THE EXISTENTIAL QUESTION OF THE WEEK

There's one thing I've really missed since I've gotten kind of busy, traveling from bookstore to bookstore, and marveling that my book is here! and there! and sometimes even that other place, too!

What I've missed is the existential question. Or more specifically your responses.

I particularly missed the Existential Question when I came upon a rather strikingly named blog in which the blogger posed a question about how our parents' deepest beliefs formed--or provided a contrast to--our own.

Much as I was tempted to uproot the question and replant it here, I won't. But it did get me thinking about a lot of things. For instance:

1. How much fun it is to blame your parents for everything that's gone wrong in your life when you're young. (Did those callous people ever stop and think about how their actions were effecting your future mental health?)

And:

2. How much less fun it is when your children start doing it to you! (Don't they realize you did the best you could? After all, you're only human!)

Anyway, this question isn't about who's to blame. It's about who did something really great and why and what it is.

So here's the question: What's the one thing your parents did absolutely right in raising you?

ARE YOU AN ALI OR A JEANNE?

Perhaps one of the most interesting things that has happened to me since real people started
reading my novel was that I've heard very strong reactions to my two protagonists. Though both characters are flawed in their own way, most readers felt they could forgive--or perhaps even identify with--the plight and weaknesses of one character, but rarely both. By phone, in email, in person, and even in reviews, I've found that if one character was loved, the other was almost certain to be reviled.

It made me think that in many ways, both heroine and villain are very much in the eye of the beholder. What I particularly love about all this is the very direct way readers are engaging with these characters. They filtered their childhoods, their relationships with friends, lovers, spouses, and children through the prism of the novel, seeing light here, and shadow there. And how they felt about Ali and Jeanne depended on what their experiences had taught them, and how their inborn nature had formed them.

So just for fun, I decided to devise an Ali and Jeanne quiz:

1. What is your general pattern in paying bills?

a) Pay them promptly as soon as they arrive.
b) Put them in a pile with every intention of getting to them by the end of the month.
c) Treat yourself to an expensive bottle of wine, buy a lavish gift for a friend; then see what's
left over to apply to the bills.

2. Which best describes your attitude toward music?

a) Listen to it occasionally, especially in the car.
b) Love it, but I'm not as avid a listener as I once was.
c) Couldn't live a day without it.

3) How do you deal with problems in your relationships?

a) I would do almost anything to avoid conflict.
b) I choose my battles.
c) I believe in confronting issues immediately and directly.

4) Is sexual infidelity ever justified?

a) Never
b) In certain cases, such as when partners are incompatible, and staying together out of necessity.
c) If the passion is strong enough, it's almost a duty to say yes to it.

5) If suffering from insomnia, how would you court sleep?

a) With a good novel that took me out of myself, and a prescribed sleeping pill.
b) A glass of wine, a good book, and a lavish bubble bath.
c) I would stay awake and consume the night.

The answers will be found in the comment section.

Meanwhile, the first person to guess whether I was an a, b, or c wins a signed copy of The Liar's Diary. Thanks for playing!

10 WAYS TO BE BUSY ALL DAY AND NEVER ACCOMPLISH A THING!

ProcRastinator Magazine Cover, originally uploaded by Luke Robinson.

Ever since I quit my waitressing job last fall, my life has been one that takes place largely in a little room. There I pace, and think; I listen to music, eat chocolate, inhale deeply, and exhale people who may or may not exist in one long sigh.

Though my characters are not based on anyone I've ever met, no one could ever convince me they're not REAL. How does that work? I have no idea. My job is not to question why, just to get back to the little room and listen.

Then, as I've been telling you on a daily basis, publication came, and I had to leave the little room. Put on eyeliner and lipstick and two socks that matched and go out and tell my story. Such as it is. I used to be a waitress; now I'm a writer. Or I was always a writer; I just pretended to be a waitress. Or maybe I'm pretending to be both...See what sitting in the little room alone too long will do to the brain?

Anyway, today was the first day in a whole week that I got to do what I do best:stay home and WRITE. So what did I do with my marvelous day? I took out the Procrastinator's Handbook, and personally tried every strategy.

What did I discover? If you want to kill time (a tragic metaphor if I've ever heard one) it's easier than you think.

10 WAYS

1. Sit around and think about every single person who's ever been mad at you or mean to you, and mentally go through the reasons that it's so unfair. (This could not just kill a day, but it can, and HAS, annihilated entire lifetimes.)

2. Use the internet to obsess over your place in the universe. The possibilities are endless. You can google yourself, go to Technorati and check your blog rating; and if you're a writer, there's always your Amazon rank...not that I know anything personally about these narcissistic activities.

3. Before you write a single word, or do a constructive thing, make sure you have the perfect beverage at your side, and that it is maintained at the exact temperature you prefer.

4. Think frequently about the chocolate, almonds, Danish waffle cookies, and leftover burritos in the kitchen. Maybe even get up and make sure they're still where you left them, and that they're just as delicious as they were yesterday.

5. Check your e-mail at least once every fifteen minutes. You don't want to miss anything!

6. Phone messages, too!

7. Read the ten most e-mailed articles from the New York Times before you begin. After all, a writer must be well-informed.

8. Take a nap. You'll think better if you're well-rested.

9. Realize that it's 3 p.m. and you're still in your pajamas. Egads, family will be coming home soon, and will not understand how busy you've been all day.

10. Take out the self-help books, and read up on procrastination. Tomorrow you will definitely do better.

A WRITER'S MANIFESTO, THIRD DAY'S MARCH SELECTION...and a little request

Underwood, originally uploaded by R80o.

Recently, Wendy, a new blog friend, tagged me for a meme called "Self-Contract for Writers." Though I haven't done many memes lately, I think this one had obvious appeal. Whether we state it or not, every writer has such a contract--not only with herself, but with her readers. The contract is unspoken, but essential: You buy my book or read my story or article or blog post, and this is what I promise in return.

I always cringe when writers say they write for themselves. To me, that's a bit like saying you make love for yourself. Undoubtedly, that happens, too, but you don't hear anyone touting it in the personal ads: SM looking to please no one but myself seeks attractive SFs. (Okay, it might be a subtext in some of them, but no one is going to come out and say it.)

Writers, on the other hand, often proclaim it as a badge of honor. I don't care what critics or readers say because you see, I write for myself. How noble!

The worst part? I completely understand the impulse! Get battered with enough rejections, the dismissive review of a critic who just doesn't "get" your book, and anyone's likely to put up a wall. The problem is that the wall not only separates the writer from the pain of being misunderstood or rejected; it separates her from her own best writing: the work that is created to entertain, inspire and provoke thought.

My view, if you want to write for yourself, that's terrific. Get yourself a diary like the little locked notebooks I carried around for years. I learned a lot through the mountains of journals I filled, most of which have been blessedly trashed. I learned about myself and what's more, I learned about the craft of stringing words together. That's what writing for yourself is all about, and there's no question of its value.

However, once you ask real readers to invest their money--or even more significantly, their time in the product of your imagination, you've entered into an unspoken deal with your potential readers, and you ought to do your best to fulfill it.

Does this mean that my book or anyone else's will satisfy everyone? Absolutely not, and if I made that my aim, I'd be even crazier than I already am. What it does mean is that when I ask you to read my work, I'm making a certain commitment to you as a reader. Here it is:

1. I think a good novel should be both entertaining and illuminating. I will do my best to write one.

2. Real life is often the tedious, boring stuff which Thoreau identified when he spoke of the "lives of quiet desperation." It is also startling, dramatic, and "over the top". I will do my best to eliminate the former from my prose, and emphasize the heightened experience that changes a character or a flesh and blood human being forever.

3. I believe that when people read fiction they want to FEEL and THINK and EXPERIENCE. I will do my best to create characters who fully engage the mind and heart.

4. The ultimate drama--both in life and in fiction whether classic or pulp--is the clash of good and evil. In my work, those forces will tangle powerfully. Evil will win many significant battles--just as it does in life, but it will not take the victory. Why? Because in my deepest beliefs and visions and hopes hopes, it doesn't. And what does a writer really have to share, if not her hope?

Now for the THIRD DAY BOOK CLUB pick for March 3rd: The Dead Fathers Club by Matt Haig

Why? Because it's a Booksense Pick, and it sounds truly intriguing. And what's more, it sounds as if it has the thing that has made me most love my favorite books: a strong voice. It also sounds as if it hits the magic combination: an entertaining story and characters that resonate.



From Booklist
*Starred Review* "What happens when you die? Well, if you're murdered, you become a ghost, as 11-year-old Philip learns when he sees his dead father for the first time at the man's wake. Things start to get sticky when Dad then asks Philip to kill his killer, the boy's oily uncle, Alan, who has designs on both Mum and the family pub, the Castle and Falcon. Uncle Alan, it seems, wants to become king of the Castle in his late brother's stead. Poor bewildered, indecisive Philip. To kill or not to kill--that is the question that comes to haunt him. British author Haig's darkly witty and delightfully clever American debut (his first novel, The Last Family in England, was published in the UK in 2004) is clearly inspired by Shakespeare's Hamlet, and part of the fun for the reader is discovering the many droll and unforced parallels. But the real draw is the extraordinary voice that Haig has created for his first-person narrator. Given to panic attacks, Philip is a breathless storyteller who seldom stops for punctuation but whose honesty and innocence, which shine from every sentence, are utterly captivating and heartbreakingly poignant. The result is an absolutely irresistible read."

Meanwhile, I will be reading at an incredible bookstore" tomorrow night at 7 p.m. (and I'm not a bit scared--at least,not yet.) If anyone is near Porter Square Books in Cambridge, please stop by!

Now for my humble request: If anyone has read The Liar's Diary, and would like to put up a short review on Amazon or B & N, I would much appreciate it.

IT'S THE THIRD DAY!

DSCN1887, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

Secret Smile by Nicci French deals with a couple of fascinating themes: sexual obsession, and the isolation experienced by victims.

Miranda Cotton has only been dating Brendan Block a few weeks whens she catches him reading her diary. It's an intrusion that ends the relationship for Miranda. But for Brendan, it's only the beginning.

He insinuates his way into her family, becoming (rather too quickly) engaged to her sister, and (rather too adoringly) welcomed by her parents. When he claims to have been the one who broke up with Miranda, her family takes his word against hers.

It's the beginning of a pattern that ratchets up the tension and frustration for both Miranda and for the reader. Everyone who should believe her when she expresses alarm over Brendan's increasingly disturbing actions, takes his side-- from her parents to her closest friend to the police. When she reveals her fears and concerns to her new boyfriend, he, too, turns against her, seeing them as evidence that she is the one who is obsessed.

The frustration and tension we feel on a protagonist's behalf are good things in a novel. The emotional injustices committed against Miranda kept this reader turning pages late into the night, not only horrified by the interloper's menace, but infuriated by the insensitive family, who worry endlessly about Brendan's needs and feelings, but remain utterly impervious to their daughter's.

However, after the family pays the ultimate price for their blindness, they still refuse to give Miranda--or the reader--the satisfaction of remorse or contrition. Nor do they seem to take any responsibility for the role their unconditional acceptance of Brendan may have played in the tragedy. Instead, both parents and sister disappear from the narrative, as do numerous other characters who seem as if they might be significant, only to be dispatched and never heard from again.

That kind of frustration is less good in a novel. As a reward for buying into the story and enduring the trials of the protagonist along with her, the reader wants and deserves a greater sense of vindication when the facts are revealed.

But what really was lacking in this novel for me was any real sense of who Brendan was and what motivated him. Nor do we see why he's obsessed with Miranda in the first place. Theirs is described as a casual, brief relationship set in a milieu when such relationships are common. What is it about Miranda that makes him refuse to let go? Why is he willing to risk everything, and cause the death of two people, over a brief tryst that didn't work out?

The writing was excellent, and some of the descriptions, particularly of the emotions that Miranda experiences after the tragedy were marvelously visceral. If the couple known as Nicci French had answered--or even addressed-- the pivotal question that lies at the heart of the story, this might have been a first rate novel. Instead, it was simply an entertaining read.

Other Third Day Reviews:

Sharala

Amishlaw
>Becca

Jordan

Can I do it?

(Photo Ted Lukac)

It's tough to be a mother, and if you think the job is over when your pride and joy grows up and leaves the house--or even when they sprout their first grey hairs, think again.

The photo above, "Can I do it?" shows someone who has endured a crippling lifelong phobia of public speaking, as I contemplate my first reading. And in the background, my mother does the job of mothers everywhere: she worries with me.

Years of failure in speaking publicly passed through my head...the oral reports in school when the paper I held in my hand rattled in time with my banging heartbeat...my wedding, with only 30 of my nearest and dearest in attendance, Ted as cool as a summer melon, and STILL my voice quavered...the times I was invited to speak or read my poetry, when cowardice won and I cancelled at the last moment.


(Photo R. Laban)

But now with the success of my debut novel on the line, could I do it? I paced, fretted and fumed for days. While I stewed, Mom drew patterns on the floor with her own circular pacing. And also like good mothers everywhere, she encouraged: You can, you can, I know you can!


(Photo R. Laban)

And guess what? I could! To a standing room only crowd (okay, this is my hometown and they were nearly all friends and family, but STILL...) I talked OUT LOUD, I read OUT LOUD, and the most amazing part? I wasn't even nervous!

Must've been the presence of my mom smiling in the front row just like she's been all my life. Aren't mothers amazing?

THE ONE LINE OBITS OF THE WEEK: Regular Programming resumes?

sixth ave., originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

I did not know these people. Aside from Art Buchwald, I never heard of them in their lifetimes. But like the others I've written about before in the one-line obits, they spoke to me in the final summary of their lives.

Robert Anton Wilson, Writer: "To Bob, everything was interesting."

Richard Boston: "The seven ages of Richard boston encompassed being a journalist, marathon runner, biographer, artist, movie extra, peacenik, and all round eccentric."

Peter Pendergrast, Artist: "He painted with an exuberance that was breathtaking, as if he was determined to reveal how the very planet was born.

Gracie Cole, Cornetist, Trumpeter and Bandleader: "She continued to play music in the nursing home until a few weeks before her death."

Art Buchwald: "Whether it's the best of times or the worst of times, it's the only time you've got."

Now can I just say how happy I'll be to open my blog tomorrow and see something other than that dismal kitchen scene?

FIRST, CLEAN YOUR SINK: One Thing I Learned from Flylady

Kitchen sink drama, originally uploaded by stevacek.

A few years ago, I read about Flylady, a woman who had developed a unique home organization system. Since organization of any kind has been my lifelong quest, I was immediately intrigued. Now in case you get the wrong idea--let me defend my womanly honor here. My house is not dirty. It is, however, messy. Ditto the state of my writing files, my daily schedule, and well, my life. When Flylady promised that if you learned to organize the space around you, it would spill over into every area of your life, I was hooked.

The first thing you do as an official member (a Flybaby) is to clean your sink as you've never done before. You soak it in bleach, then move on to a greasy elbow scrub, and end with a Windex polish. I had no idea how this excessive sink cleaning routine could lead to order in the home--or my true goal, a life that worked better in every way, but I was willing to give it a try.

Intrigue quickly led to obsession, and the kind of fervor frequently seen in cult members. At work, people said I talked about nothing but Flylady for months. Someone would bring up a problem with their boyfriend, and I would soon be quoting Flylady: First, clean your sink. Credit card bills that were out of hand? You start with a bottle of bleach, and then...

After a month or two, I was forbidden to use the words "Flylady says..." in polite company. Like all my runaway enthusiasms, my Flylady phase finally exhausted itself. But some of her principles are still with me, and they really have improved my life and work.



When I started this post, I intended to write it as "Ten Things..." But my life is pretty hectic right now, and every time I thought about compiling it, I decided to wait till "tomorrow".

In the end, I realized my procrastination was the very thing that Flylady counsels against. Her method emphasizes baby steps. You don't try to transform your house in a day. In my translation, you don't try to write a novel in two weeks, or untangle the strands of a twisted relationship in one discussion.

What you do is one thing. You write a solitary page. You make tea, sit down with that person in your life, and talk. Or maybe you just clean your sink. With bleach and Windex. And slowly, you learn that one positive action slyly, magically, inexorably leads to another.

COME TO A LIARS' PARTY

Tupperware Party! front, originally uploaded by compact collection.

Okay, I know I'm a couple days late, but here it is: my very own BIG IDEA. My own bit of marketing madness. The thing I'm most looking forward to as my pub date approaches.

How about if an author went out and introduced her novel through old-fashioned Tupperware-style houseparties?

How about if the author devised a fun format and starting with her own friends, got together in little gatherings to talk about books, writing, creativity and whatever else friends talk about?

Bookstore readings are great, but people are busy, and unless the writer is Orhan Pamuk or Stephen King, it's hard to get us off our couches to come out for a reading. And frequently, when we do, there's little chance to talk directly to the author we came to see--or for her to talk to us.

How would it be the author came to them? How would it be if she got together with a bunch of friends in someone's living room, sipped a little wine or tea together and chatted?

Her book (though of course, it would work for hims as well) would be availabe for sale and signing, but no one would be pressured to buy. The emphasis would be on talking about books and writing and the various ways we live the creative life.

That was the idea I presented to the fantastic publicity department at Dutton; and they responded with an amazing show of openness and enthusiasm. They also had the kind of marketing expertise and experience to turn my "big idea" into something that could really work. We now have brochures describing the parties, and printed invitations--just like Tupperware!



In addition, Dutton has offered to give anyone who hosts a party five free books as a gift, two hardcovers selected from the catalogue and three Advance Review Copies of new work that is not yet available.
where people.

Then my friends got involved. My daughter set up an e-mail address to deal specifically with the parties (liarsparty@gmail.com) and my friend, Laura, has been brainstorming with me as well as working hard to get me focussed and organized (not an easy task.) Already, eight friends and family members have offered to host their own Liars Parties.

And yes, I do know that a book is different than a set of plastic mixing bowls. When I look at my author copies, which arrived a few days ago, I see not only years of work, but a piece of my own mind and heart bound and wrapped up in a stunning blue cover.



But though the products are different, the human need to get together and share ideas and laughter in an intimate setting remains the same.

So coaches, what do you think?

5000 COACHES: A NEW WAY TO SELL BOOKS

grassroots man, originally uploaded by chillhiro.

I loved a lot of things about the movie, Akeelah and the Bee, but one thing that stayed in my mind was the concept of 5000 coaches. When Akeelah's spelling coach quits on her just before the National Spelling Bee, he tells her to go home and look in her own family, her own neighborhood, her own school. There, he says, she will find 5000 coaches. And in them, she will find her victory.

Akeelah's school doesn't have the most rudimentary educational supplies; and her family is too distracted by their struggle to survive the hazards of their vibrant, but blighted neighborhood to pay much attentions to Akeelah's aspirations.

But what her coach teaches her is that sometimes all you have to do is be clear and strong about your dream--and then ask for help. The 5000 coaches, like the proverbial zen teacher, will appear. And they do.

In a lot of ways, the blogosphere has been for a lot of us, the land of 5000 coaches. Whether we're dropping in daily to support a blog friend whose son was recently in a devastating car accident, or sharing stimulus with the marvelous Melba who recently invited C.Delia Scarpitti to interview me for Create a Connection, or taking time to contemplate our magnificent planet, the energy of the ideas and passion shared in the sphere is a force to be reckoned with.

These days, book promotion has become not just the business of publishing companies or highly paid outside publicists. These days authors get to join in the fun, too. After all, who cares more about the success of our books than we do? At first, I was a little intimidated. What did I know about marketing? And did it mean I'd have to leave my little writing room?

Then I went out and looked for my 5000 coaches. The first one was MJ Rose, and her class Buzz Your Book. In that class, MJ taught that you need at least one signature idea to market your book. Like a good zen master, she couldn't tell us what it was; she could only teach us how to search for it.

Almost by accident, I stumbled upon a group of dynamic debut novelists known as Killer Year. The knowledge and encouragement, not to mention, the laugh out loud humor, they share in daily emails, has taught me more than I can say.

Since then, the coaches have proliferated. One example? This week my incredible literary agent and her family will be digging into their own rolodexes, then addressing and sending out 1,000 postcards--all to get the word out about The Liar's Diary. Needless to say, no agent contract in the world covers that kind of grassroots effort.

If I began to name my own band of 5000 coaches, I would quickly run out of space: Tess Gerritsen, Tish Cohen, Karen DeGroot Carter, Dan Wickett, Susan Henderson, Amy MacKinnon, Jacquelyn Mitchcard, Susan Messer, Jordan Rosenfeld, Myfanwy Collins, Laini Taylor DiBartolo...to name a very few. Then there are the many of YOU who pre-ordered the novel even before my mother did, or wrote about it on your blogs. Do you have any idea how great and wide my gratitude is?

More about my new way of selling books, my big, revolutionary idea tomorrow. Right now it's one a.m., and this marketing maven is going to bed.

Wonder and Amazement

long beach, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

(Photo by Ted)

Yesterday, I did something I probably don't do often enough: I went to church!

Though it was a restrained Catholic Mass, I sang as loud as I could, and I even swayed a little to the music. I figure if you're going to do church, you should do it to the max.

A few people looked at me strangely, but a few others smiled and sang louder, too.

I also heard an awe-inspiring homily--about the subject of well, awe. The priest began by suggesting that everyone go out and look at the stars at least once a day.

When he said there wasn't nearly enough awe in today's world, I had to restrain myself from shouting "Amen!"

"If people don't have Wonder and Amazement in their lives, the world becomes increasingly violent," he said. I found that pretty profound.

On the way out of church, I told him I was going to quote him on my blog. Not sure he knew what a blog was, but he smiled like a man who was very familiar with the stars.

OVERWHELMED

3 red peppers in winter, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

Okay, you know me by now. In fact, you know me so well that when Amy King recently tagged me for the "Five things you don't know about me" meme, I was stumped. All I could come up with was two boring tidbits. Then when I tried to blog them, I realized, damn, I already told you those, too.

So, as I say, you know me. You know I like to hang out in my pajamas till noon and talk to my imaginary friends (aka "my characters").

I drink too much coffee in the morning, and too much tea in the afternoon. I eat a piece of dark chocolate every day, and I swear it's the reason I never get colds.

I ruminate on the existential questions, but not too seriously.

I read the obits and wonder what the distilled life means.

On spacious afternoons, I might write a poem, or take the dogs to the beach and pick up shells, or hang out at the health club, and talk to my glamourous seventy-five year old friend, Lina.

I'm neither organized, nor efficient; and in spite of owning the world's most complete collection of sweetly hokey self-help books, I remain utterly unhelped and probably unhelpable.

I love blogs, and I love the people who write them.

But now it seems, my life is changing, and I have no choice but to change with it.

It seems I have a book coming out in less than four weeks, and there's some things I need to do to make it a success.

Things that don't involve pajamas or picking up shells or passing an afternoon listening to Lina talk about all the men who were once in love with her.

I'm also in the dead middle of major revisions on the new novel, a fairly daunting task that needs to be done before February first.

And the thing is, I love this stuff. Every bit of it. I love the writing and the marketing, the networking and the planning. It's the life I've dreamed of and waited for, chased after madly and worked toward with quiet diligence--and damn, I mean to enjoy every blasted minute of it!

But just now. Just today. I'm a little overwhelmed.

Too overwhelmed to think about reading Middlesex, though I've been wanting to for a long time, and will hopefully get to it when my life goes back to normal, whatever that might be.

In fact, I'm too overwhelmed to read anything too demanding. Thus, for The Third Day Book Club, I'm going to do something unprecedented. I'm going to choose a book by an author I've never read--simply because it looks entertaining.

Nicci French, a husband and wife team write psychological suspense novels that are apparently quite popular in England, and the one I chose Secret Smile, was made into a mini-series on the BBC.

This is the review from Publishers' Weekly:

"Nobody does the dark underside of sex in the city better than the British couple who write as Nicci French, and their latest (after 2003's Land of the Living) is one of their most sustained and believable studies in terror against women. Miranda Cotton has an ideal life in London, doing work she loves (building and contracting; she always seems to have a spot of paint in her hair), with no current love interest but lots of dating opportunities. Then a short, nasty liaison with a man who calls himself Brendan Block rips her comfortable world apart. A charming and dangerous psychopath, Block worms his way into the Cotton family claiming that he dumped Miranda (when in fact it was she who tossed him out when she caught him reading her diaries); he immediately wins the trust of her flustered parents and does serious damage to her older sister, Kerry, and her mentally fragile younger brother, Troy. The trouble is that nobody believes the rather rough-edged Miranda when she tries desperately to stop Block's rampage. Studded with sharp insights into the strange compromises involved in modern relationships, this novel could be the horror version of Bridget Jones's Diary. And the authors are so subtle at bringing Brendan and Miranda to life that readers might even begin to doubt that what she's telling us is the whole truth until the stunning climax."

I hope a few of you will read along with me--just for the fun of it! (And meanwhile, if anyone has a cure for the overwhelmed flu, I'm listening.

WRITING AGAINST TIME: The Third Day Book Club Blogs Suite Francaise

Irene Nemirovsky

"All the time we were in that village, I just remember mother writing, writing, writing. It was as if she knew she was writing against time. Indeed, reading between the lines, her notes show she knew full well that if ever her final work was published, it would be posthumously."

Nemirovsky's daughter, Denise Epstein, describing how Suite Francaise was written

I'm not usually fond of novels with large casts of characters. Usually I prefer the intimate view of a clear and strong protagonist. But even though the first half of Nemirovsky's epic leaped from family to family and house to house much as sinuously as the sound of the siren that cuts through the night changing everything for the city of Paris and its occupants, the story itself never loses focus or cohesion.

In many ways, the central character of the novel is disruption. The particular disruption that war causes. The images of families and individuals, suddenly detached from security and safety, fleeing with their pets and possessions, not certain where they would sleep that night or what they would eat was, in many ways, chillingly familiar. It called up images as close as Hurricane Katrina, and as far away as Darfur or Iraq. Or maybe none of it feels too far away now--which may be why reading Suite Francaise was such a disquieting experience.

A brilliant observer of human nature, Nemirovsky captures the wide range of humanity in crisis. Her characters are foolish, noble, petty, selfish, brave and exceedingly real. The novel reads like the instant classic, which I believe it is destined to become. Don't miss it.


For further reflections on Suite Francaise:

Amishlaw

Sarala




Tarakuanyin

Paris Parfait

Jordan Rosenfeld

Becca

2007, HERE WE COME!

I recently wrote a scene that took place on Four Mile Beach in Wellfleet. In my novel, it was a November day, grey and desolate, but my character found a kind of solace there anyway.

I thought of her when the family walked that beach the day after Christmas. I thought of the way I had described the layers of grey that sky and water and sand make on a day like that.

It was a great walk, but no one enjoyed it more than Gabe and Nicola's dog, Bubba. He raced up and down the beach. He chased sticks into the frigid waters, and dove beneath the waves. He unearthed a weathered cinder block, and apparently mistaking it for the bone of some giant beast, tried to take it home.

But when I downloaded the photo, I saw more than a happy day that ended with a great oyster roll and a bowl of scallop stew at the Land Ho in Orleans. I saw a new year. An unwritten page. An untrammeled beach. And Wellfleet's notoriously fierce and exhilarating, absolutely unpredictable waves.

May we all be as adventurous, and playful and alive as Bubba in 2007!

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One new thing I started today was "The Daily Writing Quote" on my page at Publisher's Marketplace. I hope the writers among you--which is, of course, all of you in one way or another--will check it out.

One thing I read today was this piece by Paul Theroux about living in an overcrowded world. Actually, I read it yesterday. Then I read it aloud to Ted later. And I thought about it some more today--especially the final paragraph. If you were here, I'd undoubtedly corner you and read it aloud one more time, then ask you what you thought of it. Somehow it reminded me of the journey I took through the Northeast the other day and all the sights you shared with me.

One thing I thought about today was The Third Day Book Club. We're due to blog Suite Francaise in just two days, and I still have 200 pages left to read. It's not the book that's caused me to delay, because actually I'm enjoying it very much. It's--well, you know what it is. It's December! The whole merry, stressful, celebrating month.

At this point, I'm planning to read as much as I can in the next two days, and blog on my initial reflections, then add my reflections as I finish it. How about everyone else? Has anyone had time to read this month?

100,000 CARS, 99 RIVERS and the existential question of the week

Foggy Morning.., originally uploaded by TR.iPod.

Yesterday we spent seven hours driving from Ted's family home in the mountains of Pennsylvania to Cape Cod.

I saw 100,000 cars, and one man walking down the highway.

I wondered what it would be like if we were all walking--or even half of us. How long would it take to travel from Pennsylvania? How many people would I meet along the way? How often would we travel, and what would our lives be like at home?

I saw 9 deer grazing in a field near the highway. I had never seen so many deer in one place at one time. After an hour or two, Ted had to ask me kindly if I would please stop talking about them.

I saw a blinking sign that said YOU'RE ARRESTED

I wondered what I had done, but then the sign blinked again and it said DRINKING AND DRIVING IS A SERIOUS CRIME. I wasn't arrested after all. Phew.

I saw billboards that wanted me to drink Coors Beer and have my eyes checked.

I wondered when doctors started advertising on billboards.

I saw a million winter trees, stripped and broken or standing tall like arrows announcing the clouds.

I wondered when snow would come and cover them with its glitter and light.

I saw 99 rivers, 42 mountains, 36 cities, and 356 towns.

I saw factories where no one's worked for fifty years, and the tenements where the workers used to live.

I wondered who lived in them now and what they do for work.

I saw four cars that had been stopped by the police, two fender benders, and seventeen vehicles broken down on the road.

I saw one man's soft white belly, as he lay on the ground, working on his car.

I wondered at how vulnerable we all are.

I saw one boat on the Hudson River; and I saw the sun parting the water for it.

I opened the window to feel what the boat rider must feel, and wondered why there was only one.

I saw two and a half tons of trash spread along the side of the road, and 50,000 empty pick-up trucks.

I saw 99 McDonald's, 9 Starbucks and 103 Dunkin Donuts. I saw the Hibernian Diner where they have the best lentil soup I've ever had, and Di Mare's Pastry Shop where everything looks so good that choice is almost impossible.

Guess where we stopped?

I saw docked naval ships and tugboats, and Ted says I even saw a submarine, though I didn't much notice it.

I wondered how you can drive past a submarine and fail to see it.

I saw a stack of CDs we used to entertain ourselves on our way home, and I listened to Woody Guthrie singing "This land was made for you and me."

I joined in, wondering what Woody would sing now.

I saw road signs that announced New England and then Cape Cod, then our town, our street, our animals in the window.

I saw my own fatigue in the mirror inside the door. Ted said I shouldn't be tired; I hadn't even driven.

I wondered how anyone could take in 100,000 cars, 99 rivers and a million winter trees without wanting to sleep for a week when they were done.

I went to bed early and dreamed of the highway.

What about you? What did you see? What did you wonder?

10 Things I Want for Christmas

1. There's a guy who's lived down the street from us for over ten years. Though Ted always greets him when we see him in the neighborhood, he steadfastly refuses to respond. At this point, Ted has turned it into a campaign. Someday, he's sure of it, the neighbor will give in and say hello. So this year I'm putting it on my Christmas list...may grumpy neighbors everywhere crack a smile and maybe even wave.

2. Laughter and lots of it.

3. Imperfection. Let's face it; it's coming down the chimney whether we like it or not. Just because it's a holiday doesn't mean we'll be less lonely, that the mashed potatoes will be lump free, the relatives will be less annoying or that the gift inside the prettily wrapped box won't be an exact replica of the ugly sweater we got last year. So instead of fighting it or getting depressed over it, why not celebrate it? Why not set a special place at the table for life's messiness and disappointments and serve it a glass of wine? Who wants a Norman Rockwell Christmas anyway?

4. Snow!

5. Some watercolors so I can play with art in 2007

6. Time for spiritual reflection

7. A book of poetry with one line in it that transforms the way I see the world.

8. An amazing friend who died a few years ago was remembered in a eulogy as someone who said "Yes!" whenever he opened a gift--even before he saw what was inside. I want the attitude that permeated his life.

9. If peace on earth and goodwill to men seems like too much to ask this year, then at least a sincere and overwhelming desire for those things, and a renewed commitment to living them in every encounter, every thought, every action. If we tried it just for one day, who knows what we might begin?

10. Good things for all of you who have been kind enough to visit here, and to share your insights and your lives with me throughout the year.
Happiness, serenity, blessings to all.


Anyone have a number eleven?

THE SECRET NAME: MY FAVORITE CHRISTMAS STORY

Vintage Christmas Postcard, originally uploaded by riptheskull.

My mother grew up as one of seven children in the Depression. Hers was one of those rare families in which the children were raised with so much love, and intelligence and respect that everyone who's ever known them has felt its benevolent influence.

Though my grandfather was fortunate enough to keep a job throughout those years, many family members weren't, and his earnings were stretched thin. My mother remembers being rationed one third of a cup of milk a day. She can still remember how she savored it.

She was about six when her Christmas story occurred. A week before, she and her siblings were playing hide and seek in the house when she discovered a cache of Christmas gifts in the attic, one for each child.

While her brothers and sisters scurried through the rooms below calling her name, she peered into each forbidden box until she found her heart's desire.

She describes it as "a doll that rolled its eyes and squeaked its legs". Note the active verbs; that's how alive the doll was to the little girl my mother once was; it's also how she describes it to this day. Months earlier, she had admired it in the window of the toy store, but hadn't even dared to dream that it could ever be hers.

However, in that moment, she began to dream and wildly. Every day of the ensuing week, she slipped up to the attic to visit "her" doll. She even gave it a secret name. Her anticipation grew by the day. In the evenings, when my grandmother lined the children up to say their prayers, my mother prayed that the doll with the secret name would be hers.

But on Christmas morning, as soon as she saw the shape of the package and the tag on it, she knew that her doll had been chosen for her sister Elizabeth. Not wanting to spoil Elizabeth's happiness or to hurt her parents' feelings, my mother hid her disappointment, and accepted her gift with gratitude.

She saved her grief until later that night when Elizabeth clutched the doll she had renamed in her bed. Convinced everyone was asleep, my mother cried quietly. Not quietly enough, however, to elude her father who was still awake and listening.

When he asked what was wrong, my mother said she had a leg ache, as she often did. My grandfather lifted her out of bed and carried her to a chair in the darkened living room, where he held her for a long time. My mother says she can still remember the brightness of the moon outside the window; the warmth and safety she felt that night in her father's arms have never left her.

"Does it feel better?" my grandfather said as he massaged her calf muscle with lineament.

And to this day, my mother swears that it did.

That Christmas when my mother did not get the thing she most longed for happened seventy-five years ago. My grandparents are long dead, as are two of my mother's siblings, and the doll with the secret name is probably dust and ash. But I like to think that the gift my grandfather gave her that night--and the one she gave him in return--still remain. They have been silently passed from one generation to another; they have enriched many lives.

One unanswerable question has always haunted me: Did my grandfather, wise and loving and shrewd in equal measure, ever know the real reason for her tears?

WHAT ARE YOU SEARCHING FOR? The Existential Question of the Week

, originally uploaded by Gianni D..

Today I searched for my credit card. I handle that thing way too carelessly, frequently jamming it in a pocket or tossing it loose into my purse to avoid taking more than my fair share of time at the cash register after a purchase. This time, I found it between the pages of Suite Francaise. Nice book mark.

I also searched for the end of my new novel, which I was due to forward to my agent yesterday. I found it, too (!) which makes this some kind of banner day. I made myself cry at least three times when I was reading the final draft which may be a good sign...or may just mean that a surfeit of holiday music has brought out my inner schmalz.

Later, Lexi and Emma and I went out and stood in the middle of the street and looked for snow. Though there was none forecasted, we thought if we looked really hard, we might see a sign. But all we saw was our own longing.

I said that I wanted snow so high it came up to their waists, but Emma thought I was getting a little greedy.

"Just ask for enough to make a snowman, and go sledding," she said, espousing a philosophy I've always admired: Never take more than you need.

I also searched for the perfect birthday card for my mother and my son, Josh, who are both celebrating the amazing and mysterious thing that is existence today.

Then I went to Technorati to see what the world was searching for, and found some interesting results:

As it has been almost constantly for the past several years, the world is madly searching for Britney. Still, no one has told me why. As far as I can tell, she hasn't done much of interest beside marry some dopey guy, get drunk in public, and get pregnant. And while those things may be fascinating in their own way, couldn't just about anyone do them as well?

The madding crowd is also on the look out for "Tara O'Connor" who I, living here in my happy cave, had never heard of. The first blog where her name turned up was one that listed its subject as "Hollywood, Rumors, and Breasts." Hmm, I was beginning to understand....Turns out Tara O'Connor is Miss USA, and has become an object of fascination by, of all things, acting like Britney. Maybe if I want to build the all-important buzz for my novel, I should try it. On second thought, or maybe even first, I don't think the Hollywood, Rumors, and Breasts crowd would find me a very good candidate. I'd probably just get arrested.

Another unfamiliar name on the list was Leslie Harpold, who apparently died this week of bronchitis. Though I had never heard of her, she was apparently a trailblazing blogger, writer and media person, who probably effected what what many of us do in ways I never knew. I got lost both in her archives, and in the tributes to this remarkable woman, writer, and friend.




I liked this quote:

"My advice to you is this: make something you love. You love to make things, feel best when you're creating something you feel has value, even if only to you. Tap into the vein again, as many tries as it takes. Find that place where the world blurs by, and it's just you and and your project in pure creation mode." --Leslie Harpold's advice to herself in a difficult time

So maybe I, too, was searching for Leslie Harpold; I just didn't know it.

What did you search for today?

How many steps can I go?

How many steps can I go?, originally uploaded by LeggNet.

Today I'm interviewed by the fabulous Susan Henderson at Lit Park on the subject of balancing work and family.

Some days I feel like I know a little bit about the subject...other days, not so much. Anyway, it's not so much an interview as a discussion. If anyone has any special insights or even some ordinary every day ones like mine, feel free to jump in!

Looking at this photo makes me realize that one secret to keeping your balance is to keep on walking and to stay focused. (I guess that's two.)

WHAT I FOUND OUT YESTERDAY

beach walk 1, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

When winter's not white, it's frequently silver. That's what I discovered while walking on the marsh with Ted and the dogs. It was extremely windy, and I tried to take a picture of what the wind does to grass and water and sand, but instead I came home with winter's silver trapped inside my camera.



I also wrote a little poem yesterday. Not a real official poem on paper, just a string of words I said in my head while lying in bed in the morning. But it's so short and simple, maybe I can repeat it here:



When she was twenty, she asked:
Do you love me?

The world took in her sinew and flash and smiled:
Always and forever.

When she was fifty she asked:
Do you love me?

The world hesitated:
I find you useful. Is that love?

When she was eighty, she asked:
Do you love me?

The world appeared confused:
I'm sorry; have we met?

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I also found out yesterday that there's this thing called Twitter. Have you heard of it?

The point seems to be quite simple. You log in and announce to the vast impervious world what you're doing. And then maybe you even do it. Or maybe you just keep checking back to see if anyone cares, and in the process never have time to actually do anything.

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And then I found out that you don't have to do things the way you've always done them. After we'd set our Christmas tree in its stand and woven our little hopeful lights throughout the branches, I went down to get the usual decorations. But before I put them on, I noticed the berry-laden twigs I'd brought back from the marsh, and decided that maybe I would stick some of them among the tree branches. Turns out, they looked so pretty that it seemed a travesty to add another thing.

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And the final thing I found out yesterday was the Blog Discovery of the Week: Aphra Behn: the danger of eclectic shock. All I can say is that it lives up to it's marvelous name.