Trying to Stay Afloat in a Sea of Words

Swimming to Euphoria (Just another Manic Monday)

2012-02-06T04:50:00.000-08:00

I used to be such an even-keeled person.

Oh, not when I was a teen, maybe, but as an adult. I was generally one of those people that didn't have wild mood swings or bouts of depression. Sure, if something particularly difficult or unhappy was going on, my mood would go with it, but as a general proposition, I was steady and rolled with the punches.

Then, a few years ago (oh, you bastard 2007-2008, you know who you are), my life went through a minor bumpy period.

I was struggling with a difficult child, struggling to get my writing sold, and struggling with the feeling I wasn't digging my husband all that much anymore (no worries, readers, turns out he had no love lost for me either at that point ;)).

Still, everything went reeling.

Oh, you wouldn't have known it to look at me. I continued to show up at school committees, to enjoy my paid mediation work, and to get the kids to their various activities and attend social functions here and there. In fact if any of my friends are reading, most of them (though not all) might be slightly shocked to read this.

But there you have it. I had a period in my life where everything went reeling.

For a year or two, I swirled at the edge of some precipice.

It wasn't pleasant, but it gave me an empathy I never had before for those who battle anxiety or depression. I understood now what it meant to not be able to just snap yourself out of it.

During that period, the only things that felt like they were saving me were my kids, my sense of humor, and, mostly, my ability to plunge myself daily into some water.

Then three things happened. I got a book deal, I found open water swimming, and my hubby and I miraculously liked each other again.

See, here we are in NYC last spring, still liking each other

(Ok, fine, that last part was less than miraculous, and actually took a lot of work, but, hey, sometimes you have to put the time in.)

Everything got better again.

Life resumed.

My more difficult kid began to mature.

And there was even some excitement with the new writing career.

La di da di da.

Except it was never exactly quite the same.

I don't know if a part of me is just more jaded now, or less trusting, or if this is just something that happens with age. And, I do tend to think it's the latter. That my cosmic crisis just happened to coincide with dipping my feet ankle deep into my forties. And, of course, I'm now in them up to my waist.

Still, I wake up so often feeling angsty, dissatisfied, and melancholy. Some days I can shake it. Other days, not so much. I suppose a lot of it depends on how well my writing career is progressing on any given day.

*points to today, coughs, backs away from the precipice.*

Still, I keep pushing myself. Trying not to give in to the quicksand.

Thank goodness, my kids are still here. My hubby is (mostly) a gem, and we now seem to have stretched the open water season well beyond any bounds of reason or good sense. ;)

Yep, I confess, I went again yesterday.

That's me, at the top of the screen. With my friend Annmarie (with the orange safety buoy -- i forgot mine...) who is willing to swim with me at every whim. (How will I ever thank you, Annmarie?) and our friend Carol, of the Water-Blog, who had swum the day before and was, thus, kind enough to stay ashore and film us, instead.

Together, we are kicking away the angst and the blues of middle age. Together, we are swimming to euphoria.

I'm with you and you're with me
And so we're all together.
So we're all together
So we're all together
Swim with me, I'll swim with you
And so we will swim together
As we swim along, oh:
We are swimming to Euphoria, Euphoria, Euphoria
We are swimming to Euphoria, Euphoria today.

I don't know what I'd do without it. I am very, very grateful.

Meanwhile, it's Monday again. And, I'm feeling slightly manic.

In no small part because half of you reading won't even know who the Bangles are. ;)

But, anyway, have a happy one.

Good luck to us all.

- gae

Jetsetting & the Glamorous Life

2012-01-24T16:33:00.000-08:00

even the sky was showy...

Yeah, yeah,

<--------- that's just me in there,

jetting off for a book release party this past weekend.

Don't hate me because my life is glamorous.

I flew all the way to Tacoma, Washington, to celebrate the launch of my dear friend Megan Bostic's debut young adult novel, Never Eighteen.

And, oh, there was glitter,

and wine,

and parties,

and french pastries,

and fancy clothes.

Annmarie, Megan and me... I put us in a movie box to make us look extra fancy.

Heidi and me, posing for the endless paparazzi
(okay, whatever, someone took this shot with my cell phone).

For two whole days, I lived the glamorous life.

Okay, sure, fine, maybe the glitter came with me in my suitcase and I tossed it around when I got there,

and maybe some of the parties were just us girls, sitting around in our pj's, drinking wine and giggling over cardboard cut-outs of our friends. . .

Some of our best friends are merely cardboard heads...

... but we treated them well...

and, we didn't judge...

Still,
all kidding aside,
there was a fabulous party, set against the sparkling backdrop of the Puget Sound, to celebrate a new piece of art being launched -- a baby book being born into the world:

Megan, reading from her baby book...

and there were fabulous new sights in a distant city:

Chihuly glass bridge in downtown Tacoma at Union Station

and, even a stolen bag:

me, with the awesome sequined skull bag I stole from Heidi Peach

All in all, it was a wonderful weekend.

I'm lucky to have such talented, funny, warm and generous friends.

Jetsetting glamour? Who knows.

You keep the jets and the glamour,

leave me with the cardboard cut-outs, the glitter, and the friends.

- gae

(and I say there was glamour, so there was.)

Proyecto Sobrecarga

2012-01-10T12:16:00.000-08:00

What? I studied Spanish. I can speak Spanish if I want to.

It's my damned blog.

Me muerde.

(hahahahaha!) It seems like that says I'm dead in Spanish, but it doesn't. Whatever.

So, it's a new year and, yes, I am still fucking upside down for those of you who know what that means -- for those that don't, sorry, you'll have to follow me a bit more closely... ;) and I am seriously on project overload.

Project Overload, yes, yes, people, that is what the title says, Project Overload. And, no, I didn't remember how to say "overload" in Spanish even though I took it right through college (maybe I never knew), I just googled the translation. I did remember how to say "project" though, so, yeah. *curtseys*

Anyway, some of the project overload is self-induced. For example, after failed physical therapy on my blasted old-lady hip for the past six weeks, I've decided to add hot yoga back into my routine (yep, just in time for that stupid New York Times article telling us that yoga is going to kill us all... for a great retort, check out my friend (and certified yoga instructor) Lori Landau's blog post, Does Yoga Hurt More Than it Heals on technorati.)

It's a big time investment, but my body seems mostly happy to be back to it.

Add that to my usual swim routine, and I'm already in the (swimming) hole just on exercise alone.

As for swimming news (see, I should switch back to Spanish, because this blog post suddenly sounds like one of those chain Christmas letters), I think our open water season is finally (heartbreakingly) over, but what a freaking hugely fantastic exhilarating magnificent season it was. End o' May to January 7th.

Here's my friend Annmarie and I right before we swam on
January 7, 2012. I believe we may have set a Pod record.
And, yes, I added the snow. The air was actually unseasonably warm
but the water was $*&%&$^% cold (maybe 36 degrees).

So, it's back to the pool with me until, hmmm, late? April?

Plus, there's the usual mom/taxi stuff, and trying to get my sixteen year old to do all the things he's supposed to be doing (like getting his permit, and studying for the SAT's), and running from my almost 14-yr olds basketball game to basketball game (both school and travel teams).

Plus, there's my writer stuff: promoting The Pull of Gravity (did you hear it's going to Paperback?), e.g. getting in contact with the several schools that are about to launch into their units that teach it (!) to set up dates to either Skype or make an in-person visit, doing guest blog posts (I'm here on Nerdy Book Club today talking about the books that shaped me as a kid and will be on TeachingBooks.net on January 24, to name just a few) and just keep trying to get the word out there -- seriously, it's a full time job.

And, then, there's my mediation practice. A new client this week, plus a six-way on one of my bigger cases (not as sexy as it sounds, means the clients' separate counsel comes into things to try to resolve some sticky issues), plus a separation agreement that has been taking me days to draft. . . (which is what I *should* be doing now) . . .

Weeks like this always remind me of this:

except that I do the bacon in the microwave, and I'm pretty sure, at least this week, my husband will tell you that he's totally forgotten he's a man ... Sorry hun!)

(TMI? *coughs*)

Finally, I have my first book club appearance ever tonight, not even a friend's book club that felt sorry for me and invited me in. These are a bunch of twenty-somethings I don't know at all. I hope they don't throw tomatoes at me. The moderator chose my book because several places have compared TPOG to John Green's Paper Towns and he's a fan of that book (though I read it and don't really see the comparisons... btw, how weird is it that I get compared to John Green a lot and his new book, out today, is called The Fault of Our Stars, when the manuscript I'm working on is called In Sight of Stars? Hmmm. Wonder if I'll have to change it. . . he's way more famous than I. . . ).

And, the last thing (I know, I know, I said finally, then tricked you and slipped in another last thing), next week I'm flying to Tacoma, WA for my friend Megan's book launch. Here's Megan, being totally adorable as she talks about jealousy and how she handles it,

and here's the link to her shiny debut, Never Eighteen. http://www.amazon.com/Never-Eighteen-Megan-Bostic/dp/0547550766. You should totally buy it and read it, and tell your local library to order it in (I even helped her to revise an early draft. I've not read the final version yet, but I'm excited to).

I'm not that thrilled about the flying part (or the leaving my hubby and kids part) but I am totally excited that my friend Annmarie is coming with me (thanks, sweetie!) and excited that I'm going to finally meet a bunch of friends I only know through facebook and email! That means you, Katie and Brent, and you, Peachy, and, and, and...! I wonder what I should wear... maybe the companion piece I have to this shirt I wore on New Year's Eve?

Come on! That's one fun shirt!

So, that's it. You're all caught up. Both in Spanish and in English. I'm not spellchecking this puppy or reading it over for nice order or proper grammar. I'm so freaking busy, I shouldn't even have written it in the first place.

But I love you, dear readers, for coming here to check on new posts, so I didn't want to leave you hanging.

If I haven't said it before, Happy New Year! If I did, well, I wish you one again.

*blows kisses, throws leftover, slightly walked on confetti*

Now, get on it. Already January 10! And miles to go before we sleep.

- gae

Swimming, Winning, Sinning, Whining, and New Beginnings.

2011-12-24T14:03:00.000-08:00

Considering this is me (photo left, with my sister),
terrified by a 5 degree angle,
I'd say I'm doing pretty winning at life these days. ;)

In an oh-too-predictible microcosm of that old macrocosm of Time, 2011 flew by in a blink of an eye.

Damn you, Time. I wish the days would slow down.

I did my best to seize them, to make the most of the hours, some days more successfully than others.

In this, my 47th year, it seems essential to seize every moment, or at least to try, as they blur past me, out the windows.

Here are some of the highlights, the good, the bad and the naughty:

That's me in the middle, finding my religion. . . and, yes, we swam on Christmas Eve day,
me sans Santa hat, but I did don my monkey hat after.

Swimming. My family fills me, my writing sustains me, but my swimming? My swimming saves me.

As I get older, the water keeps me young, keeps me pushing to achieve new goals. Frustratingly, I did not accomplish last year's resolution to complete a five-mile swim this summer (mostly due to logistics), but I am signed up for one this coming summer. Luckily, I did push myself in new ways, including by swimming faster, harder, in more challenging conditions, and through December. Good enough. I'll take it.

I am endlessly blessed to have found The West Neck Pod (here's the official blog of the Pod, if you are interested).

And here I am swimming today, on 12/24/11 with the other amazing nutjobs of the West Neck Polar Pod ;))

Winning. I've had some winning experiences this year, both family and book-related. My kids don't love it when I blog about them, so suffice it to say, both my boys are wonderful kids who are having some awesome and hard-fought-for successes, and I'm proud of them. This is my younger son, having one such moment (yes, that is his name they are chanting ;)). They say you're only as happy as your most unhappy child, and I can tell you that this is true.

As for winning book news, some of the many highlights were:

the Dolphin Bookshop reading in October

the high schools that have picked up The Pull of Gravity into their curriculum (!), my Skype visits with Mr. Hankins' class and especially the boys of Room 407, and with the 9th graders of Clio High School thanks to Mrs. Sarah Andersen,

and, the winning-most things of all: the confirmation that I will be going to PAPERBACK (!!! Winter 2013) and

my shiny, wonderful, and oh-so-geekily meaningful 2011 Nerdies Award in Young Adult fiction bestowed by the amazing teachers and educators who run the Nerdy Book Club. (Thanks again to all who voted in the final phase!)

Sinning. Oh, come on! I've been pretty good. What's nice without a little naughty?

My "private" facebook page continues to be a silly, ridiculous playground for me to connect with my writer (and other!) friends around the country, one such friend being the deliriously sexy and, yes, slightly naughty, Amber Grayson Vayle.

I've known Amber as a writer for a long time, but recently she has branched out to this sexier persona, and a few months back, while I was appearing on her non-naughty show, we unwittingly named her new late-night Saturday radio show on Shark Radio, The Naughty Slot (10 pm, Saturdays ;)). Gotta love a little double entendre. Since then, it's taken off and is, I admit, one of my favorite, guilty, grown-up pleasures on an otherwise-quiet Saturday night. Sometimes, it's even a little too hot for me to handle, but most the time it's a fun, sexy and, most-impressively, loving and supportive place to *ahem* blow off some steam (or work some up, I suppose ;)). One of the things I love best there is that most of the women are either tipping 40, or have galloped over it, and each one is a sexy, smart, gorgeous person inside and out. A little titillating fun to spice up the cold nights of winter. ;)

Btw, if you are under 19 and reading this, or easily offended by ridiculousness but still want to interact with me for some reason, please seek me out on my author facebook page HERE, rather than my private one. :)

Whining. I am out on SUBMISSION. Need I say more? (If I do, you can read this blog post, or this one to learn more). Also, my old lady, bum hip still hurts despite months of Physical Therapy, and then there was the night I passed out and broke my nose on the bathroom floor. Also, my freaking house is a mess and I have zero desire to clean it. There. That should do it. That wasn't too bad, was it?

New Beginnings.

So, there you have it. And, now, here it is, a New Year.

I have a fresh slate and a chance to do better. To be a better friend, to be a more patient parent, to let go of old wounds and find a way to embrace the unknown without so much angst and distraction. And to spend less time wasting time, and more time writing and doing.

This is what I've learned: the more I do, the less I long for all the things I didn't do. Simple, right?

I have books to write, friends to spend time with, a family that I love, and that deserves to have me not just there for them, but fully present.

I am grateful for all the good that has come to me in 2011, and I hope you know how much your readership, and friendship, mean to me.

Especially to those who inspire me, who swim with me, and to my classmates in the Class of 2K11 who got me through this first author year, a very heartfelt thank you.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

- gae

blog:

Swimmin' Wimmin of the Polar Pod, Sans Arms (on behalf of the water-blog)

2011-12-05T11:08:00.000-08:00

Can you find where water meets air?

Despite a morning of dense fog that had Carole playing"Where's Waldo" with the water (see, photo left), at shortly after noon, three intrepid members of the Polar Pod -- Cathy, Carole and I -- suited up and met for another unbelieveable, stolen December swim.

The air temperature -- a balmy 58 -- was warm enough that I was sweating as I pulled on my sundry layers of swim caps, booties and gloves, and we pondered how the same global warming that's so desperately bad for the real polar bears and universe, was giving us such an unforgettable winter gift.

Despite the unseasonably warm air, wading into the water was another story.

Last night's cold temps seemed to have lowered the water a degree or two, and we felt the cold rush in right through our booties (though not into our impermeable Psycho gloves ;)). But, as always, once we got swimming, it was business as usual -- or as usual as it could be swimming without our right (Carol Moore) and left (Annmarie Kearny-Wood) arms.

A brisk swim to the yellow sign felt totally doable as our faces and bodies acclimated, and we even stopped and chatted and aqua-jogged in place there for a while, admiring the scenery and marvelling at our great good luck to be out yet another day, before swimming somewhat reluctantly back toward the dock and home.

Another fine Pod hat on display.

Back on shore we agreed that swimming right through December seems more and more possible (and necessary) with each passing day.

- gae

post on behalf of the http://thewater-blog.blogspot.com/

Swimming Through Angstarctica

2011-11-27T12:21:00.000-08:00

I love my Psycho gloves so much that, yes, I want to marry them.

I've been saying for a long time -- before I'd even discovered the bliss and exhilaration of the open water -- that I was hoping one day my wetsuit would turn me into a super hero.

Today, I got one step closer.

Thanks to my dear friend (and lovely, adorable, fellow-lunatic), Annmarie, who delivered an early Christmas present, I am now the proud owner of new, improved swim booties, and, more importantly, a pair of 5mm Psycho gloves.

The name says it all. They're the ones in the photo that look like they belong to Iron Man. And they are the Swim God's gift to womankind.

Despite 47- 49 degree temps in the Sound today, we swam 40+ minutes and, even then, I wasn't ready to get out.

It was crazy!

It was delirium!

It was likely this winter's salvation.

Because December is here. The crush of the holidays (I'm a Jew, you know, we just don't get all that excited). The cold, dark days. The oppressive weight of Seasonal Affective Disorder.

For the past few winters, I've barely made it through.

But, now I've got a plan. And my plan now seems attainable. Thanks to an early Christmas present, from a dear friend who seems to need the bliss of the open water just as badly as I do.

Thanksgiving Day. That's me in the center. Losing my religion. (Annmarie, photo left)
Plus, the other hardies of the West Neck Pod.
Btw, if you want to read more about our open water swims, go here to the Water-blog.

Together, with Psycho gloves, we're gonna swim right on through it. We're swimming through Angstarctica. We're swimming till we meet the shores of spring.

So, don't worry about me. Because the water will buoy me, and my fingers won't feel a thing. <3

- gae

p.s. This just in:

Me, with my PSYCHO GLOVES today!

http://thewater-blog.blogspot.com/

How Red (Cold? Blue?) Can You Go?

2011-11-17T06:10:00.000-08:00

If my hair is any indicator, very, and likely proof that I am frantically staving off (another) mid-life crisis.

It started as a strand or two, and now look, it's taken over my head. What's worse is that I'm eyeing bottles of green, and orange and purple.

At least my kids think this version of insanity is cool. Only when they're older will they realize. . .

Some days it's not too bad, but the rain this week doesn't help.

Nor the fact that I'm out on submission (writer speak for praying an editor will freaking just please take my book!). And, despite an amazing, competent new agent, who believes in me, it's this market that's killing my confidence...

Also, NOT helping? The fact that the open water season is going to end one day soon, like, say, yesterday, maybe, or at best, this Saturday. Because the novelty of swimming in 40-degree water is quickly wearing off. Been there. Done that. Thrice, as they say.

Then, it's six months in the (fucking) cholorinated pool.

Plus, there's my eyesight: yep, I need reading glasses . . . and, even still, I can't see shit. My last trip to the eye doctor nearly made me pass out. It's the light they shine in your eyes while they describe how you're slowly losing focus. . .

Oh, and my "bum" hip which, no, has not gotten better despite all I've done to ignore it *coughs*. I mean, bursitis???? What the fuck?!)

And, suddenly, I realize I never made the five-mile swim this summer I was counting on -- okay, I realized sooner, but suddenly the weight of it is hitting me hard, and bumming me out big time.

I know, I know. There's always next summer. But I wanted to do it this one.

Waaaaaaaa.

So, yeah, I'm feeling angsty and blue and fearful of the cold days looming ahead. So maybe it just doesn't matter how red I go. Maybe no red is quite red enough.

Maybe I need to go blue . . .

(You know, as in,

blue - adj. - suggestive of sexual impropriety; "a blue movie"; "blue jokes"; "he skips asterisks and gives you the gamy details"; "a juicy scandal"; "a naughty wink"; "naughty words"; "racy anecdotes"; "a risque story"; "spicy gossip")

This is my writer-friend, cum girl crush, Tami Sue Snow. (yes, people, that is a totally business-like and respectable way to use the word cum. You know nothing):

Yeah, I said girl crush. I mean, seriously, can you blame me?

Right.

I didn't think so.

Anyway. Tami hosts an erotic radio show on Shark Radio called The Naughty Slot (*curtseys because she helped her name it*) and, as sexy as she is, she is also sweet and talented and adorable, and suddenly I find myself rushing home on Saturday nights at 10 pm EST (if, miracles of miracles, i am even out in the first place) to chime in on the chat room delirium that takes place in the sidebar, along with my new VBFF (and very funny counterpart) Heidi (she's a peach!), as if we are silly school girls.

Silly, blue school girls staving off an emotional breakdown...

Me, flaunting my blueness on a recent Saturday night....

I would have thought that all this girl-on-girl (and totally in-fun) debauchery would actually be more entertaining to my husband -- who would usually only dream of such things -- but mostly he just seems to shake his head at me.

Maybe it's the combo of red, cold, AND blue, that's freaking him out just a bit.

And, the fact that it's only November.

But that's what marriage is for, right? To roll our eyes while the other spouse isn't quite looking, then nod supportively when we realize they are.

*nods enthusiastically*

*sighs*

It's gonna be an interesting winter.

- gae

My Writing Life: Chutes and Ladders

2011-11-09T07:47:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking lately how much the whole 'publishing thing' is like a game of Chutes and Ladders.

I mean,
maybe all of life is like a game of Chutes & Ladders and that's why it has
remained such a classic
(or maybe it's just that it's so dang fun to slide the little colorful pegs up and down the curly slides), but, certainly, my publishing journey has felt a lot like playing this game.

Here, I'll show you what I mean.

Imagine my first attempt at writing a manuscript in 1998 as the Start Space, and the completion of the first rough draft of THE JETTY (4+ years) as Space #4.

Up, I go to Space #14 where there's a yummy cake waiting for me. Yay, cake! You know how I love a good cake.

Perhaps at space #15, I submit to my first round of agents, which all come back rejections. Space #16, down I go! But at Space #9, I get a bite, my first agent request for a look at a partial or full.

Woohoo, I'm off and running on Space #31!

At Space #36, THE JETTY makes it to the Semi-finals of the first-ever Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest, but at Space #47, I'm eliminated (luckily, I land in water).

Space #28 is totally elusive for most of us -- there's a forcefield around it or something -- but it's back to Space #36 again, where I get my first real NYC literary agent who loves THE JETTY and my writing and is convinced we will get a six-figure deal.

Up to Space #44. Look how tall I feel now!

At Space #51, I finish the revisions she's asked for and we begin to send the manuscript out to publishers. At Spaces #53 - 63, the, "we love this, but. . ." rejections from said publishers start to roll in.

At Space #64, while at work on a new middle grade manuscript, I fall and break my arm.

No, really. I fell and broke my arm. Totally lost all mojo on that manuscript. It still sits half-finished somewhere.

Instead, on Spaces #61 - 79, I begin work on my second to-be-completed women's fiction manuscript, SWIM BACK TO ME and, at Space #80, it's ready to be submitted.

I land on Space #87. What more can I say?

For a while, I see stars (no, really, I'm telling you, I'm pretty sure I saw stars), but by Space #31 I'm off and running again. This time, it's a young adult manuscript, THE PULL OF GRAVITY.

At Space #36, I get an amazing editor at fsg interested, and at Space #51 she loves it!

Look at me just sweeping up over there.

But at Space #56, another in-house editor says, "Not so much," and sends me sneezing back to Space #53.

I engage in rewrites, my agent newly-confident in the manuscript and on space #71, the editor calls us back to say she misses the manuscript and, voila! I have a book deal.

It's a book deal, peeps. I eat an entire ice cream sundae!!! (Though I am careful to put my bib on.)

After 18 months of Space #91 glee and nerves and joy and revisions and line edits, the book comes out to very good reviews.

Woo hoo!

Good reviews!!!

*looks for ladder space*

Er. Um.

WE COULD USE A LADDER HERE, PEOPLE!!!

What? You say there there are no ladders here? Only more potential chutes? Ah, my TPoG cover hasn't made the Macmillan catalogue (most bookstores buy at least partially based on cover appeal), and, as a non-lead title, I receive only mininum marketing support from my publisher.

At Space #93, I scribble profanities all over the walls of facebook and start to slide down.

Days and nights turn into endless self-marketing ventures instead of writing ones, trying to get word of my title out there. I also work on what I think will be my "option" book -- an upper YA called JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME, which I finish in rough draft and my new agent loves.

Oops, might have left out some chutes and ladders, didn't I? As a result of a layoff at an inopportune time, I split with my first agent and am quickly taken on by a new one who is ready to pitch SWIM again after deep revisions. She also loves JACK KEROUAC, but I've started a second "option" effort, called FRANKIE SKY, which she loves too, and we agree to submit that for my option.

At Space #93 (what is it with that space, I ask you?) my editor rejects FRANKIE SKY as too commercial, but loves a new manuscript I've also started called IN SIGHT OF STARS. At Space 94 she's taking it up to the exec board, but unforseen objects sometimes have a trajectory of their own, and, at Space #95 she rejects it. At the same time, new shiny agent #2 -- not so new or shiny anymore -- loses steam with everything, becomes unresponsive to anything to do with my career, and we part ways somewhat less than amicably.

What day is it?

What year is it?

WHAT SPACE AM I ON?!?

At Space #80 -- aw, come on, you didn't really think I would land on Space #80...

At Space #79, I get a shiny, new agent -- one who comes highly recommended by a writer-friend, and in whom I have lots of faith. He takes me on for FRANKIE SKY but asks for revisions which are (gratefully) made. At Space #96 I kick ass (avoiding that damned broken window) and my revisions get approved.

There are just three spaces left that stand between me and a second book deal.

Three.

Little.

Spaces.

And,

one chute.

*stares at dice in hand, and tries not to pull any cat tails.*

- gae

2011-11-04T10:14:00.000-07:00

My blog post is here today:

http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2011/11/november-indoor-blues.html

Kisses.

- gae

Weather, Whims, and Waiting

2011-10-31T05:39:00.000-07:00

Washington Square Park, NYC 10/28
sleet and roses

<-------- that, my friends, is sleet.

It snowed the other day in New York.

Not in Alaska, mind you.
Not even upstate, northern New York.
But on Long Island and New York City.

It snowed wet, cold, slushy stuff that rained down on my head, soaked my jeans through to my legs, coated the streets of NYC with just the kind of hazardous, slick, gray sludge a person like me can kill herself on.

I cursed the weather gods, as I ran from the LIRR to the subways, to Washington Square Park, trying to get my kid and his friend to their Saturday NYU math class* on time.

By the time we got back on the LIRR to go home, my jacket was soaked and frozen, and my toes were all but numb.

I don't remember a time when it snowed in New York in October. And I'll be happy if I never see such time again.

And, yet.

This morning, still October, the car thermometer reads 33, and the lawns are covered in a definitive blanket of white frost.

In another world, in another lifetime, that might be pretty. But, for me, in my world, it means only one terrible thing:

there will be no more open water this season.

suited up, mid-october at
West Neck Beach

I can do waves and wind and water at 53 degrees, if I can emerge to sunshine and temps above 45 on dry land. But I cannot do wind and water at 48 (the last reported temp before the snow and frost of this weekend) and emerging to dry land temps below 40 degrees.

I wish I could, but I cannot.

That means, for this season, I am out.**

I knew it was coming. I tried to brace myself.

In an effort to release land-based endorphins, I may have even bought some bright red hair dye on impulse and worked it through my hair.

Don't kid yourselves about it; I'm not sorry.

Even if I know, perhaps, I should be.

My hot-cherry red hair is making me very, very happy.

As happy as I can be on dry land.

So it's likely not going anywhere soon.

And, yes, fine, we'll see what color it turns when the chlorine starts mixing in.

In the meantime, I'm back to waiting. My Frankie Sky revisions are with my agent. He said he would have feedback to me soon. Then, if approved, we go back to the other waiting. The harder waiting.
Waiting for the editors to say yay or nay.

And, don't I know how often the nays have it.

But, really, what choice do I have?

So until then, me n' my hot-cherry red hair will be here, on dry land, or immersing myself in the chlorine. Waiting for good news. Waiting for spring. Waiting for another open water season to begin.
---

*please note that my son is taking said class at HIS request. I would NEVER suggest anyone take a math class on a Saturday. ;)

** hope looms eternal: as I finished typing this blog post, an email from my swim buddy appeared in my inbox promising temps back up near sixty this week. Could one more open water swim be possible . . .? ;)

- gae

Halloween Riff (Sugar Rush)

2011-10-25T07:26:00.000-07:00

Me, last night, with the treat my sweet hubby delivered

Reeling from a sugar high (after weeks of not eating any) and inspired by a copy of Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven (reprinted way below) that serendipitously arrived in my email box this morning, I penned my own version of some early Halloween terror.

I invite you to join me in the comments and create a little Halloween homage of your own.

Definitely treat over trick.

- gae

Deprav'in

Once upon a Tuesday, teeming, with the thought that I was dreaming,

when consuming pounds of creamy, malted chocolate balls galore,

should my sugar-coated teeth, my growing thighs felt underneath,

this memory, now, so vague and brief, it barely lingers at my core. . .

“Tis only fair, you see,” I muttered, “to mix some sweet amidst the bore,”

only this: a sugar fix, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly (I was sober), it was in the bleak October,

sent my husband like a gopher, to the aisle in the store. . .

Eagerly, no, not a Spartan, sent him for the whole damned carton

Tried to cease, but played my part on, part on asking, yes, for more --

Now, the fear of scale uncertain, holes in teeth will soon be hurtin’,

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating, of my heart, I stand repeating,

"'Tis some minor weakness leaving, exiting through every pore,

Calories to soon be leaving, through my every pore.

Twas only candy, nothing more.”

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-Edgar Allen Poe

Delirium

2011-10-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

Gae at West Neck Beach 10 21

Despite high winds and chilly air hovering
only around 55 (not counting the wind chill),
and a marineforcast reporting 3 ft waves and
a small craft advisory, a few lucky Pod members and I
snuck away at 10:30 this morning for
an open water swim.

The wind gusts in the parking lot were so intense
they snapped our car doors shut as we tried to emerge,
so we opted for stretching on our wetsuits on the alee side, before even attempting to venture to our usual changing spot at the lifeguard station, to get our swim caps and goggles and remaining supplies on.

Carol Moore changing at her car

The waves (and white caps) were kicking. Just trying to get my hair conditioned and under my swim cap, left my fingers numb. We fretted aloud about the water temperatures.

Luckily, the sky was too pretty to turn back, so we waded in tentatively, our girly screams and f-bombs peppering the air as the cold swept into our wetsuits. Then, as always, we put our heads down and started to swim.

It was one of the most exhilarating swims I've had to date. When we'd swum our day's course, it was hard to force ourselves out. My wetsuit drying on my stoop makes me happy to have seized the day. As always, I am never ever sorry I went in.

Here are just a few reasons why:

convinced yet?

-gae

The Pieces of Me

2011-10-17T06:43:00.000-07:00

Some days I feel frantic, others lucky, to try to push myself to do more, be more, than I originally thought I could be.

I am acutely aware of time ticking.

Of days passing me by.

Of seasons changing from summer to fall
to winter once again.

I want to grasp life -- to embrace it and make more of it -- but some days I just don't really know how.

I try not to say no out of fear.

I want to take in the small moments, make them indelible, hold them captive, tiny photographs in my brain,

while grabbing the huge moments with gusto, a big, shiny, sturdy brass ring.

I swim. http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fthewater-blog.blogspot.com%2F2011%2F10%2Ftempest-meets-ides-of-october.html&h=-AQDcvu4yAQB3zGV9avoRAGA4CZIcn91UiLRmSfQNBZT-Hw

I write. http://gaepolisner.com

Now, I even teach. http://www.lenaroy.com/2011/10/why-i-heart-gae-and-ya.html

I lawyer. I parent. I wife. I love.

Sometimes none of it feels like enough.

Sometimes, all of it feels like too much.

I am so many pieces. I am exhilarted. I am lacking. I am fulfilled. I am numb.

I let the waves embrace me.
I hold on for dear life.

I let go as much as I can.

I am acutely aware of time ticking
and the days passing me by.

- gae

Grasping

2011-10-03T04:33:00.000-07:00

Girls of October
( photo: Carol Moore)

I'm feeling it this morning: the cold, harsh reality that summer cannot --

will not --

hold on.

I see my breath in the air.
(Cannot, will not, hold on).

I know this. And yet I keep trying.

Why do I try, when I know there's no holding on?

I need acceptance. I just need to breathe and transition to the chlorine.
And, yet.
The open water has become more and more my Prozac. I don't want to transition. It feels like such a damned metaphor.

It's Monday. It's October. It's cold.

And, I can see my damned breath in the air.

And all I want is to swim.

I want the bright hues of summer. I want to run my toes in the sand, to feel the sun on my face, to stroke under blue skies, through the waves, through the bliss, through the promise.

But this morning, there's no promise. Only cold, gray skies. And no mistaking my vaporous breath in the air.

- gae

Late-Season Firsts, Kamikaze Flies, and Joye of Joys!

2011-09-25T07:09:00.000-07:00

Joye, headed to the water

In honor of Carol who was not here this a.m., I make this post on behalf of the Water-blog:

Karen, Bonnie, and some hunky guys

Under gray skies that began to part upon our

arrival, a small group of hardy Poddites (Gae, Karen, Bonnie, Ken, and Rob Ripp) were thrilled to arrive at the beach to find a long-absent
Joye Brown - missing since mid-July due to a severe ankle fracture that required multiple pins, rods and PT --
pulling into theWest Neck Beach parking lot .

After hugs and greetings, we set out in crystal clear water amidst fish jumping, some of us for a short swim to the South Buoy, others continuing on to the North.

Despite an abundance of what could only be described as Kamikaze flies that littered the surface of the water, the Pod enjoyed an otherwise-pristine swim to the South Buoy under breathtaking skies.

As Karen and Rob set off toward the North buoy, Ken started a graceful backstroke back toward the beach. Bonnie and I decided to follow suit for as long as we were able, and, despite thinking we'd only last for a few hundred yards or so, we, too, backstroked the entire way back to the lifeguard station. So, new firsts, even this late in the season.

All in all, another glorious swim, though the Carol(e)s, etc. were sorely missed!

- gae

I'm Swinging!

2011-09-23T06:11:00.000-07:00

Er.

I meant literally.*

You got excited for details, didn't you?

But let me tell you, this kind of swinging is the next best thing. If any of you could come put a swing like this up in my backyard, I would be your BFF forever. Yes, I know the forever is redundant.

If you want to read more about me and my swinging, you can switch to my YA blog entry here: http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2011/09/things-in-motion.html. Or you can just watch me swing and listen to me "scream like a girl," a bit more.

Kisses.

- gae

*with thanks to Carol Moore, our Fairy POD Mother for the swing and the video! If you want to know what a POD is, you can click here: http://thewater-blog.blogspot.com/2011/09/falling-out-of-summer.html OR here: https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/pages/West-Neck-Pod/128827940504281 .

Unfathomable

2011-09-07T05:36:00.000-07:00

The view toward south buoy just a mere few days ago...

My older son headed off to his junior year of high school this morning.

You heard me.

Unfathomable.

Seriously. Vastly. Unfathomable.

I know, I use that word a lot. But, I mean it. There are things in this world I just can't wrap my brain around. And one of them is how quickly my life with my children is passing.

I want to slow it down, but there are things you can't hold onto.

Well, really, there is nothing you can hold on to.

According to Mirriam-Webster, a fathom is a unit of measure used especially to determine the depth of water. Maybe that's what I'm doing there -- in the water -- all the time. I'm trying to grasp hold of a concept I won't ever be able to hold onto.

It was "just the other day" we came home with him. A little bundle of brilliance in a blue and pink striped cap. He was uncharted territory. He was trouble. He was bliss. He's been heartache. He's been a lesson in strength and patience, and bottomless, chest-busting love. But, honestly, it's all just a blur.

This is him. My bigger blur.

And now he's off to his junior year of high school. I already know it's going to fly. I'm already trying to slow it down by sheer will and the rhythm of my own fleeting breath.

There will be SAT's and driving permits. Maybe there will even be girls. Certainly, there will be more heartache and more love. And all of it will be unfathomable.

So, I'm off in my bathingsuit and towel, where else, but to swim.

Fall means less open water and more chlorine, less wide expanse and more treading.

But there I'll go anyway, in my endless effort to wade in and grasp

what I never can.

Sam.

- gae

Fucking Peter Gabriel

2011-08-05T06:45:00.000-07:00

er, that's not how it sounded, but I wish.
okay, no I don't. Jon Hamm, maybe. Or these days, Adam Levine. But anyway.

I blame Peter Gabriel for my angst this morning. Like a Pavlovian trigger, In Your Eyes, took less than two minutes to take a sunny day and turn it angsty. Or maybe I've been hovering there all week. It's the whole end of summer/time flying thing. There are days I can't take it. There are meds for that, I know. Maybe I could use some.

Trust me on this: It's hard to get older. To see the days flashing by. To watch your face and body change no matter what you try to do to hold it suspended in your youth. Life is hard. Then you die. Someone famous once said.

And, I'm not fishing for compliments. I know I look pretty good for 47. Still, it aint no 25. Thanks anyway, though.

I sound gloomy, I know. Apologies. It's that fucking Peter Gabriel song that gets me every time.

I've had two unrequited "loves" in my lifetime. It's amazing how those stick with you no matter how many years pass. In both cases, the boys (men, whatever they were) pursued me, then dropped me without warning, and without a willingness to remain friendly or ever basically speak to me again. When I think of either of those people, it still hurts -- or worse, brings me back to this intense place of longing. Is there anything more angsty than longing?

A few years ago I read (in the New York Times) about a study that demonstrated that, when we remember something painful, it triggers a chemical or a spot (forgive me on the technical details) in our brains that actually momentarily behaves as if we are reliving the pain at that moment. Ah, then there's a science behind it. This makes me feel less crazy.

At any rate, Peter Gabriel just brings me back there. And so he did this morning. Luckily, there's water in my back yard and a bathing suit right over there.

- gae

Obsessed!

2011-07-26T11:27:00.000-07:00

Me, underwater.

This is me. In the water. Like you know I like it.

Over the past three years, I've become a fairly obsessive swimmer. I've done some things I'm pretty proud of, like became an open water swimmer at age 45, swam a 5K (against current), and made a second 3.2 mile swim with a friend. Like plunged into waters not much more than 53 degrees, swam with jellyfish and bunkerfish and other such unmentionables that got stuck down my bathingsuit and stung up my back. I'm not the bravest girl in the world (check out my first few open water swim posts, here if you want to see how far I've come: http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/05/do-something-new.html, http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/conquer-and-fail-but-more-conquer-than.html, http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/to-fresh-water-or-salt-water.html, http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/lure-of-body-parts-and-kissing-baby.html), but I've pushed myself in ways I never thought I could. I was never much of an athlete, now I sort of am.

Me, center, coming out of the water
with the girls.

My goal this summer is still to swim 5 miles. It may be this summer, it may be next, depending on who I can get to go with me (and finding a boat-safe route).

I've been relatively proud of myself. I mean, after all, these are pretty cool things.

But, man oh man, how we push ourselves is all relative. A few weeks ago, a fellow POD member sent us an email about Diana Nyad. If you don't know who she is, you should. I've become pretty obsessed with her, if you must know. Especially if you're over the age of 40, you should spend a minute checking her out, because I'm telling you right now, she can change how you view middle age.

At 61, Diana is poised to swim 103 miles from Cuba to Florida through shark and poisonous jellyfish infested waters. Without a wetsuit, without a shark cage and without rest. At least, she's poised to try. That's 60+ hours in the ocean. Not the little harbor off the cozy Long Island Sound where I swim, people! That's a whole different roiling ball of water.

I swim for an hour or two,
then have a nice little shower.

By the end of the swim, her tongue will be swollen, her skin will be salted and stung raw, and she will be suffering pretty badly from hypothermia. And, of course, that doesn't factor the sharks. . .

To "warm up" for the swim (which is about to start any day -- she's waiting for water temperatures to settle at 86 degrees) she did a 24-hr ocean swim. She's set records before. All her life. She doesn't need to do this again. But she wants to keep pushing herself to try.

For her sake, I hope she makes it all the way; for my sake, it doesn't matter at all. Finish or not, she's already inspired me. With every stroke I take, with every mostly-innocuous jellyfish that slips through my fingers as I swim.

Cheering you on, Diana! Thank you.

- gae

I HEART INDIES!!!

2011-05-31T06:24:00.000-07:00

I went with the hot pink photo
in honor of Laura & Lisa's
Liar Society

Yeah, yeah, you were hoping I said undies (I do suppose I heart undies too...).

Speaking of indies with an I, the fabulous Lisa and Laura Roecker (authors of The Liar Society) have declared May 31st I <3 Indies Bookstore Day, and have asked those of us willing to give a quick blog shout out to our favorites.

I have a few. So, here goes:

First and foremost, there's the wonderful Book Revue, in Huntington, NY, a landmark of sorts in Huntington Village. The best of the best have been there, from Alice Hoffman to Elmore Leonard, from Bill Clinton, to -- ahem -- me. That's right, Book Revue was kind enough to host my Pull of Gravity launch party and you'd better believe I love them for it.

Signing books, assisted by the lovely Anne Davidson of
Book Revue

Of course, there are a few other Indies I love and would be remiss if I didn't give them a shout out today, too.

The Strand Bookstore. The Strand is a definite NYC landmark on 12th Street and Broadway.

In my twenties, I lived in NYC and was probably inside the Strand at least twice a week.

The Strand is books. Walking in, you feel as though you've entered the belly of a book. It just smells, breathes, lives books.

Me, in the Strand Bookstore on 5/10/11
in front of the shelf bearing TPoG

As it is still primarily known for its used books, I was actually shocked and honored when they ordered TEN copies of The Pull of Gravity in, and, indeed, I chose the Strand as the place to spend the quiet

Stack of signed copies now residing in
the Strand.

morning of my actual book launch day signing a few copies and marvelling that I had, somehow, made it in there. . .

Books of Wonder. BOW was one of two magical Indies that hosted The Class of 2K11 in and about NYC
last week.

Books of Wonder is really just that: a bookstore
of wonder.

If you take a trip inside you'll see why. It is a beautiful, beautiful bookstore. There, we read to a packed house (they even ran out of chairs!).

My dear friend, Amy Fellner Dominy
author of OyMG, in front of the fabulous
display welcoming us on 5/25

The place is enchanting and I hear they have cupcakes to die for in the connected Cupcake Cafe. BOW is often voted the Best Bookstore in NYC, and, trust me on this, there's a very good reason why.

The Voracious Reader.

And, last but not least, if you happen up to Larchmont, you must stop in and meet the lovely Francine (and Rose!) of The Voracious Reader there.

Her bookstore is a beautiful, cozy haven for children, teens and grown-ups alike! And, soon it will include the addition of a tea shop.

Class of 2K11 books on display at Voracious Reader

From l -r: Alissa Gross, Amy Holder, me, Geoff Herbach and Angie Smibert
after our readings at Voracious Reader.
Tell me Herbach wouldn't look just spiffy in an apron
serving tea. :)

(Without permission) I have already promised her the assistance of Geoff Herbach (Stupid Fast) in an apron, because what better way to be served tea?

And there you have it. A few of my favorite indies. I'd love you to share a few of yours!

- gae

Writing, Swimming and trying to regain FOCUS.

2011-05-23T06:15:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last two months pulled by [The Pull of] Gravity - blogging, marketing, and the past week and future week launching and "appearing."

It's been good and busy and exhilarating and exhausting, but I really (really, really) need to refocus.

I need to get back to regular swimming - my pool heater is broken and, given the less-than-springlike temps in NY, the water remains at 66 degrees. Doesn't matter, seems I like it this way now anyway.

And I need to get back to regular writing: am mid-revision on Frankie Sky, and will ultimately need to do an overhaul on my other two YA manuscripts: Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me and In Sight of Stars. But really, I am anxious to get back to my women's fiction too. Swim Back to Me needs a new title (*sigh* Ann Packer took mine) and a bit of a tweaking to add some hook to the beginning.

And of course, there are the kids in there - and the crazy end of the school year, and spring sports and planning for summer. And the start of the Open Water Swim season. And I am behind in it all.

So, I need focus. I need focus really bad. Gonna go in search of it where I always do: in the quiet, cool bliss of underwater.

- gae

Some Rambling and Random Thoughts on a Big Deal

2011-05-11T07:56:00.000-07:00

This is me standing in front of an already shelved copy
of THE PULL OF GRAVITY at the Strand Bookstore, NYC.

So, after nearly 12 years of trying, and nearly 18 mos. of post-success waiting, my book came out yesterday.

Cool? Yes.

Surreal? Yes.

A big deal? Sure.

Nothing in the scheme of things? Yeah, that too. (at least in the zen, drop in the ocean sort of sense. . . ).

So, how to celebrate something that's everything and nothing? I knew it was important for me to get away from the computer yesterday (and the sort of incessant "checking on things" a computer allows us to do). I wanted to try to do something to make the day stick -- to have it be something more than anticlimactic if I could.

Believe me, you, when you gear up for something for 12 years and 18 months respectively, it's hard to really make it climax. Er. But, ask any debut author and they will tell you the same thing.

Lucky for me, my extraordinary editor, the lovely Frances Foster, invited me to lunch at the Union Square Cafe. I already had an enviable plan. :)

Given that lunch was at 12:30 and I love to train in on the 8:55 am with my dear friend Selbern who is the editor who cleaned up my TPoG book trailer and made it emmy-worthy quality (yes, Selbern has 3 emmys in his house, so, um, yeah -- I'd show you a photo, but he'd get mad), I had some time to kill first in the city.

I made plans to meet two dear friends, Lori and Donna (and a dear tag-a-long -- thank you, Ellen!) at the Strand Bookstore on 12th Street first, in order to take a photo with the book there on the Strand shelves. This is what good friends do: they schlepp across, or into, the city to buy your book they've already bought, so they can buy a copy in front of you, and climb ladders to get a shot with you and the book. (see photo above).

Bear in mind, the Strand was a hallowed place for me -- I practically lived there in my twenties, when I still lived and worked in NYC, didn't have kids or a real career yet, and still had time to read 2 -3 books a week. I'm sure I bought most the used classics there when I went through my read-the-classics phase (I should go through a phase like that again!).

When I got there, only one copy of TPoG had been shelved; the rest were still boxed in receiving. Lucky for me, the Strand is full of awesomesaucey people, like the cute dude with long hair whose name sadly escapes me, and the manager, Laura, both of whom were so very kind to me, told me they'd get them out pronto, and that I should return after lunch to sign all ten copies, and that they'd then display the books on the "Bestseller" table in the YA section. I didn't see a Bestseller table, so maybe they meant the New Arrivals table which would be totally cool with me!

Lunch with Frances was delightful. Despite a large menu with a variety of delicious offerings, we both ordered the same thing without pre-planning, which made me wonder if the same thing that made us both desire the "spring greens ravioli" made her connect with the early manuscript of The Pull of Gravity.

After the main course, we shared some deliciously-decadent, chocolately-caramelly thing, in celebration of TPoG's release.

I sat in a teeny tiny chair at a teeny tiny table and signed copies. Surreal.

After lunch, Laura at the Strand had made good on her promise, and the copies of TPoG were waiting for me. I sat at a kiddy table in the children's section and signed copies, all the while trying to get it to settle in my brain that I had a book out; that I was signing copies where it would be sold to people from the Strand; that people would read it, and maybe a few people would truly love it, and they would remember it for years and years.

Instead, all I kept thinking was, there are a gazillion books in here. Gazillions of people have done this before. How can it be so hard?

On the train home, I was tired from weeks of marketing, and interviews, and (UGH) photographers, and a general sense of trying hard to get the name of my book out there. Upon return home, my facebook page was flooded with well-wishes, one of the things that has made this journey so extraordinary.

Throughout the evening, people kept asking, was it a good day? Was it a good day? Was it everything you hoped?

And, it was a good day. A lovely day. But, you know, somehow still anticlimactic. I think partly because there's just no way to internalize what it is.

But you know what? This morning, I woke up smiling. The photos from the Strand fill me with joy. I love my friends dearly. And, I will always remember that lunch with Frances.

from a Yoda quote in the book. . .

Oh, and, if you're in NYC, and you walk into the landmark Strand Bookstore on 12th Street and Broadway in NYC, you can pick up a copy of The Pull of Gravity.

Signed in indelible ink by me.

Anticlimactic? Maybe.

Big deal? Who knows.

But very, very cool.

xo gae

A Fine Line Between Promo and Puking. . .

2011-05-03T05:22:00.000-07:00

and I may, or may not be, straddling it well.

I'm not one to be completely selfless (don't get me wrong), but I'm not one to walk around tooting my own horn either. I'm more one of those people who thinks I shine more if I stand next to someone great and reflect off (and on!) their great qualities.

And, honestly, I get really sick of people who do nothing but toot their own horns. To me, there's little worse.

Take One

So, I'm having a hard time figuring out how to be proud and excited

of my little book accomplishment here,

and, moreso, to do this endless promotion thing that I'm supposed to do,

without making myself (or you) puke.

It's definitely that old conundrum:

Enough about me, let's talk about me.

Times infinity.

I mean, the truth is, it's been a long, long road to get here. And, I'm excited. And I've worked hard. But the bigger truth is, if I ever want another book deal again, I have to. I have to get the word out there.

It's a dog-eat-dog bookworld out there these days, with everyone scrambling to figure out how to stay in the game when the game has sprouted octopus legs jiggling and waggling everywhere.

So, I'm leaving you a barf bag, and I'm taking one myself.

Let me know if you need another.

Otherwise, I'm hoping you'll hang on for the flight.

- gae

The Mosquito, Pre- Book Release, Anything-but Coast

2011-04-20T07:25:00.000-07:00

Me, low tech as always,
on the morning of the NY Times Interview

<--------- This is me. My days are flying by. I am caught in the whirlwind of pre-debut book release chaos. I try not to be, but the fact is, I never feel as if I'm doing enough.

Let me introduce myself, yadda, yadda, yadda. Some of it has really paid off. I have had librarians as far as Hawaii say they viewed my trailer and will order in the book. I have had some major academic organizations say they are interested in TPoG for their purposes. I have connected with terrific teachers, principals, librarians, and, yes, even some reporters, across our country. Better yet, I've connected with some truly awesome teens.

Frances, on the right,
with author Barbara O'Connor

And, yes, I even somehow got myself a New York Times profile, allegedly to run in the May 1 Metro section of the NY Times. The reporter spoke to my editor yesterday (the fantabulous Frances Foster). Apparently, in addition to asking Frances what she loved about my book, the reporter talked about my "persistence." Knowing Frances, she likely smiled amusedly and answered, "yes, yes, I'm familiar with that as well."

I guess we'll see what she really said on May 1st. ;)

In the meantime, let's hope that my unique style of "persistence" is a good thing, and not akin to a mosquito on a hot summer's night, buzzing loudly in your ear. And, better yet, lets hope all these hours and connections (and persistence) amount to book sales. Because, lord knows, in all those hours, I could have written an entire other manuscript instead.

To those of you following my journey, posting interviews, reviews, and generally propping me up with your humor and good wishes, not to mention ordering the book, do not underestimate my appreciation. From the bottom of my slightly-exhausted heart.

- gae

Dream Five

2011-03-31T17:53:00.000-07:00

This is Lori Landau.
She is working on a book of
dream poems and illustrations.

This is my friend Lori Landau. She and I have been friends for a long (long) time. Among many things, Lori is a columnist at Technorati (Lifestyle: Social Goodness) and shows and sells her photography and jewlrey at the Open Center, NYC.

As teens Lori and I wrote endless poetry together, but she has continued to work on her craft and grow as a poet, while I have veered in other directions (she has also forked and veered, but has taken her poetry with her).

And, the truth is, few other's poems move me the way Lori's do.

So, when, I found a poem of hers -- Dream Five -- in my email box the other day like a small gift, I did what I always do: I coveted it.
Her poems make me want to eat them, drink them in. I have tried once or twice to suck them up through the computer screen but the glass intervenes.

So this morning, I did the next best thing. I sat down in front of my computer, turned my webcam on and read the words aloud, hoping by doing so, I could somehow send them into the universe in just the way I heard them in my head and have you understand.

I sent the vlog to Lori and asked if I might post my reading of Dream Five here and she said yes. First I will post the written version below.

-gae

Mixed media dream dog by Lori Landau.

Dream Five

The plane has already taken off but I am unseated. The rows are full of travelers, settling in, gazing out windows, opening books, leaning back, eyes closed, to listen to iPods. I pass by them on my way to the doorway that separates coach from a part of the plane I never knew existed but enter anyway. The thrust of the plane overcomes the drag and the plane is pushed up through the bright air. I am in some type cargo space, stripped clean of carpet and seating and storage. The floor is whitewashed, with blackened steel planks, held down by rivets and antique fasteners. It is the type of place that in another time might have housed sturdy parts: landing gears, propellers, spare luggage bins, but as of now, it is empty, save for two seats that are anchored to raw metal and facing me from across a divide. They are slatted chairs like you’d find at a movie theater or a ballgame, attached at the legs and bolted to the floor with antique studs. No safety belts, just old-fashioned straps made to wind around knees and waists like a harness, clumsily buckled, like arms that are poised to grab hold. The whole thing feels like a throwback to the 40s, like some kind of old military jet, it hums with the purgatory air of a waiting room. By the force of motion, I know we’re ascending. The plane shifts then stabilizes, and I eye the two empty seats, deciding whether or not they will hold me to gravity, when I see that my two long-dead dogs, Annie and Gypsy, who are very much alive, are here, just a few steps from the sealed exit door. To see a dog in your dream symbolizes intuition, loyalty, protection, two must be doubly so. I know this as well as I know that I am dreaming. I am overjoyed to see them, but I am aware that in waking life they are still dead. I realize that they are here to tell me something I’ve forgotten, some important information that has slumbered long within me. I look out the windows of the plane to see what direction we are going in, to assess the likelihood of turbulance, to see if the plane is trailing some message, skywriting symbols that will decipher why I am here, and where I am going, and I see through the cold glass what has been there all along, the altitude of blue sky and everything beyond, and I am flying through it, carried like Dorothy hurtling toward Oz ,holding on by my feet, rooted to the unseen, to that which has come before and all that is yet to come, soaring toward the unknown without a safety net, flying far over the articulation of earth, away from the bent elbows of women squatting long over muddy water, over corrugated fences and bitter branches weighed down by leaves and birdsong, over the long slow trains that run past crumbling walls etched with graffiti, lifting over the hinge of the horizon, on my way to waking.

Pineapples

2011-03-23T05:05:00.000-07:00

Judging by the date of my last entry here,
and despite the title of this blog,
I am apparently not actually staying afloat.

Bite me.

Okay, fine, don't.

Where water metaphors are concerned, though, I should not be sinking.

If there's one thing I do know how to do, it is swim.

See? This is me, swimming.

And, yet. . .

In fairness to me, these last 8-week-(gulp)-throes of trying to market my own book -- yes, unless we are JK Rowling or Stephanie Meyer, these days we mostly do it all on our own -- are starting to weigh me down. Everything from booking my own events (and those of Class of 2K11) and arranging the "food and entertainment" there, to my release party, to designing my own bookmarks and "swag" (with the help of my dear friend and fab graphic designer [you should use him if you need graphics designed...] Jeff Fielder), to writing endless blog posts, tweeting and fb'ing, to mailing out packages of swag . . . well, you get the gist. Add to it, my part-time real paid work and my kids whose spring sports and school lives are heating up, and really are the thrill of my life but demanding of my motherly attention. . . well, there's only so many hours in a day.

Which leaves me with this:

the last few times I've signed onto facebook (oh, love of my life, you facebook!) or Twitter (ringing silence), the only thing I want to type is the word pineapple.

Pineapple.

Pineapples. (Sure, the plural works nicely).

I mean, sometimes, a single word like that seems to sum things up nicely, right?

Pineapple.

see?

Gae Polisner is pineapple.

That tells you everything you need to know.

- gae

Enough about ME, let's talk about YOU.

2011-03-10T06:19:00.000-08:00

Really. I mean it.

I mean, come on.

THIS IS ME:

Posing me

THIS IS ME:

Swimming me

THIS IS ME:

Idiotic Monkey Hat me

THIS IS ME: http://childrenspublishing.blogspot.com/2011/03/wow-wednesday-gae-polisner-on-alchemy.html,

THIS IS ME: http://gaepolisner.com/html/ya.html,

THIS IS ME: http://www.classof2k11.com/?page_id=101,

And, good lord yes, THIS. IS. ME: https://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=208569519157839&oid=166649123380617&comments

Honestly, still two months to go, and I AM SO VERY SICK OF ME!!!

Seriously.

So, I can only imagine how all of you feel.

And already today, my inbox is full of requests for more me (the "YA Universe" is an interesting and fabulous place, but one UNTO ITSELF, with a nearly insatiable appetite for new information about YA authors that the rest of the world don't give two shits about). And yet, there's the need to be out there in it, to keep up, to get my name and my book out there. And, I'm grateful for it. Truly.

But I'm also so very sick of me.

So, do me a favor. Tell me something neat about you. Something I might not know but want to. Your favorite book, a great movie you saw, the best thing that's happened to you this year. What frustrated you yesterday. A link to something you really, really want me to read.

Enough about me, I want to hear about you. Honestly. But, in one neat place where I know where to find it, here.

I'm waiting. So go ahead.

- gae

Wistful

2011-02-17T12:02:00.000-08:00

Life is hard, but, then, tell you something you don't know.

And, yet, we still want it to go slower. We want to hold on to the good parts, savor them, make them stick in our minds. And, oh, how we cannot.

The first draft is just the beginning.
Today I made it through 40 pages that look like this. I had
hoped to make it through 100.

I spent the day in Barnes & Noble today, my mind a mishmash of manic thoughts. In a few months, my book will be there. Or, should be there, but may not be. I may need you to beg for it to be.

Still, on the B&N shelves or not, it will be out there in the world for sale. It took me a decade to get here - to being a published author. To having a book come out. And all I want to do is be grateful. But the publishing world has changed so much in the past five years, or maybe I just know too much now. What I understand now, is not only how bumpy the road to getting here is, but that getting here doesn't mean staying.

Still, ten years ago, I would have given almost anything to get here.

While I was sitting in B&N drinking my coffee and working on revisions for my hopefully-next book, a woman sat across from me with her small daughter. They read books, and chatted and shared cookies. Something I did weekly with my two boys, year after year, and it was one of my favorite things. And as I did those things with my sons, I tried to savor every moment, to not ever wish to be anywhere but right there with them as I was. Moreso, I tried to store images of them like snapshots in my brain, so I wouldn't forget a thing. But, still, it was elusive, and watching that woman with her young child, was suddenly almost too much to bear.

Even now, just typing this, eviscerates me.

I want those moments back. I want a hundred more years with my sons. I want to hold them, and play with them, and read to them, and have them look up at me with their big, brown intelligent eyes and promise me we have a lifetime still ahead of us together.

But we don't. They are 13 and 15, and they are almost gone.

So, here I am with my book coming out.
And I am grateful.
But ten years have flown by like a minute. Even though life is unbearably hard.

And I'd give almost anything to go back there.

-gae

Borrowed (Coveted) Poem

2011-01-30T20:51:00.000-08:00

This is Lori. She is a poem.

In my email box this Sunday morning was a note from my dear friend Lori with a poem attached.

Lori and I have known each other since our teens, and we wrote together way back when. Her note this morning simply said she was in a winter-freeze funk and was sharing some writing in the hopes I would somehow offer some warmth and inspiration. What I got instead, was inspiration of my own.

As I read her words I was blown away, as I so often am, by the way she is able to balance the fluid with the succinct, the flowery with the direct, the ethereal with the solid -- and create a magnificent sense of angst and flight, hope and longing, that always seems to shine through her poetry.

I asked her if I might share the poem on my blog and she agreed. The artwork below that goes with it is also hers. Yeah, don't get me started. . .

Btw, you may also find her blog here, at ConsciousCreativity.

Lori made this; I want it. What else is new?*

Dream 4/dream for

Prelude to a dream:

Lens retracted, aerial view of snow gridded squares, boundaries etched in ink, black & white topography seen from glass iris of the camera. Land cut like fruit reveals a starry eye:

Dream 4:
is crowded. Friends from long ago roam the rooms of my past, bearing gifts and conversation. Someone gives me a straw hat stiched with knowledge, it hovers at the lip of the driveway. There is some kind of gathering. People spill inside: an old therapist, a friend from Herondale, a woman who Dream tells me is my spirit sister. Clinking of glasses, movement, open doorways. Details from my childhood float overhead like filmy ghosts: blue shag rug, crystal candlesticks. The air is palpable. Somewhere upstairs, we have packed up my son’s room. Nothing is left but the books in the shelves, and I turn to ask him what he wants to do with them and am sucked into a mysterious errand. Steep hill to climb to get there, but Starbucks is a beacon up top, inviting, its glass walls fogged golden with light and warmth, and I seem to know the way. It is snowing. Slushy streets below. No car can take this climb, so I run up the tilted face of the mountain. Arrive in time to kiss my father and three friends, who are arranged around him in triangular formation. Triangle: sacred symbol of the all-seeing eye, of alchemy, angels and anarchy. There’s a buzz here too, another gathering, but Dream tells me I need to get back to my kids who wait for me to take them to school. As if I’d been there before, I sense the hill isn’t the way back down. Zig-zag through side streets that unfold like a pop-up book into a toy-like town. Stores fling open glass doors displaying candly-like distractions: aromatic packages of coffee, bright sheer scarves that float on shelves like gossamer. Mid-dream, the phone rings in the dark room, urgently, dream flickers, recedes.
Dream Redux: light scatters and blurs. I am lying on a wood floor, dreaming a question about my son. Bear appears immediately upon inquiry, nodding his shaggy head yes, yes he’s sure, yes I am welcome. Somewhere in Dream I know it’s winter and Bear should be hibernating, but I have summoned him and he has come. Spirit guide of my son, he is Andarta and Artio, fierce defender of art, blender of intuition with instinct. Symbol of truth. autonomy. We have raised my son fiercely. Encouraged him to find his own way, then flinched when he faltered. “You cannot know what is true unless you know what isn’t true.” Bear tells me this with a human voice just before I wake to see the snow flowering everything to white

-lori landau

*if you click on the photo you can see her work in all its gorgeous detail.

Parenting by Example, Not for the Faint-Hearted

2011-01-24T06:07:00.000-08:00

me, right side up, the way a mother belongs

To my friends and family who love me, I am known as a passer-outer. I'm not proud of it. It is, as they say, what it is. I faint when I get scared because I breath-hold or over-breathe and end up with what's known as a vasovagal response. (I know it's wikipedia, but trust me, it's close enough).

I know it's a mind over matter thing, and for a short while in my late teens, I was able to let my mind win out, but little since then, so I've mostly learned to deal with it. I bury my pride and ask to lie down when I have my eyes "touched" by anything that they shouldn't be touched by (IMHO this includes pretty much anything and everything except my own finger/contact lenses), or when I have blood drawn or any major medical work done. The fear isn't in my rational mind, but obviously it's there somewhere. I also get lightheaded if I think my family is in danger or there's a health scare.

I seriously couldn't even *look* at the photos
of real ears with needles sticking out. Oy.

Which leads me to yesterday and my son's appointment with an accupuncturist. And the part where I tried to demonstrate how simple and easy it was to get acupuncture by letting the guy stick needles in my ears first.

It wasn't just the needles, however, it was his lack of gentle delivery when he saw an "issue with your uterus" that I may have wanted to "get checked out."

Son watching. Mind racing to the "C" word, to the specialists I would have to see, to the teary videos I would leave for my children in an effort to say a proper farewell. And, of course, NEEDLES being poked in my EARS.*

Suffice it to say, it wasn't my best parenting moment, but we've learned that my son is very good in the face of an emergency which includes watching his mother turn an inhuman shade of green-white, as her eyes roll back in her head and her normal self disappears from conscious view.

Also suffice it to say, No, he did NOT choose to get acupuncture himself after that.

- gae

*and, yes, everything is fine, as far as I know, with my uterus. Turns out the dude was merely being awkward about asking if perhaps I was pregnant (no!) and/or had my period (bingo -- and kind of impressive that he could tell that from my ear).

The Three R's of 2011: Renew, Resolve, Relinquish

2010-12-30T09:20:00.000-08:00

Ok, those may not be The three R's but they are my three R's for the New Year.

First of all, 2011 will be the fucking hugest year of my life in a long time (Yes I can, I can describe it that way if I want to), as I am finally mere months away from an effort that was a decade in the making coming to fruition: the debut of my first novel, The Pull of Gravity, due on bookstore shelves near you on or about May 10, 2011, but likely to make appearances sooner, if I am learning anything about this book business (which I may not be).

Second of all, after several years of what felt to me like nearly-insurmountable upheaval, my life seems to be returning to a calm and peaceful "normal." In most ways, this is a pure, good thing and I am grateful. But in some ways it worries me as I don't want life to become staid or lazy. I don't want to find myself blindsided by a life lived in a rut, that is something less than I thought it would be. Thus, I want to count my blessings, but not settle. I want to remember to make life happen, and be brave enough to do so.

Which brings me to my New Year's Resolutions. I tend not only to make new ones, generally a mix of the physical and the emotional, but also to renew old ones that have made my life richer, or me a better person, even if it's only been in the struggling to keep them.

As such, here are a few of my Renewals, Resolutions and Relinquishments for the New Year, gulp, 2011:

RENEWALS:

take the stairs, up or down, for anything five flights or less (I made this resolution probably six or seven years ago and haven't broken it since except if there were no stairs to be found or if my arms were laden with heavy things);

Swim regardless - if there is one thing I have learned it is this: no matter how hard it is to drag myself to and in the water at times, I am NEVER sorry I swam. Never.

Be a good friend and confidante; do not share other's secrets nor say behind someone's back what you wouldn't say to their face - I am usually successful at these, and the few times I have failed, I have usually "reported" myself to the person on bended knee.

NEW RESOLUTIONS:

Attempt (and make) a five mile open water swim;

Burpees, every day. I don't know what it is about me and Burpees (they are my nemesis and I will beat them!) but I have decided they are the ANTI- ass-in-a-chair and I will do (X - number t/b/d) every day. If you don't understand why I think this, click on the word Burpees up there and do ten good ones and you will start to see;

Be Brave. Whatever this entails. I presume I may have to do some travelling alone this year, get up in front of audiences, push myself beyond my comfort zone. I'll just have to feel the fear, and do it anyway.

And, last but not least,

RELINQUISHMENTS:

and by relinquish, I mean this more in a "let go of the things you cannot control" sort of way, rather than any connotation of giving up. Maybe the better word is ACCEPTANCE but it messed with my whole R thing.

Age gracefully. No matter what I do, my face and body will age. Nope. Are aging. If you are not yet 46, you will be one day, and you, like me, will go, "holy fuck, how did I get here?" No matter how many crunches you do, your stomach will be softer; no matter how squats you do, your knees will sag at least slightly; no matter how many miles you swim, the skin around your shoulder muscles will be softer. There will be 40, and 50, and 60, and godwilling 70, and 80 and more. I will age. I am aging. I might as well try to accept it with grace. Or, if that is too hard for now, at least, focus on it less.

Strive to do better without disregarding past efforts. I think I'll let that one stand on its own.

Enjoy the Success and Let Go. And, as for my book, The Pull of Gravity, it will get out there. I may love the cover or hate it; it may get less marketing attention and dollars than I hoped for, or more. Some people will like it, some (yes, breathe) will not. And if I am lucky, a few will find it memorable.

It will be whatever it will be, and it won't be what it won't be. But it's gone to print now, so I might as well enjoy the ride.

Happy new year.

-gae

p.s. Got resolutions? I'd love to hear, and cheer you on.

Missing the Ritual and the Open Water

2010-12-19T10:07:00.000-08:00

The spring/summer/fall of 2010 will be remembered as one that brought my life a new source of inspiration: the challenge, beauty, and camaraderie of open water swimming.

It not only filled me with a renewed sense of energy and enthusiasm, but, for the first time in my life (since I was a gymnast at age 8 - 12 or so), at age 46, I actually felt physically powerful and capable.

As the winter slips in and I burrow more and more, I feel the glaring disparity between summer and winter even more than I have in the past. As someone who already suffers from a bit of seasonal affective disorder, this isn't the best thing. I already feel the winter sloth setting in. The lethargy. The 'everything aches and I don't want to go outside' blues.

Sure, I head to the pool on a tri-weekly (or more) basis, and the water fills me, but it just isn't the same.

I miss the open water.

I miss this:

and, this:

and, of course, this:

But, especially, I miss this:

Spring really can't return soon enough.

- gae

Of Bats and Beards

2010-12-13T05:25:00.000-08:00

My lovely husband.

I have been married for hmmmmn-teen years now, and at times it has been great, and at times, um, maybe not so great. Through it all we have maintained a sense of humor (mostly) toward ourselves and each other and admired one another for our strengths and good qualities (truly), even if the lesser bad qualities were not doing it for us at the moment.

We've always said that the thing that has held our marriage together are our shared values and sense of humor. And if you asked me what I admired most about my husband, I would tell you that it is his humor, intellect, loyalty, and quiet gentleness that move me.

Which is why it has me laughing for more than a week now, that when I conjure affection for him, I keep returning to the image of him leaving our house last week like The Terminator, a baseball bat gripped in each hand, on a day that he thought I needed some protection.

And, don't be fooled by his sweet face; he looked like he knew how to use them.

And it doesn't hurt that my usually clean-shaven man is now sporting a scruffy beard.

*swoons.*

Foolish of me? Perhaps. But, true, nonetheless. So, I confess.

Of course, I still admire him for his humor, intellect, gentleness and our shared values.

But, oh, the bats and the beard.

- gae

Reading is Exce(r)ptional

2010-12-01T05:36:00.000-08:00

photo credit: Rick Kopstein

Oy, what a stretch that title was.

(Consider that for you, Mike Wood).

So, fine, sue me. I'm overdue for a blog post here.

I've been lavishing the attention on my YA-friendly blog lately because, well, because that's the only type of book I've sold so far. *waves two womens' fiction manuscripts wildly through the air.*

At any rate.

As usual, I've been reading three books at once, all too slowly: one classic (The Great Gatsby -- would have finished it sooner but I (ahem) lost it for a week and only re-found it last night in one of those "Alzheimery" places which we will not discuss), one YA (The Miles Between -- because I write it, I need to read it too, not to mention I like it) and one contemporary fiction (Tinkers by Paul Harding, which happened to win the Pultizer this year.) I'm not very far into it, but already I see hints of why it might have won, and decided to share an excerpt that I wish I wrote with you. There is nothing after it, because I feel it deserves to stand on its own.

At the outset of Tinkers, we meet George Washington Crosby who is dying in a hospital bed in the middle of his living room, and is seemingly in the hallucinatory throes of his final days:

"Lack of exercise might have been the reason that, when he had his first radiation treatment for the cancer in his groin, his legs swelled up like two dead seals on a beach and then turned as hard as lumber. Before he was bedridden, he walked as if he were an amputee from a war that predated modern prosthetics; he tottered as if two hardwood legs hinged with iron pins were buckled to his waist. When his wife touched his legs at night in bed, through his pajamas, she thought of oak or maple and had to make herself think of something else in order not to imagine going down to his workshop in the basement and getting sandpaper and stain and sanding his legs and staining them with a brush, as if they belonged to a piece of furniture. Once, she snorted out loud, trying to stifle a laugh, when she thought, My husband, the table. She felt so bad afterward that she wept."

- gae

A Moment of Thanks

2010-11-11T10:58:00.000-08:00

It's Veteran's Day and I wanted to take a moment to thank all the veterans who have so bravely and selflessly fought -- or otherwise put themselves on the line -- to protect the freedoms we all so strongly believe in.

My father is one. A reluctant one, who was anti-war and never believed violence was the way, but went anyway, because he was called, and served valiantly, in a MASH unit in Viet Nam, 1966-67.

War changed him, even in some good ways. It made him a better and stronger doctor, and, likely, a tougher soul. Things that were also good qualities for a father. :)

During the year he was gone, my father wrote to my mother, my sister and me every single day. I have stacks and stacks of the letters - they are a fascinating, poignant, and honest chronicle of young love, death, fear, disillusionment, family, hope, medicine and the horrors of war. It is a huge regret that my sister and I have not yet managed to do what we hoped we would: put them together in a cohesive collection and have them published. I still hope we will.

This photo, above, is from the day my father arrived home from Viet Nam, to two children who were young enough when he left that a year away made him a stranger to them. He was never a stranger again. He came to my sister's class for show and tell right after that ("see, I have a father!") and to every recital, school play, gymnastic competition, moot court competition, family dinner, grandchild's baseball game, etc., etc. after that. He has been, truly, the best father a girl could have -- those of you blessed to have strong, hands-on fathers who teach, champion, support and protect you -- not to mention love and adore you -- throughout your lives know how precious this is.

So, on this veteran's day, a valentine to my father, and by extension, to all fathers out there, then and now, who leave their families to serve in war. May there never be another one. Ever.

gae

At the End of a Season, I Conquered.

2010-11-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

With water temps dropping precipitously into the 40's and air temps no better, the head of our swim pod (much to both my sorrow and relief) officially declared the 2010 open water swim season closed today. Even though I knew it to be true, the fact was a hard one to swallow. It's been an amazing season for me. In the end, I've not only done something I never thought I would or could do, but it has become an inexorable part of my being.

From barely making it a mile the first day, to swimming a 5k by mid-July, from worrying about bunkerfish and horseshoe crabs to completing a swim where I alit from the water covered in jellyfish stings, this season has been one triumph after another. Granted they were small, quiet triumphs, but there they were triumphs, nonetheless.

Nothing illustrates this more than a look back on a snippet from my blog post from June 1:

"Conquer and Fail, But More Conquer than Fail...

So, this weekend I squeezed on my wetsuit... neoprene booties and a beanie cap, and, yes, special gloves, got up at 6:00 am and trekked off to join up with a group of water-loving strangers to do my first-ever "open-water" swim despite talk of mating horseshoe crabs, and water temperatures that hovered easily below sixty.

I didn't chicken out which was huge; and I swam over a mile in much harder conditions than I am used to in my and the local "Y" pool.

The fact that I did it made me feel good. Although, I was admittedly frustrated with my performance as well. I did not, on Day One, make it as far as the rest of the group... I had trouble breathing -- getting the pace of my breath -- in the cold with all the tight straps around my neck. I had to keep stopping ... and, at one point, I ended up separated ... and my anxiety got the best of me. I turned back ...short of the goal. All the way back, I asked, "Is this a metaphor? Will I stop short in my life of where I want to go?"
---

So then, so far the answer to that question is, NO. I did not fall short. Not only that, but I went farther than I ever thought I could go.

Believe me, those are nice words to write. There have been plenty of times in my life I have fallen short, turned back, sorely disappointed myself. So just for a moment, I want to reflect on the triumph, bask in the conquer, and remind myself never to answer the question with anything other than a resounding NO. As I embark on this second half of my life -- and especially this big scary year ahead -- I plan for my answer to be "no." I know there may still be times that I fail, but I hope there will never be times I don't give it my all.

Now, enough sappy, here's a shot from the day I realized only after our swim I'd forgotten my pants. It's a good thing I wasn't ticketed on the way home. <3

-gae

p.s. if you're interested in reading more about our open water exploits or seeing some awesome photos, here's a great place: http://www.thewater-blog.blogspot.com/

inspiration and small signs

2010-10-25T05:49:00.000-07:00

I blogged about them here: http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/10/inspiration-and-signs.html.

-gae

Under Cover Blues

2010-10-18T05:12:00.000-07:00

I had planned to blog about my cover for The Pull of Gravity today, because after a first-cover misstep (ugh, don't ask, it was horrible), I got an email on Thursday containing the cover of my dreams.

The Cover Gods Had Interceded.

Giddiness ensued.

My kids and my mother went crazy. ;)

Ok, fine, my agent and I went crazy too.

I imagined coming here today to tell you how cool, hip, whimsical, smart, funny, graphic, and iconic it is and how I can't imagine a teen or grown-up alike walking by it without wanting to pick it up. I imagined how fun that post would be to write. Did I mention I was giddy?

But What the Cover Gods Give, the Cover Gods Taketh Away

(also known as: and then came yesterday...)

That's a long story made short, but suffice it to say, yesterday morning I got an email from my editor saying not to get too excited, that, while the creative dept. agrees and loves the second (new, shiny, fabulous) cover, sales & marketing is set on the first (don't get me started) cover.

Giddiness gone, misery ensued. Er. ensues.

After the email, I went through the well-known stages of grief:

Denial,
Anger,
Bargaining,
Biking,
Crying,
Whining,
Posting My Misery on Facebook,
Depression and
Acceptance.

Ok, I may have stopped short of Acceptance. We'll see how today goes.

In the meantime, I'm praying. You know, in my I-don't-really-believe-in-praying sort of way. I'm praying that people will come to their senses. The cover gods were there for me once. Maybe they'll be there for me again.

After all, it took me ten years+ to get to this point, they wouldn't desert me now. If they do, I'll be sure there is no (cover) god.

-gae

Hats for Sale

2010-10-12T05:06:00.000-07:00

It's been one of "those" (two) weeks. Where I'm juggling hats frantically (mother, lawyer/mediator, writer, wife, friend). When the only hat I really want to don is a swim cap.

I've had a few mediation sessions and two mediations come to the drafting point (which now only means reviewing the 40-page agreements my partner writes -- as opposed to when I used to write them and my old partner did the reviewing, a smart change I made to my practice when I got my book deal, but which still requires several combined hours of my time); son One (15) has been preparing for PSAT's and needing rides places; son Two (12) has been juggling school/homework with travel baseball AND a new travel basketball team (and games and practices for both!); it's been the school physical/orthodontist/eye doctor/dentist (please, let's not count cavities) time of year; a dear friend's daughter desperately needed help on her college essays; and my revisions on my option book are taking way longer than I want (the book, despite lots of slicing away at dead weight is now about 20 pages longer and I am only half way through). And, of course, there are dishes and, ahem, laundry to do.

In the middle of that, something that should have been awesome happened: the rough final of my book cover for The Pull of Gravity came in. Except, instead of the moment I'd been waiting for, you know, the one where golden light streams down from the sky and book angels sing, I was underwhelmed both with the cover art and the tagline, and I spent the next week arguing (sweetly) via email with my editor and assistant editor about my concerns and frantically redrafting "suggestions." The cover has gone back for some tweaks. We shall see if there is golden light from the heavens still to come...

At any rate, with all of these hats flying, is it any wonder that all I really want to do is this?:

I know, I know. For a lot of you the answer may be, "um, yes?" But for me, that place, those moments, are bliss. Heaven on Earth. And some days even, salvation. A place where all the other hats drown (too harsh? er, melt away) and there's only me, the water, and sky.

And, the other "Pod" swimmers who completely understand what this means. And agree, wholeheartedly.

And with the temperatures dropping (a few days last week were barely above 45 with water temps a brisk 55 - 58) the Open Water Season is rapidly coming to a close. Honestly, I don't know what I'll do without it.

Meanwhile, another week is here. With it comes the juggling of hats. Luckily, if I have anything to say, one of those hats will be an ugly, magnificent swim cap.

I Refuse to Blog this Week

2010-10-05T05:04:00.000-07:00

as I am overwhelmed by revisions. Let's just stare at the water instead:

A moment among moments...

2010-09-27T06:04:00.000-07:00

About a year ago October, after years (and years) of trying, as most of you know (ad nauseam) I got my first book deal - for my YA novel, The Pull of Gravity.

Since that moment, there have been several moments, that have been surreal, exciting, wonderful: the look on my boys' faces when I told them I had finally succeeded; the moment I called my husband (my sister, my parents) to tell the good news. The first time I sat in the small, sleepy office of my editor, the incredible Frances Foster (Holes (Sachar), Someday this Pain Will Be Useful to You (Cameron) The Wall (Sis)) in the flatiron building in NYC and listened to her gush on about the characters in my novel.

The moment I opened a check from Macmillan in the mail. :)

But the truth is, there is one moment above all others that truly stands out in my mind: December 4, 2009, when some of my best friends I've known "forever," came togther with some of my best friends I'd never, until that very moment, even met (and who had travelled across the space-time continuum to be here -- okay, at least from as far away as Virginia, Seattle, New Mexico and, you heard me: Scotland) to celebrate my small moment of success with me.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime night that I'll truly never forget, and I hope in some way to return the love and support shown me to each and everyone of them. Even those who could only be there in spirit (you know who you are).

In the meantime, here is a tiny glimpse into one captured moment of it. A toast by my dear friend John Aragon, writer -- and human being -- extraordinaire.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWeBJjB_B5o

Happy Monday. I hope each of you has the chance to share at least one evening like this one.

-gae

Where Stories Come From . . .

2010-09-20T06:55:00.000-07:00

This morning after my swim, as I floated and stared up at a sky so pure blue-gray that its solid, monotonous color was the only thing in my line of vision save for those little floater things (you know, the little paramecium that slip along the periphery of things, viscous, scientific and strange), a line came to me that I knew would likely be the last line of the novella I am working on, if, in fact, the novella ever comes to full fruition. And, trust me, it may, or may not.

That, and a conversation last evening with my dear friend Evelyn's husband, the gorgeous and gregarious (if slightly giddy ;)) Karlito, got me thinking again about where my stories come from -- my beginnings and middles and ends -- and how differently I seem to write than many of my friends who (enviably) write from well-formed ideas reduced to detailed outlines, their chapters and plot (oh dear god when will I EVER learn to plot?) mapped out before them in bulleted, organized glory.

I write with no such bulleted, organized glory.

For example, evolution of The Pull of Gravity: I read an article about this guy, see, and something about him intrigued me and I found myself wondering what his real life might be like. How what he had done (set out to walk across America to lose weight, in this case) would affect his marriage and, more importantly to me, his children, his family.

Here. This is a real photo of him walking:

He became the first central character driving the story, except that I knew that the story would be told from his son's perspective (I do not remember if the real guy has a son).

The second thing that happened was, as I was thinking vaguely about the story, my younger son spiked a fever, which brought the first line of the book to me, and the few lines that followed:

"A fever was what started everything. That, and the water tower, and the cherry cola. Well, also, Dad and his condition, and Mom being in Philadelphia and all."

Nothing else about the story had come to me yet. But I just started writing, and eventually a story unfolded.

Little known fact (nearly forgotten by me): the first working title of the book in my computer files was Fat Man Walking -- a far cry from Steinbeck, The Scoot, and the Pull of Gravity, now just The Pull of Gravity, eh?

Anyway, this is how I write, despite that all I had in this case was a character or two, some lines that appealed to me, and my own desire and intrigue. Lord knows how I got here from there.

For example, evolution of Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me:

The title came to me one morning as I woke up. Nothing but that title. There was a reason that Kerouac was on my brain, and I was ruminating on my next YA, but other than that, and the sudden realization that somehow butterflies were also to be involved, I had little else when I set the manuscript in motion. How the rest unfolded remains a mystery to me.

For example, evolution of Frankie Sky:

The first line, "The first time I see Frankie Schyler, he’s diving into the deep end of the Lawrenceville Country Club pool," came to me together with an image of a small boy, angelic looking, diving confidently into a swimming pool surrounded by onlookers, appearing to swim sort of miraculously, then drowning instead. I was in the pool, underwater, when the image came to me.

All of my stories are like this -- springing from bits and pieces, vague ideas, images that pull at me, call to me while I swim, or drive, or sleep. I suspect this is not the best way to write, and worse, I suspect it is why, while my writing is repeatedly praised, editors continue to struggle with my stories, my plotting, the way things unfold in my novels, over and over again.

Perhaps it is not the best way to write, but so far, it's the only way I know how.

How do your stories come to you?

How to REALLY be alone...

2010-09-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

hey.

my blog post this week is here, at my young adult friendly blog:

http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/09/how-to-really-be-alone.html

thanks for reading.
gae

a day in my writing life...

2010-09-01T18:49:00.000-07:00

I am the featured "day in the writing life" author here on the Elevensies website this week. Check it out, and check out some of the other great up-and-coming YA and MG authors who have shared their writing days while you're there. The posts are a lot of fun!

xo gae

http://community.livejournal.com/2011debuts/tag/a%20day%20in%20the%20writing%20life

Driving and Zipping and Rafting, Oh My!

2010-08-20T10:49:00.000-07:00

I was home, and then I was home again.

In between, over the course of 5 nights and 6 whirlwind days I was captive in a car for a total of 17 hours dipping our wheels in four different states; I minigolfed, badmintoned not-too-terribly (did I mention I have no hand-eye coordination so, yes, this was actually one of the more difficult of all the "feats" for me), ziplined and whitewater rafted, and in between all of that I eked out a massage and a few gloriously-quiet and relaxing swims.

Of course, it was only the latter that felt like the traditional definition of vacation, but I'm not complaining.

I am neither an athlete nor a daredevil, and I am the only girl in the house. One of the main reasons I plan these "non-stop, on-the-go" vacations is to give my two boys -- 12, and about to turn 15 -- a true chance to bond.

The truth is, they are very different boys with very different interests, and at home, with other options at their fingertips, they don't always spend the kind of quality time together I had hoped they would.

But shoved in a car with new things on the horizon, there is truly the need and opportunity to bond. To cuddle up together, And to find common ground.

Despite the dollars spent on ziplines and raft excursions and 40 ft. ropes courses, this vacation that opportunity was found in the simplest of places: in the car (okay, only on the ride there) and on the badminton court at our hotel.

There were silly, fun, exhausting matches of us against them (we lost, we lost, and, er, we lost), and, more importantly, there were Federer-Nadal quality matches between them that lasted more than two hours.

In the end, the older son bettered the younger son by a few mere points, which in our house is a very good and important thing.

But most of all there was good sportsmanship, a sheer joy at playing with one another, and, most importantly, talks about wanting to find a badminton league here where they can be a team and "destroy" everyone else TOGETHER.

For me, the vacation had high highs (I am now officially a zipline addict) and low lows (sometimes, in a family of three men, I am the only one to rally to do anything and everything, and yet, still, the far less appreciated and, -- harder -- the less "wanted" parent).

But the knowledge that my boys, for a few short days, bonded and admired each other, was well worth the money, the heartache and the trip. And, my own personal exhilaration was a bonus.

-gae

Inertia, and the Art of Water Cycle Maintenance.

2010-08-12T09:56:00.000-07:00

So, thank god I swim. Because other than swim, (ok, and a few paid mediations) I've done absolutely nothing productive in more than three weeks.

I'm in what is known as a rut.

At least as far as my writing is concerned.

As far as my writing is concerned I am annoyed, frustrated, heartbroken, befuddled and shut down. I'm sure I could add to that list.

First there have been the endless rejections on Swim Back to Me, several that have started with great hope -- a jazzed editor sending my agent a note about how she can't put it down, how the writing is gorgeous, how the mood is evocative. Then, the inevitable silence. Either that or a brief rejection at the executive board level. And then silence from my agent again.

Follow that with mixed feedback from my editor on my option WIP, Frankie Sky, a manuscript both I and my agent strongly believe in.

Now, I've got two pieces I'm working on: a women's fiction piece (I actually started a long time ago and was -- at the time -- excited about) called The Garden of Ruin and Story, and a rewrite of my YA manuscript, Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me (titles inevitably to change). But I find I open the screen on either one of them and just stare. Or maybe type a sentence or two and then switch to email or Facebook.

The bottom line is, I'm in a rut.

Utter inertia.

At least everywhere except the water.

*top photo credit Rick Kopstein, http://rickkopstein.com/

*bottom photo credit Carol Moore, http://thewater-blog.blogspot.com/

Jellyfish Jam

2010-08-06T08:56:00.000-07:00

Ogden Nash once wrote:

"The Jellyfish
Who wants my jellyfish?

I'm not sellyfish!"

Hmmm... no offense, Ogden, but I think I can do better than that.

Jellyfish, jellyfish
with your long stringy arms
your gelatinous body,
so short on charms
your thoughtless mind,
your sucking fingers
your sting that burns like heck,
then lingers
your bulbous looks
like peeled-back brain,
you act aloof
then inject your pain,
oh Jellyfish, jellyfish,
through my hands you flutter,
can't you please ditch me
for the peanutbutter?

Hmmm, okay, maybe not.

So, why do I once again have jellyfish on my brain? Because it is August and they are out in full force. This morning's open water swim was a veritable jellyfish extravaganza. Especially the harmless moon jellies, which I don't really mind coexisting with.

But, now, the lions mane are out too, and during this morning's swim, my friend Evelyn got stung by one. A MERE 20 feet from me. And she's the second victim this season.

She called out and we stopped as she clutched at her arm and suggested we not "swim over there."

Er. Okay then. But we all know that jellyfish are like cockroaches: once you see one, you can be sure there are hundreds you can't see.

Then again, after the initial pain and creep out, she was fine, and we all kept on swimming at her behest, so why is it that I spent the rest of my swim panicking and periodically jerking up out of the water to shriek like a girl?

What is it about jellyfish that elicit such fear in me?

Is it their long gelatinous bodies without faces? Or the slippery way they flutter as they catch in my fingers? What is it about them that has me slathering on $13/bottle Seasafe lotion that promises to deter them, and ordering a $79 Ecostinger long sleeved, full body swimsuit that promises to detract? Because, it's not their sting itself, since I have now been with two swimmers who have been stung and then been quickly fine enough to carry on.

Nope. It's just definitely the freak out factor. The fear of being accosted by some slimy, faceless alien from the deep.

So, I'm working on a new plan. To be like Spongebob, friend to all the jellyfish in the sea.

I've got step one underway: the Jellyfish Jam. So turn the music up and dance it with me. Come on, you know you want to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dh1mDnmO1k&feature=related

Trying to Truly Internalize the Subjectivity of Art

2010-08-04T07:05:00.000-07:00

(also known as bracing myself.)

But the truth is, well, that it's true. Art -- books, movies, paintings, theatre, dance, music, etc. -- is subjective. What you love, I may not. What I love, you may hate. Or simply not connect with. We may not see art the same way.

I often remind myself of this in relation to my own writing, trying to figure out how you weather and withstand a bad review when and if it comes out. Or worse, what about a scathing one? Forget about Booklist and School Library Journal. Have you ever read some of the customer reviews on Amazon?

At any rate, I got a real reminder this week of the true subjective nature of art.

Last week, for my mom's birthday, we went into the city to see two plays (both still in final throes of previews) and have dinner. The first piece, which I will not name here out of the goodness of my heart, was a horrible, over-acted, over-directed trifle of a thing that was meant to be funny but, to me (and the other five people I was with, all avid theatre goers who have seen a remarkable amount of theatre in their lives, from Broadway to so off-off-off Broadway they ran out of offs), was not funny, nor nearly as schocking as it meant to be, but instead was stale, silly, offensive, unbelievable, and without a redeeming bone in it's ugly theatrical body.

The good news for all was that evening's play, a wonderful piece called Trust with Zach Braff in the lead, redeemed things. Everything about it -- sets, costumes, dialogue, acting, were fresh and nearly pitch perfect, at least in the first act. If the second act didn't quite hold up, it still was a great piece of memorable theatre that we all thoroughly enjoyed.

Ah, but then art is subjective, remember?

Last night, I saw my mom. She said, "remember [insert name of play]?" At first I didn't because I had conveniently wiped all thoughts of it from my mind. But then she said, "it got universally good reviews."

According to the New York Times, the matinee we all unanimously hated was "lacerating" and a "sensational comedy," and most of the other major reviewers I could find agreed with the New York Times.

Does this mean I was wrong, or does this say something higher about art? About how what we think of art truly depends on what we, as an individual, bring to its viewing?

And what of Trust? Well, no reviews have come in yet, but if they come in negative, skewering, scathing, was I wrong? Have I seen less of a show?

Food for thought anyway, as I brace myself for my own round of critical judgment to come.

It's my Birthday, so what is there to be scared of?

2010-07-22T08:15:00.000-07:00

46, that's what.

Because that is seriously close to. . .

Hmmm. . .

Wait!

Never mind.

That actually looks kinda pretty.

Ok, I changed my mind. I'm not afraid of 46. After all, it's just another number.

So, here's what I'm really afraid of:

Jelly fish.

I mean, with their brainless suction and long freaky tentacles wrapping around my legs and arms as I swim? Seriously, this is Long Island.

New York.

We're supposed to have muggers here.

And scary bad hedge fund managers.

And traffic.

But we're not supposed to have things that look like they belong a safe distance off a tropical island somewhere on the coast of where I can't pronounce. So, sue me. But I'm afraid of them.

And, you know what else?

The Rejection of my next manuscript.

Yep, I'm pretty darned scared of that.

*checks email reluctantly to see if their is news...

(there is NOT).*

But that's not what I'm most afraid of.

I'm most afraid of my children being hurt or worse.

Because, seriously, that scares the bejeezus out of me. And it just happened here yesterday, around the corner from me. A beautiful, quiet, good, 17-yr old girl from our school district who lost control of her car.

So, all you kids out there, listen to your parents and be careful. And remember to take your time. And know when I'm blowing out those candles, I'm making a wish for all of you.

Because, 46? Nope, not scared at all.

And all those candles just mean that many more good wishes.

I've said one for you and your children now.

Now, somebody pass me more cake.

*dedicated to the memory of Nikki K.

"Sometimes it's Blood...

2010-07-18T09:13:00.000-07:00

and sometimes, it's sweet and sour chicken."

This saying became famous in my family years and years ago, but has often served me since.

This is how it came about.

My parents have great dane dogs that they love and adore like their own children (we shall not here, now, discuss my love-hate relationship with them - suffice it to say, great dane slobber, hair-shed, and poop are all proportionate with their size which may cause me to appreciate them more from a safe distance).

One day when we were all visiting with them, one of their puppies came into my mother's bedroom with its face covered in blood. Its entire mouth up to one of its eyes, and one of its paws, were bleeding profusely, Also, the dog looked to be in distress.

We immediately went into panic mode. My mom pulled the dog over while my sister and I ran to get my father, warm washcloths, etc., but when we returned my mother was laughing uncontrollably. Apparently, while we were gone, she had discovered that the blood was slightly sticky and too orange and smelled vaguely like their last evening's chinese food. The dog's discomfort was likely attributable merely to the spiciness of the food.

Now, trust me on this, out of context at least, sweet and sour chicken sauce looks a lot more like blood than you think it does.

We loved the whole incident. Not only did it take us fifteen minutes to stop laughing that kind of laughing that comes in waves until the tears roll out of your eyes, but we really felt we learned a life lesson. Therereafter, my mother, sister, and I often reminded each other that sometimes in life it is blood, but sometimes it's just sweet and sour chicken.

The point of this story? Well, remember those jellyfish stings from my 5k?

Ahem.

I wore my new wetsuit this morning out on a longish swim against the current. You know, the sleeveless one that is lowcut and can't possibly cut/chafe my neck in all the usual suspect places where the welty stings were? Well, when I returned to shore, my neck was "stung" and red and swollen in exactly the same places as last weekend.

So, while the threat of jellyfish -- and the dreaded Lions Mane -- does exist (and, indeed, apparently a fairly large one was spotted on the race course by a co-swimmer and race official last weekend), suffice it to say that, this time around, my neck was chafed by, not sealife, but my wetsuit and the memories of sweet and sour chicken.

Oops, I did it Once...

2010-07-12T06:49:00.000-07:00

and, after I did, for a few hours (ok, make that many hours), I never wanted to do it again.

Then, a funny thing happened on the way to waking up this morning: I kinda wanted to do it again.

Of course, for those of you not following along before, I am talking about swimming an open water 5k.

First, I wondered if I had simply dreamed it. But, then, the proof was still on my arm.

You have to understand that, other than a short stint as a gymnast from about age 9 - 12, I was never EVER an athlete. I was the opposite -- the kid picked last for gym teams (having no ability to hit or catch or smack a ball or run), the one who quit gymnastics because it was ultimately too hard on my body. The one who quit tapdancing and ballet because, well, because I am a pretty crappy dancer. And, yes, I was the one who skied off a cliff into a tree with my best friend and two boys watching at age 15.

For most of my adult life the extent of my athletism, therefore, was relegated to secretly doing Jane Fonda or Tae Bo tapes in the privacy of my own home. For a few years I did some hot yoga to keep fit.

But if there was one thing I wasn't, it was anything that resembled athletic. Or hardy. Or hard core.

And, then, two months ago, I braved an open water swim. I went from being able to do under a mile to a mile and a half and then two. In doing so, I braved not only cold water, horseshoe crabs and other slimy things that hit your fingers and your face as you swim, but currents that could seriously fool you when you're body was already tired. I began to think of myself as stronger and to believe that I could push myself in ways at 45 I never had before.

And yesterday, I showed up for a 5k.

And, I jumped in.

And I swam.

The first half was relatively easy. The sky was magificent and I swam with a friend. A few times we stopped to adjust our goggles, check our bearings and even laugh so hard that we both swallowed water. At about the half way mark, I stopped her and told her to pay attention to the fact that we were both in our 40's and had actually done it, and made it half way through, and to not miss enjoying the scenery as we swam.

At the three quarter mark, she cramped up and had to stop back at the kayak. I waited for her at the turnaround. By then, we must have been nearing two hours in. The swim back should have been not much more than 20 minutes. I felt good. I could do that easy.

But then the current set in. The guy at the turn around boat warned us. She fell behind again, and now, each time I stopped to try to wait for her, the current dragged me back to where I had just swum from. My body was getting tired and I was afraid that I wouldn't make it and the next time she stopped, the kayakers waved me on. For the first time in the race I was alone. I couldn't see her or our kayak anymore. The swells picked up and my muscles really started to hurt. The yellow house to my right stayed exactly in place at my left shoulder no matter how much harder I swam. Thick sharp (?) seaweed got in my face, kept strangling my arms and legs. I started to wonder if I'd actually make the finish.

But somehow, nearly an hour later I did.

When I got out of the water, I had a battle scar to prove it. Something mean had gotten to my neck. It didn't hurt while I was in the water (too many other things distracting me?), but on land it definitely did.

Exhausted but proud of myself, I went home and slept. And slept and slept and slept. Everything hurt. I was glad I did it, but vowed having done it, I'd never ever do it again.

And then I woke up this morning. And I felt good. And I saw the 14 on my arm. And, the first thought that popped into my head was, "...hmmm, when's the next 5k swim?"

So, I guess maybe we'll see.

What the %!$%! Was I Thinking?

2010-07-09T15:37:00.000-07:00

Right now, it's Friday at 6:30 pm.

Around 36 hours from now, I'll be waking up and getting ready to try to swim a 5k. Not for speed, mind you. Just for distance, to see if I can. *

Why?

Why not?

Ok, I don't know why.

Maybe just to prove that I can.

And that's where the fear comes in. Because, what if I can't?

And by can't, don't get me wrong. I'm not afraid of anything bad happening. I'm not afraid of drowning. But what if I embarrass myself - veer off course, fall way behind, never make it to the finish line? They only give you one hour from when the first person finishes to finish the course yourself. And then they pull you out.

And, trust me here, I don't want to be pulled out.

But it could happen. Last year, because of intense currents one of the strongest women in my group who is way faster than I am took 3 1/2 hours to finish. Would that mean four- plus hours in the water for me? Er.

On second thought, maybe I DO want to be pulled out.

At any rate, cross your fingers and wish me luck. Either way, I'll report in.

Unless my swimming partner (and the woman who talked me into joining her) doesn't show up to pick me up on Sunday morning. Then I'll be blissfully sleeping in.

(*I think that is me on the left in the red and white cap.)

Words Can't Capture . . .

2010-06-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

This morning, my older (and often tired, lethargic, naysaying) son somewhat surprisingly came through and joined me during my 6:15 a.m. open water swim.

We had just bought him a brand new kayak in the hopes he would, but still, with a 14-yr-old (especially of the lethargic naysaying variety) you never know. After all, school just ended and there's a whole summer ahead of him, and I came in to wake him at 5:15 a.m.

"Let's go," I said. "You said you were coming."

And he did something miraculous: He got out of bed.

As we loaded the kayak on the car and strapped it on, I still had my doubts. As we arrived at the beach and unloaded and dragged it down to the waterline, I still had my doubts. As he looked at the seaweed and lapping waves that carried the potential jellyfish and other sealife he's heard me talking about for the past several weeks as I, myself, conquered the world of open water swims, and said, "Okay, I'm not touching that," I still had my doubts.

But then, he stepped in, sat down, and started paddling.

He had told me he had done plenty of kayaking at his week-long sleepaway camp over the past two summers, but I had never seen him, so really had no idea.

My mother's nerves tugged at the back of my brain, as off he went beyond the ropes to wait for me and the rest of the swimmers to join him.

And, then, it happened. It became abundantly clear that he was adept with the kayak; that he was even in his element. He steered away from us and cut across the water's surface like a pro.

As I swam along behind him, periodically glancing up to catch a glimpse of him against the serene background of water meeting early-morning sky, in his flame red-orange kayak, a red life jacket and puff of brown hair moving farther and farther away from me, it filled me to see my boy this way: Capable. At peace. Self-assured.

It is an image I won't forget, though words will never capture the way it made me feel.

Dragging slowly toward publication (and, still, all the other excrutiating waiting...)

2010-06-28T07:24:00.000-07:00

YAY!

(er.)

I mean, don't let the title of this post fool you, it's not the "dragging" and the "slowly" and the "excrutiating," but rather the words "toward publication," that one must focus on, and not all those other silly, whiny words that snuck in there.

Because, yes I am waiting -- with ever more waning hope, to either get a deal, or %$!*& ing close out Swim Back to Me.

And yes, I am I waiting -- on ridiculous pins and needles, for my editor to read Frankie Sky and report back on whether they, FSG, my most-awesome publisher, will want to option it, or whether they will send me and it out into the cruel world of shopping it to other publishers (see excrutiating waiting above).

And yes, I am waiting -- for The Pull of Gravity to become an Advance Review Copy with a pretty cover and all that, which will then be sent out into the wide world of the reviewers and other important bookish-type people, and, then, thereafter will become a real book that you can order on Amazon or pick up in your local bookstore.

But, amidst all that waiting, I am also inching forward toward that last one -- the actuality of my first novel as a real book -- with an email in my inbox this weekend from the head of FSG marketing offering to set an in-person meeting with me (and hopefully my agent) for the week of July 8th, a luxury and a privilege rarely afforded to most debut authors (and, yes, I do know this . . .).

So why do I get this luxury and privilege?

I'm not exactly sure why. One reason is that my editor (a legend in the business, who has worked with the likes of Louis Sachar (HOLES) and Roald Dahl (CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY, etc. etc) is old school and willing to sit down with her authors in person (although this was also something I specifically requested), and this has allowed us to form a real and caring relationship.

Another reason may be that I've done a reasonable amount of legwork on my own already, setting up both a West and East Coast launch of my book at some pretty cool and prestigious places, securing some cool corporate sponsorship (sort of...) and generally working hard to make connections and let them know I am serious about getting my name and this book out there.

The third reason may be that I am one giant pain in the ass. But at least I am a genuinely grateful one.

And the fourth and best reason could be that they, themselves, have high hopes for this book.

Whatever the reason(s), a week or so from now, I'll be headed to FSG to learn more of the details about how they plan to promote The Pull of Gravity. Maybe I'll hear numbers. Maybe I'll actually get a release date.

Whatever happens, I'm excited because it means I am inching ever so slowly, but surely, toward publication.

Whining and Complaining

2010-06-22T07:24:00.000-07:00

Wait, what?!? Why are you still reading? Well, don't say I didn't warn you.
It was right there in the title.
Quick, turn back!
Shut down this screen.

Phew.

NOW.

I. WANT. MY. FUCKING. BOOK. PUBLISHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :(

There. I feel slightly better.

Okay, lie. No, I don't. Not yet. Not really.

I mean, come on!? First The Jetty and now Swim Back to Me?

Both good enough to get me agented by major New York literary agencies, but neither good enough to sell?!?

Come on! >:(

Okay, okay. I am trying for acceptance, but I just can't get myself to believe it and let go of that last glimmer of hope.

And let me tell you just how cruel that last glimmer can be.

For days, I've doing that damned email and caller ID checking thing that I hate so much...

But, it seems I'm going to have to find my way toward that acceptance eventually. Or, rather, sooner than later.

Because, for all the great editorial feedback Swim Back to Me has gotten from at least five major houses ("I'm half way through and couldn't put it down, is the ms still available?" from one... "my assistant and I both loved it... found the characters believeable, found ourselves wanting to know what happened, blah, blah, blah" from another) they all seem to have followed with "buts..."

BIG. FAT. BUTS!

In an email yesterday, I told my agent to go ahead and just send the close out notice.

In an email today, she tells me,"deep breath." But what does she know of the thousands of hours and emotional energy I have put into that manuscript? Okay, well, seriously, she sort of knows. I think she's as surprised as I am that it hasn't sold. I know she believes in it and me. And, certainly, she's put her time in it too. Pushing me on revisions, rereading after each version, lunching with editors to assess their initial interest (this isn't as fun as it sounds), preparing the cover sheets and packages for submission. Follow up phone calls...

Still, I'm pissed. And, more than that, heartbroken. I'm trying to just suck it up and move on, but apparently, I'm not as good as sucking it up once again as I should be. I may need to whine and complain some more first.

Are you STILL reading? Well thanks, then. And, please, you can kick my ass, but no platitudes. I fucking hate platitudes.

Hey, don't say I didn't warn you.

The "Lure" of Body Parts and Kissing the Baby Goodbye

2010-06-14T11:57:00.000-07:00

I've been in a sparkly, brightly-colored nail-polish phase (perhaps one I should title my Regression Period?), which, given my new penchant for open-water swimming, I suddenly realize could have some hazardous results.

Because while most of me is covered while I swim (wetsuit, bathing cap, neoprene booties), my short, shell-shaped nails flash beneath me in the murky water like a perfect set of ten sparkly lures.

I have visions of lifting my hands on each stroke with a series of sand eels and other creatures latched to the tips of my fingers.

In other news, I turned my new baby, my young adult manuscript which bears the working title Frankie Sky, into my agent today, which will receive a cover letter from her and travel on to my editor by tomorrow. Pursuant to my contract with FSG, they have the first option on the book. The few readers who have read the early version of it have given it a pretty hearty thumbs up. I look forward to seeing its journey. At least if it's a successful one. :)

Here's a brief excerpt from Chapter 4 of Frankie Sky.

* * *

I blink my eyes and look over at Simon’s cement frog again. The forget-me-nots are in full bloom. In a few weeks they’ll get this weird rot and turn black and we’ll quickly cut them back to the ground. But it’s okay, because already the bleeding hearts will be open, draping their white and pink teardrops over him. Those will last most of the summer. In fall, Mom will cut those back and encircle the frog in mums, and in winter everything will be dead, so instead, she’ll place a series of brightly-colored glass gazing balls around him. Because, in addition to all things drowning, Mom is excellent with her grief- appropriate gardening.

* * *

Now, off to paint my nails another shiny color. Maybe irridescent purple? :)

To Fresh Water or Salt Water . . .?

2010-06-08T06:08:00.000-07:00

. . . that is the new question.

Why, you ask? (yes, you did, come on...).

Well, as some of you know, I have embarked on a new activity, doing "open water" swims with a great group of water-loving crazies from my area. It has been an exhilarating, if at times frustrating, challenge.

Though personally satisfying to me to see I can bring myself (not exactly your hardy-Survivor-type soul) to brave the elements -- cold (COLD!) water, mating horseshoe crabs one must trip over to get to the deep water, and the recent appearance of jellyfish, not to mention all the "things" I cannot see beneath the brackish water (though my fisherman-friend tells me there are any number of biting, 10-pound+ things that are likely swimming along with me just waiting for me to unwittingly happen into what he lovingly (?) refers to as a feeding frenzy) and, yes, those pesky swans -- I have, to date, been the slowest, most-pantingly-breathless member of the group. Still, I've done it. And most people wouldn't, even if those that do are way more kick-ass than I am.

So, here's the problem.

As most of you also know, much of my writing ideas -- plot, character development, those gems of ideas that come to me through what those of us who write often call our mystical, magical, and deeply-desired Muse -- often come to me under water.

And my Muse is pool-water powered. She simply has not acclimated to the harbor.

It's not my Muse's fault.

Because, try as I might, while I'm open-water swimming, there's so much panting and breathing and pushing and kicking and timing and lurking-creature avoiding going on, not to mention the constant spotting of the other swimmers so I don't unwittingly drift off toward Connecticut nor lose sight of the nearly-elusive (but-fuck-you-I-made-it!) yellow buoy, there's no way my poor Muse can come. She's sitting on a blanket in the corner of the beach with a Mai Tai and a story idea just waiting for me to come the fuck in.

Meanwhile, my agent gave me "notes" on my new manuscript and I need to rise to the occasion. And since my option period is running, I pretty much need to do that now. Not to mention the open-water group is doing "causeway" swims this week, which are at least a quarter mile further than the damned nearly-elusive yellow buoy.

So for today, at least, I'm headed toward the chlorine at the Y in search of my pool-loving muse. Let's hope she's waiting for me there.

Conquer and Fail, But More Conquer than Fail...

2010-06-01T09:08:00.000-07:00

So, this weekend I squeezed on my wetsuit (until now, I have only ever worn this in my own backyard pool - don't ask...), neoprene booties and a beanie cap, and, yes, special gloves, got up at 6:00 am and trekked off to join up with a group of water-loving strangers to do my first-ever "open-water" swim despite talk of mating horseshoe crabs, and water temperatures that hovered easily below sixty.

I didn't chicken out which was huge; and I swam over a mile in much harder conditions than I am used to in my, and the local "Y," pool.

The fact that I did it made me feel good. Although, I was admittedly frustrated with my performance as well. I did not, on Day One, make it as far as the rest of the group, all the way out to the buoy. I had trouble breathing -- getting the pace of my breath -- in the cold with all the tight straps around my neck. I had to keep stopping to catch my breath and, at one point, I ended up separated from the group and my anxiety got the best of me. I turned back probably an eighth of a mile short of that buoy. All the way back, I asked, "Is this a metaphor? Will I stop short in my life of where I want to go?"

I came back half proud, and half defeated.

Day Two I showed up, knowing this is half the battle. My hope was slightly restored. Out I went with the group; quickly I fell behind. Still, this time, I made it all the way out to the buoy, still struggling with both my speed and my breath. Still disappointed, but happier.

On the way back, a large swan started following me, a little too closely for comfort. I know, I know: Cool! pretty!, you're thinking. But those things are viscious, I tell you.

At first I thought maybe the swan was a good omen, but the faster I tried to swim, the faster he/she followed, leaving me only more exhausted and breathless. I decided I could do without the symbolism, and was relieved when he/she finally turned away. I'll swim on my own, thank you.

Do Something New

2010-05-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

I'VE BEEN A LOT OF THINGS, and done a lot of things, in my life, if not nearly as much as I wished to (in somewhat chronological order): gymnast, actress, special events coordinator, tv production assistant, flower seller, paralegal, lawyer, wife, mother, mediator, writer.

I've piloted a hot air balloon as part of a the crew, I've flown over the Bermuda triangle to Bimini for lunch with my uncle in a two-seater plane. I've been up the side of Mt. Blanc in a gondola. And, I've skied off the side of a black diamond ski slope. Er.

I'M STILL WAITING FOR MY WETSUIT TO TURN ME INTO A SUPERHERO. Having said that, I've never been a huge risk taker (never bungee jumped or sky dived or did half the things I thought I would), and the older I get -- and especially once I became a mother with two amazing boys that depend on me -- the less of a daredevil/adventurer I've become. If truth be told, my life has become pretty staid.

NEW THINGS. So, it's been interesting and exhilarating, if sometimes scary, after years and years of trying, to have a brand new career as a "real" published author ahead of me. It means all sorts of ways of putting myself out there (if not of the sky jumping variety). It means public appearances and readings, including ones across country alone. I have not travelled alone since I was a young adult. It means getting reviewed and putting myself out there for the ultimate success or the fall. Or the "dreaded" somewhere in between.

At the same time, I still want new ways, if slightly safer, to put myself out there. I've joined an open-water swim group, that starts out in the Long Island Sound this weekend. I've got my wetsuit, and my beanie cap and my booties and my gloves. But the email I just got from the group leader says, water temps are still in the mid-fifties. This means numb face, which may just be too tough for me to bear. Do I wait a few weeks till the water chugs up to 60 degrees? Or do I bite the buoy and put myself out there?

WHAT DO YOU DO to keep your world from getting old?

Floating or sinking?

2010-05-18T06:28:00.000-07:00

So, I'm trying to keep up: writing, revising, kids, house, gardens, and lawyering/mediating, plus, and this is the big time-suck: beginning to strategize on how to market my debut novel, The Pull of Gravity.

This means everything from taking author photos (endless kudos to Rick Kopstein) and trying to choose one (thanks to all who chimed in!), to brainstorming with a group of debut authors I belong to, to trying to assist my editor with catalogue keynotes and copy (still in the works), to writing my own marketing plan (which I hope to present as a complimentary boost to FSG's own marketing plan (*crosses fingers*) which I will learn more about in June or July).

It also means sending out emails to all sorts of people I hope to read, review or somehow otherwise enlist to help make TPOG a bestseller. Okay, would you believe a good-seller?

So, am I sinking or floating?

One of the things that's hardest to keep up with are blog posts - and interesting ones at that. I try to blog once or twice a week only, but I have two blogs -- a YA blog and a regular grown-up blog here where I'd like to, at times, misbehave. Because it's my favorite thing.

So, for my 30+ loyal(ish) followers here, until I get back to the misbehaving (yes, I'm missing it just as much as you are...), please note that if I'm not here on Staying Afloat, you can find me on That Wee Bit Heap, usually talking about YA writing, and the things that drive a story like themes and voice, but sometimes giving you a sneak peak of a work-in-progress, or just talking about silly things, like feeding soap to my mother.

In the meantime, if you've been misbehaving while I'm gone, you know I want to hear about it. So, please (come on! pretty please, cherry on top...) fill me in.

Why is this a theme for me?

2010-05-12T06:55:00.000-07:00

So, a few weeks ago, I blogged about the repeat imagery that crops up in my writing (tuna fish and mayonnaise, paper umbrellas, and, of course, water, to name a few).

Yesterday, while I was swimming, I was noticing the themes that repeat themselves in my writing. Themes I seem not to tire of exploring, that creep in, even when I'm not expecting them to -- in both my women's and my young adult novels:

Friendship, and particularly, the betrayal of friends, especially female friends;

Surface beauty vs. inner beauty, and whether you must give up the effort to maintain one to achieve the other;

Marriage and infidelity, and how the latter affects the family unit.

Of course, these themes are universal, so not hugely surprising for me to write about, but still interesting how they always pop up. The first personally affected me -- in h.s. my closest girlfriend betrayed me in a swift, cruel act (that was borne of a moment of weakness on her part rather than sincere, and I long ago forgave, but which certainly shaped me and my trust toward women at that time); the second played itself out over and over in my family growing up; and the third not only is a common issue for anyone in a long-term marriage (mine is going on 17 years...), but is a focus of my "paid job" as a divorce mediator, and before that, a divorce attorney, so permeates my waking life.

What are the themes that drive your novels? Do they crop up time and time again?

Feeling Like the REAL DEAL

2010-05-05T06:36:00.001-07:00

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

IT TOOK ME NEARLY TEN YEARS from the day I decided to really write a novel to the day I got a book deal, the book deal not being for the novel I initially wrote, OR the one after that, but for my Young Adult novel, The Pull of Gravity, I started (and finished) in between.

Maybe the length (and intensity) of the journey, and the fact that I still have eleven months before the book comes out, both make the fact of my book deal still feel unreal.

Which is why it is nice, along the way, to have those moments where I say, "okay, yes, this is really happening... finally."

Of course, the first was sitting in my editor, Frances Foster's, small office in the flatiron building surrounded by "her" books, notably the fantastic Holes (!) by Louis Sachar and so many gorgeous and amazing picture books by Peter Sis.

Another, of course, was receiving a check in the mail from MacMillan (the umbrella publisher that my imprint, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, is under.

Another recent one was receiving some questions from copyediting about some of the smaller details in my book.

And, today, a new milestone, my author website is up, coordinated with the new look of my blog, all done by the really wonderful and amazing Kitty Meade of Ink2Art http://ink2art.com/.

So, one step at a time, I'm becoming the real deal. Whatever the real deal is.

2010-04-28T08:10:00.000-07:00

Aspiration and Admiration

(This is a duplicate post to the one on my YA blog today. Forgive me, but sometimes they're good for both).

Today, my friend Shawn posted an interview with my (I wanna say friend) K.L. Going (click there, or SEE LINK BELOW). She's not "really" my friend, but we've spoken on the phone a few times, and she's critiqued some of my early manuscripts, and I even helped her out once, with something small she needed.

Why am I proud of this fact? Why do I wish I could call K.L.Going a friend?

Because I admire her. She's brilliant. She's everything as a YA writer I hope to be.

I didn't know this when I first pulled, The Liberation of Gabriel King off the B&N shelf years ago, but I knew it the minute I read it to my kids. And I knew it when I bought St. Iggy after it, and as each of her new, award-winning novels come out. K.L.'s characters come alive, her stories are both poignant and funny, her writing is both beautiful and evocative and accessible.

As a YA writer, I aspire to be one iota as good as K.L.Going. If you haven't read her, you should.

Who makes you aspire and admire? Who is your K.L.Going?

Just Add Water

2010-04-21T04:59:00.000-07:00

Today, my pool opens for the spring. It's early in NY, but the pool guy tells me I'm not the first one. It will take another few days for a salt-ozoneator specialist to come and fix and piece of equipment that broke last season, and a few days after that for the water to heat up to "warm enough" to possibly swim. I do own a wetsuit, so technically, at 65 degrees, I'm set to go in. Suffice it to say, by this time next week, I should be afloat in my own backyard.

Those who know me, know I swim all year. There's just something about the water for me. On bad days, you could say it saves me. And, on good days, it energizes me and helps my creativity to flow. The many times I've been stuck on story or plot, the "unstuck" came to me underwater. I count on it, knowing that, as long as I get in the water, everything will be okay.

Where do you count on? Where does your creativity flow?

Repeat Imagery

2010-04-14T05:41:00.000-07:00

As I work on my 4th or 5th manuscript (maybe 6th or 7th, depending), it always amuses me to see the "repeats" of imagery that find their way into my stories. You know, those certain fascinating objects or images that suddenly pop up in our scenes without us knowing how, exactly, they found their way in.

I have a few favorites, and I must say, to this day, I am never tired of them when they appear: pools and water, of course, being the obvious to those who know me, but less obviously, tunafish and mayonnaise, kitchen tables (interesting side note, I do not own, nor have I ever owned a kitchen table, nor lived in a house where there was a traditional kitchen table), and today's blog-triggering image, those little brightly-colored paper umbrellas you used to get in your drinks at chinese restaurants.

God, I love those. Welcome little paper umbrella. :)

So, i'm curious: what objects/imagery finds itself repeatedly into your character's lives and stories?

the laziness continues...

2010-04-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

ok, not really. I've written, i've worked on some marketing stuff, i finished a book, i might have done some laundry. But I need my pool back (ok, not my pool, but the pool i swim in). The water is what energizes me and keeps my creative juices flowing. The water keeps me balanced.

tomorrow the pool reopens. I'll talk to you then.

Lazy Blog

2010-03-24T15:04:00.000-07:00

I'm too tired and lazy to blog so I thought I'd let you blog for me.

Whatcha up to?

On acknowledgements

2010-03-22T10:34:00.000-07:00

Boy, I wonder if Hillary Clinton knew what a buzz phrase she'd create when she first commented, "It takes a village?"

Of course, the original saying comes from the title of her book, which itself came from an African proverb.
But, IMHO, the statement also fits the act of writing a good book. Or, at least, a good book that sells.

As I find myself getting closer to the time I'll have to write acknowledgements for The Pull of Gravity, I find myself faced with an ever-growing list of the people who have helped me over the years. From early readers of OTHER manuscripts who encouraged me to keep writing, to early readers of this manuscript who helped me hone this particular story; from family members who believed in me, to my husband who went out every day to earn our main living so that I could sit home and write a majority of the time; from my kids who inspire me every day, to other people's kids who helped me with bits of information to make the voice more authentic or the title sing; from my first agent who may have ultimately failed me in some regards, and did not sell the book for me, but in other regards succeeded in ways that can never be forgotten, like believing in me enough to want to take me on and try to sell my writing (putting in endless hours without up-front pay trying her best to help me to make my stories more marketable); to my current agent, who takes late night phone calls, weekend emails, and who, in a short time, has taught me so much about how to write a better, more satisfying book. And, to my editor, who will be an integral part of making my book whatever good it is.

So, back to those pesky acknowledgements. Do you list everyone and pray you don't leave somebody out, or do you make a blanket statement and hope that those who you appreciate know it; and that you know it takes a village?

some days you wreak havoc...

2010-03-07T11:20:00.000-08:00

... you know, just plow forward without thinking too much and worry about consequences later. Sometimes, it's the thinking too much that can sink you. Let's hope.

Because, relying on this theory, I have just spent the last several hours sending out one ballsy letter after another regarding my soon-to-be-released (ok, not-so-soon-to-be-released) young adult novel, The Pull of Gravity. These letters have included emails to literary/reading contests asking how I go about getting my (yet-to-be-released) book to be one of the selected titles, emails to a few major companies whose products just happen to make an appearance in my story if they might be interested in doing a little cross promotion (hahahahhahah! er) and an email to a pretty famous Middle Grade author my boys love asking if he'll read an advance copy of my manuscript and consider blurbing it for me if he loves it.

Talk about balls. Er.

But if you don't ask, you'll never know.

Right?

(RIGHT???)

(and I do believe in my book).

what readers want...

2010-03-01T06:11:00.000-08:00

http://www.salon.com/books/laura_miller/2010/02/23/readers_advice_to_writers/index.html

so, according to Laura Miller in this article (and, yes, I am oversimplifying) readers want these five things from a book:

1. make your main character want something (check, phew);
2. make your main character do something (ok, presumably about what they want, eh?);
3. story, above all else (er, really, even above character and writing?? ok, yeah, yeah, I know...);
4 write well, but don't overwrite for "being writerly"'s sake (i so agree - a constant balance for me, especially in my women's fiction... i know this when I see it, and as much as I love beautiful writing, I wholeheartedly agree...) and,
5. be funny when you can (and snarky when you can't. ok, that was my addition).

what do you think?

Pushing Buttons

2010-02-23T05:43:00.000-08:00

With my first novel (YA, The Pull of Gravity, FSG) coming out next spring, I've decided to be brave and push buttons.

On my computer screen, I mean.

The thing is, in order to sell my book, I've got to not only get myself out there, but get other people's stuff out there. You know, a one hand washes the other type of thing. Plus, it's fun (and hard). The deal is, you're trying to create a presence. For a girl (ahem) of 45, a lot of this stuff is still futuristic and a little bit scary feeling. How do I do this? Will it work? Am I sending this out to one person, fifty people, the universe? Three years ago, I didn't even know how to upload a photo or post on a forum, or that w00t should be written with zeros. IDK if any of these things are even valid anymore.

But you know what? Sometimes, you just gotta be brave, cross your fingers, push buttons and hope for the best.

*Hits "share" and closes eyes and waits to see if computer explodes.*

I have blogged. Now what?

2010-02-09T17:36:00.000-08:00

Speaking of the pull of gravity, writers everywhere have been pulled into the bottomless chasm that is blogging. As evidenced by my lame attempt here.

My writer friend Randy Russell (his YA debut, tentatively titled Dead School, Harper/Collins, summer 2011) is doing a better job, and I just guest blogged for him here.

http://ghostfolk.blogspot.com/2010/02/writing-boys-teen-voice-gae-polisner.html

So, there, I blogged. Now what?

this morning ...

2010-02-02T05:35:00.000-08:00

as i was making the kids' lunches, i was torn between feeling disgusted at having to touch the salami before 8:00 am, and wanting to make myself a sandwich.

How can these things co-exist?

I think it's all about the mayonnaise. But, then, I always have.

So then, mayonnaise, item one of my list of gravitational pulls.

does gravity...

2010-02-01T13:47:00.000-08:00

push or pull? I was never good at that stuff.

as soon as I figure this out, I'll be back for more inspirational posts.