But It Seemed Like Such a Good Idea...

Somebody, please remind me not to do these things in the future:

Set up a challenge at a blog domain with which I’m completely unfamiliar. This was not a swift move when I’ve barely managed to figure out the most basic ins and outs of the blogging domain I’ve been using for nearly two years now. It’s an even worse idea when one considers the fact that this new blog is going to involve multiple users.
Why It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time: I wanted to share the ecojustice challenge with colleagues and friends. I’m not so sure I want all those colleagues and friends reading Telecommuter Talk. I thought it might not be quite as easy to make the connection to the two if one was at Blogger and the other was at Wordpress. I’m probably right, since most of my colleagues and friends know nothing about blogging, but it isn’t fail proof, and I probably could have been just as successful keeping the two separate if I’d just used Blogger. Also, I really do want to learn my way around Wordpress and thought this would be a good way to do so. Wrong: what would have been a good way to do so would have been to create some simple blog that nobody reads meant solely for play and experimentation.

Take a Cat to the Beach: It’s not so much the taking him along on the trip part. He’s a wonderful traveler who doesn’t try to choke himself to death when we put him on a harness, and he loved the hotel room. It’s the mistaken idea that a cat might actually like to, you know, go down by the water the way a dog would, especially when a motorcycle decides to come roaring by at the same time. I’ve seen a cat’s tail double in size, but I think this was the first time I’ve ever seen one quadruple in size, and if you ever wondered what someone’s arms might look and feel like if they’d somehow managed to escape after having been fed to the lions, well, you can ask Bob.
Why It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time: Anyone else read any of the Norton books by Peter Gethers? That man (despite the fact he once wrote me a very nice letter in response to a letter I wrote him) ought to be sued for false advertising the way he so blithely writes about a cat who traveled all over the world, basically riding on Gethers’s shoulders most of the time it seems. Gethers must somehow make use of a secret subliminal writing technique that lures readers into believing this is, somehow, something any cat, given enough love, can be trained to do. He doesn’t state it. In fact, he even insists that his cat was perfect, but it’s hidden there somewhere.

Order a 700+-paged trilogy through ILL at my local library: The due date is less then three weeks away. The fine is $1.00 for each day it’s overdue.
Why It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the time: I’m not supposed to be buying books (I have a 4 books-to-read deficit at this point, given my plan to read at least three books I own before buying a new book). My friend raved about this one to me, and he’s never failed me yet, so I was, of course, dying to get my hands on it. My own library system didn’t have a copy of it. This was the only way to read it without buying it. I wanted to see how the ILL system works. Lots of good reasons, really, that all seem absolutely ridiculous as I try to figure out how many pages I need to read a day before this book is due.

Go to the huge Lancaster County library book sale when in four-books-to-read deficit mode. I now have to read a mere 37 books before I can buy anymore (make that 40, because I just ordered a copy of Much Depends on Dinner for the ecojustice challenge). Yes, I bought 11 books. You would have too if you’d seen all those paperbacks for a mere fifty cents a piece (on the first day of the sale, first thing in the morning, no less, when there was still a grand collection. In CT, those kinds of prices didn’t kick in until the third day when the only things left were ancient Harlequin romances and textbooks). Oh yeah, and it doesn’t seem I’m going to be making a dent in that deficit anytime soon when I’m going to be reading a 700+-paged library book for the next three weeks.
Why It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time: It didn’t. Under no circumstances whatsoever is attending something like a huge library book sale where paperbacks go for fifty cents a piece ever a good idea for someone like me. Still, I seem to do it every single year. As a matter of fact, Bob and I went to this same sale last year, because he happened to be here for his interview exactly a year ago, and we stopped by it on our way out of town.

Not Quite the Eleventh Hour

But it is most definitely the tenth hour for Kate's April poetry challenge. However, seeing as I warned everybody I’d be posting at the last minute, I figure I’m actually early. Also, I have another excuse: it is not easy instituting an ecojustice challenge. How do all those of you out there who create all these wonderful book challenges ever have anytime to do anything like, oh I don’t know, read, for instance? Anyway, during the month of April, I read:

Sandburg, Carl. Berman, Paul, ed. Carl Sandburg: Selected Poems. New York: Library of America, 2006.

One thing I’ve discovered I love about reading poetry collections is that they’re like listening to albums. That leads me to wonder why I’m so resistant to reading them, since I love and have always loved listening to albums. Poetry collections are similar to albums because you don’t have to love every poem to enjoy them. In fact, there are some you might just plain not like or not get. You read them quickly and see what the next one has to offer. Others, you read and think, “Oh man! That’s just incredible!” And you re-read them. And then, maybe, you even re-re-read them. You wander around the house in search of someone with whom to share their profundity.

Funny, though. That other person just may not happen to think this particular poem is so profound. He or she might pick up the collection where you’ve left it, wondering why you’re making such a big fuss, and be mesmerized by something completely different. I’ve always found this to be the same with albums. Meet someone who says “Abby Road is absolutely my favorite Beatles album.” Tell that someone, “I agree.” Then start discussing the actual songs. Chances are, one of you will think “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” is one of the most disturbing songs ever written, while the other one will think it’s one of the most clever.

Before I pulled this collection from the shelf, I knew I was partial to Carl Sandburg, having enjoyed “Fog” when I was a teenager. (I’ve just realized that I keep claiming that I didn’t like poetry as a teenager, had it ruined for me by teachers, and yet almost every time I post on it, I seem to be recalling something from my teenaged years. Maybe I need to re-think the whole “hated poetry as a teenager” spiel.) However, I can’t really tell you if it was “Fog” I so enjoyed or the parody of it my sister Lindsay composed, which was “Frog.” For those of you who may not be familiar with it, here it is:

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
And then moves on. (p. 22)

Lindsay’s “frog” came on “flat feet” and went on from there.

At that age, I thought of Sandburg as a “modern poet,” and “modern poetry” was the only type of poetry I thought I could stand as a teenager. I defined it as mysterious and obscure and something that did not subject itself to over-the-top flowery language. Modern poetry presented hard facts of life without purposely trying to pull at your heartstrings. (Maybe I’m not so off-the-mark with my hated-poetry-as-a-teenager spiel after all, because it’s quite obvious I hadn’t read much of it if this is what I thought.) You know, modern poetry as a tequila shot, say, and all those romantics and their sonnets as 50-year-old bottles of sherry hidden in your grandfather’s cellar. When I was a teenager, I was doing everything I possibly could to rebel against my genetically romantic and sentimental soul.

I guess I haven’t completely squashed that teenaged notion of “modern poetry,” even though I’ve read enough now to have proven it wrong. Not having read much Sandburg, I automatically assumed he'd be profound, but I didn’t expect him to break my heart. How about a poem that's both profound and heartbreaking? Here’s one that was for me:

Mag

I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish you never quit your job and came along with me.
I wish we never bought a license and a white dress
For you go get married in the day we ran off to a
minister
And told him we would love each other and take care of
each other
Always and always long as the sun and rain lasts
anywhere.
Yes, I’m wishing now you lived somewhere away from
here
And I was a bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away
dead broke.
I wish the kids had never come
And rent and coal and clothes to pay for
And a grocery man calling for cash,
Every day cash for beans and prunes.
I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish to God the kids had never come. (pp. 8-9)

If you have a heart like mine (irreparably leaky these days from having been broken and fixed innumerable times reading such things), you read that poem at least thrice and want to meet that man just so you can say, “I know. I know. I know.” But how can you possibly know? You’ve never met Mag. You didn’t fall in love with her. You don’t have this man’s children. You've got plenty of money for the rent. The grocery man isn’t calling you for cash. You hate prunes. But still, you know.

Or maybe that one didn’t do it for you. Maybe your heart would break for “The Junk Man,” which didn’t do much for me. Or possibly “Francois Villon Forgotten” would send you searching through the house for the nearest pair of ears to listen to you read aloud. I don’t know. You’ve got to pick up the collection and see for yourself. I do dare you, however, to read “They All Want to Play Hamlet” without finding it the least bit profound.

So, how about you? What profound and heartbreaking poetry have you been reading? I'd love to know.

Happy Earth Day!

Happy Earth Day, everyone. The Ecojustice Challenge '08 begins over here today. Please take a look and join me and pass the word on to as many people as you can.

Thanks!

And the Winner Is...

...Stefanie. She, along with others, correctly guessed which of my Seven Weird Facts was not true, and hers was the one that I drew from the hat (okay, it wasn't really a hat. It was just a cup. I'm done with lying). Congratulations, Stef! Please choose a book I've written about somewhere on this blog, and email me the title and your address, and I'll order it for you.

Oh, and for those who'd like a little more detail, no I don't have a problem with mittens at all. In fact, I prefer them when it's really cold, because they keep my fingers warmer. And now the contest is over, I can go comment on everyone's comments.

Magery Allingham’s Sweet Danger

Allingham, Margery. Sweet Danger. New York: Felony and Mayhem Press, 2007.

(This book was originally published in 1933.)

The Connecticut mystery book club will be discussing this book on April 26^th. However, I plan to be staring at the ocean, sans computer, gin and tonic in hand, book in lap, in Cape May, N.J. on April 26^th. Thus, I decided I’d better read and write about this one now.

First of all, I want to say hurray for Margery Allingham! I’ve been familiar with the name all my life, but (as is the case with so many mystery writers) I’ve never bothered to read any of her works. Secondly, I’d like to say that this book group has gotten off to a great start when it comes to “reading all over the mystery map,” as this book couldn't be more different from the first one we read.

So, why do I say “hurray for Margery Allingham?” Maybe it’s because she has a male protagonist who is unmatched in brilliance (as so many are in these sorts of mysteries), but who is also young. None of this wise, middle-aged, somewhat sexless detective who relies not only on his intellect but also on a lifetime of experience that has taught him what humans are likely to do in any given situation for Allingham. No, in Albert Campion, we have a young man, not yet thirty, just getting his feet wet as far as life experiences are concerned. Campion is a character who is truly playing the game of Life, learning as he goes along, and seeming to enjoy it all immensely (even when he comes dangerously close to losing it all to Death).

Then again, maybe it’s her extraordinarily complicated plot. I have to admit I almost came close to “boo-ing” rather than “hurray-ing” this aspect of the book. I had to keep re-reading pages from the beginning, because I just couldn’t figure out exactly what it was that Campion and his friends were doing when we first meet him through the eyes of his friend Guffy Randall, who comes across them during a stay in the French Riviera. However, by the time I’d gotten to the end of the book to find I’d been led on a romp that included a nearly-impoverished family on the verge of reclaiming a birthright that will certainly secure future generations; brilliant use of mistaken identity; a wonderfully enigmatic poetical clue; a bad guy whose nickname is “Peaky,” because he was “…a most extraordinary-looking fellow with a widow’s peak that almost touched the bridge of his nose, “ (p. 22); as well as a truly mad, mad doctor; all confusion is forgiven. After all, how can a book that provides so many plot elements possibly be anything but confusing? It all comes together in the end, though.

Perhaps it’s Allingham’s ability with description and detail that makes me want to shout for joy. For instance, she’s already told us that Guffy is a snob, and thus, we assume his friends must be, too. However, their snobbishness is beautifully portrayed in this short passage:

A gloom settled over the party. That a man could live for forty years with a cellar full of priceless wine, and drink it, perhaps even – sacrilegious thought! – get drunk upon it, without realizing its value, was, to Eager-Wright and Guffy at least, a tragic and terrible discovery. (p. 84)

Then again, it may be her wonderful sense of humor. I don’t even know where to begin when it comes to describing this. Hers is not a laugh-out-loud sort of humor (thank goodness, as I was reading this book mostly on airplanes), but a subtle, wry look at her characters and their predicaments. She has this beautiful chapter when Campion goes off to visit an insurance agency that could easily be a business located in one of Donald Trump’s edifices today. Quite obviously, Allingham had her own opinions about that sort of overindulgence in business, and she chooses to sneak in her opinions by employing a dark, cutting humor. This same dark, cutting humor also shows up in her characters’ dialogues with each other, such as this one:

“Talking of poetry,” said Mr. Campion, unexpectedly, as the three young men continued thoughtfully across the heath toward the mill, “many a useful thought has burned in verse that Shelley would have spurned. Likewise, the stuff to put your pennies on is not concealed in Tennyson.”

“Interesting, no doubt,” commented Eager-Wright good-humouredly, “but in the circumstances not very helpful. This is no time for blathering Campion.” (p. 95)

It’s funny, of course, in the way Eager-Wright talks down to his friend. It’s also funny, however, because, Allingham and her readers know that Campion isn’t really “blathering.” Plenty of the conversation throughout this book runs along the same sorts of lines.

Then again, none of the above may matter, and it just might be that I’m "hurray-ing" over nothing more than the wonderful character Allingham has given us in Amanda Fitton, a member of the family that runs the Suffolk mill where the majority of the action takes place. She’s bright, strong, courageous (a real fighter), a wise businesswoman, and Campion is smitten with her. One gets the feeling that Campion and his mates would have blundered and all been dead without her, as would her brother. Not only that, but she’s very likeable and very human, the sort of heroine to whom I’m always attracted (and, throughout my life, have wished I could be).

And that’s one way in which this book is so very different from our first mystery, Hammett’s The Glass Key. I have not yet read any more Hammett, but my guess would be that I could read all he’s written and not find a single woman like Amanda Fitton. In Hammett’s world, despite the fact that the two books were written in the same decade, three-dimensional female characters do not exist. They may be physically striking, like Amanda. However, men are drawn to them merely for their looks, no matter their characters, and not because they are also clever and bold, the way Campion is drawn to Amanda. Female characters aren’t the only ones who are different, though. By the end of the book, we know what makes Albert Campion tick, how and what he thinks about many things, much more than we ever knew about Ned Beaumont by the end of Hammett’s book.

Also, the violence in this book is nowhere near as severe as it was in The Glass Key. Allingham’s violence seems almost to have been included as an afterthought, because, after all, one can’t have dead bodies without some violence. Hammett’s book seemed to center around humankind’s natural tendency towards seediness and violence.

(I think I may have just inadvertently described some of the big differences between hard-boiled crime fiction and crime fiction from The Golden Age of British Mystery?)

Granted, at times, Allingham does rely a bit on convenience over credibility. For instance, a character to whom we have not been introduced suddenly plays a key role about halfway through the book. He is later just sort of explained away (perhaps he's someone who has shown up in other books in the Campion series?). Likewise, the mad doctor is a bit of a convenience (not to mention a character who could easily have stepped right out of the collection of Arthur Machen stories I recently read). Nevertheless, this is fiction (and mystery at that) and needs to be forgiven for embracing such conveniences. Besides, nothing in this book could top the sorts of conveniences to be found in G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown mysteries.

All-in-all, a fairly perfect specimen of the genre. Oh, and one last question: wouldn’t you love to work for a company called Felony and Mayhem Press? It seems I need to get cracking if I’m going to keep up with all the great stuff they’re publishing.

How Privileged Are You?

I got this one from Charlotte. As is always the case for me with this sort of thing, I find some of these statements very odd and don't think they help answer the main question. First of all, what sort of “privilege” do we mean here? Are we talking economics? Education? Sociologists in our culture would probably argue that we have class systems based both on wealth and on education. Not everyone in the educated classes is wealthy, and not everyone in the wealthy classes is educated. I’d argue there’s a third class system based on race. Still, seems like an interesting exercise, so I’m going to participate.

The original authors of this exercise are Will Barratt, Meagan Cahill, Angie Carlen, Minnette Huck, Drew Lurker, and Stacy Ploskonka at Illinois State University. If you participate, they ask that you PLEASE acknowledge their copyright.

Bold the true statements. You can explain further if you wish.

1. Father went to college – and grad school

2. Father finished college – and was ABD

3. Mother went to college – and grad school

4. Mother finished college -- and grad school

5. Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor – my father was the first in a long line of attorneys to become a professor. My sister was a professor until she decided to devote herself full-time to art. No physicians, though. No one in our lazy family wants to work that hard.

6. Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers – again, depends on what one means by “class.” Let’s pretend we mean teachers who were upper-middle class or rich, as in the deciding factor for defining “class” is how much money a person has. I really have absolutely no clue. People actually know this sort of thing, or rather, are really paying attention at that age? Many of my high school teachers were nuns. I imagine of the others, some were of the same class, and others weren’t. I do know they got paid a pittance compared to public school teachers, so let’s hope they had some sort of other source of income.

7. Had more than 50 books in your childhood home – had more than 50 children’s books alone.

8. Had more than 500 books in your childhood home – a huge embarrassment to me throughout a good deal of my childhood and teenaged years and one of the reasons I spent more time at others’ houses than inviting them to spend time at mine. Good thing I don’t have kids. I’d be forcing them to live in a house just like the embarrassing one in which I was raised.

9. Were read children’s books by a parent – my poor father must still hate The Owl and the Pussycat, which I made him read over and over. My mother and I read books together well into my teenaged years. I loved sharing that with her.

10. Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18

11. Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18 – swimming, tennis, ballet, and tap, all of which I despised and gave up after a year.

12. The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed positively – I promise you, there is nobody in the media who dresses and talks the way I do, and if there were, she’d be someone everyone makes fun of – the batty, absent-minded one who can’t put a simple skirt and blouse together to make them look good and who walks around with runs in her stockings or big black stains on the back of her pants, completely unaware that they’re there.

13. Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18 – nope, but as soon as I was 18 and didn’t need my parents’ permission, I went out and got a J.C. Penny credit card just so I could get whatever free gift they were giving away to anyone who opened an account.

14. Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs

15. Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs -- technically, I guess this means I should have bolded the last one. Why have both questions?

16. Went to a private high school – a Catholic high school. Where I grew up, that was considered a “private school.” In the places I’ve lived since, it’s considered a “parochial school,” and there are big distinctions between parochial and private schools.

17. Went to summer camp -- only day camp. My mother was definitely of the persuasion that kids needed “activities” in the summer, but she probably didn’t want to spend the money on sleep-away camp.

18. Had a private tutor before you turned 18

19. Family vacations involved staying at hotels – every-so-often we stayed in hotels, but we managed to travel all over the world staying mostly with friends and relatives.

20. Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18 – no, I was the third daughter. I wore lots and lots of hand-me-downs. My mother, being a good Scot, wasn’t about to get rid of perfectly good clothes before getting all she could out of them. We did have a lot of our “good clothes” made for us, though, which made the hand-me-downs doubly horrible, because my mother liked to dress her three girls in matching dresses, so I’d have to wear the exact same dress for years until I finally outgrew the one my lucky older sister only had to wear for one season.

21. Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them – no, my first car was a hand-me-down that was wrecked by my brother’s friend just before it was given to me.

22. There was original art in your house when you were a child - but not by any artists anyone would have heard of.

23. You and your family lived in a single-family house

24. Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home – before I was even born

25. You had your own room as a child – until I was 8, and then my oldest sister got it, and I didn’t have my own room again until she went to college (unless you count a little area at the end of the hall where my mother put up curtains and that had a little crib-turned-daybed and desk until we moved those out and moved my bed into it when I was a pre-teen, and my other sister and I were not getting along well enough to keep sharing a bedroom, as a bedroom of my own. The whole end of the hall was mine. We called it "cozy corner," and every child who ever visited our house always wanted to sleep there).

26. You had a phone in your room before you turned 18 – I wanted one, not only my own phone, but my own separate line, which I offered to pay for out of my own earnings, once I got a real job, but my parents wouldn’t let me get one, because they wanted me to “learn to share.”

27. Participated in a SAT/ACT prep course -- get this: ever hear of someone who participated in an SAT prep course and then did worse on the test the second-time around? Or who always did better in English than math throughout her school career, but who scored higher on the math than on the English? What I really needed was to be tested for test anxiety.

28. Had your own TV in your room in high school – are you kidding?? Our family didn’t even have a color TV until I was 18. Our television-viewing was strictly moderated until my mother went back to work, when I was in third grade, and then she lost all control, except making sure there were never more than two televisions in the house. One of these was monopolized by my parents, which meant it was usually tuned into such child-friendly programs as the news or opera on PBS. The other one was tiny and not hooked up to the antenna, so the reception was about as reliable as a teenager promising to clean a room.

29. Owned a mutual fund or IRA in high school or college

30. Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16 -- when half my mothers’ relatives lived in England, she wasn’t exactly going to take four children under the age of 16 over there by boat.

31. Went on a cruise with your family – again, are you kidding? Spend that kind of money for a ten-day-trip when you could go rent a falling-down old vicarage known as “The Chalet” and live in England for the entire summer instead?

32. Went on more than one cruise with your family – no, but rented more than one old vicarage in England.

33. Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up – but I much preferred castle ruins.

34. You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family – nope. My father complained about every penny spent on heat and kept the average temperature in the house hovering somewhere just above freezing. If you wanted to be warm, you had to stay in the living room, where he built coal fires, because the coal was cheaper than firewood.

I don’t know: you tell me. How privileged am I?

Time for My Own Random Bullets

I’ve got lots to post on, including a couple of books and my thoughts on book awards and a new post over at Ian and Emily’s. However, today, I’m taking my cue from others and just giving you some random bullets.

• Lesson learned this week: I forgot to provide a due date for everyone’s answers to my little competition in my previous post, which was not a smart thing to do, unless I want the contest to go on indefinitely. Even less smart, however, was having everyone provide answers in the comments without providing a due date, because I’ve now realized I can’t comment on anyone’s comments without giving away the answer. Thus, I learned that in the future, I’d better provide contest deadlines. So, those of you who haven’t already given me an answer, you have until Monday April 21^st to do so, at which point I will respond to everyone’s comments and announce a winner.
• Odd one out: I once again realize I am the odd one out in that everyone else in the world hates February, but I hate April. February gets a bad rap. After all, it falls in the dead of winter. It’s supposed to be cold and icy and snowy and generally dark. No one in the northern hemisphere dangles February in front of you with any sorts of promises of nice weather, and yet everyone complains about it as though it’s the biggest back-stabber of them all. April, on the other hand, falls in spring. That vernal equinox makes its appearance at least ten days before the beginning of April every year, and April has the opportunity for 30 days to give us perfect spring weather. Whatever happened to “April showers,” words that conjure up images of pretty little droplets, lightly, briefly, and gently watering all the colorful flowers, not icy sheets soaking mud where one can barely see green shoots beginning to materialize? Granted, I have to say that this month hasn’t been quite as bad here as it typically was in Connecticut, but still, I want it to be warm when it’s supposed to be warm. When the calendar says we’re solidly into spring, it should be spring not early winter. All-too-soon, it will be the dog days of summer, and this is the one time of year when we’re supposed to be able to enjoy temperate weather. April stabs me in the back every. single. year.
• So close and yet so far: You won’t believe what happened this week. Our church happens to have been founded in the 1700s. The original church is still standing, and we use it on occasion, but it mostly sits empty and unused. Apparently, there have been reports that the old church is haunted, and this news has made its way to a paranormal investigation group that wants to come set up shop, so to speak, with all their “Scientific Equipment” (capital letters are theirs) to see what they can find. This group made a request to do so in a letter to our Board of Trustees, a letter that also assured us that they don't perform exorcisms but do sometimes resort to prayer and the use of "Holy Water" when needed. Unfortunately, our Board is not in favor of such things and voted down the request. Can you imagine? I came this close to being able to observe a paranormal investigation right here in our own church. So, I was right when I started realizing I’d probably have better luck seeing ghosts inside the church rather than in the cemetery. (Anyone want to come join me for a “night at the haunted old church?” I’ve got to get a group together, because I’m way too afraid to investigate on my own.)
• Warning: Next week, in honor of Earth Day (one good thing about April), I will be setting up the new blog for the ecojustice challenge. Please, please, please join this challenge, and please, please, please spread the word. I want to try to get as many people as possible. I really do believe that together, concerned citizens of the world can make a difference. In fact, I believe they can make a huge difference. Details to come.
• That’s it for the bullets: funny. I thought I had more random thoughts than this, but maybe they’re all off at a happy hour somewhere or something.

7 Weird Facts about Me Meme

Dear Danny (are you reading him? If not, you should be. He doesn't post frequently enough, but that's probably because he has a life that includes such things as passes to The Grammy Awards and SNL, which you could read about if you were reading him) tagged me for this one. I have to admit that I was absolutely convinced I'd already done it. After all, I'm the Queen o' Memes, always looking for an excuse not to have to post anything too intellectually taxing. But, it seems, after a cursory search of my blog, that I was wrong.

It must be déjà vu. That means if that guy who read my palm a couple of months ago is right, I most likely was the Queen o' Memes in some past life, maybe in some country where such queens wielded great power. (I can see myself shouting "off with their heads!" in response to all those I tagged who chose to ignore the fact.) Either that, or, as Danny noted, this meme just feels eerily familiar, because aren't weird facts about me basically what I write 99% of the time? I had quite a hard time coming up with seven, because each one that emerged at the front of the brain, hoping to be immortalized on screen had to be told, "No, get back down there. You know perfectly well you already had your Immortalizaion Day back in July '06 (or whenever it was)." Anyway, for those of you who just can't get enough weird facts about me, here are seven more:

1. I am borderline germ phobic, which means I can't stand to see people "clean" something with their saliva. I also hate places like public bathrooms, and I hate the fact that we basically have to sit on other people's laps on airplanes these days. However, I also have a passing acquaintance with statistics and know that the likelihood of my catching TB in such places (even from the person three rows up who sounds like he has it) is about as likely as having the Cleaning Fairy decide to take up residence in my home. Thus, my rational side is constantly fighting with my irrational side, which is very annoying. Why can't I just insist we all wear masks and rubber gloves whenever I enter a public restroom or step on a plane? Why can't I yell at the woman who didn't wash her hands as she was leaving the restroom, forcing me to touch that door handle she last touched with her filthy paws?

2. Watching a movie is something I have to convince myself to do. For some reason, I don't ever believe I'm really going to lose myself in a movie the way I do a book, and the first ten minutes of any movie is typically spent wondering if I'm understanding what's going on and if I'm really going to get into it. The rest of the movie is then spent in complete, total, ga-ga immersion. Really. Even those I ultimately decide I didn't like still manage to pull me right into their worlds with them. I think I've watched maybe a total of six movies in my life that did nothing for me. So, why I'm so convinced I'm not going to be grabbed by cinematic magic is a mystery.

3. I'm a fidgeter. I literally cannot sit completely still for more than about ten minutes at a time (and that's a wild guess. It may be much less than ten minutes). As a matter of fact, I can't pay attention to someone who is talking to me as well if I'm not allowed to fidget in some way. I always have a foot that's shaking, a pen or pencil or watch I'm fiddling with, or am shifting positions in my seat, or something. Supposedly, this means I burn more calories than most, but it seems to me I still have to exercise 45 minutes for every ounce of cheese I eat or 4-oz glass of wine I drink if I don't want to gain a pound.

4. I don't like to wear mittens. They make my fingers feel as though they're being restrained somehow, and I constantly feel the need to try to spread my fingers if I have them on. This is annoying now that I'm learning to knit, because it seems to me, mittens are probably much easier to knit than gloves. Then again, at the rate I'm going, I'm never going to graduate beyond scarves, so it really doesn't matter.

5. I hate to be the center of attention except when I'm with a group of very close friends. Throw me a surprise party with ten special friends and family members, and I'll be filled with great glee. But if that surprise party happens to be at a large table at a restaurant surrounded by fifty strangers who are all going to be staring at me, I'll be filled with the desire to flee.


6. I argue with and ask questions of nonfiction writers and journalists when I read them. I rarely make it through a nonfiction piece feeling I believe absolutely everything I just read. Although I sometimes mark up fiction books when I read them, typically I only do that with books I know I am going to write about in a blog post. However, all the nonfiction books I read (except for library and other borrowed books, which is one reason I don't tend to like to borrow nonfiction) these days have pencil marks in them with thoughts, reactions, and questions.

7. I love ghosts and ghost stories, but I don't really believe in them, because I've never seen one myself. Wait a minute, how did that one manage to slip to the front of my brain and onto the screen to celebrate yet another Immortalization Day?

And now, I'm supposed to tag 7 others. I think some of you have already done this one, but I can't remember who has and hasn't. Thus, if I tag you, and you've already done it, I promise not to yell "Off with his/her head!" if you choose not to do it (this time, that is). The lucky seven are: Ian (whom Danny already tagged, so now he's really got to do it), Mandarine, Zoe's Mom, Susan, Eva, Charlotte, and Froshty (who should have been beheaded long ago for ignoring many memes and for being the one who introduced me to slam books). I'd tag Becky and Courtney, too, because I know they both love a good meme, but Becky's going to be gallivanting all over the world for all eternity, it seems, and I don't want to distract Court (too much, that is. She's already been distracted by one meme from me) from her continued political blog post.

And now, for those of you I didn't tag (oh what the hell? For all of you), here's a little game to make this meme even more interesting. One of these seven things, because I'm sleep-deprived and exhausted and just couldn't think of anything you don't already know that wasn't deadly dull, isn't true (hint: # 7, you already know, is true. That means you have a 1/6 or about a 17% chance of guessing correctly). Guess which one it is, leave your guess in a comment, and if you get it right, I'll put your name in a hat drawing. I'll offer to the person whose name I draw the same sort of prize I've offered in the past: a free copy of the book of your choice you've read about on my blog.

The Best Picture Ever! (That Never Was) Challenge

A couple of weeks ago, Cam challenged me to write a post describing the best photo ever, which I happen to think is an extraordinarily creative writing challenge (not to mention one that lives up to the name “challenge” in spades). Not only was I honored to have been chosen by her, especially after her extremely eloquent post on her own best photograph ever (a lovely portrait with a great story to match), but very eager to get going on the challenge. I happened to be in Boston at the time and immediately began to think about which photo I would choose. Should I choose my favorite wedding photo of Bob and me (our wedding was the only day in my entire life on which I was the least bit photogenic)? Should I choose some favorite photo from childhood? Should I choose one of the many wonderful shots we have from places like Bonaire? I’d have to go home and search through some boxes and see what I could find.

Then I left Boston after five very intense days of being “on,” sometimes from 8:00 a.m. until 11:00 p.m. These conferences I attend fluctuate between being extremely invigorating and extremely draining. Being a self-trained extrovert who is a natural introvert, as much as I love all of these people with whom I only get to hang out like this a couple of times a year, and as much as I love to sit in sessions absorbing what all these really interesting people are doing in their science classrooms (and wishing I’d had teachers like this when I was a kid), and as much as I love to brainstorm about how I can turn all this information into books, I can only do it for so long without beginning to feel a little bit like I’m going insane. So, I was teetering on the brink of insanity as I left Boston to drive up to our company apartment in Northern New England where I’d be staying for the next few days while visiting the office.

As I was driving along, one thing I started to think about is that I’ve lately begun to realize how spoiled I was by the Connecticut landscape when I lived there. I remember when I first moved to the state, people would talk about the beach, and having grown up in North Carolina with its beautiful miles of shoreline along the crashing Atlantic, I’d look at them blankly, thought bubbles reading “Beach? Huh?” These relatively tiny patches of sand surrounded by rocks on the Long Island Sound were not beaches. Where were the waves? Where were the dunes? Where was the sense, with so much land all around, that the big wide ocean was endless, that if you weren’t careful when you went gallivanting about in your ship, you really might sail off into a pack of sea monsters before crashing off the end of the world as those old maps predicted? However, I soon came to realize that it didn’t take much to reach the shoreline of the Atlantic in Connecticut, and then one could easily go up into Rhode Island and walk cliffs along the ocean. I also eventually got used to it and came really to appreciate the beauty of the Sound.

Not only did we have easy access to shoreline in Connecticut, but we also had easy access to mountains. One could drive from mountains (granted, not the Rockies, but still mountains. I happen to love the rolling softness of the Appalachians) to the ocean within a matter of a few hours. And then, of course, one could drive up to Acadia, ME, where the mountains meet the ocean (heaven, in other words). Now, I’m living a good three-hour drive from the ocean and discovering I’m missing it terribly, so in my nearly insane state as I was driving along with all these thoughts and thinking about how I’d go walk along the beach after work during the two evenings I’d be visiting the office, I decided why wait? Why not stop off at Salisbury Beach in Massachusetts, get out for a little walk, and then hug the coast for the rest of my drive?

As soon as I got out of my car and began to walk along the sand on this gorgeous early spring day, regretting the fact I didn’t have a camera, I realized that my post for Cam’s challenge was going to have to be about the best picture ever that never was. And shortly afterwards, there it was, right in front of me, no camera in sight to capture it forever. So, you’re just going to have to believe me when I tell you it was the best picture ever.

Imagine it. It’s an old-fashioned print, with white trimming and glossy finish. It was taken with the best camera of its kind, loaded with superior film, so the colors are vibrant, perfectly capturing the colors of the day, epitomized by a clear, crisp blue sky more reminiscent of October in these parts than late March. The ocean, reflecting the sky, rather than being a murky half-translucent green, as it can often be, especially in winter, is deep sea blue. The waves along this part of the coast don’t crash so much as gently roll, but with a little more force than they do in places like the Caribbean. The sand up on the banks away from the water’s edge is bleached white, but down here by the water’s edge, where the picture was taken, it’s a little darker than a golden suntan.

This beach is a beach that allows people to bring their horses to ride. In the picture is a large, glossy Black Beauty of a horse, coat glistening. She’s completely black, except for the area right above her left back hoof, which is a patch of white. The camera has captured her in mid-gallop, her legs bent and spread in perfect racehorse formation, her tail blowing in strands behind her. Her rider is wearing a blue fleece jacket, a black riding helmet, and brown boots. Behind them rise the white peaks of a wave riding into shore to chase them as they focus on whatever goal they seem to be chasing themselves. You stare at the photograph, sigh, and think, “How come I never pursued horseback riding? What could possibly be more fun than galloping along the edge of the shore at full-speed on a Sunday afternoon in the early days of spring?” But then you remember that you walked back up from the beach, over the wooden platform that led to the parking lot, and came upon two women feeding their horses at the sides of their trailer, brushing them, and talking about how much they eat, and you remember, “Oh yeah, I didn’t pursue it, because it’s a lot of work and so expensive.” Nobody else who looks at the dreamy photograph has to know that, though.

Cam challenged two people to describe their best photograph ever, so I’m going to pass the challenge on to two others: Litlove and Hobs, in the hopes they’ll choose two more, etc.

The Extremely Random Meme

Hmm…seems this week is going to be a good one for challenges and memes, as my brain slowly turns to mush after being on the road so much. My boss travels what seems like 26 weeks out of the year. I have no idea how she does it. Anyway, I particularly like this meme that I got from Charlotte, because more than any other meme I’ve seen, it most resembles the slam books of my youth to which I once compared memes. But, before reading this drivel, please go read Mandarine's very important post.

1. What is your occupation?

According to the nametag I'm wearing this week, my pretentious-sounding title is Executive Editor, Math and Science for an education publisher. That doesn’t necessarily mean I personally do anything all that important, but I get to work with lots of educators who do, and it’s the most fun and challenging job I’ve ever had. I also happen to be very occupied with such things as reading, cooking, and writing. I just don't get paid to do them (well, technically, I do get paid for reading and writing, but you know what I mean).

2. What colour are your socks right now?

White. (My ten-year-old self would be horrified. For some reason, I despised white socks when I was a kid, especially when I was forced to wear them with a dress, an article of clothing I also despised.)

3. What are you listening to right now?

Hotel doors opening and closing. If you mean what am I choosing to listen to these days when I turn on my iPod/other source of music, that would be:

Audiobook: Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder. Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous fun! Two friends of mine recommended this book to me, oh about ten years ago. I have no idea why I've taken so long to get around to it. If you've been thinking about reading it, love philosophy and mysteries, don't make the same mistake I did; it doesn't deserve to wait around for ten years. The audiobook version is extremely well done.

Music: When I was driving up and down the east coast last week, I brought tons of CDs with me, but I seemed to be most focused on Golden Smog. Gary Louris and Jeff Tweedy together? How can it possibly be anything but good? I also listened quite a bit to a great recording from Taizé, which was very calming.

4. What is the last thing you ate?

Some very yummy chicken and bow tie pasta "soup of the day" and a “house salad.” Can you tell I’m on the road?

5. Can you drive stick shift?

I had to learn to drive one when I was sixteen in order to get my license, because it was all my parents owned. I hated it at the time, but am so, so glad it was forced on me, because, otherwise, I could see having to learn to drive one becoming an irrational phobia. (Of course, that might have been preferable to the horrible snob I am instead who doesn’t believe anyone who can’t drive a stick shift really knows how to drive.)

6. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?

Sea green.

7. Last person you spoke to on the phone?

My boss.

8. What’s your favourite yoga pose?

I don’t really have a favorite pose, but I hate all the warrior poses.

9. How old are you today?

44 years, 1 month, and seventeen days (and I’m still doing slam books. Now that ten-year-old self is extremely happy, but slightly surprised).

10. Favourite drink?

Non-alcoholic: lemon-ginger tea (the more gingery, the better).

Alcoholic: gin (martini with olives or tonic, I’m not picky).

11. What is your favourite sport to watch?

Baseball (preferably live).

12. Have you ever dyed your hair?

Nope, the color of my hair is the only thing I like about it. I’d love to have black hair, but I’d look like a vampire with my translucently pale skin (and not one of those cool, sexy vampires. I’d look like the poor, little waif of a vampire who might as well be fully dead, the one all the other vampires make fun of).

13. Pets?

Excluding my husband, I assume? We have one king of the household cat named Francis (after the Patron Saint of Animals, naturally).

14. Favourite cake?

Chocolate with chocolate icing – with none of this raspberry filling or chocolate mousse or ice cream taking up space where perfectly good cake could be. But coconut is way up there, as well. In fact (dare I say it, because then it might be true?), coconut might actually be surpassing chocolate these days.

15. Last movie you saw?

P.S. I Love You. I love Hilary Swank so decided to watch this one on the airplane. Warning: if you are in the midst of a two-and-a-half-week period in which you have gotten to spend a total of two days with your spouse, and you are not one who relishes the idea of crying in public places where everyone can see you, do not watch this movie on a well-lit plane, no matter how worried you are that you might finish your book if you don't watch the movie, and uh-oh, your other books are up in the overhead compartment, because you forgot to take them out of your suitcase.

16. Favourite day of the year?

Does anyone at this point not know that it’s Halloween?

17. How do you vent anger?

Depends on who you ask. Bob would tell you I scream and yell and cry. I would tell you I raise my voice a little and maybe shed a tear or two.

18. What was your favourite toy as a child?

My stuffed panda bear and my Fisher Price barn with its little people and farm animals and “moo” sound whenever the door was opened (I’m guessing my parents preferred the stuffed panda to the mooing barn door).

19. Autumn or spring?

Right now as it’s springing up all over, I’m tempted to say spring, just like I am every year at this time. However, I know that it’s really fall with its crisp air, brightly-colored trees, sweater weather, and promise of wintry evenings by the fire. Besides, my favorite day of the year comes in fall.

20. Hugs or kisses?

That depends on who’s handing them out.

21. Cherry or blueberry?

Cherry, especially when we’re talking pies.

22. Do you want your friends to respond?

I always want my friends to respond.

23. Who is most likely to respond?

Becky, I think? I’m not sure.

24. Who is most likely not to respond.

Almost everyone.

25. Living arrangements?

I live in the manse owned by my husband’s church.

26. Last time you cried?

See last movie I saw (which is a good thing, despite the embarrassment of crying in public, because otherwise I’d have to embarrass myself by admitting that, shortly before that, I cried when I called Bob in a panic from the huge parking lot about ten miles from my terminal at the Philadelphia airport. This was the parking lot which I’d only found – no thanks to the horribly rude woman manning the short-term parking lot -- by driving around the airport twenty or so times. When I called Bob, I’d just had the third shuttle come by without stopping to pick me up, and I was convinced I was going to miss my flight. I was right. I did miss my flight, but by then, I’d gotten it out of my system and was fine.)

27. What is on the floor of your closet?

Shoes and boxes of stuff waiting around for me to open them and discover what they are (at home. On the hotel closet floor, we have shoes and my suitcase).

28. Who is the friend you’ve had the longest?

That’s a tough question. I have a few friends with whom I’ve been out of touch for ages that I’m sure if I called tomorrow, we’d pick up as if we’d just seen each other last week. But if we’re talking about someone with whom I’ve been in touch, that would be Tina, my college roommate.

29. Favourite smell?

Citrus, but hyacinth is nipping at its heals, vying for the label of “favorite.”

30. Who or what inspires you?

My husband.

31. What are you afraid of?

Pain (both emotional and physical).

32. Hamburgers?

Yes, but, ummm, where’s the question about hotdogs?

33. Favourite car?

I love the look of the Audi TT, but I am extremely fond of both the cars we own right now, a VW Passat and a Toyota Prius (which has been forgiven for not being a stick shift).

34. Number of keys on your key ring?

Funny you should ask just after I practically wrote a post on this.

35. How many years at your current job?

Three.

36. Favourite day of the week?

Sunday. I truly try to rest (when I’m not traveling to Salt Lake City, missing flights, that is).

37. How many countries have you lived in?

Two. I wish I could say more than that. Maybe one day…

38. Dream job?

If you’re talking about realistic dream job, I’ve pretty much got it. If you’re talking about unrealistic dream job, I’d love to be a food critic for The New York Times.

Now, if you want to give this one a go, consider yourself tagged.

Two New Challenges

So, I gather some of you would like me to hurry up and write that novel. I just met with a friend in Connecticut yesterday who wants me to hurry up and write that children's book whose plot I've discussed with her. She wants her Emily to be able to read it while she's still a child. I've (sort of) been learning to knit. This is an absolutely crazy month in which I've just been up to New England and back and am only home for three days before I take off for Salt Lake City for another week of conferences. Thus, what better thing to do than to take on two more challenges (especially since I have yet to finish one book for the science book challenge, although I've started The Double Helix)? But I really just cannot resist either one of these two new challenges (maybe I'm a challenge slut as well as a book slut?).

The first is Kate's modest poetry challenge. It's not a difficult challenge at all. In fact it's a perfect challenge for someone who has only started getting her poetry feet wet over the past couple of years. We're just going to post something about poetry (either a critique of a particular poem, or a review of a collection of poems, or something about a poet) sometime during the month of April (you can eagerly await my post showing up at 11:59 p.m. on April 30th). That doesn't sound too difficult, especially since at my favorite bookshop near the office, I picked up two poetry collections on Tuesday: May Sarton and Margaret Atwood. Oh, and if worse comes to worst, I can just change the date on my recent Emily Dickinson post. Everyone's already forgotten it, right?

The next challenge is GREAT fun! It's Ex Libris's Soup's On! Challenge , which involves not only reading 6 cookbooks (something I pretty much do every year anyway) between now and March 31, 2009, but also cooking and writing about at least one recipe from each book. Where else am I going to get the chance to pretend I'm Nigella Lawson or Mark Bittman, cooking away and then sending my articles off to The New York Times? The question is: should I choose really, really difficult recipes, thus resulting in what will probably be funnier posts for everyone to read, or just go with the ones that sound too delicious to ignore? I guess I'll have to think about it as I start reading.

Anyway, I'm hoping some of you other chefs out there will join this challenge. I'm also hoping some non-chefs will join (because I'm sure some more-hilarious-than-I-could-ever-write blog posts would result from all you talented writers out there). Most importantly, I'm hoping everyone will invite me to dinner at their places once the challenge has been completed.

Here are the books I'm planning to read and from which I'll be cooking:

The Best of Amish Cooking by Phyllis Pellman Good, because of my recent move to Amish country
How to Cook Everything Vegetarian by Mark Bittman, because I'm in love with Mark Bittman, and we don't eat a whole lot of meat in our household
The I Hate to Cook Book by Peg Bracken, because I haven't read it in years, because I'm also in love with Peg Bracken (she's SO funny. If I remember correctly, she sometimes has instructions such as, "Light a cigarette and stare dreamily out the window while meat browns"), and because I want to try adapting some of her "so-1950's" recipes to suit the 21st-century (maybe even turning some of the meat-based dishes into vegetarian ones)
Mrs. Schiang's Szechwan Cookbook by Ellen Schrecker, because I'm tired of not being able to cook Chinese food as well as my husband can, and it's one of the cookbooks his family has always used
Nourishing Traditions: The Cookbook that Challenges Politically Correct Nutrition and the Diet Dictocrats by Sally Fallon, because I'm not only into cooking but also into nutrition, and isn't this just such a great title?
The Wonderful World of Indian Cookery by Rohini Singh, because Lancaster County, PA doesn't exactly have a good Indian restaurant on every corner

Stay tuned throughout the rest of the year...

How Those Who HAVE to Write Procrastinate

If you've been reading my blog on a somewhat regular basis over the nearly two years I've been keeping it, you may have come across references I've made to the fact that I seem to have been born with a biological need to write. It isn't a choice for me the way it is for some lucky souls out there who can go weeks never having a single thought about putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). I never struggle from writer's block, per se, as I always have something in my head just dying to be written, often getting out its whip and chain, hurrying me out of restaurant/kitchen/bathroom and into a comfortable environment in which it can express itself. The problem is, those with the whips and chains demand far more attention (obviously. Typically, they're blog posts, though they're often things like Letters To The Editor That Never Get Published) than those that are sitting over in the corner, very quietly whispering, "Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be here when you can get to me. Look at the size of that whip. Oooh, you'd better do what she says."

The problem is, nine times out of ten, the one cowering in the corner (when it isn't a "thank you" note), deferring to Ms. Numchuck Champion, is The Novel. I've mentioned the fact in other posts this year that about two months ago I wrote a prologue for a novel that pleased me immensely. I then wrote the epilogue, which was not half as satisfying (in case you're wondering, Bob agreed with me, so it's not just me). Since then, I've re-written the epilogue (and I think made it even worse) and written half a chapter. Just this week, I decided the whole book had to be about something entirely different (it's a brilliant idea that I've given a hefty allowance in the hopes that it will buy some whips and chains of its own instead of running off to the Caribbean and telling me it's sure I can replace it with something else). What's wonderful is that with this new idea, I can dump that unsatisfying epilogue. However, it means re-writing the whole prologue in a different way.

So, what have I been doing? Well, have you noticed that I've written more blog posts this week than you've seen me write in a single week in, oh, about a year? (In fairness, some of that has to do with the fact that I'm on the road. It isn't easy to work on a novel when one is on the road, because there's really no time). During the couple of months since I started writing The Novel, I've written half of a draft of a new ghost story, the first few sentences of another one (because I have to do that, or I'll forget the brilliance of those sentences that popped into my head while I was driving), and the entire second draft of an old one (anyone else remember that one of my two new year's resolutions was to write new stories and not to revise old ones this year? So much for that. But, you see, I didn't realize The Novel was going to come along, begging me to do anything other than pay attention to it, when I made that resolution). Oh, and believe it or not, I've got three hand-written blog posts that were composed when I was in places where it was much easier to pull out a notebook and pen than a computer (train stations and hotel lounges, for example) that need to be transcribed at some point.

I guess that means my #1 procrastination technique for putting off writing is blogging. Now that is certainly ironic (no matter how you think the word should be defined). Anyone else out there do that?

Writers Beware: Do Not Pursue Publishing Careers

It's a natural, isn't it? You love books. You picked up a pencil at age six and have never put it down. You hate to admit it, because you purposely avoid reading any book with the Oprah seal on it, but you've dreamt about sitting down with Oprah and discussing your latest book. Your past loves are going to be SO upset they ever dumped you when they walk by their local Borders and see all those copies of your book on display in the window. The publishing industry is where you're headed for First Day Job as soon as you finish this Bachelor's/Masters in English, right? You'll have your foot in the door. You've read so many writers who started out in the publishing industry. Look where David Rakoff is now, and he was once a starving editorial assistant just like you're going to be.

I'm here to say to you: don't do it. Please, please don't do it. I spend quite a lot of time out here browsing through blogs written by all you oh-so-talented twenty-somethings, and I find myself thinking over and over again, "Oh, I hope he/she doesn't decide to go into publishing," because, chances are, if you go into publishing, I'll never get to read your book, and I want to read your book. You see, once you get a job in publishing, your life-long desire to want to publish a book of your own will plummet the way the stock market does whenever Republicans are in power too long. The publishing industry is a place meant really for editors, not for writers. And don't fool yourself into thinking, "Well, yes, she may be right when it comes to getting jobs at major trade publishers, but I'm not doing that. I'm just applying for this job at Tiny Little Publisher That Publishes Travel Guides or Midwest University Press, and this job certainly won't interfere with the novel I'm writing in the evenings and on weekends."

Once you've taken a job at Non-Trade Publisher, you'll find yourself sitting in meetings, listening to discussions about whether or not to publish a book and why, and it won't be long before you're thinking, "Man, if it's this bad here, imagine what it must be like at Major Trade Publisher." You will see books you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot-pole receive high praise in the review media and find yourself thinking, "Huh? We held our noses and stuck that piece of crap into production, because we were being hounded to make sure it made the fall list. Did the reviewer even do more than read the table of contents and the introduction?" You will read a gem of a proposal on restaurants in Australia and be the only one voting to publish it, because "we just have too many books about Australia on the list already." Besides, no one else thinks the author has enough clout, and "we need more big-name authors here." During the same meeting, someone will propose a book on hiking in Antarctica by Ms. Nobody, and everyone will be oooohing and ahhhhing, talking about how hiking in Antarctica is the next "hot thing," and "we can be the company that builds a name for Ms. Nobody."

You will also see great books on important topics turned into 16-page picture books, because the company does not want to pay the printing costs for a book that long. You will see the company's major authors wined and dined while slaves write their books for them. Meanwhile, you'll have to tell your "lessor" authors you're sorry but unless they can deliver triplicate manuscripts written in blood, the company won't sign a contract with them.

It's quite disheartening. I, too, once thought I wanted to be a published writer, but I no longer want to pursue that path. I've met very few colleagues in the world of publishing (at least on the editorial side of things) who did not at some point in their lives have dreams of becoming a writer. However, I have only known one or two with published books (and none of those were fiction, despite the fact I know one of these editors writes novels), so I have a feeling I am not the only one whose desire to publish was ruined by working in the publishing industry. I still love to write, but these days, the only place I plan to publish is in the blogosphere, so that those who enjoy reading me can do so, whether a group of ten people sitting around a table thinks they'd want to or not. I'm waiting for blogging software to improve to the point that it will be easier to post serial fiction, and then I will start doing that (I'm hoping I will have some final drafts of things written by the time the software catches up).

However, I don't want everyone publishing the way I plan to publish. My writing needs an editor (editors cannot edit their own writing. It just doesn't work), and the best way to get one of those is to publish the old-fashioned way. Besides, I don't want books to die. I don't even want publishing companies to die (although I wish they'd become less greedy). That means we need lots and lots of writers who have not become jaded by an inside view of the publishing industry. So, I'm begging all of you writers, yet again, to choose a different career path. Consider library science (you still get to be surrounded by books and readers all day). Consider teaching. Consider being a ski instructor. Leave publishing up to the editors (believe it or not, there are people out there who were born to edit, not to write, and who are perfectly content doing just that). Just do two things for me please: keep writing, and never give up.

"Hey, Lady, Whatcha Got in Your Bag?"

So when I was in Connecticut last Tuesday, I had lunch with a group of friends that included Zoesmom and Becky (by the way, everyone needs to go leave a comment at Musings from the Sofa on Monday wishing Becky well on her first day at New Job with Major Publishing House in NYC). Anyway, they both indicated that they're waiting for my version of the "contents of my handbag" meme, despite the fact I shared everything in it with them. I explained that I'd recently had to buy a new bag, because the strap on my old one broke. It's a very nice, black (because it has to be due to my tendency to do such things as drop anything I might be carrying onto dirty train platforms/streets/restaurant floors, etc.), soft leather (because if I'm going to carry such a thing around with me all the time, it had better be tactilely pleasing), not huge, but not tiny bag with a nice long shoulder strap that has an adjustable buckle.

ZM and Becky immediately informed me that my problem is not that I try to carry too much, but that my purse is too small. Becky is the one, remember, who doesn't carry a bag unless it will hold a book. One of our other dining companions that day, who happens to be about the size of your average ring box, informed us that she won't carry a bag unless it will hold both a book and a magazine. I don't know how she does it; I can't imagine lugging around something that's bigger than I am (although she is awfully fit).

I still can't help thinking that I really must carry less. Since this was a new bag, before showing off its contents, I did happen to have taken out some of the truly unnecessary articles I found in my old bag (like about five extra pens and the ticket stub to the high school musical Bob and I went to see last month, and an empty mint box), but that doesn't seem to have done a whole lot of good, because the item count is still pushing 20:

1. Keys (more on them in a minute)
2. Change purse, which holds cash and change
3. Credit card holder (more on that in another minute)
4. comb
5. mini bottle of Excedrin, because I'm prone to headaches
6. contact lens re-wetting drops
7. sunglasses
8. bottle of hand lotion taken from some hotel (because I'm the former child who, due to her super dry skin, once asked her mother if she could possibly be related to alligators)
9. phone charger for my Blue Tooth (which I don't normally carry with me, but I do when I'm traveling long distance anywhere by car. Why, I don't know, because I hate the Blue Tooth, and if anyone wants to know why, just say so, please and I'll compose an entire post on it one of these days, which will also include information on why I hate ear buds)
10. cell phone
11. Blue Tooth (ditto the charger)
12. 2 feminine hygeine products
13. beautiful monogrammed silver business card case given to me as a going-away gift by my former boss when I left my old company, and which I always forget to refill with business cards (I don't care about such things, but I'm sure he'd want me to tell you it's Tiffany's)
14. an envelope with business receipts (added since Becky and ZM saw the contents of my bag)
15. a grocery store coupon that has expired and will be thrown away now, so it won't be going back into the bag when I'm done with this exercise
16. 2 pens
17. one mechanical pencil
18. Burt's Bee's lip shimmer (rhubarb), because I like the practicality of lip balm and lipstick all in one
Normally, I have mints, but I haven't bothered yet to replace my empty box with a new one

Now, let's talk about keys. They are quite obviously my biggest, heaviest objects. I blame it on Volkswagen, who makes a very cool car key that folds up into itself and would be fantastic (could even fit into those pracically non-existent pockets so fashionable on women's clothing) if it were the only key anyone ever had to carry. However, stick it on a key ring with other keys, and it becomes nothing but a huge, boxy nuisance that immediately increases the entire chain's weight by 110%. The key to the Prius isn't really much better, once you add its separate remote (we have the old-model Prius, not the one that starts with the push of a button as long as the key is somewhere on the premises). On my keychain, I also have one key to the manse (which could come off, because I don't need it, since our back door has a combination lock. But if I take it off, that will be the one day the combination doesn't work); a key to the house in Connecticut, which we are renting to others right now; a fob to the office; a key to the company apartment; and the key to my brother-in-law's house (also in CT). You may be asking, "Well, why does she have to carry all those keys around all the time?" The answer is that I don't happen to be fifteen anymore, and when given the number of things that accumulate in a brain throughout a lifetime of living, mine likes to remember such extraordinarily useful things as my first boyfriend's birthday rather than trivial matters such as the fact I'm arriving at the company apartment at 10:00 on a Sunday night and will need my key to get into it. I did decide, though, while perusing the contents of my pocketbook as I am, to take all my keys off the main chain, grouping them together on several rings with fewer numbers of keys on each, which makes my purse less bulky. We'll see how this works once I start using them again (right now, all I've been using is the hotel room key card).

And speaking of cards, let's take a look at the credit card holder. Wouldn't it be nice if all it held were my driver's licence and one credit card? But no, that would mean I lived a very simple life, which we all know I don't. Here's what my credit card holder contains:

driver's licence
personal credit card
company credit card
debit card
AAA card (which is about to expire, I see)
library card
BJs membership card (something I wouldn't have except it's one of our company's perques, so why not?)
health insurance card
dental insurance card
I also have a little laminated card made by someone at the office that has the cell phone numbers of all those at the company who have company cell phones (this comes in awfully handy when you arrive at the apartment after work hours to discover your key is bent and won't open the door and you need to call the office manager)
(Can you understand why I have a complete and utter fear of losing this very important little holder?)

So, there you have it. Is it so much or not? How do you women I see carrying around nothing but wallets manage to do it? What does everyone think I should weed out first?

Pennsylvania: So Much to Love...

I am currently in the midst of a ten-day business trip in New England. Need I say I’m in Seventh Heaven? I started with a visit to our sister company’s office where I used to work in Connecticut and spent the night with friends in the area last night. Now I’m in Boston at a conference until Sunday, and I will then be heading to office headquarters for a couple of days before I wind my way back down to Pennsylvania via Connecticut again. Of course, it’s “spring” in New England, which means it’s still winter. (Around July 1, summer will make its three week appearance before fall sets in.) The thermometer on my car when I parked it at a commuter train station today said it was close to 50 degrees, but don’t let those thermometers fool you. The wind is blowing in Boston as though the city has heard she’s up for a lucrative job as a Chicago impersonator, and I am very grateful to have my long wool coat with me. Nonetheless, I’m happy as a (New England) clam (chowder). I even plan to go set foot on the shores of my beloved Maine on Sunday afternoon, since I will actually have some time to do that, which doesn’t usually happen when I’m visiting the office.

All this New England exposure is making me feel good, but oddly enough, it’s making me feel good about Pennsylvania. Last time I was in Connecticut, a couple of months ago, I didn’t seem to be able to stop crying. This time, I’ve had a much more laid-back reaction, and I didn’t shed a tear until I put in an Eddie from Ohio CD with a song that has nothing to do with Connecticut and that always makes me cry, no matter where I am.

I haven’t given too many details about life in Pennsylvania since we moved, which has been an indication that I’ve not exactly had the easiest time adjusting to my new hometown. I would love to be able to say that I moved right in, bought a straw hat and a hoe, felt right at home, and am currently in the market for a couple of dairy cows. In reality, I spent the first three months wondering what on earth Bob and I had done, but keeping it all to myself, because I didn’t want him to feel bad about dragging me away from Connecticut, nor did I want to admit that I might have made a mistake in choosing this place (after all, this was a joint decision that we made together, and we did not make it lightly). Turns out (funny the way marriage works, huh?) that I should not have been keeping my feelings to myself. When Bob and I finally started talking about it in depth, I discovered that he, too, when he had a moment to breathe between funerals and committee meetings and parishioners who “need to talk to you,” and Lent coming practically the day after New Year’s (oh yeah, and writing a sermon every week), would sometimes find himself wondering what on earth he and I had done.

But we’ve now been in our new home for six months, and I’m feeling settled (granted, sometimes I feel I’ve “settled” somewhere like Pluto, but I’m still feeling settled). One thing I have to say about Pennsylvanians is that they are very down-to-earth and ingenuous people. I’ve been told this isn’t the case, that they don’t tend to welcome newcomers to the area, but my experience has been nothing of the sort. We’ve been welcomed with open arms, and not only by our church members. Neighbors and others in the community seem to be eager to get to know us and have been making attempts to do so. We’ve been invited to “escape” to secluded farms where we can walk and sit on the front porch with our books when we feel the need to get away. We’ve also been invited to hang out at others’ swimming pools this summer, “especially during the day, because no one’s here all day long, you know.” I had to know people in Connecticut forever and practically make blood pacts with them, or at least sign legal documents, before I received similar sorts of invitations. Before, I was living in an area where people were always trying to be smarter and wittier than the next guy. Now I’m living in an area where everyone fears they’re too dumb to understand much (which just isn’t true. Many of them are actually much smarter and wiser than those “let-me-one-up-you-on-my-knowledge-of-inane-trivia" bores with whom I often had to interact in New York and Connecticut), and they have passion, which is always a wonderful quality. They’re eager to love and to learn and to share.

I love other things about Pennsylvania as well. I love the fact that I can walk to both the bank and the post office, impossibilities where I used to live. I love the fact that just about everything else I really need is within about five miles of my house. My main “grocery store” is an Amish market located on an Amish farm, where almost all the produce is organic and where most of it, come summer, will be locally grown. (One hazard for someone like me is buying their beef. If the cows happen to be grazing in the field next to the market when I arrive, the beef gets crossed off the grocery list. I have definitely learned, since moving here, that I could never farm meat.) As a matter of fact, I could hardly have picked a better spot for locally grown and produced food. The city of Lancaster has a famous farmer’s market. This is one of the few areas of the country where one can buy things like raw milk and cheese (the cheese is absolutely delicious). I can’t wait till this summer to experience it fully.

When one gets tired of being too much of an environmental goody-two-shoes, just a half-hour drive away is Wegman’s, a store that puts the “super” in supermarket (and where I finally discovered I could get the Greek yogurt I’ve been hooked on ever since reading French Women Don’t Get Fat -- a book, I am convinced, that single-handedly created a successful market for Greek yogurt in this country -- which has saved me from having to break down and make my own). If you’re going to have to move away from NYC’s Fairway market, try to make sure there is a Wegman’s somewhere nearby. Apparently the chain is developing its own organic farms, and they make the news quite often for being a place that treats both its customers and its employees well (ever seen any other supermarket chains that actually provides seats for its cashiers?).

Oh, and speaking of food: you know, those Amish can certainly bake. I guess they do it all the time, have an abundance, and don’t want to waste it, so they offer it up to us English who don’t mind at all paying for their sumptuous cherry or chocolate pecan pies, as well as their soft, doughy breads. Sometimes they just stick tables right out in front of their homes with things like gooey cinnamon buns for sale. I’m not sure the Amish invented whoopee pies, but they are tasty little treats as well. (I guess there’s a reason I’ve gained five pounds since moving here, despite all my walking.)

Here’s another terrific thing about Pennsylvania. For the first time in my voting life, I’m living somewhere where all eyes are on us. And I am heartened and excited by the fact that we seem to know quite a few people in this extremely Republican area of ours who are switching party affiliations this year in order to be able to vote in the primaries (they are people who tend to vote Democratic on the national level but have always been registered Republicans, because they need to be for local elections if they want to have any say). I’m hoping this is happening in other small Republican towns across the country. I’m still very worried that the Democrats are doing everything they possibly can to hand this election over to John McCain, but living where I do is giving me a little hope. Oh, and talking about the Democrats’ fumbling and bumbling of the election reminds me of yet another good thing about where I now live. The paper carries Donald Kaul, a columnist I have not gotten to read since moving away from North Carolina, because The New York Times does not carry him. It’s nice to know he’s as good as he ever was twenty years ago.

So, you see, it’s growing on me more and more every day. Just wait till the day we finally move to Maine. You just might hear me bemoaning the fact that I can no longer get a good whoopee pie and wondering why no one invites us to come ice skating on their swimming pools when they’re away at work all day.

Drake Waller's It Rhymes with Lust

Waller, Drake. It Rhymes with Lust. Milwaukie, OR: Dark Horse Books. 2007.

(This is my second 2008 graphic novel challenge. The book was originally published in 1949. Drake Waller is the pseudonym for the two authors Arnold Drake and Leslie Waller.)

Rust Masson, the conniving businesswoman of this fun little graphic novel, could certainly give Gordon Gekko of the film Wall Street a run for his money. It's almost as if Gekko had been based on her character, as similarly ruthless as they both are. But then, this is no original character. Throughout history, we've seen plenty of fictional (and even nonfictional) business tycoons who will stop at nothing to get their way. These characters never have any feelings or sentiment for their fellow human beings, and (in fiction at least), they tend to lose out in the end.

I find it interesting, though, that the authors of this book (basically regarded as the first real graphic novel -- defined thus, from what I understand, because it had both panels of pictures and words to tell the story, unlike earlier works that told stories with panels of pictures only) chose a woman to be their "evil businessman." All kinds of things could be said about this, since the book was written right after WWII, a period when women had more or less been running the show in this country while the men were off fighting. Granted, Rust hasn't risen to power due to years of working her way up the ranks. Rather, she set her sights on marrying the man who "owned Copper City," and when he dies, the city becomes hers. Still, she's a powerful woman who knows what she wants and sets out to get it. Quite obviously, she was never some "trophy wife," oblivious to politics and business deals.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, that's Rust on the cover. Isn't she fabulous? Isn't the whole cover fabulous? Can't you just picture an old-fashioned, newsstand-type bookstore, this book on display amongst similar-looking comic books and non-graphic crime novels? I love the front cover copy. "She was greedy, heartless, and calculating. She knew what she wanted and was willing to sacrifice anything to get it. AN ORIGINAL FULL-LENGTH NOVEL." The cover tells you everything you need to know about the black-and-white illustrations inside. I'm reminded of the stuff I never bothered to read in the funnies as a kid (Dick Tracy, Mary Worth, et al.), because, of course, those were "comic strips for grownups." They weren't funny.

"For grownups" is right. Perhaps It Rhymes with Lust isn't even on display in that old bookstore. Perhaps it's hidden behind the counter with other "unmentionables," available only by request. Or maybe one can only buy it in one of those unsavory sorts of stores, those places where ladies and gentlemen would never be seen.

After all, the book is so clearly written to appeal to what could almost be called The Collective Male Fantasy. A seasoned newspaper man has been bewitched and beguiled by the evil Rust Masson (always dressed in low cut, revealing blouses and cat suits), and he must fight her and all the temptations she offers that will certainly lead him straight to hell if he's not careful. Meanwhile, there's good, sweet Audrey Masson (Russ's stepdaughter. Always dressed in modest turtlenecks and blouses) with her cottage in the country and desire to do nothing more than take care of a man. Both women (of course) desperately want him, and it's up to him to decide which way to go. (I'm betting I don't need to tell you who wins out in the end, but not until he's had a little fun with the other.)

We could read so much into this, couldn't we? The powerful woman is the bad one. The woman who longs to play homemaker to the man is good. Men were feeling somewhat powerless, I'm sure, upon returning home from the war and finding that women had, rather than botching things up and being completely helpless without them, kept this country running just fine on their own. But I'll choose not to do all that analyzing for now. It's a fun read, one best read right after a Sunday afternoon nap, a big wad of Bazooka Joe in the mouth and a bottle of root beer handy.