ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!

I actually had to count out the "ch's" to see if I got the song right.

I'm sitting here at work, having last week started a short term assignment for a non-profit in midtown. Starting my proofreading class next monday, and heading in for volunteer orientation at a literacy non-profit. Book is coming out in August... and I'm twiddling my thumb. Doh-de-doh...

I really don't think anyone reads this thing, so I'm going to be honest here, more honest than I would if I thought it mattered so much...

I feel really lucky for all the opportunities I've been given. So I don't want to sound like a complainer. But I can help but feel frustrated that the ground beneath my feet barely seems to solidify before shifting again.

I was on a bus back from Boston a couple months ago, and I ended up meeting this writer named Rachel Cohen who was really neat. She had lots to say about writing and teaching and life and people. She told me this story about interviewing Norman Mailer for this book she wrote, and how he'd asked her: So when does the book come out?

RC: 8 months.

NM: Hmm... Maybe your character is stronger than mine, but take it from me, that's a long time. This is the hardest part.

I've been waiting over a year, and I still have 3 months to go. Since I've never shot anyone (yet), I certainly don't have Norman Mailer's strength of character!

I think I'm going to have to move again (for the 10th time in ten years), and I really don't want to. It's about money and not having the big important job I used to have back when I first moved into this place. I was talking with Ethan last night, and we decided that another move for me should be fun. That I should look at it as an opportunity to make things better for myself. Get a bigger bedroom. Get a closet. You know, stuff that's hard to find in NYC? It's all about perspective... or something.

Recently, all I've really wanted to do is leave New York. I really do love it here, but I'm starting to feel the pull of trees and water and mountains and air... I don't know where that would be exactly, but I'm beginning to think that a vacation there just isn't going to cut it for much longer. Maybe it's summertime, but I don't think so...

The frustrating thing is that I can't afford to move to the country just yet -- so if I do move, it'll have to be within NYC. Which is super expensive... I'm in a catch-22, I think.

Help!

This was a bit of a ramble... oops.

Meeting People

This morning, I gave a talk to a group of students at the school where my step-father works. The class was called "life-skills," and the students were all part of the special education curriculum. Basically, I spoke about what it means to be a writer. I have to say it was pretty awesome.

I was nervous at first, mostly because I haven't really done too much of this sort of thing yet. A couple weeks ago, I participated in a Teen Advisory Group run by my friend Anne at the New York Public Library. But other than that, I haven't really gotten up in front of a group of young people since I did children's theater after college. Ah, the memories. Still, performing in a play for kids is majorly different from actually talking about yourself and what you do for a living.

Today, I was impressed with my audience. They paid attention and asked questions and seemed generally interested in what I had to say, which is pretty cool considering that none of them had read my book, or even heard of me before that class. They wanted to know about the cover art, and the titles of my other books, and if The Stone Child is going to be turned into a movie... Ha. I told them that I wouldn't mind if it is.

I'm looking forward to doing more of this kind of thing in the future... Gets me psyched. Helps me remember why I wanted to do this whole writing thing in the first place.

Cheers!

A Ghost Story (the first)

Bonus post for today:

Anyone who knows me, knows that I've always loved a good ghost story. Telling 'em, listening to 'em, it's all good. I've lived in quite a few haunted places over the course of my life -- I don't think I'm special or anything... but I have certainly moved a whole bunch... My high ghost percentage probably has to do with this fact more than anything else: the law of averages. Living in many places gives you more chances to end up in a weird one.

I also have to say before I relate the most recent occurrence, I'm not even sure if I actually believe in ghosts. How's that, you ask? I dunno. What I do know is that weird things can happen and often there are no explanations.

Here's my story: I currently live in a sprawling penthouse apartment in an old pre-war building in Brooklyn, NY. No, I'm not rich. I live in the eensy-weensy maid's quarters just off the smallish kitchen. Ah, the writer's life...

My roommate, who owns the place, has been out of town for awhile and I've been alone there. In some of the other places I've lived, I've definitely felt something strange right off the bat. But in the almost 2 years I've lived in Brooklyn, I haven't really noticed anything weird, even after I learned that the guy who built the building jumped off the roof after it opened. That's right, he might have leaped from the ledge just outside my bedroom window. But if his ghost haunts my building, he's not hanging around the roof.

Anyway, this past week, I was in the kitchen late at night, getting something from the fridge, I don't remember what. I went to close the refrigerator door, and for some reason, it bumped back open. I reached forward to close it again. At that moment, I very clearly heard a female voice next to me say, "Pardon me."

Mm-hm. Hallucination you ask? A noisy next door neighbor? Who knows. I'm going to go with the maid who's room I now inhabit. If I'm living with her ghost, at least she's polite!

Cheers...

Way Too Long

I'm taking a break from the failed title of the day feature, if only because I haven't posted a note in several months... Whoa, it's been like three and half months since I've even looked at this thing. And man have things changed.

Since my last update, I've snagged a wonderful agent, wrote a tentative proposal for a new series, started two more manuscripts (one of which I'm currently working on), and spoken to a group of teens at the New York Public Library for the first time ever. I've gotten feedback from actual strangers who've read advanced copies of my book. Things are finally starting to continue to happen! I cannot wait for August when my book is actually on shelves.

Right now, I'm up in Webster, MA, visiting my mom and step-dad at their lake house. I really needed to take a break from NYC. I'm trying to work on this next manuscript, but mostly I've found myself just thinking thinking thinking... I've realized how much time I spend in my head, and I'm not sure if it's so healthy. At the same time, I've come to the conclusion that, for me, the act of writing, of exploring the world of a story is like twisting the release valve on a pressure cooker. I need to write in order to stay sane and if I can't, I start to go a little nuts...

I wonder if other people feel this sort of thing, and not necessarily with writing? For awhile there, I was going to the gym three or four times a week. At that time, I needed to exercise the same way I needed to write. Not sure why I stopped. Does anyone feel compelled toward a hobby or activity which you feel keeps you sane?

I don't know what it is about stories that gets me out of my head, makes me feel safe. Telling them or listening to them, watching them in a dark theater, or reading them while tucked into bed... Mmm. The best...

Okay, so this is a bit of a ramble. I'm going to get back to work now before I break...

Cheers!

Minor Discomfort

Failed title of the day: Minor Discomfort. (You know this story has to be about jailbait, a concept which, in the wrong hands, is doomed to to be bad... I, for one, shall not go there...)

Anyway... hello! Long time no write. That's because I've been busy finishing my latest book. You heard it here first. I finished the manuscript yesterday. (And by 'finished,' I mean I'm just now getting started... because hearty revisions are yet to come, I'm certain.)

I'm very excited because I've actually accomplished what I set out to do a mere month and half ago when I quit my day job.

I'm looking forward to next week's holiday, when I won't be distracted by having to run from my family and hide in my room, tap-tap-tapping away on this keyboard. I may still run from my family, but it won't have anything to do with writing.

(I'm kidding! You know I love you all... and I cannot wait to eat yummy food, listen to Christmas carols, and fall asleep underneath the sparkly tree at my mother and step-father's house in Massachussetts. Ah, just thinking about it now is making me giddy.)

Isn't it funny how I pretend people actually read this thing?

HARD

Hey there. Failed title of the day = HARD. Try to to write that story. You'll fail.

Probably.

That title actually isn't so bad... and I must admit, it's a last minute replacement for the failed title I'd been thinking of for the past few days. For some reason, this morning, my original idea flew out the brain and left the country. But HARD is good enough. It's a little racy, a little gritty, and waaaay dumb. I don't know what the story would be... but it sounds like a sexy cop novel. Or something.

So here I am a little farther from the raft. The writing is getting HARDer. Last week really tripped me up for some reason. Maybe it was the holiday and all the obligations which come along with that...

But I really think my biggest stumble came after I read an article in the New York Times about the publishing industry and how everyone is freaking out about future sales and acquisitions and how many folks are leaving their jobs or getting fired... And blah blah blah, economy woes, blah, blah, blah. Ugh. Some advice for struggling artists out there: nix the articles in bourgeois publications about how the market for your work sucks and you're doomed. DOOMED. Said articles are not helpful for 'creativity.' (Mmm, the balm of cynicism feels so good.) I've spent the past week with my mind a whirling, wondering if I've made a mistake, and cursing the banks for f-ing up the world just when I finally have the balls to try to make a change in my life...

I'm about to start on today's pages... My characters are finally learning the TRUTH about their situation. I'm about to set up their race to the finish line. (On your marks... BLAM!) Over the weekend, I plotted out the end of the book -- and realized (once again) that what I thought was going to be a tight, quick, economical little story has metastasized into a full-fledged epic. It's possible that my trip-up (and creative psych-out) was caused by realizing the book won't be complete within the next 50 pages, as I'd planned. I'm learning that I just need to let that go. I've got to become an organic farmer and tend my crop without the pesticide called Negativity (Blecch, sorry... that was awful. And so, there's another failed title for ya: A Pesticide Called Negativity. Try to write that story. You'll fail!)

Seriously, I'm thinking of taking my laptop and sitting underneath the dining room table (or in my closet, or on top of the washing machine) just to get a different perspective. I wonder if that might help...?

At the very least, this week, I'm staying away from the New York Times.

Cheers!

The Diary of a Sad-Sack Muffin

So I decided (just this second) that one feature of this little blogging experiment will be: titles for imaginary failed novels. Henceforth, you will find the imaginary title at the top of each post. Today's: The Diary of a Sad-Sack Muffin. Go ahead, try to write that story. You'll fail.

Anyway... an update. I've finished week two of this full-time novelist gig. Week one was extra-ordinary. Oh such freedom! I went to a movie, met up with friends for lunches, dinners, spent a little money I do not have, explored a couple museums... joined a dang Dungeons and Dragons group. Oh yeah, and I did some writing.

Week two was different. More real. A little more lonely. (I keep reading in different places that writing is a solitary existence... um, yeah.) But, and this is a big BUT, (ha, big butt) I've more than doubled the manuscript's pages since I quit the job.

To give some perspective: from the end of August to the beginning of November, while working full-time at the hospital, I'd managed to produce a meager 35 pages. A good beginning, but the writing time was way too inconsistent. After two weeks of writing every day, I've pumped out (ha, pumped) an extra 55 pages. That's write (oops... right), I'm up to 90 pages, suckas. More important, I'm happy with the book, so far! (I know! Unbelievable!) If I can continue at this rate, I hope to be done by the beginning of December.

Despite all the realness, the trying to figure it out-ness of my new life, so far, the move has paid off, at least metaphorically.

So I guess the point of this entry is to tell you all to quit your jobs. You'll be much happier. Most of you will probably all be fired soon anyway, so why not beat them to the punch?

Cheers!