Kimberly Brubaker Bradley's Blog, page 20
March 23, 2017
Lemon Delight in Big Stone Gap
Yesterday I had the honor of speaking at the 41st Annual John Fox Jr. Literary Festival in Big Stone Gap, Virginia. John Fox Jr. was a turn-of-the-century (last one before this one) bestselling author; his best-remembered novels are The Kentuckians and Trail of the Lonesome Pine. I googled John this morning and learned that while he was born in Kentucky, he was the son of wealthy mine owners, and he not only graduated from Harvard but fought with Theodore Roosevelt's Rough Riders before settling down in Big Stone Gap to write.
Big Stone Gap is also the title of Adriana Trigiani's first novel, set there where she grew up. So it's got a pretty good writing history for a small Appalachian town stuck deep in the middle of nowhere. (One of the women at the festival told me, "No one goes to Big Stone Gap by accident.")
It was a pretty drive from Bristol, though it would be even lovelier if the trees on the mountains had leaves. I left home early, mostly because I was ready to go and didn't know what else to do with myself, and that turned out to be a good thing: I forgot how on these curvy mountain state highways the speed limits are along the lines of double-dog dares. It saves money policing when everyone who exceeds the speed limit just flies right off the edge of the road.
The festival was fun. My talk went well and I enjoyed the people I met. Afterwards the organizers and some of the writing contest winners and I had lunch in the John Fox Jr. House, where John Fox Jr. wrote. It's now a museum that reminded me very much of the Gene Stratton Porter house in Indiana, which I visited when I was small. (Leave a comment with your favorite GSP book, if you have one.) A group of museum volunteers cooked and served lunch, which was a fancy chicken breast with spinach and bacon, seven-layer salad, and homemade rolls, plus strawberries over angel food cake for dessert. I haven't had a good seven-layer salad in a long time, and I don't know what the secret women from this part of the country have about rolls--I've tried and tried to make good homemade rolls and I never can, but every mountain cook above a certain age is ace at it.
I sincerely complimented the food, while eating all of it, and told the others at my table that while I enjoyed cooking I felt that lately I'd fallen into a recipe rut, an "if this is Thursday it must be pork chops," kind of thing. The conference organizer immediately made me a present of the cookbook put out by the ladies of the John Fox Jr. House--it's a lovely volume. I was thumbing through it, quite pleased, and one of the museum ladies was pointing out the chicken with spinach and bacon recipe, when I stumbled across another recipe, and gasped.
"Lemon delight!" I said. I scanned the ingredients and directions. The very same.
"Yes," the conference organizer said. "It's wonderful. I nearly ordered it for our lunch today."
"My mother makes it," I said. "When I was little it was her go-to dessert for bridge night." A layer of nutty shortbread, baked in the oven. After that a layer of slightly sweetened cream cheese. Then thick lemon pudding, then whipped cream. The day after bridge night I ate a piece of the leftovers for breakfast. I always did it in layers, first skimming off the whipped cream, trying to remove as much of it as I could without dipping into the lemon layer. Then the lemon layer, again trying not to nick the layer of cream cheese. Then I ate the bottom layers together.
I don't think I've had lemon delight for thirty years. When my mother makes dessert for family occasions she goes with carrot cake or apple pie, the favorites of my husband and children.
I did not expect it, yesterday, to be sitting in an old cabin in the Appalachian mountains and feel so entirely as though I were back in my childhood home.
Big Stone Gap is also the title of Adriana Trigiani's first novel, set there where she grew up. So it's got a pretty good writing history for a small Appalachian town stuck deep in the middle of nowhere. (One of the women at the festival told me, "No one goes to Big Stone Gap by accident.")
It was a pretty drive from Bristol, though it would be even lovelier if the trees on the mountains had leaves. I left home early, mostly because I was ready to go and didn't know what else to do with myself, and that turned out to be a good thing: I forgot how on these curvy mountain state highways the speed limits are along the lines of double-dog dares. It saves money policing when everyone who exceeds the speed limit just flies right off the edge of the road.
The festival was fun. My talk went well and I enjoyed the people I met. Afterwards the organizers and some of the writing contest winners and I had lunch in the John Fox Jr. House, where John Fox Jr. wrote. It's now a museum that reminded me very much of the Gene Stratton Porter house in Indiana, which I visited when I was small. (Leave a comment with your favorite GSP book, if you have one.) A group of museum volunteers cooked and served lunch, which was a fancy chicken breast with spinach and bacon, seven-layer salad, and homemade rolls, plus strawberries over angel food cake for dessert. I haven't had a good seven-layer salad in a long time, and I don't know what the secret women from this part of the country have about rolls--I've tried and tried to make good homemade rolls and I never can, but every mountain cook above a certain age is ace at it.
I sincerely complimented the food, while eating all of it, and told the others at my table that while I enjoyed cooking I felt that lately I'd fallen into a recipe rut, an "if this is Thursday it must be pork chops," kind of thing. The conference organizer immediately made me a present of the cookbook put out by the ladies of the John Fox Jr. House--it's a lovely volume. I was thumbing through it, quite pleased, and one of the museum ladies was pointing out the chicken with spinach and bacon recipe, when I stumbled across another recipe, and gasped.
"Lemon delight!" I said. I scanned the ingredients and directions. The very same.
"Yes," the conference organizer said. "It's wonderful. I nearly ordered it for our lunch today."
"My mother makes it," I said. "When I was little it was her go-to dessert for bridge night." A layer of nutty shortbread, baked in the oven. After that a layer of slightly sweetened cream cheese. Then thick lemon pudding, then whipped cream. The day after bridge night I ate a piece of the leftovers for breakfast. I always did it in layers, first skimming off the whipped cream, trying to remove as much of it as I could without dipping into the lemon layer. Then the lemon layer, again trying not to nick the layer of cream cheese. Then I ate the bottom layers together.
I don't think I've had lemon delight for thirty years. When my mother makes dessert for family occasions she goes with carrot cake or apple pie, the favorites of my husband and children.
I did not expect it, yesterday, to be sitting in an old cabin in the Appalachian mountains and feel so entirely as though I were back in my childhood home.
March 18, 2017
What Inspires Me?
Usually I don't write on Saturdays; weekends are for my family. After all, my husband doesn't operate on Saturdays, unless he's on call and there's some kind of horrible crisis (punched drunk, firework to the eye, and a nasty incident involving a potato chip bag come to mind). However this is not a typical Saturday--I'm at the beach, the weather's looking dreary, and the boys are golfing early in order to be home in time for Notre Dame's basketball game, which starts at noon. I slept in a bit--not much--finished the latest book I'm reading--I'm on a Maisie Dobbs craze, I think I just finished #9--I have #10 right here with me, though, with the miracle of Kindle, books are never far away--and I'm sitting here at my computer staring at the mess that was yesterday's work, and contemplating the mess I might create today.
When I do classroom visits, one of the first questions children ask me is, "What inspired you to write--whatever book?" I have come to really dislike this question. First of all, I suspect it's a good-student question, ie., not what the children most want to know, but what they think sounds good to their teacher. "Ah, good question!" the teacher thinks, and smiles approvingly. Second, by the time we get to audience questions I've usually told them all about what inspired whatever book we're discussing, and now I've got to say it over again, only more precisely. But mostly this question irritates me because I. Am. Never. Inspired.
Okay. Once in awhile. Once in a very, very great while. Jamie's cat Bovril, for example--he showed up in a dream, and so did the sidesaddle, and both of those were answers to problems I didn't consciously know my novel had--but I will submit that I knew them unconsciously, and that's why I dreamed solutions.
Writing a novel is like putting together a puzzle whose pieces keep changing. I don't think it all up in a white heat of glorious creative passion. I work it out, page by page, day by day. Writing is my job. It's my work, and it is work. I love it; I'm grateful every day that I get to do this with my life. But I'm not inspired. I'm working. On a day like today, when I've got a mess of seven pages staring at me, this is very good news. I don't need to fix them. I just need to keep working.
When I do classroom visits, one of the first questions children ask me is, "What inspired you to write--whatever book?" I have come to really dislike this question. First of all, I suspect it's a good-student question, ie., not what the children most want to know, but what they think sounds good to their teacher. "Ah, good question!" the teacher thinks, and smiles approvingly. Second, by the time we get to audience questions I've usually told them all about what inspired whatever book we're discussing, and now I've got to say it over again, only more precisely. But mostly this question irritates me because I. Am. Never. Inspired.
Okay. Once in awhile. Once in a very, very great while. Jamie's cat Bovril, for example--he showed up in a dream, and so did the sidesaddle, and both of those were answers to problems I didn't consciously know my novel had--but I will submit that I knew them unconsciously, and that's why I dreamed solutions.
Writing a novel is like putting together a puzzle whose pieces keep changing. I don't think it all up in a white heat of glorious creative passion. I work it out, page by page, day by day. Writing is my job. It's my work, and it is work. I love it; I'm grateful every day that I get to do this with my life. But I'm not inspired. I'm working. On a day like today, when I've got a mess of seven pages staring at me, this is very good news. I don't need to fix them. I just need to keep working.
March 17, 2017
Not Really Sure Where I Am
So to some extent right now I have no idea where I am. I mean, physcially, I'm in south Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, sitting inside an oceanfront condominium that we rented cheap at the last minute when my son got a few of his job interview/spring break issues sorted. I know that it's Friday, mostly because I spent yesterday watching the NCAA basketball tournament with my son--Notre Dame won an ugly game by one point, that was not fun--but better than losing--and I'm pretty sure it's mid-March, though I couldn't swear to the date.
My son and I arrived here on Wednesday and played the tackiest mini-golf we could find, which was actually astonishingly tacky. We went grocery shopping and walked the very very cold beach. Yesterday it was warmer--we walked twice, between tournament rounds--and today it's warmer still. My husband drove down to join us late last night and he and my son are golfing somewhere as I type this. That's really the whole point of Myrtle Beach--two golf courses they want to play. And otherwise I don't really see a point to it--it's like an ocean version of Pigeon Forge, lots of inexpensive accommodations, bungee jumping, and cheap pancake houses, but not much in terms interesting restaurants, riding, hiking, museums, historical sites, bookstores, any of the stuff I usually do when my spouse is at a golf course when we're on vacation.
I'm writing. That's really where I don't know where I am. I'm at last, finally, finally, here with mostly only the Egypt book to work on, and I've started it several times, and still don't know exactly where it begins. I have an idea of what the first several pages need to accomplish, and it's a lot, and I know mostly where I'm going, but not entirely--of course--and I've done enough research for now, and I just wrote seven pages which is probably all I can do today, and probably messing with them any further right now will not make them better, but that's okay, I have a beach to walk and a whole lot of books to read.
In other news:
I really am opening my calendar for school visits April first. I will have very limited availability this year, mostly in the second semester, as the first semester I'm already doing lots of stuff, including a national book tour to celebrate the release of The War I Finally Won. (At some point I'll be posting details about all that.) If you think you want a classroom visit, sign up early. You can email me for details.
I will not be doing any classroom Skype visits for the first semester, again because of my already-packed schedule. I *may* do some second semester; I'll probably open the calendar for those, if I do them, in January.
I will be doing a book trailer design contest for students. Details to come.
My son and I arrived here on Wednesday and played the tackiest mini-golf we could find, which was actually astonishingly tacky. We went grocery shopping and walked the very very cold beach. Yesterday it was warmer--we walked twice, between tournament rounds--and today it's warmer still. My husband drove down to join us late last night and he and my son are golfing somewhere as I type this. That's really the whole point of Myrtle Beach--two golf courses they want to play. And otherwise I don't really see a point to it--it's like an ocean version of Pigeon Forge, lots of inexpensive accommodations, bungee jumping, and cheap pancake houses, but not much in terms interesting restaurants, riding, hiking, museums, historical sites, bookstores, any of the stuff I usually do when my spouse is at a golf course when we're on vacation.
I'm writing. That's really where I don't know where I am. I'm at last, finally, finally, here with mostly only the Egypt book to work on, and I've started it several times, and still don't know exactly where it begins. I have an idea of what the first several pages need to accomplish, and it's a lot, and I know mostly where I'm going, but not entirely--of course--and I've done enough research for now, and I just wrote seven pages which is probably all I can do today, and probably messing with them any further right now will not make them better, but that's okay, I have a beach to walk and a whole lot of books to read.
In other news:
I really am opening my calendar for school visits April first. I will have very limited availability this year, mostly in the second semester, as the first semester I'm already doing lots of stuff, including a national book tour to celebrate the release of The War I Finally Won. (At some point I'll be posting details about all that.) If you think you want a classroom visit, sign up early. You can email me for details.
I will not be doing any classroom Skype visits for the first semester, again because of my already-packed schedule. I *may* do some second semester; I'll probably open the calendar for those, if I do them, in January.
I will be doing a book trailer design contest for students. Details to come.
March 8, 2017
Out of My Control
I just finished the last niggling issue with the copyedits for The War I Finally Won. I'll see the story again once it's been typeset, but at that point we'll pretty much only be checking for typos. We actually expect ARCs by the end of the week. (I plan on doing a contest or two with the ARCs, for fun. More on that later.) This is the start of a really never-wracking time for me: the book is now out of my control.
I've been grappling with the realization that I am not quite 100% over my concussion, though I edge closer all the time. This frustrates me, because once I'm symptom free I can start the clock toward riding again--three months after being symptom free is what's recommended by my sport's governing agency. I hate that my recovery is not within my control.
Then I read Amy Krouse Rosenthal's heartbreaking essay, "You May Want to Marry My Husband." (It's all over the internet; you can find it if you want to.) I don't know Amy personally, but I know her work--she's a children's book author. Her children, like mine, have all recently left home; she and her husband, like me and mine, were looking forward to travel and adventure. Instead Amy's dying of ovarian cancer. It's outside her control, as is one of my close friend's serious illnesses, as is nearly everything about my now adult children (when they were tiny I controlled so much of their lives: what they ate, what they wore, where they went and with whom. I couldn't control whether or not they napped but I could certainly shut them into their bedrooms.).
It's Lent, a time to increase self-awareness. On Sunday a visiting priest at our parish (Bristol folks: I attended at my other parish, near our house in North Carolina. I am not making stuff up.) preached a sermon about Jesus' temptation in the desert, and about idolatry. I've been thinking ever since about the idolatry of control. How trusting in God's care means letting go of striving to be God yourself, able to fix everything. I go back to a lesser-known line from Lin Miranda's spectacular Tony Awards sonnet: "and nothing else is promised, not one day." This is crummy but it's also liberating.
Meanwhile, this week fell spectacularly out of my control, for good reasons, when my daughter qualified for the NCAA Regional championships in fencing. Those are this Saturday, the second weekend of my daughter's spring break, and we'd made lots of plans for break that had to be really quickly modified. She heads back to school tomorrow for some more training, and Saturday my husband and son and I are all going to watch her poke people with the sharp end of a stick. It'll be awesome.
I've been grappling with the realization that I am not quite 100% over my concussion, though I edge closer all the time. This frustrates me, because once I'm symptom free I can start the clock toward riding again--three months after being symptom free is what's recommended by my sport's governing agency. I hate that my recovery is not within my control.
Then I read Amy Krouse Rosenthal's heartbreaking essay, "You May Want to Marry My Husband." (It's all over the internet; you can find it if you want to.) I don't know Amy personally, but I know her work--she's a children's book author. Her children, like mine, have all recently left home; she and her husband, like me and mine, were looking forward to travel and adventure. Instead Amy's dying of ovarian cancer. It's outside her control, as is one of my close friend's serious illnesses, as is nearly everything about my now adult children (when they were tiny I controlled so much of their lives: what they ate, what they wore, where they went and with whom. I couldn't control whether or not they napped but I could certainly shut them into their bedrooms.).
It's Lent, a time to increase self-awareness. On Sunday a visiting priest at our parish (Bristol folks: I attended at my other parish, near our house in North Carolina. I am not making stuff up.) preached a sermon about Jesus' temptation in the desert, and about idolatry. I've been thinking ever since about the idolatry of control. How trusting in God's care means letting go of striving to be God yourself, able to fix everything. I go back to a lesser-known line from Lin Miranda's spectacular Tony Awards sonnet: "and nothing else is promised, not one day." This is crummy but it's also liberating.
Meanwhile, this week fell spectacularly out of my control, for good reasons, when my daughter qualified for the NCAA Regional championships in fencing. Those are this Saturday, the second weekend of my daughter's spring break, and we'd made lots of plans for break that had to be really quickly modified. She heads back to school tomorrow for some more training, and Saturday my husband and son and I are all going to watch her poke people with the sharp end of a stick. It'll be awesome.
March 1, 2017
An Age of Wonder
I have to tell you, we are living in a time of miracles. I am working on some new projects right now, and I can not believe the wealth of information at my fingertips, in ways I never dreamed of.
I'm working hard right now to regain and improve my French. I'm travelling to France twice in the next year, so I'll have opportunity to use it, and also I've always been somewhat ashamed of my essentially monoglot status. I met a 20-year-old tour guide in South Africa who was fluent in twelve languages. Sheesh. The least I can do is manage a very basic conversation in a language I studied for four years (in high school, but still.) Anyhow, I'm taking a multi-disciplinary approarch. I've got these fabulous flashcards set up on Anki, which is simply an online flashcard learning system. You create flash cards--there was a tutorial online that explained how to add images (through tinyurl.basicimages) and expert pronounciation (through forvo.com) to the cards. Therefore the card could show you, say, a photo of a sheep, and ask, "What is this?" and you would say, "le mouton." OR the card would say "How do you spell--and then a voice would say in perfect French, 'mouton'? Anki sets the cards up so that if you answer correctly, the card moves back in the pack, and if you answer incorrectly, it moves forward. Once you know a card you get asked it increasingly less often, just long enough to tweak your brain into remembering. It's genius.
Then I ordered a set of ear-training flashcards in French, online, and put them into my Anki setup. They're designed to be close auditory pairs, bague vs. bag, say, or hausse vs. os, things non-French speakers have trouble distinguishing between. The card says one of the pairs out loud while asking which I heard. You'd be amazed how you can learn to hear differences your brain simply ignored before.
Then I thought to myself, I wonder what books I could order in French. Of course I thought of amazon.fr, as I'm already a steady customer of amazon.co.uk for all books British. But--Kindle! Of course!
Now, you may not have known it, but amazon has a new Kindle subscription service--$9.99 per month all you can download. Are you kidding me? I'm going to be saving some serious cash. Then it turned out that not only can I download books in French to my Kindle, essentially for very little money, but they have books designed for language learners with audio files attached. Not only that, the audio files come in two speeds: regular speech and slow. So I can look at a short story on my Kindle while a voice in French reads along, fast or slow depending on how quickly I can listen.
That's astonishing, but even more so: I downloaded the first Harry Potter book in French. Now this is a huge step, vocabularu and word-tense wise, but I already know the story very well and I thought it would be fun. And it is. Reading each sentence is a little labor of love. Also, you'd be surprised what you can learn in context. "Owl" and "cloak." But there are some vocab words I simply don't know, and can't puzzle from the rest of the sentence, and here's where the miracle came in: struggling, I put my finger down on a troublesome word, trying to work it out from the rest of the words around it, and lo, the troublesome word highlighted itself and a dictionary definition popped up on the screen. Perhaps you advanced Kindle users already know this trick. (In my defense, I rarely need the definitions of words in English). The definition was of course in French, but I could understand it. Oh, fabulous.
All this milling around in another language is fascinating, but I have real work to do. I'm happy to report for the 30th time that I'm working on my Egypt book, only this time I think it will stick, because I'm out of other options. Now I've got a British family travelling to Egypt in 1922, and of course they'd have a Baedeker, a red-bound travel guide of the sort that were ubiquitous among British travels abroad in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Baedekers are almost a stereotype. So I thought, a Baedeker guide to Egypt from the right time period would be invaluable. It would tell me a lot about the attitudes of Europeans toward Egyptians, and it would also list, say, all the European doctors practicing in Luxor, or all the bookstores, or what I could expect from the hotels. It would explain the currency of the time far better than anything written now. I thought, lo, the magic internet. I bet I can buy an old Baedeker.
Nope. Even better. I can download a 1914 edition of the Baedeker Guide to Egypt onto my Kindle, included in the 10 dollars per month that already brought me French stories read out loud and a dictionary-enhanced French language Harry Potter.
It's the simple truth. We live in an age of miracles.
I'm working hard right now to regain and improve my French. I'm travelling to France twice in the next year, so I'll have opportunity to use it, and also I've always been somewhat ashamed of my essentially monoglot status. I met a 20-year-old tour guide in South Africa who was fluent in twelve languages. Sheesh. The least I can do is manage a very basic conversation in a language I studied for four years (in high school, but still.) Anyhow, I'm taking a multi-disciplinary approarch. I've got these fabulous flashcards set up on Anki, which is simply an online flashcard learning system. You create flash cards--there was a tutorial online that explained how to add images (through tinyurl.basicimages) and expert pronounciation (through forvo.com) to the cards. Therefore the card could show you, say, a photo of a sheep, and ask, "What is this?" and you would say, "le mouton." OR the card would say "How do you spell--and then a voice would say in perfect French, 'mouton'? Anki sets the cards up so that if you answer correctly, the card moves back in the pack, and if you answer incorrectly, it moves forward. Once you know a card you get asked it increasingly less often, just long enough to tweak your brain into remembering. It's genius.
Then I ordered a set of ear-training flashcards in French, online, and put them into my Anki setup. They're designed to be close auditory pairs, bague vs. bag, say, or hausse vs. os, things non-French speakers have trouble distinguishing between. The card says one of the pairs out loud while asking which I heard. You'd be amazed how you can learn to hear differences your brain simply ignored before.
Then I thought to myself, I wonder what books I could order in French. Of course I thought of amazon.fr, as I'm already a steady customer of amazon.co.uk for all books British. But--Kindle! Of course!
Now, you may not have known it, but amazon has a new Kindle subscription service--$9.99 per month all you can download. Are you kidding me? I'm going to be saving some serious cash. Then it turned out that not only can I download books in French to my Kindle, essentially for very little money, but they have books designed for language learners with audio files attached. Not only that, the audio files come in two speeds: regular speech and slow. So I can look at a short story on my Kindle while a voice in French reads along, fast or slow depending on how quickly I can listen.
That's astonishing, but even more so: I downloaded the first Harry Potter book in French. Now this is a huge step, vocabularu and word-tense wise, but I already know the story very well and I thought it would be fun. And it is. Reading each sentence is a little labor of love. Also, you'd be surprised what you can learn in context. "Owl" and "cloak." But there are some vocab words I simply don't know, and can't puzzle from the rest of the sentence, and here's where the miracle came in: struggling, I put my finger down on a troublesome word, trying to work it out from the rest of the words around it, and lo, the troublesome word highlighted itself and a dictionary definition popped up on the screen. Perhaps you advanced Kindle users already know this trick. (In my defense, I rarely need the definitions of words in English). The definition was of course in French, but I could understand it. Oh, fabulous.
All this milling around in another language is fascinating, but I have real work to do. I'm happy to report for the 30th time that I'm working on my Egypt book, only this time I think it will stick, because I'm out of other options. Now I've got a British family travelling to Egypt in 1922, and of course they'd have a Baedeker, a red-bound travel guide of the sort that were ubiquitous among British travels abroad in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Baedekers are almost a stereotype. So I thought, a Baedeker guide to Egypt from the right time period would be invaluable. It would tell me a lot about the attitudes of Europeans toward Egyptians, and it would also list, say, all the European doctors practicing in Luxor, or all the bookstores, or what I could expect from the hotels. It would explain the currency of the time far better than anything written now. I thought, lo, the magic internet. I bet I can buy an old Baedeker.
Nope. Even better. I can download a 1914 edition of the Baedeker Guide to Egypt onto my Kindle, included in the 10 dollars per month that already brought me French stories read out loud and a dictionary-enhanced French language Harry Potter.
It's the simple truth. We live in an age of miracles.
February 27, 2017
Monday After All
So, I woke up this morning to my alarm at 6:30, which made me really happy, mostly because I felt like I'd had enough sleep. I think I'm really over the head injury. I've thought so for over a week now, as I've quit taking medicine and stopped napping and started waking up at realistic, productive times, but I've also had a cold and then my husband was sick, and when he stayed home from work I pretty much took a sick day, too, and read on the couch. It was good.
Then Friday I had a school visit and it went very well--the students were prepared, interested, and thoughtful, and my brain co-operated for the entire day. You don't think of these sort of things before you have a head injury: wow, I hope I don't get so tired I run the risk of falling down. Back a few weeks ago I would sort of plan my day around naptime. It's good to be past that.
Now I'm all set to be extremely productive, except that this morning my computer died. It's been freezing when online at steadily decreasing intervals for the past week. Yesterday I did a bunch of scans and supposed fixes that didn't help at all, and now--well, I'm on the auxiliary computer looking up my repair options. None of which sound promising. Ah well.
Then Friday I had a school visit and it went very well--the students were prepared, interested, and thoughtful, and my brain co-operated for the entire day. You don't think of these sort of things before you have a head injury: wow, I hope I don't get so tired I run the risk of falling down. Back a few weeks ago I would sort of plan my day around naptime. It's good to be past that.
Now I'm all set to be extremely productive, except that this morning my computer died. It's been freezing when online at steadily decreasing intervals for the past week. Yesterday I did a bunch of scans and supposed fixes that didn't help at all, and now--well, I'm on the auxiliary computer looking up my repair options. None of which sound promising. Ah well.
February 22, 2017
My New Biography
It's raining in Bristol today. Feels like April outside. The dog has gas, and is lying in her spot on my windowseat, wheezing from both ends. My husband is upstairs in the guest room, virulently ill from the flu, bless him. It's a Wednesday so he should be operating, and I can only remember one other Wednesday, in twenty years, when he stayed home sick. Bart slept last night in the guest room because I'm not quite over my cold, and he didn't want to catch it, an irony I'm quite grateful for this morning.
The flu--which I can not quit spelling flue, then going back and removing the e--is fierce around here these days. Last week a bunch of the school systems shut down over it. I'm now going to be washing my hands 300 times today, while avoiding gently tending my husband. I've got a school visit Friday, my first post-concussion appearance. Hooray!
In completely epic news, The War I Finally Won is now in the hands of the copyeditor. This means, it is mostly out of mine. I have never had to work so hard on a book in my life and I'm delighted with the result, and not only because I'm finally finished. (Alternate title: The War Is Finally Done.)
Meanwhile I've been wanting to re-write my official bio, that shows up on my website and on Goodreads and a couple of other places. The one I have now is so earnest and boring. Who cares where I went to college? Kids at schools never ask that. (Ok, once they did--at very expensive very private school in NYC where kids are taught early to think such things matter. But only once. I've been asked if I've ever been to prison an equal number of times.)
So I asked on Facebook the other day, what would people actually want to know about me? And lo and behold, I got answers.
What was your favorite book growing up?--Hands down, the Little House on the Prairie series, which I read until the covers fell off. But that's a hard one to admit to now, as the casual virulent racism towards Native Americans rightly shocks most modern readers.
What was your inspiration for TWTSML? I get asked this question all the time. I have no idea. I never felt inspired to write TWTSML. Reluctantly compelled, perhaps. The real answer to this question is as long as the novel itself, and there is no short answer. Next.
What's your shoe size? 8 1/2 in European sizes, 39.
How many puppies would it take crawling all over you for you to laugh out loud? Mmm. I imagine this is an over/under, the maximum puppies before you'd start laughing, the minimum that would make you laugh out loud. The problem is I can't remember the last time I was around more than two puppies. But I laugh pretty easily, so it's probably less than that.
From my sister: who's your favorite sister? You are, my dear.
Did I write TWTSML because I knew someone with a disability? I know a lot of people with disabilities, but I didn't write TWTSML for them. I wrote it for me.
How many horses do you have and how long have you been riding? I started riding as a freshman in college. My first two horses, Maddie and Trapper, are dead, as is my daughter's first pony, Shakespeare, but we've still got my third and fourth horses, Gully and Sarah, my daughter's next two horses, Pal and Mickey, my son's retired pony, Hot Wheels, and we have two friends' horses living with us, Syd and Silver. Gully, Sarah, Mickey and Syd are still rideable. Horses live a long time on our farm.
From a college friend, When did you decide to become a writer? The same time I decided I wasn't going to be a doctor, which was, in total honesty, about a year before I actually quit medical school. But there you have it. I do not regret the decision.
The flu--which I can not quit spelling flue, then going back and removing the e--is fierce around here these days. Last week a bunch of the school systems shut down over it. I'm now going to be washing my hands 300 times today, while avoiding gently tending my husband. I've got a school visit Friday, my first post-concussion appearance. Hooray!
In completely epic news, The War I Finally Won is now in the hands of the copyeditor. This means, it is mostly out of mine. I have never had to work so hard on a book in my life and I'm delighted with the result, and not only because I'm finally finished. (Alternate title: The War Is Finally Done.)
Meanwhile I've been wanting to re-write my official bio, that shows up on my website and on Goodreads and a couple of other places. The one I have now is so earnest and boring. Who cares where I went to college? Kids at schools never ask that. (Ok, once they did--at very expensive very private school in NYC where kids are taught early to think such things matter. But only once. I've been asked if I've ever been to prison an equal number of times.)
So I asked on Facebook the other day, what would people actually want to know about me? And lo and behold, I got answers.
What was your favorite book growing up?--Hands down, the Little House on the Prairie series, which I read until the covers fell off. But that's a hard one to admit to now, as the casual virulent racism towards Native Americans rightly shocks most modern readers.
What was your inspiration for TWTSML? I get asked this question all the time. I have no idea. I never felt inspired to write TWTSML. Reluctantly compelled, perhaps. The real answer to this question is as long as the novel itself, and there is no short answer. Next.
What's your shoe size? 8 1/2 in European sizes, 39.
How many puppies would it take crawling all over you for you to laugh out loud? Mmm. I imagine this is an over/under, the maximum puppies before you'd start laughing, the minimum that would make you laugh out loud. The problem is I can't remember the last time I was around more than two puppies. But I laugh pretty easily, so it's probably less than that.
From my sister: who's your favorite sister? You are, my dear.
Did I write TWTSML because I knew someone with a disability? I know a lot of people with disabilities, but I didn't write TWTSML for them. I wrote it for me.
How many horses do you have and how long have you been riding? I started riding as a freshman in college. My first two horses, Maddie and Trapper, are dead, as is my daughter's first pony, Shakespeare, but we've still got my third and fourth horses, Gully and Sarah, my daughter's next two horses, Pal and Mickey, my son's retired pony, Hot Wheels, and we have two friends' horses living with us, Syd and Silver. Gully, Sarah, Mickey and Syd are still rideable. Horses live a long time on our farm.
From a college friend, When did you decide to become a writer? The same time I decided I wasn't going to be a doctor, which was, in total honesty, about a year before I actually quit medical school. But there you have it. I do not regret the decision.
February 21, 2017
Two Birds, One--
I wrote this email to my friend KBB1 and then I thought, screw it, let's make it a blog post. Bristol peeps: I really want to know if I'm the only person who notices the postman with the rug. I nearly took an opinion poll in the line today.
Dear KBB1,
Oh, this is all going pear-shaped.
First, I am not happy with the knitted objects I am sending you. I consider myself a resourceful, imaginative, and productive knitter, but we're missing something on this round. You'll see. You may wear them or not, with my love--of course that would be true no matter what--I'm just sorry I couldn't do better in the time allowed.
Second, speaking of the time allowed, I sort of had this feeling I had a day or two more, and then I didn't. So..here's the outrageous part: I went down to the main post office at lunch today to Overnight the knitted objects to Slidell. I had to deal with the main post office, which everyone hates, because the branch office shuts for lunch, 11:30-12:30 in theory but then the postal worker "goes to the bank" until 1--not making this up--and lunch was when I could go. So I get the postman who wears a wig--it's a horrible wig, it's like he's got a russet-colored porcupine on his head--I don't know what he's thinking--it looks less like real hair than anything you can imagine. He pokes his computer for a long time, and then says, looking at the Express, Overnight envelope, "two-day delivery."
"No," I say politely, "overnight."
He tells me what that'll cost me. I nod. He pokes his computer some more and then sighs and says that no matter what envelope I use or how much I pay, the soonest the US postal service can get something from Bristol, TN, to Slidell, LA, is two days. Whether this is the fault of Bristol or Slidell I do not know. But the man gave me a less-expensive envelope to slide the whole kit into, which you will see I have done. Thursday, when it gets there. Do they not deliver mail on Wednesdays i Slidell?
I feel like a garbage knitting friend. I am sorry. I will endeavor to do better next time you need a pussy hat and a Lady Liberty crown.
Love,KBB2
Dear KBB1,
Oh, this is all going pear-shaped.
First, I am not happy with the knitted objects I am sending you. I consider myself a resourceful, imaginative, and productive knitter, but we're missing something on this round. You'll see. You may wear them or not, with my love--of course that would be true no matter what--I'm just sorry I couldn't do better in the time allowed.
Second, speaking of the time allowed, I sort of had this feeling I had a day or two more, and then I didn't. So..here's the outrageous part: I went down to the main post office at lunch today to Overnight the knitted objects to Slidell. I had to deal with the main post office, which everyone hates, because the branch office shuts for lunch, 11:30-12:30 in theory but then the postal worker "goes to the bank" until 1--not making this up--and lunch was when I could go. So I get the postman who wears a wig--it's a horrible wig, it's like he's got a russet-colored porcupine on his head--I don't know what he's thinking--it looks less like real hair than anything you can imagine. He pokes his computer for a long time, and then says, looking at the Express, Overnight envelope, "two-day delivery."
"No," I say politely, "overnight."
He tells me what that'll cost me. I nod. He pokes his computer some more and then sighs and says that no matter what envelope I use or how much I pay, the soonest the US postal service can get something from Bristol, TN, to Slidell, LA, is two days. Whether this is the fault of Bristol or Slidell I do not know. But the man gave me a less-expensive envelope to slide the whole kit into, which you will see I have done. Thursday, when it gets there. Do they not deliver mail on Wednesdays i Slidell?
I feel like a garbage knitting friend. I am sorry. I will endeavor to do better next time you need a pussy hat and a Lady Liberty crown.
Love,KBB2
February 14, 2017
Still Mine: A Ridiculously Long Sappy Story for Valentine's Day
So today is Valentine's Day, a sugary flowery made-up holiday that attracts way more attention than it rationally deserves.
I thought of writing here today about the first Valentine's Day I celebrated with my beloved, but I don't know--there's something private about the story. Also it's so treacly sweet it might induce diabetic coma in more sensitive readers.
One of our own children once described our relationship to friends as "effing BS." I think it was meant as a complement. Also I don't really want my children emulating me by getting married six weeks after they graduate college. (My son is right now older than his father and I were the day we exchanged vows.) I'm sort of surprised my parents went along with it, though, as my mother pointed out, that was mostly because they knew they couldn't stop me.
I was sixteen years old. I'd been classroom rivals with this tall smart boy for several years, trading insults and eye rolls and exasperation. Then I'd inexplicably started dating him--though I was pretty much the only person surprised.
That's a story I'm willing to tell. Not our first Valentine's Day--which really wasn't much because I was candystriping at the local hospital all evening any way, it's just that we were disgustingly touchingly sentimental, and also--I just checked--the tiny stuffed bear he gave me that day, February 14, 1984, is sitting on my office desk right now--yep, I know, it's revolting--anyhow, here's the story of the prelude to our first date.
We had gone to the local branch library together one morning of Christmas break to work on a paper for some class, probably English. Back then, with no internet, this is what people did. It wasn't a date even though he drove and picked me up--I didn't have a car. Nor were we alone in the library--as soon as we arrived, this freshman who lived down the street from me came over and sat down at our table, chatting away. It was snowing like crazy, and at one point, looking out the library window, I said, "We should forget this work and go sledding."
My Not-Yet-Beloved (more like my Crosstown Rival) jumped up. "Great idea," he said. "Let's go." The freshman also jumped up. "Let's go!"
"If we're taking him," I said, nodding to the freshman, "we might as well take my brother." So we did. We went home and bundled up and drove out to Franke Park, which was one of the very few places in my hometown with any hills at all. (My current driveway has more elevation than my hometown.) We went sledding in the deep soft snow. Afterwards, as we were piling into my Not-Yet-Beloved's car, he said, "Are you going to the basketball game tonight?"
"Probably," I said. Every Christmas break our town had a holiday basketball tournament in the big sports arena, the Fort Wayne Coliseum.
He said, "I'll give you a ride."
Now this presented a dilemma. Very few people in my group of friends had cars. My friend Julie down the street did--she and I and the Freshman carpooled to school together. My NYB did, and he typically drove a whole group of guys around. So. Was this "a ride," me and several others, or was this "a date"? Being sixteen, I didn't ask.
At home I showered in my parent's bathroom, because that's where the shower was. I was walking back to my own room, one towel around my torso, another around my long wet hair, and the phone rang. Remember, this was before cell phones, but my parents had a phone on their nightstand, so I answered it, dripping onto the carpet. It was my NYB. He said, "Want to grab some dinner before we go to the game?"
OHMIGOSH. IT WAS A DATE.
"Sure," I said.
I hung up the phone, and before I got out the door, two steps away, it rang again. (not only was this before cell phones, it was before texting. People had to use actual land lines for all their communication needs.) It was Julie down the street. "Hey, I'll give you a ride to the game, pick you up at ---," whatever time. Julie was a cheerleader and usually needed to arrive early.
"That's okay," I said. "I've got a ride."
Julie lived two houses away from me. "Don't be ridiculous-" she said, then, "Oh. OH. Bart Bradley finally asked you out."
"Shut up," I said, and hung up the phone.
And it rang again. I swear I'm not making this up. It was another friend, with whom I played Dungeons and Dragons, because I was that kind of a nerd. He said, "Hey, we're all playing D & D tonight, my house, So-and-so can give you a ride."
"No, thanks," I said. "I'm going to the basketball game."
"Forget that," he said. "You don't even like basketball."
"Yeah, I think I'll go to the game."
"Ohmigosh. Bradley finally asked you out."
"Shut up," I said, and hung up the phone.
As God is my witness, it rang again. While I still stood dripping on what was now a pretty wet patch of carpet, swathed in towels.
It was So-and-so. "Hey, did you hear about the D&D? I'll pick you up at seven."
This was getting ridiculous. "That's okay," I said, "I'm going to the basketball game."
So-and-so roared with laughter. "He finally asked you out!"
Yes. Yes, he did. Bart Bradley asked me out, and we went and ate Italian food from a restaurant long since closed, and then we went to the basketball game, and then we played video games at a nearby arcade and then I had to go home because I had an early curfew and he thought it meant I hadn't had fun, but he was wrong, I'd had a great time.
On the first day back from Christmas Break nearly the entire population of our high school said to me, individually, over and over, "You're dating Bart Bradley? I thought you hated him." I pretty much wanted to hide in my locker.
I never hated him. By Valentine's Day, less than two months later, I thought I loved him. I was sixteen; who knows?
But now I'm forty-nine. I understand what love is. I do love Bart Bradley, heart and mind and body and soul. If that's effing BS, so let it be.
I thought of writing here today about the first Valentine's Day I celebrated with my beloved, but I don't know--there's something private about the story. Also it's so treacly sweet it might induce diabetic coma in more sensitive readers.
One of our own children once described our relationship to friends as "effing BS." I think it was meant as a complement. Also I don't really want my children emulating me by getting married six weeks after they graduate college. (My son is right now older than his father and I were the day we exchanged vows.) I'm sort of surprised my parents went along with it, though, as my mother pointed out, that was mostly because they knew they couldn't stop me.
I was sixteen years old. I'd been classroom rivals with this tall smart boy for several years, trading insults and eye rolls and exasperation. Then I'd inexplicably started dating him--though I was pretty much the only person surprised.
That's a story I'm willing to tell. Not our first Valentine's Day--which really wasn't much because I was candystriping at the local hospital all evening any way, it's just that we were disgustingly touchingly sentimental, and also--I just checked--the tiny stuffed bear he gave me that day, February 14, 1984, is sitting on my office desk right now--yep, I know, it's revolting--anyhow, here's the story of the prelude to our first date.
We had gone to the local branch library together one morning of Christmas break to work on a paper for some class, probably English. Back then, with no internet, this is what people did. It wasn't a date even though he drove and picked me up--I didn't have a car. Nor were we alone in the library--as soon as we arrived, this freshman who lived down the street from me came over and sat down at our table, chatting away. It was snowing like crazy, and at one point, looking out the library window, I said, "We should forget this work and go sledding."
My Not-Yet-Beloved (more like my Crosstown Rival) jumped up. "Great idea," he said. "Let's go." The freshman also jumped up. "Let's go!"
"If we're taking him," I said, nodding to the freshman, "we might as well take my brother." So we did. We went home and bundled up and drove out to Franke Park, which was one of the very few places in my hometown with any hills at all. (My current driveway has more elevation than my hometown.) We went sledding in the deep soft snow. Afterwards, as we were piling into my Not-Yet-Beloved's car, he said, "Are you going to the basketball game tonight?"
"Probably," I said. Every Christmas break our town had a holiday basketball tournament in the big sports arena, the Fort Wayne Coliseum.
He said, "I'll give you a ride."
Now this presented a dilemma. Very few people in my group of friends had cars. My friend Julie down the street did--she and I and the Freshman carpooled to school together. My NYB did, and he typically drove a whole group of guys around. So. Was this "a ride," me and several others, or was this "a date"? Being sixteen, I didn't ask.
At home I showered in my parent's bathroom, because that's where the shower was. I was walking back to my own room, one towel around my torso, another around my long wet hair, and the phone rang. Remember, this was before cell phones, but my parents had a phone on their nightstand, so I answered it, dripping onto the carpet. It was my NYB. He said, "Want to grab some dinner before we go to the game?"
OHMIGOSH. IT WAS A DATE.
"Sure," I said.
I hung up the phone, and before I got out the door, two steps away, it rang again. (not only was this before cell phones, it was before texting. People had to use actual land lines for all their communication needs.) It was Julie down the street. "Hey, I'll give you a ride to the game, pick you up at ---," whatever time. Julie was a cheerleader and usually needed to arrive early.
"That's okay," I said. "I've got a ride."
Julie lived two houses away from me. "Don't be ridiculous-" she said, then, "Oh. OH. Bart Bradley finally asked you out."
"Shut up," I said, and hung up the phone.
And it rang again. I swear I'm not making this up. It was another friend, with whom I played Dungeons and Dragons, because I was that kind of a nerd. He said, "Hey, we're all playing D & D tonight, my house, So-and-so can give you a ride."
"No, thanks," I said. "I'm going to the basketball game."
"Forget that," he said. "You don't even like basketball."
"Yeah, I think I'll go to the game."
"Ohmigosh. Bradley finally asked you out."
"Shut up," I said, and hung up the phone.
As God is my witness, it rang again. While I still stood dripping on what was now a pretty wet patch of carpet, swathed in towels.
It was So-and-so. "Hey, did you hear about the D&D? I'll pick you up at seven."
This was getting ridiculous. "That's okay," I said, "I'm going to the basketball game."
So-and-so roared with laughter. "He finally asked you out!"
Yes. Yes, he did. Bart Bradley asked me out, and we went and ate Italian food from a restaurant long since closed, and then we went to the basketball game, and then we played video games at a nearby arcade and then I had to go home because I had an early curfew and he thought it meant I hadn't had fun, but he was wrong, I'd had a great time.
On the first day back from Christmas Break nearly the entire population of our high school said to me, individually, over and over, "You're dating Bart Bradley? I thought you hated him." I pretty much wanted to hide in my locker.
I never hated him. By Valentine's Day, less than two months later, I thought I loved him. I was sixteen; who knows?
But now I'm forty-nine. I understand what love is. I do love Bart Bradley, heart and mind and body and soul. If that's effing BS, so let it be.
February 13, 2017
5:21 am at Richmond International
1) I am sitting at gate B11 of the Richmond International Airport. I am here way too early, not just generally, but specifically too early for my flight home.
2) This is because I don't trust modern technology. I never dreamed that when I hit the Uber button in my motel room at 4:28 that Philip would be picking me up 6 minutes later.
2b) Uber is the greatest invention ever. It cost me $16.21 for a ride to the airport at 4:34 am. In Richmond. For Pete's sake.
3) I was also unprepared for the incredible speed and efficiency of the airport TSA screeners. They should be cloned and distributed to airports nationwide.
4) Food options here at this hour are extremely limited.
4a) I am eating something the woman who nuked it called disdainfully a "chicken sausage."
4b) I chose chicken sausage primarily for the bread it came wrapped in, an English muffin, as I don't like croissants (bacon) and distrust airport biscuits (sausage).
4c) The only other bread option, ciabatta, came with turkey bacon.
4d) Poultry sausage isn't good, but it beats poultry bacon.
4e) the coffee is acceptable.
5) At this hour, autocorrect is my good friend.
I went to Richmond to watch my daughter compete in a mock trial tournament. It was excellent, even if Nino Scalia's best friend did scold me for knitting. But that's another story.
2) This is because I don't trust modern technology. I never dreamed that when I hit the Uber button in my motel room at 4:28 that Philip would be picking me up 6 minutes later.
2b) Uber is the greatest invention ever. It cost me $16.21 for a ride to the airport at 4:34 am. In Richmond. For Pete's sake.
3) I was also unprepared for the incredible speed and efficiency of the airport TSA screeners. They should be cloned and distributed to airports nationwide.
4) Food options here at this hour are extremely limited.
4a) I am eating something the woman who nuked it called disdainfully a "chicken sausage."
4b) I chose chicken sausage primarily for the bread it came wrapped in, an English muffin, as I don't like croissants (bacon) and distrust airport biscuits (sausage).
4c) The only other bread option, ciabatta, came with turkey bacon.
4d) Poultry sausage isn't good, but it beats poultry bacon.
4e) the coffee is acceptable.
5) At this hour, autocorrect is my good friend.
I went to Richmond to watch my daughter compete in a mock trial tournament. It was excellent, even if Nino Scalia's best friend did scold me for knitting. But that's another story.
