PUblisher's Weekly

Here's the thing. I was at school yesterday working with the kindergartners on their show. It's called Calendar Kids--pretty cute, y when I heard the gentle ping of my phone informing me of an email. During a lull (there's a few) in the production I checked and discovered it was from my publicist, the wonderful Maegan Roper at Abingdon Press. Turns out that one of the editor's at Publisher's Weekly wants to do a profile of me for their next issue. Wow. This is exciting. Maegan told me that the editor, Jackie, loved Griselda Takes Flight. Yayy. Jackie and I are scheduled to talk Monday evening and she is now my new BFF. I'm a little nervous. I will let you know how it goes. Now I have to figure out how to get my hands on an actual copy of the magazine. Uhm.
Oh and BTW, FYI, Griselda Takes Flight releases April 1--There's a joke in there somewhere--but you can of course pre-order it now. I hear it's pretty good. What's with all the pumpkins on the cover? You'll see.

DREAM ON

Here’s the thing, I like American Idol. There, I said it. I like to watch American Idol and I got to say that this week’s episodes were pretty good, maybe even the best in three years. Not so much because of the, uhm, “talent” but because of the judges. I was a little disturbed at first when I heard that Steven Tyler was going to be a judge. I thought oh criminy, another rocker sold out to the man, to the masses. All of a sudden this unabashed, big-lipped, pulsating, gyrating, screaming, singing, amazing Aerosmith rocker was up there or perhaps down there, with Ozzy Osborne and Gene Simmons—old, worn-out rockers with nothing better to do than act like idiots on national television. But, I got to say, Steve did not suck. Thank you for not sucking and looking stupid, Steve. In fact I thought he was funny, a bit over the top at times, gracious, even caring. I thought Jennifer Lopez was fantastic and I always liked Randy. So here’s to what I am hoping will be a great season of American Idol. Hope does indeed spring eternal, because I will say I was prepared to stop watching this year and oh, I don’t know, read a book instead.

Now, what is it that I like about the show? I think it’s because I see so many parallels between the show and writing. Newbie, wannabe writers are so eager to put there stuff out there, before the judges (read: editors, agents) only to so often have their dreams destroyed, ripped to shreds, manhandled and dashed like waves against a craggy shore. But there is something indomitable about the human spirit that wants to create joy and goodness, beauty and art that even folks with no skills, no musical ability step out and give it there all in the hopes that they might have, “IT”. That elusive mixture of talent, skill, ability, knowledge, guts, ego, and self-loathing that mixes together in some other-worldly alchemy and produces art.

Secondly, I enjoy watching the judges handle the critique portion of the audition. I have learned a lot over the years. As someone who is often asked to read and critique a new author’s work I actually took lessons from the Idol judges. I learned with their help to be a little more gutsy in what I had to say. Sometimes you have to take the band-aid approach to a critique and just tell it like it is. Rip it off, let it sting for a bit and then hopefully the crtitiquee will move on with her life, or go back to the drawing board, or keep practicing. Over the years, in the judging, I have seen compassion and frustration and joy delivered to the hopefuls. I have also seen times when the talent was so terrible that the judges couldn’t contain their derision. Yeah, that happens in the writing world also. I know, I know those fifteen minutes of appointment angst can feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest through your ear. It’s tough. But, hey, like Flossie always told me, when you tiptoe through the rose garden of life, be sure to wear long sleeves—thorns hurt.

But every so often a manuscript crosses my desk that shines, that shows potential and true talent. This brings me great joy. I love discovering real talent just as I believe the American Idol judges do. After all, talent should never be hidden under a bushel and as Steve sang:
“Dream On Dream On Dream On
Dream until your dreams come true
Dream On Dream On Dream On
Dream until your dream comes through
Dream On Dream On Dream On
Dream On Dream On
Dream On Dream On”

Hey, it worked for me.

Write Well and Carry a Big Machete

Here’s the thing, my mother told me that God never promised us a rose garden so I better bring a machete. She also said that if I stood too close to the edge of the platform the EL train would suck me under. But, and this might or might not be a good thing, she never told me what I should do with my life. No, she pretty much left all the tough decisions up to me. So the idea of becoming a writer was never up for discussion. I simply decided that this would be my goal in life—at least a goal—career-wise. I always loved books and stories. My most favorite school day was when the Scholastic book orders came in. Remember that? It seemed we could get seventy-five books for a buck ninety-five back then. I raced home with my treasures and wouldn’t come up for air for days. I was reading at the age of three and so I pretty much devoured anything with words on it—including cereal boxes and shampoo bottles. So words and reading and stories were always a part of my life. It was like instead of white and red blood cells my heart pumped the alphabet. So I suppose it was a given that I would become a writer. But why? Why write?

I love what Flannery O’Connor said when asked that very question. She answered: “Because I’m good at it.” Yeah, that works but there’s more to it suppose. I’ve said that I write because it’s the only thing I do that when I’m doing it, I don’t feel like I should be doing something else. How’s that for a convoluted sentence. But it’s true. I also write to escape the world. I know, it’s backwards I suppose. People often say they read to escape. Well, I write to escape because I basically am not so jazzed about the real world and prefer to sit in a universe of my own design. Is that egotistical? I don’t know. Writing and words are my machete. They help me cut through the nasty parts of the garden and find the beauty, to make sense of things and maybe in some way help someone else to make sense of things. Artists use a paintbrush, surgeons a scalpel, ministers the pulpit, musicians use their instruments. We all have something that helps us make sense of our little corner of the universe. So, what’s your machete? The weeds don’t hack themselves.

By the way, the picture has nothing to do with writing or machetes. It's just Mango feeling humiliated again.

Snow Days!

Here's the thing, we are expecting a moderate snow storm to roll through tonight that should dump at least five maybe more inches of snow. Woo Hoo. SNOW DAY. I work in a school so I will have the day off--WITH PAY. It doesn't get much better than that. The possibility was the main topic of conversation at school today. Teachers walking down the halls crossing their fingers and saying things like, "I hope it's a snow day," or "Please. if there is a God in heaven let it be a day off." It could turn out to be a two-hour delay. Which I hate. It just makes my day longer and I have to deal with thirty sopping wet kids who can't get their snow boots off. So, yeah I'm hoping for a snow day. But here's the thing. It's not the same anymore. I remember when I was a kid in school waking up, seeing all the glorious, wonderful white stuff outside and my sister and I racing to the radio to see if the announcer called our school number. I still remember it--452. It was so exciting to hear your number called. The only thing more exciting was waking up on Christmas morning. Kids don't have the excitement anymore. Now I get a global connect phone call at five AM, an email, the announcement scrolls across the TV and it's on the school web site. It's not the same. It made me wonder what other little joys our kids are missing out on because of technology.

Anyone Else Ever Inherit an Onion

Here’s the thing, most people inherit money, jewelry, real estate, not me, no I inherited an onion. Oh, yes I did. Now, it’s not normal to have a fear of houseplants. Or is it? Houseplants make me nervous. I mean they’re beautiful and alive and help put oxygen in the air and all that but . . . and here’s the problem—I routinely kill them. I don’t mean too. I really try to nurture them, water them, talk to them, give them sunlight and yet, they still turn brown and die. My green thumb is black and cloaked in despair. Up until now I’ve managed quite nicely with zero plants in my home. But that’s changed and I’m quite frantic.


Right now I have three plants that are making me very, very nervous. These plants I inherited after my mom, Flossie died in November. Now I know what you are thinking, so what, they’re just plants. Give them away if you can’t keep them alive—it’s not like they’re toddlers or . . . dogs. But, here’s the thing, these plants come with a legacy. That’s right a botanical legacy that reaches back into my childhood.


The first of these plants is the ONION. That’s right, the ONION. This onion has been in the family for over sixty years! My mother said she received it from a woman who told it was old then—over sixty years ago. So you see, this onion, this pregnant onion as y other called it, has been part of my life—forever. And it’s pregnant! It’s always pregnant. You see it develops these little bulges that burst and send forth another teeny, tiny onion that then drops into the soil below and hopefully takes root, grows, matures and carries on the process. To date I have no idea how many generations of onion have come from this one, original onion. But now it is in my possession and I’m scared to death it’s going to die. I promised Flossie I’d care for it. But it’s not looking too good. I look at it and worry. I water it and worry. I pull brown dead stuff off it and worry. I give it light and worry. I shield it from the light and worry. It’s extremely nerve-wracking to own an eighty year-old onion. I was wondering if some botanical museum would like it.

Along with the onion I became the proud mother of this giant Crown of Thorns plant, tree cactus thing. Now it’s not as old as the onion. But it’s just as famous. My mother ahs one several blue ribbons in plant competitions for it. And now, alas, it’s in my care. It’s making me very nervous. I’m trying to do right by it. I’ve rearranged my living room to accommodate it, so that it would receive optimal sunlight. I’ve read about it. How can you tell if a succulent is dormant? I can’t. I water it, I don’t water it. I spritz its leaves. I’ve considered installing a plant light. I know the thing enjoys distress. It is a cactus after all. A succulent. Everyday I watch another leaf turn yellow, wither and fall to the ground. It makes me said. I put my mother’s picture near it, hoping it would help. Not so much.

So there you have it. My saga of the houseplant inheritance. A couple of bucks would have been better—that I can deal with. I could really use some advice.