Randy Susan Meyers's Blog, page 53

Book Trailer Thursdays: REMEDIES

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Book trailers are such a brave new media. Some are awful droning talking heads (you know what I mean) where the author looks like he'd rather be shoveling coal in Siberia than filming the interview. Some are almost good–but too long. And some, like Goldilocks found, are just right and manage to capture the spirit and genre of the book.

"Ledger's accomplished debut offers a compelling view of married life through the prism of unacknowledged grief…with rare insight… An impressive portrait of a family in crisis, executed with finesse and assurance."- Starred review, Publishers Weekly

Remedies by Kate Ledger

IMPERFECT ENDINGS (reprise)

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Seven years ago my mother called my sister and me to tell us she had cancer. The doctor gave her less than a year to live. Despite years of complicated mother-daughter relationships, we turned our lives around in moments and flew down from New York and Boston to be with her.

Our mother had never been one to bear up under pain and she dreaded the idea of being dependant. Hours after we arrived in Florida, she made us promise to kill her when "it became too much."

When we tried to talk rationally—using words like illegal and jail—she gave us the same demanding glare we'd known since childhood.

You have to help me, she insisted. You girls know I can't stand pain. Promise! Promise me now!

We, of course, promised. My sister and I had never been able to withstand the glare, and we weren't about to rebel in the face of her imminent suffering. We did however, as always, use the only weapon at our disposal: the darkest of humor.

I'll tell you what, my sister said. How about I kill you now?

My mother, as always, frowned and then smiled and began laughing.

You girls are terrible, she said through her head-shaking chuckles.

We relaxed, all comforted by the familiar routine.

In Imperfect Endings, a memoir of daughters being asked to help plan their mother's suicide, author Zoe Fitzgerald Carter writes the following when revealing how her husband and she wrestled with Carter's need to help her mother:

How long are you going to run to her every time she calls?

Closing my eyes, I imagine my mother lying in her bed, lonely and afraid. Not of death but of the long ugly road leading to death. And because I am her daughter, both by birth and by design, I'm trapped on that road with her until one of us, or perhaps both of us, can engineer her release. Which mean that, despite my husband's anger and my children's unhappiness, the answer is: Always. I will always run to her when she calls.

Imperfect Endings is about that never perfect relationship between mothers and daughters, about how even the closest maternal love is rocked by the push-pull of a mother needing a daughter's help and a daughter's need for unwavering support and love. Mixed in, there is often a daughter's wish to know her mother's true self and a mother's wont to hide it.

Towards the end of the book, after the author reads some of her mother's correspondence (as her mother sleeps,) Carter writes:

Wiping my eyes, I replace the letter in the envelope and go over and place it on her table. I lie down next to her on the bed, looking around the room and out through the windows as if to see and memorize what she sees lying here day after day, because I'm afraid she's going to leave before I know who she is, and I will be left with only words and images, the mere outlines of my mother's life.

I stopped at that passage, breathless with a pop of recognition—remembering how little I knew my mother, but how unlike the author, I was afraid of seeing too deeply into her soul, frightened of having to take her pain. At the same time, I realized how difficult it is to reveal sadness to my own daughters and how much I want to wrap all my experiences into a 'story.'

Zoe FitzGerald Carter is a fearless writer, going deep into a family experience none of us escape, but few of us must face so head on.

My own mother died over three years after her diagnosis. Her death was as lucky in some ways as it could be for her. Cancer never overtook her. She suffered none of the indignities of treatments. She died suddenly and unexpectedly. In one last act of care giving, my sister found my mother and, as always, took care of everything.

Carter, noting her mother's inability to acknowledge her fears or concerns, referencing Stephen Levine, reflects that people die how they live. This is probably true, but reading this book, I found a soothing corollary. Perhaps when we sit with the people we love as they die, we can change if we want.

Carter and her sisters find their ways to comforting their mother, even as it rips them apart, even as they don't want to let their mother go on her self-chosen time-table. Imperfect Endings provided a perfect read and I thank Zoe FitzGerald Carter for bringing me into her mother's home.

Zoe's book is now out in trade paperback.

GUEST POST: Everything You Want to Know About Twitter (but are afraid to ask)

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By Nina Badzin

Twitter and I have been together for exactly one year. We're mad for each other. Can't stop a love like ours.

I'm going to do something unusual for a trusting relationship. We're going behind closed doors. This is beyond a simple "how-to." I want to help the Twitter newbies and those who aren't using the site effectively. Why? Because when you're in love, you want to share it. I'm Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch. I'm Star Jones planning her wedding on The View. And I'm just plain nice.

Twitter is an unbelievable experience, but you have to know what you're doing.

Here's what I wish I'd known from the get go.

1. NICHE: If you don't have a purpose for using the site, then you're wasting your time. My goal was and still is to feel a sense of community with other writers. To that end, I only follow writers, literary journals, literary agents, bloggers similar to me, and publications focused on Jewish life (I guest post for one of them and it's a personal interest.) Celebrities? Nope. News organizations? Absolutely not. When I want the headlines, I read the paper or a news site. When I want to know what Ashton Kutcher thinks about anything–well, that will never happen.

An exception to the rule: I follow back people I know in real life. Because even I'm not that much of a Twitter snob.

One last thing about niche. I'm not suggesting you only follow people you agree with or who are exactly like you. My category of "writers" for example includes people from all walks of life, not just people who write in the same genre.

2. LISTS: If you don't use lists, you're missing the Tweets you really want to see. Speaking of lists, if you have 1300 followers but only 20 or so have listed you, then I'm probably not going to follow you back. A ratio like that means few actually read your Tweets.

I've read (wish I could remember where) that a 10% ratio is good. (600 followers should mean you've been listed about 60 times.)  Start by putting other people on lists. They will probably do the same. Keeping the people you follow unlisted is like storing your forks in your sock drawer. It's too much trouble to find what you're looking for and wastes a lot of time. Start those lists. And use them! (If you don't know how, leave a comment and I'll walk you through it.)

3. USE HOOTSUITE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT: I rarely use the actual Twitter site–what a clunker. Options like Hootsuite and Tweetdeck make the Twitter experience a breeze. Hootsuite allows me to schedule Tweets and see my lists next to each other, including the @mention, "Retweets of me," and "favorites" categories. I use UberTwitter on my Blackberry since I do about 90% of my Tweet reading while I'm working out. (Clearly I'm not training for a marathon, but the system works for me. I'm killing two birds with one stone.)

4. UTILIZE THE "FAVORITE" FUNCTION: When I'm reading Tweets during those workouts, I favorite the ones I want to check out later. Later might be weeks away–that's fine. People appreciate the RT of their link whenever you can get to it. Why would anyone want all their link promoting to happen in one day? Spread out the love, people!

5. KNOW HOW TO RT: Please commit this one to memory. When you start a Tweet like this—> @NinaBadzin–ONLY the people who follow BOTH of us will see that Tweet. So when you're RTing someone's link as a nice gesture (and you should do that regularly on Twitter or you're COMPLETELY missing the point) then it's not all that generous to write a Tweet like this—>@NinaBadzin wrote a must-read post about the ins and outs of Twitter.

Wrong! It should look like this—>A must-read post by @NinaBadzin about the ins and outs of Twitter. Another option—>.@NinaBadzin wrote a must read post about the ins and outs of Twitter. Notice the . in front of the @–That little . makes all the difference. HOWEVER, don't start throwing a period in front of every @. (See below)

6. KNOW WHEN TO START WITH @: We're getting down to the nitty-gritty of Twitter etiquette. There's a time for a less public Tweet. If you're thanking someone for a RT or giving a specific response to an article/post, then an @reply is totally acceptable. Sometimes it makes sense for just the people who follow both of you to see that Tweet. There's nothing wrong with using the @reply aka @mention, but understand that if you're trying to promote someone's post, then you must stick a word or a period before the @. (See #5)

7. KNOW WHEN TO DIRECT MESSAGE: Nothing irks me more than a long personal conversation on the public feed. Like I said above, a few Tweets back and forth are appropriate and expected. (I absolutely do this.) But an endless back and forth is bordering on rude. If you have that much to talk about, take it to the Direct Message function or exchange email addresses. It's great you found a friend on Twitter, but please spare the rest of the us the giggle-giggle, wink-wink. Twitter isn't Facebook.

8.KNOW WHEN NOT TO DIRECT MESSAGE: Do NOT auto-DM the people who follow you with seemingly friendly notes like, "Thanks for the follow. I hope you enjoy my Tweets." I suppose people who do this think it makes Twitter more personal. It doesn't. It makes you look like an automaton. Authentically interacting makes Twitter more personal (responding to general questions, RTing someone's Tweet).

9. BIO AND PHOTO: Speaking of spambots, make sure to fill out your bio as thoroughly as possible. Upload a picture. Most people avoid following the eggs.

10. KEEP YOUR HANDLE SHORT: If you've read this far, you're probably already on Twitter and it's too late to save you. But just in case someone is reading this who hasn't yet signed up–LISTEN TO ME–keep your handle short. When people RT your link, your handle counts against the 140-character allotment. And if you want a certain Tweet RTed, you always want to keep it well under 140 anyway. (Your handle, the RTer's handle, plus the actual link count against the 140.)  Therefore, if your handle is anything like @NinaIsaWriterPleaseLoveHer, then you're screwed.

That's all I have! I hope it helps you maximize your relationship with Twitter.

And to my darling Twitter, Happy anniversary to us . Your ever devoted @NinaBadzin

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Nina Badzin is a Pushcart Prize nominated short story writer, aspiring novelist, and Twitter addict. She blogs about the writing life, married life, and motherhood at http://ninabadzin.com. Find PART II of her Twitter Tips there!

(Almost) Weekly Writer at Work: Necee Regis

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Writers' Work-in-Progress showcases the work of new and long-published authors. This is what their first pages look like now—perhaps the published versions will read exactly the same, perhaps they will be quite changed. That part of the mutable beauty of writing—always a work in progress, until the book hits the shelves.

The Spirit Wrestler (work-in-progress)

by Necee Regis

Five minutes. That's how long it takes to bump Mona from her comfort zone in Istanbul. One minute she's tooling along, happy to be released from the confines and stale air of a jumbo jet. Moments later, as she shuffles along to passport control in the wake of her friend Katya, she's jostled by a hundred other travelers all racing to be first in line. Bump.

At the baggage carousel, a woman snatches her suitcase before she can reach for it, arguing over ownership until Mona folds back the flap on the leather tag where her name and address are clearly printed for all to see. Bump bump.

And now, sweet Jesus, if this cab driver doesn't stop speeding while jabbering on a cell phone and grinning at Katya in his rearview mirror, they'll all end up at the bottom of the Bosphorus, no doubt. Mona read about a woman in Florida who drove her rental car into a canal, and broke a window to escape. She considers her thick-soled pink and white sneakers and questions their ability to shatter glass. She shakes the image from her mind.

The four-lane road hugs the water's edge. The traffic heading out of town is a bumper-to-bumper mess, while the inbound side is crowded but moving, and the driver zips along like he's in a racecar at Daytona Beach. Mona reaches for the overhead seatbelt strap, and then pokes her fingers in the vinyl crevice at her side.

"Excuse me." She leans forward. "Do you have seatbelts, you know, the part that's supposed to be in the seat?" The driver continues chattering in Turkish as if she hadn't said a word. Does he understand what she just said?  She thought he spoke some English when they got in the cab.

Mona turns to Katya for support but Katya swivels to the window and cranks it open, allowing hot humid air to flood the car. Her friend's blonde hair is pulled severely into a bun, and she's squeezing her fingers as if they've fallen asleep. They're both groggy after their trans-Atlantic flight but Katya seems particularly distracted. It must be hard to return here without Carter.

The taxi speeds past the unfamiliar landscape, so different from her home in Virginia. A leafy canopy provides shade for shirtless men and young boys who balance fishing poles atop a powder blue railing in a park where families gather round hibachis, fanning flames beneath sizzling kabobs. The air holds the moistness of the sea, charcoal, singed meat, and exhaust fumes. Mona breathes it all in. She's on vacation. Her first without Scott and the kids. And she's finally—at least for one week—living the life she fantasized about in college, traveling with Katya to exotic locations and studying Byzantine art. She's not going to allow a crowded airport or one crazy Turkish cabbie ruin this experience.

"We're really here! Isn't it amazing?"

Katya nods. "I love this city. It's—"

Before she can elaborate, the driver snaps his phone closed and twists round to speak to Katya. "You are sisters?"

"No. But in school we pretended to be sisters and everyone believed us. It's our blonde hair and blue eyes." Katya loosens her bun and tosses her hair till it settles about her shoulders.

Is Katya flirting with this sleazy guy? The driver's black hair is so heavily gelled and slicked back it doesn't budge in the wind. Mona chuckles at her friend and gathers her own long tresses, coiling them neatly behind her.

"You have beautiful hair. Very beautiful. Your first time to Istanbul?" he asks Katya.

"I was here eight years ago. With my husband."

Mona's eyes dart to Katya's wedding ring. It seems she hasn't given up on her marriage yet, despite Carter's recent move from their apartment. Katya shared some of the story about their separation, including a woman she referred to as the Yoga-Witch, though she avoided discussing details and Mona, as usual, didn't pry, though she hopes that Katya and Carter can reconcile. For better or for worse. That should mean something when you say it but it isn't taken seriously these days. People switch partners as easily as they change shirts on a hot summer day.

"Your husband is lucky man," the driver says, his smile spreading like butter on hot toast.

"My husband is a shit." In one motion Katya twists the ring off and flings it toward the sea. It glints for a moment at the height of its arc but Mona doesn't see where it lands.

The driver stops smiling.

Mona opens her mouth to shout—what are you doing?!—but the words get stuck and she says nothing, staring at the indentation on Katya's finger. It's like it's still there, an invisible ring pressing into the skin.

[image error]Bio:  Necee Regis is a frequent contributor to the travel and food sections of The Boston Globeand The Washington Post. Her writing has also been featured in the Los Angeles Times,American Way Magazine, Spirit Magazine, The Globe and Mail, and the literary journal, Tin House. Excerpts from her first novel, Glitterbox, were published in Gulf Stream: New Voices From Miami (2003) and in Hacks: 10 Years On Grub Street (2007).

Family Homicide: Prevention is Possible

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A few weeks ago I followed my usual pre-work routine: I poured coffee and opened the Boston Globe. Then I flinched at the too familiar headline: Two dead, one on life support in shootings: Police say father wounds daughter, kills wife, then self.

I read every word — respect must be given, attention must be paid. The murder took place a few miles from my home. According to a witness, William Spada (53) murdered his wife, Patricia (51), critically wounded his daughter, Deidre (27), and then killed himself.

"After the authorities left, just before noon, small droplets of blood remained on the walkway leading to the front door."

This year there have been 30 domestic violence homicide victims and 15 perpetrator suicides. Last year there were 23 domestic violence homicides and five perpetrator suicides.

And still, we wonder why. And still we're surprised when it is our neighbor. God forbid, our family.

In our surprise, we say words similar to those written in today's article:

(continued on Huffington Post)

First Pages Friday: ANATOPSIS

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First Pages Fridays offers a taste of an author's work—from books long on the shelves to works-in-progress, because while you can't judge a book by the cover, you can tell plenty from the first pages. (Today's selection is from the children's chapter book section of the bookstore.)

"Bright kids will relish the blend of fantasy, science fiction, Arthurian elements and . . . Greek myths ." The Washington Post

"A smooth progression from beginning to startling conclusion will draw even reluctant readers into this unusual fantasy and its fully realized world."–School Library Journal

Princess Anatopsis Solomon wants to be a knight-errant. But her mother, chairwoman of Amalgamated Witchcraft Corporation, plans for her immortal daughter to take over the family business. The Queen has even hired a new tutor: a demigod named Mr. Pound. But Mr. Pound's plans go far beyond completing Ana's education. He is searching for the mysterious and powerful Os Divinitas. And if he finds it, nothing will survive. A shocking and powerful gift will catapult the Princess into an unlikely quest through the rich worlds of Anatopsis, inhabited by magic immortals, a rebel army, and the last dog in the Universe.

Anatopsis

by Chris Abouzeid

IN THE LATTER HALF of the Universe's most recent outward explosion, when things were slowing down a bit but not yet falling apart, when "alive" was still an exciting if not completely safe thing to be, there was a small planet with which you are familiar.  In its youth, it had been bright blue, like a marble, but had since turned the color of badly mixed paint.  And if you were to draw near it, you would in fact see that its waters were comprised of a mishmash of pigments—rust, algae, methane, phosphorus—all whipped together by the tremendous waves and whirlpools that plagued this planet's surface.  This was not a hospitable place, not the sort of world upon which one would expect to find life.  And yet, there was one small spot of life left:  a gaudy eye of land, its pupil grassy, its iris glinting with steel and glass, the lids speckled with castles and moats and lined with twin blue rivers.

On the southern lid of this island, in a magnificent castle atop the hill, there lived a princess named Anatopsis Solomon.  Anatopsis—or Ana, as she preferred to be called—was the daughter of a witch, descended from a long line of witches, and there would be nothing especially unusual about this except that her mother, Queen Abigail Solomon, happened to be chairperson and president of Amalgamated Witchcraft Corporation (or AW, as it was more commonly called).

If you picture Ana's mother as the old-fashioned, cackling-but-colorful sort of witch one finds in fairy tales, you will be dangerously mistaken.  She was a modern witch—shrewd, calculating, commanding to the last degree.  She presided over a board of twelve witches and warlocks, directed thousands of employees, both magical and ordinary, and worked day and night to maintain her reputation as the most powerful woman in the Universe.

To the casual observer, Ana appeared to be a perfect copy of her mother.  She was blessed with her mother's beauty—the long flaxen hair, moon-white skin, and green eyes so essential for beguiling friends and enemies.  She had also inherited her mother's aptitude for all things magical.  By the age of two, she had read her first Magic Primer; by three, she had mastered all of the Counting Spells; and by the age of five, she could set a cat to running in circles so tight it would explode with static electricity.  In short, she was a prodigy.

The similarities between mother and daughter ended there, however.  For whereas the Queen interchromafied her hair a necromantic black and kept it perfectly coiffed, Ana's hair resembled an unraveling rope.  And whereas the Queen never behaved in any manner that did not suggest pride, dignity, and complete confidence, Ana was moody and unpredictable.  One moment she might be shouting and flying about the castle with an old sword, whacking the heads off the gargoyles; the next she might be glowering and melancholy, a princess trapped in a windowless tower.  And whereas the Queen believed there was no question that Ana would follow in her dear mother's footsteps, Ana had no interest at all in the family business.

"I want to be a knight-errant, like Father," she said, one morning a few days before her thirteenth birthday.  She and her mother were seated at the long, polished witchadder table in the dining room.  Ana had managed to spill melonfish juice and crumbs of newt bread all over her ice blue dress.  "He gets to travel and meet lots of interesting people.  He doesn't sit at a desk all day worrying about his net worth or which employees don't like him."

"Darling," the Queen replied, her back perfectly straight, her elbows tucked in, the skin of her melonfish removed in three deft movements of knife and fork, "if it weren't for my net worth, your father would be peddling used spells to half-witted hags.  Or, more likely, hanging from a hook in a dragon's lair."

Ana scowled.  Her father, Sir Christopher, was the best knight-errant in the Guild.  He had traveled to nearly every corner of the Universe and brought back more relics and rare artifacts and disposed of more dragons than any knight-errant in history.  Nevertheless, what her mother said was true:  Without the Queen to support him, Sir Christopher would likely be a pauper by now.  And without her protection, he might have been eaten long ago, or worse.

"In any case, Anatopsis, I did not ask what sort of future you want," her mother went on.  "I asked what sort of future you expect to have.  You've missed two classes this month, and your tutor informs me that your performance has been abysmal."

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Chris says:

Since most of my published work has been for an adult literary audience, you may be wondering what I'm doing writing fantasy novels for kids. Well, children's books–especially fantasy ones–are my first love. Ask any bookstore owner in my area: they'll tell you I spend most of my time and money in the Children's/Young Adult section. And my all-time favorite books are still the ones that come with Newberry Medals, swords, dogs, magicians or ships on the covers.

Anatopsis is the first novel I ever wrote. I started it more than 20 years ago, and my goal, at the time, was just to see if I could finish it. I did. But the first version was 600 pages long and, by any measure of literature, unpublishable. So, while I was recovering from my disappointment and trying to rewrite the book, I took the opportunity to do what every struggling writer does: work at a lot of different jobs so that I could list them on the back flap of my books some day.

Here is the list, for those of you who are curious: store clerk, teacher, children's magazine editor, production manager at a sailing magazine, secretary, telecommunications programmer, web consultant, Director of Information Systems for an on-line music company, and most recently, Java developer. Oh, and for a few years, I was also guitarist and vocalist for the Beatles tribute band, HELP!

Now I'm writing pretty much full-time. I live in a nice house in Massachusetts with my wonderful, supportive, and extremely patient wife (who also, by the way, is a published author and a fantastic writer) and my 3 children, who are equally wonderful but not quite as patient. I like to tell my kids a lot of stories, and they seem to enjoy them. But when I pick up my guitar, they leave the room, because, as my daughter once said, "Daddy's singing doesn't taste good."

Hope you enjoy Anatopsis and this web-site. Please feel free to email me if you have any comments or questions.

Book Trailer Thursdays: DIAMOND RUBY

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Book trailers are such a brave new media. Some are awful droning talking heads (you know what I mean) where the author looks like he'd rather be shoveling coal in Siberia than filming the interview. Some are almost good–but too long. And some, like Goldilocks found, are just right and manage to capture the spirit and genre of the book.

Today's trailer is from DIAMOND RUBY by Joseph Wallace. I loved Joe's book so much I wrote about it in the Huffington Post. You don't have to love sports to love this book. "Wallace's lively and entertaining first novel…includes all sorts of colorful characters and fascinating social history….At its heart, Diamond Ruby is the story of an unassuming, courageous young woman who uses the national pastime to become a pioneering heroine in a man's world."

"Wallace's lively and entertaining first novel…includes all sorts of colorful characters and fascinating social history….At its heart, Diamond Ruby is the story of an unassuming, courageous young woman who uses the national pastime to become a pioneering heroine in a man's world."

—Howard Frank Mosher, The Washington Post

"Ruby is a keeper—a believable heroine living in a fully re-created New York world of baseball and Prohibition. There are echoes of Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but this story holds its own, allowing Diamond Ruby her place as a literary gem."

—Library Journal (starred review)

"Using a gem of history as inspiration, Wallace invents a tale thick with the atmosphere of 1920s Prohibition-era New York City. "

—Billy Heller, New York Post ("Required Reading")

"This story drew me in, then captured me and then rocketed to an intense 'gotta know,' until I put everything away until I finished the story. This is the book I'm forcing into my daughter's, sister's, cousins', and friends' hands."

—Randy Susan Meyers, Huffington Post

Photoshop Botox for Author Pictures (reprised)

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First, there was Vaseline on the camera lens.

Next up was rose-colored lighting, shooting through pantyhose, and soft focus.

And then came Photoshop.

No one tells the truth of course, so for the "me-too-ism" of writers everywhere, I will set aside my vanity and offer the unadulterated, unvarnished, unphotoshopped truth. These are the things I did to prepare for my author photo:

1) Googled 'how to look good in photos' and found advice. Very helpful advice.

2) Went for a professional make-up 'consult' (would that be tax deductible?)

3) Visited the 'hair whisperer' and told him, "Do what you will. Just don't cut it short." Which he did. But I loved it. Price: Very high. Satisfaction: Priceless. Cost if husband finds out cost: there will be lawyers.

And don't even ask about clothes. I bought and returned several boutique's worth. I tried on every combination of outfit and accessory.

My sister Jill Meyers, a person for whom I never have to pretend, is a talented photographer and a super-talented sister.  To make the best author photo, she studied portrait-shooting technique, bought the talented Marion Ettinger's book Author Photo for inspiration, and invested in equipment to make me glow (and look, ahem, less mature.)

Jill did a wonderful job. She shot literally hundreds of photos, and we reviewed and eliminated, consulted and polled until we found 'the one.' Then she really went to work. With a stroke of her magic computer pen, lines disappear. Adjust the lighting: I warm up, I cool down. I flushed, I blushed, I smoldered.

How far could we go? I'd already applied make-up with the skill of Bobbi Brown herself.  Worn the pearl earrings that cast the most glow on my face. Chosen the green shirt that matched my eyes (that is was, in reality, a slightly raggy Gap tee shirt wouldn't show in the shoulder-up picture.

Now I had to answer the question: is it Kosher to erase my lines? Would it be like using Botox? (Is it ok to use Botox? Is it less bad to use only Photoshop Botox?) After a second of agonized deliberation, I decided. Just a few minor, um . . . .adjustments. The furrows between my brows came from worrying over my children, for goodness sake. Would softening those badges of motherhood make me a bad person? And what about those pesky forehead lines? The puppet lines by my mouth?

Jill went to work. And I loved the final product. Perhaps too much.

What if my sister had made me look so good that no one would recognize me in real life?

A friend of mine, a lovely-looking woman whose book was about to be sold, vowed to have her picture taken sans artifice. So that no one would be surprised when they met her.

Since my book came out, people have recognized me when I came to do a reading. No one asked me what century the picture was taken.

Okay. There was one. (I did promise the truth, right?) The woman who gave me a facial, the one who stared at me under those glaring lights of truth – she asked when the picture was taken.

Maybe my friend had the right idea. Jill did such a good job with that photo. I worry:

Was it cheating to use Photoshop? (But everybody's doing it!)

You be the judge.

Here I am, trying on glasses in a store (awful glasses!) circa this summer:

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Above, my author photo.

(Almost) Weekly Writer at Work: Tish Cohen

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Writers' Work-in-Progress showcases the work of new and long-published authors. This is what their first pages look like now—perhaps the published versions will read exactly the same, perhaps they will be quite changed. That part of the mutable beauty of writing—always a work in progress, until the book hits the shelves.

Today's work comes from the talented, generous and prolific author Tish Cohen. Tish has written for adults, children and young adults. Her most recent book (for adults) Delilah Blue was described as:

"There are some books you can't put down, and others that won't even let you look away. Tish Cohen's new novel is both. Try to read it while ironing, and you will perma-press a pinky; do the same while making a sandwich, and you will end up buttering the phone bill. But as the summer's first terrific beach read, this isn't really an indoor kind of book anyway. Both of Cohen's previous novels (Town House and Inside Out Girl) are in development as films, and The Truth About Delilah Blue is sure to follow. She is clearly familiar with the cinema's propulsive rhythms, and has an almost Hitchcockian sense of how to uncoil audience guts and play double dutch with them. And yet Delilah Blue is a purely domestic drama; no wild-bird invasions or psychotic moteliers in sight, though there may as well be…"—The Globe and Mail

Today, Word Love is lucky enough to have a peek at her upcoming YA novel, SWITCH

SWITCH

By Tish Cohen

Chapter 1

Despite what Mr. Mansouri says, I didn't drive my mother's three-day-old station wagon through Sunnyside High School at lunchtime on a Tuesday as a childish plea for attention. I did it because I have thirty-seven siblings. Give or take. It's surprisingly hard to keep track. I mean, it's not as if we've all lived under the same roof at the same time. There are laws against that kind of thing. Or there seriously should be.

Sitting on the desk in front of me is a sheet of paper that demands to know the following: the date, my name, my homeroom teacher, and the reason I'm in detention. Simple:

November 7th,

Andrea Birch,

Mrs. Coffey,

Okay. The reason I'm in detention is complicated.

"I'm waiting, Miss Birch." Mr. Mansouri sits at the front of detention room. He leans back in his chair and puts his feet on the desk and right away I am sad and annoyed. Not by the act itself, but because of the way he crossed one foot over the other like a big shot. I mean, his loafers are all worn and decrepit and one of the heels is covered in flattened gum that's been stuck there so long it's turned black. Which makes them pretty unsuitable as the footwear of a big shot. That explains the sad. What makes me annoyed is that he went and made me feel sad for him in the first place.

He sees me looking and adds, "It shouldn't take long to complete the form if you tell the truth about what happened."

The truth.

Honestly, the truth is pretty long. I'm not sure it'll even fit on this sheet of paper. Or if I have the energy to get into it. That many brothers and sisters—even if they aren't blood relatives—is hard to explain.

See, my parents take in foster kids. Temporarily offer them a safe, loving haven from their horrifically broken lives. Or, more like my mom does. My dad does the loving haven thing part-time because he goes to work all day as a bank manager, then comes home to make sure the fosters have done their homework and chores. Once everyone's completed duties have been checked off on the laminated chart he keeps on the fridge, he changes into his baby blue jeans and T-shirt and sheepskin slippers so he can monitor meteorological disturbances that hardly ever happen from the family room of our ranch bungalow. Since we live in Orange County, California—Fullerton, to be exact—the weather is pretty much sun, sun, and more sun.

Which also makes me sad. I mean if anyone, anywhere, was meant to be a weatherman it's Gary Birch. My father is a man without a storm. In Ugg slippers.

If you're thinking I have a pathetic issue with footwear, don't waste your brain cells. Mansouri having gum on his shoe and not knowing it is sad no matter what my dad has on his feet.

Anyway, back to the fosters. It always starts the same way. They get dropped off by someone official—usually this woman who wrings her hands a lot and wears flowered pants—and they stay for a day, a year, sometimes half a decade. Then, as unexpectedly as my pretend siblings show up, they're gone. Either shipped back to parents who have kicked the drugs or been freed from prison, or else they're permanently adopted into loving homes. There's one constant with these pseudo brothers and sisters of mine. They leave.

They always, always leave.

My mother is a woman who never sits down. Seriously. It's entirely possible that her knees don't bend. Lise Birch is an MBA from Pepperdine, who, before I was born, spent her days as a management consultant up in L.A. But she was fostered as a child for a few years when Gran got hooked on pain meds (more on Gran later, I promise), and Mom always wanted to give back. So after I was born, she went into the fostering game full time, bringing in a pair of toddler brothers the day I turned one.

Mom never gets tired, never complains, is never too busy to wrap a lonely foster child in hugs, never misses out on her bedtime routine of story time by the gas fireplace, no matter how hot it is outside.

She is the quintessential perfect mother.

Except to me.

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Born in Toronto, Tish Cohen spent her childhood in Montreal, Quebec, and her ditch-high-school-and-head-to-the-beach years in Orange County and Los Angeles, California.  As an adult, she moved back to Toronto to attend college and start a family.  Her career took her from media buyer at an ad agency, to decorative painter, to art gallery manager, to illustrator, to proofreader, to editor.  Finally, seven years ago, she began writing fiction, and the publication of her novels Town House and Inside Out Girl, and The Truth About Delilah Blue soon followed.  Cohen has also written for kids and her next teen novel, Switch is due out in 2011.

(Almost) Weekly Reader

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This week on my review-driven 'gotta read'  (or re-read in one case) list:

My heart raced when I read Pamela Miller's Star Tribune review of Not at All What One Is Used To: The Life and Times of Isabella Gardner by Marian Janssen. According to the review, "Gardner was fascinated by Gardner, and wondered why such a gifted poet had sunk into oblivion.

The answers were complicated, perhaps best explained by the subordinate female role predominant in midcentury America. Gardner felt that it was more important to love and serve than it was to write and publish; she advanced the careers of many poets while subjugating her own. Oscar Williams, her era's chief anthologist, blithely failed to include her in his collections, which led to her obscurity."

Also in the Star-Tribune (which always has a wonderful and varied book review section) is Laura C.J. Owen's review of a fascinating-sounding book, Cate Kennedy's debut novel, The World Beneath:

"This debut novel about an estranged father and daughter's trek through the Tasmanian outback is well observed and often very funny . . . The novel is painfully pointed in its satire of well-meaning progressives whose grand plans to change the world have devolved into passive-aggressive jabs at each other. Seeing each other for the first time in years,  (formerly married) Rich and Sandy immediately engage in environmental one-upmanship. "

Brett Lott writes an exquisite review in The Boston Globe of what sounds like an extraordinary book: Townie: A Memoir:

"Much of the early going in the book is given over to Dubus's single-minded pursuit of the chiseled physique and the administering of the fist to the face. But after a few too many turns with the gratifying rush of stoving in some deserving punk's ribs with the steel toes of his boots, Dubus begins to connect his actions to his father's absence. It is, we find, this lack of a father — no matter how beloved a writer he might have been to the literary world — that feeds the poisonous dynamo Dubus becomes on the streets of Haverhill."

From the 'few years past' department, Ligaya Mishan's NYT review of a favorite book by a favorite writer: Brian Morton's, Breakable You (which I think I'm ready to re-read.)

"At 63, Adam is obsessed not with sex but death; he even wonders if his libido (boosted by Viagra) is just "a desire to assert the rights of the living over the rights of the dead." He can barely control his bile when forced to return to his former haunts on the Upper West Side, decrying "the world of late-night conversations about Marx and Freud in homey little delicatessens of dubious cleanliness, the world that had seemed to be his destined burial ground." So it's perhaps not surprising that his moral reckoning comes in the form of a ghost — a dead rival whose brilliant posthumous manuscript threatens to nullify Adam's literary career."

From NPR, I was drawn to the excerpt, audio interview, and review of Clarence Lusane's Black History of the White House:

"For many Americans, the White House stands as a symbol of liberty and justice. But its gleaming facade hides harsh realities, from the slaves who built the home to the presidents who lived there and shaped the country's racial history, often for the worse. In The Black History of the White House, Clarence Lusane traces the path of race relations in America by telling a very specific history — the stories of those African-Americans who built, worked at and visited the White House.

"Most of us grew up learning history, and we learned about George Washington and the cherry tree and all of that," Lusane tells NPR's Mary Louise Kelly, "but everything else was kind of a blur." But when you do the research, he says, you see how slavery "really shaped the first third of the country's history, and certainly impacted the White House and the occupants of the White House."