Jen Safrey's Unlined Notebook

I'll Self Help Myself. Thank you.

2010-01-15T18:23:00.002-05:00

I didn't do this deliberately.

I always have a to-be-read pile that is as tall as the Prudential building and teeteringly precarious. My houseguests step over it. Discarded sweatshirts and unwearable ripped pantyhouse decorate it. It's always there and always huge and I'm never intimidated by it. I love it. I love picking and choosing, pulling out of the middle.

In my car, I can't pass a bookstore without stopping. If someone else is driving, I gauge the time and the time we have to be where we're going and if I can get away with it, I suggest, "Hey, I know! Let's go to the bookstore! It will be fun." A half hour and $65 later, I had fun.

I love to read. Lovelovelove. I love fiction. Occasionally a bio of someone who fascinates me.

But I noticed a little pattern since 2010 began. Sitting proud at the top of that pile are self-help books.

Self help.

Not one, but a few: "This Year I Will...", "Bitches on a Budget", "Choosing Me Before We". What the hell?

Am I trying to tell me something? Am I that much of a hot mess? Is it because it's a new year? Is it because I can't pay any bills and I need help? Is it because I'm officially single?

Yes, yes, and yes, dammit.

I'm not sure what's going to come out of all this research. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to shake money out of trees or become an astronaut. What was I thinking? What was I looking for?

[insert answer here]

I wrote this post up to this point sure that the answer would come, but it didn't. And it probably won't. This is so depressing. I up-ended Book Tower tonight and yanked out a historical romance and an apocalyptic fantasy. Much, much better. I mean, I don't really want to find me. I read to escape me.

I Can Quit At Any Time. Seriously. That's Not an Empty Threat.

2010-01-12T19:02:00.005-05:00

I was bitchin' and complainin' to a friend today about writing my novels, and how I'm working hours and hours I have to hope I'll get paid for, and how I'm paying high tolls at the carpal tunnel, and how it's getting harder and harder to read the big E on the eye doctor's wall chart, and that I'm feeling my brain melt, sliding like liquid down the back of my throat. And he said this amazing thing to me:

"You don't have to write if you don't want to."

I froze. He went on:

"Seriously, you can do something else."

And what did I think?

I know what most of you writers would say, because I've heard it at conferences and read it on forums: "No! No no no! I HAVE to write! I have stories in me that I must tell even if they're never published! If I can't write, my soul will die a thousand bloody tragic deaths."

I thought that too. For about a minute and a half. Because it was my "but I'm a writer" gut reaction. But then I gave it a few minutes' longer thought and here's the TRUTH I discovered.

I do not have to be a writer.

I don't. I just don't. People change jobs all the time. My work as a writer doesn't define me as a human being. I would be happy to leave my day job and go home to do something I enjoy, like read, watch TV, go the movies, have dinner parties, paint my toenails. And frankly? I wouldn't miss writing. At all. I wouldn't miss the overworked broken printers and the falling asleep with my head on an open notebook and the screaming hysterically when my highlighter runs out and Staples is closed and I have a contract deadline of yesterday. No matter what other writers may insist, writing is not my life. I do not have to do this.

And with the realization that I really don't have to be a writer came a burst of an epiphany. I've just given myself permission to back out at any time. Given myself the option of quitting, of cut-and-run. Here's the crazy part:

By giving myself permission to quit at any time, I want to keep going.

I just needed to know my exit is a possibility, and always will be.

If I were a trapeze artist, and there was a trick I never missed -- never, ever, ever, I was perfect -- would I really be willing to do it without the safety net? I'd be scared. I'd probably say, "You know what? Eff this. I'm going to work at 7-Eleven." But slide that safety net under me, and I'm climbing right up to do my backflips. Maybe I'll never fall into that net, but I am far more willing to do my job if I have that "net" -- the option of a far more pleasant life.

And out I climb tonight, spotlight on me, hands over the keyboard. I glance down. There it is, ready to catch me. So I'm taking a leap.

Color My World

2010-01-10T15:23:00.002-05:00

So here's something I've rediscovered: coloring.

I'm a single woman who's voluntarily childfree, so the last thing I expected to be doing at this point in my life is sitting on the floor of my studio apartment with a box of crayons and a coloring book and happily humming along. But here I am, and here's why:

Coloring is awesome creative and mental therapy.

It was recommended to me recently to deal with my concentration issues. It's not unusual for me to have five windows simultaneously open on my computer, the TV on, an e-book on the desk in front of me, a podcast playing. I do all this and then I move from thing to thing...as I get bored, I turn to a different activity. It's tiring, and I can't concentrate on any one thing long enough to complete it, or do a particularly good job with it. I have books to write, books to edit, and generally a shiteload of work to do on every given night, so what to do?

Sitting at my desk or on the couch or on the floor coloring, my hands are busy and my mind is forced to focus on one thing...the show I'm watching on TV, the podcast I'm listening to, the person on the phone.

It's a meditation for those of us who find it hard to sit in traditional meditation.

And it's not just for focusing and quieting your mind: do a Google search and you can find the benefits coloring can have for people physical ailments such as fibromyalgia and multiple sclerosis, as well as for addiction issues.

Plus, it's just fun.

I found a couple of good Web sites for you to find coloring books and free pages to print out and color. Try these and tell me it's not fun:
** www.30minutemandalas.com (mandalas are traditional circuclar designs meant for meditation -- fyi, I have a mandala tattooed on my ankle)
** www.womenscoloringbooks.com (these are gorgeous and way fun)
** www.colormegood.com (pages to print out and color...images are not intricate, but just fun. I like the dragons.).
Also, go to amazon and search coloring books for grownups. There are even some with dirty pictures...awesome.

You can color with markers, crayons, colored pencils. I highly recommend Staples brand Twist-Up Crayons. No sharpening required, and lots of colors.

Have fun, and coloring outside the lines is encouraged.

Why I Can Only Afford to Eat Leaves for Dinner

2009-10-16T20:25:00.008-04:00

In my never-ending quest to shed light on the disrespect writers face in the work force, check out this little gem, poached off craigslist.

Looking for writers who can commit to writing at least 10 how-to articles every month. Basically, these articles are based on "how to" do anything; instructions, tutorials, in other words. A good example may be: "How to decorate your house for Christmas". -
These need to be original.
I will be checking them for legitimacy or copyright issues. -
They need to be at least 250 to 400 words. -
Clean articles, free of grammatical errors, bad words, etc. -
Does NOT need to be overly-professional, but rather casual, as long as they deliver its instructional purpose in the end. -
Preferably needed between the 1st and 15th of each month. - Will pay $1.5 per article, and increase the pay by .25 cents every three months.

Let me re-quote that for those who missed it:
Will pay $1.5 per article, and increase the pay by .25 cents every three months.

Really? I think I'll apply for that "how-to" writing job publicly right here:

How To Pay A Writer What He/She Is Worth:

1) Advertise job on craigslist.
2) Sift through desperate recession responses. Choose one at random. (We know you're going to do that. You're not fooling us -- at least, you're not fooling us fiction writers.)
3) Read writer's sample copy. Really READ it. Don't admire font size, don't sit and count words on the screen with your finger to make sure it's not 401 words.
4) DO finish reading the piece and wonder how long it would take you to write two and a half pages of creative, engaging, intelligent copy. You haven't written anything since that last term paper in college, so you'll have to give it a guess.
5) Realize it's at least an hour.
6) Go to Google and search "minimum wage." Note that the minimum wage in the United States is $7.25 an hour.
7) Consider that I was a 7-11 clerk for $8 an hour.
8) Then consider that according to a report published today by the U.N. Office for the Cooperation of Humanitarian Affairs, they've just increased minimum wage in Beirut to $300 a month. Assuming that the average Lebanese worker does a 40-hour work week, that comes to $1.90 an hour.
9) Be embarrassed for a very, very long time.
10) Offer writer a living wage. Apologize on behalf of all employers like you who force writers to live on Ramen noodles. Do you have any idea how much sodium is in that stuff? And $1.50 an hour ain't gonna pay medical bills, and it ain't gonna pay for the health insurance costs you're saving by hiring writers as contract-only positions.
11) This How-To article took me about a half-hour to write and is around 300 words. Realize that at your proposed compensation, this work -- which included a bit of research -- earned me 75 cents.
12) Be embarrassed again.
13) Send a decent sum to my Paypal account. Didn't I earn it?

Be Kind to Writers and Editors Month

2009-09-02T14:03:00.002-04:00

I'm both!

And I know everyone out there is kind to the writer(s) and editor(s) in your lives, but here's a little link to make it extra special.

Writers and editors get lonely at their desks all day. We need love.

http://writesense.wordpress.com/2008/09/24/10-ways-to-show-kindness-to-writers-and-editors/

So Many Books, So Little Space

2009-08-29T16:14:00.002-04:00

This is a kind of "duh" blog post, I know, but I think it bears reminding.

If you're a writer, you're probably amassing more books than you can handle. When you change apartments, you feel sorry for the movers who have to pick up your 23 packed boxes of books alone. You have to dust every day. You feel personally guilty for the deforestation of our natural environment.

Do what you CAN do: Share the books with others.

1) Find a great bookstore near you that either buys used books for cash or gives you store credit for them. You have to give over the books in salable condition, but that's easy for me because I treat books like others would treat Hummel figurines. I have a great store near me (I'm talking about you, Books and More in Plymouth) that gives me store credit when I pack up a nice bag of books and audiobooks and fork them over. I leave with more books, sure, but I didn't have to pay for them, and instead of amassing, I'm exchanging.

2) Donate books to the library. Libraries don't have unlimited funding for books, as far as I know. They've always been grateful when I bring in a bag of books that I've read but don't need to keep. This goes particularly for Harlequin/Silhouette category romance readers: The Boston Public Library told me once that they can't get enough of them -- they fly off the shelves! You don't get paid for this, but you get to share books you've enjoyed with so many others. And if you really want to, I think you can use it as a tax write-off.

3) Give them to people you know and love. When I read books, I often think, "So-and-so would really like this book," or "I know someone who has this same crazy sense of humor," or "I know someone who's an expert on this subject who might want to take a look at it from another perspective." Give them the book when you're done. Don't lend it; give it. It's a gift. Tell them you don't need it back and to keep it to themselves or pass it on when they're done.

I have different bags in my home office of books I'm bringing to Books and More, and books that are going to the library, and books with Post-Its on them reminding me who I want to give them to when I next see them. You'll feel good doing this. Reading is the best thing you can do, but I think sharing what you read is a close second.

Double-Take

2009-08-09T00:53:00.004-04:00

Not all that long ago, I was writing a scene, a sort of internal-dialogue thing, and I wrote two sentences, and then I sat back and looked at them. I thought two things:

1) Damn, these are good sentences.
2) I've seen these sentences before.

So I immediately got all in a panic. I thought, well, I read 100 books a year. Did I just write something someone else did? But I'd die a billion violent deaths before I did that. Besides, the last plagiarist I read about in the papers used the handy excuse (I'm paraphrasing), "Well, I liked the other author's book so much and read it so many times that I must have internalized her words." And I'd thought at the time, what a bunch of sh*t.

So where did these two brilliant sentences I just wrote come from? I thought and thought, then narrowed my eyes, then grabbed a book off my desk shelf and flipped around until I found the scene, then the page, the paragraph. The sentences.

My sentences. In my own previously published novel.

I plagiarized MYSELF.

I had a character in a comparable setting, looking at similar stuff, and musing the same thing about it. Not word for word, because unless you're trying to be a plagiarist on purpose, that's not going to happen -- but it was pretty damn close.

Nice. That meant one of two things:

1) I'd exceeded my destined word count and I was finished forever ... or
2) I needed to change my thinking

No matter what you observe, you can turn it over and observe it another way. Writers -- no one, really, but especially writers -- can't afford to take a position and stick to it, like dig-in-our-heels politicians. When we write, we're observing and expressing the new. The moment.

You look at a tree in your back yard, you might think, nice tree. The next day, you might look at it and say, hey, look at that squirrel running all over it. He's going nuts. (Ha, get it?) The next day, you might look at it and think, you know, I remember when I had a tire swing. And my best friends were Karen and Erin, and we drank Kool-Aid and played with sparklers on July Fourth. And the next day you might look at the tree and think, why do I keep parking under that thing, because there's so much bird crap, I have to make a stop at the car wash today.

One object. A billion ways to see it and think about it and retell it. Don't be so in love with your one savvy observation about something that you put your all writing in danger of becoming nothing more than variations on a theme.

See things. See more things. Then write them down. That's our job.

A-B-C and Beyond

2009-08-05T15:56:00.003-04:00

I was at Borders Books and Music yesterday and they asked me if I'd like to buy a children's book for a program they're participating in called Reach Out and Read. I did, because I always try to do something like that, and they gave me a bookmark about the program.

Today I sat down and took a look at it, and was surprised and inspired.

This program combines early childhood literacy with pediatric care. At participating clinics and doctor's offices, doctors and nurses speak with parents about the importance of reading aloud to their children. Then with every routine check-up the child gets from age six months to five years, the child gets a free book to take home. Also, there are volunteers in clinic waiting rooms that read aloud to the kids.

The idea of incorporating intellectual health with physical makes me so happy. I learned to read when I was two years old...that's not a brag, that was the influence of my mother, who put so much importance on reading to me and encouraging me to learn. I, in turn, taught my sister to read before she entered kindergarten. Now I read every spare minute; I write novels; I don't know what I'd do without books in my life.

As writers, I truly believe we have a responsibility to promote literacy. I'm not a parent, but I still encourage all parents to do the same. When a child reads, it expands not only the intellect, but the imagination, and will spawn the kind of next generation of which we can be proud.

If you go to http://www.reachoutandread.org/, you can learn how to donate money or gently used children's books, conduct a book drive -- or become a reading volunteer, which I've applied for myself. There are also myriad literacy programs -- for kids and adults -- out there and I ask you to find something you can do to help.

Or, just read a book to a child today.

Meat My Sister

2009-08-01T18:44:00.002-04:00

My sister, Liz, told me today that there was something wrong with her refrigerator and she gave me a few details (she can tell a good story about the most mundane things; it's like Seinfeld with her) and the best, funniest line was about what her husband was doing during the refrigerator catastrophe:

"He was running around with armfuls of meat."

Tell me that's not a hilarious sentence. I need to get it in a book.

Lighting Up the Night

2009-07-24T15:28:00.004-04:00

Last week, I parked in my driveway at that interesting moment when day is night and night is day, and you're not really sure whether or not to put your headlights on.

Anyway, I parked and looked out over my lawn. Which I have, now that I'm renting a home in the suburbs. In the city, I'd be lucky to get a spot anywhere, much less a spot that I can actually call mine.

I looked out over my lawn and saw the strangest thing: A firefly.

A dash of greeny-yellow light, dipping down and disappearing.

I thought I didn't see it. I thought it was a trick of the twilight. I thought maybe it was my memory of fireflies resurfacing to mess with my mind a little.

I stood still. My eyes scanned the yard. But there was another one, zigzagging up from my bistro table. I blinked. There was another one, streaking over the big rock. And another one, in my neighbor's flower patch. And another, and another, and another.

It grew darker. They grew brighter. I grew amazed.

I haven't seen a firefly since I was a kid. I remember one summer a few years ago when I remarked that I hadn't seen one in years. Maybe I thought they were extinct, or that they only lived in New York suburbs where I was a child. I don't know. Either way, they hadn't crossed my mind in such a long time and now here they were, crossing my yard. Blinking in that way they call to each other, or see in the dark, or for whatever reason they blink.

If you have an idea, blink and you might forget it.

If you have a success, blink with a failure and you might forget it.

If you have a dream of your art, and what you want your art to mean, blink and it's gone.

But if you widen your eyes enough, if you stand still, that idea, that success, that dream is there, burning, elusive. It's not gone, though you hadn't thought of it in years. It's there, hovering at the edge of your memory, at the edge of your eyesight, even at dusk when it's hardest to see.

Don't forget the fireflies. I guess they've always been there. I just forgot how to see.

The Freaky Writing Machine

2009-07-18T00:25:00.002-04:00

B. Jason Roer, a writer and all-around awesome guy, just informed me via Twitter that he wrote 4,626 words today.

In two days, he tells me, he's written nearly 9,000 words.

And not even at gunpoint.

Not only that, he says it's some of the best writing he's ever done!

He is, I told him, a freaky writing machine.

I'm insanely jealous of his process.

Here's my process: When I'm under contract or on self- or agent- or editor-imposed deadline, I'm strictly 1,000 words a day. Five pages. More is cake. Less means making up the deficit the next day.

When I get the pages done, I'm happy at first. And kind of dizzy when I stand up. But when I read it over, I think it's horrible crap. I stay up at night thinking it's horrible crap and I have to fix it. I can't eat because someone who writes horrible crap should be fixing it, not eating. I kick pads at class really hard like I'm kicking my horrible crap.

It's ugly and scary. My process is UN-fun.

But when I finish the book, I eventually realize it came together, and it's good, and it's worth a venture into the world. That's when it's fun. Finally.

That's my process, and it's a tough one. I'm hard on myself and my word count is slow. But it's my process, and I can't really change it, because as bootcamp as it is, it gets my job done.

Dr. Evilgenius333 (his Twitter name, but seriously apropos for this purpose) has a different process. I can be jealous of his process, and believe me, I really am today, but that's how he writes books and that's not how I write mine. He has fun. I do not. We're still both writing.

But he just pep talked me on Twitter, and reminded me I've done this before, and also reminded me it's hard to switch genres and try something new. There's still no way I'm writing 4,000 words tomorrow, but maybe I can try to be a little more proud of myself, and have a tiny bit more fun, and get something, even just a sentence, so right that I can pat myself on the back for saying something the way no one else would.

He also called me a goddess of writing. So I bestow all writing wonderfulness on him for that. Go find him on Twitter or go to his site down in my list of links.

Thanks, Evilgenius. (Now, there's something you don't say every day.)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

2009-07-17T04:24:00.003-04:00

I surf craigslist postings every now and again for freelance gigs and really just to see what's out there for writing and editing opportunities. And I have found good jobs there in the past. It's a great resource.

But I'm sick and tired of companies listed under "writing/editing" and "writing gigs" offering "salaries" that I would half call abysmal and half completely laughable.

These are real. I write fiction, and I still couldn't make this up. One company is offering $1 to edit one 150- to 300-word article, and ups that to a whopping $2 per 500-word article.

Listen: 500 words is two and a half double-spaced pages. TWO dollars.

Another company is looking for "talented writers" who must have excellent (their bold type, not mine) writing skills, and they're paying $5 per article.

Another company, I guess considering themselves more generous, offers "$4 and up" for a 150- to 200-word article. They want "a great writer with experience and expertise." Another company wants to pay $4 per 350- to 500-word article.

People, is this a joke? Would any talented person in any other line of work have to tolerate and maybe even consider this bullsh*t?

Even if others don't respect your writing and editing skills, YOU must respect it. Respect it enough to take a pass on these cheap bastards. I think it actually costs more money to photocopy your resume, so when you do, please send it to places that will pay you what you're worth.

I realize we've fallen on bad economic times, but you won't make money working for 50 cents an hour. Do anything else. I fell on hard financial times and so I worked at 7-Eleven while I wrote my books. Did it suck? Yes. But I got $8.50 an hour. There's no shame in that. Where there's shame is letting companies take advantage of your talent, and paying you for an article what amounts to a lunch at Taco Bell.

Take your writing and editing talents seriously, and only deal with employers willing to do the same. Be fair to yourself, and respect your work. Please.

OK, all fixed.

2009-07-16T11:53:00.003-04:00

Weird. Everything disappeared into thin air and then returned. Hmm.

Blog problem

2009-07-16T11:49:00.000-04:00

I apologize but it seems my blog posts have disappeared. They're in my archive but not showing up on my page. Please don't go! I'm trying to get this resolved as soon as possible.

I PASSED!

2009-07-11T13:18:00.003-04:00

And I'm now a first-degree black belt in taekwondo.

And now I sleep. I'm exhausted, my back hurts, I have a bruise on my leg I don't remember getting, and I have a splitting headache.

Otherwise, I feel GREAT!

Thanks for all the good wishes. :)

Black Saturday and Artistic Infidelity

2009-07-09T00:58:00.006-04:00

I just took a looky-loo at the countdown clock on my blog and realized with a headache-inducing blood blast in the center of my brain that there's two days, eight hours, and change until my black belt test.

So now, for really the first time, I'm starting to think about all the people I've told about this looming test:

*My whole family
*Every friend I've ever had
*The cashier at the supermarket (it just came up, I don't remember why exactly)
*My ear, nose and throat doctor (because you're supposed to tell your doctor everything)
*Everyone who reads my blog (thanks, by the way)
*Everyone on Facebook, and everyone on Twitter, which basically amounts to...

...everyone in the universe.

And the fact remains that even though I've worked so hard, even though I honestly think I've done everything I could to prepare for this, and even though I'm ready to celebrate my achievement, I could just as easily blow it.

Now, this isn't funny, but if it was, it's because I'm the opposite when it comes to my writing.

I won't tell you about a project I'm working on. Because it's a big, fat secret. Ask me what I'm writing and I'll give some weird vague industry term, like "oh, it's an urban fantasy set in blah blah blah" whatever. I'm not going to tell you the title unless you force it out of me. I'm definitely not telling you what it's about.

Because I might screw it up halfway through and quit, or it might be rejected, and I don't want people to know that. I only want to tell everyone when I sell, when I win an award, when I've been validated somehow. I want to look good. In short: If no one knows I tried, no one will know when I fail.

I had my second-to-last class before the test yesterday and I was awful. I bumbled around like I'd never seen the inside of a dojang. My instructor knew I was rattled, so he said to me, "Even a monkey falls out of the tree." (Then he hastily amended that he didn't mean I'm a monkey.) I know what he meant, and I appreciated hearing it right then, and I know he's right, and common sense tells me that if I'm going to have a bad day, better to have it in practice than on Saturday, but...

Why did I tell everyone? Why did I so spectacularly throw my test date out there like some big show-off when this really hard test is absolutely no given?

I don't know. Maybe it's because when I'm writing, I'm lonely. It's lonely. It's tiring and boring some days to me, even, and I don't want to talk about it most of the time. But taekwondo gave me bravado. Bravado, and some confidence, and some chutzpah. Maybe a lot of chutzpah.

And that's been a good thing for me, and for my writing. It's hard to turn chutzpah off. So now when I sit at my computer to write after kicking pads for an hour, I feel good. At least, I feel less bad when the writing doesn't go so well.

If you're a writer, chances are that it's not your only passion. But if it is, find a second one. Really. Success in one passion spills to the other. Challenges in one passion gives you a lesson for the other. Consider this your permission to commit artistic infidelity.

I might as well say it again: My test is Saturday. I'll let you know how it goes.

If you're thinking about what to write today, write about someone -- you, maybe? -- facing a new challenge, or finding a new passion, or both.

If You Are On Mass. South Shore or Cape Cod:

2009-07-06T11:24:00.002-04:00

I'm holding this class at Plymouth Guild for the Arts.

Finding Your “Write” Path (age 16+) with Jen Safrey
#685 Sa 7/18-8/22 1:00-2:30pm
$60m/ $70nm
This class is for beginners and repeat beginners writers. Is there a writer inside you wanting to get out? Has the writer inside you gotten out and is now screaming to be let back in? This class will help you begin – or begin again – a writing practice that will start you on your path to writing regularly. You will learn how to try to find your own niche – and your unique voice. This class, taught by a multi-published, award-winning novelist, will be informal, supportive and a lot of fun. Limit 8 students

Leaving an Artistic Legacy

2009-06-26T01:48:00.003-04:00

All artists seek to use their unique perspective and manipulate their chosen medium to influence, to effect change, to be heard.

Michael Jackson was an artistic pioneer.

He went from baby-voiced Motown prodigy to pop innovator and genius. MTV was still young when his Thriller album and videos combined storytelling, music shockingly new to our ears, and brand-new, slick dance moves that we'd all practice -- and moonwalking took a lot of practice. I learned to do it on the street in front of my house, Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough barely blaring from one of those flat cassette players with a handle.

Jackson left his mark on music forever -- shades of his influence and style are in every pop musician's own body of work. Listening to a radio tribute of a bunch of his songs this evening, I found his songs stand the test of time. Every Michael Jackson song is different, but every one undeniably Michael Jackson. In death, he's now being compared to Elvis and The Beatles, and rightly so -- like them, he created the soundtrack of a generation. My generation.

Oddity and notoriety shadowed him after his greatest successes, and I see that people younger than me only identify Jackson with scandal. Clearly, he battled personal and mental demons, and I truly hope he didn't hurt others in any way.

But no artist can deny that he did, in his life of art, what we all want to do when we mold clay, dip into a palette, strum a minor chord, scribble a paragraph, make art: influence, effect change, make ourselves heard.

Happy Father's Day...

2009-06-22T00:21:00.007-04:00

...to my Dad, John Safrey.

Who isn't Web-savvy enough to find this blog, I bet.

So I'll just tell all of you:

*He's helped me buy a car,
*driven four hours just to take me out to dinner on my birthday,
*showed me that to make sure the board is level, the little bubble in the green liquid has to be in the center,
*introduced me to horse racing when I was a little girl and wanted a horse (I still do),
*took me to his three-decade-tradition Jets tailgate,
*explained the difference between area and perimeter until I actually understood,
*played a rowdy bocce game with Chris and me,
*bought me a heart-shaped box of chocolate every Valentine's Day until the year I finally got one from a boy,
*keeps alive the Christmas Eve Safrey Father-Daughter Pool Tournament tradition (although I think I might be reigning at the moment),
*appreciated with me Beavis and Butt-head, Mystery Science Theater 3000, and Lost
*figured out with me how to box a lefty (try to keep your left foot outside your lefty opponent's right foot)
*and, when I showed him one of my Harlequin books was translated to Icelandic, brought a copy to a guy he works with who is indeed from Iceland.

And nearly 38 years of more.

Thanks for everything, Dad.

Jen: Study Guide Questions

2009-06-20T13:31:00.009-04:00

XYZ Book by Jen Safrey
Book Club/Reading Group/Study Guide Discussion Questions/Topics:

1) Do you think Jen always wanted to write this book? Do you think it came to her in a beautiful soft dream, or in loud, half-drunk riotous speculation during happy hour at Sam Diego's? Discuss.

2) How many times do you think Jen forgot to take her daily medication during the three months it took to write this novel? And how many times do you think her boyfriend reminded her as she nodded and kept typing? What do you think he was eventually muttering under his breath when he left for work every evening? (If you come up with a good answer to last question, please contact Jen at jennsaf@yahoo.com. She'd like to know herself.)

3) At what chapter of this book do you think Jen stood up, threw her pencil on the floor, upended her rolling desk chair and screamed, "I can't take this f*cking book anymore!" And what do you think precipitated her to grudgingly start again?

4) If you saw a person pacing in her yard, moving her lips and gesticulating, would you think a) crazy person? b) novelist? c) crazy novelist person?

5) What do you think Jen ate for daily dinner while writing this masterpiece? Do you think she lounged in bed with bon-bons and chamomile? Or perched on the sofa watching Seinfeld reruns with a bowl of Ramen with a three-inch coating of grated parmesan to make it edible? Perhaps pheasant under glass? Maybe Cap'n Crunch with soy milk because of her lactose intolerance?

Segue question 5a): How much money do you think Jen makes? (Go ahead, talk about it. People have actually asked Jen right to her face to tell them her writing salary. Her answer is always, "Seven zillion dollars a month. How much do YOU make?")

6) Judging by the theme of this novel, which "real" job do you think she was working at the time of this particular book to keep the collection agencies at bay? a) clerk at 7-11, b) sales copy writer for a candle company, c) phone operator at a matchmaking service? Bonus: Can you guess how long job "c" lasted? If you guessed under eight hours, your book club must buy you a $10 gift card to the bookstore coffee place.

7) Why do you think Jen does all of this, book after book after book? a) she's a masochist, b) she's good at nothing else, or c) she loves it more than life itself?
The answer's d) all of the above.

Discuss.

Notes on Unexpected Weight Loss

2009-06-16T01:24:00.003-04:00

How to lose two pounds in under a week:

1) Have your boyfriend ill for several days.
2) Get your bathroom renovated, which apparently takes eight days.
2A) Stay in a motel for two nights because your toilet bowl is in the kitchen and your bathtub is in porcelain pieces. (I like motels, but not under duress.)
3) Board your cats in a lovely place during renovations, only to have them hate you upon return home.
4) Work nights again, when you haven't in years. Stress over wardrobe every one of those nights.
5) Try to write a first chapter of one book and rework another book at the same time.
6) Beg a doctor to do something about your continuous ear popping and mysteriously be given allergy medication to deal with the problem, which is politely insinuated is all in your head. (That's what I'm trying to say! My ears are ON my head!)
7) Forget to eat most of the time, and when you remember, stuff ten handfuls of parmesan Goldfish crackers down your gullet and call it your big meal of the day.
8) Spend $200 on eBay. In one hour.

Although I don't recommend this diet to my worst enemies on Earth -- Weight Watchers is truly the only way -- it works. The high point of my week was looking at that scale, and it prompted me to finally eat, in one day, a bagel, three Snapples, a soft-serve ice cream cone with colored sprinkles, Red Robin Steakburger Sliders, and a gallon-sized Coke. Gained one pound the next day but hey, I'm playing with house money on this one.

I'm sleek as a greyhound. I'm down to my former jockey weight. Unfortunately, I have zero energy and sleep ten hours every day, so no one will see my ass in a bathing suit this summer.

Did you need to hear all this? No. I try to be upbeat and/or informative here. But I needed to say it, and I know you'll all understand.

Thought Of The Day

2009-06-15T22:48:00.003-04:00

Chris is home sick today and spent all day lying around.

Finally tonight, he laughed and said to me, "You know what? The only calories I burned today were the ones associated with conscious thought."

Book Burning Debate. Yes, Really. In 2009.

2009-06-15T16:46:00.003-04:00

You might have seen or heard of this by now, but four men claiming to be from the "Christian Civil Liberties Union" are trying to ban a young-adult novel by Francesca Lia Block...and not only ban it, but have launched a legal claim to publicly burn the Wisconsin's library copy of it and they're asking $120,000 in compensatory damages for personally being exposed to the book.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/jun/12/christian-group-sues-burn-gay-teen-novel

It's not my wish on my blog to be political. I just want peace and fun and writing talk for all.

But ALL writers and ALL readers and ALL educators and ALL librarians have a stake in this unjust crap and I beg you, do not stand for it -- in your communities or anywhere.

For this "group" (could just be the four guys for all I know) to use the word "Christian" in their name and witch-hunting crusade is another abomination. I'm not aligned with or against any religion myself, but I do know this: Jesus spoke words that the establishment and people in charge didn't want to hear and he paid for it with his life. I'm quite sure he'd be astonished to find a group suppressing people's words and opinions are doing so in his name.

This all makes me sick to my stomach. Writing is about getting your words out there, being heard. I don't claim to know the meaning of life but I suspect that's at least part of it.

You can really, really hate a book. Or a bunch of books. Or you can read nothing at all but your cereal box if that's how you want to live. But you can NOT take away others' rights to the free exchange of ideas and the opportunities to form their own opinions.

I'm pretty sure I'm preaching to the choir on this blog (no religious pun intended), but I still had to say it.

Both Sides of the Desk: Writers AND Editors

2009-06-14T01:13:00.008-04:00

I'm a published author. I'm also an copy/line editor of published novels for a house I do not write for (very different books from what I write, or I wouldn't do it).

I've also gone both ways in journalism. I've been a reporter (though not for very long because I hated it) who had to work with editors, and I've been a copy editor who had to work with reporters.

I've been on both sides of the desk.

So I know the rewards of each job -- and I know the down side of each. So I thought I'd put together a couple of wish lists: What writers want and need from editors, and what editors want and need from writers.

Now, I'm speaking from years of experience, and not picking on anyone in particular. So please, if I've worked with you, this isn't a vendetta of any kind. :) When talking writers, I mean novelists. When I'm talking editors, I mean line/copy editors. I've never been an acquisition editor or any other kind of editor, and I really don't want to be. Writing is my first passion forever. But I have a lot to share with you, and I really want to.

Here goes:

HEY, EDITORS! This is what authors want you to know:

1) Remember, it is ultimately NOT your book.

2) Your responsibility is to improve the book while preserving the integrity and voice of the author who wrote it. Your job isn't to rewrite the book the way you'd have written it if you were the author. You're not the author. Your job is to take the author's book and make it sing just a little bit louder and prettier than it already does.

3) If something needs clarification, if you really don't understand something, if you think there's a crucial missing piece, do not write it yourself. Communicate with the author and clearly explain what you see wrong, and give the author the opportunity to either fix it himself, either by rewriting, adding something new, or just fixing it. If the author really disagrees with the change, respect it and make a decision: let it go or take it to a higher power, and let that higher power (publisher) decide. Don't -- I repeat -- don't make any substantial changes without communicating and working with the author. Most authors are expecting this and will be happy to cooperate.

4) At the same time, don't bother the author by telling her every little comma you're adding in. She's fine with that; she expects you to work on sentence structure and small things.

5) If you personally don't like a book you're editing, too bad. If there's something specifically wrong or confusing, talk to the author, but if you're just not into the story, again, too bad. For the duration of your editing that book, it's the best book you've ever read and you're making it even better.

6) If, by the end of the book editing process, you've noticed some some specific weaknesses that need improvement for the future, let the author know. Authors generally appreciate the input, because they're usually already working on the next novel and can try out your suggestions. Also, please let the author know if he/she did something particularly wonderful so they learn what their strengths are. Some authors get fixated on what they think they do wrong and really don't know what they're doing right. Tell them!

HEY, AUTHORS! This is what editors want you to know:

1) Remember, it is ultimately YOUR book.

2) Turn in a clean manuscript. As clean as you can make it. If you've read as many books as a writer should, then a lot of grammar and punctuation should have rubbed off on you. If not, if you know it's your shaky skill, work on it. Read The Elements of Style, a short but significant read. Grammar is something you can get good at.

3) This kind of relates to #2. Please, please use spellcheck before you turn in your work. If you don't, you're wasting an editor's time cleaning up what you could have done yourself -- time that the editor would rather be spending on things like trying to help you improve your story. And remember that spellcheck can't catch homonyms. Loath and loathe are different. Rein and reign (and rain, I guess) are different. Is it a copy editor's job to fix these things? Yes and no. An editor wants to catch mistakes, but not have to fix every other word, so that she's freed up to do important things like check your consistency of story and character and voice, overuse of certain words, etc.

4) If you catch yourself saying, "Well, I don't know, but the editor can fix that," you're not being professional. Yes, the editor can fix that, but an editor isn't infallible and the more mistakes there are, the more chance there is that she'll miss one. Here's an analogy: If you have a maid service (which I don't but wish I did), you tend to pick up before the maid gets there. You'll take your socks off the floor so she can do the heavy-duty cleaning and not be bothered with the things you can do yourself. Same thing here.

5) Feel free to disagree when an editor contacts you with a substantial change suggestion or question. It's your book. But remember, be open to what the editor has to say. If an editor thinks something isn't clear, then a reader might think the same thing. I remember a wonderful editor once telling me she thought I could cut out an epilogue completely. I said no, I don't think I tied up loose ends. I need it; I'll rewrite it. She said okay. I rewrote it, and she said, I still don't think you need it. I rewrote it one more time, and she turned it down one more time until finally I deferred to her. And you know what? She was right. I didn't need it, but I didn't realize it until she said it over and over. Her experience is what made the difference, and I appreciated it.

6) If possible, try to get your hands on a copy of your manuscript with the copy changes before it's published. Some publishing houses might not do this or have the time to do this, but ask anyway. And when you review it, talk to your editor or publisher if you think the copy editor made a bad mistake or chose words you didn't like or cut a sentence and you don't know why. It's your book; it's your right. Sometimes an editor changes something and makes it wrong.

Writers AND Editors: Listen up!
Sometimes an editor and writer just don't click. They don't see eye to eye on a project. They don't like each other personally. Whatever. You can try to switch around and change editors, but sometimes there's short staffing and tight deadlines and you're stuck with each other. So keep it professional. Work things out. Listen to each other. A writer and an editor have the same goal: Write a great book, polish a great book, and get that book on the shelves.

It's my greatest joy to see a book on the shelf that I wrote, but I'm also so proud of a book I helped edit that gets a great review. Both jobs seem impossible some days, but the rewards are so, so worth it.

Good luck, whether you're an author, an editor, or a strange hybrid like myself. I don't know nearly everything, so if you have a suggestion from either side of the desk, please comment!

Perhaps The Sky's Our Limit

2009-06-12T11:37:00.007-04:00

I just read in the newspaper (yes, I still read newspapers, the last watchdog of society) that NYC is going to shoot 2,000 Canada geese that live near La Guardia and JFK airports (in about 40 parks and waste treatment plants and other areas within five miles) because of the danger they pose to planes.

The city -- my home city -- is waiting until molting season, when the geese aren't flying, so they can slaughter them all on the ground, I guess, while they're helpless.

Now please don't misunderstand me. Airline disasters affect me hard. I was in journalism for a long time. I've seen terrible photos and read horrific accounts. I have nightmares when I hear about them now. I cry while watching CNN's reports, most lately Air France 447. It's a tragic ending to so many wonderful lives and I know every human feels the same.

But I don't feel that slaughtering geese is any kind of answer. Frankly, a goose shouldn't be able to take down an airliner. If I hit a goose with my car, it certainly wouldn't total my car, a far less complex mode of transportation.

I think the answer should be to continue to step up efforts to improve the technology of the airplanes so birds can't bring them down and kill hundreds of people. I know this has been a concern for a long, long time and for years, it's been worked on, but it's not enough yet, it seems. A collision should only kill one unlucky goose or an unfortunate flock in the wrong place at the wrong time, not people, not ever. Or perhaps wildlife officials should build alternate structures that would attract geese for nesting a safe distance from airports.

And I can't help thinking this: The geese were there first. The sky is theirs. The human body isn't physically designed to fly. Geese are. So when we travel in the air, we're guests in their space, and we ought to respect that and work with that.

I hope the FAA and NYC eventually realize that blowing the heads off geese isn't the answer. The FAA cites 77 instances of birds colliding with aircraft in the last ten years, and I don't remember 77 crashes, so it seems the technology is fairly decent already, but it's got to be better so not one plane falls to accidental bird-hitting. I think the answer is recruiting the best and brightest minds, people who can improve our airplanes, something that's been attempted for years. We can find an answer, I know it. I have faith in human intelligence.

All Scrunched Up

2009-06-11T08:50:00.005-04:00

OK, after some Internet research, I've discovered the SCRUNCHIE is back. Leading the charge is American Apparel, with a big assortment of colors.

Blogs are going insane: No! they're screaming. I won't wear them! They're horrible! Why are they making a comeback? They're ugly! Make them go away!

But I remember a South Park episode where the kids are trying to create a dance team and they ask the Goth kids if any of them want to join. In turn, they each say they're too non-conformist to join a dance team, but the last kid says he's so non-conformist, he's going to non-conform with his Goth friends and join.

This is kind of how I feel about scrunchies. Stupid-looking? Sure, if you go for neon and a top-of-the-head or side ponytail. But maybe in a nice muted color to keep my hair back while I'm writing or taking taekwondo class. I don't need to wear it on Newbury Street or 7th Avenue. I have a lot of really nice clothes and I wouldn't mar them with an '80s throwback hair look, but at the same time, I'm non-conformist enough to say this: They're comfortable, they don't tear at your hair, and they're all right for stay-on-the-couch-and-watch-Law and Order nights.

So in spite of my pretty good fashion sense, I'm getting two: One in cobalt blue and one in charcoal. And go ahead, mock me. We non-conformists -- and geeks, and writers -- are used to it. I can take it.

Musical Interlude

2009-06-09T13:43:00.008-04:00

If you're a fan of my blog, please don't run away from me because of what I'm about to say. I'm not condemning anything today. I'm just writing to express that I don't get it, and maybe someone can get me to see the light. I don't like to soapbox-preach...I'm very willing to learn.

That said, here's what I don't get: Broadway musicals. They seem to fall into a few incomprehensible categories, including the following:

1) Disney cartoons gone live action with the same songs.
When I have a DVD player and a $17-a-month Netflix subscription, do I need to pay upward of $100 to see Disney movies in non-animated form? Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid? Really? Why not just rent the movie and watch Disney's art? Frankly, the Broadway shows would be thirdhand copies of Disney secondhand adaptions of actual stories. Better than DVD, why not just read the rich, layered, wonderful stories by their actual creators?

2) Hit movies adapted into musical productions.
Legally Blonde? Seriously? Again, any weekend of the year I can find the charming Reese Witherspoon for FREE on cable doing the original. Sometimes as a marathon followed by the sequel. All I need is popcorn and pajamas for this. I don't need to go see a non-Reese Elle Woods singing songs written to make a movie into a musical movie. The Producers, I blame you for this. Now we have, I've learned, The Wedding Singer (sans Adam Sandler, who is really the point of watching the movie) and this could have been my new allergy meds talking, but I swear to all that is holy that I just saw a commercial for The Color Purple as a musical. The Color Purple? And it looked like it had raucous and fun singing and dancing. Awfully happy -- which was really one of the only emotions that story doesn't elicit, as wonderful as it is.

3) A Broadway show somehow written around a pop/rock artist's box set.
To me, this is truly matching your entire outfit from head to toe to coordinate with one cute ring you have. Zero sense. Billy Joel, the artist for whom I've camped overnight for tickets (sitting in a wind cyclone on a Mass. Pike overpass a half-block from Tower Records) worked with Twyla Tharp on Movin' Out, a story written to fit a bunch of Joel songs. Do you know what that means to me? It means, again, $100 a ticket to see Billy songs sung by a person who's NOT Billy Joel. Same goes for Mamma Mia. Although ABBA isn't anything I'd ever go out of my way to hear, somehow an entire show was written around their songs. Isn't it easier and cheaper to download to an iPod?

My conclusion:
Broadway singers, dancers, set designers, musicians, and every single other person in the business is undeniably talented and deserves to be seen and appreciated. Those Billy Elliott kids...I hear they're peerless dancers. I just don't understand why these artists' only outlets are re-packaged stuff. I confess I'm only a casual observer and I'm certainly NOT up on my Broadway news...I only hear of what's popular, but what's popular seems to be regurgitations of already-digested work, and often don't make sense to me anyway. What are all the writers doing? And what's putting The Color Purple in a musical form going to offer? Maybe the chance to tell it to a new audience? That would be a good reason, I guess.

I want to see something NEW in musical-land. Different, original, undone. Is there anything? Can someone tell me, because I'll be first in line for a ticket. If anyone can clear up my bafflement about this whole thing, please help me out. I'm really open to learning. Meantime, if I'm looking to buy a Broadway ticket soon, I'm going for a straight-up play.

That Ivy-Covered Grandstand

2009-06-05T01:42:00.003-04:00

I won't have access to the Internet this weekend when I go to NY for the Belmont Stakes on Saturday, so this post goes up a day early.

Safe ride for all in the Belmont Stakes...the race of champions.

20 Years of Nonstop Thrills, If Anyone Asks

2009-06-05T00:31:00.005-04:00

I was invited, sort of second- or third-hand a couple of days ago via vague e-mail, to my 20th high school reunion next month. I took a pass. For several reasons, most of them practical, regarding vacation time and all that.

But even if everything fell logistically into place, I think I'd still skip class.

I did go to my 15th class reunion. Chris and I drove to NY from Boston and we planned to taxicab it from my mother's so that we could drink and not have to drive home. But my mother insisted on dropping us off. When she turned onto the street where this nice restaurant was located, I hissed from the back seat, "Mom, stop! Park here at the end of the street. Don't take us to the door. I don't want everyone to see my mother dropping me off, God."

Regressed 15 years and I hadn't even arrived yet. But seriously, I wasn't cool then, I was never cool then, and I didn't feel like starting this reunion off on the uncool foot. Not when I bought such excellent shoes for the occasion.

Chris was his usual self at a party where he's a complete stranger -- which is to say, just hang out and have a good time chatting to anyone. I don't know how he does this. I always have party fear, which he just doesn't get. [An aside: We went to a party last year thrown by fairly new friends of mine. He didn't know them at all, or really anyone else for that matter. I huddled in the corner with the two friends I knew well. When I looked up, I saw Chris suddenly behind the bar, taking orders, laughing it up. He's amazing.]

Anyway, the reunion. We walked in the door, and I had this creepy, weird feeling -- it was the party fear, but there was a rippling layer of surrealness over it. I looked around and thought, "Oh my God, I don't know anyone here." Then one heartbeat later, I looked around a second time and thought, "Oh my God, I know everyone here."

I got a name tag with my yearbook picture on it, the one where I was wearing a lace collar and looking like I'd be a convent novitiate upon graduation.

Really just a strange couple of hours. I had to squint to identify some of the women I hadn't seen since back then --without their bangs sprayed up into a concrete 3-inch-high wall, it wasn't easy. Our junior and senior prom videos were playing on a loop, which seemed silly, if not unjust to my old friend Steve, who'd commandeered the videographer for a two-minute dance solo at the senior prom and now had to hope his wife didn't see it every time she headed past the TV to the ladies' room. I had a few nice long talks with a few girls I used to know, including Karen, my best grade-school friend whose mother still lived around the corner from mine.

She also told me that everyone's mother had dropped them off.

But when it was time for dinner, it turned into the high school cafeteria. With a cash bar. I retreated to a back table with all my friends, many of whom I'd still kept in contact with anyway.

So ended the evening.

Facebook eliminates the novelty of reunions these days, doesn't it? No need for traveling and buying a nice outfit, and catching up is a breeze.

So, as for the 20-year, no. I'm sorry, South High Class of '89. It's nothing personal. But in case anyone asks about me, my last 20 years have been nonstop action-adventure.

I Love Writing, Times Infinity

2009-06-04T16:11:00.004-04:00

Today, the fun fact under my Snapple cap reads: "The infinity sign is called a lemniscate."

I was immediately reminded of the schoolyard, and playing with friends, and how we used the concept of forever to one-up each other.

[Exterior. Day. 1970-something. Me and friend, eating Snickers bars from the candy store]

"I like Snickers."

"I like Snickers more."

"I like Snickers times ten."

"I like Snickers times a hundred."

"I like Snickers times a thousand."

"I like Snickers times infinity!"

And, clearly, that was the end of all conversation on the topic of Snickers adoration.

Just one word, encompassing all time and space. Big concept for a kid, who can see to infinity. Bigger concept for me now, who sees an end far, far before that.

Thank you...

2009-06-03T01:03:00.004-04:00

...to everyone who sponsored me in the May yogathon for Karma Krew. Karma Krew raised $20,000 and you did your small part for me in allowing me to contribute $240, which includes a generous matched donation from the wonderful Downes Pest Control in Duxbury, MA. The only pest they can't control is me. :)

Thanks so much, and congratulations for building up some good karma.

New June, New Beginning

2009-06-01T22:01:00.003-04:00

June is my best month for starting a project.

I guess it's because I was born in June, and on that day, I started my first and longest work in progress.

Today, my friend Candi took a major leap and started writing a book.

She's so into it. That enthusiasm is the reminder for me that writing is supposed to be fun. Fun! Somewhere along the line it becomes part fun and part work, then all work. But you can begin the fun again. You have to.

Remember when you first had your idea for your book, and it was awesome, and you couldn't stop thinking about it, and you were in a hot air balloon ready to push off?

Then remember that first look around while you drifted happily? Pretty. Different. Cool.

Then remember when a big pin punctured that balloon, sent you crashing to the ground, and you sat there, dizzy and hurting and pissed off?

But while you're sitting there, you'll see another balloon lift off, a beautiful one, and suddenly you want to be in the air again, up there where it was so fun, up there where you can wave at others in the sky with you.

Patch up that hole and let it fly.

I'll be outlining chapter one tonight...

Superpower Walking

2009-05-31T20:26:00.005-04:00

I got caught in a thunderstorm today and I kind of did it on purpose.

I was cagey and lethargic, and watching the sky grow darker outside my big living room window, and the leaves were blowing in a storm, so I put on a hoodie and headed out.

I lived in Boston for so many years, and I used to walk everywhere for everything. Milk? Walk to the store. Movie? Walk to the theater. New dress? Walk to a shop. Here in the suburbs, I need milk, stamps, anything, I have to get in the car. I missed walking, and maybe fooled myself into thinking my legs didn't work anymore. But once I started moving them, they mysteriously functioned.

It had gotten cooler but I walked along, thinking about not much. Kids were playing on the Little League field, but I couldn't tell if it was some kind of official game or just goofing around. I could tell it was fun.

I looked at things I didn't see in the city: A guy mowing his lawn, pausing to wipe his brow on his forearm; bright azalea bushes, like the ones in my mom's back yard; a tricycle abandoned in a front yard, maybe for milk and cookies inside. Lots of writers advocate walking off writer's block, or even just walking before a writing session to clear the mind. I can understand that a little better here in the suburbs. In the city, walking was as necessary and unconscious as breathing. Here, walking is for its own purpose. The air smelled clean and heavy with a storm.

I liked it.

When I heard the thunder rumbles, I turned around, but I was still a few blocks from home. It started sprinkling, and I actually said out loud, "Nice storm." Heavy on sarcasm.

Nature took offense, the sky opened up, and lightning cracked over my head. I ran.

I thought about something a young woman said in an office where I worked a few years ago for a couple of months. I forget her name now...Anna? A thunderstorm broke open just before she was supposed to leave for home, and instead of moaning about it, she said this with honest glee:

"If I get hit by lightning, I hope I get superpowers."

And that's what I thought today, running home.

No superpowers, though. Just wet socks.

Maybe next time. I decided there will be a next time.

Giving Myself a Break

2009-05-26T20:32:00.003-04:00

Yeah, that board?

The one with three knots in it? The one that's been mocking me from the corner of the dojang for like a week?

I kicked its ass today. Which is to say, I kicked right through it with my wheel kick. SMASH!

When I was standing in front of it, focusing on it, I realized, I have it today. I just do. And I did.

I asked if I could take the board home. It's in my bookcase.

It's a good feeling.

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T11:59:00.008-04:00

Happy Memorial Day. I'll be taking a hike today and enjoying a nice day off. I have a laugh when I think that every year in high school, I was the baton twirler who led the Valley Stream South High School marching band in the local parade. Good times.

But this holiday was created for a reason. I was a journalist before I was a novelist, so I can't stress enough the importance of knowledge, and the responsibility of Americans to make an effort to understand the world and our place in it.

Below, Bill Moyers, a journalist who pursues the hard truths we often don't want to hear but can't ignore, gives us some food for thought on Memorial Day.

Have a wonderful holiday.

BILL MOYERS: Finally, this week, my friend Louis Bickford spends his days, and often his nights, on the healing and prevention of atrocities and crimes against humanity. Cruelty, horror, and misery are part of his portfolio at the International Center for Transitional Justice, along with the power of memory.

...[Louis Bickford] says that Memorial Day is meant to remind us of the hardship of war. But he goes on to ask, "What does it mean to choose how to remember?" What does it say about us, for example, if "...we choose to remember the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, more in terms of heroism than error..." This, he reminds us, is the "...tendency of all nations."

Louis got me to thinking that when we meditate on war this weekend -- our recent wars, that is -- will we overlook the suicides? Sweep under history's rug the recent murder in Iraq of five American soldiers by a comrade who may have been driven mad by the horrors around him? Will we forget the death from friendly fire of a Pat Tillman and the shameful cover-up by the brass, including the role of the very general who now heads our operations in Afghanistan?

What of all those villagers killed by drones remotely fired in our name? Why aren't they part of the narrative we tell ourselves about war? Louis Bickford wonders if we'll ever remember, "...that there was a place called Abu Ghraib on the dusty outskirts of Baghdad, and that torture took place there, for which we were responsible?" After all, he says, it was the complicity of Republicans, Democrats, journalists and lawyers -- some of them scholars -- that allowed us to ignore international and American law prohibiting torture.

Over some 40 years now it has seemed to me that as time goes by we tend to remember wars, and the suffering they bring, as if they were inevitable, natural acts of history, rather than politically inspired choices. But war, as was famously said, is politics by another means -- the lethal legacy of failed leadership, enabled, even ennobled, by propaganda, the partisan opiate of politics. It is good to be reminded, as my friend Louis so eloquently reminds us, that war is too important to forget, and that's one reason to observe Memorial Day. There is another -- to hold before our face a mirror, so that we might see the images of war reflected in our own eyes.

That's it for the JOURNAL. I'm Bill Moyers and I'll see you next time.

[Jen's Writerly Reminder: Bill Moyers produced the 1988 documentary Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth, which every writer should study. If you're not already familiar with it, I strongly suggest you get a hold of it.]

The Sound of Music

2009-05-24T22:35:00.003-04:00

On my cable TV service, there are music stations way at the top, and there are channels for jazz, gospel, R & B, rap, '90s music. They have '80s music, but I'm so done with that. It's the music of my youth, granted, but it went in phases for me: Phase One, when it was brand new top 40 stuff; Phase Two, when it was fun nostalgia, something to bond with friends over; and Phase Three (present), when I'm so, so done with it.

Anyway, there's a station called Soundscapes, and it's basically New Age music. But it's a real variety: Celtic music, harp solos, Enya, George Winston, wind chimes and airy flutes. And the music just plays with photos of butterflies, mountains, red rock country, fluffy dandelions.

I have this channel on ALL DAY LONG.

I write to it. I clean the house to it. I read to it. I nap to it. It's the perfect subtle soundtrack to my home life. I turned it on today around noon and it's still on at 10:40 p.m.

There are a lot of people who can't write to music, and I'm one of them. I love music, I love humming along and singing but if I'm doing that, it's occupying the logical part of my brain that I need to write. But with Soundscapes, and New Age music in general, it's often melody free, just musical sound to calm your mind without actively engaging it. Try it; I think you'll like it.

Random Cerebral Offerings

2009-05-23T21:06:00.006-04:00

Usually I try for a blog post with a writing theme, or at least an amusing anecdote. Today, however, I have a lot of different things floating around the ol' brain fluid. So here are some thoughts, in random order:

1) Today, I read that the ex-South Korean president killed himself. He was embroiled in a political scandal and so ended it all by jumping off a cliff. This is very sad, no matter what he supposedly did or didn't do.

I can't help thinking that if he were an American politician in similar scandal, not only would he still be alive, he'd be offered a book deal.

2) I found these awesome hair clips online. I was sick of seeing all these girls with effortlessly knotted, stylishly messy updos when I'm so uncoordinated that my updos are just messy. So I went online looking for something easy and found Zannclips. They're these coily pins, so pretty. I e-mailed the company with an ordering question and they e-mailed me back saying they love my blog. :) If you have long hair, get thee to their Web site. http://www.zannclip.com/. After a little practice, I now can put up my hair and it actually looks pretty, and though I'm normally not a product spokesperson, I appreciate them so much that they're getting a plug here. Tell Suzanne and Jeannette hi for me when you order.

3) I used to think mind maps were a bunch of crap until, in desperation a few months ago when I hit a brick wall on a chapter, I actually tried making one. To my utter shock, it worked. Now it's a regular part of my creative process.

To me, it's like taking a walk through your thoughts and tying them together visually. When you follow the paths you make, you can arrive at good and unexpected solutions. I don't know who's the formal creator of mind maps and I'm sure you can research this online. I just write my problem or character name in the middle of paper in a circle, and draw lines out from it, brainstorming in different directions until I hit the right one.

I just did my first thematic mind map tonight for a sequel novel I'm planning. I got down a bunch of things I already knew about it and expanded them even more, and found a bunch of things I didn't know were there and explored them. It was fun. And when I can make writing fun, that's a plus.

4) I played mad scientist today -- all that was missing was a Bunsen burner. I made my own ant repellant. Chris found the "recipe" online. If it works, I'll post the link. It's very heavy on the citrus. I hate war in general and don't relish the concept of ant genocide, but those little f**kers left me no choice. Death by lemons.

5) I'm so thirsty the last day or two, I'm afraid it's a medical condition. But I'm scared to research it online because I don't want to read that it could be something bad. So I'll just keep chugging Snapple.

Board-dom

2009-05-22T11:44:00.003-04:00

At taekwondo class yesterday, I noticed the knotty board I couldn't break (see two entries below) still sitting in the corner of the room.

At the end of the class, Mr. Seo said, "Jennifer, next week," and he pointed at the board.

If I don't break it this time, I'm going to take it outside and smash it on the edge of the sidewalk. I know I was very philosophical about it before but now I can feel it mocking me.

A Crystal Rose By No Other Name

2009-05-21T12:07:00.009-04:00

Run, don't walk -- I guess what I really mean is click fast, not slowly -- to Red Rose Publishing for a copy of Crystal Hubbard's new ebook, Doctor's Orders, making its debut today. Here's the link:

http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/product_info.php?products_id=508

Crystal and I worked together for years at the Boston Herald as copy editors and when we realized we were both novelists, we became friends for life. We've done booksignings together, and you haven't done a dual booksigning until you've been with someone who unabashedly hangs leis around the necks of everyone who walks into the bookstore, makes complete strangers laugh, and sells books like crazy to people who never met her.

Just being around her is amazing: words tumble out of her mouth nonstop, filter-free, and she's so, so funny. I admire her for her tenacity, prolific output, and emotional prose. She encourages me, she inspires me, and she's the best friend everyone wants. By luck or by fate, I know her.

Read everything you can by this talented and sparkling woman. She's written both children's books and romances. But keep in mind, she says, that this particular ebook is spicier than her other romances. Knowing her, that could mean anything.

Love you, sweetie.

School of Hard Knocks

2009-05-19T22:54:00.014-04:00

In taekwondo class today, we worked on board breaking. We don't do it very often, but three of us have to practice for the black belt test, where we'll have to break boards with punches, wheel kicks, 360-roundhouse kicks and jumping side kicks.

Today was wheel kick day. My instructor, Mr. Seo, held up the board for me. I hadn't done this break in months. There isn't going to be much more practice time before the test.

And the board had three big tree knots in it.

But I generally have a pretty good wheel kick, so I figured after a few tries I'd make it.

So I kicked, once or twice missing completely, but most of the time thunking my heel over and over and over. Hard. Even when Mr. Seo suggested that I pack it in and try again next time, I asked him if I could keep trying. I did.

But I now have an still-intact knotty board, ice on my heel, and a certainty that I suck.

Relate this to writing, Jen. All right, I'm getting to it.

There are three possibilities I had to deal with today:

1) I'm just bad at this. Well, as much as I'd like to think this and often do, it's not true because I've done this break before, in a test situation, under pressure. And I blasted right through a board with a different kick last week. But today just wasn't a good taekwondo day for me. I was winded earlier in class, I was frustrated. It happens.

Same with writing. I'm a published author. I know I can write a publishable book. But sometimes it's just not a good writing day for me. Or writing year. You can be good at what you do and still have a tough time doing it. That's a fact.

2) It's not my fault. The freaking board had three knots in it that would have taken a bulldozer to break through. Maybe. But I can't control that. The day of the test, the board that's put in front of me is the one I will have to break.

Same with writing. You could write the best novel anyone will ever read. But your market might be tight or not-yet-existent, or the agent or editor you send it to just doesn't get it, just isn't into it. There are things out of your control. That's another fact.

3) I can learn from this painful experience. With every kick and fail, my instructor gave me a tip or two: Slow down the start of my kick. Inch a little closer to the board. Don't stop at the board -- push through it.

Same with writing. With every painful rejection or writing block, there's something you can take away from it, something lasting, that will be with you. You'll learn what it is that finally helps you break through a chapter, or a helpful editor or critique partner will offer some advice to improving your work for the next time you send it out.

So despite some evidence to support possibilities one and two, I'm going with three.

It hurts. Writing hurts a lot. My heel hurts even more. But after the pain is gone, I'll be armed with a little more knowledge and will have let go of a little more pride. And I'll be able to stare at that blank screen or thick board and realize I have what I need -- I just need that moment of magic to happen.

It always happens, I promise. I hope it happens to you today. For me, looks like tomorrow might be better.

Two For the Money

2009-05-16T18:50:00.006-04:00

Rachel Alexandra makes history beating the boys in the Preakness, holding them off the whole race...

...and longshot Derby winner Mine That Bird shows skeptics he's the real deal with a zigzaggy trip and a flying finish for second. One more furlong and he would have had the second Triple Crown race.

Can't wait to kick back in my seat in the regal, ivy-covered Belmont Park grandstand and watch a great 2009 Triple Crown finale at the Belmont Stakes.

I Tip My Journalist's Fedora...

2009-05-12T21:22:00.002-04:00

...to Christopher Ave, and his song, Copy Editor's Lament (The Layoff Song). Rock on, brother journalist. I've never been so understood.

http://christopherave.wordpress.com/2009/03/06/copy-editors-lament-the-layoff-song/

Tony, My June Rendezvous

2009-05-12T12:20:00.011-04:00

I'm flipping through the pages of my planner this morning to schedule in a few things and when I turn to June, I see my handwriting in big capital letters:

June 5:
TONY --

Tony? I'm thinking. Who the hell is Tony? Did I make an appointment with a Tony for something? Is he a dentist, a shrink, a personal shopper? No... Did I suddenly become like that guy in Memento who has a short-term memory dysfunction and I have to write notes to myself to remember things, and Tony is someone I'm reminding myself I'm supposed to remember?

How well do I know this Tony? Is he my secret lover? Has Chris seen this planner? DOES HE KNOW ABOUT TONY? [Please realize this all went through my head in the span of a half-second.]

Then I look underneath to June 6 and to my entry there: BELMONT STAKES. And I realized with a head thump what I really wrote.

June 5:
TO NY --

Ah.

Sock Puppets Are ALWAYS Funny

2009-05-05T01:37:00.004-04:00

That's all. Just wanted to get that out there.

Puppets in general are twenty-eight kinds of awesome, but sock puppets rock my world. A sock puppet doesn't even have to "say" anything, just be there with googly eyes and an open mouth and I laugh so hard I can't breathe and get one of those pains in my side like someone continuously kicking me.

Chris said I'm so un-discerning about sock puppets, I would likely find his big fleece mitten funny if he just opened and closed it and made a squeaky voice. I denied it, but when he did it, I went out of control. I had to beg him to stop. It was like when someone tickles you and you're hurting and you beg them to stop but because your pleas look and sound like laughter, they keep it up. He didn't cease and desist until I was full-on crying with laughter. Over a mitten.

Run For The Roses...

2009-05-02T00:43:00.006-04:00

When nineteen horses push in a colorful, thumping blur of power around that first turn today, Churchill Downs' twin spires cutting the twilight sky, I'll blink back a tear. It's beauty and courage in motion.

Safe ride for all today, in the 135th running of the Kentucky Derby.

Write What You Learn

2009-05-01T23:23:00.012-04:00

"Write What You Know."

I'm sorry, no. What kind of advice is that? Furthermore, what FUN is that?

If all I did was write what I know, I'd fill one of those little pocket assignment pads, maybe about three-quarters through, and then that would be it, and I'd be off to wander the streets in search of a new career.

If you want to write fiction, you have to write what you don't know. That's why it's called fiction. If you only wrote what you know, it would be called memoir. (And if that's your goal, get your butt in the chair and start typing now, because you've already got all you need to write.)

To me, "write what you know" is a big ol' cop-out, and I suspect it makes for a few really boring novels. "Write what you learn" is better, isn't it?

It's fun! It means getting out of your own head and out into the world. Learn new things. Take classes, read books, join clubs. Talk to different people: find out what they do and why they do it and why they like or dislike it.

I confess I've written a couple of newspaper-type characters, so yes, drawn on some experience. But I've also written layered, complex, very UN-me characters: a teacher, a drummer, a caterer, a jockey, a district attorney, a business consultant, an ambassador's assistant, a mother. And faeries, for crying out loud.

Yes, writing what you don't know means research. So do it. It's more fun than you think.

Are you worried about making a mistake? Yes, of course, and you should worry about that, and do your very best not to make a glaring goof-up.

But not writing the book you want to write because you're afraid to make a mistake is an excuse to write nothing.

I know, because it's been MY excuse for weeks now. I wanted to write a time travel to ancient Egypt. I'm not an Egyptologist. All I really knew about the topic when I came up with the idea was how to Walk Like An Egyptian (and badly, at that). But the more the story idea ate at me, and the more I realized I wanted to tell it, I finally had to accept that it was time to do some learning. I'm smart -- and more importantly, I really want to learn about this time period. So I know I can do it.

And in not so much time, I've amassed at least enough knowledge about this one particular year BC to be the likely person in an average room of people to know the most about it. I know enough to start my project. I'm excited to learn more and more, so I can create more.

If you really want to write that novel about nuns opening their own cannoli bakery on one of the moons of Jupiter, you can't stick to "write what you know." (If you can, I really want to meet you.)

It's fiction. Write what you DON'T know! Rather, choose to write what you don't know, get to know it the best you can, then write it. You're transporting your readers somewhere different and fresh and new -- why shouldn't you get to go there too?

Besides, if I wanted to write about a neurotic, somewhat self-absorbed, wordy, city-girl-in-the-suburbs named Jennifer, it would be the easy way out. And it wouldn't be fiction.

It would be a blog.

The Legend of Ricky C.

2009-04-30T00:27:00.008-04:00

Chris has this desk that he bought at a junk sale long before I met him. It's a school desk, exactly the kind we all sat at in our classrooms: wooden top, hollowed-out metal inside for books and papers, and a groove in the front for pencils.

I asked Chris why he would have ever been compelled to buy such a thing, and he told me that at the time, he needed something to put his TV on. Which makes sense. He hates shopping, and I can definitely imagine him walking past a yard sale, mentally calculating the size of his TV relative to the top of this desk, and buying it for fifty cents -- just to avoid going to IKEA or Sears.

But the part about this desk that I find most interesting is that just beneath that pencil groove is a name, carved so dark and so determined, it might have taken an entire school year to create its crooked perfection: RICKY C.

"This is Ricky C.'s desk," I said to Chris.

"Yup," he said.

"Who's Ricky C., I wonder?"

He shrugged and said, "It doesn't really matter, right? There was a Ricky C. at my school, your school. Everyone knew a Ricky C."

I thought about that for a long time. I can't distinctly remember a Ricky C., but I can't definitively say I didn't know one. He was probably there.

Chris was right: Ricky C. exists in the buried memory of every one of us, a ghost of the kid we can't remember exactly now, but who sat next to us for a whole year, maybe, or pushed us on the swing, or copied our math test answers and flunked right along with us.

With just those letters -- RICKY C. -- that kid made me try to remember, to relate to him, to wonder where he and all those other kids went when they left my everyday life.

When you write, I think that's the kind of impact you want to have on your reader. Make him or her remember, relate, wonder. Make the reader feel what you feel.

Yesterday, I noticed the desk in Chris's office, with a row of Chris's shoes on top, a row inside (shoe heels sticking out), and a row of shoes on the floor underneath. "I thought Ricky C. was a casualty when we moved here," I said.

"No way," Chris said. "He was in the basement. But my shoes needed organizing."

"And a shoe rack from Bed, Bath and Beyond was not an option?"

"I called in Ricky C. for this one," he said. "Now he's in charge of my shoes."

Sorry, Ricky. This is how we immortalized you.

Help Feed The Animals: For FREE

2009-04-29T11:10:00.004-04:00

How about a way to help feed abandoned/neglected animals that costs you NOTHING but five seconds of your time?

Go to http://theanimalrescuesite.com and just click the big purple button. That's ALL you have to do. The site's corporate sponsors and advertisers use the number of daily visits and clicks to donate food to the animals in exchange for advertising.

It's so easy to do this every day, first thing when you log on to the Internet. I'm doing it, and I encourage all of you to do it too. They need help, and who's going to help them if we don't?

Thanks, all.

The Synopsis: A Book Report for a Book No One Wrote Yet

2009-04-29T00:05:00.004-04:00

This is where my greatest writing weakness is, and I know it full well: the synopsis.

It's not really my writing style I take issue with. The style needs to be interesting but still utilitarian. I can deal with that, but the hard part is having to tell a story I really haven't officially told yet.

If you're writing your first novel ever, my opinion is that you shouldn't even deal with the synopsis until you're done. Then, when you finally get to it, it will be easier; more like giving your friend a blow-by-blow of an awesome movie she missed. It will be tedious, but still easier.

But in putting a proposal package together with a partial manuscript, that synopsis is not easy: at least, not for me. I'm a seat-of-the-pants writer, and often in the course of writing the book, plot twists happen and surprise characters materialize that I didn't plan on at all. So the pre-full manuscript synopsis somehow needs to be meaty, thematic, and full of poignant and important scenes, but it can't possibly include everything cool -- because a lot of the coolness hasn't come to you yet. And the not-yet-known coolness might be what could have sold the book, had you known about it ahead of time.

Very frustrating. But a necessary part of this business. So, like any other aspect of trying to get my current work published, I just try to work really, really hard at it. Sometimes I eat an entire small cheese pizza in the process.

If you're in the same boat, you'll get there. You have to really squint to see land, but it's there.

Peace By Peace...

2009-04-27T15:47:00.004-04:00

Please support my participation in the Peace by Peace Yoga-thon created by Karma Krew, a nonprofit organization that works to bring yoga to underserved communities.

You'd be sponsoring me to do 10 yoga sessions in the month of May.

You can go to http://www.karmakrew.com/ to see their good work, and you can donate to my participation in their cause at: www.firstgiving.com/jennifersafrey. $1, $5, $10, whatever you can spare is wonderful.

Thank you for your generosity. Namaste, and ommmmm.

I'm No Bella Swan, but...

2009-04-26T21:56:00.009-04:00

...my boyfriend is very, very possibly a vampire.

After some initial suspicions, I decided to open a file, and it's definitely overflowing with damning evidence. Among my findings:

1) He hasn't aged one bit in all the years I've known him.
Not one smile line, not one noticeable pound of weight gain, not one hairstyle change. Nothing at all to indicate he's on the same slow march to death as the rest of us.

2) He's 100% nocturnal.
He works nights, comes home at all hours, putters around until he goes to sleep at dawn. Then he sleeps the better part of the day -- the time when the sun is highest in the sky. Which leads me to...

3) He has an unnatural fear of direct sunlight.
He's very, very, very fair-skinned. He wearts SPF 6800 on every exposed body part if there's even a chance we're going outside. When outside, we tend to go for hikes in woods, where the sunlight is slanted through trees. When I can drag him to a beach, he lies next to me on the blanket for forty-eight seconds, squirming with discomfort, before fleeing to the shaded surfside bar for a frozen drink while I have a nap in the sun.

4) He doesn't eat red meat.
But he's got to be getting his protein from somewhere, right?

5) He drinks a LOT of cranberry juice.
But I hate the stuff with a passion. So I can't verify what he's actually drinking in that tall glass as he eats his Belgian waffle.

6) He knows an awful lot about history.
As one would, when witnessed firsthand.

7) He's got no immediate family that lives nearby.
We have to travel hours to find the people he claims are his family members.

8) He loves the TV show True Blood.
The only other shows we agree on are Lost and The Situation Room. Telling? I say yes.

9) He refuses to celebrate his birthday.
He wouldn't even acknowledge it if I didn't do it for him. I guess after seven hundred and forty-three or so birthdays, they become insignificant.

10) He's practically admitted it.
I have confronted him:

Me: How old are you?

Him: Forty-five.

Me: [shaky breath] How long have you been forty-five?

Him: Since January.

Seriously. Who does he think he's fooling?

Clearly he's a benign vampire, if not a downright apathetic one, so it's not like I'm worried or anything. I've told him I know what he is and he should get around to turning me soon because frankly, I'm not getting any younger and I'd like to become immortal while I still look half-decent. Although come to think of it, it will probably take another couple of months for my hair to grow out the way I want it to, so I'll hold off pestering him about claiming me for all eternity.

No, I Won't Back Day-own...

2009-04-23T00:32:00.006-04:00

When I sing with the car radio or my iPod, I sing. No matter what song, as long as I know the lyrics, I sing. But always in my own bad singing voice.

Except when a Tom Petty song comes on.

Because when I sing a Tom Petty song, I actually TRY to sound like Tom Petty.

And this only happens with Tom Petty songs.

I fully intended to relate this to writing somehow by blathering on about "voice" in fiction, but whatever. I have no energy for it tonight. You know how important it is to craft your own unique voice.

Except when Tom Petty's on. And then we all try to sing in a Tom Petty voice. You know you totally do.

Call Me Giselle. Or Suffer My Midnight Wrath.

2009-04-22T12:49:00.004-04:00

Write today? NO! Procrastinate!

I found this cool link to a Vampire Name Generator, where you can type in your name and get your vampire name:
http://www.emmadavies.net/vampire/

Or do you prefer your fairy name?
http://www.emmadavies.net/fairy/

As a fairy, I'm Tangle Elfwand. Here's my description per the site: "She is a cheerful sprite. She lives at the bottom of tangled gardens and hedgerows. She is only seen when the seer holds a four-leaf clover. She wears a tangled dress of multicolored petals. She has delicate green wings like a cicada."

I'm smiling just thinking that there's a possibility that could be me.

As a vampire, I'm Giselle Beau Pre. My description per site: "A true child of the night, making merry of everything and light of life."

Yes, come to me, darlings.

It's good to know that as either a pixie or a bloodsucker, I retain a cheery disposition.

I love Tangle but she's much rarer for me than Giselle, I'm afraid. I'll have to work on balancing things out.

If the Shoe Fits

2009-04-22T00:48:00.013-04:00

The other day, in Boston, I saw a somewhat worn, black patent-leather pump lying on its side on the curb.

I peered around for a likely Cinderella but everyone who passed me was wearing two shoes. Mostly flip-flops, sneakers, and Uggs. No panicked, one-shoed, ballgowned princess-to-be was in sight.

The closest thing I saw to a pumpkin-turned-coach was an orange Volkswagen Beetle, but it was across the street, parked and empty.

It wasn't near midnight.

I glanced around on the sidewalks for any of those helpful mice Cinderella had befriended, but quickly thought better of it. Have you seen the size of the rats in Boston? Frankly, I don't even know why they're referred to as rats when they clearly resemble chupacabras.

I was tempted to pick up the shoe. At least see if it was my size. It was almost like I was supposed to, wasn't it?

But I didn't. Partly because I despise reality and hidden-camera shows and this smelled of a set-up.

Best to leave the shoe, I decided. Leave it there for a prince to find. Or more possibly, a street-sweeper. But whatever its fairy-tale fate, I had no right to interfere.

That didn't stop me from writing the rest of the story in my head all the way home. My favorite is prince-less: A girl waking up from a hard night of partying, realizing her best pair of shoes is no longer a pair, and calling all her girlfriends for a shoe shopping spree to replace her black pumps. And maybe getting some pink strappy sandals while she's at it. And she and her best friends (and their credit cards) all lived happily ever after.

Or so they thought.

Unbeknownst to them, the chupacabras are sick and tired of a life underground. They've banded together. And they have a plan...

A Thought For Boston Marathon Monday

2009-04-20T12:43:00.006-04:00

I love to watch giraffes run. No matter how fast they go, they still look like they're gliding in slow motion.

I love to watch horses run. No matter how fast they go, they look like they still want to go even faster.

I love to watch marathoners run. Even the last-place runner is winning over all those who never tried.

A Solo Flight

2009-04-19T15:46:00.029-04:00

Two nights ago, I went to see Flight of the Conchords.

The reason I went is simple: Two sexy, smart, funny men with a great show and greater music.

The reason I went alone is also simple: After shelling out $160 to a ticket liquidator for ONE seat, I didn't have enough left over to buy a second seat next to me.

Here's why I'm glad I went alone:

The concert was at Agannis Arena on the Boston University campus. I graduated BU in '93, so it was a nice opportunity to take a stroll around my old urban haunt. I haven't been back to the school in many years, even though I live a Plymouth Rock's throw from Boston and been in the city countless times since.

BU is a long, long city block of a campus with forays down many parallel and side streets, but the main drag is Commonwealth Avenue. So I got off the T at Kenmore Square so I could walk a bunch of blocks to get to the Arena.

First thing I did was call my mother, make her guess where I was, tell her, and point out that when I actually attended BU, I wouldn't have been calling her from a cell phone while walking down a street. Because we all just didn't do that yet.

I hung up and detoured to Bay State Road to look at the brownstone I lived in for two years, on the third floor. I turned back out to Comm Ave. and shook my head at the way Warren Towers, my freshman dorm, will never change. Eons from now, its foundation will stand, overrun by cats, tourists snapping photos.

I smelled the air, warmer than it's been, and remembered what this time of year smelled like back then: final exams, T-shirts unearthed from under piles of sweaters, the not knowing where I'd be standing at the same time the next year, or with who, and why.
I went into the student union -- which has WAY better food options and far more room to sit than when I was there.

I bought a cookie and a water and sat for a while. I was aware of being the only grown-up because I was only one dressed like a grown-up (flowy black pants, trenchcoat). Everyone else there was dressed exactly the way I used to: BU sweatshirts and flip-flops. It was a little unnerving because usually people underestimate my age, and sitting at a table looking at the Charles River out the huge windows until it got too dark to see more than the reflection of the many tables in the room, I couldn't possibly overestimate my age.

I wasn't really listening, just looking and eating, and then I heard a girl at a table next to me say to her friends, "It totally changed my life."

I wish I knew what it was she had said that changed her life. A good song? A movie? I also wish I could have said to her: "It changed your life? I graduated this place, worked in my chosen field for a decade and a half, got married on this campus and got divorced downtown, then finally found the love of my life, and wrote six novels. But every day, when I wake up, I can't even guess what comes next. So I don't know what changed your life today, but don't be surprised when it happens again, and quickly. Life always changes."

But that was for grown-up Jen to say, and instead regressing Jen stood, tossed her water bottle into a recycle bin (also not there when I went to BU) and went to my concert.

I'm glad I was alone. I suppose I could have walked along Comm Ave. with a friend and pointed, and said, "That's where I lived in freshman year, that's where I used to buy a gyro, that's where I sat when I was displaced by a fire drill."

But it was better to be alone to see it all again, because I didn't have to hide the many things that probably moved across my face: sadness, nostalgia, and that longing for a nameless, formless something that I longed for back then too, but which continues to elude me.

Here's what blew me away:

1)The Agannis Arena. Also new. If that's where my tuition money went, I approve. Amazing.
2) The concert. These two are astoundingly funny and talented. Worth every penny of my hard-earned, single-ticket-only cash.

Here's why I wasn't glad I was alone:

If I'd been with a friend, I would have taken the opportunity to stand and yell to the stage in my best New York outside voice: "Bret, I LOVE YOU!"

If I'd been with a friend, that friend would have understood, and we would have had a laugh. And maybe Bret would have heard me, even.

But I didn't get to do that, because being there alone and doing that would have only labeled me (possibly correctly) a sad, crazy fan.

And just near the end of the show, just when I was thinking, "Maybe I should just do it. No one here will ever see me again, and I'm sure I'll never get a chance to meet this famous person and say a word to him...." Just when I was thinking that, on a big-screen close-up, I saw a ring on Bret's finger. Maybe it wasn't a wedding band...maybe it was just some cool ring. But it made up my mind, because I suddenly felt ick about professing undying public love.

I would just like to say here that if you are married, Bret McKenzie of Flight of the Conchords, I wish you and your undoubtedly lovely wife the best. If you're not married....well, it can never be. I'm taken. My temptation to shout at you was a fleeting -- however very deep and real -- moment of fan-crazy.

Dive Into the Deep End, or Dip Toes Into the Shallow End: It's All Good

2009-04-17T01:06:00.012-04:00

"The truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausible."
--Sir Francis Bacon

You're a writer, so it's your responsibility to the world to give it the truth. I was in newspapers for years and our job was to find the truth and put it out there. Your job is the same; your medium is different, that's all.

Does that smack of self importance? Good, it should. Your truth is valuable, and only you know how to express it.

But if you need a different perspective, try this one:
"I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous; that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream."
-- Louisa May Alcott

I was once in a writer's gathering and the topic turned to why we write. There were comments like, "I write because I have stories inside me that I need to get out," and "I love writing more than anything in the world." I felt uncomfortable; something was not being said and I wasn't sure what it was. My critique partner and I slipped outside for some fresh air and I asked her what she thought of the discussion. "I don't know why they write," she said, "but I write to get published, make a ton of money and buy a castle in Scotland."

And I thought, that's what's missing. Wasn't that a dream of everyone in that meeting? But no one wanted to be the one to say it. I love writing, and I need to tell my stories too, but let's face it, Louisa had a point. Money and fame: powerful motivation.

Take Bacon's belief to heart, or dream of riches like Alcott. Whatever gets you to the keyboard is your right (write?) reason.

(BTW, my title for this post is filled with irony because I don't know how to swim. I really don't.)

The Dirty Dancing Phenomenon

2009-04-15T01:02:00.006-04:00

The Dirty Dancing Phenomenon (As coined by me): A name for that instant when you realize that the movie, book, TV show or other slice of pop culture is just NOT the fantastic thing you were led to believe it was.

This is my personal name for it but this has happened to all of us, right? I named it after the first time I realized I'd been snookered by the masses. When I saw Dirty Dancing.

I didn't see it when it came out in theaters. I'm not sure why. I was grooving to the soundtrack and wearing those knee-length cutoff shorts, but for some reason hadn't gotten around to seeing it. It was 1987, and I was 15. I was probably busy failing math or something.

Anyway, Dirty Dancing was all over the place. All the kids in school saw it and said it was ohmigod, the BEST ever. Everyone saw it but me, and I got a lot of incredulous: What? You didn't see it yet? So when it finally came out on video, I settled back on the sofa with popcorn and a can of Coke and was like, okay. This is going to be great!

And it just -- wasn't.

Don't get me wrong. The movie wasn't that bad. Nobody puts Baby in a corner and all that. Good dancing scenes. Rippling Swayze bicep muscles. But I still felt like I was sold a bill of goods. It was supposed to be better. It was supposed to change my life. I was supposed to have had The Time of My Life. But I'd just been had.

And the worst part of all was that I would have had kind of a fun time watching that movie if I wasn't waiting for the life-changing moment. If I'd just let go of all the hype I'd been fed, it would have been okay.

That's the Dirty Dancing Phenomenon: An instance of great expectations falling very short. It's that moment when you say, "Is that it?"

And I always call it out when I see it: "Yup, that's the Dirty Dancing Phenomenon." I think I've also told everyone I've ever met about it, partly because I'm excited to have created my own unique phrase (I hope) and partly because since I identified it, I see it much more easily. (Kind of like when someone once showed me Orion's Belt. I don't know a damn thing about the space past my own nose, but I can spot those dots every single night. I apologize for the sidetrack.)

I'll disclose a few times when the expectations and hype unfairly far exceeded the actual experience for me:

American Beauty: Dirty Dancing Phenomenon
Fargo: Dirty Dancing Phenomenon
The Dark Knight: (With honest respect for Heath Ledger's deep talent and tragic story) Dirty Dancing Phenomenon
Rachel Getting Married: Dirty Dancing Phenomenon
Grey's Anatomy: (And I watched it two full seasons to be sure) Dirty Dancing Phenomenon

Sometimes, I WANT something to yield to the Dirty Dancing Phenomenon. For example, I finally buckled after about a year and read The Da Vinci Code. I wanted to really, really hate it. Because it was a screaming success and as a writer, I was pathetically jealous. But I really liked it. You can't force the DDP.

Anyway, take it for what it's worth. Frankly, sometimes I have way too much thinking time on my hands. Maybe in another post, I'll detail my Rabbit Season/Duck Season theory, where you convince someone (most often a superior at work) that what they originally wanted is not really what they want, but what you want.

Thrilled Beyond Belief To Announce...

2009-04-13T17:09:00.003-04:00

...that today, I signed with Colleen Lindsay of FinePrint Literary Management for representation.

I'm really honored to have the opportunity to work with her! She's refreshingly honest and enthusiastic, and very hands-on with editing, which is just the kind of agent I've wanted to represent me.

Check her out at http://theswivet.blogspot.com/

And yay me!

Happily Ever After

2009-04-13T00:04:00.006-04:00

My niece Juliette is five now but this actually happened a couple of years ago, and tonight I just remembered my Dad telling me this story.

Apparently, he was reading her a picture book about a princess. (As if my niece would go for any other kind.)

I don't know what book it was, but Dad told me that on the last page he read something like, "And they lived happily ever after. The end."

And Juliette immediately said, "And the princess farted. The end."

Guess there's always more than one way to end a story. But I have to say, that one's kind of hard to beat.

Five Thousand Ways to Stay On Target

2009-04-12T00:21:00.005-04:00

I went to Target today for a doormat (which was too thick to open the frickin' door over, so I had to put it outside the door instead of inside). The rain today has practically destroyed it already.

Anyway, on the Target receipt, it says if I fill out the online Guest Survey, I'm automatically entered to win a $5,000 gift card.

Five thousand dollars. At Target.

I haven't formally crunched numbers on this one, but I think $5,000 would get me every pair of size 7 shoes, a lawnmower, a decade's worth of DVDs, twenty-eight different kinds of cereal, and every single musical greeting card for every single card-sending occasion that could possibly come up in my lifetime. And I'd still have enough left over for a soft pretzel and a lemonade. I might even ask to buy a few red shopping carts for home use. Why carry things from room to room when I can roll them?

Oh, I will win. I will put into effect every single new-age book and CD about being receptive and opening myself to the gifts of the universe. I strongly believe a $5,000 Target gift card would be considered a gift from the universe. I will wake up every day and say, "I, Jennifer, am open to winning a $5,000 gift card from Target. And, you know, maybe getting my next book published. If I'm allowed to get two universe gifts, I mean."

Who Do You Think You're Talking To?

2009-04-05T22:32:00.016-04:00

OK, there's this mystery I've been pondering for a long time, but I always have difficulty verbally explaining it to people. I'm generally far better at writing, so here goes.

I'm going to use for this example the movie Pretty in Pink, which came out in theaters when I was in high school, just like the main character. I believe her name was Andy.

Now, in this movie, Andy (Molly Ringwald) was a wrong-side-of-the-tracks, unwealthy, unpopular girl. She was made fun of, didn't belong, was the subject of mockery, particularly by nasty golden boy James Spader. But at the end, Andy triumphs, gets the guy, etc.

When I saw that movie for the first time, and when I repeatedly see it on cable, I'm rooting for Andy. She's me. She's the loser girl who finally makes good. I, as the viewer who's been in her situation, triumph through her.

Here's the mystery: When this movie came out, all the mean, popular kids in my high school saw it too. But what did they see? What could they take away from a movie like that? Who did they root for? Did they really have the nerve to root for Andy, then come to school the next day and publicly point and laugh at me for uncoolness, like my inability to perfectly slouch my big white socks, or my refusal to Aqua-Net my bangs into a high wall of steel?

Or did they watch the movie and privately recognize themselves in James Spader (like they should have) and were properly embarrassed and ashamed?

There will always be stories about the underdog winning the battles, overcoming the seemingly impossible obstacles. But there will also always be the alpha dogs who are exposed to the same stories. Do those stories - CAN those stories - mean anything to them?

So when you write a story, there's always an intended audience in your head, isn't there? Those are the people you want to tell your story to. But consider this: There will be people who read your work who are outside your secret demographic. What will they take away from the story?

I have no answer. I don't intend to change what I write or for whom, but I just thought I should throw the thought out there.

If You're in the Mood...

2009-04-03T15:21:00.004-04:00

Many creative, bright, imaginative and intelligently gifted people suffer from bipolar disorder.

I just found this site and I'm amazed at this undertaking, so I had to share.

http://www.bipolarexpedition.org/

Care and Feeding of (This) Writer

2009-03-31T12:43:00.006-04:00

You know by now I work from home, writing.

"Meals"? Not going to happen. Anything I put into my mouth is merely to sustain my own organism. I like cooking when I have guests or when Chris and I are having a weekend together, but the rest of the week, it's me against the refrigerator.

Here's my preferred list of food choices for a work-at-homer. They're all easy. And each one can be a breakfast, lunch or dinner, in my opinion, because when you're working all night and didn't sleep, who can really say with certainty that your 6 a.m. meal is "breakfast"?

1) Smoothies
I would never even bother with eating half a banana, a cup of vanilla yogurt, strawberries and some orange juice. The consistencies of both bananas and yogurt are beyond disgusting to me. And what, am I supposed to eat strawberries whole? I thought that was the kind of thing you did with a new boyfriend at a picnic or something. And orange juice gives me phlegm. You know I'm right.
But interestingly, if I throw all these items into a blender, they're transformed into something exotic, like the kind of thing I'd drink while wearing a grass skirt and a pineapple on my head.
Pro: Lots of nutrition, very little prep. You don't even need a knife. Break the banana in half with your hands. Bite the green leaves off the strawberries, spit them in the trash, and toss the berry parts into the blender.
Con: You're not actually chewing anything. And sometimes when you're hungry you just have to feel your teeth chewing something.
Final verdict: Perfect for dinner so you don't go to bed bloated and self hateful. Add some toast for a chew factor. And try to score yourself a straw (just grab a big handful next time you're at McDonald's).

2) Frozen burritos
Come to me, darlings. These are a new discovery for me. I've been distrustful of these in the past because I hate tomatoes and there's always a tomato mocking me from whatever dish I ever order at a Mexican restaurant. But my new discovery is Amy's Non-Dairy Burritos. I see tomato in the ingredient list but they masquerade themselves quite well here. Single-serving packages, three-minute microwave time. One dish and one fork all that's necessary.
Pro: Yum.
Con: Caution: Contents are hot. Also, you'll be tasting one burrito in your mouth for about 48 hours.
Final verdict: Simply eat one a day so you don't notice lingering beany taste.

3) Macaroni and cheese
Hear me now, fellow writers: You can afford to be discerning on this one, and I recommend you do, or else your brain will melt into a Kraft-fake-cheese-induced congealed clump and I truly believe that the worst prose that has ever left anyone's pen is a direct result of a pot of that stuff for lunch.
Mac-and-cheese from scratch is heaven but we're talking about fast-writer-food here. So go for Annie's. There's a bunny on the box. Isn't that cute? The mac-and-cheese tastes great, and the cheese is not day-glo orange. Chris likes the shells version because when you add peas, they hide in the little shells. Fair enough, but cooking up peas in the microwave is just an extra step. Gauge your deadline time and act accordingly regarding peas.
Pro: Cheesy goodness. And the 2.5 serving size on the box is perfect for one hungry writer.
Con: There are a few steps from the refrigerator and back for milk, and you have to do some mixing. So it's just a bit more time-consuming than what I've suggested so far.
Final verdict: In order to fight carpal tunnel syndrome, use your non-dominant hand to stir. You'll probably get some cheese sauce on yourself, but you're probably wearing your "I'm With Stupid" shirt all day, so who cares?

On the matter of snacks:
Do. Not. Keep. Snack. Foods. In. The. House.
This includes any kind of chip, cookie, ice cream if you're into that, Pop-Tarts, anything that can be consumed out of a bag or a box or a container in front of your computer.
My suggestions until now have been designed for simplicity AND dignity. I like Tostitos as much as the next person, but eating an entire bag while you write is inexcusable. First of all, you need two hands to type. Second of all....well, you know.
If you need a snack, put on clothes, put on a jacket, put on shoes, and go out for something. This forces you out of the house, something that writers often forget to do before nightfall.

Desserts:
I have this worked out for you. The PERFECT solution. Buy the six-packs of Jell-O. Each cup is 10 calories. If you go insane over your terrible chapter, and eat all six cups in a fit of food rage, you only ate 60 calories. Unless you keep going and gnaw through the cardboard. In that case, I can't help you.

One more thing:
Go out with friends to eat now and then. They love and miss you, and you need a square meal. And if you complain through most of the meal about the difficult state of publishing and how heartbroken you are at your rising pile of rejections, they might take pity on you and throw in a few bucks for your food.

Pink called me back...

2009-03-30T15:35:00.009-04:00

(Read post directly below this one or this won't make sense.)

I had a nice conversation with the young lady with whom I spoke. Unfortunately, she called while I was in the middle of something and so I didn't catch her name. (So much for my bluster in my last post about taking copious notes. In fact, I was getting dressed (see post from March 16) and kind of had to hop to the phone on one socked foot.)

This sweet-sounding woman allowed me to speak my piece -- pretty much the whole of my last post -- without interrupting or defending or arguing. She then thanked me for sharing, apologized if I was offended and I thanked her for calling me back.

So, Pink, I very much appreciate your being upfront and diligent about hearing out a disgruntled (ex-)subscriber. It goes a long way.

This Just In...

2009-03-30T12:57:00.013-04:00

I subscribe to Pink Magazine, a fairly fun magazine that targets and promotes women in business. I support women in all endeavors, so this is a worthwhile publication.

Or so I thought. As part of my subscription, I receive a regular nice e-mail called Little Pink Book. But today, here's what it says...

"Reading your news is sooo last year! Say goodbye to ink on your fingers (and face, or whatever else you accidentally touch mid-read), trying (with little success) to quietly fold up your Financial Times in a business meeting and lugging around several pounds of reading in your bag every day.

Newspapers – at least in paper form – are on the decline. But that doesn't mean you can't catch up on what's going on in the ever-changing business world between meetings, in the cab, on the plane – wherever you find a free minute to stay in the loop.

If you're not already hooked on podcasts – audio or video recordings of news and editorial segments from your favorite business experts delivered to your e-mail and downloadable to your iPod – check out a few of our favorites from newspapers you already know and trust:"

Then it goes on to suggest you listen to NYT.com, WSJ.com, etc.

I don't even know where to start.

Newspapers -- in paper form -- are a traditional, historical and valuable segment of American society.

It's frightening to hear these days that many are in trouble. The Pulitzer Prize-winning Rocky Mountain News has folded. The San Francisco Chronicle is apparently in dire straits, threatening to leave the first major American city without a newspaper.

Really think about this, people. Big city, no newspaper of record. (There have been rumors of potential buyers so if I've missed something here, let me know, but for now, I think this is still where it stands.)

These newspapers are employing the pool of reporters and editors who are gathering, writing, and verifying the majority of the information on the podcasts. If newspapers die, those trained and talented people might be out on the street. If there's no New York Times, there's no NYT.com, or if there is, maybe the people working there will be cheap labor just out of J-school with no experience. To suggest that newspapers in paper form aren't worth reading is just irresponsible.

In this recession, thousands of journalists are trying to bring you news about this recession, and many other things you need to know. We should all support their efforts to keep print journalism alive in a country that still allows free press, rather than dismissing it as unfashionable. These workers not only include reporters, editors, and page designers, but also lots of administrative people as well as union jobs of pressmen and delivery truck drivers.

I'd also like to point out that there's a large segment of the American population who can't afford computers or iPods, but can luckily still shell out a few hard-earned coins for a paper. They, too, deserve an opportunity to stay informed about the world.

It's fine to promote podcasts. I listen to a few. They're fun. But those newspaper-based podcasts need the newspaper professionals to supply the solid information. An ideal would be for every newspaper to work in conjuction with their own Web site. But to suggest that physical newspapers are on the decline and therefore not worth picking up is just ignorance and a brush-off and freakin' juvenile. Reading newspapers is "sooo last year"? More like American newspapers are sooo 17th century to today. And not wanting to get ink on your fingers? Come on.

I tried calling Pink about this but they haven't called me back. If they do, I promise a full-disclosure follow-up. I can still take notes as fast as I did when I was a reporter, and I'll be able to bring it to you with minimal type mistakes as I did when I was a copy editor.

I'm a novelist now, but newspapers are where I came from, and I will defend them until either their death, or mine.

Now, off to read my copy of The Cape Cod Times. And to cancel my Pink subscription.

The Official Dedication: Here It Is

2009-03-27T17:18:00.007-04:00

Every time I inform my mother of any writing milestone -- I finished a manuscript finally, or an agent asked to see my work, or I sold a book, or I dragged myself out from under a writer's block the size of a boulder to write one decent sentence -- the first, and I mean first, question out of her mouth is always, "You're dedicating it to me, right?"

The last time she did this, I called her out on it, but she insisted she was only joking. And I know my mother, so I know that was a bold-faced lie.

But there are always a lot of people to thank, I tell her, or I have people very specific in mind, or sometimes the book in question doesn't even sell, so it's a ridiculously moot argument.

For the record, I did dedicate one of my published books to her, but I mentioned a couple of other people as well in the dedication, so now when she asks, I say, "I already dedicated a book to you, remember?" And she says, "Not just to me and only me." Grr.

I really, really hope to sell the book I recently finished writing. It's the book I always wanted to write.

But if luck is on my side and it's sold, there are going to be numerous acknowledgments, because a LOT of people were supportive in this particular endeavor. Mom will not be the only one.

So I'm doing it here -- pre-possible-publication, and in very public view.

Mom, you listen to every scene in the middle of the night when I call to read it to you, even when it's a quarter to midnight and you have to get up at 5 am to go to work.

You always compare me favorably to famous writers despite the fact that I don't deserve to kiss the slippers of, for example, Jane Austen. But you're an English teacher so I do allow myself to believe you even though it's just a preposterous, mother thing to say.

You always offer constructive criticism even though you know I'm going to yell that you don't know anything, hang up on you, then 85 percent of the time, I take your suggestion and don't bother to tell you I did.

You bought me a necklace last week because it was made out of stone from a place in Ireland where fairies are rumored to reside: because the book I just finished was a fairy story.

Thank you, Mom. And this time, it's all yours.

Put Some Pants On, Please

2009-03-16T12:56:00.010-04:00

I love clothes.

I mean, I love clothes. I love having clothes, buying clothes, looking at clothes in magazines. I get this from my mother, who also loves clothes, and is quite the fashionista. I can't even begin to compete.

Now, I had an 9-5 office job for a year and three months. It was not fun. But it had one plus: I got to wear my many nice clothes every day.

After a couple of weeks of working at home, I began to lose the will to get dressed every day. My jeans suddenly felt way too binding. My cute tops suddenly felt like straitjackets. Pajamas, I thought, perfect. And acceptable, because hey, I'm living the lifestyle. Green "Mutts" pants, purple fluffy socks, a neon yellow shirt from National Novel Writing Month, and my pink robe. A bold style statement. And comfy.

I missed wearing my nice clothes, but they were suddenly way too much of an effort.

But then came the day when I saw the mail truck pull up to our mailbox (which is inexplicably across the street) and I asked Chris to please go get the mail. (A side note: Chris works nights, so he's around when I'm working during the day.)

Chris said, "You go get the mail."

I said, "No, I can't go outside. Look at me."

He did. Then he said, "Jen, put some pants on and go get the mail."

Me: "Please?"

Him: "Look. I love you, okay? But do you remember that bald guy who played Charlotte's boyfriend in 'Sex and the City'?"

Me: "Yes."

Him: "And do you remember when he played Hurley's imaginary friend in the mental institution in 'Lost'?"

Me: "Yes."

Him: "And do you remember how whenever he popped up in Hurley's mind, he was always wearing a bathrobe like the others in the institution?"

Me: "Yes."

Him: "Well, you look like that."

Me: [incredulous open mouth]

Him: "This is ridiculous. You need to start wearing pants. Go put some damn pants on and go get the mail."

So I did, and then, reluctantly acknowledging his point and ashamed at how far I'd fallen from the fashionista tree, I tried to improve. The next day, I kept my nightshirt on but I added my Plymouth Cheerleaders sweatpants (that I got at a thrift store as I neither grew up in Plymouth nor was I a cheerleader even though I really really wanted to be). Chris lifted a slightly disapproving eyebrow.

That's it, I thought. I went online. And I found a great pair of sweatpants, accompanied by pictures of Paris Hilton AND Miley Cyrus wearing them. And Vanessa Hudgens. I don't know who she is but apparently she's some hot young thing. So, I hit "Buy Now."

They arrived in the mail three days later and I put them on: Cozy, comfortable and, most importantly, totally stylin'. I modeled them for Chris. I said, "Look at me. I'm wearing real pants. They're cute. Everyone's wearing them."

He said, "Those are sweats."

Me: "Miley Cyrus has the same ones."

Him: [deep sigh] "Fine, I'll accept them, but they barely count."

Whatever. I'm wearing them now. I'm very comfy, even if I can't see them under the robe.

Fight Club

2009-03-10T22:36:00.005-04:00

I don't want to write about rejection today. I really don't.

I've heard lots of sage advice over the years about rejection and having a thick skin. That when you put yourself out there in the world, you expose your soul to the elements and you have to be able to handle it.

I know all about it.

Whatever.

Here's what I've got:

I study taekwondo. When I'm exhausted, when my breathing hurts and is plugging up my ears, when my artfully-tied belt of status has fallen to the floor like a dirty sock, when my knees are no longer my friends and my back is most definitely my enemy, when I wonder if I'm too old or too slow or too stupid to have thought I could do this -- when I'm just done, yet I manage to throw one more punch or land one more kick, I've won. It could be a sloppy kick with zero finesse, it could be a punch that lands six inches away from the pad, and I can fall flat on my face afterward; it doesn't matter. I stagger out to my car after class feeling good, feeling undefeated.

Right now, at my computer, looking at a manuscript I've ripped apart and am trying to sew back together with a different, better pattern, I can't let myself think about rejection. It's too fresh and too hard. Instead, I punch out another sentence, and another one. They're weak and sloppy but they're what I've got left, and I want to go to sleep tonight feeling good, feeling undefeated.

I Found My Muse

2009-02-22T01:57:00.002-05:00

I've read every writing book out there. Seriously. And every time a new one comes out, I'm on it. And nearly every book talks about muses.

Some authors tell me how to coax the muse out of hiding, bribe it to help me. Some tell me there's no muse, that the idea of not channeling the muse is an excuse for not writing.

But this week, I did a guided visualization, and I found mine. I really, really did. And every word I've written since has felt like I've had him as a friend, jumping up and down next to me. He's a baby white tiger, with big floppy paws who likes to play chase and roll big rubber balls around. He sometimes takes a swim in a lake. An imaginary lake, because there's not really one nearby. There's an ocean, but that's too big for him.

He doesn't really give me ideas, but he encourages me to play with the ones I do get. Maybe that's why I haven't found a muse before. I was looking for an imaginary being with all the answers. Now I just have an imaginary friend. Like a kid. And I'm 37.

It's 2 in the morning and I'm talking weird, but he's been hanging around and I want to tell you. He's glad I found him, and frankly, I feel the same way. He doesn't have a name -- he can't tell me -- and I don't feel like I have the power over him to give him one.

Writing is lonely, and at least for a little while every day, the loneliness is not so, well, lonely.

A Great Valentine's Gift

2009-02-14T02:09:00.000-05:00

My boyfriend Chris presented me with a black ink cartridge for my printer.

This is a man who knows the path to my little heart.

A Historical Fact

2009-02-13T12:05:00.007-05:00

This morning, I was in Plymouth Center minding my own business when I looked up at a building that, in big gold letters, pronounced itself "An Historical Renovation."

An historical? Or a historical?

Having been a copy editor for more than a decade, I've gotten very picky about stupid little things that no normal sane person cares about, but after hearing someone on CNN say "an historical," I finally threw up my hands and went to the experts. I'm definitely willing to learn if I'm wrong.

http://www.theslot.com/ is a fun site for copy editors. Newspapers traditionally had (or still have, in the case of the Boston Herald) U-shaped copy desks where the copy editors sat (around the rim, or "rim editors"). The copy desk chief sat in the "slot" right in the middle of the U, in order to be in the center of all the action and police all the copy coming through.

At any rate, I checked this site for confirmation of my pet peeve. The site is run by Bill Walsh, author of grammar-porn "Lapsing Into a Comma" and "The Elephants of Style." My kinda guy.

In "The Elephants of Style" he says, "I don't care whether 'an istoric' rolls off your tongue more easily than 'a historic'; you don't go altering your pronunciation of a word in order to change the article you use before it. Your comfort is none of the language's concern."

Harsh? Sure. True? I'm going with it. He goes on to say that British English is different, which I can certainly understand, but I'm an American surrounded by mostly Americans, so that's what I'm concerning myself with at the moment.

Walsh has done his research: Among the books that fall on his side of the argument are The Chicago Manual of Style, The Associated Press Stylebook, The United Press International Stylebook, The Washington Post Stylebook, The New York Times Stylebook, the USA Today Stylebook, The U.S. News & World Report Stylebook, and Bill Bryson's Dictionary of Troublesome Words.

Now, armed with the knowledge that I have such expert opinions to back me up, I feel better. But knowing that the average person isn't as geeky as me, I'm making a strong effort to let this peeve go -- just a little. So when I hear people say "an historical" I'll try not to cringe, because people just talk differently than one another and when it comes down to it, I need to be cooler about that.

But in written English, I'm still a stickler for the rules. When one is published -- whether it's a novel or short story or article or editorial -- it's true there's usually a copy editor hired to straighten this stuff out for the author. But there's a part of me that believes that when submitting work for consideration, cleaner manuscripts will get more attention. It's a small thing, but in this economy, when less books are being acquired and bought, even a small thing could make the difference. So I do my best to look up words and rules of which I'm unsure before I submit, and I encourage my fellow writers to do the same.

And while we're on the topic, check out this clip from "Some Kind of Wonderful." The bad high school cursing and poor little Lea Thompson's treatment is worthy of some wincing, but when the awesome '80s thug comes in to rescue her, check out what he says at 3:00. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OhrvNadK_VI&feature=related

McMuffins, pies and writing

2009-02-11T01:44:00.012-05:00

Last time I went to the McDonald's drive-thru, I ordered an Egg McMuffin. I was asked if I would like two for $3.

Now, I was alone in the car, and I don't know how the drive-thru works from the inside, but I'm willing to bet they could probably see me alone in the car. So essentially, what they were asking me was, "Would you like two breakfasts today?"

I wanted to say yes. In fact, I wanted to have four McMuffins for $6. I had a rare $10 bill in my wallet, after all. But I said, "No, just one, please." Because as much as I love breakfast, I really can't justify having more than one per day.

But another time I went to the drive-thru, I ordered an apple pie. I was asked if I wanted two for a dollar. I said no, thank you, one pie is more than I should be eating anyway. The disembodied voice said, "But for only one penny more, you can get a second pie." Dammit, good point. But I turned it down. So I then paid for one pie at the first window, but when I got to the second window and they handed me the bag, there were two pies in it. I like pie, so this wasn't really an issue, but I wasn't expecting a second pie.

So what does this have to do with writing? Well, this is what I've realized: Some days, writing is impossible. You have a deadline (real or self-imposed) and nothing's coming. So your muse generously offers you a second McMuffin. But after some mental back-and-forth, you decline, because as much as you like this new idea, it's just not right for your story. You're frustrated and still hungry.

But some days -- some days writing is amazing. Your fingers fly and words fall out of them. When you first sat down at the keyboard, you were hoping - at best - for one pie and suddenly, completely by surprise, you get two pies.

Today I did have breakfast but it just wasn't a two-pie day. There's always tomorrow. Go ahead, muse, and Supersize me.

Go Do Some Work

2009-02-05T21:42:00.008-05:00

When I was a kid, first or second grade maybe, I remember saying, "I'm bored."

And not, "I'm bored," but "I'm booooooored. I'm soooo boooored." I flopped bonelessly around the house and threw myself into chairs, exhaling hard through my mouth and letting my head fall back. I was tragic.

When Dad walked by, I said, "I'm BORED."

And you know what he said to me?

Not: Go outside and play. Not: Watch some cartoons.

He said this: "Why don't you go into your room and do some work?"

Hm. Intriguing.

So I went into my room and looked around for work that needed to be done. I found white paper and colored pencils, so I proceeded to spend who knows how long creating a book. All I can remember now is that it was a story about a yellow dinosaur -- I can still see him. But I created pages and pages of story and pictures. Beginning to end.

And it was fun. It was a lot of work, but it was fun as hell.

I wonder what Dad was thinking that day -- why he used the word "work." He may very well have intended for me to clean up my tornado of a room. But I like to think he understood me, understood what I would do when he made his suggestion. I remember showing him my dinosaur masterpiece when I was finished, and I remember he smiled, but I don't remember him being particularly surprised.

Here I am, a novelist, and often I'm frightened to write, or overwhelmed, or just fed up, so I spend part of my day lolling on the sofa, aimlessly flicking channels but focusing my eyes on nothing, and here's what I'm thinking: I'm bored, I'm bored, I'm bored.

It's funny, I haven't thought about that long-ago day in years. But it must be for a good reason that today, those words came back to me in Dad's voice: "Why don't you go in your room and do some work?"

Off I go to my room. To work. And, hopefully, have fun.