Tis the season of giving thanks. Or perhaps of giving gratitude. I’ve been thinking about this some–not least because Thursday is the American Thanksgiving, which really should not just be about food, but somehow always is (OK, maybe a smidge about the Macy’s parade, and in some households about football, or not killing Uncle Pete who always arrives drunk and has unfortunate opinions), but because I listened to a piece on NPR about a Japanese discipline of mindful thankfulness, which sounds like something I want more of in my life.
November 26, 2015
October 28, 2015
… or, assuredly, we will all hang separately.*
Being human is not for the faint of heart. Being a kid, being a teen, being an adult, a parent, the child of parents with health or memory issues. There is no age of being human that doesn’t come with challenges. Family helps. But family has changed over the centuries, and our idea of what family owes us (and what we owe our families) has changed too.
Time was, if you had children, they were raised to be part of a support system–doing increasingly complex chores, learning the family business or taking over tasks on the farm. My father and his siblings helped out with his father’s store in Brooklyn; 30 years later my grandmother was living with my aunt and uncle and their family; ten years later I (dimly) recall visiting her at a nursing home (she had Alzheimers). She was cared for within the family as long as possible. In the same way, my mother’s mother wound up moving into an in-law apartment in my aunt’s home; eventually they knocked out the wall between her apartment and theirs, and she stayed at home through the rest of her life. (more…)
October 17, 2015
My mother used to have a little sign by her bed that said “A garden can be fun…if you don’t have one.” I’ve never been sure if this meant she was anti-gardening (she was a killer weeder) or just anti-my father’s whole-hearted dive into gardening.
I am feeling much in sympathy with Mom today.
After spending a couple of hours proof-reading new Book View Cafe releases (watch the skies… in about a month) I decided I would go out and gather up the rotting lemons in the backyard. See, we have a lemon tree that is, to say the absolute least, prolific. Lemons fall and, if not immediately picked up, rot under foot. And still more lemons come, until making it across the yard is a little like a trip through the Fire Swamps, if the Fire Swamps smelled like citrus and decay. So I rolled the compost bin into the back yard.
And then I got distracted by the pigweed by the back gate, so I thought I would start there. Pigweed is an invasive, sappy, altogether noxious weed that grows everywhere, and overgrows everything. And the back steps and the area near the back gate was inches deep in pigweed, so I started there. And then I realized that some of it wasn’t pigweed, but was invasive blackberry that had traveled all the way across the back yard to set up a new colony near the gate.
Long story, as they say, much compacted: I filled the 32-gallon composting bin, and then a 32-gallon composting bag, and there is still pigweed (pulled up but not disposed of) and clipped up blackberry to be bagged for collection, plus all the lemons, and really, I should trim the lemon tree, which is getting ideas about world domination. But I stopped, because I was so sweaty that my glasses were filming over, and despite a long-sleeved shirt and work gloves my arms are itchy with pigweed sap.
Another shower and then I shall return to my proper place in life: proof-reading some more. A garden can be fun…
October 13, 2015
I got invited to do a cool thing!
(Okay, part of my delight is that I don’t think of myself as being part of the cool crowd, and therefore, being invited to do a cool thing plucks at my deeply-buried high school nerd self.)
A few months ago a writer of my acquaintance asked me if I’d like to be involved in a Serial Box project. “Serial what now?” I said, with my customary aplomb.
It was explained to me: Serial Box is a new venture that takes as its model the episodic novels of yore–or more contemporaneously, seasons of TV: a work of fiction with new content released every week, written by a team of writers, to create a satisfying episode and a satisfying “season” arc. (more…)
September 16, 2015
Last weekend I was in New York City for a meeting about The Most Fabulous Project I’m working on for Serial Box: a thirteen episode serialized story set in the Restoration, and… okay, I’m getting off topic. I was in New York, city of my birth and of my heart, and even better, in the neighborhood where we lived when my daughters were born.
Lots of things have changed. You expect that in New York–particularly in a neighborhood that was going through growing and gentrification pains even before we moved away 13 years ago. The old-style restaurant down the block from P.S. 163 (my younger daughter’s kindergarten) has been replaced by a Whole Foods. Gabriela’s, our favorite Mexican restaurant on Amsterdam, has moved to Columbus Avenue and gone upscale. The McDonalds on Columbus and 90th is gone (I didn’t think McDonaldses ever went away). Some stores have had long-overdue facelifts. And Food City is closed.
I think–though I haven’t been able to confirm this–that Food City has a brief role in a wonderful movie called They Might Be Giants, in which the protagonists (George C. Scott, playing a judge who thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes, and Joanne Woodward, playing a psychiatrist named Watson) are cornered by the police in a large supermarket fronted by an empty plaza.* More importantly to this story, it’s also where I did my grocery shopping for the ten-or-so years that we lived near by. I fought skirmishes with my daughters over candy at the checkout counter. As a toddler my younger daughter had a pretend game she played where she would be an abandoned child who lived in Food City and hoped I would take her home and adopt her (the ladies at the checkout found it hard to keep a straight face when this was going on).
And on 9/11, I went over to the market to pick up a few things, because the world was looking a little chancy just then, and who knows if we’d need milk and apple juice? I’ve said elsewhere that what I saw at Food City moved me: people picking up a gallon of milk–but not two–a package of toilet paper, but not two, and so on. You could practically see the thought balloon over their heads: “someone else might need some too.” It made New York feel just a little safer, there in this little crowded down-market supermarket.
I have lived off and on in New York for a large chunk of my life. Things change. Tear down a building and you find the echoes of buildings that stood there before. Dig for a subway and find a cemetery or the bones of a ship beached centuries ago. But you get accustomed to thinking that some things are fixtures. Heaven knows enough “why is that place still there?” stores and buildings still exist. But I raise a metaphorical glass to Food City, where I knew where the flour, pork shoulder, and olive oil lived, and where I saw my city at its best.
* Really, find They Might Be Giants. It’s a perfectly lovely film that will repay the search.
August 24, 2015
Emily, seen left, is 9 1/2 years old. She weighs 48 pounds, almost all of it muscle and fur (plus a little drool). She is a large fur-shedding machine whose chiefest joy is playing catch. And food. And playing with her humans. And food. And cuddling. And food. Like, say, most dogs. I point out to her, on occasion, that I remember when she came home with us and was a Little Dog. And she glares at me, because, I truly believe, in her mind she is The Little Dog, and all things that do not lead to food, cuddling, or playtime, are attempts on the life and sanity of a dog so tiny, so minuscule, so defenseless, that the heavens weep to see it.
I have mentioned to her, more than once, that she is an Elder Statesdog. That she should be beyond fear of the vacuum cleaner and the sound of distant firecrackers. She is not convinced. And in the way of children and dogs, she deeply, profoundly, dislikes change. And in the last couple of weeks we’ve had a rich vein of change to deal with.
First, my younger daughter, who was home for several months from college, departed for Florida and her
school. Since Daughter is the only one with whom Emily is permitted to sleep, this was a very very sad thing for Em. She wandered around the house, disconsolate, with an air that said clearly: “WHERE’S THE SQUISHY ONE? THE ONE WHO CUDDLED ME? WHERE IS SHE?” And there was nothing I could do except pet her lavishly. It didn’t help that shortly before the Daughter left, Emily had got into an argument with some foliage at the park and torn a hole in her side that required sutures and the prolonged wearing of a T-shirt (an alternative to the Cone of Shame). So there were all kinds of things changing to upset the Little Dog’s equilibrium.
And then Mama went to Worldon in Spokane (it was smoky but swell, thanks). And Suddenly one of the Little Dog’s remaining people had disappeared. When I returned Sunday night I thought there was a very real danger that Emily would simply dislocate her hips with the tail wagging. Everything was OK! The change was undone!
Today I started a new job. (Yay.) Which meant that for the first time in a year, I’m out of the house reliably from 9-6. When I came home this evening she was excited (and hungry, since she’d been getting dinner earlier). When Dad came home she was just as excited (and immediately produced The Toy and required interaction). For a little while she was not the Little Dog, she was the Dog of Joy. Particularly when Daddy engaged and started tossing the Toy.
But what of tomorrow? When I go to work again? And the day after? And
the day after that, when the fact that Mama is out of the house five days a week until way past her idea of dinner time has settled in? I am pretty certain that Emily will feel ill-used. But she’ll get over it. She’s more resilient than she knows. And really, she’s got it pretty good. Even if she’s not allowed on the bed, there’s always the couch.
August 12, 2015
Laura Anne Gilman, writer extraordinaire, member of BVC and the world, got me involved in GISHWHES (the Greatest Internet Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen) this year. This event/activity/madness was started by Misha Collins of Supernatural, and goes on for a week. You get 200+ prompts, and your team, individually and in groups, accomplishes as many of them as possible over the time allowed. Many of the prompts involve charitable activities and acts of kindness, random and otherwise. Others are just…random.
My team was an extraordinary group: two people I already knew, and a dozen I hadn’t met before. And through the wonders of the internet, we had people all over–not just all over the U.S., either. I will post just my stuff (because it’s the only stuff I can promise I had my hand in), but take my word for it–there was astonishing artistry (when I saw the portrait of Robert Downey Jr. made entirely out of salt and pepper I realized that I would have to step up my game). And brazen chutzpah–Keith DeCandido doing a cartwheel in Times Square at noon wearing a kale tutu, and two other team members posing with the concierge in a fancy hotel, both wearing kale hats (kale is a GISHWHES thing. No, I don’t know why). Not to mention the woman who cut off 10″ of her hair to donate to a “locks-of-love” program, and the woman who wrote a beautiful haiku of appreciation for her father, and Laura Anne going off to find a glacier so she could pose next to it in a bathing suit and floaties. Really: 200+ prompts, and I’m not going to list them all because we could be here until next year.
Me, I was responsible for: building a 2 1/2 foot tall model of the Empire State Building out of sugar cubes (see above with requisite King Kong, and left), and then submitting a film of me pouring boiling water on it to melt it.
Building a dog out of sanitary products as a way of refuting the old saw that dogs are a man’s best friend. I’m always happy to make sure women (and dogs) get equal notice.
Depicting Death’s funeral (I decided it was the Death from Death Takes a Holiday, and that his funeral should be attended by many other incarnations of himself).
Cosplaying a famous inanimate object.
Tweeting about the book that most inspired me, and writing a letter thanking a woman who mentored me, mumbly years ago.
Creating a household fairy to replace the Tooth Fairy (mine was the Great Shoe Fairy, who locates shoes, homework, cell phones, and dust bunnies for children who are late for school).
And doing a 14-second dramatic reading of my grade school report card (this was a challenge, because my school gave long-form student reports, and finding one or two sentences that would give the flavor of 9-year-old me was a task.
It’s a weirdly satisfying game. For a writer, the opportunity to create tangible (silly) objects is really useful, and the opportunity to move out of your comfort zone and take risks, likewise.
Team Inevitable Innuendo completed about 40% of this year’s prompts, which is pretty damned good. The winning team gets fame, glory, a trip to Costa Rica, and the awe of its peers. But really, the reward I expect we’ll wind up with are the fun, the camaraderie, the awe when someone does something amazing (string a hammock across a river? Really?) or affecting (the appreciation for Leonard Nimoy made me tear up) or just deliciously random.
And it’s happening again next August. Interested?
July 29, 2015
I saw something the other day that made me really angry, in that “what, were you raised in a woodshed or something?” sort of way. Prolonged, self-involved, privileged rudeness makes me on-beyond-cranky. And as I watched this behavior continue I realized that the perpetrator really had no idea of what he was doing.
I was at a cafe, writing (I have said elsewhere that getting out of the house and away from its distractions is a must for me). There were others there, also working diligently, drinking coffee or nibbling on pastries. I work here frequently enough to know the staff by name; it’s a comfortable little joint.
About half an hour after I get there a man comes in and takes a seat. He’s older than some of the customers, younger than me; wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase (the other occupants are more the beanie-jeans-and-backpack sort). He plugs in his laptop and phone and gets to work. Has a couple of phone calls which he carries on a little too loudly, but that happens.
When he ends a call our waitress goes over to see what he’d like to order. She’s a middle-aged Korean woman, deceptively young looking, petite. Her English is fluent but accented, and her voice is soft. When she asks him what he’d like to order he doesn’t look up, just says “Nothing right now.” A look flashes across the waitress’s face: I think she recognizes that he’s going to be trouble. She asks if perhaps he’s waiting for someone. “No, I just don’t want anything right now,” he snaps. She is barely on his radar, an intrusion. (more…)
July 15, 2015
Job-hunting takes time. So does writing. But you cannot write, or job-hunt, all the time. And I’ve been experiencing a real need to create tangible things. Beaded jewelry. Knitted things. But what I’ve really been doing a lot of is playing with yeast.
When I was a teenager I baked a lot. It was a form of rebellion (my mother was a fabulous cook, but did not care for baking) and I made croissants and herb bread and sourdough and rolls and pies–and one summer my summer job was to bake things and sell them. Since then, I’ve done some bread-making, but not as much as in those halcyon summer days when I rose at 5 am to make sure the first batch of bread was rising by 6.
So why this sudden investment in yeast-based amusement? It started with a slow-rise-no-knead bread recipe I got from…somewhere? (these things seem to find their way to me and attach themselves, limpet like). And then my daughter said “let’s take some cooking classes together!” and the first one we signed up for was a sourdough starter class. We came home with our own pots of wild-yeast starter from a decades-old pot named Dulce. I named my starter Magda. My daughter named hers Trust-Fund Baby. And with starter in the house, I started to bake bread again. (more…)
June 16, 2015
I think I was 13 when I discovered, more or less all at once, Georgette Heyer, Mary Stewart, Jane Aiken Hodge, and “romantic suspense,” a broad category that included different sorts of books but generally featured a woman in a diaphanous gown, framed against a brooding manse. There might not even be a brooding manse in the book, but on the cover… (at the same period, SF often had a rocket ship on the cover regardless of actual rocketry in the book). Gradually I fell away from romantic suspense, and from the less able of Heyer’s imitators (I think I was 15 by the time I could tell whether a writer had done their research solely by reading Heyer). But among the other things I found in those books was a fondness for a certain kind of world building that involved manners and rules; societies in which knowing the rules meant you could survive or even game the system.