CLOSER TO FINE

January Mixed Tape

2011-02-10T23:52:00.004-05:00

This is called "Awesome Songs:"

Camera One, Josh Joplin Group
Shriner's Park, Melissa Etheridge
Just Breathe, Pearl Jam
Kind & Generous, Natalie Merchant
Who Says?, John Mayer
Levon, Elton John
Up All Night, Counting Crow
Sit down by the fire, The Veils
Natural Reaction, Gomez
The End, Pearl Jam
The One I Love, David Gray
Fearless Love Melissa Etheridge
Become You, Indigo Girls
On the Radio, Regina Spektor
Thank U, Alanis Morissette
I'm on Fire, John Mayer
Closer to Love, Mat Kearney
Last Goodbye, Jeff Buckley
Collecting You, Indigo Girls
Everybody Knows, Concrete Blonde
Madness (Bonus Track), Alanis Morissette
Live To Tell, Madonna
Mercy Street, Peter Gabriel
Rain, Madonna
One Of Us, Joan Osborne
Suddenly I See, KT Tunstall
You Wreck Me, Tom Petty
Nervous, Melissa Etheridge
New soul, Yaël Naim
Beauty In the World, Macy Gray

Contradictions (A writing exercise)

2010-05-03T20:39:00.002-04:00

1. I teach my students to approach essay writing as simply following a formula: your idea + primary textual evidence + MLA citation + your analysis + secondary textual evidence + MLA citation + your analysis (not all in one sentence, of course) but I cannot do basic math. Math traumatized me throughout school. Numbers freak me out; even looking at a calendar for too long gives me a headache.

2. I spent most of my first 18 years playing tennis. I’ve spent most of the last 18 years not playing tennis. I still love it, and I do miss it, I just don't go out of my way to play.

3. I haven’t eaten meat, fish or chicken in 24 years. I’m very particular about what food I consume; I don’t eat oily, fattening foods (except high quality French fries once in a while); I always order salad dressing on the side, and usually just use olive oil; I never use butter; I don’t drink soda and I only drink 100% juice. However, I see absolutely nothing wrong with drinking a glass of wine (or two) every night of every week of every year; I sometimes eat half a bag of Baked Ruffles by accident; if there were a gelato shop near my apartment, I would eat gelato every day; I really like (good) beer; I often eat 3 Peppermint Patties on my way to brush my teeth and go to bed.

4. I am fairly OCD about certain things—Purell-ing my hands if I have to touch a subway pole or heavily-trafficked doorknob; not leaving the house without lip stuff (or gum or tissues); keeping important documents in a fireproof safe; remembering friends’ birthdays—and kind of gross (for lack of a better term, though I am not frat-boy-gross) about other things—I wash jeans maybe once a month; I am six months beyond needing new bras and I can’t even admit how long it’s been since I mopped the floor in my apartment (I sweep every day, but I HATE mopping).

5. I have no problem speaking to a classroom full of students on the first day of school, and I love reading my work in front of an audience—I barely feel nervous—but the thought of attending a cocktail party alone—chatting, schmoozing—makes me nauseated.

6. I spent nine summers (the best summers of my life) at sleep away camp. Last summer, I was at a friend’s house in suburban New York, enjoying the starry evening, and a frog crossed my path. I almost pissed myself.

7. I like knowing exactly where I’m going yet I have a very poor sense of direction. The only place I can identify north or south is the Hamptons, because the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

8. I went skydiving for a friend’s 30th birthday—I jumped out of a plane from 13 miles in the sky—but a hot, crowded subway car that stops in a dark tunnel gives me heart palpitations.

9. I like feeling in control but I have absolutely no self-control; if you put a bowl of M&Ms, a glass of wine or a (very light) cigarette in front of me, I will eat, drink and smoke them.

10. I cannot live without music. I love music. I need music. And I am totally tone deaf—I literally cannot sing.

Shadow of the Day

2010-03-27T16:37:00.004-04:00

I heard this song on the radio this morning and can't stop listening to it. I have no feelings about the video, but the song deeply affects me--it's the soundtrack to the last two weeks of my life.

Shadow of the Day by Linkin Park

Presence

2010-03-24T18:32:00.006-04:00

Grief is dark and heavy.
And unbearable.
One hour I am angry at the pointlessness, the next hour I am engulfed in pain.
And paralyzed. Grief is not conducive to writing, or even re-writing.
Maybe it is what I am writing. Maybe it is because I cannot focus.
Or maybe it is that I am feeling, processing, mourning,
not repressing or suppressing.
Which is good. I guess.
This is where I am right now.
"This too shall pass..."

Brian was 28 years old, my student for nearly 3 years. He loved learning, loved analyzing, loved writing.

Brian Johnson

2010-03-17T22:40:00.004-04:00

Brian Johnson Jr.
12/24/81 - 3/13/10
I saw him every day, and I will miss him every day.

In Honor of Lost Potential

2010-03-15T22:33:00.003-04:00

My favorite student died over the weekend. His name was Brian Johnson. I know I’m not supposed to admit to having a favorite student, but Brian was an extraordinary student, and a kind, generous man. I met him in my Introduction to Literature class two years ago; he and his best friend Michael were the anchors in the class, meaning I could consistently count on them to discuss the assigned readings. Brian’s analytical skills were terrific; he just needed to learn the literary vocabulary with which to discuss his ideas. He possessed natural writing skills; he just needed someone to infuse him with confidence, and teach him how to use the literature itself to prove his ideas. In the middle of the semester, the apartment building in which he lived with his “Pops” burned down. He came to see me the next day, worried his assignment would be late because his textbooks had been destroyed. Most students would use this as an excuse to not hand in assignments, but Brian merely asked for an extra week so he could read the assigned short stories in the library. When I handed him a new textbook and dictionary, he was thrilled, and I knew he was a man who not only cherished his education but also truly enjoyed reading and learning about literature.

Brian was a Psychology major, but I persuaded him to take my 20th Century American Fiction class in the fall of 2008. By October, he had become a double major, in Psychology and English. At the end of that semester, he wrote a publishable research paper on Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood. As he tackled subsequent upper-level Psychology and Literature courses, his desire to learn increased, as did his grades. He often stopped by my office to show me a paper he was working on—with pride I realized his writing skills had improved to the point that he could share his knowledge with other students.

In the fall of 2009, I hired Brian as a Peer Tutor as well as a Work Study Student for the English Department. I saw him every day. He called me “Miss.” On Mondays, he asked about my weekend. He talked to me about his son, who lived with him every weekend. He laughingly told me how he had been convinced by an infomercial to buy the “Your Baby Can Read” DVDs; he figured it wasn’t too early to show his son the importance of words. He loved movies—we laughed about the fact that he and Michael were probably the only two people who traveled from the South Bronx to the Upper East Side in order to see Woody Allen’s new movie. He also loved reading. Faulkner and Poe elicited his enthusiasm—I think because they reveal the darker side of human nature, which stimulated Brian’s thoughts as connected to both psychology and literature. Oftentimes Brian stopped by my office, smiling his sweet smile, to show me a book he’d found at The Strand—the novelty of inexpensive books, used but in perfect condition, never wore off for him.

Brian had been thriving as a Peer Tutor, and in my Insane Characters in Literature course this semester, his intellectual curiosity and academic confidence were apparent not only to me but also the other students. Last week, Brian asked me about graduate programs, and together we looked online at grad programs that would incorporate his love for literature with his interest in psychology. He was thinking about teaching, or counseling in a school setting. I was looking forward to writing an amazing letter of recommendation for him.

On Saturday, Brian was alone in a room and had a seizure, and he died. To say his life was “full of promise,” or that he had a “bright future ahead of him,” is a gross understatement. Brian didn’t command attention when he walked into a room, but you knew he was there. He possessed a quiet dignity. His subtle optimism and thoughtful generosity affected the lives of those around him, especially mine. Brian was the type of student who made teaching exciting and worthwhile, and I can’t bear the thought of teaching on Thursday nights without him sitting beside me. I have been an English professor for the past ten years—no student has earned my respect and affection the way Brian did. I guess my grief will eventually subside, but I won’t stop mourning him. The world was a better place with Brian Johnson in it.

It's No Coincidence

2010-03-12T19:59:00.013-05:00

"If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels," wrote Tennessee Williams.

What comes first, the creativity or the darkness? Do artists create because they need to exorcise their demons, or is it their very creations that lead to the darkness? This conundrum continues to come up in the class I'm teaching this semester, Insane Characters in Literature (many of the characters/literature were created by authors who suffered from mental illness). The number of artists, especially writers, who were/are
drinkers or drug users is extremely high, and can't be a coincidence. The number of artists, especially
writers, who have committed suicide or suffered from some type of mental illness is off the charts, so to speak. No other career loses so many people to suicide.

What comes first, the emotional pain or the creativity?

March 18 Drunken Careening Writers

2010-02-22T11:58:00.003-05:00

I've been invited to read from my second novel at NYC's most literary bar, KGB Bar*. It's an honor to participate in the fantastic literary series Drunken Careening Writers, and I hope you'll come hear me read from my new novel!

March 18, 2010
KGB Bar
85 East 4th Street, NYC, 10003
(near the corner of 2nd Avenue)
7-9 PM

*Named best literary venue in New York City by New York Magazine and the Village Voice.

Why? circa 2004

2010-02-16T20:47:00.004-05:00

I was looking for a document on my hard drive and found this; it's old, from 2004. It was an assignment in a Theories of Teaching course in my MA in Lit program, something about writing a narrative of our lives. Anyway, it's about writing, and about me, so I figured I'd share it on my blog.

"Why?"

I write because words are my link to the world…I write because words are illuminating and enlightening…I write because I love to read…I write because a blank page doesn’t scare me…I write because I never made a decision to write—it’s just what I need to do…I write because I have always written, and I will always write…I write because I want to write every day, at the times I choose, for the reasons I choose…I write because I want to support myself by selling novels and short stories…I write because I want to spend my days writing, revising, editing and revising again…I write non-fiction because I have ideas and opinions I want to share with others…I write fiction because I witness stories that need to be told…I write because I crave time; time to talk with friends—mostly writers—about the world, our worlds, and the words we write…I write because I want time to workshop with peers I respect and admire…I write because I want time to read and see movies and drive aimlessly, all of which help me generate ideas…I write because I want time to travel…I write because I want time to hear other writers read their work…I write because I need time to browse through bookstores…I write because it is how I process information, and trauma, and life in general…I write because it allows me to create reality…I write because I express myself best with the written word…

I write because in the eighth grade I learned grammar, and I fell for the logistics and structure of perfect mechanics…I write because in ninth grade I read A Separate Peace and The Great Gatsby…I write because in tenth grade I read Catcher in the Rye…I write because in eleventh grade I took a creative writing class, and realized words were my way out…I write because in eleventh grade I read Macbeth and The Scarlet Letter…I write because in twelfth grade I read Rebecca and Beowulf and The Cherry Orchard...I write because freshman year I read The Sun Also Rises…I write because sophomore year I read Gulliver’s Travels and On The Road…I write because junior year I read O’ Pioneers…I write because senior year I read Wise Blood…

I write because Ernest Hemingway showed me that “simple” is in the eye of the beholder; that often, writing less is actually writing more; and landscape is everything…I write because Edith Wharton showed me the inherent splendor in continuing a metaphor; in punishing and then rewarding a protagonist; and that the old adage “write what you know” can be a path to perfection…I write because F. Scott Fitzgerald proved to me that inserting your heart and soul in your work can be worthwhile…I write because when Edna Pontellier dies in my hands, I feel complete…I write because I don’t know if Young Goodman Brown dreamed in the woods or not…I write because when Hamlet asks “To be or not to be?”, my stomach tightens…I write because I have no idea what happens in The Magus yet I still love it…I write because after I finish Fathers and Sons I am speechless…I write because I cannot fathom creating an unreliable narrator as powerful as in The Good Soldier...

I write because in my twenties I realized it was my way in…I write because the web of words keeps me afloat…I write because there is nothing quite as satisfactory as a seamless transition…I write because I think in paragraphs…I write because I love using semi-colons…I write because I can’t sing…I write because the first time I saw my own byline it felt right…I write because I still love seeing my work in print…I write because winning contests increases my confidence… I write because rejection forces me to try harder…I write because I love to edit and perfect my pieces…I write because a pen fits in my hand….I write because my fingers love the keyboard…I write because words bump around in my dreams…I write because words are my religion and books are sacred…I write because every once in a while I assemble a perfect sentence, and I am addicted to the feeling that washes over me when I complete the puzzle…I write because I cannot help it…I write because of Billie Holiday, Miles Davis, Nina Simone and Bob Dylan…I write because communicating is everything…I write because what my characters have to say is important…I write because my soul demands it…I write because sometimes words come uninvited…I write because I can spend a whole day debating between two adjectives…I write because I enjoy losing an hour while I decide on comma placement…I write because I can spell, I can organize and I can surprise…I write because if a day ends without my words hitting a page, I feel incomplete.

2010-02-08T14:31:00.003-05:00

Additional Ideas for Insane Characters in Literature

[This is a list of novels and short stories I considered but decided against teaching. In some cases, the reason was as simple as length; I'd rather teach 3 different pices of literature than spend 3 weeks reading/discussing a really long novel, such as Don Quixote.]

I'm sure there are many other novels and stories I should have considered. Feel free to comment and add your ideas so I can improve my syllabus for the future. The only caveat is the literature must be fiction.

Closer to Fine – Meri Weiss
American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – Robert Louis Stevenson
Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte
Motherless Brooklyn – Jonathan Lethem
The Painted Bird – Jerry Kosinski
Mrs. Dalloway – Virginia Woolf
A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess
Breakfast of Champions – Kurt Vonnegut
Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy O’Toole
Don Quixote – Cervantes
She’s Come Undone – Wally Lamb
Valis – Philip K. Dick
Crime and Punishment – Fyoder Dostoevsky
Notes from the Underground – Fyoder Dostoevsky
“The Hour of the Dead” - Fyoder Dostoevsky –
“The Fall of the House of Usher” - Edgar Allen Poe
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov – Lolita
Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
Villette - Charlotte Bronte
Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys
Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier – Rebecca
A Streetcar Named Desire - Tennessee Williams
Misery - Stephen King
Margaret Atwood – Surfacing
Found on the Street- Patricia Highsmith
Postcards from the Edge – Carrie Fisher
The Magus – John Fowles
The Collector – John Fowles
The Metamorphosis - Franz Kafka
100 Days of Sodom – Marquis de Sade

The Light

2010-02-07T21:43:00.011-05:00

27 Days until the Academy Awards.

Despite the fact that it's freezing out, I pondered spring several times this weekend. It seems as if the light is starting to change, just ever so slightly; the early mornings are brighter, and the sun is lingering just a little later each day. On Friday at about 5:30, it was still light out. Spring is waiting.

My internal clock definitely senses spring. It's been just under a year since I moved into my apartment in the neighborhood I now know and love. The novelty of living in a vibrant, interesting, safe neighborhood hasn't worn off, and when I walk from the subway to my apartment, no matter what time it is or what type of day I've had, I remind myself how lucky I am. I love my building, my apartment, my street, my proximity to almost every other neighborhood; I love my easy commute to work, to visit friends and family, to Grand Central, to movie theaters, to all NYC offers.

I live among artists (mostly musicians), professors, students and families. There is, quite literally, music in the air; I hear beautiful classical music played by professional, near-professional and professional-in-training musicians all the time, both inside and outside.

The parks near my apartment are currently quiet and gray, but I know in just a few months they'll become green and welcoming again, and I'll tote my beach chair outside and plop down in the grass to read, write, listen to music in the sun. I re-embraced my independence in these parks last spring and summer, sitting in my low-slung beach chair for hours, doing what I love most (reading, writing, listen to music in the sun), righting my sense of self and remembering how much I value time alone, time in my head, time on the periphery, observing and writing and soaking up life.

I miss the heat of the sun, and I do hate the cold weather, the layers of clothing, the short days. But I know the winter is necessary, and this winter especially. It's a season of stillness, of comprehension, of contemplation, all of which lead to inspiration. Dinner and wine, a warm apartment with good friends--in the winter, it becomes an art form, a cozy path to stimulating, entertaining conversations riddled with laughter, which leads to inspiration. Movies, plays and music lead to inspiration. Self-reflection, whether nonchalant or astounding, eventually leads to inspiration.

It would be easy for me to use winter as an excuse to shut down, shut off, shut out the connections that inspire and electrify my writing, my life. I don't believe in standing still; progressive connections, internal and external, mark our lives. Disconnecting seems antithetical to the greater purpose, and certainly to the novel I'm working on. My winter is dedicated to re-directing, replenishing, renewing...I can already see the changes in my light.

It Begins...

2010-02-02T22:44:00.003-05:00

The countdown, that is. To my favorite day of the year: The Academy Awards.

32 days.

I have a few more movies to see before I comment on the nominations, but two quick thoughts before I return to a formidable stack of ungraded essays:

* I understand the rationale behind the new ten Best Picture nomination system, but it's overkill. Way too many movies. And with a trip to the movies averaging at 12 bucks per person (without snacks!), I don't see ten Best Picture nominations pushing people into theaters.

* On what planet does Penelope Cruz do anything (especially act!) better than Julianne Moore? Oy.

Don't forget! March 18th! I'm reading from my novel-in-progress at KGB Bar, 7 PM, as part of the amazing literary series called "Drunken! Careening! Writers!"

Short but Long Days

2010-01-24T21:11:00.002-05:00

I haven't worked on my novel-in-progress in 2 weeks. Life gets in the way sometimes; I hope to get back to work this week. I did finalize my Spring 2010 syllabus for my class Insane Characters in Literature. Here is the reading list (not in order of appearance), for anyone who is interested:

A Separate Peace by John Knowles
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The Crucible by Arthur Miller
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Being There by Jerry Kosinski
The Stranger by Albert Camus
Hamlet by William Shakespeare

Short Stories to be Provided:
Excerpts from “Madwoman in the Attic” (essay)
“The Yellow Wall-paper” by Charlotte Perkins-Gilman
“The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allen Poe
“Rappaccini’s Daughter & “Young Goodman Brown” by Nathaniel Hawthorne
“A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner
“The Battler” by Ernest Hemingway
“The Shawl” by Cynthia Ozick
“The Heroine” & “The Terrapin” by Patricia Highsmith

Films to be Discussed (viewed in class):
Heavenly Creatures directed by Peter Jackson
The Silence of the Lambs directed by Jonathan Demme

It's 2010...

2010-01-03T19:15:00.002-05:00

...and I know you want to read my thoughts on the many movies I've seen lately. Check back soon for movie reviews and the reason I haven't (and won't) posted the short story I wrote recently.

I may also use this venue (and/or FB) to brainstorm the syllabus for the new class I'm teaching in a few weeks, Insane Characters in Literature. I've chosen which novels and stories to teach, but am undecided as to how to group them, i.e., chronology in which to teach. More on this soon.

Happy New Year to the few and dedicated readers of my blog. Much health and happiness in 2010. And remember, "The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely." - Carl Jung

Quotes to Live By, Part Nine

2009-12-25T23:17:00.003-05:00

"If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people."
– Virginia Woolf

“Keep passing the open windows.”
- John Irving, The Hotel New Hampshire

“Your memory is a monster; you forget--it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you--and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!”
- John Irving

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

A Quote on my Birthday

2009-12-22T07:06:00.001-05:00

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”
- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Quotes to Live By, Part Eight

2009-12-21T09:29:00.002-05:00

"Never mistake motion for action."
- Ernest Hemingway

"Action is eloquence."
- William Shakespeare

"Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not of words. Trust movement."
- Alfred Adler

"Remember, people will judge you by your actions, not your intentions. You may have a heart of gold, but so does a hard-boiled egg."
- Author Unknown

Quotes to Live By, Part Seven

2009-12-18T19:06:00.001-05:00

"I'd rather regret the things I've done than regret the things I haven't done."
- Lucille Ball

“It is the soul's duty to be loyal to its own desires. It must abandon itself to its master passion.”
- Rebecca West

Great Expectations

2009-12-16T08:17:00.002-05:00

In typical cinematic fashion, I had an epiphany yesterday—on the subway, while listening to my Broken Heart playlist. I was thinking about my broken heart, and trying to figure out why it’s taking so long to heal. As I was pondering all the greatest romances, the romances that influenced my definition of romance, I realized there wasn’t one real relationship among them—they all exist in a two-dimensional universe: film.

Thus, my epiphany: movies have ruined my life. Books have no doubt added to the damage— Jake and Brett, Catherine and Frederic, Lily and Selden, Catherine and Heathcliff and Romeo and Juliet break my heart every time I re-visit them—but my most vivid connections to fictional romance have been conveyed through film.

I can’t recall a time when I didn’t love movies. My father introduced me to classics like The Godfather, High Noon and Bridge on the River Kwai. My mother introduced me to slapstick comedy—she loves High Anxiety, Young Frankenstein and Airplane! Often it was her reaction—if you know my mom, you can picture her chuckling away—to broad comedies that amused me more than the actual movie. She also loves horror films; I love the fact that while most kids were shielded from scary movies, my mother actually called me into the room to watch Friday the 13th or Nightmare on Elm Street with her. If it was cheesy and scary, we watched it. One of her favorite horror films is a cheese-fest called Happy Birthday to Me; in it, there’s a scene in which the killer brutally and hilariously kills her lover by shoving a shish kebob down his throat. This scene cracks my mother up. Her deep appreciation for both smart humor and cheeky horror definitely added to my reverence of film.

However, at some point, my love affair with movies turned on me. I’m not satisfied—in fact, I’m disappointed with—the ordinary and uninspired aspects of everyday life, especially in regard to endings. I crave the drama of movie endings—the theatrics and suspense, the convergence of emotions, the tension of a compelling finale. I want the underdog to win, I want love to conquer all and I want everyone’s lives improved, even though I know life doesn’t function in this manner. I was devastated when the Yankees lost the 2001 World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks. New York City had been torn asunder by 9/11, literally and figuratively—how could our home team, the celebrated New York Yankees, not win the World Series? It would have been a storybook ending—a movie ending—that my city deserved.

Thus my lifelong love for movies has become problematic. I always look for the dramatic ending, the grand gesture. I want a life-changing epiphany, a torrential rainstorm, a David vs. Goliath victory. I want star-crossed lovers to reunite. I cannot fathom why my Ex doesn’t show up on my doorstep to declare I am all that matters to her—she was put on this earth to love me—not because I think I’m so fabulous but because it would be so very romantic, like Fred and Holly Golightly in the pouring rain searching for Cat.

Reality is boring, and difficult, and more often than not, sad or disappointing, but not in a poignant, cinematic way. Is it so wrong to want life to be more vivid, more touching, more romantic? Is it too much to ask for a little more drama and a little less heartbreak? After all, in the end, Lassie does come home; Luke, Leia and Han Solo do defeat the Dark Side; Harry does love Sally; Willy is eventually free; Edward does climb up to Vivian; Maverick does prove his worth; Amanda Jones does stand on her own two feet; Diane does fall for Lloyd Dobler; the brain, the athlete, the basket case, the princess and the criminal do become friends; the St. Elmo’s group does grow up; Dan and Debbie do get back together; Princess Buttercup and Wesley do live happily ever after; Thelma and Louise do find freedom; Red and Andy do reunite in Zihuatanejo; Erin Brockovich does defeat PG&E, Seabiscuit does win the race; and Ennis del Mar does love Jack Twist forever.

Quotes to Live By, Part Six

2009-12-15T18:39:00.003-05:00

“Pity me that the heart is slow to learn
What the swift mind beholds at every turn.”
- Edna St. Vincent Millay

“A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him.”
- Edna St. Vincent Millay

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.”
- Washington Irving

Quotes to Live By, Part Five

2009-12-14T18:06:00.002-05:00

"The willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life is the source from which self-respect springs."
- Joan Didion

"The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for."
- Maureen Dowd

"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain."
- Dolly Parton

Quotes to Live By, Part Four

2009-12-13T21:16:00.004-05:00

"Nobody has ever measured, not even the poets, how much a heart can hold."
- Zelda Fitzgerald

"Love is something eternal...
The aspect may change
But not the essence."
- Vincent Van Gogh

Both these quotes are fairly famous, but to me they are more than just famous words of wisdom; they are priceless signifiers of passion and love.

Quotes to Live By Part Three

2009-12-11T21:20:00.002-05:00

“I will love the light, for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”
- Og Mandino (American essayist)

“Watch your thoughts, for they become words.
Watch your words, for they become actions.
Watch your actions, for they become habits.
Watch your habits, for they become character.
Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.”
- Anonymous

Quotes to Live By Part Two

2009-12-09T19:35:00.002-05:00

"Is life not a hundred times too short for us to stifle ourselves?
- Friedrich Nietzsche

"It is never too late to be what you might have been."
- George Eliot

"Almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which he does not possess, and to gain applause which he cannot keep."
- Samuel Johnson

Quotes to Live By

2009-12-08T21:23:00.001-05:00

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
-Dr. Seuss

"Above all, be true to yourself, and if you cannot put your heart in it, take yourself out of it."
- Hardy D. Jackson

The Meaning of (My) Life

2009-07-22T22:54:00.000-04:00

It’s now been just over a year since my debut novel, CLOSER TO FINE, was published. For the past twelve months, I’ve done everything possible to cajole both people I know and total strangers to purchase and read my book. I’ve answered the question “What’s your book about” many times, and my answer has started something like this: “Well, it’s about this girl, Alex, and how she tries to cope with her brother’s death, and then her therapist dies and leaves her a note about her life…” Now that I am happily, regularly and publicly working on my next novel, people are asking, “What’s your new book about?” My answer has either been “I can’t (i.e., won’t) talk about it” or “You’ll see.” But today I realized I have a better answer to both questions: “Connections.” Both CLOSER TO FINE and my novel-in-progress are about people connecting with other people.

My life is, literally and figuratively, focused on connections. As an English professor, it is both my hope and my job to connect college students to literature. As a writer, my goal is to connect readers to my characters, my stories, my themes and, ultimately, to me. As a person, I am fascinated, energized, inspired and propelled forward by human connections. I think we all are. Connecting with other people is what makes life remarkable, and prevents it from becoming an endless cycle of work, responsibility and monotony. The cool thing about connecting is that it can happen en masse; when the floor was vibrating and the walls were breathing as Madonna took the stage at a special Roseland Ballroom concert I attended last year, it was because of the electric connection among the small audience. Isn’t that what music is all about? Connecting. In addition to music, art and literature are based on connections as well; they’re all created in the hopes that a song, a painting, a poem or a novel will find a home in the heart of another, or many others. It doesn’t matter what you connect with, as long as you connect. I can listen to Regina Spektor’s “Fidelity” or the Indigo Girls’ “Virginia Woolf” or Bob Dylan’s “Tangled Up in Blue” ten times a day, but someone else might cringe at these songs while obsessively loving three other songs. I’ve connected with these songs (and about thirty others I listen to religiously); you connect with other songs. That’s the magic of connections.

Some people spend a lot of time creating professional connections. Others are serial romantic connectors. There’s no right way to connect, as long as you’re connecting. A lot of people scoff at Facebook and the notion of social networks, but Facebook connected me to people who may have otherwise never heard about my novel—four people from my high school, who I haven’t seen since high school, attended my NYC reading, thanks to my CLOSER TO FINE Facebook page. This blog, in fact, was inspired by Facebook; a few hours ago, a colleague and I were talking about work-related issues, and he mentioned a Facebook status about work I posted last week, while he was on vacation. He didn’t comment on Facebook about it, and I didn’t know he had read it, yet it still connected us a week later. In August, I am meeting a good friend in Europe; after five days together in Amsterdam, we are returning to his apartment in Prague, where I will stay with him for a week. I last saw this friend three years ago, in a bar, for perhaps four hours. Before that, however, I saw him nearly every day for two years. We first bonded, or connected, over a shared love of our favorite fluff (i.e., cheesy) novel (STORY OF MY LIFE by Jay McInerney, if you’re wondering). A year after this initial connection, a phone call on a crisp, sunny September morning connected us for the rest of our lives; it was he who called me at 9 AM on September 11th and told me to turn on the TV. Together—as friends, writers, fellow New Yorkers—we watched as the second plane crashed into a tower. It never occurred to me to not ask if I could visit him in Prague, and I’m guessing it didn’t occur to him to say no, simply because we share a connection.

Which is not to say that time doesn’t change or lessen connections; there are people, especially Camp Taconic people, I am no longer connected to, despite thinking I would forever be connected to them. Life does sometimes get in the way of connections; other times, it is we who need to alter our connections. I’m currently in the process of disconnecting from someone I truly thought I’d spend a lifetime connected to. Yet there is an ebb and flow to connections, to accepting the people life places in our paths. I may not ascribe to a particular faith, but recognizing, as well as nurturing and protecting, connections is sacred to me. In the past year, I’ve connected with two colleagues in a way I never thought possible; they’ve become close friends, ones I rely on in a myriad of ways. I’ve connected with my sister’s children in an intensely pure, transformative manner. I’ve re-connected with my closest friends—the link between us has escalated, as have the love, respect and admiration. I’ve recently tried to create a new connection, one borne of 21st century technology but based on the most ancient form of communication: honest words.

Connecting with others is not easy—it can be daunting, confusing, complicated. Insecurities arise, words are weighed and letting go—trusting enough to truly connect—is the biggest leap of faith life has to offer. In the end, though, I think it’s worth it, because forging connections is the point. Of life, and of love.

Closer to Fine, One Year Anniversary

2009-06-26T16:01:00.000-04:00

On June 25, 2009, my debut novel CLOSER TO FINE turned one. It’s been one full year since the publication of a book I spent two years writing, one year editing, and four years waiting to be published. Although I am an Assistant Professor of English at the College of New Rochelle and carry a full load of teaching, advising and committee work, I spent as much time as my schedule would allow in 2008 publicizing CLOSER TO FINE. All of it was exciting, and I learned a lot, not only about the book publishing world but also myself and people in general. While I love reading my work to an audience, my favorite part of a Reading & Signing is the Q&A. Whether I had just read to an audience of college students, the general public or aspiring writers, the questions were terrific. Here are some paraphrased highlights, in case you weren’t able to attend a Reading & Signing:

Most Frequently Asked Question: How long did it take you to write your novel? [See above.]

Second Most Frequently Asked Question (also Silliest Question): Are those your legs on the cover? [No.]

Most Challenging Question: When Alex finally talks with her mother, on the grass, at a family gathering, what is it that she wants? In what way does she need the relationship to shift? [Too long and complicated for this blog, but we had an interesting dialogue about the answer.]

Least Challenging Question: Are all the characters based on people you know? [No. Only a few are vaguely modeled on real people.]

Most Mystifying Question: Why does Alex conduct so many internal dialogues? [Because she dissects every aspect of her life, for better or worse, and tries to make sense of the enormous pain she’s experienced.] Yes, but she continues to probe, internally, when most people would turn outward for answers. It’s almost as if she makes connections, isn’t satisfied with them, and searches for further connections. [Um, ah, because Jax can’t always pick up his phone. I guess. I’m not sure what you mean.] (NOTE: these questions came from a neuroscientist, with whom I had a lovely chat after the Q&A. He dumbed his questions down so I, the right-brained writer, could understand and answer them without sounding quite so idiotic.)

Most Dreaded Question Asked at Every Q&A: Are you working on another novel? [3 answers, depending on when the question was asked: No; I’m currently in the research phase; Yes. I hated this question for two reasons. One, saying “No” was painful for me, as a writer should write on a regular basis, but it took me six months to come to terms with my own idea, as it includes some back story I was uncomfortable with for a variety of reasons. Two, the subsequent question was always: What is your new book about? I don’t discuss my current work; most writers won’t discuss whatever it is they’re currently writing. Writers understand this, but others tended to be insulted when I wouldn’t answer, so I began repeating a statement by Ernest Hemingway directly related to the discourse of a writer’s current work, which I live and write by: “If you talk about it you lose it.”]

Question Asked Only Once: Are you happy with your novel, i.e., Would You Change Anything if You Could? [Yes, I am extremely happy with my novel, though I would change three small errors, all of which were my fault. There is a grammatical mistake, I am ashamed to say (I am an English professor, after all, and consider my grammatical skills beyond reproach); there is a mistake in regard to a NYC subway connection; and there is a musical reference mistake (“Bruce Springsteen is wailing about the Badlands” but BADLANDS is a Terence Malick film; I was thinking of Springsteen’s song “Jungleland.”).]

Easiest Questions to Answer:

Which part of your novel was easiest to write? [Chapter One, which was originally, in a slightly altered version, an award-winning short story I wrote. I thought of most of it, including dialogue, while sitting in traffic on the LIE. The rest flowed out of me more smoothly and quickly than anything I have ever written.]

Which part of your novel was hardest to write? [The dinner scene in which Jax confronts his father’s homophobia was extraordinarily difficult to write, and took me quite a few attempts to get right. The last paragraph of the novel was also hard to write; I revised it about twenty times. The cemetery scene with Tucker and Alex was stylistically challenging, due to the present tense flashback (flashbacks are usually past tense).]

What is your favorite part of your novel? [As is often the case in life, that which is hardest is most rewarding; my favorite part is the dinner scene in which Jax confronts his father’s homophobia. I also really like the scene in which Alex tells Jax she’s found “the missing piece;” it’s nearly all fast-paced dialogue and the affection between the best friends is palpable (if I don’t say so myself!).]

If you have a question about CLOSER TO FINE or my writing process or the publication process in general, feel free to email me at meri@meriweiss.com. And if you haven’t yet bought and read CLOSER TO FINE, you’re missing out! Pick one up at any bookstore and enjoy over a summer weekend!

Music Makes the People Come Together

2009-05-03T20:59:00.000-04:00

“Nothing is more revealing than movement.” – Martha Graham

I’m starting to believe more and more in kismet, though I guess a person with outstanding rhetorical skills could convince me kismet is nothing more than a series of coincidences. I’ve been craving a night of dancing for months. I’ve been re-visiting my favorite techno albums a lot lately (can I still use the world “album?” All my music is on my IPod, yet I hadn’t listened to techno/DJ music in a while), and my IPod has been frozen on Madonna’s “Confessions Tour Live” for the past 2 weeks. Last night, without any premeditation, a night of dancing presented itself to me. Dinner on the Upper West Side turned into drinks in Hell’s Kitchen, in a bar I used to spend a lot of time in, back when I went out (with the boys) every weekend. At a time usually considered the end of night (and a late one at that), we (me and the boys, though a different variation) strolled over to the Ritz Bar, which we chose for its proximity and the lack of cover charge. We walked in and, while waiting for drinks, heard an excellent re-mix of Madonna’s “Deeper & Deeper,” an underappreciated song and one of my favorites. Drinks in hand, we ventured into the back, to the dance space. I felt like a kid again; actually, I felt like the 26 year-old version of me. As I crossed the threshold, I banged into the wall of heat, and I paused. It felt like a subway platform in August; the smoke machine and tons of twisting, sweaty bodies only added to the visceral memories coursing through my body. I wondered: is this what I wanted? Am I still this person, the one who loves dancing among a bevy of boys, enough to ignore the intense heat and the smaller-than-my-comfort-zone-usually-allows space? I stepped into the dance space—yes, I am.

I stripped down to my tank top (fortuitous wardrobe choice), we found our corner and 2 hours of dancing began. Great DJ—he mixed it up a bit, with Madonna, Lady GaGa, a short, fun 80s set (including a giddy re-mix of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” which, it turns out, we remembered every word to!), a fantastic dance mix of Tina Turner’s “Rolling on a River,” a small but potent paean to disco, and other songs I can’t remember. It took me a few songs to find my groove—I can’t remember the last time I went dancing, in a bar or club, sweating and smiling. Within 15 minutes, though, it was as if no time at all had passed; I was sharing smiles with the same dance partner from my 20s. A good DJ doesn’t just tumble into the next song—he/she presents a journey, and guessing where that path will lead is half the fun, for me. The DJ’s transitions were very good, and I quickly forgot (or my body adjusted to) the heat in the room. I looked around the room and felt the same satisfaction, the same comfort, I’ve always felt while dancing in gay (male) bars and clubs. Personal space is respected. Everyone knows how to dance (nothing worse than trying to dance among people who cannot—it can be painful to watch). The fun is palpable—despite the heat, there is a lightness in the air, a zest for life. And, of course, no one is looking at me, except my friends. My skin sweats and my hair frizzes, but my body delights nonetheless, and not an iota of insecurity weighs me down—I am in complete alignment with body and soul. It’s like being invisible, in the best way, yet at the same time, I am at peace with myself. As Martha Graham so eloquently stated: “We look at the dance to impart the sensation of living in an affirmation of life, to energize [. . .] into keener awareness of the vigor, the mystery, the humor, the variety, and the wonder of life.”

Music and Me

2009-04-19T20:59:00.000-04:00

I love music; I think music defines my life, in a variety of ways. I can measure my growth—both musical and literal—by the music I’ve listened to (and depended on) throughout my life. I look back on the concerts I’ve attended and they reflect who I was at the time, where I was emotionally, and what I was looking for, in terms of music and my life in general. Whether I was walking the frigid, quaint streets of Ann Arbor with my yellow Sony walkman, negotiating subways and NYC streets with a Discman while commuting to my first job as an adult, driving around the Hamptons with the salty sea air flowing through my Ford Explorer or now, listening to my IPod every time I exit my apartment, music has been and continues to be a part of my daily existence, my passage through life. The Indigo Girls concert I saw last week got me thinking about the concerts I’ve attended over the years; herewith, for whoever reads my website blogs and my FB Notes, is a list of my favorites:

Sting, Nassau Coliseum, L.I., March 1991. I liked Sting, but I liked the opening band, Concrete Blonde, a lot more.

Spin Doctors, Wetlands, NYC, June 1991. Anyone remember Wetlands? It was the funkiest club in TriBeCa, on Hudson Street. We always got lost driving there. The Spin Doctors were really cool, before they became popular and started to suck. This was a great show—I think I went with Tara and Bryan, friends from high school.

Grateful Dead, Giants Stadium, NJ, June 1991, with Dana, Ryan, Tara and Bryan, from high school. My first Dead show—it sounds so cliché, but my life was forever changed.

Grateful Dead, Giants Stadium, NJ, June 1992, with my pals from freshman year: Dana, Melissa and Jon. We had floor seats. I heard my favorite song, “Shakedown Street,” and they closed with “Baba O'Riley.” Bruce Hornsby was on drums. This concert blew my mind—I can still picture myself dancing like a maniac.

The Black Crowes, Hill Auditorium, Ann Arbor, MI, March 1993. I loved them at the time—their first album was so damn good. Despite the lame name, Hill Auditorium is among the Top 10 acoustics in the country (or was at the time). Balcony seats, damn fine concert (it was Dana’s birthday; I think she and Melissa left early to start a dorm party while Melanie and I rocked out.)

PHISH, Michigan Theatre, Ann Arbor, MI, April 1993. Tickets were $15.50 for students! I had tix for two nights. I missed the concert on the 17th because I fainted on the way in to the concert. The concert on the 18th was terrific—non-stop set list.

Grateful Dead, Buckeye Lake, OH, June 1993. I still smile when I think of this concert. Road trip from Ann Arbor to Ohio, with Dana, Melanie, Melissa, Danielle B, Stacey W and Stacy S. I flew in from my summer internship in D.C., ate a chipati, and we took off. Cheap motel, beautiful weather, the entire day outside. I remember we created our own bathroom by strategically opening side-by-side car doors. I also remember watching a stranger suck down a huge whip-it, then fall over like a tree (never understood the whip-it thing). The Dead were amazing that night. It took us five hours to drive out of the parking lot. Yes, it’s vaguely fictionalized in my novel.

Peter Gabriel, Capital Centre, June 1993. Incredible, life-altering concert.

The Allman Brothers, Beacon Theater, March 1996. Ah, the Allmans, live. I danced for 2 hours. Fantastic.

Indigo Girls, June 1997, Sony Studios, NYC, my first IGs concert. Steven and I scored tickets to a Hard Rock Live taping through the agency at which we worked. Stood on line for two hours, but then sat on the stage, two feet from Amy & Emily. I became a fan for life; this was the first of many concerts with Steven.

Natalie Merchant, June 1997, Town Hall, NYC. My sister got tickets at the last minute to a private, law-related benefit concert. Town Hall is beautiful, and the acoustics are outstanding. I loved Natalie at the time—this was an unbelievable, life-altering concert.

Natalie Merchant, The Supper Club, NYC, June 1998. I loved her. No one else could go. I went by myself. It was awesome.

James Taylor, Tanglewood, MA, August, 1997. If you’ve never seen JT under the stars at Tanglewood, you’re missing out.

John Mellencamp, Mercury Lounge, NYC, 1999. I actually went to see The Paul Rudderman Band—he was a guy who went to U-M, had a great band and was the opening act. The whole night was so cool; Mercury Lounge is small but not in a sweaty, claustrophobic way. John played every song we wanted to hear; it was like having him in my living room.

Indigo Girls, Central Park Summerstage, June NYC, 2000. My first Summerstage concert, with Steven, Nick, Aaron and Jessica. They played “Romeo and Juliet,” under a blanket of stars on a perfect June night. I think I cried.

Elton John, MSG, NYC, November 2001. My mother loves Elton, so starting in the late 1990s, whenever he came to town we’d get tickets and go as a family, including my brother-in-law. This was two months after 9/11; you could still hear the ambulance sirens as they traveled from downtown to the morgue on 1st Avenue, near my old apartment. Flags everywhere, “Missing” photos everywhere. No one has performed more concerts in NYC than Elton John (this is a fact—you can look it up), all of them at MSG. He hit the stage, announced that he, too, was devastated, but he wanted to lighten our load for a few hours—he proceeded to play the most incredible, life-affirming concert I’ve ever witnessed. He started with “Funeral for a Friend” and by the time he started “Philadelphia Freedom” three songs later, MSG was shaking—the building itself was trembling. He played “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters,” a love song to NYC and my favorite song of his; I cried, everyone cried. He played 28 songs. Life-altering concert.

Madonna, MSG, NYC, 2001. Her “Drowned World Tour,” and my first Madonna concert, with Ali and David. In junior high I was busy resisting anything mainstream, and in high school I was busy being a Deadhead (and playing tennis). It wasn’t until I saw her documentary Truth or Dare in college that I realized she wasn’t mainstream at all—she was the leader of her own brilliant rebellion.

Melissa Etheridge, Jones Beach, L.I., June 2002. My first Melissa concert (I was late to appreciate/love her), with Steven, tenth row seats, with the sea air whipping around us—she was f*#*ing unbelievable. The guitar, the voice—I was blown away. Her chords reverberated in my chest for days.

Bob Dylan, Southampton College, L.I., August 2002. This was an outdoor concert, a fundraiser; I knew the person producing the event. VIP all the way—parking, food/drinks, seating, port-o-potty (always nice to have a clean, air-conditioned bathroom at an outdoor concert!)—the only time I’ve been a VIP. I was accompanied by two awesome friends, Debbie and Angela, and stood 10 feet from Dylan! He played “All Along the Watchtower,” one of the greatest songs ever written, and “Tangled Up in Blue,” one of my all-time favorite songs. Perfect evening.

Indigo Girls, Central Park Summerstage, NYC, October 2003. This show was re-scheduled from August 14; the night of the blackout. Angela got a ticket at the last minute, since she was visiting me, and we went with Nick and Steven. They played “Mystery” and “Virginia Woolf” and “The Times They Are A Changin” (a Dylan song). It was ridiculously great.

Madonna, MSG, NYC, June 2004. Her “Re-Invention Tour,” with Steven. I’ve seen a lot of concerts, as evidenced by this list, which is just my favorite concerts, not all the concerts I’ve seen. When it comes to getting the most bang for your buck, Madonna is it; her concerts are expensive, but she keeps four of your five senses invigorated for two hours. A Madonna concert is a journey, to paraphrase her words. And I’m not just writing this because I think she’s brilliant and she has maintained her artistic integrity throughout her career and she is possibly the most motivated person on the planet. She performs—she doesn’t just sing. She performs songs she has written (lyrics and music) and she never lip syncs. Her concerts are electrifying.

Madonna, MSG, NYC, July 2006, on her “Confessions Tour,” with Ali, David and Jenn. Crappy seats, fabulous show. New versions of “Let It Will Be” and “Erotica;” if those two songs don’t make you want to dance, nothing will. The 1-2-3 punch of “Let It Will Be” into “Music Inferno” into “Erotica” is fifteen minutes of sexy, stimulating dance music created by someone who understands the importance of sexy, stimulating dance music.

Natalie Merchant, Hiro Ballroom, March 2008, with Steven and Jason (my ticket was a birthday present from Steven). It was so cool to see Natalie after so many years, and she was terrific. It felt like the completion of something in my life (not sure what, but felt good).

Madonna, Roseland Ballroom, NYC, April 30, 2008, two hours after my second niece, Charlotte, was born. This was a “Hard Candy Promo Show”—no tickets were sold. Steven won tickets from Verizon Wireless—Roseland was full of crazy Madonna fans like us. Judge me if you will, but this concert was the best 26 minutes of my life (platonic minutes). I was on a natural high for a week, and a year later, I still tingle a bit when I hear the opening bars of “Candy Shop.”

Madonna, MSG, October 6 & 7, 2008, for her “Sticky & Sweet Tour.” Yes, I went both nights—the first with David and the second with Stacey, Nick and Steven. Her new version of “Borderline” was f*#*ing unreal, and “Like A Prayer” had me dancing and singing like a teenager. This was my favorite Madonna tour.

Indigo Girls, Highline Ballroom, April 15, 2009, with Steven and Nick. See blog below. We were ten feet away; the set list was fantastic. Can’t wait to see them this summer at Central Park Summerstage…

Musical Transcendence

2009-04-16T17:20:00.000-04:00

[NOTE: Google now owns Blogger, so if you have a Gmail address, you can sign in with your Gmail username & leave comments. Fast & easy!]

There are three things in life that inspire complete happiness in my soul. One is reading someone else’s words—whether in the form of a novel, essay, poem or story—and feeling the landscape of my life shift as those words penetrate, affect, impress or change me. Another is seeing and hearing live music, being in the presence of a singer or group whose music improves my life. Last night I went to the Indigo Girls concert at Highline Ballroom; I’ve seen the Indigo Girls about a dozen times, and I’ve attended each of those concerts with Steven and Nick—we are the ultimate Indigo Girls fans triumvirate. Sometimes others join us—I remember a Central Park Summerstage concert with Aaron and Jessica, and another NYC concert with Nicole, and a Radio City Music Hall concert with Aaron, and The Bardovan concert with my ex—but the three of us have yet to waver. The IGs release a new album about every two years, but they are quite cognizant that while fans embrace their new songs, they also feel attached to older ones; thus, their concerts are an excellent combination of new and familiar songs. Their current tour is an acoustic one, and their new album, Poseidon and the Bitter Bug, is great. For some reason we didn’t see the IGs the last time they were in NYC (I think it’s actually Madonna’s fault, since we spent a fortune on good seats for her concert), so I was really craving this concert. The IGs typically play Radio City Music Hall, the Beacon Theater or, in warm weather, Central Park Summerstage when they hit NYC. The Highline Ballroom is a new venue for them—and it’s a fantastic venue! It’s small but comfortable, General Admission, with a bar and clean bathrooms. We stood maybe 10 feet from the IGs (Amy and Emily), and I had a clear view for the entire concert (rare for my 5’2” self).

I’ve heard/read many musicians state that NYC is their favorite city in which to play concerts, and the IGs clearly agree. They seemed to be having a blast onstage, which only added to the buzzing energy in the room. Their set list was loaded with the best songs from the new album as well as amazing older songs. Part of why I love seeing the Indigo Girls is because their repertoire is fairly huge, and it’s always such fun to guess a song from the first few notes, and then predict the next song . It reminds me of seeing the Grateful Dead—I experience that same unfettered, joyful vibe whenever I’m at an Indigo Girls concert. I love their music, too (except for the occasional Emily song that’s just too namby-pamby for me), and I admire not only their tenacity but their independence—they’ve never sold out in any manner, and they consistently encourage their audiences to participate in life, whether environmentally, socially, politically or culturally. They are responsible for launching many independent singer-songwriters—opening for the IGs on tour is essentially a seal of approval from two of the music industry’s most benevolent arbiters of indie talent (check out Girlyman or Brandi Carlisle). They also invite non-profit groups on tour with them, to help raise awareness and visibility, which I love. And, of course, the IGs have fought long and hard for GLBT rights, loudly and consistently, not only through their lyrics but also their actions.

This was also the first concert after my novel, CLOSER TO FINE, was published last July. Yes, the title was inspired by what is probably the most well-known of the Indigo Girls’ songs. Since titles cannot be copyrighted, I didn’t need their permission, but as a writer and therefore a fellow artist, I wasn’t comfortable using the words they had created without letting them know. So I asked my publisher to send them a copy of the manuscript—officially I was requesting a blurb from one or both of them, but unofficially I just sought their blessing to name my novel CLOSER TO FINE. What I received, less than a month later, stunned me: an email from Emily, raving about how she loved reading my novel, she inhaled it in two sittings, and wished me the best of luck with CLOSER TO FINE. It is, by far, the coolest email I have ever received! So to hear the song “Closer to Fine,” ten months after the publication of my debut novel and one month before the Lambda Literary Awards ceremony (my book is nominated in the Debut Novel category), was f*#*ing cool!

But my favorite part of the concert—it’s always my favorite part—was singing and dancing and screaming and smiling with my friends Nick and Steven. Last night reminded me that often, it’s the simplest, purest experiences that elevate us—emotionally, physically, spiritually—and remind us to enjoy the extraordinary moments life offers.

Indigo Girls Highline Ballroom 4/15/09

2009-04-16T08:37:00.000-04:00

Thoughts to follow later in the day, but here's the set list for last night's amazing Indigo Girls concert at Highline Ballroom, NYC.

Love of Our Lives

Sugar Tongue

Fill It Up Again

Yield

Power of Two

Driver Education

What Are You Like

Ozilline

Ghost

Guest Performance/Song by The Roaches

Digging for your Dream

Heartache for Everyone

Get Out the Map

Shame On You

Fleet of Hope

Ghost of the Gang

Watershed

Jonas & Ezekial

I'll Change

Land of Canaan

Closer to Fine

ENCORE

Second Time Around

Galileo

Can't Reach R.E.M.

2009-04-12T05:00:00.000-04:00

It’s 4:42 AM and I am wide-awake, again. This keeps happening—I fall asleep, and then wake up 3 or 4 or sometimes even 2 hours later, and I’m up, regardless of what time it is. It’s dark outside; the world outside my windows is quiet, yet I am awake. I’ve had spates—and one serious phase—of insomnia in the past, but this is absurd, and I’m not sure it qualifies as insomnia if I actually do fall asleep. It’s not really the act of falling asleep that’s the problem—it’s staying asleep! Even with assistance (prescribed by a medical professional), I cannot sleep through the night. And it’s not as if I’m not tired; I’m not the type of person who can function on 3 or 4 hours of sleep several times a week (plus I interact with students all day long, and I often advise them in regard to their classes, so focusing is important). I should stop drinking liquids at 10 PM so I don’t have to wake up to pee. I’m not even eating dinner (or snacks) late. [TMI?]

The oddest part is that in the past, my insomnia (or just poor sleeping patterns in general) was an indication of internal strife; however, I am the happiest and calmest I have been in a very long time. I love my new apartment and my new neighborhood; in 6 weeks the spring semester will end and a summer full of quiet/fun/personally productive work days will begin; over the summer, I’ll take at least 5 of my 6 weeks of vacation; spring will be here any minute now, which leads to summer (my favorite season); CLOSER TO FINE has been nominated for a national literary award; and I’ve started outlining/preparing to start a new novel. So why can’t I sleep for more than 4 consecutive hours? Any ideas? Advice? I’ll try anything (except warm milk, or any milk-related cures).

Now it’s 5:10 (I spent ten minutes staring into space, petting a cat, reading a friend’s blog). The sun will be up in an hour, and the big question looms: sleep away half of a sunny Sunday, or get up, work out, take a walk down Amsterdam to see all the people decked out in their Easter best, then come home and take a nap, because by then I will be t-i-r-e-d.

Henna Update & Word of the Day

2009-04-07T12:09:00.000-04:00

So after enduring two hours of a sweaty mess, the dark brown henna didn't change a thing; my hair is pretty much the same color it was before I loaded a pound of messy mud on my head (see blog below). I'll get it done professionally after all.

Word of the Day:
algid (adj): cold, chilly.
Never heard of it. You?

Short but Sweet

2009-04-03T20:53:00.000-04:00

I have no idea if anyone except my Canadian friend reads my blogs, but I’m going to continue posting, with my usual irregularity. I’m sitting at my laptop with a plastic bag on my head; underneath said plastic bag are layers of saran wrap. Underneath the saran wrap is my hair, coated and clumped with thick, heavy henna. I typically have my hair colored a few times a year, because my color is just bland, and it bores me. Usually I lean toward auburn, but my life has been so full of changes this year that I decided my hair color should echo, and celebrate, these changes. So I bought some dark brown henna, trying to respect the recession by coloring my own hair. I’d done it once before, when I lived in Hampton Bays, and though I remember a bit of a mess, I don’t think I recalled it accurately: this stuff makes a f*%#ing mess. And it’s a serious burden on my head—imagine balancing a pound of mud on your head. Plus, I’m hot—my head is wrapped in layers of plastic! This is the last piece of evidence I need—I’m just not the Do-It-Yourself kind of person. Whether it’s putting furniture together, installing WiFi or dyeing my hair, I’d rather just hire someone to do it for me, honestly. It’s not that I’m lazy—I clean like a pro and actually (usually) enjoy it. I like being part of DIY projects—I’m just not good at executing them. I blame it all on my abhorrence and fear of math—all that measuring, tinkering, drilling, wiring—it reminds me of math (don’t ask how I’m connecting math to henna, just go with my flow here). Now when the other side of the brain is needed—like for editing an admissions essay, doing a crossword puzzle, proofreading absolutely anything, writing a novel—then I’m the one you call. Words stimulate me; numbers unsettle me.

I am almost settled in my new apartment, back in the city at last (just a few more shelves, and artwork, need to go up; fortunately I possess fantastic friends who don’t mind drilling and hammering on my behalf). I love my apartment—it’s in a cool old building that isn’t too old but isn’t rows of box apartments on top of one another. My apartment is newly renovated—it’s a studio, but a big, L-shaped studio with a generous entryway and large bathroom. I love my neighborhood, too; it’s full of professionals, students and families and, best of all, lots of dogs. The architecture is stunning—I’ve decided I live on one of the prettiest blocks in the city, architecturally-speaking. The details are amazing—it’s incredible how much more pride people took in their work 50 years ago. And they had less machinery but still managed to create gorgeous columns, ledges, balconies and other architectural aspects I don’t know the names of. I’m quite close to Riverside Park, and there’s a small but pretty park on my block, hidden by a colossal wall covered in vines. I’m near everything I need—subway, restaurants, bodegas, stores—but my block is really quiet. Perfect combination! I’m never moving. Really, I’ve moved more this year than most people do in ten years. If I lean toward the “everything happens for a reason” credo, I guess I had to endure the journey to enjoy the reward. And things right now are terrific—I’m even outlining, researching and naming characters for my new novel, and almost ready to send out the TV scripts a friend and I have written—and I’m happily embracing all life offers me.

Book Talk Reading

2009-04-01T08:35:00.001-04:00

On Wednesday, March 25th, I was the featured author at Book Talk, sponsored by The College of New Rochelle, School of New Resources. It was held at the John Cardinal O'Connor (JOC) campus, where I am the Co-Chair of the Letters Department (and teach two classes).

The reading went really well, with over 40 students and 20 Faculty/Administration members present. All 25 books were sold. The Q&A was lively, interesting and fun (I really like Q&A sessions when they're about CLOSER TO FINE!).

This is a link to a posting on the CNR regarding the event:http://www.cnr.edu/AboutCNR/NewsandEvents

Exciting News!

2009-03-23T11:41:00.000-04:00

CLOSER TO FINE has been nominated for a 2009 Lambda Literary Award! My novel is one of five books nominated in the Best Lesbian Debut Fiction Award. This is a significant, national literary award and I am thrilled and honored! You can read more about the Lambdas here: www.lambdaliterary.org.

"Book Talk" reminder: I am reading this Wednesday, March 25th at the College of New Rochelle, School of New Resources, South Bronx campus. 332 East 149th Street, Bronx, NY 10451. Take the 2 or 5 line to "3rd Avenue/149th Street" stop. Exit subway station on the right; walk one and a half blocks; you'll see the college on your right. Join us! I'm reading a portion of CLOSER TO FINE I haven't yet read, and I can't wait!

Some Things I Don't Understand

2009-02-24T11:31:00.001-05:00

[Feel free to answer a question, or add your own!]

Things I Don’t Understand: These Are Things I Think About

1. Why can’t summer Fridays exist year-round? Better yet, why not add Fridays to the weekend, as part of a stimulus plan to help boost the economy? If I weren’t babysitting my office on Fridays, surely I would be purchasing something, or getting a haircut, or seeing a movie.

2. Why do we pay for Internet service? Cable and telephone companies had nothing to do with inventing the Internet; why are we paying them? It’s invisible, it’s in the air, it equalizes Americans—it should be free! [Note: I read somewhere recently, though I can’t cite the source, that George W. Bush had the opportunity to offer free WiFi in America and he chose not to. Another smooth move, ExLax.]

3. Why is health food (and healthy food) so damn expensive? Why should I pay so much more for groceries just because I don’t want artificial coloring, tons of sugar or dead animals in my body? Shouldn’t the piglets, I mean people, who buy unhealthy, fattening foods on a regular basis (because everyone needs some Mallomars once in a while), and then become a burden on the national health budget via diabetes and obesity-related diseases, pay more? I’m just saying.

4. Why aren’t apples free? Apples should be free.

5. How/why does someone acquire a pet (cat, dog, alligator, crazy-scary snake) and then decide, “Hey, I no longer want/need/can afford this pet. I’m going to drive on over to the dumpster/highway/Everglades and dump it!” I cannot understand it. If there were a punishment for abandoning animals, maybe fewer people would do it. Maybe.

6. Can Obama please regulate the price of movie tickets? Prices are a bit out of control, and it’s not fair to loyal moviegoers.

7. Does Ted Haggard now have a reality TV show of some sort? WTF is up with that? He’s being rewarded for being a bigoted, homophobic, hypocritical liar?

8. Why can’t moving be a tax write-off?

9. Why isn’t commuting a tax write-off?

10. How come men can pay for Viagra via health insurance (flex benefits or co-pays or both!) but these plans don’t offer women a way to buy tampons?

11. Whatever happened to ring-around-the-collar? When I was a child, it seemed like a national crisis, based on the number of commercials on television. Now I never hear about it. Did it just go away?

12. When are the Indigo Girls going to release another live album? They’re so due for one.

13. Why don’t the cable TV networks start selling single TV shows, a la ITunes? I would definitely pay 99 cents to watch “Flight of the Conchords” or “Weeds.” I don’t need (or want) to subscribe to the channel on a monthly basis, but I, and millions of other people, would buy one show at a time if it were possible.

14. Why are there so many Sleepy’s stores? How often do people purchase new beds?

15. When did it become OK to charge over a dollar for a pack of gum?

Random Greats

2009-02-13T14:05:00.000-05:00

Remember Mix Tapes? I used to love making mixes, still do, in fact. Only now I make playlists for my IPod--much easier to create, that's for sure! Thought others might like to know what I'm listening to these days--feel free to copy this list--it's terrific music for commuting, but also for cleaning, writing, painting, whatever. I named this playlist Random Greats; it's a compilation of great songs that are on my IPod (but when they're all separated by artist and album I never remember to find them, and I forget to listen to and enjoy them). Here, they're all condensed in one lovely, easy-to-remember place, Random Greats!

- Dear Prudence, originally by The Beatles - this version is from the film Across the Universe, which is a good movie with an unique soundtrack (all Beatles songs, sung by unknown actors/singers). Love this version.
- Fidelity, Regina Spektor - funky song with cheeky lyrics.
- I Take You With Me, Melissa Etheridge - from Boys on the Side soundtrack. Have loved this song since I bought the CD soundtrack while at U of M. I have vivid memories of walking around Ann Arbor, blasting this song in my yellow Sony Walkman.
- Can't Find My Way Home, Blind Faith - love Blind Faith, love this song.
- For What It's Worth, Buffalo Springfield - have always loved this song and never get sick of it. If you have the Forrest Gump soundtrack, you own this song. Not that I possess the Forrest Gump soundtrack. :) Terrible movie with a kick-ass soundtrack.
- Peace Frog, The Doors - one of my favorite Doors songs. Off Morrison Hotel album.
- Solsbury Hill, Peter Gabriel - Enough said.
- Key West Intermezzo (I Saw You First), John Mellencamp - yes, I still listen to John Mellencamp. This song rocks! Off his semi-recent album Mr. Happy Go Lucky.
- Hey Jack Kerouac, Natalie Merchant - one of her best; keeps me connected to my undergrad days when I was blown away by On The Road and a little obsessed with The Beat Generation. My literary tastes have progressed, but this song is still great.
- The Entertainer, Billy Joel - I'm in the midst of a Billy Joel renaissance, for some odd reason. As a child I loved him (one of my first music-related memories is me sitting on the red carpet of my bedroom, reading the lyrics (in the record sleeve!) to Big Shot and trying to sing along with Billy), and I saw him in concert quite a few times in high school (Yankee Stadium was my favorite). For the past ten or so years, he's irked me; I couldn't even tolerate hearing him on the radio. Then a few months ago I heard The Stranger on the radio, and now I'm all into Billy Joel again, but only certain songs--the great ones that never got overplayed (or any play) on the radio.
- You're the One, Paul Simon - I need more Paul Simon on my IPod; he's incredibly talented. This song wakes me up and puts a smile on my face every time I hear it.
- Iris, Goo Goo Dolls - great song, great lyrics.
- All Along the Watchtower - Bob Dylan's amazing lyrics, Jimi Hendrix's amazing version. I will never tire of this song.
- While My Guitar Gently Weeps, originally George Harrison - also from Across the Universe. Stellar version.
- Shelter from the Storm, Bob Dylan - this song slays me every time I hear it (and I hear it a lot)
- Scarlet Begonias, The Grateful Dead - classic Dead. Excellent Dead.
- Try a Little Tenderness, The Commitments - it's a ballad, it's a love song, it's a rock song! I once lip-synced this entire song to my campers (at sleepaway camp), using a broom as my mike.
- Wild World, Cat Stevens - grew up singing this song at camp (same sleepaway camp as above), and still love it. It was a toss-up between Wild World, Peace Train and Cats in the Cradle--any and all are great songs.
- Delta Dawn, Bette Midler - a great ballad, but not in the Wind Beneath My Wings kind of way; it's jazzy and full of heart (and soul). This is from a live album, Live at Last, but the studio version is good, too.
- Gold Dust Woman, Fleetwood Mac - perfect pairing of music and lyrics. Never tire of it.
- Shape of My Heart, Sting - from his album My Funny Valentine, which contains all his songs used on movie sountracks. This is a beautiful song, originally from the film The Professional.
- Hey Jude, originally The Beatles - sung by the lead actor in Across the Universe. Reminds me of a perfect glass of red wine.
- Someone Saved My Life Tonight, Elton John - no description needed, right?
- Mr. Blue, Yaz - yes, I loved Yaz as a teenager. And a young adult. And still do, as an adult. This is from their second album, not Upstairs at Eric's, but you can find it more easily on The Best of Yaz. Great song!
- The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy), Simon & Garfunkel - classic. classic. classic.
- Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, Crosby, Stills & Nash - I listened to CS&N obsessively my senior year of high school; I even saw them in concert at that cool, small outdoor venue the Meadowlands used to set up every summer. Then, in college, Our House entered my life, and I never put them on again. 14 years have passed--time to groove to CS&N again--and this song is all about groovin'.
- Red Rain, Peter Gabriel - I own every Peter Gabriel CD. One of my most perfect, cherished memories is hearing, seeing and feeling him sing In Your Eyes at the Capitol Centre in D.C. The entire concert was amazing, but I definitely had a transcendental experience during In Your Eyes. Red Rain is, well, it just is. This is the live version, from Secret World Live.
- Miami 2017 (I've Seen the Lights Go Out on Broadway), Billy Joel. See above, in regard to Billy Joel. This is the live version, from 12 Gardens Live. I love hearing the crowd roar when he says "Brooklyn."
- The Time of Your Life, Green Day - I was long past proms when this song was released, so I never got sick of it. And I don't own any other Green Day songs. i love how life's progression is illuminated in this song.
- Kind & Generous, Natalie Merchant - another one of her best. This song should be shlocky and cliche, but it's Natalie, so it's not. Off her album called Ophelia.
- Dreams, The Cranberries - have always loved this song. Great walking song.
- I Need to Wake Up (theme from An Inconvenient Truth), Melissa Etheridge - I loved it before she won the Academy Award for Best Song. Only Melissa could rock the hell out of an environmentally-conscious warning song. Buy it as a single on ITunes.
- If God is a DJ, Pink - this song *&%#ing rocks! No idea what album it's from--buy as a single.
- Proud, Heather Small - I have now loved this song, and failed to get sick of it, for almost 10 years. It is one of the most inspiring, uplifting songs I've ever heard, and it also happens to be a fantastic dance song. If you're having a &%itty day, listen to this. From the first Queer As Folk (US version) album.
- Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It), Beyonce - What can I say? I spent my 20s in NYC gay clubs, dancing until 4 AM. It's fun, it's cheesy, it's a great walking song. And it makes me smile.
- Come to Me (Peace), Mary J. Blige - oh how I love this song. Off her album Growing Pains (terrific album). Powerful, aching song.
- Smooth, Santana Featuring Rob Thomas - Guitar + guitar + simple lyrics = new classic.
- China Grove, The Doobie Brothers - everyone needs a little Doobie every now and then.
- Summer of '69, Bryan Adams - love it. Always have, always will.
- Hard to Handle, Black Crowes - admit it, you love trying to master the lyrics on this one. It's OK, we all do. I used to listen to this album, Shake Your Money Maker, ten times a day.
- We Didn't Start the Fire, Billy Joel - see above, plus history lessons!
- Wonder, Natalie Merchant - from Tigerlily, a luscious album. Great song.
- If You Want to Sing Out, Cat Stevens - from the soundtrack to Harold & Maude, all of which is sung by Cat Stevens. If you haven't seen the film Harold & Maude, you are missing out on one of life's treasures.
- Allison Road, Gin Blossoms - my sister's name is Allison. We used to hear it together, when it was popular. Reminds me of my simple, fun city years. From New Miserable Experience.
- Slide, Goo Goo Dolls - where are the Goo Goo Dolls these days? Great song.
- One of Us, Joan Osborne - I'm not a huge Joan Osborne fan, but have always loved this song. Plus I think I'm programmed to like whatever the Vatican bans. From her album Relish.
- It's Probably Me, Sting - an awesome Sting song from one of the Lethal Weapon movies.
- In My Life, Bette Midler - lovely version of a John Lennon original. Sweet, sweet song.
- Live To Tell, Madonna - even if you don't like Madonna's music (which I'll ignore so I can still talk to you), you must admit this is an incredible song, lyrically and musically. This is the Live Edit, from Ciao Italia. You could substitute with the Instrumental Edit, featuring live violins.
- Romeo & Juliet, Dire Straits - while I adore the Indigo Girls version, I felt obligated to choose the original, which I encountered first, in D.C., a million years ago. I actually feel a pain in my chest when I listen to this song. From On the Night, Live.
- The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys, Traffic - I must have listened to this song a thousand times my senior year of high school. I have no clue what it's about, but I love it, still. From album of the same name.

Random Greats should yield over two hours of pure listening pleasure. The order of songs is not at all random, so if you're building the entire playlist, stick with the same order--it was well-planned! Enjoy! Any suggestions for songs to add? Comment!

Other People's Words

2009-02-02T21:49:00.000-05:00

SOME OF MY FAVORITE QUOTES:

"All sentimental people are betrayed so many times." - Ernest Hemingway ("Fathers and Sons")

"Until one has loved an animal a part of one's soul remains unawakened." - Anatole France

"The events of our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves, they find their own order...the continuous thread of revelation."

- Eudora Welty

"When the most important things in our life happen, we quite often do not know, at the moment, what is going on." - C.S. Lewis

"Experience is not what happens to you; it is what you do with what happens to you." - Aldous Huxley

"A day is never wasted if a memory is made." - TS Eliot

"We do not see things as they are. We see them as we are." - The Talmud

"Out of intense complexities intense simplicities emerge." - Winston Churchill

"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." - Nietzsche

"I can resist anything except temptation." - Oscar Wilde

"What we become depends on what we read after all the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books." - Thomas Carlyle

"The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated." - Gandhi

"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." - Zora Neale Hurston (Their Eyes Were Watching God)

"We have to allow for contradictions in ourselves. Nobody is just one thing." - Christopher Durang (Beyond Therapy)

Photo Story

2009-01-16T10:44:00.001-05:00

CLOSER TO FINE finding its new home on a shelf in a Florida library. (Thanks Mike.)

2009-01-16T10:32:00.000-05:00

CLOSER TO FINE receiving its Dewey Decimal number at a library in Florida.

(Thanks, Mike)

Year of the Ox

2009-01-02T11:31:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! It’s been quite awhile since I wrote a blog with substance, so this one may be a bit longer than usual. Perhaps I’ll write it in chapters; feel free to have a snack in between!

Movies
I’ve spent a small fortune during the past 2 weeks seeing movies; there are several great movies out that will factor into the Oscars, and since I’m an Academy Awards freak, I see as many as possible so I can judge for myself. First, a word about the price of movies these days: “Holy S*#t!” Really, someone should be regulating what these theaters are charging. Initially, I thought it was just the Union Square 14 that charges $14.50, but I paid that price at Chelsea Cinemas and $12.00 at 3rd and 11th. I paid $10.50 at a theater in Southampton. God forbid you want the entire movie-going experience, after a small popcorn ($4.75 to $5.75!), you’ve just dropped twenty bucks, not including transportation! It’s absurd and unfair. As a result of this price gauging, I’ve started dropping my garbage on the floor of the theater again, something I stopped doing in my 20’s. It’s immature, I know, but if I’m forced to pay over ten dollars to see a movie, I’m not worrying about collecting my own trash—I’ll drop it on the floor if I want to, damn it!

In case you care, here’s my brief reviews:

REVOLUTIONARY ROAD – Leonardo DiCaprio is all grown up and can act without Marty Scorsese inspiring him. In a few scenes toward the beginning of the film, Leo is at his best—we’ve never seen him act so well. Kate Winslet is stunning, in a variety of ways. She anchors the film; her talent emanates from within. I agree with the critics who posit that this film is proof positive that Kate Winslet is the best actress of her generation. The set design and costumes are exquisitely perfect, and the supporting cast is fantastic, especially Michael Shannon. It’s not a perfect film, but it is a very, very good film. See it.

DOUBT – When I walked out of the theater, I turned to my friend and asked, “Do you think Meryl Streep might be the best actress ever?” The more I think about it, the more I think she is. Perhaps Bette Davis was in her league, but really, Streep is unbelievable, and here she shares screen time with Philip Seymour Hoffman, who is a tremendously gifted actor. Amy Adams graduates to the big leagues here, and keeps up with Streep quite well. The stunning shocker in DOUBT, and a lock for Best Supporting Actress, I think, is Viola Davis (she is apparently the only actor to appear in both the Broadway show and the film). She’s on screen for less than ten minutes, but I’m still thinking about her performance, 4 days later. DOUBT is not as much of a “downer” film as I’d expected, and its length is perfect—as soon as you’ve really started thinking, it’s over; it does not force you to content with the moral issues for longer than necessary. It is a powerful film, but it is not an overwhelming film. See it.

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE – This is a gritty, real, sweet and funny coming-of-age film, but it’s so much more than that. Whatever I write here will minimize it, because this is not the type of film Americans are often exposed to, yet at the same time its foreignness is what makes it spectacular, because in the end, there is nothing foreign about love. The cinematography is beautiful, and the soundtrack will haunt (and amuse) you—I bought it on ITunes yesterday. Please see this movie—and stay an extra 5 minutes to watch the end credits—you’ll get a bonus smile!

MILK – As one who often cries in movies, I was surprised at how dry-eyed I was during the previous 3 films. I got teary at the end of REVOLUTIONARY ROAD, and I did cry some happy tears at the end of SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE. It wasn’t until the last scene of MILK, however, that I truly cried. It’s a sad, sad final scene, but I think I also cried for the loss of—for our loss of—Harvey Milk’s exuberance and his reminder that without hope we are lost. It also occurred to me that Harvey Milk would have possibly forced Ronald Reagan to confront the AIDS virus years before he (half-heartedly) did, and funnel money toward research rather than ignore it and cause thousands of deaths. I’ve respected Gus Van Sant for a long time, and I’ve watched Sean Penn in awe and admiration for many years—both director and actor embraced the life of Harvey Milk in a way few artists are able to achieve. The entire cast is terrific. Somewhere, Harvey is proud. See this movie.

In Other News
Other than this blog, I’m not writing. I have not been writing. I have been reading; I have even been reading about writing (I re-read Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird every few years; I’m currently meandering through it). But I have not been writing—there are many reasons and no reasons for this. I am in a new one-bedroom apartment, alone (more on this later). The windows suck, and the rooms are cold. I spend most of my time in my bedroom, because I can sit on my bed, under the covers, and check email, waste time on the Internet, watch movies on my laptop, or read. Since I don’t spend any time in the living room, I am not used to it, not comfortable sitting at my desk and chair. I also think I’m just scared to start another novel. The word another, while thrilling because it reminds me the first one was actually published, is heady and loaded—what if my second attempt goes nowhere? What if I realize by the end of the first chapter that my characters are bland and my plot unsustainable? What if . . .? Another issue, which I knew long ago would be a problem, is that I function much better with deadlines. Most of CLOSER TO FINE was written within a year and a half, and for that entire time I had due dates, either as part of a writing workshop class or with my thesis advisor. Deadlines motivate and sometimes force me to get the words out; even if a first draft stinks, my basic ideas were on paper and it is always easier to edit than create. I have no deadlines, no class waiting to read my work, no thesis advisor expecting three new chapters.

These are all fairly lame excuses, I know. I need to just get over myself, quiet the doubting voices in my head, and sit down to write. I will. Soon. Maybe this weekend. This completes the first chapter of my first 2009 blog.

Word of the Day

2008-12-04T16:50:00.001-05:00

Here's a doozie Word of the Day, from the Tuesday, December 2nd NY Times crossword puzzle.

ingle: noun, Chiefly British Dialect.
1.a fire burning in a hearth.
2.a fireplace; hearth.

Even with all the letters filled in I stared at it, searching my brain for the slightest flutter of recognition. None. New word!

Word of the Day

2008-12-03T18:17:00.001-05:00

Here's an interesting and little-used word I learned, compliments of the NY Times crossword puzzle.
olla: a pot, esp. an earthen pot for holding water, cooking, etc.; a stew.

I imagine it's nearly impossible to use the first defintion these days, unless it's in regard to gardening. I'm going to order an olla the next time I'm in a restaurant, for sure!

It's All Downhill from Here

2008-11-26T14:24:00.000-05:00

Today is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The last day before we are forced to accept THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT. Stores, especially drugstores, have had Xmas decorations, wrapping paper, candy canes and all the other superficial trappings of the holiday stocked for weeks. But on Friday, the CHRISTMAS SPIRIT will emerge in all its commercial glory.

Not that I don't enjoy the holiday season. I do. My birthday is part of the holiday season. And I love giving presents, especially to my nieces. I just wish it wasn't so cold! Although, one of my favorite Christmases in recent years was in 2002 (I think, or maybe 2003). It was freezing, and it snowed. It snowed, and kept snowing. My sister and brother-in-law had driven to my house in the Hamptons on Christmas Eve (I was working on my MFA at the time; I lived in Hampton Bays, had 2 jobs and wrote when I wasn't catering or in class. So it was just that--a house that was located in the Hamptons, because that's where my grad school was). We had dinner (probably ordered in) and I gave my brother-in-law a present, something I had heard him talk about for years; it was a DVD called WARRIORS. He was thrilled and my sister and I were curious about this "awesome" movie neither of us had heard of. We watched it.

We laughed our asses off from start to finish, but for all the wrong reasons. WARRIORS is about two rival gangs in a very dark, abandoned city though what they're warring over is never really made clear. The dialogue is so over-the-top, every time someone spoke I could not help laughing. Throughout the movie, whenever the rival gang is searching for someone in the Warriors gang, the person shouts "War--riors, come out to pl--ay!" in this very high-pitched, exaggerated, drawn-out voice. We laughed and laughed! Needless to say, WARRIORS was stuck in a time capsule for my brother-in-law, so he remembered it with the same affection he felt decades earlier.

In the morning, it was still snowing. My parents could not get to the East End for Christmas breakfast. We waited for the roads to clear a bit so they could maybe join us for Christmas lunch. in the meantime, we watched other (better) movies. And then we started to play the "Let's just each open one present" game (my family has always exchanged Xmas gifts rather than Channukah gifts). My sister and I are particularly good at this game. We can barely keep our gifts to one another a secret, let alone stare at them, all piled up near the fireplace as in a holiday postcard. My brother-in-law wanted to wait for my parents, but together, my sister and I can convince almost anyone to do almost anything, so it wasn't long until he was shaking boxes, feeling their shapes and their weight, trying to figure out what was inside.

Within an hour, we had opened all our presents. It was still snowing. My parents called--there was no way they could drive to us. My sister and I shared a pint of Ben & Jerry's (purchased from the Quogue 7/11, the only store within ten miles that was open on Christmas) while my brother-in-law napped. I can't remember what we ate for dinner. We watched more movies, but none as funny as WARRIORS. It was a terrific Christmas, despite not being with my parents.

Crossword update: I sprang for the $39.95 and joined the NY Times premium crossword site. Word of the day: tyro. It's a noun, and it means: a beginner in anything; novice. Never heard of it.

And has anyone played hinkypinky? It's apparently a rhyming word game. Never heard of it.

Happy Thanksgiving! Hope to see some of you at my next reading for CLOSER TO FINE, on Tuesday, December 2, at SUNY New Paltz. 7 PM. JFT 1010.

Potpourri on Wednesday

2008-11-19T17:40:00.000-05:00

Two personal notes:
Happy Birthday, Debbie! And Mazel Tov to Jamie and Mike!

It's cold in New York. Damn cold. Freezing. Wasn't it balmy about ten days ago? I hope Obama addresses the climate issues sooner rather than later. . . between the ever-expanding extremes of summer and winter and the confused, exhausted, starving polar bears, I don't see why everyone (and Sarah Palin) doesn't understand how dire the situation is in regard to Mother Earth.

And I'm sorry, but I refuse to shed a tear for the owners or employees of GM, Ford and the other American car companies. I went to college in Michigan--I understand the enormity of the car industry in that state. But I am also an educated person/consumer, and American car companies have had years to improve their poor emissions, to catch up with the rest of the world when it comes to cleaner, greener cars. Did you know you couldn't even drive an American car in China if you wanted to? American cars are years behind the rest of the world's autos when it comes to emissions and the environment. Years! Behind China! (remember those "clouds" hanging over Beijing before the Olympics?) It's pathetic. The CEOs of GM, Ford and the others could have adopted a proactive stance, could have made their cars more popular abroad, but instead they opted for the status quo. They reacted only if they had to, and they fought every inch of environmental improvement along the way. The employees could have spoken up, too, but they (or their unions) went for the "eyes wide shut" approach. And now they're all screwed.

Really...someone explain to me what is pleasurable about this weather. The cold sweat that invades your skin as you walk as quickly as possible to and from your chosen transportation? The burning sensation in your nostrils and sinuses when you're both outside (freezing air!) and inside (superficial, dry air!)? The chills that attack your skin as soon as you step outside, but don't go away as soon as you step inside?

I hate winter, you can tell. If there was a city/state as amazing as New York but with warmer weather (I'm good until about 50 degrees), I would move there. But there isn't. San Francisco and Santa Barbara and Monterey are awesome, but I'm not a fan of earthquakes, fires or mudslides either. So I stay in the New York area and amuse myself from November to March by complaining about how cold I am, how much I hate the winter, how drinking hot tea all day makes me pee. A lot.

Today is the last day of my Winter Stage 1 jacket. Tomorrow I'll whip out the Winter Stage 2 jacket. And tomorrow will also welcome a Real Scarf, although I won't put away my cashmere, namby-pamby indoor scarf; I'll just wear it underneath the Real Scarf.

I haven't done a NY Times crossword puzzle in a few days so no new words today. I'm jonesing for a puzzle.

A week from tomorrow is Thanksgiving! Carb coma for all vegetarians! Yay!

Learn Something New Every Day

2008-11-17T15:30:00.001-05:00

I learned a new word the other day: viragos. Definition: shrews, nags, or shrewish sorts (of people). I've recently reignited my love of, and addiction to, crossword puzzles. I was doing any and all puzzles for a while, but now I focus on the NY Times crossword puzzles because, well, I'm a snob, and they're the best, and I want to conquer the best! I fly through Monday, cruise through Tuesday with a bump here or there, and stumble through Wednesday. I don't even attempt Thursday because my fragile ego cannot handle the frustration, confusion or implied rejection. My colleague/friend from work, Andy, belongs to some sort of special online crossword puzzle club, and he prints them out for me, on 8 1/2 X 11 paper, so the puzzle is bigger and cooler. Andy also listens to me vent needlessly about the lame clues (I particularly hate it when the answer is an abbreviation but you're not prompted to think in abbreviated terms!). I figured I'd share my new knowledge with my blog readers. So try to use "viragos" in a sentence this week. Or write sentences in the blog comments section! Fun with vocabulary!

It's almost Thanksgiving; can you believe it? And now it's cold out--I hate the cold. I truly do not comprehend how anyone can love (or even like) the winter. The only two things I like about winter are: #1 my cats are more cuddly and #2 BOOTS! I do love wearing my boots. And I am a hat person, so I also like wearing hats in the winter. But I would gladly trade all my hats AND my boots (not my cats) to live in more temperate weather and wear flip-flips month after month!

How amazing/great/exciting is it that people are selling/buying/wearing T-shirts and buttons and hats carrying the picture and/or name of our President-elect Barack Obama? I love it. . . it feels like change actually is on the way!

PS--I totally knew about Wanda. . . been saying it for years! Go Wanda Sykes!

Mountain Time

2008-11-10T16:48:00.000-05:00

It has been an inexcusably long time since I last blogged. Inexcusable, but not without excuses. I was working and teaching, of course, but I was also bogged down by the need to find yet another place to live, seeing as how the "writer's retreat" we rented was left in filthy, deplorable condition; I didn't know something so unsanitary and dirty could exist in tony Westchester/Putnam County! It was inhabited by a plethora of bugs, and then a vicious, mysterious smell. The fridge was broken (who thinks to open a fridge to check its status when renting a house?), there was mouse poison everywhere, and then the washing machine broke. More on that next blog.

I was also out of town for a week, visiting the lovely state of Colorado for the first time. My very good friend Renee, who is one of my favorite writers and one of the nicest people on planet Earth, lives there while her husband works on his PhD in music. She teaches ESL and Creative Writing at the University of Northern Colorado, in Greeley. Renee put my debut novel, CLOSER TO FINE, on the Fall 2008 syllabus for her Advanced Creative Writing course; Renee was also amazing enough to set up a public reading for me at the College.

I spoke to her Advanced Creative Writing class about CLOSER TO FINE's publication process, starting back in 2001, when I first started the novel as part of a Writing Workshop taught by Kaylie Jones during my MFA program. I also visited her Introduction to Creative Writing class, and workshopped about 8 short stories. I miss workshopping! I had so much fun and I'm so grateful to all the students for welcoming me to their classes.

The reading went superbly well, and was my most populated to date (no, it wasn't just her students! There were over 50 people in the audience). The Q&A session was interesting and lively, with really great questions! I'm not sure if it was due to the academic setting or the non-East Coast locale, but there were some really unique questions!

I saw Denver and Ft. Collins for the first time, as well as the Rocky Mountains! I've posted Renee's lovely introduction here, so you can read her words about me, our friendship and my novel, which she edited (draft after draft). Enjoy!

"Thank you to the Neal Cross Lecture Series committee and to the School of English Language and Literature; special thanks to Karen Janata and Dean David Caldwell.

I met Meri Weiss on the first day of our graduate studies at Southampton College on Long Island, New York. It was there at our brief meeting that I learned a fundamental difference between our American coasts: I, a wide-eyed girl from the Wild West effusively asked Meri, a wizened, cautious New Yorker, where she lived. I hadn’t gotten to know anyone yet. I needed to know who was nearby. Meri skirted my question, and I was left wondering if I had found a friend.
It turns out I had; not only did we have all the same classes and work as graduate assistants in the same office, but we just happened to live on the same street. Meri became one of my truest friends and most trustworthy associates during our time in the Hamptons; we discovered, through her organizational brilliance and my attention to detail, we could accomplish much—including double-handedly publishing a literary magazine and collaborating on a two-week writers conference. In our time as students, writers, and teachers, we edited each other out of pockets; we swapped lesson plans; we endured 9/11. It was the time in our lives—when we were still in our twenties—when, despite monumental individual or global catastrophes—our vision remained intact.
It was there where Meri wrote her way through workshops to a master’s thesis that, now, six years later, is a published novel. In Closer to Fine, Meri provides solid story, compelling conflict, and appropriate wit—despite the ominous theme of recent and impending death. She does this with remarkable speed and clarity of pace. The crux, however, of her novel is character. The people of Closer to Fine—Alex, Jordy, Jax, Tucker and Carchie—aren’t just deftly rendered elements of fiction. They are real. They are us. And we love them because of this. As Simon Van Booy, a friend and former classmate from Southampton, writes, “You'll spend the rest of your life looking for them on the streets of Manhattan.” Meri creates a world in Closer to Fine that is not perfect, and her characters understand this, but they recognize a more valuable, a more true, fact: friendship is important—we benefit when we’re surrounded by those we love, those who make us better. I am pleased, and proud, to introduce you to a person who makes me—and so many of those around her, including her readers and her students—better, my friend Meri Weiss. "

The End of an Era

2008-09-22T21:46:00.001-04:00

It is cliché, I know, but still the most appropriate title for this blog, written on September 21, 2008, soon-to-be-known as the day the last game was played at the original Yankee Stadium. It is a significant day for all New Yorkers, all Bronx-ites, all Yankees fans. It is a day that marks change, as well as the passing of time. It is a day that heralds the future, and holds up the magnificent past.

One of my most vivid, early memories is this: It is August 2, 1979, and I am playing Star War figures on my front porch with my neighbor/playmate, Eric Miller. My mother comes to the front door; talking through the screen, she asks us, “Do you know who Thurman Munson is?”

“Of course; he’s the catcher for the Yanks,” we answer.

“I heard on the radio…his plane just crashed…they’re pretty sure he didn’t make it.”

Eric looks at me. “I guess I should go home now, he says.” I nod.

It goes without saying, I hope, that I am a born and bred Yankees fan. So is my sister. When we were young, my father encouraged us to play whichever sports we wanted, read whatever books we wanted, and choose whatever careers we wanted. But there was no choice for us in regard to baseball teams; there was simply no reason, no rationale, to be a fan of any team but the New York Yankees. Showing up at home with a pierced nose and pink dyed hair would have been more acceptable than a Mets T-shirt. By the time I was ten years old, I was able to articulate (read: argue) the superiority of the Yankees to anyone silly enough to insist there was any comparable team in Major League Baseball. I did like, and respect, other players on other teams; that same childhood pal, Eric, idolized George Brett—I could not help but like Brett as well. I loved Rollie Fingers, a pitcher for the Oakland A's who had the coolest handlebar moustache in the world. I still think of Rollie Fingers on the rare occasion I see a handlebar moustache. I wouldn’t trade a George Brett or Rollie Fingers baseball card, but I wouldn’t trade ANY Yankees baseball card.

Every year, for most of my childhood, we attended Old Timer’s Day, as a family. My father made mysterious marks on the scorecard (it took me years to learn how to fill out the scorecard—too mathematical for me to retain); my mother ate all the candied peanuts from my box of Cracker Jacks and then dozed off; and my sister and I used binoculars to see our favorite Yanks as closely as possible. It was a terrific day, always.

I grew up listening to John Sterling shout “The Yankeeees win! The Yankeeees win!” Every time my family entered the car while the Yanks were playing, we listened to the game. If we were in the car while the Yanks weren’t playing, we listened to Mike & the Mad Dog. During Billy Martin’s tenuous tenure, my father ranted and raved, either to the radio or the television—even if I didn’t understand exactly why Billy Martin was such a “*#%*!,” I hated him anyway. When I played Little League softball, I pulled my socks up and wore black stripes under my eyes, just like Bucky Dent. I tried to steal bases just as the speedy Willie Randolph stole bases. I played third base, just like Graig Nettles. When all the neighborhood kids played Wiffle Ball on the cul-de-sac on which we lived, we took turns pitching; we all pretended to be Goose Gossage, closing yet another game for the Yanks. I was watching the Yankees game with my father and my sister when Reggie Jackson hit three (3!) homeruns in one game of the World Series in 1977. I was watching when Ron Guidry, my favorite pitcher, struck out eighteen (18!) batters in one record-breaking game in 1978. I was watching when the Yankees sadly took the field after Thurman Munson’s tragic death.

From 1995 to 2000, I lived with my sister in Manhattan. With a few exceptions, our TV was permanently tuned to a Yankees game. We watched David Wells’ perfect game together. We watched David Cone’s perfect game together. We stayed up until 2 AM once, hooked to an extra innings game that would not end. We screamed and jumped in celebration throughout the ALCS and the World Series again and again in the late 1990s. When I worked at a talent agency in 1996, I traded a few favors for the opportunity to sit in Michael Kaye’s seats behind home plate. My sister, who works at a law firm, took me and my parents to many home games during the Yankees’ reign in the 1990s; the firm’s seats are located within spitting distance of first base, on the good side of the velvet rope, where waiters deliver food and drinks! I have close-up photos of Derek Jeter, Paul O’Neill, Andy Pettite, Jorge Posada, Chuck Knobloch and Scott Brosius. We were at the first home game pitched by Roger Clemens—the stadium shook with boos. On a blistering August day, my father, my sister and I arrived early and strolled silently through Monument Park—we had not visited since we were all much younger. I took a picture of my sister in front of Thurman Munson’s plaque. It remains one of my favorite photographs.

A friend took me to Game 3 of the 1999 World Series—I had chills the entire night and hugged strangers when the Yanks won. I cried at the beginning of the first game after 9/11, and was so proud of the Yanks for steadying the rest of us. I was devastated when they lost to the Diamondbacks that year (I still despise Randy Johnson). I screamed and jumped in celebration, this time on the phone to my sister (I had moved out of Manhattan) when Aaron Boone hit his clutch home run. Last year, on a beautiful spring day, I took my friend Steven to a Yankees game for his birthday—I wanted to sit in a blue seat one last time, to sip overpriced tap beer one last time, to eat a warm pretzel and a box of Cracker Jacks one last time, to try to catch a foul ball one last time. I can’t remember if the Yanks won or lost that day—it didn’t matter anyway.

As Robert Frost wrote, “Nothing gold can stay.” Yet the inspiration, the sportsmanship and the memories of Yankee Stadium have affected my life in a way few other institutions, and no other sports teams, have. Nothing can change that. The Yankees remain a significant part of my family, though my parents have moved out of New York and my sister now has two daughters to whom she can pass along her affection for the Yankees. In a strange but perfect twist of fate, I now teach at a college within walking distance to Yankee Stadium. The school, the block, and the entire neighborhood stand within the shadow of Yankee Stadium. I cannot see it from my office, but I pretend I can. The House That Ruth Built in the South Bronx has, in many ways, defined the major chapters of my life. I am certain the new stadium will be beautiful, and we’ll still reach it via the 4 train, and when we walk up the ramp toward our seats, I’m sure we will still lose our breath, or gasp, or stand in stunned silence, when the field suddenly appears, green and glorious. It will be a new field, upon which new memories will be made, new miracles will occur, new history will unfold. I only hope the new Yankee Stadium has more stalls in the Ladies Rooms!

Farewell, Yankee Stadium of my youth. And thanks, Dad.

Country Mouse or City Mouse?

2008-08-18T00:33:00.000-04:00

I have been quite lax in regard to blogging lately because I am in the midst of moving; the lease on my apartment is up on August 31st. For the past few weeks, I have been packing and looking for an apartment, two of my least favorite activities. I don’t have a lot of extra money and, truthfully, I could have saved better since last summer, but I like my overpriced protein bars, and I needed new work clothes, and I wanted to throw myself a Book Party, and there were a handful of new CDs to buy this year, followed by concert tickets.

I live in New York City. I work in New York City. I love New York City. So for about $1,100 a month, I could have lived in a studio in Washington Heights or Inwood. I originally thought I could find a one-bedroom apartment in East Harlem, the last affordable neighborhood below 125th Street, but that did not happen. I looked at a few apartments in West Harlem, but since West Harlem is now uber-cool, I can’t afford an apartment roomier than 8x12 feet. I am not willing to subject myself, or my ten-year old dog, to life in an 8x12 box. I am 35—I don’t want to put half my belongings in storage, even if it means a fifteen-minute commute to work.

I had nothing against Washington Heights; in fact, I am not familiar with most of it (I’ve never been to The Cloisters; I know, I’m a lame New Yorker). I even know a few people who live there and love it. The first problem is that I work in the South Bronx, which is kind of parallel to Washington Heights but separated by the Harlem River. The second problem is that the #2 and #5 trains run near work/campus, and the #1 and A/C trains run through Washington Heights. Unless I took a bus (prone to traffic issues), I would have to take the local #1 (i.e., slow) train to 96th Street and then transfer to the #2 train heading back uptown through the Bronx. This would take much longer than 30 minutes, and I was trying to decrease my commute by at least that much (my 65-minute commute from Queens to the South Bronx has undoubtedly shaved at least a year off my life!).

The third problem is that although I can afford to live in Washington Heights, I would not be able to live in a spacious, doorman-secure, recently renovated one-bedroom apartment. I would be spending a ton of money and time, yet still stacking my books to the ceiling and using space-conserving hangers and storing off-season clothes in odd places—all for the privilege of living in New York City.

After a particularly annoying and exhausting day of looking at apartments, I collapsed on my treasured Tempurpedic and reminisced about my house in Hampton Bays. I realized I loved living in the Hamptons not only because I slept five minutes from the beach, or stargazed on a nightly basis, or read/wrote every day. Much of what I loved about my three years on the East End revolved around my house: I could host a dinner party for more than three people; I could leave laundry in the dryer overnight; I could sing and dance to loud music whenever I felt like it; my dog had room to run around in silly circles; and I could live in the same place as all my books and all my clothes! The daily writing cannot be discounted or underrated; I don’t feel inspired, and I lack motivation, in Queens. I don’t get much writing done in Queens—I’m not sure if it’s my dreadful subway commute to/from work, or the dirty sidewalks near my apartment, or the rude people who stare at/run away from my dog as if she’s the Chupacabra. Part of it might be, I admit, my full-time teaching and advising schedule, not to mention committee work, hiring new adjunct instructors and departmental administrative work, all of which are typical of full-time teaching positions. Yet I love my job, and many writers teach and write. My students, and the literature we discuss, do stimulate my creativity, but by the time I arrive home, to a neighborhood I dislike, I lack the energy to engage with anything other than The Discovery Channel (or my new favorite, Nat Geo). I’m beginning to think my ability to create fiction is tied to my geographical location, and thus my overall contentment.

So does that mean I am a country mouse rather than a city mouse? I used to think I would be one of those lifelong New Yorkers, like Woody Allen or Nora Ephron. And definitely would be, if I could afford to live where (and the way) they live (neither stands around for fifteen minutes, sweating profusely, three levels below the street, waiting for the R subway at 59th Street). I have recently realized, however, that I can spend thirty, forty or even fifty minutes on Metro-North, the same $1,100 on rent, and live in a one- (or even two!) bedroom house, with a washer/dryer, fresh air and visible stars in the sky at night! Commuting by Metro-North (the train) is vastly better than commuting by MTA (subway); the former is more comfortable and runs on an actual timetable. I would still need the useful but aggravating subway, but only for two stops.

So…starting in September, I will be living outside the city, in a rented house surrounded by trees, grass, bugs and who knows what else. It will no doubt take me a few weeks (months?) to acclimate to the darkness, and the silence, of the suburbs, but I plan to use both to inspire and motivate my next novel. I’m giving myself ten months to write the first draft of my next novel. And I’m so excited to begin a new book, and a new chapter of my life (pun intended) in a beautiful, woodsy refuge!

Closer to Fine, Day One

2008-07-29T20:08:00.000-04:00

Here's the first bookstore at which I read, McNally Robinson (soon to become McNally Jackson) in SoHo. My novel was in the window. Imagine that--something I created featured in a store window in SoHo! We switched the chair for a stool. I was nervous all day, but as soon as I stepped into the bookstore, my nerves disappeared. The reading went really well--a lot of people showed up (some excellent surprises--friends from high school!)--and I enjoyed signing books and chatting with people. If you live in NYC and have not yet visited McNally Jackson, step into SoHo and check it out. It's a large, organized, independent bookstore offering a terrific variety of books, and yummy snacks at the cafe!

Closer to Fine Hits NYC!

2008-07-29T20:03:00.001-04:00

Here I am, proud to see my novel in the window of a fantastic independent bookstore, Oscar Wilde, on Christopher Street in the West Village. (Closer to Fine is in bottom row, second from the right.)

Closer to Fine in bookstores!

2008-07-05T10:00:00.000-04:00

Here is my novel, CLOSER TO FINE, on the "New Fiction" shelf at Borders Time Warner in NYC. In some stores, it may be on the "New Fiction" or "New Paperback" shelf; in all stores, it should definitely be on the "W" shelf of the "Fiction/Literature" section. If your local (indie or chain) bookstore is not currently stocking CLOSER TO FINE, please ask an employee to order it for you! Here is the ISBN #: 978-0-7582-2690-7.

If you are in a Book Group, please suggest CLOSER TO FINE as your next Book Group title. It is a terrific book; it is a quick, fun read and no one will have trouble getting through it, I promise. There are good Book Group discussion questions at the back of the book (I know this because I wrote them) and I would be happy to join your Book Group discussion for a Q&A session. Fun all around!

One last thought: CLOSER TO FINE is the perfect beach read!

2008-06-27T17:57:00.000-04:00

Today I was a Guest Blogger at a terrific website for readers and writers called Fresh Fiction. To read my short blog, go here:

http://freshfiction.com/blog/2008/06/meri-weiss-closer-to-fine.html

And if you have not already purchased CLOSER TO FINE in a bookstore, please do so! You will enjoy my novel!

2008-06-24T10:01:00.000-04:00

Today is the day! As of today, I am officially a published novelist. Forever. No one can take that away from me, ever.

I am proud of myself.

My world won't shift just yet. Only in the movies does life change over night. I must go sweep the floors of my apartment. I may now be a published novelist with a novel for sale in bookstores, but the floors of my apartment need to be swept. I will sweep them.

But I shall sweep with a smile!

Rearview Mirror

2008-06-14T09:48:00.001-04:00

Remember when you had a bedtime? Remember when someone carried you when you got

tired of walking? Remember when you wiped your nose on your sleeve? Remember metal

lunchboxes? Remember when you didn’t have to plan or even pack for vacations? Remember

when you would run—really sprint—for no reason at all? Remember when Smurfs and

Matchbox cars were children’s entertainment, and actually entertained us for hours?

Remember when someone had to remind you to take a shower? Remember when you used

phonetics and mnemonics to spell words? Remember when staying up until midnight was a

special treat? Remember when you made a Chanukah or Christmas list? Remember when you

had a birthday party every year? Remember when you were always a passenger in a car?

Remember when you chose foods based wholly on smell and/or appearance? Remember when

you traded brown-bag lunches with a friend? Remember when you didn’t know (or care about)

the monetary value of things? Remember when you had to be dropped off and picked up in

order to see a movie? Remember when you had to ask to eat candy? Remember when you

routinely forgot to brush your teeth? Remember when you actually wore a bathing suit with

socks and sneakers? Remember when you played hopscotch or kickball or wiffle ball for

hours? Remember when sundown signaled the end of your day? Remember when you stored

your money in your sock drawer, or a piggy bank? Remember when growing up seemed the

ultimate goal? Remember when you built your first snowman? Remember when you didn’t

know what the words calorie or carbohydrate or protein meant? Remember when you had to

get up to change the channel on the television? Remember when summer meant more than

warm weather? Remember when you didn’t want to sleep late? Remember when you tried to

catch your dolls and stuffed animals talking, or having a party, without you? Remember when

you played House? Remember when you played Bank? Remember when you intricately folded

notes to friends? Remember TV Tag? Remember when you needed permission to chew gum?

Remember when the arrival of the ice cream man was cause for celebration? Remember when

you used to get reprimanded for sliding your sneakers on without untying the laces?

Remember when getting dressed up for an occasion was exciting? Remember when you

jumped into puddles rather than walking around them? Remember when you danced in a

torrential downpour? Remember when a snow day meant no school, unlimited hot chocolate

and watching The Magic Garden? Remember when you went sneaker shopping twice a year?

Remember using oaktag for school projects? Remember when you sent—and then had to wait

to receive—letters in the mail? Remember when a phone call cost a dime? Remember when

you didn’t know how to drive and, while you were learning, it seemed like a skill you couldn’t

conquer? Remember how free you felt when you passed your driver’s test? Remember when

homework and an extracurricular club meeting seemed like a busy night? Remember when you

didn’t attempt to interpret your dreams? Remember when you spent hours creating mix

tapes? Remember when you fell in love on a weekly basis? Remember when doing laundry

was a total mystery? Remember when you didn’t know too much about the celebrities you

liked? Remember when you had to stop at a gas station to use the pay phone so you could

call someone? Remember when you thought college was as great as life could get?

Remember the first full meal you cooked? Remember when the thought of having a child was

merely abstract? Remember when you didn’t pay attention to (or understand) the economy,

the environment, the state of health care or what the U.S. government is up to? Remember

when you only thought about yourself? Remember when you realized life is so much fuller, so

much more exciting, and just so much better now that you share it with others?

Ways of Seeing

2008-06-01T21:28:00.000-04:00

“Seeing comes before words. The child looks and recognizes before it can speak. But there is another sense in which seeing comes before words. It is seeing which establishes our place in the surrounding world; we explain that world with words, but words can never undo the fact that we are surrounded by it. The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled. [. . .]. The way we see things is affected by what we know or what we believe. [ . . .]. We only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice. [ . . .]. We never look at just one thing; we are always looking at the relation between things and ourselves. Our vision is continually active, continually moving, continually holding things in a circle around itself, constituting what is present to us as we are.”

- John Berger, Ways of Seeing

John Berger’s Ways of Seeing is a very cool and interesting book I had to read in college and have since re-read several times. I consider it philosophy, though I think it falls under the category of media studies. I have been thinking about it a lot lately. About a month ago, my bestest pal Steven won 2 tickets to see Madonna at Roseland Ballroom. Roseland Ballroom is, literally, an old ballroom; its standing room audience capacity for a concert is only 3,200 people. The only other person who loves Madonna as much as I do is Steven. Love is really the wrong word; revere, appreciate and adore are more appropriate words. Steven and I both entered a Verizon Wireless contest, and out of 35,000 people, Steven was one of 15 winners!

He invited me. For a week I referred to him only as my hero.

On Wednesday, April 30, 2008, I was within 25 feet of Madonna. She sang for about 36 minutes. The concert was amazing—her new songs are terrific, she looks fantastic and the energy in the room was electric. I couldn’t see much, because there weren’t any of those huge screens we’re used to from stadium concerts, but at the time it didn’t matter—it was me, Steven, Madonna and only 3,197 other people rocking out! I was breathless for the rest of the week.

After the adrenaline high wore off, I started to ponder something I had observed but not processed during the concert. Although I’m kind of short (OK, totally short, I admit), it wasn’t just my lack of height that prevented a view of Madonna on stage. Nor was it a plethora of tall people in front of me. The reason I could not see Madonna (or Justin Timberlake, or her dancers) very well was because there were hundreds of cameras, attached to hundreds of arms, in front of me. Even after the first song, people continued to hold cameras in the air, shooting picture after picture of Madonna.

I am still thinking about these cameras, and not just because they blocked my view. If all those people were watching the concert through their cameras, did they truly experience the concert? Did they feel the heat in the room increase when Madonna took the stage? Did their bodies register the thunderous, floor-quivering applause when Timberlake made his surprise appearance? Did they dance? Clap? Scream?

At least once a week I encounter tourists in New York City viewing our sights through digital eyes of cameras or camcorders, and it bothers me. First, because they seem to pick the worst spots to stop and snap photos, like the entrance to the subway, or on a busy street corner, or directly in front of the building I am trying to enter. Mostly, though, it bothers me because these tourists don’t stop to stare at a landmark, they merely take pictures or shoot video of it. I have to wonder: are the tourists, and the Madonna fans, forsaking a visceral memory for a great photo? If people do not really see—literally see, with their own eyes—are images ingrained in their memory? Or will they only remember the image as they saw it, and continue to see it once they have returned home, through a camera?

I do not think cameras are bad; in fact, cameras allow us to share magical moments as well as mundane monuments with our loved ones. They also encourage us to study details we may have missed in person. But when the camera eye begins to replace the human eye, I worry. Memory can be extraordinarily strong, but it is a muscle, and like all muscles, it must be utilized to stay strong.

It wasn’t until the Madonna concert that I fully developed these thoughts; however, for the past several years, without knowing exactly why, I have not taken pictures of stunning sunsets, riveting rainbows, fascinating fireworks, or mind-blowing music concerts. Instead, I stand very quietly and let the images wash over me, into my memory. I open my mind and try to encapsulate the moments that very often leave me speechless. I look. I observe. And then I see.

I would rather remember these moments of beauty and perfection myself, without the aid of photos. And if the memory fades, well then, it was meant to be.

My First Blog!

2008-04-09T23:18:00.000-04:00

I’ve been undergoing some blog performance anxiety, so today I decided to stop torturing myself and keep it simple; I’m going to write about what I think I was put on this planet to do, what has defined my life thus far: writing. I have been writing, and reading, for as long as I can remember. When I was young, my mother used to have to take away my Nancy Drew book at bedtime, so I wouldn’t stay up, reading through the night. As I grew up, the book she tucked under her arm after kissing me good night changed—after the Nancy Drew series, it became V.C. Andrews, then C.S. Lewis, then Tolkien, then Danielle Steel. What remained the same was that I would rather read than sleep.

I started writing early in my life, and even in elementary school, English was my favorite subject. With the exception of sports, there was nothing I relished more than losing myself, entirely, in a story. I loved endings, but I hated the end. In third or fourth grade, I was invited to join some special class, in which the goal was to write. A lot. I wrote a storybook, complete with atrocious pictures (I still find it difficult to draw a straight line; I amuse my literature students with pathetic illustrations of Hemingway’s Iceberg Theory). My storybook was called THE PILLOWCASE FIGHT. All the characters were named after my friends, and the plot was, I admit, fairly stupid. But the teacher sewed us each a cover, and she bound our books. I created a book! Over twenty years later, I still have it. It lives in my fireproof safe. I consider it a testament to my future, though I didn’t know it at the time.

Later, in high school, when my journal captured all my thoughts and I embraced my intense moodiness far too easily, I adopted the family typewriter as my own and started writing a novel. I’m not kidding—I actually planned to write a novel. Recently, when my parents moved out of the home I spent half my childhood in, I was called upon to sift through years of crap piled precariously in my closet (ironically, I was doing the same in therapy!). It was there I found the pages—there were twenty—and laughed out loud. First it was the onionskin typing paper that amused me. Then it was my blatant, teenaged attempt to re-create the style, mood and typical plot of the very-prolific writer whose books I reserved on a regular basis at the library: Danielle Steel. I didn’t do a bad job, really—the melodrama bounced to life on the page. I did create a terrifically stupid plot (again); I merely inserted all the pieces of my limited but nonetheless puzzling teenage life—tennis, failed romances, friends and cliques, family issues and, of course, the one source of true agony in my youth—math.

I decided to re-read my unfinished opus once, and then destroy it. At the time, I was halfway through my MFA in Creative Writing, and producing pages on a daily basis. I was thriving in an artistic, creative environment and surrounded by people who share my need to live life through a pen. I didn’t want the weightlessness of the onionskin pages to weigh me down. I read my homage to Ms. Steel once, and then I ripped up the pages. It was easy to do because I no longer needed them; I know who I am, and I know exactly how I got here. My writing skills are (mostly) learned; they may have resided within me, nascent and numb, for some time, but they were certainly nourished and prodded. They are skills I twisted and turned and tussled with; they are skills I cried over, deflated or dismayed some days, elated and encouraged other days. They are skills that were fostered by all the right people (see CLOSER TO FINE, Acknowledgments), and they were also bought and paid for (250 dollars, once a month, to student loan payments, probably for the rest of my life). While the skills (and the money) are significant, it is the recognition I am most grateful for, because I have a feeling some people never connect with their one true thing. It wasn’t until college that I realized I wanted to be a writer—just a writer. As a kid, I wanted to be an ambulance driver or a private detective (just like Pat Crispi, the PI in town). I don’t think I realized I could be a writer, literally, and only a writer. I think I thought all writers had day jobs, and then at night, they wrote (the irony that I now do have a day job and write at night is not lost on me). In my twenties, however, I finally crossed over to the Dark (or Light, depending) Side and recognized the spirit that rests within me; I am a writer, and all I want to do is write. I process my life (and yours) in words, in descriptions, in metaphors. I understand the written word in a way I don’t understand the world in general. I can’t explain further, except to compare it to how I feel when I hear “Shriner’s Park” by Melissa Etheridge or “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohn or “Romeo and Juliet” by Dire Straits or “Virginia Woolf” by the Indigo Girls or pretty much anything by Bob Dylan. I feel an ache, an acute longing. I wish I had created it—I wish that it were borne of me. In college, when I read (or re-read) A SEPARATE PEACE, THE TEMPEST, THE GREAT GATSBY, THE SUN ALSO RISES, O PIONEERS!, THE AWAKENING and so many other books, I felt possessed, not just by the stories and characters, but by the actual words. When it came time to write papers about the literature that was changing my life, my words fell onto the page, tumbling over one another, with ease. I still longed and ached to have created these literary masterpieces, but with books, I realized, as opposed to music or painting or, god help us all, singing, I could create the emotions and the tension; lovely, perfect sentences could be borne of me. This is not to imply writing—whether it is fiction, non-fiction or poetry—is easy; it is not. But after years of composing academically artful papers; long, graceful letters; and promising, neophyte fiction, I pushed myself to learn, from living writers, from writing instructors, from peers who write, from long-dead masters of the craft and, finally, right around the time I found the onionskin pages, the last piece clicked into place: confidence. Without confidence, skill is useless.

And so, many years after that surly teen sat down at a typewriter to purge whatever troubled her, listening, no doubt, to Depeche Mode, I now present to you my novel, CLOSER TO FINE, a story that has nothing and everything to do with my life. It is, without a doubt, the greatest achievement of my life. It was, without a doubt, the most difficult accomplishment of my life. It is, in every sense of the word, my baby. I am extremely nervous about its debut in the world. I want, very badly, for it (not me) to succeed. It is worthy of success, I am certain. I honestly believe it can appeal to and engage just about any reader. It will make you laugh, and it might make you cry. This time, I promise, the plot is not stupid. Not at all.