New Year's Resolutions: I'm giving them an A: Avert, Act, Affirm.

I know I'm not here as much anymore.

I miss it, the blogging. I do.

It's been a year. So much has changed about our world -- our country -- been painfully unearthed, laid bare and oozing, all jagged teeth and slime, like some alien thing from the deep.

I know for many the evil has been visible for a long time, like some movie clown in the sewers, red eyes glaring, calling for others to climb in. And climb in, they did, and now they've all climbed out again, with the worst of the oozing, pus-filled aliens at the helm.

For most of us, it feels like a waking nightmare, one many of us never thought we'd see in our country. For our kids' sake, I hope we survive it. . .

But I digress. 2018 is on the horizon and there is much to do for as long as this oozing sore of a country is still dragging its sorry ass awake each morning with the sunrise, and to bed after dark. So here are my resolutions. I'm giving them an A. Or three. AVERT. AFFIRM. And, ACT.  

AVERT: When THE PULL OF GRAVITY came out years ago, though my editor adored the book, it had very little in-house support. Having taken nearly 10 years to get a book deal, I wasn't about to let the book, which garnered pretty stellar reviews and a Bank Street Best designation, disappear quietly into the ether. So I did what I knew how to do: I put my marketing hat on (yes, my undergrad degree is in marketing) and began to scour the internet for mentions of the book and/or mentions of OF MICE AND MEN being taught, so that I could try to make connections and get the book in readers hands around the country. Checking on my book morning and night, finding ways to promote it, became what I did. I'd often spend three or four hours a day reaching out to schools and trying to get the book seen. It's a habit that has continued through THE SUMMER OF LETTING GO and THE MEMORY OF THINGS. The problem is, it's both a time suck and an easy distraction (at least compared to writing something new), not to mention a rather narcissistic sort of endeavor that often only leads to comparison and disappointment. So, for starters in 2018, I am resolving to avert my eyes from all that, and to only to spend a minimal allotted time looking under the guise of marketing or otherwise, assuming anything I need to know will come to my attention. Maybe fifteen minutes on Fridays. The rest will be a battle not to search and click.

There's a second way I'm needing to avert my eyes. There is a lot of divisiveness and angry discourse taking place in Children's Publishing right now. If you want to see one small example of the nature of it, you can read THIS PIECE and then THE COMMENTS to it. The business has grown frustrating and upsetting to me in that way: that, while all of us seem to agree on underlying issues and values, the callout culture and dragging has become ugly for those of us who may not agree with the methodology, who might prefer a more mindful, nonjudgmental conversation. I, for one, try to affirm and hold up, but never tear down on the basis that there is little we can know about a person from a single tweet, or even a single snapshot of their life during a period of time. But we are living through a callout, dragging, tear down culture:

I don't know Eric Smith but have redacted the photo and name of an author I do know
and otherwise respect who is here describing another author's public excitement
about "dragging" Joyce Carol Oates as "levity."
This breaks my heart and I certainly don't feel it elevates the conversation.

Yes, I've saved many screenshots that speak to my concerns, though I won't share more than this single one here, now, because I don't want to have an online faux or half discussion. I am saving them in case I ever have an opportunity to have these conversations in person or on panels if anyone really wants to mindfully dig deep into the complexities of the issues rather than merely championing one side in an angry echo chamber.

What I do know is that it feels very much like a microcosm of the macrocosm that has been unfolding for the past years in the democratic party, where very little true listening and hearing goes on, only angry barked agendas. And, it frightens me because I believe long-term it will hurt us more than it will help. I believe we need to proceed non-judgmentally, without anger, and that, instead, we not only conflate issues (which undermines their seriousness), but also that there is a large amount of hypocrisy taking place within the movement (people doing the very thing they righteously tell others not to do, by coming up with excuses why it's okay for them, how their behavior is differentiated). In my very humble opinion, twitter has never been the right place to have REAL CONVERSATIONS. TO LISTEN AND BE HEARD. Yet, watching the twitter community is like rubbernecking -- hard to turn away from though it upsets me to no end. So, in that regard, too, unless I have a way to add healthily to the conversation, I'm going to stop reading -- Avert -- and stop wasting time, and stick to what I've always done which is do my best to hold up and share those pushing positive messages (Affirming) and  do a better job of averting my eyes from the rest. It's a waste of time which I can otherwise spend taking Action.

ACT.

With amazing assemblywoman Christine Pelligrino (who won a special election in a deeply red district),
and with my personal superhero, NY Attorney General Eric Schneiderman at a recent fundraiser for
progressive causes.

Campaigning for a local candidate for Town Supervisor 

At the women's march with my mom and sisters. <3 td="">

So, I am hoping step one, Avert, will give me more time to Act. Whether that action is writing, protesting, swimming, doing yoga, teaching writing, or playing with the dog, it's all good. I just need to DO all the things I want to do, and NOT DO all the things that rile me up but ultimately waste time because they don't get done what needs to get done.

As far as the resistance goes, I know we're all exhausted, but we're just getting started. We need to turn the country blue in 2018, and that means there is no tiring of marching, of speaking out, of making phone calls, of trying to help in whatever way we are each able.

Which leads to me to this: AFFIRM.

It's this simple: There are many ways to help in this world (and, likely, an equal many ways to do harm). I am resolving to help in the best way I know how, which is to always be as mindful as possible, to leave judgment (and righteousness) behind, and only to lift up and amplify where reasonable, right, and possible, while NEVER tearing down.

These are my resolutions for 2018. I will also renew two longstanding resolutions: to be a good confidante, and to take the stairs.  Oh yeah, and to stop sleeping so late, even in the face of the endless cycle of depressing news to wake up to.

These are my resolutions for 2018. What are yours?

Relinquish, Renew, Resolve . . . 2016 into 2017

I know many aren't, but I'm a fan of the New Year's Resolution.  Sure, time is a construct and all that, but I still like the whole "tabula rasa" vibe of it all.

January 1 = blank page. Clean slate.

A chance to start over again.

Okay, well, make that January 2, because there are too many good leftovers in this house the day after New Year's Eve.

Still, I admit it is hard. This year more than ever before.

Those who read me regularly in any forum know how I feel about our world and country right now: It is hard to feel hopeful and renewed in any sense, hard to feel creative or to plan. Hard to feel anything other than panic and despair.

No mincing words. If you are a democrat, a liberal and/or a progressive, if you are a person who truly cares about our earth, other people, and our world, if you try to live by the motto, "first do no harm," 2016 was a motherfucking assclown, and 2017 is poised to make last year look tame.

So, at first, I was thinking, "Fuck it. I make no promises. I just need to get through."

But I quickly rethought that, because if I'm going to get through, I'm going to need to commit to some things to help get me through. Because, quite frankly, the message running through my brain for the past several weeks: "Eat all the crap! Sleep late! What does it matter, we're all going to die in a nuclear wasteland?!?!" isn't going to help me help my kids. It isn't going to preserve our planet for their kids. It is no frame of mind for the resistance.

What's that old motto? I can tell you what it's not: It's not when the going gets tough, the tough sleep in and eat all the cookies."

And anyway, it isn't how I want to spend my last days if they are those anyway. So if it takes a construct that I'm used to, so be it. I liked who I was becoming before that bloated, gloating, orange carnival barker ransacked the landscape of our country. Time to plow forward with new resolve.

1. Relinquishing & Resolving:

Boyz to men: 
It's time to LET GO. 

Story one: November 8th at around 9:30 pm, the quickly-escalating texts from boys, who were both away at school, began to roll in:

"Are you worried?"

The younger one is taller. . . 

"What's going on. . .?"

"Are you scared?"

"What's going to happen if he wins. . .???"

I did my best to steady myself.

"It's still early. . . " I responded. "No way our country will elect him."

"Yeah, a little. . ."

As the night wore on, texts wouldn't suffice. I found my breath -- barely -- and made the calls to them.

"Yes, it's awful. No, I can't believe it. But, we'll be alright. We've weathered bad periods in history before. . ."

My voice shook as I lied. I didn't believe my own words.

How could I let this happen in their world. . . ? 

In the days since the election, my boys have made more peace with our country's politics than I have. Maybe it's youth. Maybe it's willful distraction and putting aside. One thing is for sure. They know the biggest truth of all, now: I cannot protect them from the evils of the world.

The fact of this truth is excruciating. But they are practically grown men. The only thing I can do is let go.

***

Story two: Last week, as I began to type this post, my younger son was on the road from LI to PA, making a drive he had never made before. To those who don't live in NY or Chicago, or LA, I imagine a kid's first big drive from home to anywhere is different than if you live here. But for those of us who live on Long Island and have tried to get from LI to anywhere else, skirting the city to get on to the GW Bridge or Throgsneck, or other such similar maneuverings, is its own kind of dangerous hell on earth. It looks like this, but in motion: The trucks. The aggressive driving. The confusing, last minute, lane changes.

Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore. . . 

Before our older so made such a drive, he did it WITH us multiple times, so we could instruct him and be another set of more experienced eyes. But with our younger son, the opportunity kept alluding us, and the one time we did have him try, I was too nervous in the backseat and made my husband pull over and switch drivers.

Suffice it to say, as I worked on this post and watched the clock tick, it was an excruciating exercise in working to let go -- but a fantastic opportunity to practice. Every time, I panicked, I whispered to myself, "He is smart. He is capable. Let go."

In a few hours, he had arrived safely, in good time, and did the ride home a few days later, no problem, as well.

*** 

Story-ish three: My older son has been engaged in a really wonderful form of therapy called DBT therapy which has a huge mindfulness component to it, and once a week, he, my husband, and I participate in a large group session with him. As such, we get to learn the units and components of DBT. There's a piece called "Radical Acceptance," and, as part of it, we work to get rid of the word "should." 

Spend a day doing that alone -- subbing out the word should -- and you'll see how much our brains are constantly focused on what we think should be rather than what is.

So, this is my biggest resolution for 2017: Let go. LET GO. Get rid of the word should.

2. Renew and Resolve 

1. Go back to healthy eating. Hello again, Whole 30. Already under way.

I've got my "don't grab my pussy"-cat hat
and I'm ready to march on 1/21. 

2. Commit to Political Action. Before my forties, I was never very politically involved. Though I was a vocal Bill Clinton fan, Obama's first election was probably the first one I felt incredibly strongly about, enough to feel deeply, deeply invested on election night. The truth is, I never have had huge confidence in my political "smarts," in that fact that I know enough from an in-depth perspective, to fairly have an opinion worthy of sharing  with others.

Well, guess what 2017? You elected the wrong guy, a bad guy, one who stirred the worst underbelly of our society, so I'm done worrying about all that.

I'm reading trusted, neutral sources. I'm sharing action. I'm marching. I'm speaking out. And as a proud member of ATLI , I plan to fight back any fear, insecurity and lethargy on my part, and get more and more involved.


And, last but not least,

3. Be boldly and confidently creative. I made a silly joke on Facebook the other day that I was going to become an arrogant egomaniac in 2017. But I'm only half-kidding. Put it this way: Four books sold to some of the most reputable publishers in history, and three released into the world to pretty good reviews all around, and I'm ready to believe that I am truly a writer worth reading. I'm ready to write with confidence. I'm ready to believe that my stories are published because they're goddamned worthy of being out there.

Er.

But yeah. Fuck it. I am.

Something like that anyway. And on that front, 2017 has started out strong:

• In addition to appearing on many year end favorites and best of lists, THE MEMORY OF THINGS just won me my third Nerdy Book Club award (thank you, NBC!!) and comes out in a fancy new paperback incarnation in August 2017. 

• My IN SIGHT OF STARS revisions were just accepted by incredible editor, Vicki Lame, and 

• I am working on an exciting collaboration with my dear friend and extraordinary writer, Nora Raleigh Baskin (NINE, TEN: A SEPTEMBER 11 STORY; RUBY ON THE OUTSIDE, ANYTHING BUT TYPICAL and many more!). I mean, seriously, it doesn't get better than that. 

So amidst all the muck, stay tuned for great writing from a writing badass in 2017.

Happy New Year to all. Feel free to share your relinquishments and resolve in the comments below.

xox gae

Needing Time to Slow Down While Wishing it Away...

Okay, fine. The title of this post is a lie.

I never really wish it away.

In fact, I'd probably make a deal with the devil to have it go backwards for a while.

But, the more I swim and need water, the more I need December - April to just go away.

Is that so much to ask for, to have longer days packed into a seven-month year?

But I'm teetering on 50 here (holy fuck), and I need time to stop, slow down. I need time NOT to fly, or months to disappear.

I need to wish 2014 to stay looming in the FAR distance, even though I won't see my next YA in publication until then.

Competing interests, wouldn't you say?

Indeed, I feel like one of those push-me-pull-you's
from Dr. Doolittle,
wanting time to fly almost as badly as
I want it to stand still.

And yet, I know better.

As I sit here and type, my eyes keep darting up to this sweet little
art project my youngest brought home to me what
feels like five minutes ago. . .

Five minutes ago, I put it up on that shelf for safe-keeping (and viewing) until I could find a better spot for it.

It must've been November, for All Saints Day or Day of the Dead, in elementary school, at least five years ago.

Five years in five minutes, I tell you.

Five lousy minutes ago.

Yeah, I'd make that deal with the devil in a heart beat.


-gae

I need somehow to embrace the cold, dark chill in the morning and feel productive, rather than melancholy and dull.

How to Live Less and Live More

I'm hyperventilating this morning... experiencing the kind of frantic, angsty, jumble of longings in the pit of my soul, in the depths of my heart and mind, that I believe only a person over (close to?)40 can truly understand.

It's a sensation, a voice, that screams from a place deeper than I can pinpoint,

"I want more! I want to be more! I want to do more! I want to matter more!"

I sit here, listening,


because I have no choice. I am unable to block it out.

And, honestly, I don't want to block it out, because it motivates me.

And yet,

it paralyzes me, too.

Because, the truth is, I don't know how to do that. How to be more. Or, even, for me, what that more is.

The world is filled with people who do extraordinary things. Some of those things are huge -- like inventing the iPod (iPhone, iPad), like completing an Ironman triathalon, like trying to swim from Cuba to Florida, non-stop, at age 60+, without a shark cage, over and over again...

Like inventing cures for illnesses,

travelling to war zones,

or leaving a body of brilliant work behind.

And, some of those things are quieter, more personal in their nature or impact.

Like donating an organ,

rising above a disability,

or helping a person in need.

All over the world, as I sit here and type, people are doing extraordinary things,

and I can't help but wonder how to contribute.

To make my life less ordinary.

Don't get me wrong: I feel blessed. I feel downright lucky. And I have problems I rise above, and ways that I push myself, and try to contribute to the world. Just like we all do.

But, none of it feels, what? Big enough? Important enough? Like it matters?

I have this overall feeling that I'm wasting time.

That I'm just not making the most of it.

That, the ride is spinning by, and I'm missing the big brass ring.

Part of me knows I need to learn to be okay with this.

To accept a life more ordinary.

But I feel like there's this treacherous balance, too -- to accept life for what it is and grow old gracefully (haven't got a clue how to do this yet, mind you), while not becoming complacent.

As some of you know, Diana Nyad is a personal hero of mine. At the end of that video above (shared with me by my friend, Christopher Tasava, thank you!) she poses the question, paraphrased from the poet Mary Oliver*,

"So, what is it you're doing with this wild and precious life of yours?"

I want so badly to be able to answer that.

To shout from the rooftops that I'm making it count.

That I'm contributing.

That I'm giving it all I can.

More than anything, I want that.

I want to be more.

And, I want to matter.

But sometimes, it's paralyzing.

Because, I'm not sure I even know how.

-gae


*The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

Enough about ME, let's talk about YOU.

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

Parenting by Example, Not for the Faint-Hearted

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

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.

Reading is Exce(r)ptional

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

At the End of a Season, I Conquered.

     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

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

-gae

Under Cover Blues

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

Where Stories Come From . . .

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?

a day in my writing life...

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

Inertia, and the Art of Water Cycle Maintenance.

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/

Whining and Complaining

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

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? :)