed their original connection in Denver to St. Louis. Several phone calls later, they were in Denver. Waiting in line for the 10:30 p.m. bus. They had their luggage. The driver said he'd take it from there. On the bus they got. 20 hours later they arrived in St. Louis, tired, hungry, and with less than 12 hours before they had to head back to college (barely enough time for laundry and a home-cooked meal!).

But, here was a time-saver--since their luggage had disappeared somewhere between Denver and home, we had much less laundry to attend to! It turned out that in the rush to get on the bus in Denver, no one, not the boys, not the ticket agent, not the driver, had thought to retag the luggage for the return trip.

I still believe it will turn up someday, somewhere. Perhaps even in my lifetime.

And, I guarantee you that not one of these boys will ever again let his luggage go anywhere without being sure it has been properly tagged. I'm also thinking they won't be traveling by bus anytime soon.

And if any of you happen to see a brownish-green duffle bag, a small black suitcase, and a black duffle with blue stripes sitting in a lonely pile somewhere along Interstate 70, give me a holler, okay?

Big Hair, Big Dreams, Big Fun

Last night, I had the fun of meeting author/book club guru Kathy Patrick who was at Left Bank Books promoting her book The Pulpwood Queens Guide to Life. One of the things she does at each reading is choose one lucky attendee to get a "Big Hair Makeover" right then and there. The lucky winner was moi. Pictures can be accessed here.

(UPDATE: a few readers didn't understand the concept of big hair. Think teased and heavily hair sprayed, and usually involving wigs/hairpieces. This is a picture of Kathy Patrick and a reader at last year's fun. I still haven't been able to download/copy pictures from last night. For that you need to click on the above "here" link.)

Later, walking down the street to my car, I kept getting odd glances. I'd forget why (not alot of big hair in St. Louis!). Then I'd glimpse my reflection in a storefront window and do a double take. That wasn't me. But it was.

And then I thought about how easily I now see myself as an author. A novelist. But years ago, when I'd dream about it, I'd wonder how it would feel to try on that job, that label. It fits great now, but it didn't always. For a few minutes last night, I had that feeling again. I'm NOT a big hair girl. (In the '70s, I struggled to fit in a world of Farrah Fawcett wings with my long straight hair. In one of the biggest hair mistakes known to man (and yes, I do think it's a documented disaster right up there with New Coke) I got a Dorothy Hamill wedge cut. Adorable on her and great if you have the kind of hair that bounces. I didn't. Still don't. I have very stubbornly straight hair. But, I digress.)

As I said, I'm not a big hair girl, but it was fun to play as one for a little while last night. And as I think about starting a new novel in the next few weeks, I'm looking forward to the personas I'll get to walk around in for the next year or so as, through my characters, I inhabit new identities (with all sorts of hairstyles). And to get me even more in the spirit of things, on January 17 I'm headed to Kathy Patrick's Girlfriend Weekend, where I'll pal around with my author friends, meet Pulpwood Queens from all over the world, and don a hot pink and leopard print get-up (yes, I'll post pictures) for the Hairball Saturday night. All things I'd never dreamed of a few years ago.

Working far from Home

I recently spent a week in California. Ooh, I hear you thinking, nice gig. Ocean breezes and all. Not quite. I did get to drive up the coast (from LA to Santa Barbara) before it burned up, but I was there getting my first real taste of being a member of the Sandwich Generation. My dad was having surgery; I was there to help him and my mom.

(The most important news--the surgery was successful and went very well. Which is not always a given when the patient is nearly 80. We've been lucky--earlier this fall my husband and I went to help out his mom (almost 90!) after surgery and she had the same results--successful and fully recovered.)

On the plane ride out, I read through my "finished" MS--it's only finished until my agent mentions the revisions I need to make--and discovered a few tweaks and minor scenes I needed to write. One morning I stayed at the hotel for a few hours to finish things up, then took a deep breath and hit SEND. About 14 seconds later, panic set in. And doubt. It sucks, I thought. My agent is going to be disappointed and then scour through our contract to figure out how to drop me as a client. I'll need to find a real job (not one I can do in my PJs).

Around that time, my mom called and I realized I should head over to the hospital, a quick two-block walk away.

And when I arrived, my dad was resting comfortably, so I urged my mom to take a break. I'll hang out here, I said. You go get something to eat. And that's when the characters started showing up. No, not the folks who wander around in my head. These were real flesh and blood folks who gave me lots of material for future characters. The wack-job nutcase in the next room who kept insisting he wasn't the patient, just a stand-in, so the rules didn't apply and no procedures could be done on him. Or the nutcase wack-job across the hall who kept trying to escape his room. So they took his clothes away. He showed them. He wandered around in his boxers. (I swear, it was just a surgery floor, not a section 8 ward or anything). And the sweet stuff. The nurses who showed such kindness and patience. Watching my parents, and the ballet between them, after being married for 56 years.

Here are a few other things I learned:

~security guards don't like it when you walk past them and say, "Hey Buddy" to their guard dogs and hold out your hand for them to sniff (the dogs, not the guards).

~The Tater Tot folks have been keeping something from us. The cafeteria had these amazing tater tot "logs"--even better than the hash browns at McDonald's. (I know. Tater Tots are sorta low-class. I love them anyway. But, I also work in my PJs.) It was very good I didn't discover them until the last day.

~And finally, when I saw Matt Lauer at LAX (he was out there for the fires) I do believe I was much more tickled to see him than he was to see me. I daresay he might not even be aware that he saw me.

It's good to be home.

Telling Stories

This morning, I drove 200 miles with a cracked windshield. Once I got over the worry that it was going to collapse in on me as I drove, I'd find myself looking at it and thinking of how stories get written. (Okay, backstory here--I'd been visiting my younger son at college for Family Weekend. Saturday night I took him and one of his buddies out to eat. I was reminded once again of how no one enjoys eating with more gusto than college boys who aren't paying for it. We walked back to my car to discover some hooligans had decided to wing an empty beer bottle at my windshield, leaving it with a lovely bulls-eye design. Disclaimer #1--my first words were "Holy F---!" Disclaimer #2--this was not the first time my son had heard me use such language.)

But as I looked at the cracks emanating out from the middle (the point of impact I surmised, using all my best CSI powers), I would notice how some wended one way and others a different way, but there wasn't always a logical pattern. And some of the lines criss-crossed and I'd wonder which original crack they belonged to. (Okay, it's a pretty dull drive. And there was very little traffic). I was also listening to some good storytelling music (Sugarland, Mary Chapin-Carpenter and three Springsteen CDs). I like all those artists (okay, I like the first two; I'm a complete fanatic for The Boss) and one of the things I like best about them all is the way their songs tell stories. And the stories, through details, make me wonder and think. The stories aren't neatly packaged, they aren't all tidy and happy. Sometimes they raise more questions than answers. (Stop now and go buy Springsteen's new CD, MAGIC. It's that good.)

And I thought about my WIP--which is done, but not quite. I've written the ending (which I chatted about doing a few posts ago), and am now in the "filling-in" stage. Going back and adding texture, adding layers, making sure the lines criss-cross as they should and wander out from the point of impact. I love this stage of writing a novel--I know the characters, know what caused their cracks and broken edges, know which ones have healed and which ones never will. I get to polish things up and make sure nothing collapses in on itself.

As I drove I also thought about another story--this one true, so true, as a matter of fact, that if you wrote it people wouldn't believe it. And it's full of broken edges and criss-crossed lines and things happening as they should even when the fissures are so deep as to seem insurmountable. I had Jeremy in my ninth-grade English class. And while I guessed at some of his challenges, I had no idea what he was going through. He kept a smile on and he did his work (okay, not at first, but when I explained that yes, I too believed he could play college and maybe even pro football but no matter what he needed to pass 9th grade English), and the other day when I read this in the paper I cried and smiled and thought, this is the sports story I want to hear--not about Michael Vick or steroids, but about a good kid and good people who helped him become who he is.

Stories--the true ones, the ones we make up, the songs--they all start with a single point of impact, and where the lines travel and twist and intersect is what makes each one unique. The power is often in the journey and the connections.

We Just Want to Go Back

"What do you think of this Cabernet? Is it better than the first one?"

"Should we take our nap at 3 or 4? I guess it depends on when we're going to dinner."

"Do you mind getting me another mimosa?"

"Would you rather picnic up on this hill or down by the river?"

These were the sorts of questions we bandied about during our five+ days in the Napa Valley. Far different from the questions that define our more mundane (and stress-filled) everyday life.

We reveled in the trip. We relaxed more easily than I'd ever thought we could.

We began our trip tooling around in a silver mustang convertible. Completely impractical in our real lives but a blast on vacation. And perfect for driving down the Pacific Coast Highway on our last full day on vacation. After awhile I ran out of superlative comments for each new ocean view, finally settling on a whispered "damn."

If you've never been there; go. Go now. Stay here. You will not only stay in a gorgeous room where you'll have a fireplace and a complimentary bottle of wine waiting for you, but every morning you'll get to dig into an amazing champagne brunch (at no extra charge. This is NOT your typical free hotel breakfast.).

If you stop in to the St. Supery Winery, I promise you will not be the first to ask, "So what percentage of the people here spit rather than swallow?" I was relieved that when my husband posed this question, his attention was focused on one of the lovely spit buckets, so it was clear to all in the tasting room what he was referring to.

Following a tour of Mumm's makers of champagne, we wandered along the road to V. Sattui. You can't buy their wines anywhere but here, so pick up a few bottles. We also availed ourselves of their deli and put together a great picnic. Later in the week, we stopped at the venerable Oakville Grocery for picnic supplies.

It's hard to rank the different restaurants, so suffice it to say you'll eat well at any of these places--Mustards, Tra Vigne, Hurley's, Uva, and Annabelle's (in San Francisco).

One of the best wine tasting/tours we went on was at the Robert Sinesky Winery where they have culinary tours where they pair food with the wines. Both were superb.

But we weren't only gluttons for food and wine (just mostly). We visited one of the three Old Faithful geysers in the US where we made some not too terribly original jokes as it prepared to spew and tried but failed to startle the goats into fainting. I also read 2 1/2 books (4 hour plane rides are good for that!): We Need to Talk About Kevin, Never Change, and Forecast of Evil.

It was a hard trip to bid goodbye; tough to admit it was over. Tomorrow a new work week begins, but we're now 48 hours into re-entry and we're no longer grumpy about being back, but rather we're happy we went (I realize that sounds pretty hallmarky, but I guess I'm still feeling the glow.).

I promise my next post will be all about writing. I have a book to finish and then revise after all. But, I have a hunch my mind will be wandering often in the next few weeks back to a picnic at a table on the grounds of a winery, or watching the sunset over the vineyards, or smelling the tang of the ocean spray as we come around another turn south of Half Moon Bay.

Great trips and good books have that in common, don't they? The ability to take you far away, take you back, take you to worlds removed from your everyday life.

A toast, then, to books and travel.

It's Been a Year . . .

There are so many ways to view that phrase, so many different inflections. For me, this week, it's been a full year of being a published author. Whew. Pretty amazing. I had all sorts of dreams and hopes and wonderings for what the first day, week, month, year would be like.

Here's a brief summary: 2 TV interviews, 1 radio interview, 1 podcast. 5 literary festivals. 18 book club chats, 11 bookstore appearances, 8 visits with high school creative writing classes, 3 conventions/luncheons with organizations, 1 four-week class taught. 1 trip to NYC. I've made drop-in visits and signed copies of my book at bookstores in 10 states.

But those statistics don't begin to tell the story. I don't even know if I can put it into words (kinda scary as a writer to say that). A year ago I hadn't yet discovered blogs, let alone thought I'd ever have one. A year ago I hadn't yet experienced walking into a bookstore and not only seeing my book on display, but having employees saying (before I'd introduced myself), "Hey, it's the author!" And year ago I hadn't met most of the fabulous writers I now consider friends.

I hadn't heard from mothers and fathers who'd experienced what I'd only imagined. I hadn't known they'd show me pictures of their children and the organ donors who'd received life-saving organs from those same children. And I hadn't yet hugged those moms and cried with them as they thanked me for putting into words what they couldn't. In a radio interview the other day, the co-host asked me if I felt "like a success" and if so, how. I told her the biggest thrill, bigger than signing a contract for my manuscript, bigger than seeing my book in stores, was hearing from readers all across the country. Readers who read my book, connected with it and took the time to write me and tell me. And that's the truth. Knowing that my words resonated to someone I've never met, except through my characters, is success beyond any measure.

I remember when my oldest son turned one, and I looked back over his first year. He'd gone from a four and a half pound preemie to an almost-eighteen pound almost-toddler who could run and climb and laugh and who'd stolen my heart from the first second. I was stunned to think that a year earlier I hadn't know him, hadn't been a mom, and now, for the rest of my life I would. And it was this same oldest son (now 21), who insisted last summer that he didn't want one of the complimentary copies of my book, no, he and his brother wanted to walk into a bookstore, plunk down their own money and buy it themselves. And, mention to the clerk that their mom had written it. (Yes, I cried.) And now, looking over the first year of my book's life, I feel some of the same awe I felt with him. A year ago, I didn't yet see myself as an author. Now I do.

And, I have to say, as unprofessional or unsophisticated as this might sound: cool beans, hot damn, it totally rocks.

On the Road Again

In the past four days, I've driven 1077 miles in 5 states. A couple things I noticed:

~Kentucky has very few billboards (especially compared to my home state of Missouri). I enjoy driving so much more when the scenery is rolling hills and those great white horse farm fences as opposed to signs offering adult video superstores juxtaposed with warning signs about how I'm going to hell. I mean, really, how do they know that about me for sure?

~Kentucky also had two official state signs that intrigued me. One was a plaque stating that on May 14, 1988 a fatal bus crash occurred on this site (I drove particularly carefully for the next few miles). But, it had my writer's mind going--what were the specifics? How do the families feel when/if they drive over this road? The other sign made me chuckle. It stated that the next exit would take me to Big Bone Lick State Park. That'd be fun to use in a book someday, I thought. If I wrote erotica (I don't).

~I sing great in the car. I figure it must be the acoustics.

My trip took me to the Southern Kentucky Book Fest which was a blast. I got to hang out with writer friends I've met at other conferences and also met some other great new writers. We were the ones hanging at the bar. I then extended my trip to go up to Columbus, Ohio to visit my son who's a student at THE Ohio State University. I stayed at his apartment (student housing has not changed since you were a student, no matter when that was). I took him to the grocery store and out to dinner. We had a blast; it's so incredibly satisfying to see your child turning into a great adult. (I also felt very middle-aged as we walked around the campus. It was a gorgeous, sunny, warm weekend afternoon and there were kids playing volleyball and laying out on blankets everywhere supposedly studying. The girls wore bikins and the boys wore shorts with no shirts--another aspect of college life that hasn't changed. Oh, and I got hit in the head by a boy throwing a frisbee. He apologized. My son laughed and suggested that perhaps he was trying to "hit on me" after, of course, he made sure I was uninjured.)

Given how many miles I knew I'd be driving, and how many books I'll never get around to reading, it would have been smart of me to rent some books on tape (if nothing else to distract me from the road signs). Alas, I'm not that organized. But, I actually like planning out my travel CDs. This time I was heavy on Springsteen (but that's standard for me). I also threw in some old Mary Chapin Carpenter, Jackson Browne, and Billy Joel. They tell some good stories, those folks. And that's what it's all about--whether it's those of us who publish our stories in books or the songwriters who put out music. The turn of phrase, The metaphor. What's included and what's left out and up to the reader's/listener's imagination. That's where the art comes in, where the craftsperson really shines.

And of course, when I'm rolling down the highway, signing "Thunder Road" along with Bruce, I feel 17 again. There's something to be said for that as well.

Happy Trails . . .