the pieces of my life

My husband is taunting me with pictures on Facebook of elegant dining rooms and lingering dinners. He texted me a photo of the snacks at one of his meetings: a bucket–yes, a bucket–of gummy bears. He went to bed last night with no one kicking him in the ribs.

I–oh, wait a minute. I just stepped in a pile of Kix lying on the floor and have made a huge mess. What was I going to say? Whatever it was, suffice it to note that I am not having the elegant time of my husband, who has been swept off for the week for a conference in Berlin.

But alas it is not all bad here. Well, the sobs from the girl about missing Daddy, the boy’s refusal to practice his viola, and the insult-to-injury early release day today notwithstanding, things are going just hunky dory.

For starters, I’ve learned my daughter will not only live with me her entire life, but I shall have the privilege of chauffeuring her until the end of my days. In the car, we had this discussion:

The girl: When Doodles goes on his retreat this weekend, I get to be alone with you and Daddy!
Me: Yes, you do.
The girl: Doodles, you had two years alone with Mommy and Daddy.
The boy: Huh?
Me: Yep. Before you were born, Doodles.
The boy: Oh.
Me: But, Pie, you’ll have two years alone with us when your brother goes away to college.
The boy: But I want to go to M.I.T., so I won’t be going away.
Me: Even if you do get to go to M.I.T., you’re going to want to live on campus.
The boy: I can do that?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the college experience, moving out of the house, living with friends. It’s something you’ll be ready to do by the time you go to college.
The boy: Okay.
The girl: Not me! I’m not going to college because I don’t ever want to leave home!
Me: You may find you feel differently when you’re 17.
The girl: No way! I just won’t go to college.
Me: Well, if you feel that way, we are in a major college town and there are plenty of schools you can go to and still live at home. Heck, there’s a college just 15 minutes away.
The girl: And you’ll drive me to class?
Me: Uh, no. You’ll drive yourself to class.
The girl: No way! I’m not going to college unless you’re driving me to classes!

Let’s re-visit this blog post in 2023, shall we?

In the meantime, I’m getting a decent amount of editing done on my novel, and I’m feeling good about the changes I’m making. And I just had a short-short accepted for publication in the Sierra Nevada Review, which is always an exciting thing. And I know I have a big bag of gummies coming to me at the end of the week (are you paying attention, Adam?).

Back to writing. Gotta get as much done as I can before I’m expected back behind the wheel. Ta ta!

My novel needed a new first chapter. I had one that jumped in time, and it was confusing. I had another that sort of plopped you into the novel in a way that didn’t draw the reader in. So I went back to the drawing board (or the computer screen, as the case may be) and wrote a new first chapter. I found the perfect point in time for the novel to start. I wrote beautiful words that just fell into place. I read it and read it again, and it was just right.

Then I realized that toward the end of my book, there was a scene missing. It wasn’t glaring, no one was going to read the novel and think, “Hey, why wasn’t that in there!” but it’s a scene that just makes sense to have, I thought. So I wrote it. Wasn’t sure about it. Did it come across as filler or did it really further my plot along? Was it believable? Did it drag?

This morning I had my writing group. Oh how I love my writing group. For starters, being in a room with other writers means being with people who simply understand. Who don’t ask why my novel isn’t for sale. Who don’t ask why I don’t just publish something. Who empathize that it takes years to–I almost wrote “perfect,” but to a writer, nothing is ever “perfected”–finish a novel to a writer’s almost satisfaction. Then, of course, is the feedback. My group has fresh eyes and can see things I miss, can tell me where holes need to be filled. The world of my novel is so firmly grounded in my mind that I can make leaps that a reader might not make. And the group can call me on those.

We went over my two new chapters. And as suspected, one needs a lot of work and one is great as is. But, of course, as you can probably guess, I had it backwards. They didn’t buy my first chapter. I think “baffled” was the word one of them used. Whereas for the chapter I was uncertain about words like “adored” and “loved” were bandied about. When they explained why they were confused by the first chapters, I wanted to smack myself on the head for not seeing it. And when they showed what they liked about that other chapter, it became clear to me that, “Yes, this really is a critical part of the story.”

So now, it’s back to Chapter 1, which isn’t as scary as it seems, because Chapters 2 through 22 are in great shape. I just need to get that Chapter 1 so compelling that the reader feels s/he must keep reading. Back to the computer screen!

This morning when I woke up, I thought about a run. My general rule is that if the temperature is above 20 degrees, I’m willing to run in it solo. I’ll run in lower temperatures, but only with friends. A quick peek at weather.com showed the temperature was 23 degrees. I was excited for a nice brisk run. And then something made me look back and I saw that 23 was the high for the day. I had to click on the “right now” for the moment’s temperature. Which was 3 degrees. With a wind chill of -9 degree. Hello basement elliptical trainer!

I hate coming home from Miami Beach.

Miami Beach is such bliss. We spa’d it. We ate it. We drank it. We visited tourist sites. We visited friends. We had ice cream.

Making art with Nana

Fairchild Tropical Gardens

First year she made it up till midnight

Kayaking on Biscayne Bay

Relaxing on New Year’s Day

But it’s not real life and as much as I always say I’d like to move back, I know that the fun we have comes only from being there once a year. Plus, as much as I complain about the cold, I have become fond of the change of seasons.

And coming back has its upsides. Right before we left, I sent my new novel to my agent and she responded telling me, “It’s not there yet.” I was blue about it for a bit, but then I gave myself the distance of the break and I have a whole bunch of new ideas I’m really excited to try. I’ve also been on a huge family history kick (but that’s a post or twelve for another time), and I met some relatives while home who showed me old pics and I discovered some relatives I didn’t even know I had, and it’s all providing fabulous inspiration for my novel, which takes place in 1935. With my bounty of information, it’s time to dig back into the novel!

So I’ll just make more tea, wrap on another scarf, and get back to business. 2013. It’s going to be the year of the novel!

Adam makes coffee every morning, which I appreciate. What I don’t appreciate is that he never gets the amount right. Some mornings, there’s almost a full pot sitting there at the end of the day. Other days–like this morning–I’m drinking up the dregs trying to eke that third cup out of the pot. The man saw me for a FULL 3.24 minutes this morning. Couldn’t he glean in that time that it was clearly a mega-coffee day? Are you telling me that man can’t read my mind! What’s the point of marriage if he can’t simply intuit how much coffee I require on any given day?

Sigh. Today is a novel day. Not in the “new” sense, but in the “I’m going to finish this damn thing” sense. In the past week, I’ve survived a crying drop-off, two Sukkot parties at our sukkah in the rain (one of which was for Pie’s entire 2nd grade class), my father visiting (yes, Peter, you do require “surviving”; doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy having you), our first Brownie meeting of the year (18 girls!), orthodontists, periodontists (why, yes, I DO have gum surgery in my future, thank you very much), eye doctors, curriculum night, and very little writing. This week will be a little better but I plan on tuning much of the world out while I edit my novel. I took a class at Grub Street on Microediting, and one of the great takeaways is to read your writing out loud because you can hear a lot of problems you can’t see. It’s working beautifully, but I have to tell you, it takes a lot of time–and a lot of tea!–to read a 75,000 word novel aloud. I’m about 1/3 of the way through.

Maybe I need to put another pot of coffee on. If you see my shaking later, know that it’s simply an overdose of caffeine.

I’m trying a novel idea with my, uh, novel. When I was writing Continuity, I had pages of notes, Excel spreadsheets trying to keep track of dates and events, and a while when I was sitting with my calculator, playing with, “Wait, if she was born here, then she was how old when he did this, and how old would he have been?” Dates are an important element of Continuity, so it was imperative I kept track, but it was challenging.

For my next novel, which is an historical novel, I’ve created a timeline. I don’t know yet if this will really help, but so far it’s been great because I have lots of room to lay out the back story, real historical events, and pieces of my story. I’m hoping this will help me insure the flow is right, and that I don’t accidentally have events in my story happening out of place with the historical events surrounding them. I’ve been playing with a timeline program called Tiki Toki, and so far it’s been quite easy to use.

This is the first time I’ve had a solid idea of where the novel is going to end. I spent about three years working on Continuity, and I didn’t have the ending for about a year and a half. And then it took that second year and a half to tweak it, perfect it, and get it just where I (or actually the character) wanted it to be (and that’s all before my agent’s revisions and then those rewrites and….).

This month, I plan on using Nanowrimo to get my novel started (National Novel Writing Month: During the month of November, write a 50,000 word novel). I love Nanowrimo. I’ve done it many times in the past. I don’t think anyone can write a novel in a month. Let’s rephrase that. I don’t think anyone can write a solid, well-plotted, well-crafted, interesting novel in a month. But I think that Nanowrimo is fabulous for that initial word dump, for getting past your internal editor and just getting the words down on the page. Starting the novel is the absolute hardest thing to do and Nanowrimo gives you a deadline for doing it. Are you doing Nano? If so, put me down as a writing buddy (my Nano handle is jbrown).

Meanwhile, I’ve got a few thousand words to write today, so I leave you with this thought:

A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. –Thomas Mann

For those who have been with me during the misery of the blurbage process, I found this article, “Six Writers Tell All About Covers and Blurbs” to be really comforting. I paricularly like Mark Jude Poirier‘s take on it:

Asking for blurbs is humiliating and horrible. If your editor and or publicist can do it for you, you’re lucky. If left on your own, ask writer friends or professors. Because I know how awkward it is to ask for blurbs, this is what I usually say when I’m asked to blurb someone’s book: “I’d be happy to blurb your book, but are you sure you don’t want to ask someone with a fan base that isn’t limited to his mother’s book club?” If you ask someone for a blurb, and they write you a decent one, use it! I once was asked to write a blurb for a friend so I diligently reread his novel—I had read earlier drafts. He didn’t use my blurb, which was a good blurb, damn it! I would have understood if my blurb had been knocked off the jacket by blurbs from Philip Roth and Salman Rushdie and Annie Proulx, but no; my blurb was knocked off by blurbs from writers just as obscure as I am. Feelings check: hurt.

And with that thought in mind, I am officially going to not mention anything else about my novel until a) my agent sells it or b) my agent tells me it’s not going to sell. She has not yet sent my novel out on submission, but the entire thing is simply too stressful to think about, so I’m pushing it out of my mind and focusing on my next novel.

Which, by the way, is also extremely stressful. I find that once I have a rhythm going, I love to write. But these first steps, when I’m figuring out my character, trying to plot out the action, I’m a bundle of nerves. I read too much, trying to do research, most of which is never used. I obsess too much, toying with the characters in my mind while I’m running in the mornings. I jot too much, and I end up with random pieces of paper with strange lines of dialogue I’ve overheard or an idea I thought of. At some point, it all comes together, but it hasn’t yet for me. I have two main characters in my next novel. One I have a very clear idea of who she is. The other is still a foggy notion for me. I know some basic facts, but I don’t know her, and until I know her, I can’t be sure what she’s going to do. As my agent so wisely told me, the plot doesn’t drive the character; the character must drive the plot. In other words, what your character does must make sense, must move the plot forward. You can’t simply change your character to make sense of a plot.

Now if only my character would come out of hiding. I can just barely glimpse her….

The other night we watched Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work (and by “we watched,” I mean, I watched while Adam fell asleep on the couch. I admire Joan Rivers a lot. It’s easy to joke about the plastic surgery and the QVC stuff she does, but she really has—to quote Michelle Bachmann—a lot of “choots-pa.” She has done amazing things with her life. But what stuck out at me most about the documentary is how, at 75, she still fears being judged. She’s still completely insecure. She put on a play in London to a standing ovation. Yet the reporters were lukewarm on it, so she refused to put the play on in New York for fear of what the critics would say.

That’s the thing with any creative field. And I don’t think I realized it until recently. An entire hierarchy exists in which, if you can just get to the next point, everything will be okay. But the problem is, that next point doesn’t exist. There’s always the point after.

Once upon a time, I was a lonely little writer sitting in my illegal first floor apartment on 10th Street in the East Village of New York City. I had a box of a computer with the black screen and a copy of WordStar. I worked as an editorial assistant for a now defunct book packaging company, and while during the day I churned out book proposals for work, at night I spent every free hour that wasn’t drinking, doing freelance proofreading (because at my peak in this company, I earned $16,000, which even in 1990, wasn’t enough to live on in NYC) and working on “my writing.” “My writing” was this ambiguous thing in those days, scrawls that filled notebooks and half pages of WordStar files. When I was feeling brave enough, I’d print them out and bring them to a writing group, filled with folks like myself—overeducated, underpaid, young New Yorkers who longed for a more literary era. Personally, I fancied myself a Dorothy Parker.

Each writing group was fraught as we gently tried to help each other improve. Sitting there silently as others judged your writing was a challenge. But it was a necessary evil as three years later I decided I wanted to do something with “my writing” and I applied to MFA programs.

Talk about brutal. I knew that once I got into a program, everything would be okay. I’d be validated about my writing and I’d begin a successful career. Never mind the rejection notices I received. I had pretty much despaired, planning on skipping out of NYC, finding a place to wait tables somewhere out West, and just write, when I came home late one night, half drunk, from a friend’s show at Sin-e on St. Mark’s. I actually remember the night pretty well, because there was another guy sitting there, writing, while the band was playing and he was wearing headphones, listening to something else, which I thought was pretty rude. I confronted him on it, because that’s the kind of thing I do. He claimed to be a musician and not into my friend’s music, and I thought he was an ass, and continued to think he was an ass, even though it turned out he was a famous ass and then a tragic one when he died a few years later.

But, as usual, I digress. The point is, I came home that night, opened my mail box, and cried when I saw the thin letter from the University of Washington. In the hallway, I started just sobbing. I really wanted to go to the University of Washington. I was going to put the envelope on the table to deal with the next morning, but didn’t want to wake to misery, so I opened it, thinking “It’s odd that they’re pleased to reject me,” taking a full five minutes to realize that, thin or not, it was an acceptance.

And so my life was made. I was set! Until I had to produce, three pieces a trimester, to be—not gently—ripped apart by my peers, constantly worried that I was the fraud, that I was the one who didn’t belong. Trying to keep up, trying to produce work. Trying to complete my thesis. And, finally, so I did.

And so my life was made. I was set! Well, until I started trying to get published. Once a literary journal had accepted me, I’d be validated about my writing and have a successful career.

And the journals have come. Very slowly. Painfully slowly. Dribbles here and there amidst the multitude of rejections. I save my rejections in a folder, hold onto them for the day I can say, “See! I told you I could write!” But it turns out publishing in journals isn’t enough.

I had to write the novel. And I did. Four of them actually (if you count my grad school thesis). But finally I wrote the one I thought would work. It passed the muster of my writing group. But I needed an agent. So I put myself out there again. I queried and hoped and revised and because once I got an agent, I’d be validated about my writing and have that successful career. And it happened. I got my agent. My wonderful agent who put my novel through the wringer to make it not just a good novel, but what I hope is a great novel. So I’m there. I’m validated. I’m done.

Except, of course, I’m not. Because, after watching Joan Rivers tonight, it’s been hammered in what should have been so obvious to begin with. If you choose a career like writing, there is no validation, there is no content with a successful career. Because when you’re writing, you’re always auditioning.

Now, I sit and wait for my agent to submit the novel to editors who will then judge my writing. And in the meantime, I submit my novel to writers whom I admire to see if they will blurb my book, and I wait, anxiously, for them to judge me. And—if—an editor makes an offer on my book, I’ll wait to hear what readers, what critics have to say. And then there will be the pressure of the next book, where it starts (almost) all over.

How many times have you picked up a published book and thought, “Eh? Didn’t love it.” And there are even times you pick one up and say, “This was terrible!” Not everyone will love every book. I have to remind myself of that. Not everyone will love my novel.

I’m not going to spout platitudes about how simply writing is validation. It’s not. Simply writing is simply writing. I guess the key is to give up looking for that validation, although, let’s face it: That’s not human nature.

A story for you: My grandmother was an incredibly well read woman. We traded books fairly frequently. She was also a very harsh woman, a woman who rarely had a kind word to say to anyone’s face. I’m not sure why I did it, but shortly before she died, I let her read one of my novels (not the one that’s being shopped around; one that I keep in my bottom drawer). She read it. She called me. She told me she was proud of me for writing a novel, she didn’t know how I did it with kids and working and keeping my home, and it was marvelous that I had done it. She was so impressed. And, then, she started the critique. And, oh what a critique it was. I don’t even remember half of it. Except for one part. “One of the problems with the main character is all she does is get drunk and get laid. That’s it! She needs to be a more three-dimensional character. There has to be more to her than drinking and sex.” Valid point. And then she said it. The words that shall live in my heart forever. “She’s you, right? Your main character is based on you.”

You can’t escape being judged. Sometimes not even by your own grandmother. But learning to live with the judgements is easier than not being a writer. So go ahead. Judge away.

And… it’s… in! I finished revisions to my revisions and my agent is crafting a cover letter and preparing to send my manuscript off into the world. It will be months, most likely, before things really start to happen, but right now, I feel light and happy and free! Yes, I’m still trying to get blurbs. Yes, there will probably be more revisions if? when? the manuscript is bought. But for now, the novel is all wrapped up in a pretty bow.

I think it’s time to open a bottle of something!

The pressure! How do I follow up my blog posts about NYC and still keep all of you guys interested? I have to say, when I blogged about drinking, all-night bars, and general debauchery, my page hits went up. Not that I care about page hits. Definitely not. But I am curious about who is out there thinking I’m a total lush who deserts her kids for the wild life. I don’t do it often, I swear. No more than once a week. Seriously. (Better?)

So what can I tell you now that will keep you on the edge of your seat? I thought of live Tweeting the PTO meeting tonight—It was captivating! It was enchanting! I complained about the lack of booze! (well, one of those statements is true)—but under the fierce eye of the principal, I caved and put my phone away.

I just e-mailed my revised manuscript to my agent. That’s really the excitement of my day. It’s been weighing on me for so long that I finally said, “Damn it! Just send it off!” I think there’s a process one goes through when getting those revisions. It goes something like:

1. Denial: What? You want changes? On my perfect, incredibly manuscript?
2. Anger: Ugh! I hate revising! Revising sucks! No way!
3. Bargaining: Okay, I’ll make a couple of these changes. A few of the changes make sense. But no way am I making those other changes!
4. Depression: Oy, she is so right. Her changes make so much sense. I’m a terrible writer. I’ve made all her changes and now I see there are so many more changes that should be made. Ohmygod, how many times do I use the word “very”? Everyone knows that “very” should be banned from the English vocabulary! What is that other word? How many times does it appear? Okay, let’s read through this one more time…. What a hack I am!
5. Acceptance: You know, with these changes, this thing isn’t half bad. It’s actually pretty okay. Hey, I like my novel again! It rocks!

(Does that list of stages look familiar? No, I didn’t think so either.)

Seriously, my agent’s suggestions were dead on, even if at first I felt resistant. But as I sat with them, I realized they made total sense. But the thing is, I made changes she suggested. And I thought of more. And more. Revising can go on forever if you don’t at some point say, “Enough!” Words can always be tweaked and sentences restructured. So I just sent it off and I feel light and airy… and ready to rework my marketing plan. Sigh.

I’m sorry, is this post too wholesome for you? I’ll throw in: martini! cute boys! ignoring the children!

There. Now do you feel back at home?

Saturday morning. Keep in mind, I had half a bottle of Prosecco (because no way could Tweeds and my friend keep up with me) and three lemon drop martinis the night before.

So what the’s only logical thing to do on a Saturday morning? Why, go for a six-mile run with Beetle and Keaton, of course! Running in New York is one of my favorite things—we headed across the High Line, down the Hudson River Park, around the tip of Manhattan, and 3/4 of the way across the Brooklyn Bridge. When we got back on terra firma, we decided to take a subway back, stopping at the Union Square Farmers’ Market for fruit and coffees.

Back at the apartment, Sunrise and Scooby were waiting for us, and after a quick shower and a leisurely breakfast at Markt (where the host was only mildly snarky at us! They’re softening there), I suggested a flea market. “A flea market? Really?” Sunrise protested. As I think I’ve mentioned before, my next novel is to take place in the 1930s, so I’m doing research, looking for old magazines, jewelry, postcards, whatever! to inspire me and to give me insight into my characters. I dragged Sunrise (the rest were willing participants) to one of these huge garages of a flea market.

I walked through it. I was done in about 15 minutes. Bought a pretty (non 1930s) ring. All good.

An hour later we dragged Sunrise out. She was pretty hard to drag, though, as she was laden with purses, jewelry, and god knows what else she found. “This is awesome!” she was heard to mutter a few times and she practically ran when she saw the next flea market one block over.

By this time, the half bottle of Prosecco, the three lemon drop martinis, and the six-mile run were catching up with me, and I headed back to the apartment for some, let’s call it, “alone time.” The rest headed to Fishs Eddy. About an hour later I was ready to join them again. So I called to find out where they were. Still at Fishs Eddy. Uh, really?

We headed back to the Strand, where this time, I stocked up on books for me! I’m not as ideologically against e-readers as some would have you believe, but the simple fact that it doesn’t allow you to spend hours on end leafing through books at the Strand is enough reason for me to turn my nose up at them.

By this time, Tweeds had joined us and she lead us to an ice cream store that had the most marvelous waffle cones that I could have eaten twelve more. We sat by St. Mark’s Church and had our ice cream and rested our toesies. We lost Keaton at that point who wanted a nap, so the rest of us headed to the Howl Festival in Tompkins Square Park (passing my old apartment!), and after listening to bad music and eating good pierogi, we walked to the Hester Street Craft Fair.

My old apartment:

Street art at the Howl Festival (pay attention to this! It will come back to haunt this story later):

We took the subway up, got all prettied up to see a show, and then headed out for dinner. We couldn’t decide on a place, and ended up at a pub that was okay, but not worth writing about. Then we saw Desperate Writers at the Union Street Theater. The play was cute, with some funny moments, but overall, it didn’t float our boats. We were in the front row, so we had to crane our necks up, and I was too aware that the top of my underwear was rolling down and cutting into my belly. Never the sign of an engrossing play.

We left, yawning. It was about 10 p.m. I texted Tweeds to see what she was up to, but we were really all pretty tired and pretty much done for the night. But then, two things happened: 1) As we were walking home, Sunrise spotted that Bridesmaids was playing in just a half an hour and 2) Sunrise’s husband had the audacity to tempt us into trouble by e-mailing me: “I’m not going to say your tweets have been pedestrian but… actually, yes I will. No nudity and very little alcohol.”

So at 10:35 on Saturday night, we started all over….