"That, Not This" by Jordan Rosenfeld

In addition to being a magnificent storyteller, my friend Jordan has a gift for language that knocks the wind right out me. She's also a talented nonfiction writer. And the host of a literary radio show, Word by Word. She makes jewelry, too. And she's young and pretty and has a great, big, generous heart. Okay, I'll stop now and let her writing speak for itself.




That, Not This
By Jordan Rosenfeld


It seemed natural to April to be drawn toward foods slightly fetal in quality: halves of tomatoes, primal and slimy; smooth, slightly gelatinous eggs with runny yolks; artichoke hearts emerging from the womb of their leaves. Her pregnancy itself, however, did not seem so terribly natural, despite all she'd been told of a woman's inborn urge and instinct for mothering. Her body had begun to take on the qualities of a temperamental teenage girl. It bloated, ached and drew her emotions into conspiratorial crescendos, blasting her like a small sailboat through hormone driven surf.

She probed inside a small tangelo for its seeds at breakfast. The pulp and juice of the tiny citrus seemed like little internal organs splayed open under the halogen light of a science class. For one anthropomorphic moment, she didn't want to eat it. That finger, her right index, was swollen along with its fellows full of ambient water, a side effect of gestation. Since reaching the plateau and "safety" of the second trimester just two weeks ago, she had been drawn to the insides of things with a fascination that made her feel conspicuous. Hal caught her yesterday peering up into the pipes under the bathroom sink, a large plastic U of piping at her side.

"Fixing a clog?" he joked.

April blushed and stuttered and left the sink undone like that without an explanation. She had just wanted to look inside, see what couldn't otherwise be seen, as if there might have been some parallel understanding to the creature (she couldn't quite see it as a person yet) growing inside her.

Hal weathered her moods and strange behavior quite tolerantly for a man who was not genetic contributor to her expected child. She had stopped having the nightmare too, in which Hal was a gorilla smothering all her baby gorillas and trying to seed her with one of his own.

With her hands smeared in tangelo juice, the phone rang — as it did much more often, she discovered, in the life of a pregnant woman. She wiped her fingers on the side of her pajama top and leapt to answer it.

"Hey girl," Bonnie's voice chirped.

"Bon-bon. It's Saturday, make me feel like a normal person again, O.K.? People act like I might hurt myself by lifting paper."

"County fair," Bonnie said.

"Oh." April tried to hide her lack of interest.

"I promised Ethan. You'd be good company for me, if you're feeling up to it."

"Well I can't really use nausea as an excuse."



Bonnie arrived twenty minutes later in "The Behemoth" as Hal referred to it, a vehicle so big and red that it made eyebrows rise even in SUV circles, according to Bonnie, who drove it because her husband insisted on the BMW for himself. Eight year-old Ethan, as red-headed and freckled as they came, sat in the backseat looking sullen.

Bonnie kissed April and attempted to open her door for her.

"Don't do that! I'm pregnant, not disabled."

"Sorry."

Bonnie walked back to her side and got in.

"Hey moppet," April said to Ethan, who didn't even crack a smile. "Who's got crumbs in his pants?" April teased.

"We're negotiating needs," Bonnie said to which Ethan thumped the back of her seat with a Nike-clad foot. "He believes he needs more time in front of the television, I believe I need a child who can form a complete sentence."



The fairground teemed with people, many of whom had managed to become sunburned before noon. The chaos of odors and the roar of rides made April feel overwhelmed, though she kept it to herself. Bonnie procured a handful of tickets for Ethan and set him off on The Zipper.

"I want a caramel apple," April declared, drawn by the prospect of something with seeds in its heart.

"Ugh," Bonnie clutched her stomach. "The last time I had one of those it didn't stay down."

They wandered past the booths full of cheap glasses in a crowded bay of other glassware; white, egg-like Ping Pong balls floated embryonic in the belly of ashtrays and bowls too small to be of much use.

"You want to try?" Bonnie pointed. The hawker smiled at the ladies.

"Ten balls for two dollars," he said.

"No thanks," Bonnie said, flipping her hair in an unconscious mode of flirtation. "We have more than enough balls in our lives."

The hawker grinned. "You can never have enough," he said.

The chemistry of strangers trading pheromones irritated April. There were days she loved Bonnie like a sister and days she wished she'd never met her.

April pushed her on.

"He was cute!" Bonnie protested.

"You're married," April reminded.

"We'll see how long that lasts," Bonnie replied, glancing up at The Zipper to locate her son, swirling in centrifugal motion.

"Don't let Ethan hear you say that. This is the stuff that scars children for life."

"No, the permanent damage comes from the name-calling that goes on in his presence."

"Is that why he watches so much television?"

"Probably."

They soon moved Ethan on to the Tilt O' Whirl, where he was piled into a cab containing three boys much bigger than him who looked pained to have him in their midst. Despite having defied gravity three ways to Sunday, Ethan didn't show the slightest trace of an upset stomach.

"He called, you know," Bonnie said, reaching for April's half-gnawed caramel apple despite her earlier grimaces.

"Don't eat the last of the caramel," April said.

"You don't want to talk about the call?"

"What's to say Bon? We made a deal. My autonomy for his disappearance."

"There's no such thing as no strings attached, you know."

April grabbed the apple from her friend's hand mid-bite. Bonnie narrowed her eyes.

"If this is your idea of an intervention, you can forget it," April said, purposely licking off the remains of the caramel. Behind them a caricature of a carnie, all greased hair and pock marked skin, beckoned to them with promise of stuffed zebras at his game.

"That ride makes me sick just to look at it," Bonnie said watching her son's blurred face whiz by. Then she fell silent or as close to it as possible inside the parabola of carnival noise. The nearest simulation of silence was the whoosh of the water gun filling up behind their heads where sunburned men won their girlfriends stuffed jungle animals.

"So what did he want?" April acquiesced.

"Just to know how you are."

"And how am I?"

"Fine, I guess. You seem fine. Hal seems fine. Everyone is peachy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, I'm going to be an aunt to my best friend's baby and yet my own brother is out of the loop. It's just, it feels weird, you know? It feels…"

"Unnatural?"

"Well…"

"He didn't want it."

"And you did. The quintessential dilemma of procreation," said Bonnie with a sigh.

"How'd you feel when you got pregnant with Ethan?"

"Queasy."

"Ha-ha. I'm serious."

"Ecstatic, honestly. I was a walking ovary basically just waiting to pop out an egg.”

"Did you feel ecstatic right away?"

Bonnie bit her fingernail and glanced back at the cute ping pong ball hawker who waved.

"Yeah, from the second that other pink line appeared."

"I'm still hungry," April said, shoving off mid conversation toward the speckled yellow and red stand that sold cornballs. Bonnie, distracted by eye contact with the cute guy, finally chased after her.

"You're avoiding something," she said when she caught up. Mouth full of popcorn ball, April shrugged.

"You were excited when you found out, right? You would have been more excited if Cole had been too… right? "

"Probably, but…"

Bonnie pressed on, as if afraid to hear what April might really have to say.

"But Hal's a good guy and you love him, I know."

"No, it's not just that."

"And he is a good guy to father someone else's baby." Bonnie sounded bitter.

"Hal is… he pays attention, he wants to be…"

"I mean, it's not something just any guy would do… they always want to plant their own seed…"

The gorilla nightmare rose like acid reflux in April.

"Stop it, Bonnie. Enough. "

Bonnie glanced over April's shoulder at the ping pong guy. April followed her gaze.

"If you get his phone number I'm going to kill you." April said.

"Who should leave whom alone?"

"Ethan's Tilt O' Whirled out," April said pointing. Bonnie shot her a glance full of irritation and they trudged off to rescue the teetering boy.

Another five rides later and a chatty conversation with ping pong guy that fortunately did not lead to potential extramarital concerns, April was done with her day at the carnival.

"Can we just look at the animals before we go?" Ethan begged his mother. Bonnie pleaded through eye contact with April. The look said, he doesn't ask me for anything anymore… just give me this.

So they meandered through manure scented rows of pigs and cows and proud handlers. Ethan ran ahead, kicking up sawdust. April tucked the top of her shirt over her nose and mouth in case any wayward particles should filter in. Ethan stopped, transfixed in front of one stall. The women lingered behind so they could continue their conversation.

"Apey… can I ask you something?"

"You just did," April said, wishing she had a soda to wash the heat out of her throat.

"Ha-ha. Now I'm serious."

"You'll ask even if I say no; why do you even bother?"

"Do you really want this baby? I mean, you're not having second thoughts are you?"

April became suddenly fascinated with the gargantuan pig in the stall at their feet.

"It's nebulous right now. It's not a person or anything, just kind of an idea; an idea that makes me feel like shit every morning and makes a lot of people feel sorry for me. Come to think of it, it's a little bit like being disabled."

"What kind of an answer is that?"

"I guess not the one you were hoping for."

"I just… I have a genetic investment in this, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"And you know if you had second thoughts… I just want you to know that you have options."

April brushed sweaty blades of hair from her face.

"Are you saying you'd adopt this baby if I didn't want it?"

"I'm just putting it out there."

April shook her head. What was there to say to that? Something about it made her angry and she felt like taking off in a gallop away from the stinking carnival air and the fawning interest of her friend. Just then, Ethan shouted and waved to the two women frantically, a look of desperation stretched across his face. "Come here! It's dying, Mom. It's dying."

They rushed over to the stall where a very fat cow was lying on her back, lowing.

"Oh my God!" Bonnie said. "She's not dying, honey. She's in labor, look." She pointed to the cow's vagina where two tiny hooves were emerging inside a voluminous watery sac.

Their commotion brought the owner over and April, on shaky legs, and Bonnie and Ethan on bended knee witnessed Burma the Jersey cow bringing her baby into the world. April had to resist the urge to vomit.

"I told Betsy we shouldn't have brought her," the owner said, getting down on his hands and knees. "But she tried to tell me she has women's intuition. This baby wasn't coming for another week, she says!"

"Wasn’t that amazing?" Bonnie prodded as they left. April wished she could agree.

“Is that how I was born?” Ethan demanded, looking partially fascinated and disgusted, kicking dust at his feet into clouds that April had to avert her face from. Bonnie guffawed. “It did sort of feel like you had hooves… ”



Bonnie drove April home silently. Even Ethan refrained from acting out, sucking happily on a lollypop nearly as large as his head. When Bonnie pulled into April’s driveway she shut off the engine and stayed facing the garage door a moment without speaking.

“Bon bon?”

“Look, I’m sorry if I… if I went too far today. I’m sorry if I seem to want more than is my place.”

April felt sorry for her friend, whom she’d known since high school and had once spent a whole night discussing the mysteries of losing their virginity. Bonnie was caught between her own troubled blood and her best friend.

“You just might want something for me that I don’t even want for myself.”

Bonnie raised an eyebrow and snagged her lip between her teeth in what April thought was an overly dramatic gesture.

“What do you mean?”

April felt tired. “I don’t even know. Chalk it up to hormones.”

Bonnie opened her mouth as if to protest the easy answer, but stopped herself. They bid each other goodbye and April shuffled into the house feeling as tired as in her old marathon training days.

Hal was asleep on the couch with a baby-naming book fallen onto the floor, spread open to boys' names. Theodore. Thomas. Trevor. April stood watching the soft rise and fall of his hairy chest and felt momentarily like Hal’s return to her life was a conspiracy in effect, possibly by God, to stop her from doing foolish things. If Hal hadn’t turned up a week after Cole had retreated from a future life shackled by wife and eventual child, April would have done one of two things: thrown herself desperately on Cole with the same historical results or run off to Mexico.

How Hal had known she was single again, if one could call it that, was something they had simply not discussed. Hal was content to be the permanent “in-betweener” more permanent now than ever. In the history of their fourteen-year friendship, they’d dated more than six separate times. He’d called it dating, at least, she’d thought of it merely as screwing until now.

Whether it was her stare or the sound of her breathing that did it, Hal woke.

“Back already?” he said, stretching.

She laughed, “I think so,” she said, then walked to the window, placed a hand unconsciously on her stomach, and wondered if a fetus was capable of caring for its own future yet.

“Have fun?”

Her nose recreated the acrid smell of sweating children and synthetic popcorn and sugar commingled into one top note. She grimaced.

“Not exactly fun. More like distraction.”

She could almost hear him thinking behind her. Hal seemed perpetually on the edge of speaking a sentence; one that April often felt would reveal a truth that would shed some needed light on their situation.

“You hungry?”

“No, I’m full of carnival food.”

Hal got up and came around behind her, put his arms around her. She wanted to shrug him off. It wasn’t out of spite or loathing; she loved the feel of his construction-worker arms, his smell like baby powder left in the sun. She didn’t want his love though, until she could promise him that all shards of her feelings for Cole were pulled free from the sinews of her being… and that seemed so impossibly far away. If he wanted to stay, he could stay. If he wanted to be the male presence in her child’s life, she couldn’t see any reason not to give him that. But every caress of his recalled a gesture of Cole’s, even if it was Cole’s pale, slender hand pulling away from her, or gripping the meat of her arm too tightly in an argument. Though he had been hard to get close to, and often mean, she'd gotten used to his brand of love. Hal’s was too easy, too available.

“What do you think about Tiberius as a name for a boy?” Hal whispered in her ear, digging for a laugh.

She smiled. “I think Tiberius is actually kind of interesting,” she said, and then excused herself to lie down.

Total erasure of her lifelong insomnia was the one beauty of pregnancy. All her body required was the placement of her head against any surface remotely horizontal. She’d nearly fallen asleep standing up in the supermarket as she’d craned her head sideways to read a label.

She fell fast into the dark, tight desert of sleep, bumped only occasionally by a scattering of dreams that were more like someone else’s vacation slides accidentally shoved into her unconscious. Jars of wet cocktail onions and bowls of slimy spaghetti were set upon a table. Larvae and fish swam through soupy lagoons. Cole strode in and out of these dark, primal dream spaces, as if searching for something he’d left. She woke startled by a cramp in her abdomen, the smell of Hal’s eggplant parmesan creeping up the stairs into the bedroom.

She sat up, reassured that the cramp was not repeating, soothed her belly with her hand and forced herself to go downstairs. Once, Cole had pushed her across the room over an argument about something whose topic she could not remember. A bill? A glance she’d made at another man? The way she’d parked his car? She had fallen hard onto her tailbone, spraining her sacroiliac joint and bruising her lumbar ribs. He hadn’t even said he was sorry. Since entering her fourth month, the sacroiliac joint that had almost healed completely had started to throb again, especially when going downstairs, as if to remind her constantly how she’d gotten into this state.

She hobbled on aching leg down to the kitchen and pulled up a chair to the table.

Hal, who had been married twice already, moved about the kitchen with grace, familiar with rituals of comfort. Cole often came home so late that she’d simply make dinners for one, bearing his anger when he’d somehow expected her to know, psychically - she presumed - that she should have prepared something for him.

She still remembered the day when she had to tell Bonnie the truth about her brother. Bonnie had been contemplating running off with the young butcher at her market and had been difficult to corral into conversations that had anything to do with anything else.

They’d been sitting in Bonnie’s backyard catching the fast forming drips off lime popsicles.

“Why do you look so glum?” Bonnie asked, after revealing what the butcher boy had said he wanted to do to her. A fat drop of green goo had splashed her white summer dress and she’d begun wiping it, only making the stain worse.

“Cole hasn’t been home in two nights,” April said.

“He loves to go fishing, doesn’t he?” Bonnie said, turning the hose on to get the green out of her dress.

“No, Bon… he just doesn’t come home. He hasn't gone fucking fishing.”

Bonnie looked up then.

“He isn’t always very nice to me, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

April had put her face in her hands or possibly even gotten up and strode across the lawn. Bonnie had shut completely up about her potential infidelity.

“He’s hard on me.”

Bonnie had coaxed the truth out of her, but had been reluctant to believe it. For a week the two friends didn’t speak while Bonnie sorted out the details for herself and finally came to admit that she had known her brother to be a “rough guy” on some level. He used to chase her and beat her up when they were kids. He'd murdered the guinea pig when she was ten, and he was twelve. Bonnie had bolstered her output of friendship from there, as if trying to make up for the failings of her brother.

Now, soothed by the smell of food cooking, April had a hard time placing Hal in her home, her life. The dream images of Cole walking through rooms stuck with her. Hal seemed like a borrowed thing, on loan from some service that helped single mothers. She had the good man in her life and the seed of the bad boy growing inside her but an anxiety pervaded, as if Cole was going to show up and tell her he’d changed his mind, that she and the baby belonged to him. Part of her was horrified by the idea, but another part of her, as she looked at Hal readying her meal, liked the idea more than she could admit to anyone. And guilt then followed. She was a cliché, one of those women on Jerry Springer who falls for the bad boy because she had an unavailable father, who craves torture over tenderness because it confirms her low self-esteem.

“Soda or water with dinner?” Hal asked, herding vegetables around in a skillet of oil.

“Water. I can get it myself.”

“You can, but don’t,” Hal said, moving toward the water purifier before she could as much as push out her chair.

The summer evening was light and hot.

“Let’s eat on the porch,” she suggested. Hal nodded. “But after dinner I want to take you somewhere.”

“Oh Hal, I’m not up for much.”

“Trust me… it’s just another… .distraction. You’ll have fun.”

They ate his delicious eggplant parmesan and stirred veggies outside. When they finished, Hal cleared everything away.

“Digest for a half hour, and then you’re coming with me.”

As she lay against the sofa staring out at the tall, slightly withered pink and purple heads of the Cosmos she’d planted in spring, there came another twinge in her uterus, sharp enough to make her catch her breath.

She almost called out for Hal but instead hobbled to the bathroom. A few drops of blood marred her underwear. Spotting and cramping were both normal signs. It happened to women, especially women who were closer to thirty-five. She put a maxi pad into her panties and wondered if she should call the doctor. She didn’t want to tell Hal, to raise his anxieties unnecessarily. She returned to the couch and rested as he had suggested and took three Tylenol just in case, before Hal shepherded her off to his truck.

“Where are we going?”

“Surprise,” Hal said.

She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care for surprises just now, but every time she thought of thwarting his efforts to be sweet to her, something stopped her.



The drive out to Drake's Beach, though longer than she wanted to sit in a car, had the effect of lulling her. Her whole body felt swollen with a sedative bloat, like she had turned into a large round sphere instead of a person, the food and the comforting monotony of the road ahead acting like an analgesic.

Hal had no children, and April was worried that he had more invested in her own child than she did, that he would love this baby not only more than her, but more than she could love her own baby.

Would she spend the rest of her life looking at a simulacrum of Cole? Hear an inflection reminiscent of that sharp vocal punctuation of his, watch tiny demonstrations by her child of his big, lively gestures that had won her over when she was sixteen? She had known both men for too long. Should she make a break now, go back and suffer the oppressive supervision of her parent's house and end ties with Hal for good? Because he couldn't love her if not for this shiny slice of promising future in her belly, could he?



She had fallen asleep to the lullaby of the car on the road and the sudden halt of motion woke her as Hal pulled into the parking lot at the beach.

"Wake up, babe," he said, resting a warm, large hand on her thigh. Another tiny cramp squeezed her uterus. She got out of the car and felt a rush of well-being at the smell of ocean.

"It's pretty," she said. "Water looks icy, though."

"We're not going in the water… unless you want to?" Hal smiled.

"I forgot my wet suit," she said.

Hal rummaged in the back of the truck and returned with something large and vaguely triangular in shape.

"What is that?"

He took her hand. "C'mon out here, I'll show you."

They pushed out onto the sand, littered with dead kelp and water-smoothed wood and stone. A handful of people dotted the beach, and one crazy surfer paddled, belly on his board, out to catch a wave.

Hal unfurled the item in his hands and April realized, finally, what it was.

"A kite?"

"Yup. Made it myself."

It was built like a miniature hang glider with two rope spindles instead of one and looked almost like something that required a pilot.

The wind was gentle, but enough to get the kite off the ground and once in the air, Hal maneuvered it deftly with tiny manipulations of his fingers and hands, sometimes it looked like the kite was simply holding him up.

"Now you try," Hal said. April looked at the ungainly thing. Her hands felt clumsy and swollen.

"I don't know if I can."

"You can," Hal said.

He handed her the spindles then took the end of the kite and moved away from her, jogging a little until April could feel the place where wind and her own body were at an exact tension. But the kite was big and heavy and she felt suddenly so small and incapable. It would rise into the air for a few seconds and then plummet back to earth.

It reminded April of a time when Cole took her to the long stretch of green down by the Marina in San Francisco to watch the kites. She had been mesmerized by the airy dance of all those brightly colored flags and had begun to follow one in particular held by a good looking man, following its dip and swirl with patient eyes. Cole had dragged her from the park finally, his thin sharp fingers carving a string of bruises into her arm. In the car he had accused her of wanting to go home with the man holding the kite she'd been watching.

As she thought about this, the kite under Hal's instruction nosed down into the sand again and April shook her head and dropped the spindles at her sides feeling discouraged. Like somehow this was a test for her future and she was failing. Hal came toward her. "Don't give up," he said.

Another pinch tore through her uterus and this one was sharp enough to make her wince aloud. Hal noticed.

"What is it, sweetie?"

April breathed in deeply, the way she used to through the three-hundredth sit-up. When she let go of the chord of air a long, snaky sob slid out past her guard.

Hal stared at her, looking helpless, but his gaze wasn't the judgmental glare of Cole's who used to feel manipulated by her crying.

"I… I can't fly this stupid thing."

"It takes practice. That's what you're doing. Practicing."

"I don't want to do it. I don't want to learn."

Hal looked at his red and yellow kite, lovingly cut and sewed to the light frame, April imagined. She felt suddenly guilty again, like she was rejecting him by failing to fly his creation.

"Hal… I… Ow!"

This cramp was bigger and more fierce than any other she'd felt yet. She put her hands on her belly then, to support it or hold it. Hal looked alarmed.

"You're in pain!"

"I'm having these cramps," she said. "I don't think this is a good sign."

As she said the words, she became aware of a shivery fear rising from her spine, a sense that if something happened with her pregnancy she was giving Hal permission to leave her.

"We should get you home then, call the doctor."

"No. Not yet," she said. "Let me just go to the bathroom. I want to try the kite again. I'm O.K."

Hal looked unconvinced, but he rarely pushed his agenda on her. He walked her to the bathroom and April sat down on the toilet afraid of what she would find. A series of smaller cramps began to course through her, the kind she used to get before her period began.

She pulled her underwear down and saw that the pad she had installed there was heavily spotted with blood. It was happening. She had read the literature. Miscarriages could happen at any time, even in the second trimester. It was normal; it just happened to some women.

April washed her hands in the cold water and dried them under the warm air device. She hobbled outside where Hal stood, clutching his kite like a child.

"Honey?"

"Let's fly the kite again. I'm O.K.," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He stared at her a moment before agreeing.

She let Hal unfurl the triangular bird again and held onto the spindles like they were the controls to an airplane. Like they could hold much more than that tiny cloth creature aloft.

"Don't try to control it so much as just follow it, just feel where the tension picks up and then try to keep it riding the current," Hal instructed.

He moved a step away and the kite lifted up in the air but quickly fell back to earth. A cramp rippled her uterus. She breathed in, motioned for Hal to try again. This time she would feel the place where the kite grabbed the sky, where it wanted to ascend and meet the wind. And though it was only for a few seconds, the feeling was enough to urge her to do it again. Suddenly the kite was not just another ungainly object she had to magically put into the air; it was a living thing hungry to stay alive.

The kite finally rose and stayed up. April took steps backward, keeping the tension of the string taut, breathing, following, not controlling, and it occurred to her for the first time that maybe Hal was here because he wanted to be.

She could have stayed there all day, through the night until her arms grew numb. The dance of kite and her body made a sense her mind couldn't name. She and the kite had been one solid line. When the airborne craft finally hit a pocket of dead air and drifted lazily to the ground, Hal ran up to her, his cheeks wind-reddened, laughing. "Seven minutes!" he said. It had felt like hours to April.

Her belly quivered, she felt slightly feverish and elated.

"I guess I should get back… should call the doctor," she said, but felt no alarm.

"Is it… ?"

"I think so."

"Are you sad?" he asked.

"Are you?" she said.

Hal smiled and put his arm around her. "It's hard to be sad when I've got my arm around the woman I love."

* * *

This story first appeared in Summerset Review

To learn more about Jordan, visit her blog, Write Livelihood.

I. Am. Done.

I just finished my first draft of The Smart One and boy does it feel awesome! My new baby measures 390 pages long, and weighs in at 95,000 words.

My next step is to start editing, but I tend to write pretty tight, so it shouldn't be a very long process. Then I'll show it to hubby and my wonderful crit pal, both of whom will have useful comments, I'm sure. After I incorporate those, I'll send it to my agents and my editor.

But right now the question is, how shall I celebrate? Champagne? Caviar? Godiva chocolates? I'll mull it over while I dance through the house folding laundry and sprinkling Comet in the toilets.

Deja vu

Today, in an exact repeat of yesterday, there was no article in The Daily News about my book. Others might be quick to point out that there was also no article about my book in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Economist, BusinessWeek, Institutional Investor, Time, People, Vanity Fair, Playboy, Good Housekeeping, Glamour, Redbook, Family Circle, New Woman, Highlights, The New England Journal of Medicine or Teen Beat.

However, in the department of The Universe is Writing My Press Release, I saw the following item in Newsday today:

Patricia Heaton, a two-time Emmy winner for her work on "Raymond," is starring in an as yet untitled half-hour for ABC about a recently widowed woman who begins a new life after joining the PTA.

Dear ABC: May I suggest a title?

No news is no news

Yes, that was me looking pathetic in the parking lot of the Seven-Eleven at six o'clock this morning, frantically flipping the pages of The Daily News. I had heard my book was going to get a mention today, but no dice. Disappointing? You bet. But I can't dwell on it. People have worse things happen to them all the time. Just yesterday, for instance, I heard that a woman in my town had a bad hair day. I'm thinking of sending a card.

In other media news, life imitates art as there's an headline in the current issue of People magazine that sounds like it could be straight out of my novel. Turn to page 23 of the double Oscar edition, and you'll see this:

Delighting locals, George Clooney films his next film in a small New York burg

Combine that with the gossip that the toothsome hunk is dating Desperate Housewives hottie Teri Hatcher, and you've petty much got the entire plot of "Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA." It's like the universe is writing my press release, but keeps forgetting to mention the title of my book.

Thank heavens my hair looks okay.

Meet Cindy Cruciger!

You've got to love an author who has this to say about her book:
"This is not your typical romance. This is not a romance for normal people. Revenge Gifts is a romance for the lunatic fringe."

Ha!

Today I have the pleasure of introducing you to another member of the Girlfriends' Cyber Circuit, Cindy Cruciger. She sounds like a lot of fun, doesn't she? I'm sure her book is, too. Check out what these reviewers have to say about her debut novel, Revenge Gifts:


"***** This is one of the most amusing novels I have read this year! Tara has a most unique outlook on life that almost convinced me to join her for a walk on the dark side! This modern contemporary romance adds just enough of the paranormal element to make the characters' lives interesting to those of us forced to live in reality. "Revenge Gifts" will win awards, mark my words. Highly recommended! ***** " - Detra Fitch, Five Stars from HUNTRESS REVIEWS

"Cindy Cruciger's debut novel is riotously funny and wickedly witty. Tara's personality not only jumps off the page at you, it grabs you by the throat and drags you into the story. I loved the way Tara's character evolved over the course of the story, but never lost her sarcastic humor. REVENGE GIFTS kept me up reading long past bedtime, and I enjoyed every second of it. If you're looking for the perfect escape, grab this book today!" - Cat Cody, 4.5 Ribbons from Romance Junkies

"Funny, snarky characters, smokin' hot sexual tension, and a little voodoo thrown in to keep things interesting". - Lisa Bradley Romance Divas


Not bad, eh? You can buy this "riotously funny and wickedly witty" novel at a boosktore near you, or order online from Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. To learn more about Cindy, visit her website at cindycruciger.com.

"Getting the 8 x 10" by Susan Henderson

Have you read anything by my friend Susan Henderson? If not, you're missing a special kind of magic. Susan has a way of touching your heart with such deft elegance you don't even notice she's doing it. You get pulled along by the characters, the story, the spare details rich with meaning and before you know it the tenderest part of you is opened. I think you'll enjoy this ...



Getting the 8 x 10
By Susan Henderson

All summer I smothered myself in Crisco vegetable shortening, hoping for a good tan and maybe, finally, a boyfriend.

I lived at the swimming pool, where I pretended that I, like the other girls my age, had had my period. I occasionally spent a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom stall, rustling paper and complaining of cramps. My tan was better than any of theirs but I was never asked to compare strap lines. And I was never asked about my crushes, though I had plenty. I liked the boy who mowed the pool grounds, some lifeguards, of course, and a guy who played ping pong all day. But mostly I liked the diving coach, who wore mirrored sunglasses and was actually short enough for me to kiss.

Most people at the pool called him Scott the Diving Coach, but I just called him Scott because we talked every day. I went wherever he went—water fountain, front desk, side of the pool, snack bar.

One day he handed me a cherry freeze from the snack bar, no charge. He sat next to me on the hot bench and said, "You're pretty much at the pool from opening to closing, am I right?"

"Every day," I said. I tipped the ice out of the paper cup and set it back in, upside down, to eat the soft part. I offered him a lick and he declined.

"Since you're around all the time anyway, would you like to be the manager of my diving team?"

I was a great manager: came early, stayed late, and did absolutely everything he asked without a complaint, which included carrying his clipboard and not letting it get wet, and writing things about the members of the diving team in my best handwriting. In the photo of the diving team, I was practically standing on his feet.

Scott was probably unaware, but he gave me status with the girls who left their Stayfree Mini Pad wrappers on the back of the toilet. While they stood back and giggled, I felt comfortable pulling up a lawn chair beside him or fetching balls when he played pingpong. At night I practiced kissing my arm.

My tan was progressing, but I wasn't sure that Scott and I were. Labor Day was fast approaching, meaning the pool would soon close. And worse, I learned Scott was going away to college. I tried to think of something to give him that would make us kiss, or at least make him pine for me from school. Desperate, I told my mom I was in love with the diving coach.

"Well," she said. "We could take a picture of you that looks like you're not wearing anything, and you can give that to him."

She got the Polaroid while I put on a bikini and a pair of her high heels. On a cardboard sign, I wrote: "Happy School." Except I wrote slash marks through the o's, the same way Scott did, because he was into computers and being original. Then, as directed by my mom, I covered the bottom part of my bikini with the sign and my mom took a picture of me from my stomach down.

"I'll bet he's cute," Mom said. But she'll never go to the pool because she looks pretty in dresses, not shorts and bathing suit ware. And she hides now when she's in sunlight because she says it makes her look old, so the house now is dim, the ceiling bulbs have long burnt out of the rooms she uses, and there are only table lamps with colored bulbs or lamps with scarves thrown over the lamp shade.

"If things go great," I said, "I'll bring him here to meet you."

I put the Polaroid in one of those photo cubes. There were spaces for five more pictures of me, but I wanted to wait until he asked. Then I wrapped the cube in his towel. He never said he got it but I know I would never mistake his towel for anyone else's.

The next time I saw him, I asked if he had a school picture he could give me. I still had plenty of mine leftover and maybe he'd ask for a trade. Scott said he gave them away. I realized he probably gave them away to girls—to the kinds of girls who were not like me.

"It doesn't matter," I said.

"But wait," he said. "I still have the 8 x 10."

He brought it the next day and signed it. I was careful to sunbathe but not swim so the photo would not get wet. Scott watched me that day with the same puzzled look he had in his picture.

On the last day the pool was open, I showed Scott I could forge his signature and I could imitate his walk and the slurp of his flip-flops. I even had the 8 x 10 with me again in case he wanted to write more. He didn't, said he couldn't think of anything else to say.

I tacked his photo to my closet door. Someday, his being short would no longer be a plus. Someday, having my period would not be my greatest ambition. Someday, I would surely pay the price for sunbathing in Crisco. But for the moment, I relished in the way Scott looked awkward in his formal clothes: He was old enough to shave but not old enough to look secure wearing a tie. And when I felt lonely, I could pretend it had something to do with him.

* * *
This story first appeared in Happy

I hope you loved this story as much as I did. To read more like this, visit amazon.com and order Susan's story, Motorhead. It's exquisite! To learn more about Susan, visit her Publishers Marketplace page.

For your clicking pleasure

Melanie Lynne Hauser, author of Confessions of Super Mom, posted the most hilarious blog entry today, The Care and Feeding of Authors. Brilliantly funny and worth a click.

The multi-talented Jordan Rosenfeld, novelist/blogger/journalist/ radio host/maker of fine jewelry, was generous enough to post an essay of mine on her blog today. Thanks, Jordan!

Life in the carpool lane

Perhaps I should have titled this entry "Life on Long Island." But I don't know. Maybe this could happen in Anytown, USA. I suspect that, at very least, it could happen in Los Angeles, as it strikes me as a very Larry David moment. But maybe that's only because there are so many New Yorkers in L.A. But let me know if you think this could happen in your town ...

Every Saturday morning, my husband takes our two boys to a swim class at the local high school. They were running a bit late this week, so he dropped them at the entrance before scouting for a parking space.

A long school bus was parked by the curb, squeezing a two-lane passageway down to one. Hubby drove past the bus and saw a parking space directly ahead. Just before he reached it, a PYMPEL (Privileged Yet Miserable Person with an Empty Life) in a big white BMW pulled up and blocked the space. She was leaving the parking lot, and needed to head through the lane next to the school bus.

Hubby motioned for her to back up so he could slip into the parking space and be out of her way, but she shook him off, insisting that HE back up. It was ludicrous, as he would have to back up the entire length of the bus (and probably lose the parking space), while all she had to do was back up a couple of feet.

He gesticulated again and again to make it clear that he just wanted to pull into the spot, but the PYMPEL wouldn't budge. Hubby can be as stubborn as the next guy, especially when someone is being unreasonable, so he made a show of folding his arms and relaxing in his seat, to indicate that he had all day.

But never underestimate these Long Island PYMPELS. The woman got out of her car, opened the back door, took out a BOOK, and then got back in the front seat to read it.

Not to be outdone, my husband picked up the book next to him in the passenger seat, which just happened to be my ARC, and held it up so his nemesis could see he had reading material as well.

I would love to tell you my husband won the battle of wills, but such is not the case. He had, after all, left the boys unsupervised. And for all his posturing, he really didn't have all day, which Princess PYMPEL clearly did. So, finally, he moved forward, passed the BMW, made a tight U-turn and pulled into the space after her highness had moved forward.

So she won. I'm sure she's never backed up an inch for anyone in her miserable little unfulfilling life, and never will. But if that's winning, I'll take losing every time.

George Clooney in a tuxedo and other reasons I'm in a good mood today

Early this morning, basking in the afterglow of my George Clooney fantasies (I mean, did you see the way he looked?), I clicked on Amazon to check my book's ranking (I know, I know. I am not supposed to do this. I am weak.) I was surprised and happy to see it had jumped from one-million-something to fifty-nine-thousand-something. Wow! It probably means two books were ordered, but still. I've decided to be happy about it.

I noticed, however, that they dropped the price of the book, which, I imagine, accounts for the sales. I could only think of one possible reason they would do this: competition. Some quick clicking proved me right--the book is now available for pre-order from Barnes & Noble as well.



So if you've been dying to order the thing (and I know it's been keeping you up at night) but have been sitting on your hands waiting for it to be available from Barnes & Noble, click here. Or, if you're a bargain hunter and have been waiting for the price to come down, click here.

Or, if you're George Clooney, and you found your way to this blog because you did a search to see what people are saying about you today, click here.

"Bridges" by Myfanwy Collins

I've decided to start a new feature on my blog, posting short stories by some excellent writers I know. I think you're going to love this first one by my close friend, Myfanwy Collins, who writes about fear and nature better than anyone I know. Enjoy!



Bridges
By Myfanwy Collins

It was natural bridges and not arches where they were. The difference is that one of them is formed by erosion and the other by water. Bridges were by water. Maybe? That would make sense. Bridges, water. Yes.

So they were hiking in amongst the natural bridges somewhere west--Utah, Arizona--one of those states to which people go. The way was tricky but not overly hard. They hiked down from the rim on a slender, dusty trail. Took barely half an hour. Not bad, not bad at all.

But the problem was that not many people visited this park and while that, at one time--maybe at the beginning of the trip when solitude was key and sought--had seemed essential, now just seemed sad.

"So, he was on his horse right there, eh?" Jenna said, pulling the guidebook and pointing to a picture of the jocular Teddy Roosevelt upon his steed in the very spot before them.

"Yes," Tony said and took off his hat, as if to wipe the sweat from his forehead but possibly for some other darker, more OCD reason. Jenna'd noticed that every fucking time she mentioned Teddy Roosevelt on this fucking tour of the National Parks and Monuments they had begun a few months before, he'd wiped his forehead. This time she thought she might have it in her to ask him about it but she found she couldn't. It was just too tedious.

"So what are the beasts this time?" Tony said and laughed. Jenna didn't join in. He was not sensitive to her peccadilloes, made fun of her obsessive need to remind him of the dangerous flora and fauna (really, mostly the fauna--poison ivy only lasts so long) in each National Park they visited. In Yellowstone--the wolves, the grizzlies. In Glacier, the grizzlies, the big cats. In Grand Canyon, the rattlers. And here in this obscure spot in Southern Utah she was grasping at straws but chose, for the sake of probability, the big cats as the predator.

"It's not funny," she said. "Yes it is."

"Whatever." She was pissed but now that they'd reached the bottom of the canyon, they walked. It was a dried riverbed, bushy, beige. Not all that interesting. Nor were the walls of the canyon, but for the bridges that every so often spanned from one side to the other. And each time, they would stop and he would say, "Isn't that amazing?" while she scanned the vegetation and canyon walls for cougars, for escaped convicts, for falling rock.

Up ahead, there was a standing pool--one of several they'd seen. She stopped and held his sleeve. "Do you see that?" she asked, pointing to the thick inch deep track at water's edge.

"Cool," he said. "Look at that thing! It must be huge."

"Yeah," she said, scanning the area, "must be."

"So?"

"It's a cougar, obviously. But I don't know... looks kind of fresh."

"Cool," Tony said. He always wanted to see the actual animals and this made her angry. Wasn't he at all concerned for their safety?

"What the fuck, Tony?" Jenna turned and started back the way they'd come. She could make it to the path up in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Must not run though.

"Hey, Babe," Tony called, plaintively. "Jenna. Baby! Come on, Baby!" He knew she hated it when he called her "Baby" as if they were some sort of Nick and Jessica.

"Fuck off, Tony," she called over her shoulder. She heard him sigh, settle the weight of his pack and jog to catch up with her. She turned. "Don't run," she hissed. He stopped. "Do not run." She held out her hand in the stop motion. "Have you not listened to anything I've said to you?"

"What?" Tony said, slapping his hands on his hairy thighs and then holding them up to the sky. "What, Jenna?"

"If you run," she said deliberately, "they will think you are prey. They will hunt you. They hunt prey."

"Oh right," Tony said and walked towards her, keeping eye contact. "But if I walk, I'm okay, right?"

"Yes," Jenna said. She could feel her skin ease from tension to relaxation, could feel the sweat slide from her armpits down her sides like cats' tongues.
Then a noise from above stopped her. Again, the heart beating fast, the breath coming slow and long, then fast and close. Tony seemed to hear the noise, too, and he stopped. They looked at each other. Tony mouthed, "What now?" Jenna wanted to run to him or run with him. Wanted to take his hand and go or just go. She wanted to just run. Just fucking run her ass off. Let the fucking thing get her. Just let it. Shitfuckshit.

She held her ground and looked at Tony but he gave her one of those soft "Baby" faces that let her know he knew she was scared.

"All right," he said out loud, voice cracking. "Okay, J. I'm just going to walk slowly toward you."
Then another noise. A cracking. A big cat making its way through the dry grass and brambles, looking for its meal and not even bothering to stalk them silently. Jenna felt like crying. She held her hand out to Tony.

Another and another noise. Fuck. Just get it over with.

Tony walked towards her, fast, purposeful as if on tightrope. He grabbed her around the waist and said into her hair, "It's all right, Baby." And she felt that maybe it was. Maybe it was all right.

But the noises were all around them then. Fast. Loud. Cracking. Snapping. What was this? What was it? Shit.

And then laughter. Echoing, cawing off the canyon walls. Echoing and echoing.
Jenna dug her head, furious, into Tony's chest. She peeked her eye to the left and saw an older couple on a path just above them, making their way slowly, deliberately into the canyon on a path they had not seen, stopping every once in a while to pick up rocks, or hold hands.

Above her the sky was a bright, high-altitude blue. Tony felt warm, safe. In the distance a bridge spanned the canyon.

* * *
This story first appeared in Pindeldyboz

To read more about Myfanwy, check out her blog or her website, myfanwycollins.com.

March Horoscope

Read your Astrology Zone March horoscope here.

Meet Michelle Richmond!

Introducing my blog readers to Michelle Richmond may be like preaching to the choir, as I know many of you are already fans of her exquisite fiction. But in case you're not familiar with her novel, Dream of the Blue Room, here's a synopsis:

On a warm night in July, 32-year-old Jenny finds herself sitting on the deck of a Chinese cruise ship next to a charming but secretive stranger. In Jenny's lap is a tin containing the ashes of her best friend, Amanda Ruth, mysteriously murdered fourteen years earlier in a small Alabama town.

In this foreign landscape, filled with ancient cities that will soon be inundated by the rising waters of the Yangtze River, Jenny must confront her haunted past and decide the direction of her future. As the ship moves slowly upriver, from one abandoned village to another, Jenny journeys deeper into her own guilt and eroticism.

Dream of the Blue Room explores the nature of friendship and the intimacy that exists between young girls as they struggle toward adulthood. Set alternately against the impressive landscape of the Yangtze and in a small river town in Alabama, this stunning novel reflects on the human desire to control and tame what is ultimately untamable.


I have chills, okay? This sounds like a novel I'm going to do backflips over. Of course, the critics have been turning cartwheels since it first came out:

"A dreamy, haunting work with a deeply personal feel. Any time a work of fiction raises our sights to higher truths, as this one does, the writer has done her job." - Florida Sun-Sentinel

"Some childhood relationships are so fulfilling they shape our lives and leave us wondering why they didn't last longer. Richmond captures, explores, and intertwines these bonds so elegantly, you might even think the relationships are your own." - USA Today

"With the slow build-up of a mystery, the exquisite pain of a coming-of-age novel, the masterful images of a travel writer, and a darkness that is true to the Southern Gothic, Dream of a Blue Room is a work of wonderfully chimeric form." - Joanna Pearson, Small Spiral Notebook

"Intelligent, original, complex." - The San Francisco Chronicle

"A complex and nimbly fashioned first novel." - Kirkus Reviews

"The book is finely crafted and compelling, and its emotions resonate true and clear." - Booklist

Dream of the Blue Room, now available in paperback, can be purchased at your local chain or independent bookstore, or online at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Autistic Boy Scores

If this doesn't make you weep, you're made of tougher stuff than I.

80,000 words!

A milestone! Today I reached 80,000 words on The Smart One. This makes me HAPPY. I'm shooting for 100,000 at most, so I'm at least eight-tenths of the way there. That's four-fifths, for you mathletes.

(Hey, look at me! I can do math.)

In other publishing news, ARCs of Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA are on their way to some big name authors for possible blurbs. If some of them come through, I'll be sure to post it here once I finish screaming with joy.

Also, I don't think I've mentioned here that Applewood now has a film agent. His name is Joel Gotler, so if any of the thousands of Hollywood types who read this blog are eager to throw money my way for the movie rights, Joel is your go-to guy, baby.

Before I don sunglasses and head out for a collagen treatment, there's one more piece of news I'm sitting on. Alas I can't tell you yet because it's not quite 100% official, but it has to do with a certain brilliantly-talented mega-watt celebrity having agreed to read the audio version of the book. Stay tuned for updates.

Tagged again!

I just found out that these blogger tagging things are called "memes." If someone could tell me how that's pronounced, I'd appreciate it.

So okay, this tag game is called 7 Things, and it was passed along to me by the glorious and wonderful Myfanwy Collins. I'll try to go through it fast and write down whatever pops into my head first:

Seven things to do before I die:
1. Spend some time alone with my husband
2. Write a couple of best sellers
3. See each of my kids settled, happy and self-sufficient
4. A couple of grandkids, at least
5. Sit in a cafe in the Piazza San Marco with my husband, sipping capuccino
6. Get skinny again
7. Say to George Clooney, "I'm sorry, the answer is still no. I'm in love with my husband."

Seven things I cannot do:
1. push-ups
2. play the sax
3. see without glasses
4. ski
5. read Hebrew
6. raise the dead
7. vote Republican

Seven things that attract me to my mate:
1. His kiss
2. The fact that he has an IQ of about a million
3. He makes me laugh
4. He gets my jokes
5. His hands, his smile, his tush (yes, that's three; I'm cheating here)
6. His integrity
7. The way he looks at me

Seven things I say:
1. Don't eat in the den
2. No hitting
3. Take a shower
4. Pick that up off the floor
5. Let the machine get it
6. I'm in the bathroom
7. I love you to the end of the universe and back again

Seven books I love:
1. Catcher in the Rye. J.D. Salinger
2. Empire Falls, Richard Russo
3. Revolutionary Road, Richard Yates
4. I Know This Much is True, Wally Lamb
5. The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters, Elisabeth Robinson
6. A Widow for One Year, John Irving
7. The Inn at Lake Devine, Elinor Lipman

Seven movies that I've loved:
1. Annie Hall
2. The Producers (original)
3. Dr. Strangelove
4. The Big Chill
5. Moonstruck
6. Casablanca
7. All the early Marx Brothers'

Seven people to tag:
1. Don Capone
2. Susan DiPlacido
3. Dave Clapper
4. Tess Gerritsen
5. Marcus Grimm
6. Dennis Mahagin
7. Lori Young

My curmudgeonly thought for the day

I'm sorry, I know this doesn't pertain to any of my blog readers, most of whom are probably better spellers than I am. But this has been driving me crazy and I have to get it out:

There is no "a" in the word "definitely"! The root is "finite," get it?

Phew. I feel better. You have no idea who many writers misspell that word.

And in case you're wondering, "curmudgeonly" is an adjective.

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programs ...

Beware of Ticketmaster!!!!

Sleazebags! If you order tickets online through Ticketmaster, watch your credit card bill VERY CAREFULLY. They will automatically sign you up for an "Entertainment Rewards" program and charge your credit card $9 every month. I called American Express about it and they were well aware of the scam. Apparently, they get calls about it constantly.

I called the Entertainment Rewards people and was able to figure out how to trick their voicemail into letting me through to a live person, so that I could cancel the program and request a refund, but I AM FURIOUS!!!

Naturally, I did an internet search and found out there are hundreds of stories out there like mine. How do these people get away with it without going to jail???

If you are planning on buying tickets online, DO NOT USE TICKETMASTER. Caveat emptor, my friends.

ARCS!

What an exciting day! My ARCS arrived!

In case you don't know what an ARC is, it stands for Advance Review Copy (or Advance Reading Copy, depending on who you ask). Basically, it's the uncorrected proofs bound in paperback, and is typically done months in advance of the book's publication date, so it can be sent out for reviews.

Isn't it purdy? I'm giddy with delight!

Meet Julie Kenner!

Julie Kenner is a wonder! Go to her website at juliekenner.com and you'll see what I mean. Twenty-one books published since 2000! Twenty-one! (For the record, I've written less than two books in that amount of time.)

But wait. It gets better. Until just a couple of years ago, she was doing all this writing while working as an attorney.

Friends, I'm in awe. Especially since she's able to do all this and get great responses from readers and critics alike. In fact, she tends to awards for her writing. Can you stand it?

Now check out a bit of what's been said:

"Julie Kenner is one of my favorite writers. Funny and sassy, her books are a cherished delight." - New York Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon

"Kenner's star is definitely on the ascent!" - Publishers Weekly

"Kenner [has a] flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations!" - Publishers Weekly

Her latest book, The Manolo Matrix, is hot off the presses and already getting raves like this:

"Readers who like their suspense novels with a sexy edge and a wicked sense of humor will find Kenner's latest irresistible." - John Charles, Booklist

I hope you'll pick up a copy for yourself!

Happy Valentine's Day!

A day of love! A day of heartfelt expressions! A day we pledge our undying devotion! What better time to share a song from the Marx Brothers' movie, Horse Feathers?

Everyone Says I Love You
Written by Bert Kalmar & Harry Ruby

Everyone says "I love you"
The cop on the corner
And the burglar too
The preacher in the pulpit
And the man in the pew
Says "I love you."
Everyone, no matter who,
The folks over eighty,
And the kid of two,
The captain, and the sailor,
And the rest of the crew
Says "I love you."
There are only eight little letters
On the phrase
You'll find.
But they mean a lot
More than all the other words combined!
Everywhere, the whole world through,
The king in the palace,
And the peasant too
The tiger in the jungle,
And the monkey in the zoo
Says "I love you."
The preacher in the pulpit
And the man in the man in the pew
Says "I love you."
The captain, and the sailor,
And the rest of the crew
Says "I love you."
Oooooh!
Aaaaah!
Everywhere, the whole world through,
The king in the palace
And the peasant too
The tiger in the jungle
And the monkey in the zoo
Says "I love you."

Digging out

Here's my husband making some headway this morning. Alas, we're still getting about an inch an hour, so by this afternoon it'll look like he never even shoveled.

Are you in my book?

Friends, it has come to my attention that my Long Island town is abuzz with rumors that SECRET CONFESSIONS OF THE APPLEWOOD PTA is about actual members of our local Parent Teacher Association.

Consider this an open letter of assurance to my townsfolk that nothing could be further from the truth. As gorgeous, fascinating, entertaining, talented, lovable, unique and worthy of volumes of adoring prose as you are, I did NOT put you in my book. Remember, this is a novel, and as such, a work of fiction. That means it’s nothing but a twisted product of my warped imagination.

But if you need further convincing that your life didn’t fuel my inspiration, take this simple quiz in the privacy of your own home, by answering True or False to each of the following statements:

1. I’m on a PTA committee responsible for getting a George Clooney movie filmed in our schoolyard. T F

2. I’m married to a brain-damaged man who asks strange women to fuck him. T F

3. Invited to be secret reader to a classroom full of kindergarteners, I showed up in a miniskirt with no underpants. T F

4. I sing like the gates of heaven have opened, but am afraid to let anyone hear my voice. T F

5. My mother is an alcoholic eccentric, prone to removing her clothes for anyone who asks. T F

6. I had an affair with a Catholic widower who’s a senior ranking officer of the school board. T F

7. I wrote a song on the guitar about this lover. T F

8. I broke my ankle and got so drunk at a wedding I sawed off my cast. T F

9. Once, in a fit of rage, I painted every surface in my kitchen—including walls, cabinets, ceiling and floor--a bright, high gloss yellow. T F

10. After being accused of stealing a jar of pine nuts, I hurled the contents at the president of the PTA. T F

11. I told my best friend that my secret fantasy is to rappel into George Clooney’s bedroom dressed like Catwoman. T F

12. I am a fictional character. T F

If you answered FALSE to two or more of the above questions, sleep easy. You are not in this book.

Tune in next week when I answer the question, “Is this book autobiographical?”

Meanwhile, here’s a peek at what the book is really about:

Behind the vinyl-sided veneer of Applewood, Long Island, live three women with more humor, heartache and sexuality than one PTA can hold.

With her husband’s affection waning, Maddie Schein is hungry for recognition and wishes she could impress the PTA elite. But you can’t drive a law degree, or slip your IQ over your shoulders and tie it into a jaunty knot. Brash, lusty and rich, Ruth Moss has it all except for one thing: her husband was left brain-damaged, impotent and sexually-uninhibited from a stroke. Talented but timid, Lisa Slotnick wants nothing more than to fade into the scenery, but is thrust before the spotlight by her out-of-control, alcoholic mother.

Together, these women form the publicity committee of the North Applewood Elementary PTA. When they learn that they’re responsible for the most exciting project their town has ever seen--bringing George Clooney and a movie crew to their own backyard--each thinks it will fill a void in her life and make her an Applewood hero.

What they discover in the end is that it’s their friendship--together with a little luck, a lot of honesty, and some newfound trust--that just might help them pull off a Hollywood ending of their own.

Meet Melissa Senate!

Of course, since she's already published three very popular novels (See Jane Date, The Solomon Sisters Wise Up, Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?) and has more devoted fans than most writers dream of, you may already know the wonderful writing of Melissa Senate. But if you're slow on the uptake like me, consider this a happy introduction.

I'm totally jazzed to read her latest, The Breakup Club, which is told from four different points of view. Check out what critics and writers are saying:

“Senate’s prose is fresh and lively.”—Boston Globe

"Melissa Senate is definitely one of my favorite chick-lit writers. Her books are always feel-good, fast-paced and hilariously funny!" --Sarah Mlynowski, bestselling author

"One of the many gifts Senate brings to the writing table is her ability to establish equally compelling stories for four fascinating characters. That she does so with humor and insight adds to the pleasures of this novel." 4stars, RT Bookclub magazine

"I loved this novel and how it explored so many angles of heartbreak and moving on. Despite there being four characters and four viewpoints, Melissa Senate managed to give them all enough time so their stories were well-developed. Having a male character in there was also fascinating. This novel was funny, touching and down-to-earth all at once. --Rian Montgomery, ChickLitBooks.com

And oh, get this. Her first book, See Jane Date, has already been made into a movie, which will air next Sunday, February 12, at 6 pm on ABC Family.

The Breakup Club can, of course, be found at any bookstore. To order online, visit amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com. For more information, check out Melissa's fun website, melissasenate.com.

Citibank update

The other day I posted an angry tirade about being kept on hold for a Citibank representative, and wanted to update you on this little episode.

First, know this about me: nothing pisses me off like being mistreated by corporate giants. I matter, damnit, and I WILL BE HEARD! Once, Geico rejected my husband and me for an umbrella policy for the lamest reason, and I wrote a letter to the person who rejected us, being sure to cc their boss, their boss's boss, and Warren Buffett, who owns the company that owns the company that owns Geico. Ha! I'm pleased to say that not only did we get offered the policy, but I got a personal phone call and an apology. But back to Citibank ...

I was positively rabid yesterday. In addition to being unable to reach anyone by the phone number I was given, I sent several email messages via their online form. (That means you don't get an actual email address--you just hit a button and your message disappears into some mysterious cyber void.) No one responded to my emails either, fueling my fire.

So I decided to crank it up a notch. I went to Citibank's website and found a list of the names of their senior corporate management. Of course, there were no email addresses provided, so I dug and dug until I found out the "pattern" of Citibank's email address system. Then I went down the list of corporate exectives and sent the following email to every one whose title suggested he or she might be even remotely involved with my issue:

As of this writing, I have been on hold with Citibank's customer service phone number for 81 minutes. Yesterday I waited on hold for 66 minutes before hanging up, and earlier in the day for 95 minutes before hanging up. Further, I emailed customer service about this problem yesterday, and have not heard back. Not by phone or email.

I am trying to reach your company in regard to a letter I believe I erroneously received regarding my home equity line of credit.

Clearly, there is no one answering the phones there. Your phone recording assures me that calls are answered in the order they are received. But is it possible there were callers holding on for MORE than 95 minutes who were helped before me? I think not.

Do you think there are any standards by which this is acceptable customer service? Do you think I would be within my rights to cancel all my Citibank accounts? Do you think I would be within my rights to blog about this treatment to let others know the kind of service they can expect from Citibank? Do you think I would be within my rights to report you to to the FDIC, Better Business Bureau and Department of Consumer Affairs?

Please have someone from the home equity department contact me as soon as possible.


The upshot? I got a personal phone call from one of the head honchos there. And then another. They were as polite and apologetic as could be--really tripping all over themselves to express their dismay over my experience. They promised to investigate what had happened with the phone system as well as why I received the letter.

Today, head honcho #1 called me back to explain in detail the technological error that routed my phone call to neverland. He also explained that the letter I received regarding my account was a mistake and shouldn't have been sent.

I was compensated for my trouble, and received such sincere apologies I was practically embarrassed by own fury. But not fully, because it served a purpose.

So okay ... Citibank made good. Seems they have some heads-up folks over there who really do care about customer service, and I thought you should know.

300 Pages!

I reached a milestone today! I hit page 300 in the first draft of The Smart One. This feels like a very big deal to me. I'm aiming for about 400 pages, so I'm in the home stretch. Yahooooooooooo!

Your February Horoscope

A couple of months ago I started posting a monthly link to Sue Miller's Astrology Zone, and plan to continue because, for me at least, she is so on the money. Consider this first paragraph:

Your career has been demanding a great deal of your attention lately, but at the same time, it's suddenly occurred to you that you'd feel much happier if you could also get your home into better shape. To Scorpio, one of the most private signs, having a haven you can come back to at the end of the day is very important for your well being. If your home isn't comfortable or quite right, it may be hard to fully relax.

Wow. She nailed me! To see if yours is accurate too, click here.

CITIBANK CITIBANK CITIBANK

On the off chance that the CITIBANK CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVES who aren't answering the phones are wasting time by surfing the net and wind up here, WILL YOU PLEASE ANSWER THE FREAKING PHONE? I've been on hold ALL DAY!!!!!!!!

I am OUT OF PATIENCE!

I am CANCELLING MY ACCOUNTS!

BLOWING OFF STEAM HERE IS NOT HELPING ME FEEL ANY BETTER!!

Meet Helene Sherman, sculptor

My friend Helene is such a multi-talented artist that she just knocks me off my chair. She started sculpting a few years ago and people are falling in love with her work. Can you blame them? The beautiful piece above is called "Daydream." To see more, click here: Helene K. Sherman

I've been tagged!

My very dear and talented friend Myfanwy Collins has challenged me to write 10 interesting facts about myself. Yikes. I have to dig pretty deep beyond my everyday life of driving carpools and shopping at Target to come up with such a list, but here goes ...



1. I once had Chinese food in Marvin Hamlisch's apartment.
Long story short is that I met Marvin and his live-in girlfiend at the time--a very young Emma Samms--through a relative. Emma and I became fast friends and we sometimes got together at their apartment.


2. I was born with a hemangioma on my left ear and had it surgically removed when I was 5 years old.
Not sure that qualifies as interesting. Would it help to know my mother fainted when she saw me come out of surgery with my head wrapped in bandages?

3. I can faint from even thinking about medical procedures.
Indeed, I passed out the first time I put in contact lenses. Per number 2, I think this is a genetic condition.

4. I've had hypnosis therapy for my fear of needles.
It worked pretty well but, per number 3, don't tell me about your root canal in graphic detail, okay?

5. I have never once made love outdoors.
That one's kind of sad, isn't it?

6. During my third pregnancy, my heartrate went up to 240 beats per minute.
Scary. They never figured out the cause, and did all sorts of terrible tests on me, including things I feared would hurt the baby. I recovered, and the baby is now a healthy 8-year-old girl, albeit with allergies. Could the tests be the culprit in that? I'll probably never know.

7. When I was a teenager, my friends and I sneaked into a Broadway rehearsal for the Monty Python show, and wound up going out for beers with Terry Jones and Terry Gilliam.
My girlfriends and I had soft drinks, of course. I guess we were pretty gutsy kids (and devoted fans) to sneak in like that.

8. I once lived on Abbey Road in London.
Yeah, that Abbey Road. I was a college student and spent a year studying abroad.


9. My grandfather made the famous Radio City Music Hall sign.
He was in the neon sign business in those days. Poppy was a pretty taciturn guy, and we had exactly one conversation about it. Me: I heard you made the Radio City Music Hall sign. Poppy: That job was a bitch.

10. I can get my legs into the lotus position without using my hands.
People seem to be impressed by this. Men, especially.


I know I'm supposed to just tag one person, but I have a couple of brilliant and fascinating blogger friends whose answers I'm just dying to see, so I'm going to cheat. Ready? Jordan Rosenfeld, Robin Slick, Melanie Lynne Hauser, and Susan Henderson ... you're IT!

Meet Laurie Stolarz!

Teen thriller fiction. Did you know such a thing existed? I didn't. If I had, I would have found (and bought) this incredible series from Laurie Stolarz when I was combing the bookstore shelves for Chanukah gifts for my kids.

But better late than never. I've decided I'm going to get these even though the holidays are past. My kids are readers, and I think the older two are going to devour these.

My thirteen-year-old--who usually reads only nonfiction--is deep into The Shining right now, and I've been eager to find more books to ride his current wave of interest in things magical and creepy.

My eleven-year-old loves nothing more than getting attached to a really good series, and I think this will capture him with its magic. Check out this review I found, written by a kid his own age:
Blue is for Nightmares

Great, huh? I think I'll be making a trip to Border's today.

For more information on Laurie Stolarz and these great teen books, check out her website: lauriestolarz.com

Galley pages!

Hurrah! My galley pages have arrived! I'm so out-of-my-mind excited that I'm going to be a total doofus and show you pictures. Here they are:










Don't I look so mellow in this picture? Totally staged, believe me. I was weeping like an idiot when I opened the package from my publisher and got my first glimpse of how my book is going to look.

Oh, happy day!

Oh, and did I mention there's SEX?

My amazon rankings are about to drop into the millions, so I thought it was a good time to bring it up.
Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA

Meet Sheila Curran!

Friends, I’m excited! I’ve been asked to join a group of women writers who have started a cyber circuit to promote each other’s published books. I was introduced to the group by Melanie Lynne Hauser (author of Confessions of Super Mom), who my husband says is the Midwestern version of me, though I’m pretty sure her husband would say I’m the East Coast version of her. In any case, Melanie is smart and talented and funny as all hell, and I’m honored to be compared to her in any way.

But today I’m not here to talk to you about Melanie, but about Sheila Curran, the first author in the Girlfriends' Cyber Circuit I’m pimping for. And I’m stoked, because I’ve checked out Sheila’s website and her book, Diana Lively is Falling Down, looks so simultaneously hilarious and touching that I can’t wait to get my greedy little hands on it. (I’ve already ordered mine from Amazon. If you want to do the same, click here.) If I was just a little bit more narcissistic, I'd say she's the British version of me, but I'm not so I won't.

Anyway, if I could get reviews half as good as Sheila's I'd die happy. Read these and see what I mean:








Not yet convinced? Then take a tour of Sheila's cool website, which includes an excerpt:
SheilaCurran.com

I think you'll want to pick up Diana Lively is Falling Down. (Okay so shoot me. Once a copywriter ...)

It wishes with the whole until the healthful, lucky New Year and the allegro!

Makes not the sense to you that title?

There's this funny little site called Lost In Translation that translates phrases back and forth between English and five or more different languages. The results can be hilarious.


Original English Text:
Wishing everyone a healthy, happy and joyous New Year!

Translated to French:
Souhaitant à chacun par nouvelle année saine, heureuse et joyeuse !


Translated back to English:
Wishing with each one by new healthy, happy and merry year!


Translated to German:
Wunsch mit jedem bis zum neuem gesundem, glücklichem und fröhlichem Jahr!


Translated back to English:
Desire with everyone up to the new healthy, lucky and merry year!


Translated to Italian:
Voglia con tutto fino al nuovo anno sano, fortunato ed allegro!


Translated back to English:
It wants with all until the new healthy, fortunate year and allegro!


Translated to Portuguese:
Quer com o tudo até o ano novo e o allegro saudáveis, afortunados!


Translated back to English:
It wants with the everything until the healthful, fortunate new year and allegro!


Translated to Spanish:
¡Desea con el todo hasta el Año Nuevo y el allegro saludables, afortunados!


Translated back to English:
It wishes with the whole until the healthful, lucky New Year and the allegro!

Which celebrity do you resemble?

I look like Scarlett Johanssen and Brigitte Bardot? Ha!

Many thanks to my funny and talented friend, Robin Slick, for pointing me in the direction of this entertaining site:

My Hertiage Face Recognition
(Go the site and click on "try another photo" to upload your own and see who you look like!)

I am a Scorpio, My Lover is a Cancer

To see if you and your lover match up as well as me and my darling, check out Astrology Zone.

Here's what it says about my marriage:

Are you in love with a Cancer? Then you have chosen one of your best possible matches. This pairing gets a "10!" Your Cancer is as deeply emotional and empathetic as you are, and together you will develop a rich, intimate life unequalled by any other sign match (except for Pisces and Scorpio). Both of you have your moods, but you allow that in one another, and view the changing emotional landscape as interesting and adding texture to your life. Cancer is a water sign like you, and your lover understands the need for strong, intuitive bonding. Of the two, you are the more inflexible, but Cancer's ability to flow with changing events will be an asset to you.

Sex together will be outstanding. Cancers want a family, and Scorpio rules procreation, so this could well be a very fruitful union. Cancer also rules nurturing, so you will have the kind of home life you always dreamed of.

Now a word of warning: Scorpios want one great love in their lifetime, so if they marry the wrong person due to pressures and circumstances, the results can be disastrous. Prince Charles is a Scorpio and was married to Princess Diana, who was a Cancer. But his true love was the other Cancer -- Camilla. So here you see a Cancer-Scorpio pair that did not last. The moral, Scorpio, is to be sure that you marry your one true love. Even compatible Sun signs can't override that rule!

A Cancer in love, whether in the beginning or after years of life together, offers food as an expression of love. So cook together, feed one another, make love in the kitchen. Have fun! You've got lots to look forward to, Scorpio. Don't let this one get away!

Fern Meyerowitz

Today is Fern’s birthday. She would have been 47 years old.

We met in college. My cousin Cindy introduced us. She had told me she met this amazing girl during orientation, and knew we would be best friends. I was skeptical, of course. I barely knew myself at that point, and had a hard time believing Cindy could pick a stranger from a crowd and know I would love her.

It took exactly one meeting for Fern and I to figure out that Cindy was right. Within minutes, we had collapsed into one another in laughter and become best friends. It took twenty-five years for fate to tear us apart.

We had a big, messy, complicated friendship all those years. Fern could be as demanding as she was funny, as stubborn as she was charming. But she changed me forever. And while she wasn’t always the easiest person to be friends with, she was fiercely loyal, and I never knew a friend could love me so much or believe in me or deeply. Some people said Fern had magic, and I think they were right.

When I got the news that Fern had non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, I was confident she could beat it, as I couldn’t imagine there was any force on Earth stronger than her. But I was wrong. And in summer 2002, Fern was gone.

I still think about Fern a lot, and sometimes I consider trying to write about her—I mean really write about her. So far, though, I either haven’t enough talent or enough distance to capture her spirit on paper. The closest I’ve come is to write about my grief, which I did in a Flashquake piece called “How to Say Good-Bye to Fern.”

When we first met, Fern and I thought we were mirror images of one another. But over the years we came to learn that we were as different as we were alike. Take spirituality, for example. Fern was a believer. I remain a skeptic. So even though she trusted in reincarnation with all her heart, I’m still not so sure. I do know, though, that if anyone could find a way to make sure their spirit sticks around, it would be Fern.

So my darling friend, if you’re out there somewhere, Happy Birthday. I miss you so very much.



1/26/07 - EDITED TO ADD:

Dear Visitor,
My site meter shows that people sometimes find their way to this blog because they typed Fern's name into a search engine. This makes me smile, because I know it would mean so much to Fern to know she's still thought about. If you'd like, feel free to treat this blog post as an ongoing memorial. You can share a comment about Fern--some memory or just a note on how you met or what she meant to you--by clicking on "comments," below.

For updated posts, click the blog title at the top of this page"The Raving"

A Mother's Chilling Post-Holiday Tale




By Ellen Meister
(with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

Once upon an evening dreary, while I toiled, weak and weary
Over many a desperate dirty dishrag and forgotten chore,
While I leaned down limply lugging toys from off the carpet rugging
Suddenly there came a tugging, tugging at the skirt I wore.
"'Tis some little kid," I muttered, smoothing out the skirt I wore,
"Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
Action dolls not yet dismembered lay across the playroom floor.
Each new toy was still unbroken, yet the child still was pokin'
And the only word there spoken was the whining more, "S'more."
This he whispered then his sister murmured back the word, "S'more."
Only this they did implore.

Then the silly, sad, incessant clangor of the season's presents
Chilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating,
"Darling children, I am pleading, let's return some to the store--
Darling children, I'm entreating, let us give some to the poor."
Still they said, "We want s'more."

"You still want more?" I blurted feeling slightly dizzy, my head reeling,
"Get thee back into the playroom where your playthings line the floor!
Go before I need to yank you! Go before I want to spank you!
Leave my kitchen and I'll thank you not to ask for any more.
Take thy sighs from out my sight and thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the child, "I want more."

And the child, so demanding, still is standing, still is standing
Near a portion of my pantry just beside the kitchen door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
Sights of toys and trinkets gleaming on the shelves of every store.
Unaffected with respect to his demands for even more,
Quoth I, the mother, "Never more!"

* * *

This poem first appeared in Light Quarterly

A Beginner's Guide to Hanukkah

Jonathan Safran Foer had a hilarious piece on the op-ed page of The New York Times today. You can read it here.

(Tip: If the link appears too small to read, click on the lower right hand corner of the image to enlarge.)

2005 was the year that I ...

In the face of the horrific global disasters this year brought, I feel a little guilty listing my personal triumphs. But it was a good year for me indeed, and I'm thankful for that. And anyway, without guilt I am nothing.

So here's the way I finish the sentence, "2005 was the year that I ..."

* Saw my oldest son--the boy I once feared would never speak--become a Bar Mitzvah and read from the torah to a weeping congregation of friends and relatives

* Had a party celebrating the sale of my first novel

* Sold my second novel

* Got a new laptop

* Bought a new minivan

* Celebrated my grandmother's 95th birthday with her

* Started a blog

* Lost my best friend to mental illness; got her back again


Thanks for checking in. Wishing you joy and peace and beautiful things for the New Year!

The inscrutability of Google

One of the interesting things about having a site meter attached to this blog is that I can see how someone found their way here. For instance, if they went through a search engine, I can see the actual word or phrase they used.

Sometimes this gets nauseating, as the pornographic search phrases people come up with are beyond my understanding of human sexuality. But other times it's just perplexing. For instance, if you Google "December Horoscopes," you will get 44,800 hits, and my dinky little blog comes up at number 5. I did indeed post an entry with that title. But why is my blog higher than so many hundreds of dedicated Zodiac sites?

I wonder how many Google hits I'd get if I titled an entry "Great American Novel"? Probably not as many as if I used "desperate housewife amputees with naked barnyard friends."

ABC Hires Jew-Hater Mel Gibson to Produce Mini-Series on Holocaust

From The New York Times:
...Quinn Taylor, ABC's senior vice president in charge of movies for television, acknowledged that the attention-getting value of having Mr. Gibson attached to a Holocaust project was a factor.

"Controversy's publicity, and vice versa," Mr. Taylor said.
Read more here.


What's next? A biopic on Menachem Schneerson by Louis Farrakhan?

It pleases me!

I was recently thrilled and flattered to be contacted by fellow writer Thea Atkinson, who teaches a class on flash fiction and wanted to use a story I wrote for discussion with her students. The story is called "Does it Please You?," and it appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, one of my favorite ezines. For you flash writers out there, it's great place to be seen. Submit!

Eva and my book jacket

The girl on my cover might have my hair, but she's got Eva Longoria's face, don't you think?

December Horoscopes

You got to love a horoscope that starts out like this:

This may turn out to be the most joyous holiday you've had in recent memory. With Jupiter, the planet of happiness and good fortune, now in Scorpio for a year - a placement it began to occupy in late October - you have suddenly become the cosmic favorite. Opportunities for greater love, better health, and substantial job opportunities will all be yours. This month, thanks to the new moon that's set to arrive December 1, good news about your salary should come through, too.

Alas, it also says I'm going to get hit with a whopping bill this month. Oh well.

This is from Astrology Zone, the same place I linked last month. Read yours here.

Me and my book jacket

Coincidence? Or did someone show the illustrator a picture of my hairdo? I've never met the artist or the designer, so I honestly don't know. But I suspect it's just happenstance.

Weird, though. Nearly creepy.

200 Pages!

I've been toiling away at my second novel, THE SMART ONE, and today I hit the halfway mark. Hooray! I think I'll take myself out to lunch.

I'll bring pages to edit, of course.

Quiction

My friend and fellow writer, Ray Collins, has made it his personal mission to bring flash fiction to the people though a labor of love he calls Quiction Online. This week's edition features work by Donia Carey, David Coyote, G.C. Smith and Julie Balloo, as well as a story by yours truly called, "Stuck," which originally appeared in Hobart #4.

Runaway Mom

On Friday I ran away from home.

Alas, it wasn't exactly a dramatic escape. It was a pre-planned day and night so that I could catch up on my novel writing. Since my parents are in town and had volunteered to watch the kids, it was a rare opportunity to get away.

I had made reservations at an out-of-the-way hotel on the north fork of Long Island, facing Peconic Bay. I thought it would be romantic in a writerly sort of way to be all alone on a chill night, facing the deserted windswept beach as I wrote. Since I'm not a spur-of-the-moment kind of gal, I had reserved my room in advance, mapped out driving directions, and spoken at length with the front desk about assuring me an early check-in time.

But even the best laid plans gang aft agley. (See? I really am a writer!) When I got to the hotel, which was really a sharp right turn from the ass end of nowhere, the place was deserted. The office was dark and empty. The parking lot only had one car besides mine, and a thorough search of the grounds revealed that it belonged to a cleaning lady who didn't speak a word of English. She did, however, rummage through the office desk until she found the home phone number of the woman who was supposed to be at the front desk. I used my cell and tried to reach her, but to no avail. So I waited and waited, and finally gave up. Then I drove to a big, plush, fancy Hilton nearer my home.

So, despite losing a few hours writing time, perhaps it worked out for the best. Being alone in a luxurious room with my laptop and a live line to room service was really just what this writer needed. And now, instead of being behind schedule on my novel, I'm a little bit ahead.

Is there a moral to this story? I'm not really sure. Maybe it's just that a king-sized bed and room service is a damned good alternative to a surfside view.

My favorite holiday

I'm smiling today, as I have much to be thankful for. And also, you got to love a holiday that's all about food and family and more food, with all the poignancy and none of the pressure associated with religious celebrations.

Blessings, everyone! Here's something to enjoy today:
Happy Thanksgiving

Monty Python's Flying Groupies

This weekend I had a reunion with my high school buddies, Linda, Marlene and Bette. We spent a good amount of time reminiscing about our exploits as Monty Python fanatics, plugging the gaps in each other's memories.

"Were you there the day we sneaked backstage during rehearsals of their Broadway show?"

"No! Where the hell was I?"

"Her parents sent her to stay with an aunt in Pennsylvania that summer, remember?"

"Oh, right."

That particular memory was the highlight of our little group's fandom (and poor Linda missed it). We were suburban girls, and had bridge and tunneled our way into Manhattan during the rehearsals of the Pythons' Broadway show (can somebody please remind me what it was called?). We stood in front of the locked doors of the theater (Winter Garden?) trying to devise a way to sneak in, when we saw a delivery boy try the doors and then head for the side entrance. We followed him right in.

Ballsy little chicks that we were, we parked ourselves right behind Terry Jones and Terry Gillian, who were shouting directions to the folks on stage setting up the scenery. We struck up a conversation, and eventually they asked if we wanted to go across the street for a beer. We cleared our schedules and joined them. Of course, we were underage, so we had to have sodas instead of beers, but we felt terribly grownup.

Several years later, I wound up spending a college semester in London. Somehow, I got Terry Jones's home telephone number (how did I manage that?), and called him on some pretense that escapes me. I know that it resulted in an invitation to a pre-release private screening of "Life of Brian," and later to a dinner invitation at his home, where I joined him and his wife (Allison?) and a friend who, as I recall, was "an American writer chap" who had once interviewed John Lennon for Rolling Stone.

More interesting than all these memories--and a topic we didn't get around to discussing at our reunion brunch--was why we seized on the Monty Python troupe with such devotion. I know that teenagers latch onto celebrities--usually rock stars--with a kind of idolization you just don't see in adults. Not healthy adults, anyway. I have to believe that hormones play a role in this, as teenagers feel things with an almost pathological intensity. They don't like and dislike, they LOVE and HATE. So I understand that there's no line between a fan and being a rabid fanatic, especially if your friends share the passion. Then it just crescendoes.

But. Why Monty Python? Why not The Grateful Dead or The Doobie Brothers or the Eagles or Bruce Springsteen? What was it about this oddball British comedy show that inspired our worship? They were funny, sure, but there had to be more to it than that. Maybe it was because they weren't a rock group. Perhaps idolizing musicians seemed too normal, too much like something other kids did. We felt so fringe, the four of us. There was no place for us to fit in, except with each other. So maybe we were drawn to Terry, Terry, John, Michael, Graham and Eric because they created a world where you didn't have to fit in. They made oddness king. That was important to us back then. I hope it still is.

Happy Birthday to ... ME!

Don't buy me a present. Buy my book!

No subtlety. That's my birthday present to myself. :)

Stage Fright

It's countdown time and I need your help, dear reader. My first real personal appearance as an author is almost upon me, and I'm fraught with anxiety. I'm not just doing a signing or a reading, but giving an actual speech, which is what has me in a tizzy. Any nonchemical-based tips on how to deal with stage fright are most welcome!

My book jacket!

I've been dying to post this for WEEKS and just got the okay. So it's official. This is my cover. Do you love it? I do!



(for larger view, click on image, and then click again in lower right corner)

(Edited to add: my 13-year-old informs me that you only need to do that lower right corner click on Internet Explorer. "Firefox is way easier," says he. Live and learn.)

P.S. You can now leave a comment on my blog even if you don't have a blogger account.

It's Official

My second book deal has been announced in Publishers Marketplace, the trade journal where such things are listed:

Fiction:
General/Other
Ellen Meister's THE SMART ONE, in which three sisters trying to shake their childhood labels of "the smart one," "the pretty one" and "the wild one," discover that there's no place like home (even after finding a dead body in an industrial drum beneath the house next door), again to Carrie Feron at Morrow, for publication in 2007, by Andrea Cirillo and Annelise Robey at the Jane Rotrosen Agency. arobey@janerotrosen.com

For a bit of backstory on this book, click here.

I need to whine today

I'm cranky today, really feeling tired of the way so many writers let jealousy blacken their hearts. I belong to an online writers' group where most of the folks are truly supportive. But in the past week, three different writers have made it their business to lash out at me. The latest came in the form of a review of some chapters I posted. It was so unnecessarily mean that it just broke my heart. I wasn't insulted by her comments about the chapters, as her points were foolish and lame, and really made little sense. Indeed, her criticisms were so obnoxious and pervasive, it was clear she was hell bent on wounding me. But why? I've never had any dealings with this woman. I can only surmise that it's my success that has her so angry.

And then today I read an entry in Tess Gerritsen's blog, where she complains about critics putting her down for being "too commercial." Essentially, they're angry that she's successful. (I just read her latest, Vanish, and can't imagine that anyone who enjoys thrillers could seriously complain about her writing, which is pitch perfect.)

So bleh. All this pettiness has me in a bad mood.

Okay, I'll go play with my kids now. They have such lovely hearts.

insolent ME

On January 1st, the utterly delicious and sadly missed flash fiction ezine, insolent rudder, will relaunch with a glorious new issue. I'm proud to announce that it will include a interview with yours truly. For a sneak peak, click here.

November Horoscopes

Click here. You know you want to.