LOOK AT ONE OTHER PERSON...REALLY LOOK

Supermarket Sweep, originally uploaded by Ѕavvo.

That was today's prompt from Sunday Scribblings. Take a notebook and actively observe another person; then record what you see.

It sounded like fun, but I didn't have time. We had a family birthday party, and as always, I was unprepared. Guests arriving at 1:30 and there I was rolling into the grocery store at 1:22.

Fortunately, as I said, it was family. People who will go in and get themselves a beer or a cup of tea. People who don't mind if the house is in a bit of disarray. People who know my bad habits. But still. Did I always have to do this?

So no, there would be no Sunday Scribbling for me. I had neither a notebook, nor a spare moment to people watch.

I raced through the supermarket in track shoes, tossing a few items that might constitute a meal--or might not--into the cart.

I saw no one and nothing. No, wait. I saw Pat--my favorite supermarket lady.

I immediately got into her line. Since the weather was very fine, I asked Pat when she was getting out of work. Would she have time to enjoy the day?

"Not till six," Pat said, uncharacteristically grumpy. "And I'm already tired."

I muttered something about the holiday weekend. The store being busy.

"That's not it," Pat said. She stopped in the middle of packing my groceries and gave me a long, serious look. (Maybe Pat was planning to write about me for Sunday scribblings? I waited for her to take out her notebook and pencil, but the cashier had other things on her mind.)

"It's my family," she said. "They just expect so much from me. They won't even replace a roll of toilet paper when it runs out. Just go upstairs and use the other bathroom."

"Oh yeah, mine do that, too," I said, figuring the least I could do was concur. "Is it too much trouble to take the hair out of the drain after a shower?"

Pat smiled, obviously enjoying my complaints. "You have a nice day now," she said, handing me my receipt.

"You too, hon."

I glanced up at the clock. 1:35. I'd been fast. In fact, for the amount of stuff in my cart, I'd probably broken a couple of supermarket records. But I was still late. And fifteen minutes from home. Damn.

I put down my head, intending to charge for the car when I came face to face with the woman I was meant to see.

She was with a man, but I didn't notice him much. He wasn't the one I needed to look at.

The woman was breakably thin, but there was no sign she was going to break any time soon. I put her age at about forty. Her stringy hair was streaked a harsh gold; and her face was what my mother used to call hard, but she had astonishing green eyes.

While her man hung back, she moved efficiently to the trash can outside the supermarket and began to hunt for cans. When she found one, she tossed it to him, and he stuffed it into a back pack. Obviously, they did this often, and had gotten it down to a smooth operation.

They seemed oblivious to the shoppers who were weaving their way around them, and to me--watching a little too nakedly.

Her jeans had that slick look jeans gets when they haven't been washed in a while, but her eyes were lined with dark pencil. Obviously, however difficult her life was, she had made an effort to look nice.

I wondered what they were hoping to buy with the money. Alcohol? Drugs?

I wondered at their presence among the busy shoppers who were pushing laden carts toward their SUVs .

Then the woman looked briefly back at me, and I realized that however her life looked to me from the outside, it felt different to her. Her face seemed to say, whatever you think you know about me, you're wrong.

I pushed my cart away thinking of how impenetrable the world sometimes is, even when you look really closely. In fact, sometimes the only respectful attitude toward other people is admitting how little you know of their hearts. And how often your assumptions are wrong.

I got home at just about two. Everyone else was pulling in at the same time.

"We knew you'd be late," my son Josh said.

Then we all went inside and had a party.

OH THE PLACES YOU'LL GO

Striped, originally uploaded by Delineated.

As we all know, blogland is a teeming, dynamic city. You may think you know your way around pretty well, but one false turn and you're in a new and alien country where everyone is doing a dance you've never done, and talking about things that aren't in your lexicon. Some of them make you angry; others cause you to laugh so loud you scare the cats.

There are people you feel like you know, people who are unlike anyone you've ever met, and a few you hope you never encounter. They come and go with a click of a button. How strange. How very, very amazing.

So today I decided to take a walk down blogstreet. I made it a game, and these were my rules:

I started with the third blog on my blogroll. Then I chose a link from her roll that I had never visited before, and continued on in that way till my head spun with all I'd seen and read, and my virtual feet were weary.

From each blog, I visited, I chose one sentence that seemed to capture the spirit of the place, and in the end, I chose one, which I'd like to visit again and added it to my blogroll. (On this particular trip, I suspect I'll be checking out a few of them again.)


1. Blog #3 from my blogroll: Bloglily:

"I wrote two scenes today and it was so much fun."

2. From her blogroll: The Book of Marvels: (Who could resist that name?)

"The Plain Dealer ran an article that made me weep about the tiny and intimate details that are recorded in logs of death row inmates' final days."

3. From her blogroll: My Novel on Toast:

"Writing is an extreme sport."

4. Then on to the exciting world of cabby blogs with New York Hack:

"Have I mentioned that I hate not only driving a cab, I hate driving at all."

5. A few streets over, The Hungry Cabby was dealing with a different challenge:

"I couldn't tell if he was on coke or he just had the kind of personality that makes a guy seem like he's on coke all the time..."

6. By then I was getting a bit weary of all the driving and was grateful when The Hungry Cabby dropped me off at The Paupered Chef:

"I'll have to admit the real reason I bought a ten pound ham was to have enough meat to make as many ham sandwiches as I could possibly stomach in a week."

If the idea of eating ten pounds worth of ham sandwiches doesn't appeal to you, the photograph of the French ham sandwich, called a "Croque-Monsieur" surely will. It almost made me crave one and I haven't eaten ham in years.

So that, friends, was my Saturday night stroll on Blogstreet. If anyone else wants to brave all the clicking and linking, you could even call it a meme!

ON LOVING YOUR WORK...Whatever it might be

working and walking, originally uploaded by lince.

Most people who've ever waited tables agree that "tea" should be a four letter word. While serving coffee is a one-step process, a cup of tea involves several--and in most of the disorganized kitchens where I've worked, some hunting as well. Has anyone seen the teapots? The doilies? The bleeping tea box?

Oh yeah, it's a common scenario.

It usually goes something like this: The cranky party in table six wants their check right now. Table four's food is up, and the chef has called your name three times, in increasing volume. Now his head is poking through the service window, revealing his flaming nostrils, and that charming snarl. "Where the bleep is Patry? This hamburger's been under the lights for ten minutes!"

So you're already not just running; you're jogging in two directions when someone from Table 2 puts a finger in the air, and mouths the dreaded word: "Tea?"

By the time you return with it, you've got second degree burns from sloshing hot water on yourself. (Running with pots of boiling liquid is not a good idea, she says from experience.)

So you set down the pot of tea and the cream, and you're off to do the next lap when Table 2 stops you dead: "I'm sorry. I wanted decaf tea."

By then the chef is out of the kitchen, with his hands on his hips, and in your face. "Do you intend to pick up that food some time today?"

After you deliver it, and get the check to Table 6 who are already annoyed and clearly going to factor that annoyance into your tip, you get the decaf tea.

But by then Mr. Decaf tea isn't all that pleased either. His dessert is half finished, and his pot of once hot water is tepid.

Of course, you replace the water, apologizing profusely as you do. (Your specialty.) Then just when you're about to get away, decaf tea remembers that he prefers milk to cream in his beverage, preferably fat-free.

"Why sure! Right away!" you say, smiling. Never mind that Table four is now flagging you down. Before you reach the table, you know what they're going to say: their rare hamburger is dessicated shoe leather. You also know who the chef is going to blame for that one.

So you drop off the hamburger, take your dose of abuse from the chef, and umm, what were you doing? Oh yes, getting milk! Milk for the decaf tea...

"There you go, sir," you say as you deposit the little silver pitcher at the table, still hoping for the clean getaway.

But on most days, it's not to be had. "You know, a cup of tea sounds good right now," Mr decaf's friend drawls. "What kind of herbals do you have?"

It might sound extreme, but as anyone has ever waited tables can tell you, it happens every day. And what's more, when you can't smile and say you'll be happy to check (even though you're not sure if there are any herbal teas in the kitchen) it's time to hang up your beautiful orthopedic black shoes and find another way to make a living.

Why? Because Mr. Decaf isn't on a mission to make your life difficult; he just wants a damn cup of tea! And what's more, he deserves to have it. Any way he wants it. With non-fat milk. Organic honey. Or fresh lemon cut in a wedge, not a slice. The day there's no one in the dining room asking for tea, is the day you go home with an empty apron pocket.

Have I ever been a little annoyed by guys like Mr. Decaf or the chef or the people who are so impatient for their check they can't see I'm moving as fast as I can? Of course--probably every day. But seriously annoyed? Never. (Okay, almost never.)

What does annoy me is people who hate their jobs and are proud of it. People who despise the individuals who are directly or indirectly responsible for paying their salaries.

I was particularly bugged by this rant in Gawker, written by an editor who claimed that authors were the craziest, meanest, strangest, cluelessest people in the world. Ouch. (Crazy and clueless, maybe...but mean? Did she have to call us mean?)

What's more, she castigates writers for being too poor to afford a decent coat from H & M. What about an author who cares more about literature and ideas than about the fashion statement his or her coat makes? I guess that would put us even lower on the food chain.

Fortunately, both my current editor and her predecessor genuinely seem to enjoy both their work and their authors; I can't imagine what it would be like to work on something closely with someone who so clearly disdains writers.

The prevailing wisdom worries a lot about what we owe ourselves. I'm sure a bevy of pop psychologists would be quick to say that this editor deserves to find a job she truly loves--for her own sake. I agree.

But what about the courtesy, the grace, or just the benefit of the doubt, we owe to others? Whether it's serving decaf tea with milk, or taking yet another call from an anxious author, the people we work with and serve deserve the best we've got to offer.

If you're somewhere in life where you can't deliver that, then maybe it's time for a change.


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Meanwhile, THE THIRD DAY BOOK BLOG which is now reading Half of a Yellow Sun already has 18 (make that 19!) unofficial members who plan to blog about the book on November 3rd. (I know several of you are definite maybes, but I'm an optimist...)

1. colleen
2. RDL
3. Jordan Rosenfeld
4. amishlaw
5. ruby
6. tarakuanyin
7. Tish
8. sustenance scout
9. laini
10. robin andrea
11. bill cameron
12. chiefbiscuit
13. gerry rosser
14. debra
15. tinker
16. left-handed trees
17. lorna
18. steve
19. me (currently on page 67 and completely captivated)
20. Bloglily
21. Kate
22. You?

Anyone else?
P.S. If you don't have a blog, don't let that deter you. You can post your thoughts right here in the comment section.

10 REASONS I LOVE TO HANG MY CLOTHES ON THE LINE

1. If I'm going to do boring domestic chores, I might as well do them outside in the air and sun.

2. The cats come around and rub against my legs.

3. The dogs get drag out their balls and bones. Playtime!

4. When I'm finished, the fluttering colors, carefully grouped by size, category and proximity to the sun, feel like my own little work of art.

5. It's a great time to think about my latest writing project.

6. I smile when I open the electric bill.

7. It connects me to my mother and grandmother, both of whom I remember standing in the wind, as they pinned a dazzling white sheet to the line. Nana in her housedress. My mother in the changing fashions of the twentieth century.

8. No need to buy expensive exfoliants! A scratchy line-dryed towel rubs away dead skin and makes the new glow like nothing else.

9.It's good for the environment (but you knew that).

10. Sometimes, like yesterday, I even see a Monarch butterfly fluttering nearby. Ah, it's the simple things...

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Meanwhile, the 3rd Day Book Blog, happening right here, has already attracted the kind of members who are sure to make for a great discussion. Anyone who wants to read HALF OF A YELLOW SUN and share their thoughts, please join us.

And if there's any kindhearted, technologically advanced soul out there who can tell me how to make a banner announcing the book blog pick for my sidebar, I desperately want to hear from you.

THREE BIG IDEAS

Three Peppers, originally uploaded by R80o.

Every now and then I get a big idea--or three. For some mysterious reason, big ideas usually arrive here in colorful trios. Three hot peppers sizzling in my brain.

Once the peppers take over, I go around ranting and raving to random strangers about how I just had the most amazing idea ever. Sometimes they even believe me. If they know me well, however, they just smile and tell me to have a nice day. I try to comply.

My agent already knows that if she gets an e-mail with "my most brilliant idea ever" in the subject line, the best thing to do is delete it immediately.

Within a few days, one of three things usually happens:

1. I realize that my most brilliant idea ever has already been thought, tried and done a million times before.

2. I realize that it's never been done in the history of the world--and for a very good reason: it's totally impracticable.

3. I still think it's a great idea, but alas, I don't do anything about it. See, I'm really good at idea generation (aka dreaming), but I'm an absolute failure at follow through--or what some people quaintly call action.

Anyway, yesterday was a big idea day. The first one I unveiled on an on-line forum. At first, it was met with vigorous debate--and not a little disdain. Then when people realized that it doesn't pay to argue with someone who has hot peppers frying in her brain, the thread grew silent.

I talked myself out of the second big idea before it had time to start much trouble.

But the third, which involves this blog, is still cooking. What spurred it was a book. (Doesn't that spur everything in my life?) In this case, HALF OF A YELLOW SUN, which I blogged about the other day. Well, I started it last night and I loved it. From the very first paragraph, I loved it.

And I thought, wouldn't it be wonderful if a group of us read the same book, and then committed to blogging about it on the same day?

It would be the first ever blog book club! (Okay, not the first; in fact, it's probably been done countless times. But I don't care! I still love the idea of a group of us--okay, even two--reading the same book and sharing our thoughts.

It wouldn't be a forum, because I know there are a ton of those.
In fact, one of the rules would be that you wrote your post before reading anyone else's. That way all the views would be totally fresh. Of course, after you posted, you could bust out in the comment sections all over blogland. It would be like those old Parisian salons. Maybe we could even call it...No, forget it, I think that name's already taken.

So here it is, my most brilliant idea ever: THE THIRD DAY BOOK CLUB!

On the third day of every month, we choose a book; then exactly a month later, we blog it. It's that simple.

If anyone wants to join me in reading HALF OF A YELLOW SUN and writing about it on November 3rd, jump in and I'll post your link.

Now if only I could figure out how to get the THIRD DAY BOOK CLUB onto the sidebar before the idea fizzles...

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In other LIT NEWS, Marcus Sakey, another member of the Killer Year team, had himself a great day. His novel, The Blade Itself, won't be in the stores until January, but Marcus is already being compared to classic crime writers like Dennis Lehane and Elmore Leonard. Today Publishers Weekly upped the excitement around this book with a starred review, calling it "brilliant" and a "must read".

And over at Lit Park, Susan Henderson (who always comes up with the best questions) asks her readers to name their obsessions, and generates a lively discussion.

And a writer's first day in an MFA program requires meditating to a bell. Will it work to get the creative juices flowing? Is it something you and I need to know about?

MANICURE

alexandra bernardo, originally uploaded by extrapolar.

Last year, my friend P. who believes that an unvarnished nail is a crime against womanhood, treated me to my first manicure.

The manicurist was Asian and wore a pained expression as she looked at my stubby nails.

"What color?" she asked, obviously weary of all the variations of red and pink. I pointed to the bottle closest at hand--a pallid color that caused my friend to wince and shake her head. Clearly, I was going to need a lot of coaching.

The weary woman soaked my nails in what looked like dishwashing soap and water, then painted them pink like my mother used to do when I was little.

All day I fluttered my hands around, ridiculously impressed with myself. But I didn't return to the salon. I figured if I wanted my nails to look like the inside of a seashell, I'd paint them myself.

But this year, when I planned my trip to New York to meet my agent and editor, I decided I was going to be fashionable for a day--if it killed me. To that end, I listened to all kinds of advice: Wear black. Accessorize. Save on the clothes, but splurge on the shoes. I haven't try on so many clothes since I went to the prom.

I bought three pairs of shoes--all torturous to the feet, and every black item in the store. Then in a fit of despair and credit card panic, I brought nearly everything back.

I looked at my blunt cut nails in horror, and decided to let them grow. My one day as a fashionista clearly required painted nails. And I wasn't having any washed-out color either.

This time the manicurist was a Latina with thick dark hair that curtained her face as she worked. She worked in silence, refusing even to look at me. All her focus was on my hands.

While she soaked and filed and shaped, I studied her obliquely and wondered about her life. Where had she come from? Was she homesick? How much was she paid? What did she think of the women who sat in the chairs fretting over a chip in their nails?

Did she think we were spoiled and pampered? Or did she know that most of us worked as hard as she did, that we were often consumed with worries about bills, children, the future?

And what did her customers see when they looked at the taciturn woman who worked on their hands? A stranger, who apparently spoke no English. Maybe an illegal. Did they think of her at all?

I noticed that her own nails were short and unpolished.

After she had trimmed my cuticles, she massaged my hands for several luxurious moments. Her touch was both deft and gentle. Despite her obvious intention to remain unknown, anonymous, she communicated much about herself with her touch.

I closed my eyes as the overused muscles and tendons in my hands responded to her skill.

In the end, she only spoke one word to me. Pay.

And so I did. Being both grateful for her work, and a long-time service person myself, I tipped excessively. But the manicurist appeared unimpressed. Wearing the same impassive expression she had throughout the manicure, she tucked the tip inside a drawer.

I had the distinct feeling that she would never be allowed to keep it.

While my nails dried, the young woman returned to the seat in the corner where I'd first seen her. Her eyes remained resolutely down.

I didn't say good-bye, but once outside, I stopped and glanced back at her through the glass. As if feeling my gaze on her, the woman whose name I will never know, looked up; and briefly, in the same instant, we lifted our hands to wave.

THE BEST WAY TO READ A CLASSIC

Mary - Crime & Punishment, originally uploaded by merkley???.

...In sneakers in case you get so fired up by the prose you have to run around the block just to blow off steam...With a glass of wine at hand to sip or maybe even gulp when the plot heats up...On the front stoop where you might remind passersby of where they were when they read it, or the thoughts that streamed through their mind...or how a character like Raskolnikov infected their dreams and pulled them deeply into his obsession.

But I didn't set out to write about the classics, or the dazzling, unforgettable characters who inhabit them. Hell, I just did that the other day, and I'm trying not to bore you here. Not to mention myself.

What I really wanted to do was direct you to a little survey Jason Pinter took about why people buy books. Very interesting to people like me who love nothing better than a thoughtful poll that leaves room for extraneous comments.

I responded to the survey, but when I thought about it, I don't think my answer really got to the heart of the matter.

Why I buy a book:

First, I have to see it and know about it. That means it has to be displayed prominently or reviewed, or talked about by my friends. Or maybe I just see a young woman who looks like she has good taste, reading it on her front stoop, and I stop to say "How was it?"

Most often, however, it tends to be a tipping point phenomenon. Take my most recent book purchase: Half of a Yellow Sun by Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I think I first read about it on Dan Wickett's blog. Within days, it seemed to be everywhere.

Then I read a review--and I wish I could quote it exactly or name the blog, but I can't. Thus I'll have to paraphrase: HALF A YELLOW SUN is simply the future of literature.*

Okay, that got me. At that point, I was at least going to get it out of the library.

A few days later, the title already buzzing quietly in my head, I read a piece about the author and her book in the New York Times. It not only sounded like the future of literature; it sounded like a damn good read. THAT was my tipping point

And speaking of tipping points, it only took one review of LITTLE CHILDREN (and the fact that I enjoyed Tom Perrotta's book) to convince me I need to see this movie.

Happy weekend everyone. I'm off to another waitressing shift. I would say it was my last, but I think I said that last week. Talk about boring myself...

*It was Sarah Weinman. Apologies for misquoting.

DEAD FRENCH WRITERS SPEAK

Marseille, France, originally uploaded by HerveParisFrance.

The notes beneath this intriguing photograph, found on Flickr, say that here in the Chateau d'Ilf, "The count of Monte Cristo (Edmund Dantes) was imprisonned for thirteen years."

I like that sentence quite a lot. I like the respect it gives fictional characters. It doesn't say that here, Alexandre Dumas set his novel. It says here, Edmund Dantes lived. And to all of us who've lost days of our lives engrossed in his story, he did.

I also like that the place where Dantes grew brilliant and obsessed is envisioned by a rectangle of light. Yes, I think, that's where great characters are born. Behind doors within doors, in a furnace of mysterious light.

Some months ago, my friend Susan Messer was preparing for a trip to France. One of her preparations involved digging out some of Dumas lesser known works and reading them. Just before she left, she sent me a quote that says more about the power of story than anything I've ever read:.

"Alexander Dumas died penniless but cheerful on December 5, 1870, saying of death: 'I shall tell her a story, and she will be kind to me.'"

Ah, we can only hope it is so.

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And if that isn't enough wisdom from dead French authors for one day, this morning I was greeted at Keri Smith's blog by these words from Balzac:

"Strolling is the gastronomy of the eye. To walk is to vegetate. To stroll is to live."

At first, the quote baffled me, but after I had strolled back a couple of times to look at it, it revealed its truth.

I even did Keri's homework assignment: Take a stroll somewhere and find ten versions of the same thing.

Since there's nowhere to stroll around here but the beach and the mall, and picking up say, ten black sweaters at the Gap, would push me over my credit limit, I gathered shells. I'm sure I had ten when I left the beach, but by the time I got home to document my stroll, only eight remained.



My personal favorite is #6 for its fancy black scroll work. But if I had a black velvet ribbon, I would thread it through the hole in #3, and wear it around my neck.

CAPE COD GETS BLOGGED AND THE EXISTENTIAL QUESTION OF THE DAY

green-yellow-bathroom06.jpg, originally uploaded by swardraws.

Okay, let's get the heavy question out of the way first: Does anyone actually dry their hands with these things, or do you just do what I do--give it a shot, then get impatient and dry your hands on your pants?

And who invented these dumb things in the first place?

While we're on the subject, what kind of clever marketing scam got them into every restroom in the world?

And do they have any ideas for marketing a first novel?

All right, I know that's four questions, but we're talking existential here. It's all about the questions...

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Meanwhile, the sandy peninsula where I live has been getting some notice in blogland:

Grendel moves to the Cape and discovers just how exciting cable TV can be.(This could lead to another existential question, like 'What the hell have I been doing here all these years?' But we'll save that one for next week.) (While you're visiting EarthGoat, make sure you don't miss the quote by Willie Nelson.)

And Tish Cohen takes a vacation in P-town and gets noticed by THE Miss Richmond.

THE BEST THING I DID ALL DAY

Everything I tried to write today fell victim to the ruthlessness of the delete key. My word count for the day? 9. That's right, I ended up with a single sentence--which I'll probably delete tomorrow.

I had a list of important phone calls I intended to make. Didn't make them.

Didn't get to the gym either.

Was even thinking of cleaning out the refrigerator, but guess what? Never quite got around to it.

A neighbor kindly brought me some iris bulbs last week, and every day he passes by, I'm afraid he'll notice they're still in the bright purple bucket he left behind. Of course, I do intend to fold them back into the ground and imagine spring...but not today.

So what exactly did I do? Hmmm... I'm not sure what happened to most of my hours.

But I did go down to the beach with Ted and the dogs. I marvelled at the color of the yellow golden rod amidst the sea grass, and the bright cobalt sky. I watched the Piping Plovers and when they flew away, I studied the delicate prints they left on the sand. I commented on the fineness of the day, I put my feet in the water and whenever I passed a fellow walker, I smiled and said hello.

It's not much, but some days it's all you can do.

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In other news, Killer Year, a group of writers who have debut suspense novels or thrillers coming out in 2007, launched a new Website. The divine MJ Rose lent her support by posting on the blog. I am proud to be part of this diverse and innovative group. So please, come on over and check us out!

THE NARCISSISM QUIZ

, originally uploaded by lapinfille.

Quizzes that promise to tell you who you have been around forever.

There was a time in my life when I couldn't resist furtively checking off the little squares in magazines that promised to reveal whether I was an introvert or an extrovert, a Katharine Hepburn or a Grace Kelly, a woman destined to be adored, or one likely to spend hours on the phone crying with my girlfriends over what jerks men were.

Truthfully, I don't think those quizzes have ever told anyone anything they didn't already know. What they do offer is a chance to see yourself described in breezy upbeat terms. Or maybe a fleeting opportunity to be someone other than who you are. Someone more adventurous. Someone you might envision in a little black dress, holding forth with a martini glass in her hand.

In that sense, they are all narcissism quizzes; this particular quiz from the LA Times is just more direct about it. Given to a wide swath of people, including numerous celebrities, the conclusions were far from surprising.

Out of a possible 40, most people scored around 15. Celebrities scored higher; female celebrities even higher than that. And female contestants on reality TV shows were the reigning queens of narcisssm. Of course, it's hardly startling news that people who are constantly judged on their appearance and their visibility become obsessed with it.

Nor is it news that most narcissists are riddled with insecurity and doubt. It's plain hard work thinking about yourself all day.

So why was this decidedly un-glamourous blogger, sitting at her computer in her yoga pants and an old T-short taking the Narcissism Quiz, you might ask?

I wasn't exactly planning to, but then I caught sight of the sample questions and I got worried: Was I?

The first question asked if you thought you could do a better job of running the world.

Should be an easy answer for someone who never had political aspirations; and has spent most of her life slinging hash and writing poetry, but the way things are going now? I doubt I could do worse. In fact, maybe what the world needs is an honest waitress with a heart of gold to clean things up. (Insert sappy music here....)

Not wanting to ponder this budding Napoleon complex too long, I moved to the second sample: Do you think you're extraordinary?


Isn't everyone? I said out loud in my office, only a little defensive.

So okay, I had to take the quiz. If I'm as narcissistic as the women on reality TV, I might as well deal with it now.

The good news? I scored a 9. Way below average. I might even be the anti-narcissist!

The bad news? I'm now basking in narcissistic pride over my lack of narcissism.

Some days you just can't win.

HOW TO CREATE A SUCCESSFUL BLOG

Voice and laughter, originally uploaded by Paula Wirth.

1. Live in one of the most beautiful places on earth and take stunning photographs of it. (And oh yes, it won't hurt if you write as beautifully as you see.)

2. Have lots of spicy secrets to tell. Tell them.

3. Be born with so much wit and style that you that you can turn a trip
to the hardware store into a hilarious and mesmerizing tale.

4. Narrow your focus and expand our vision. Write about one thing. How about waiting tables in New York City?

5. Leave your readers hungry for more.

6. Get a group of young writers together and create a group
blog that crackles with nervous energy.

7. Recommend books. Link to interviews and reviews. Dish a little.

8. Be controversial. Collect an abrasive following who will duke it out every time you post for the entertainment of your readers.

9. Make me feel like I've travelled somewhere wonderful as I sit in front of my computer on my big red yoga ball wearing my PJs. Maybe you could even teach me a new word when I get there.

10. Be knowledgable about something--say the machinations of the publishing industry--and share that knowledge with generosity and flair.

11. Make friends. Write whatever the hell you want. Define success on your own terms. (See my sidebar.)

GROCERY SHOPPING WITH FRIENDS

Schmidt's Grocery sign, originally uploaded by Joey Harrison.

NOT my favorite activity...but this piece in the New York Times did inspire me to get my beat up track shoes out and head for the store.

It's a list of treasures found in the supermarket among all the over-advertised and under-nourishing stuff I sometimes grab in the heat of the race.

I was happy to see some of my own favorites on the list: Cabot cheddar cheese (but at all costs avoid the LIGHT variation), B&M baked beans (I like the vegetarian kind, but Ted prefers the bacon and onion.), Greek yogurt (so rich and delicious you can substitute it for sour cream), and Progresso Lentil soup(The writer adds cumin, hot sauce and lemon. I microwave fresh garlic, tomatoes and extra spinach and toss it in--though I suppose I'll be rethinking the spinach these days.


I also have my own personal list of supermarket treasures: Grape Nuts, Ezekial California bread, Kraft Parmesan Cheese, Campbell's tomato soup (also good for add ins, such as garlic, spinach, leftover pasta or beans), Wyler's frozen wild blueberries, and whole wheat pasta with flax seeds by Hodgkins Mills. (Yikes, maybe I really AM earthy crunchy.)

But what really made the Times list interesting was the things I haven't tried--but will now. I've already added the Bahlsen Choco Liebniz cookies to my list and underlined it--and just in time, too. My chocolate covered cherries from Trader Joe's ran out yesterday.

Anyone else have a grocery store favorite to share?

A GREAT DAY FOR BRAINIACS EVERYWHERE

Brains in a box, originally uploaded by abanesta.

I grew up in an old mill town that crackled with its own kind of energy. Toughness was considered the supreme virtue.

I didn’t have it.

When a girl named Pam challenged me to a fight over a boy in eighth grade, I hid in my room for days. She celebrated her default victory by cracking jokes about my lankiness for the amusement of the disappointed crowd.

“I probably couldn’t have reached her chin anyway,” Pam quipped. (She wasn’t only tough; she was a budding stand-up comedian.)

Ouch. At the time I was 5 foot 4 1/2 and suicidally self-conscious about the way I towered over some of the god-like “cute” boys in my class. If I’d known I had four more inches left to grow, I probably would have never come out of that room.

But then in eighth grade, suicidal self-consciousness is pretty much a way of life. At least, it was for me. Another thing I was self-conscious about was the “advanced” class where I’d been placed in school. Talk about social disgrace!

In fact, I was so dismayed that I went to my guidance counselor and begged him to get me out of it. For one thing, I was convinced it was a mistake; I clearly didn’t belong there. I still think I didn't.

All my friends were in the business class; and I, like them, had no intention of going to college.

College was for nerds.
For geeks.
For brainiacs.

And I was a tough girl. Honest I was.

The guidance counselor, Mr. McGowan, clucked and nodded sympathetically--then left me where I was. It took me a year to forgive him; decades later, I still haven’t run out of gratitude.

Unfortunately, things haven’t changed too much since I was in eighth grade. In far too many communities, kids are still embarrassed to be called smart. If I really was the brainiac my middle-school peers accused me of being, I’d figure out a way to change that.

But every now and then the smart people of the world win one. The day they give out the MacArthur genius grants is one of them.This years’ fellows range in age from thirty-one to sixty-four. A few are well-known; most aren’t. Their areas of expertise are diverse and fascinating. I get excited just reading about them and contemplating all the great contributions they're making.

What I like about this award is that it’s absolutely unconditional.

--You don’t have to be young.

--You don’t have to look good on the cover of People magazine.

--You don’t have to know anyone. (At least, it appears the foundation has done everything possible to factor this out.)

--You can do anything you want with the money.

--And damn, you don’t even have to be tough.

A half-million bucks just for being smart! What a deal.

*******************************************************************
AND for writers:

J.A. KONRATH writes about time and how we use it...

And SARA GRAN takes on her critics and teaches us all a lesson in non-attachment...

JUMP AROUND

one would.
Originally uploaded by antimethod.

“Look, I really don't want to wax philosophic, but I will say that if you're alive, you got to flap your arms and legs, you got to jump around a lot, you got to make a lot of noise, because life is the very opposite of death. And therefore, as I see it, if you're quiet, you're not living. You've got to be noisy, or at least your thoughts should be noisy and colorful and lively.”
-Mel Brooks

Mel Brooks. American Actor, Writer, Producer and Film Director. b.1926.

A few months ago, inspired by an obituary about a woman who drew people to her with her whispery voice, I wrote a piece praising the calm, the self-possessed, the soft spoken everywhere.

Noisy people disturb the neighbors with their ranting, shatter more light bulbs singing in the shower, blurt out things crazy things they don't mean, and are probably more likely to drop dead of a heart attack. And just who do you think starts all the barroom brawls in the world? Not the quiet guy nursing his beer in the corner.

From then on, I vowed, I would speak more softly, breathe more evenly, live at a more soothing volume. If I sat beside you on the train, you could sleep all the way to your destination without ever knowing I was there.

Unfortunately, my resolution, like all the other ones I make in the course of a week, didn't work out all that well. I'm still easily roused to the impassioned response, the flash enthusiasm, the shout of joy or exasperation. I still like to jump around.

So who's right? Mel Brooks who says that only those who make some noise are really living? Or the seductive woman from the obituary who made every conversation feel like a shared confidence?

Both probably. Or neither. But this week, I'm resolving to go with Mel. This week I'm going to flap my legs and arms.

*********************************************************************

MEANWHILE, IN BLOGLAND:

Robin Andrea searches for the perfect rye bread and taps into the magic of childhood....

Damian McNicholl recalls a moving encounter with a truly holy man...

Andi Buchanon gives a FIERCE and inspiring reading in Brooklyn...

And Dave Bonta takes my links post a step further and dreams up some pretty innovative blogging tools...

BLOG LINKS and BLACK CLOTHES

Chain, Chain, Chain
Originally uploaded by ozoni11.

Most of the links on my sidebar I found through reading blogs and getting so excited about what they contained that I wanted more. I wanted to read everything this blogger wrote. Or at least check in on a regular basis.

Not all of them though.

Three or four were added when an enterprising blogger wrote and asked me to exchange links. I usually comply. Just seems like the polite thing to do.

Most often the link traders have no real interest in my blog; and once they acquire another link in their chain, they're never seen again.

One link was added after I got a rather irate email from a man wanting to know why I linked all his friends, but not him. I probably should have ignored the email. But I felt bad that I hurt his feelings so I apologized and added his link.

Once he got me to admit I was wrong, he never visited again either.

A few times I've linked blogs and frequently left comments on them because I loved their words, and they always said something that made me want to yell YES! Loudly!

But they never visited me back or left even a stone in the comment box.

Maybe they were too busy or had no interest in the stuff I wrote. But I started to feel like the high school outcast. I dressed all in black when I visited their blogs. I sulked and said nothing--no matter how fast their writing made my heart pound.Maybe I even stopped visiting altogether.

If they didn't want to hang out in the alley with me in my black clothes, I wouldn't hang out with them either. So there!

Sometimes I even took their links down and exorcised them altogether like an ex-boyfriend who never liked you as much as you liked him.

I know it's not very mature, and I only denied myself the pleasure of some fine writing, but that's what I did.

Sometimes I take people off my sidebar because they've stop blogging for a while or because I have so many links and I can never seem to find the one I'm looking for.

There are several blogs I visit regularly, but haven't linked to. Not because I like them less, but because I got in the habit of connecting to them through a mutual friend's sidebar or through their comments here.

My blog roll is so diverse that if we all got together for a party, it might be a weird gathering. I wouldn't know whether to serve beer or blue martinis or double expressos. Come to think of it my life is like that, too.

And I like it that way. In my alley, anyone can hang out--no matter what color your clothes are.

What was the last blog you linked to and why?

11 things that made me happy today

Joy, originally uploaded by Pensiero.

1. Dark chocolate covered cherries from Trader Joe's first thing in the morning. Even before I had my coffee. Yes!

2. Talking to my friend, R, on the phone about the funny hairstyles we had in old photographs...even though our hair pretty much looks the same as it did then.

3. Deciding on colors for my new Website with my amazing designer, at Author Bytes. Black, white, red, blue...can you see it now?

4. Discovering a great young Australian writer named Cate Kennedy and wanting to tell everyone I know.

5. Comments on my blog! (Thank you.)

6. A nice e-mail from a very talented writer.

7. Coffee with my friend Laura who was so excited about some music she heard in concert last week that we had to go into the music store and listen to James Hunter on the spot.

8. Dancing as I listened, then looking across the store and seeing that Laura was dancing, too.

9. Being followed out of the music store by a very cranky clerk, who seemed to think we had stolen the CD.

10. Laughing about it because we were full of music and we never had to steal a thing.

11. Blowing very sincere kisses to cranky people everywhere. Maybe if they ate more chocolate covered cherries?

"in bed, he smells like a butcher."

The Red Cross, originally uploaded by magic fly paula.

Would make a great book title, wouldn't it? Just reading it, I can
feel the plot unfolding in my head--and I've already developed a strong antipathy to the man who comes to bed smelling of blood.

But in reality, this isn't a book title. It's a quote from Assia Weevil, describing her famous lover, Ted Hughes. Whether the butcher in question is one of poetry's most despicable cads or just the victim of his own lust for despairing women, I don't know.

What I do know is that we would never have heard of Assia Weevil if she hadn't been the "other woman" in the love triangle that unhinged Sylvia Plath and led to her tragic suicide.

As both a wife and an admirer of Plath's fiercely beautiful poems and the eager-for-life voice that permeates her diaries, I'm disinclined to have much sympathy for Assia. The bizarre murder-suicide she committed a few years later, involving her own four year old daughter only increases that disinclination.

Now a full scale biography probes the life of the woman whose only claim to fame was her fatal connection to Plath and Hughes. This morning's Guardian rehashed some of it's salient points. (Hughes moved his new lover into his dead wife's bed two days after her death.)

A Lover of Unreason: The Biography of Assia Weevil by Yehuda Koren and Eilat Negav, it is called if anyone is interested. It remains a story so packed with melodrama and stunning ironies that if it were a novel, it would be rejected as unbelievable.

No wonder so many of us, fans of one or both of the poets, have developed such strong emotions about it. For years, Plath fans, outraged by Hughes' destruction of the diaries which detailed his betrayal, have raged against him. But Hughes, too, has had his supporters--including his and Plath's daughter, Frieda. It wasn't his fault Sylvia was crazy, the argument seems to go.

The only thing that remains certain to those of us outside the story is what we lost: the poems and novels that might have been written by a brilliant, impassioned thirty-two year old woman who had just begun to tap into her full power.

For those, I still grieve.

"I BET YOU LOOK GOOD ON THE DANCE FLOOR"

The Arctic Monkeys
Originally uploaded by Frida Borjeson Photography.

Actually, I don't. But that doesn't stop me from getting out there whenever I can--though these days the occasions for embarrassment are usually limited to dancing in the corner at the weddings I work or gyrating with my co-workers at the annual company Christmas party.

In the privacy of my little office, however, my inner dancing queen still reigns. When I'm first dreaming up a character or tiptoeing in the vicinity of a plot, I turn off the computer and dance to something slow and languorous. (Think Billie Holiday wrapping her sinuous voice around "In my Solitude" or Tori Amos crooning "Sleeps with Butterflies." Then when all the story synapses start to fire, I crank up something loud and triumphant. (Maybe U2 belting out "It's a beautiful day!" or anything by the GoGos.)

It also takes music to get me to clean the house. For me, freedom from dust bunnies isn't enough. There has to be a little fun involved, and that means music and maybe even an occasional dance with my bumble bee yellow Dyson (fortunately very light weight).

Currently, my favorite music-to-clean-the-house-by is The Arctic Monkeys, Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not. (In my case, that would be a housewife--though I doubt that's what this iconoclastic young band had in mind.)In case you're as out of the musical loop as I usually am, the Arctic Monkeys are Britain's hottest band, a group of young men who've won the Mercury and the Brit awards and gotten all kinds of media attention by insisting they don't want any.

Clearly, I'm not their target audience. In a recent rave in The Guardian, Alexis Petridis wrote:


...anyone over 30 who finds themselves reflected in Turner's stories of alcopop-fuelled punch-ups and drunken romantic lunges in indie clubs should consider turning the album off and having a long, quiet think about where their life is heading.

Bob Dylan said something similar back in the sixties, and lived to disprove his own words. So no, I don't haven't gotten into any "alcopop fuelled punch-ups" while dancing in my living room (not lately anyway); and I'm not looking for a drunken romantic lunge either (though I must say I admire Petridis's turn of a phrase.) As far as the suggestion to have "a long, quiet think where you're life is heading," well that would seem like good advice for anyone who regularly gets involved in alcoholic punch-ups and drunken lunges. Or maybe that's just the mom in me talking.

But music is energy and sound and poetry; if it's any good, it's going to strike a universal chord. And the Arctic Monkeys are good.

**********************************************


Meanwhile, in Blogland:

Tess Gerritsen defangs a bad review and opens up the discussion to writers everywhere...

Myfanwy Collins goes to the dump and makes the trip well worth your time...

David Thayer reveals why the blogging phenomenon is far from over...

And a family challenges their own materialism--and ours--by vowing to buy nothing they don't need for 30 days on Intent.

WHERE HAVE WE BEEN? WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?

My Candle

Five years ago, I was on the phone, gossiping with a friend about a co-worker's transgressions on the job. We had a lot to say about nothing. My caller ID beeped several times--friends and family
members trying to tell me what had happened.

For a whole hour, I didn't pick up. At that moment, it seemed that nothing could be more important than our petty grudges.

Five years later, the big questions on the news shows seems to be: Have we learned anything? Are we safer now?

I don't know about our country or our leaders, but I hope I learned that some things just don't matter. And that time is too precious to waste on them.

On September 11th, 2006, I, like millions of others, remember those who died in the towers and on the planes. And I also remember those around the globe who live with the horrors of war every day.

Tonight I will light my little candle for peace in all nations and I will set it in the window. It is a small, insignificant act, but it's all I can do. Join me?

The answer is SEX

The Exceptional X / Book of Objects
Originally uploaded by magic fly paula.

And the question? Well, that's easy: What's the one thing you would never write about?

Why?

--Because my kids still think I'm a virgin.

--My mom, too.

--Because it's most often done badly--the writing, that is, not the sex. (From what I hear, that's frequently done rather well.)

--Because even some of our great literary minds have gushed in embarrassing shades of purple, producing scenes that sounded like bad porn when they tried.

There are exceptions though. Two literary sex scenes in particular come to mind:

In Sula, Toni Morrison writes a scene so charged and visceral that the hair on your arms will rise.

The second one is the famous scene in Gone With the Wind when a drunken Rhett sweeps Scarlett up the stairs. But wait, you say. That's where the scene ended. One of the most memorable and powerful sex scenes in my reading life had no actual, um, sex?

My point exactly. (Aren't you proud of me, Mom?)

Anyone else have a favorite literary sex scene? Or one that made you laugh out loud it was so bad?

THIS COULD BE THE DAY...

I had thought of doing something more elaborate to mark the occasion., originally uploaded by diastema.

Yep. I really could do it.

Really could come home at around two tomorrow morning and tell you all, I finally got the guts. Or the belief in myself. Or the willingness to let go. Whatever it takes to finally quit waitressing my job.

As you all know, I rather like the work. Not on all days or with all the people I serve, but on most.

But it's all about the TIME. Today I'm scheduled to be in at 3, and the wedding isn't over till midnight. Then we have to clean up and set chairs for a ceremony in the morning. In other words, I'm looking at an eleven hour day. A hard eleven.

Which would be okay. If there weren't so many things I WON'T be doing while I'm lifting and hauling and smiling. So many things, that it seems increasingly unwise to put off. My real work, for one thing.

If I were a bumper sticker person, I'd be slapping a variation of the most popular one on my car right now: I'D RATHER BE WRITING, it would say.

Maybe I should listen. Maybe I should stop talking about it on the blog and do it.

This could be the day...

The forein affairs correspondent was PRETTIER?

Katie Couric 2001, originally uploaded by BILLBINNS.

When it comes to Katie Couric, I'm pretty much neutral. I never watched The Today Show enough ( at all?) to become a fan. Nor do I have any opinion or knowledge of her qualifications to become a news anchor.

Thus, I've been fairly oblivious to reports about the money she was paid, what she was planning to wear for her debut, and whether or not she recently had Restylane injections--though obviously more news of Katie than I need to know has crossed my radar screen.

But when a female writer for the New York Times critiqued her first night on the job by saying she was upstaged by a pretty war correspondent in a black chador, I admit it: I was a little annoyed.

I mean, seriously, how many times was it implied that Tom Brokaw might have a problem because (uh-oh!) the foreign correspondent looked better in his Chanel glasses?

WHO READS YOUR BLOG?

Sometimes I think the reason I became a writer is because I'm so damn inarticulate.

A writer who can't express herself in her native language? Not a very auspicious sign, you probably say. Better take up welding. Or witchcraft. Or maybe waitressing...Can I bring anyone a beverage to start?

No, I'm not always good at the pithy remark, the sharp rejoinder, the on-the-spot insight. But give me time to pace around my study, blasting loud music to loosen the thoughts in my head, and I can cough up words till I choke--or until my weary fingers curl up like claws.

Anyway, there I was at lunch with my agent and some lovely people from my publisher's office when I was asked a simple question: Who reads your blog?

Well, um, all kinds of people.

Where are they from?

Uh, lots of of them are American. But lots of them...aren't. Err, I guess you could say people from all over the world.

Men? Women?

Hmm...lots of women. And men, too. Lots of men. Men and women, that's who reads my blog. Men and women from all over the world. (Oh, I was doing good! I was nailing these questions!)

But who are they? How did they find you? What kind of books do they read?

Maybe it was the triple question that flustered me. Maybe it was the impossibility of categorizing such a diverse and wonderful group of people. Maybe I just don't know how you found me, or I found you, or why. Maybe it's a process as mysterious as finding a friend or a mate or a poet who makes you stand up and recite their words out loud in your room late at night--as I've been tempted to do with some of your posts.

But whatever the reason, my inarticulate self spoke up and this is what she said:

Earthy crunchy people!

That's right; let the stoning begin. I called you earthy crunchy people--a term that hasn't been in common usage since, I don't know--the seventies?

Since everyone at the table was younger than I am, they all looked a bit mystified--and relieved to focus on their food. Earthy crunchy people, huh? How interesting. End of discussion.

So now that I'm back in my office with my music playing in the background and all my pictures around me,I can give a much better answer. In fact, I can tell you exactly who reads my blog:

Women and men.
People from places I've visited and even lived, and people from places
I've never been and may never see or know except through your words and photographs.
Artists and writers.
Naturalists.
Christians.
Buddhists.
People who are just beginning to dream their careers.
People who've left the work force and now have time to reflect and be.
Mothers and fathers.
People who see the world through a wide lens.
People who understand the importance of the tiniest detail.
Waitresses!
Lawyers.
Sons and daughters.
A rabbi or two.
Musicians.
People who heal.
People who work at jobs they love.
People who don't.
People who embrace solitude.
People who live amid the trial and joy of family.
People with passionate opinions.
People with open minds and hearts.
People who teach me things, and expand my vision every day.

Is it any wonder I couldn't come up with a simple concise answer? But seriously,earthy crunchy people? I still have no idea where that one came from.

********************************************

And speaking of my blog friends, I was thrilled to discover these ladies when I was shopping at Faces in Northampton. So thrilled, in fact, that I had to pull out my camera and take a picture.



My friend Laini made these! I said, when the clerk looked at me askance as I photographed the merchandise. And of course, I had to buy a couple of them on the spot. One now blesses my dining room table as she swings from the light, and another one hangs right here in my office, bearing this motto:

WHAT WOULD YOU ATTEMPT IF YOU KNEW YOU WOULD NOT FAIL?

What indeed.

STANDING IN THE RIVER

I have been on a long journey, most of it not measured in miles.

It began with a train ride to New York City. Facing me in the quiet car, a young woman was heading back to school at NYU. She wore a pale blue t-shirt emblazoned with the words LOVE ONE ANOTHER and the miracle of her own youth and beauty with equal ease. While we traveled she studied a thick stack of fashion magazines as if they contained a secret she desperately needed to know.

Her mother was across the aisle. In her jeans and tank top, she had the kind of bright open face that made me wish we had been friends. Every now and then the daughter found something so important in her magazines that she crouched in the aisle to share it with her mother.

Though they spoke in hushed voices, the conductor warned them to be quiet. His tone was disproportionately harsh. Apparently, their shared excitement about life created too much *noise* for his sensibilities.

When I glanced at the mother, she rolled her eyes and whispered, "The man's got problems." We both smiled.

But people like the conductor could not touch this mother and daughter on the way to New York City. And they couldn't touch me either. As we approached the city, I felt a growing sense of exhilaration.

The first day Ted and I met an old friend we hadn't seen in nineteen years. We traipsed around Manhattan, talking as if the years had no weight at all. Finally, we ended up in a little trattoria in Soho where the food was tastier--and cheaper--than a similar meal would have been at home. From where we sit, we could look through the potted plants and see the fascinating circus of life passing by.

While we ate, our friend Paula told us how she had escaped from the 105th floor of the second tower on 9/11. Her story, obviously recounted many times, began this way: It was a beautiful day and I had just sat down with my iced coffee...

The next day was a business day. From my hotel, I walked to the elegant brownstone where so many of my hopes and dreams had, through a mysterious alchemy, been transmuted to reality by my wizard of an agent, Alice Tasman. Meeting a person I knew so well as a voice on the phone, but had never met, was an amazing experience. For the first hour or so, I grinned at her like a dope. It's really you!

From there, we headed over to Dutton, and then off to a wonderful lunch at LUPA with my editor, the publicity director, and the marketing director. Over the best gnocchi I've had outside of Bologna, I heard their exciting plans for my novel. I also met three interesting people, who like the woman on the train, I could easily see as friends.

After leaving New York, Ted and I stopped at home long enough to pick up Lexi and Emma and then headed to Northampton, the small town where I spent ten years of my life, and the place where I've probably felt more at home than anywhere else on earth.

I met a friend who had been a true sister to me. For at least twenty years, we had never gone a day without talking. But somehow we too had been separated by time and distance. Reunited, we talked, we ranted, we hugged; and more than once I felt myself about to weep by some of the things life had demanded of us.

Later, we went by the apartment where I had once been intensely happy and stood staring at number on the door as if it could tell us the secret of that happiness. We walked the short distance to the elementary school where my oldest sons had walked across the lawn to attend kindergarten, their Superman lunchboxes in hand, and begun the process of leaving home.

We sat on the grass. We stared into the woods where we had buried our cat, Rainbow. We walked down the street where I had jogged hundreds of miles, inventing stories in my head as I ran; we passed the restaurant where I worked, the place where Ted and I first met.

We went to the church where we had been married, but the doors were locked. That's when I realized that all the doors had been locked. Neither the old apartment or the happiness we had felt there would readmit us. We could look into the past all we wanted, but it remained impenetrable.

That night I couldn't sleep. Around two I got up and sat in a chair in our hotel suite, listening for the sound of the train for a long time. After it passed, I went back and again tried to sleep. Failing, I got up and sat by the window where I'd listened for the train and wrote a poem. Whether it was the poem or the sound of the train that released me, I'm not sure, but when I was finished, I was finally ready to rest.

The next day we went to the river, and put our feet in the icy water and listened to its sounds the way I had listened to the train the night before. There in that chilly current, I made peace with all the things that had troubled and excited and agitated me on my long journey: the way life eventually slams all its doors on you, and separates you from people you love, the inescapable loneliness of a train's whistle late at night, the sobering truth that even on a beautiful day, when you set out with your iced coffee in hand, you might be asked to surrender your life.

I suppose the reason I couldn't sleep, the reason I took out my notebook and searched for a poem as dawn approached was because I thought there was an answer to those things. And I thought it was my job to find it. But listening to the sound of the water, I realized there was only this: standing in the river and feeling the cold water, the sun, and the wind as it all flowed past.

GOT MY RED SHOES ON...

Grand Street: Texting, originally uploaded by moriza.

and I'm headed to New York for a few days.

See you all when I get back!

PERFECT JOY

St. Francis claimed that perfect joy was accepting humiliation with equanimity. Though few of us would actively seek that kind of joy, it demonstrates the power of attitude and belief in how we experience events.

For me, perfect joy is a capricious and unexpected moment; it's a wriggling puppy that never performs on command. Like my purse and various other objects that constantly go missing at our house, it is rarely where I thought I left it.

One such capricious moment occurred last week at my waitressing job. We were in the clearing phase of a wedding in the tent and had set up our usual breakdown station behind the bar. While a couple of my co-workers cleared the room, another waitress and I worked the station, scraping, sorting, stacking, and then carrying trays and glass racks up to the kitchen. Scraping garbage and hoisting heavy trays hardly sounds like an occasion for joy--but there it was. Who was I to argue?

The band was playing the old Donna Summer tune, "On the Radio" and moonlight bedazzled the ocean outside the tent. But music and beauty are regulars where I work, and joy, as I said, is an unpredictable guest.

For at least an hour, we worked in synch, in almost balletic labor, perfectly attuned to one another's movements and to the task at hand. Focused on our common goal, we used our bones and sinews, our efficiency, our cooperation to get the job done. It felt good and satisfying. And then a breeze came up off the water and the Donna Summer song started, and joy, perfect joy, danced in.

Much is made of the state of "flow" that artists or runners enter when they lose themselves in their activity, but physical work, when its going well, also generates flow.

I don't waitress much now--one day a week or less, and soon, very soon, I will not do it at all. For many years, I talked about this, waited for this, dreamed of this. But that night, feeling the end of the season in a particular way, I lingered in the dark tent when the clean-up was done. After all the tables had been rolled out, I sat on a folding chair, and contemplated the stars, the black ocean, the empty space that had so recently been filled with celebration; and I wondered where joy will find me now.

On Jonbenet...and Judgment

No photographs today. The images were driven deep into our collective consciousness long ago. Images of a beautiful child, dressed up and flashing crimson lipstick like Marilyn Monroe. Images of innocent green eyes and a trusting smile behind a mask of adult glamour. I've often thought those images were the first crime that was committed against this child.

But what do I know? I'm just a dumb human--more often wrong about things large and small than I am right. I thought the parents did it.

There is so much that seemed lurid about Jonbenet's case. Not just the ghastly manner of her death, but the gaze of a child beauty queen, who spent so much of her abbreviated life preening and strutting. Even much of our fascination with the case, our seemingly insatiable appetite for those images had a lurid, intrusive quality to it. While the blond, made-up images of Jonbenet continued to appear on the cover of the tabloids years after her death, how many children had been forgotten?

But what do I know? I'm just a dumb human, probably more often wrong about things both large and small than I am right. I thought the parents did it.

I heard people talking on TV and decided that the parents had been handled with unusual lenience and restraint because of their money and influence. I heard people talking on TV and decided that they were clearly hiding something.

I knew nothing, but like all people armed with second-hand opinions, I was eager to spew my thoughts whenever the subject came up.

I like to think that my reckless, ill-informed belief had no effect on the Ramsays, a couple who now appear to have been burdened not only with a devastating loss, but with the almost inconceivable weight of their perceived guilt. But maybe every person who judged them was a small pebble in the sack of injustice they were forced to carry--Patsy Ramsay, to her very death. I can only hope not. I can only hope that the only victim of rash judgment is the one who judges.

Yesterday, like many of the people who had convicted the parents in their own mind, I listened to experts talking on TV, and I took up a whole new set of opinions and rationalizations: Yes, parents kill, but not in such a sadistic manner, I said, parroting the psychologists, at dinner. (Actually, I'm not sure if that's true. Haven't parents burned their children repeatedly with cigarettes, locked them in closets, methodically starved them and denied them medical attention?)

But what do I know? I'm just a dumb human--probably more often wrong about things both large and small than I am right. I thought the parents did it.

Even my judgments about the child beauty pagents are probably faulty. Maybe it's a cultural thing. Maybe it's something I just don't understand. After all, I'm just a dumb human...

Interestingly enough, the wisest words spoken yesterday were issued by John Ramsay, who warned against a rush to judgment toward the man who had confessed to the crime.

Today, at least for an hour or two, I'm judging nothing and no one.

A PIE, A SPELL...AND LITERARY MAGIC

Susan, her books, and her pie

Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.
--Henry David Thoreau

Around here blueberry season is awaited with particularly joyful expectaion. The plump little berry is not just gorgeous, succulent, and loaded with anti-oxidants, it's also reputed to be a favorite of muses everywhere. And anyone who's ever sat before a keyboard or a notebook trying to coax a story from a recalcitrant muse can tell you how just how finicky they can be.

Thus my friend Susan Messer and I began an August tradition. Every summer when the heat abates enough to turn on the oven and the blueberries appear in mesmerizing clusters, we bake a pie for our muses.

Like all traditions, this one has a history. The inspiration for this pie came from none other than Marilynne Robinson, who served me a similar concoction when I was was invited to her home for dinner. (The story of that, err, rather embarrassing, meal is here: SIMPLY WAIT: MY DINNER WITH A PULITZER PRIZE WINNER.)

Last year, we invited writers and creative people everywhere to join us as we attempted to spoil, delight and honor our muses with Susan's delectable pie recipe. As far as I know, no one did, but Susan and I baked with purpose and zest anyway.

Whether or not you believe in a little white magic, the results were startling. Last August, I was a an unpublished waitress, tempering my wild dreams as I polished the novel my agent planned to circulate in the fall. This August I'm holding the beautiful advanced review copy in my hand. (Is it just a coincidence that the cover is blue?)



Susan, too, had a remarkable year as a writer.

"Even I am impressed when I look back and see what's happened to me writing-wise this year ("this year" meaning July 2005 [post-pie baking, or ppb] through July 2006). I had a story come out in Glimmer Train (after years of submissions), an essay accepted by Fourth Genre, and a piece of creative nonfiction published in an anthology called Vacations: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. I won second place in the Guild Complex creative nonfiction competition (judged by Alex Kotlowitz) and first place in the Moment magazine short fiction competition (judged by Judy Budnitz). As part of that prize, Moment flew me to Washington DC (where the mag is published) to read at an awards ceremony. An important sidelight: the winning story is the basis of the novel I am now working on. Other wonderful experiences included being interviewed on WBEZ (Chicago public radio) and WYEP (in Pittsburgh) about my writing, and being photographed as a writer (the portrait of me behind the pie) for a photography project. With all this in mind, I was more than anxious to see the blueberries come in this year at my local farmers' market, and once they appeared and I had them safely in my kitchen, I worked with special concentration on the pate brisee, cutting it and sprinkling it and tossing it and rolling it with far more than flour, salt, butter, vegetable shortening, and ice water."

If anyone would like to join us this year, please do--and make sure you post a picture and leave a comment so I can link to it.

The official literary blues recipe is here: SIMPLY WAIT: BAKE A PIE FOR YOUR MUSE.

And the spell is a fairly simple one, as magic goes (no bat wings or rabbit hearts necessary).

1. Ask your muse for three things--the answer to a tricky plot question, perhaps or insight into a character. (Don't ask me why there has to be three, but that seems to be a rule when it comes to magic..)

2. Listen intently for the answers.

3. Pay particular heed to your dreams.

Oh yes, and make sure you share the pie with someone you love. One thing I've learned from fairy tales is that magic never works if you don't share it.

THE ZEN OF HULA HOOPING

New hat and a hula hoop, originally uploaded by fd.

Okay, I wrote a book that I'm pretty proud of and I make it a point to brag about my kids at least once a day. But my real claim to fame is that when I was ten, I was the hula hoop champion of Brockton, Massachusetts. Or at least, the East Side of the city. All right, maybe it was just my street (a dead end with three houses on it). But it's not the title that matters, right? It's how I felt when I got that baby spinning around my hips: like a master.

And who says you can't learn about life from standing in your back yard painting circles through the air with the motion of your hips? One thing I discovered is that as soon as you start worrying about who's watching or how silly you look or who's doing it better, it's all over.

I have a post up on the Killer Year Blog on the subject. It deals with writing, but the message applies to any kind of hula hoop you're trying to keep in the air.

THE BIRTHDAY RULES

One with nature, originally uploaded by Santosh Korthiwada.

1. BE HAPPY. It's practically a law. Even the most wretched person on earth is required to take a day off from the pursuit of misery on their birthday. Not only will your family and friends feel compelled to remind you of your duty to the gods of happiness, but even perfect strangers will get into the act. On catching sight of your birthdate, clerks will stop everything and order you to be happy! Now! And if you find yourself in a restaurant, don't be surprise if a coven of otherwise normal wait people surround you, holding a tiny flame in their hands, and singing an ode to your happiness.

2. BE WISE because happiness is a capricious thing; and if you're not a little bit wise, you probably won't be all that happy either. Sure, it's YOUR day and you're supposed to enjoy it, but if you expect Happiness to behave in a certain way, it will squirm out of your arms as quickly as a recalcitrant two year old. In the end, the happiness paradox is the same on your birthday as it is on every day: If you want it, you've got to give it to someone else. Yep--even on your birthday.

3. BE GRATEFUL for the gifts you got, and even more so for the ones you didn't need to get. Be grateful for the people who remembered your birthday, and love the ones who forgot. If you're old, take time to be grateful and amazed by all the lives you contain. Celebrate the entwined mysteries of fragility and strength. And if you're young, go outside and shout down the stars. It's your world.

But above all, be grateful for your happiness, however worn and misshapen and imperfect it might be. It is yours. When it appears at the door in its artful disguise, take care never to turn it away.

I got this quote in my inbox yesterday. It seemed like the perfect birthday reminder.

“You are younger today than you will ever be again. Make use of it for the sake of tomorrow.”

– Norman Cousins

MY TWO CENTS

Barry's Bar, originally uploaded by .Zickie..

If there's anything better than a neighborhood bar in the Carribean, it's a backyard bar on Cape Cod. Laura and Jake's backyard bar to be specific.

Arrive when it's still light and you can explore a backyard that is a world in itself. There's an endless variety of herbs and plants which Laura cultivates in her sprawling, expansive gardens, a couple of old boats that Jake is working on, and an above ground pool the couple scored at a yard sale a few years ago. In the summer, friends and neighbors who stop by the bar bring their bathing suits and float a while.

At Laura and Jake's, you can float alone and contemplate the trees above your head or the meaning of existence, or you can float with friends, and jumpstart the conversation that will take place at the bar later.

In season, Jake comes home with buckets full of Wellfleet oysters; and Laura is an avid clam digger. If that's not enough to lure you over, Jake has served up some of the finest wines I've ever had at that bar, and Laura is a gourmet cook.

But this wasn't supposed to be a post about Laura and Jake and their fabulous backyard bar. It was supposed to be a post about opinions. The proverbial "my two cents"
which the Sunday Scribblers tackled this week.

Opinions and bars are natural companions--whether it's a homey back yard bar like Laura and Jake's, a Dublin pub, or the dank "old man's bars" that T.C. Boyle described so well in TALK TALK. It's not always a felicitous pairing.

So anyway, a group of us had gathered at Laura and Jake's last week and it was starting to get late when the talk turned to politics. Religion. The Middle East. Within minutes, the bar was littered with pennies as everyone anted up their two cents.

Voices rose. Laura, ever a peacemaker, begged for quiet, a change of subject. (Jake had to work in the morning, and was trying to sleep!) But like war itself, once ignited, the surge of opinions was not so easily quelled.

And then Ryan, still looking serene from his hour of floating, spoke up quietly. "I'm sure there's a lot I don't understand, but I think..."

And immediately, the tenor of the conversation changed. Because no matter what we think, or how passionate our beliefs are, Ryan Is right: there's a lot we don't understand. We see, as always, through a glass darkly.

A glass darkened by our fears.
Our personal experiences and prejudices.
The fact that our knowledge and understanding, however vast it might be, is always limited.

Am I advocating that we stop voicing our opinons or passionately engaging with the world around us? Hell, no! (And here MY voice is rising.) What I am advocating is that we speak them in a way that seeks to expand understanding--both our own, and those with whom we're conversing--rather than suppressing it.

It doesn't take much. A quiet tone. A humble acknowledgment that there's much we don't know. A willingness to listen. It's one thing--maybe the only thing-- that we can do for peace. We can live it.

And that, friends, is my two cents. See you at the neighborhood bar.