Dear Diary

Report cards came out last Friday and my son is brilliant. Brilliant, of course being a subjective mom's interpretation of grades that run all over the place. Our town has this incomprehensible grading system of B, P, M, and E. B=beginning a skill, P=progressing on a skill, M=meeting expectations, E=exceeding expectations. Doodles had a healthy mix of Ps, Ms, and Es. Brilliant, right?

Anyway, I didn't need a report card to tell me that the area Doodles needs to work the most in is his writing. But of course writing is the subject he likes least and the one he is most reluctant to practice.

Except on Friday, I had a brainstorm. A genius idea! I dug into the attic and found, from 1976 to 1978, my diary. With Strawberry Shortcake on the cover and a lock on the outside. And I read Doodles a few pages. The one that made him the happiest was this one:


(And I cringe reading this. How, at the ripe old age of 9 1/2, did I not know the difference between "loose" and "lose"? I blame my parents.)

Doodles needed a diary. Can I tell you how hard it is to find a locking diary that isn't adorned in Hello Kitty or flowers or fairies? I thought I found a really cool one, but the price was, um, off putting. But I did find one that wasn't great, but wasn't "girly."

The boy is addicted. Every few hours he jumps up and yells, "I need to go write something in my diary!" I'm dying to peer into his journal, but I respect his privacy. And, the fact is, I really don't care what he writes. I just care how he writes. I want to know he's spelling because and not becos, that he's using capitals at the beginning of the sentence and punctuation at the end. I do, at least, know he's writing neatly. As he sat down, I reminded him, "Now, you need to write well enough that your grown-up self will be able to read your handwriting," and as I saw him go, he was making beautiful well-formed letters. So that's half the battle. I plan on going at some point today to buy him a copy of Harriet the Spy. I think that will help to fan the flames.

And who knows? In thirty-five years, perhaps in his blog, he'll scan in a page from his diary to show what he was up to as a kid. I just hope he spells "lose," right.

On My Plate

If there's a greater torture to mankind than Wow Wow Wubzy, I have no idea what it is. This has got to be the most vacuous, vapid, piece of TV crap ever created. But Pie loves it. And Doodles is off at the Cub Scouts, weighing in his car for the Pinewood Derby, and little Pie wanted to go along too, but can't because it goes past her bedtime, so here I am watching Wow Wow Shoot Me.

I've been pretty focused lately (which is why you haven't seen as much of me here). I'm not really happy with where my novel is at the moment, but I'm probably within days of a complete first draft, at which point my poor beleaguered readers will have to help me parse what I can do to revive it. But it's a good feeling, knowing that I'll at least have the beginning-middle-end all in one piece,albeit one that will need to be dissected and rebuilt. But the body is there.

The crafty world has also sucked me in. For Purim I baked mounds of hamentashen (the ones with Fluff came out fabulously! I highly recommend. They come out tasting like toasted marshmallow and were a huge hit with the under-10 crowd). I've been baking my own bread. I've made turtles and homemade gummies. I've been knitting (see those hand warmers on Pie?) and crocheting (I made that penguin for Doodles when his class was studying penguins). My photo albums are slowly becoming organized. Waiting through dance classes and gymnastics classes and Hebrew school is much easier when I have something to do with my hands.



The final thing I have right now is running. I've signed up to do the Chicago Marathon in the fall with my friend Fish. I'm a little worried about him backing out, and I'm not going to go to Chicago on my own for a race, but I'll have a back up marathon, just in case. But I'd like to get my marathon closer to 4 hours (from 4:13:46). It's already giving me the motivation to run and I'm antsy to get out there. The hint of spring we've had is helping a lot.

So for now, it's Groovy Girls (Pie received a mother load of them as hand-me-downs from Tab, and she wants to spend all afternoon with my playing Groovy Girls with her) and Wow Wow Wubzy. If you were doing this, you'd be anxious to run, too. Far far away.

A Faux Post

I want to start tonight with my faux-pumpkin bars. They were fabulous, and highly unappreciated in this house, although when I went to give a bunch of the leftovers to our neighbors, my boy did panic and say, "You're not going to give all of it away are you?" They were spectacular faux-pumpkin bars. Once a week, we get a delivery from Boston Organics, a box full of organic fruits and veggies, and I'm on a quest to actually use all the items we get. (Never fear--it never goes to waste. I fondly call Beetle, my neighbor, our human garbage disposal, as she's always game to take any food that will be uneaten in our household.) I'm also trying to cook as many meatless meals as possible, something which is not going over that well with the rest of my household members (read: Adam). For instance, on Wednesday we had a lovely cauliflower and tomato curry-like dish that I enjoyed and Adam tolerated. And today we had my lovely bars, a recipe I found online and then tweaked to perfection, replacing the pumpkin with organic delicata squash (hence the faux), mixing up the sugars, removing the chocolate chips and adding a cream cheese frosting. Mmmmm!

And now let's move on to my faux-healthy daughter. She fools me every day, acting healthy and chipper and happy and then--wham!--at night, she has aches and pains that keep her for hours on end. Last night she awoke at 2 a.m., saying her "brain hurt." Uh oh,, I thought. Here it comes. Piggy flu. Sudden onset. Headaches. But then she woke up with a lovely 98.7 degree temperature and an upbeat attitude. She went to school. On Friday we have our special Mommy-Pie time, as she's done at noon and we have no activities till we pick up Doodles at 2:15. Today we went on a "hike" (read: woodsy walk), stopping frequently to read the book du jour, Chicken Soup with Rice. At the end of the hike, we had to walk up a small hill. And my daughter--the one I had always thought of as suspiciously smart--announces, "I'm going to roll up the hill!"

"You mean down," I said.

"No!" She looked at me like I was crazy. "Up!" And then she proceeded to roll up this rather steep hill. Tonight Adam said to her, "You thought you could roll up a hill?" and she laughed at him and replied, "Daddy! I did it!"

And tonight, she's in bed, with not quite a fever, but verging on one, snoring loudly and crying out in her sleep every now and then. So frustrating! We're supposed to have a special Mommy-Daughter trip next weekend--I hope she's healthy enough to go.

And now let's end with faux time. Which is what I had today, after I dropped Pie off at school, ran some errands, and hurried home to get a few things done. But then I giddly looked at my watch and realized I had accomplished everything I needed to do faster than I thought and I had a precious whole forty-five minutes to write! It's Nanowrimo month, and I've consciously decided not to participate as I don't want to start something new; I want to finish something old. So I sat down at my computer... and saw I was late to pick up Pie. Huh? Look at computer. Look at watch. Look at computer again. Look at... stopped watch. Damn.

No more faux. Off to sleep. I'm hoping for the real deal.

Got a Fever Burning Inside of (Not) Me

I've been getting grief from my father (hi, Peter!) for not blogging. I'm not completely sure why I'm not blogging, but I haven't. Part of it is that I am writing, just not for you. I've been working steadily away on my novel. I'm at a rough place in it at the moment, not sure if it's all gelling together. I need to just plug away at it. Part of it is also that I've lost that snark factor. Now that I have kids, I feel like I can't let my bitch out. It's one thing to alienate my friends; it's something else to alienate my kids' friends. But I go through this blogging crisis about once a year and the fact is that it's been eight years I've been doing this, which is longer than I've done almost anything else in my life. The only thing more consistent in my life is Adam, as I've been with him for almost ten years. But I've never lived in a single place for eight years. I've never had a job for eight years. Eight years is something to be reckoned with, so here I am.

And right now is my writing time. I should be working on my novel. But my darling daughter pulled the old "I'm healthy but now you can't send me to school" trick. Last night the boy was trying to get out of homework. Pie had just gotten home from a playdate and was cranky, but nothing out of the ordinary. But the boy! Oh the moaning, the groaning. "I can't do my homework! My head hurts! I'm sick!" I feel his forehead.

"You're fine," I tell him.

"Nooooo! I'm sick! Take my temperature."

Which I dutifully do. And he's a lovely 98.4. Pie is standing there. "Shall we take your temperature, too, while I'm standing here?"

She agrees and I take her temperature. 102.5. I do a double take and take her and his temperature three more times, certain something is wrong with the thermometer. But no, she's sick. Just doesn't seem like it other than a cold.

So now I'm sitting on the couch as she overdoses on TV. We started with High School Musical: "The girl with the lipstick and the sparkly shirt, who's hanging with the boy? That's who I am. What's her name? Gabriella? That's who I am. I the character of her and the person of her [meaning Vanessa Hudgens]." Now we're on to Berenstain Bears. She's anxious to go out--because of course she's had no fever all morning--but I can't in these panic-y swine flu times take her anywhere where there might be children, so she's won the TV lottery for today. Given Pie's Law of Health, she'll be chipper and happy all day, till about 5 p.m. when her fever is guaranteed to return.

In the meantime, I can leave you with just a few of the things that have been keeping me away from the blog:

Sukkah

For the first time, we built a sukkah. We have our lovely remodeled house, with an ample backyard and a place to store the sukkah in the off-season. So it was time. "What size should we get?" Adam asked me.

I looked over the Sukkah Project web site. "I think we should get the easy snap together kind."

"That's ridiculous," I was told. "It has to be made with lumber. Or else you're just cheating. What size?"

"Um, 8 by 12 should be fine."

"No, too small."

"Okay, 12 by 10."

So what does he order? 12 by 16. We need a bigger table to fill it, but it was nice as we hosted Shabbat and two kid-oriented meals in the sukkah. I'd show you pictures of Adam and Doodles building the sukkah, but somehow I've misplaced all my September photos.

Cub Scouts
Let me say off the bat that I have very mixed feelings about the Cub Scouts. I despise many of their policies and I'm not crazy about some of the skills they teach. However, Doodles was so excited to do this. A troop advertised outside of his school and he was dying to join. I nixed it, as it was not the most sensitive to Jewish scouts. The first meeting, for example, was on Rosh Hashanah. Monthly meetings are on Friday nights. Doesn't work for us and easy to say no. But then we discovered a troop (although that's the former Girl Scout in me talking; Cub Scouts are not troops, but packs) on the other side of town that was not only Jew-friendly, but populated by many kids from our synagogue. The boy is so excited. He's working his way through his Tiger book and is just about ready to earn his Bobcat badge. He needs to sell popcorn to raise money, and I'm not the selling type. But he's begging to go door-to-door to sell. We compromised as I found a friend or two willing to buy and he suited up to go to their houses. If anyone reading this would like to buy popcorn, you know where to find me.

Apple Picking

The rain finally took a long enough break to get to apple picking. We went nice and early on Columbus Day to beat the crowd. We arrive, and I go to buy the small bag to fill. "We'll fill that in no time. We need a bigger bag," Adam insists (are you seeing a theme here?). So we get the bigger bag. Only Pie loses interests and she and Adam wonder off leaving me to haul around a honking big heavy bag of apples that I still haven't used up.

Hockey

Recognize that player in the blue fleece? I got so confused when I saw her out there, given that last year, that was the boy's fleece, so I kept thinking I was looking at him. But that girl really held her own and did just great. The boy is amazing, how much he's improved since last year. Poor Adam: Doodles made the advanced beginner's group, which meets from 8:50 to 9:30 and Pie is in the beginner's group, which meets from 9:50 to 10:30, so he gets to spend his entire morning at the rink, while I'm off running. That's what you get for saying, "Oh, hockey and the early, cold hours at the rink don't bother me."

And now, now it's time to be a Mom again. To change the channel and make princess soup for Pie and to bake my next apple creation: Spiced Caramel Apple Upside Down Cake. Perhaps I'll try to sneak in a bit of noveling today. You never now.

So, yes, I'm still here. At least for the time being.

All the People Who Died, Died

I recognize that this is a very introspective (read: masturbatory) blog--the outside world doesn't generally intervene here unless it relates to something amusing/maddening/strange a family member did.

And in a sense this is also a self-indulgent post. Because it's all about how it relates to me. But for a few moments, we shall turn to the world outside of Adam, Doodles, and Pie.

Once upon a time I was a graduate student. I studied creative writing at the University of Washington. It was a magical two years when the only thing I had to do was write. And read. And write some more. My whole life revolved around writing. I read slush for the Seattle Review. I helped bring authors to come read at the university. I dated poets and fiction writers and English lit Ph.Ders. And I wrote, if not well, at least prolifically.

Every year, Seattle has the most marvelous of festivals, Bumbershoot. Bumbershoot is this amazing amalgamation of music, art, film, literature, food, and general fun. Bumbershoot, to me, is the epitome of Seattle. In my day, that meant putting on your Carharts, flannel shirt, and Tevas and heading out for a day of hearing "the coolest band" and mocking that "total sell-out" on the next stage. Of course, no one ever agreed which was which.

My second year in Seattle, two of us grad students, me and a poet, Laura, were offered jobs at Bumbershoot. And what a job it was. "Literary Escort." Yes, it sounds like something out of a Woody Allen story. And, frankly, I thought it sounded kind of hot. I'd read the line-up of authors coming. "What, I get to sleep with Exene Cervenka?" No, I was told. I got to drive her around. Well, okay. That would be a close second.

So I took the job. It was just for the weekend. I was one of a team of escorts. We picked up literary greats at the airport, brought them to their hotels. Took them from their hotels to their readings at Bumbershoot. Take them back. Drive them to the airport again. We could attend the parties. We had backstage passes. We got walkie talkies to use. We got paid. Pretty f'ing sweet.

On my list? Exene Cervenka. Tobias Wolff. Patti Smith. Jim Carroll. A few others you probably haven't heard of.

They were quite nice. I got into a car accident with Tobias Wolff. Actually, a bus sideswiped my van, but it suitably freaked me out, and Tobias had to calm me down, assuring me it was in no way my fault; I was stopped at a traffic light. Patti Smith was way more domestic than I would have guessed. Exene Cervenka was as cool as you'd think she'd be.

And Jim Carroll? Jim Carroll can only be described as a trip. From the moment I picked him up at the airport, he was high maintenance.

"Hello, Mr. Carroll, I'm Jenny. I'll be driving you around this weekend."

"Call me, Jim," he told me. And so I did.

In the car, he immediately became chatty. And I ate it up. The original name dropper. "Yeah, did you know that last time I was in Seattle, I got a call from Eddie Vedder, wanted to hang out. Asked me to sing. Oh, is Patti here yet? You need to get me in touch with Patti...."

We got to his hotel. "Um, I think I forgot my i.d. Can you come in with me just to make sure I get checked in okay?"

Uh... okay. So I go in with him. And help him solve all his problems. "There's no room service? Well, what's the restaurant down here. Will they deliver to my room? Can someone get the food to me? What do they serve? I don't know if I'll eat that..."

I finally left, promising to call him a half hour before I was to pick him up. "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm leaving now to come get you...." Then I'd call him from the hotel, which in these days before the abundance of cell phones, meant my parking the van on a crowded Seattle downtown street, getting out, going into the lobby and using the hotel phone. "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm downstairs ready for you.... Hi Jim, it's Jenny, I'm still downstairs waiting for...."

I took him to the parties. I took him to his reading. I lent him my Cartoon Network watch to wear onstage because he forgot his. Forget the rest of the other writers. My whole weekend was "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm waiting for you...."

His flight back to New York was at 9 a.m. "I'm always nervous about making my flights," he told me. "I'd like to get there at least two hours early." Note, this is years before 9/11.

"Um, okay."

"And could you call me with a wake-up call? I don't trust the hotel. Call me at 5:30." 5:30. Of course now, 5:30 in the morning is par for the course. But in those days, 5:30 was an hour in which I might be falling asleep.

"Of course," I told him.

So I called him. "Hi Jim," I said, trying to hide the groggy from my voice. "It's Jenny. It's time for you to get up."

"Could you call back in a half hour, make sure I'm still up?"

Half and hour later. "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm heading out now to get you."

The ride to the airport was magical. I asked him all sorts of questions, growing bolder as we spoke. I asked and asked. I asked about the "people who died," about who he dated, about heroin, about his fear of AIDS, about, about, about. All the way to SeaTac we chatted.

We pulled up to the airport. Before he got out, I nervously pulled out my copy of Basketball Diaries. "Would you sign my book?"

He gave me the most charming smile. "Of course!" he said, and he took the book. He signed it. I saw him drawing a tiny picture of the space needle before he handed it back to me. He gave me a great big hug and headed back to New York.

I give you this, my final one: "Hi Jim, this is Jenny."

I still have the book. I'll keep it forever. I look at it now. It's Jim. So Jim. Jim inscribed it as only Jim would. He wrote, "For Laura, with love and all my thanks for your help. Jim Carroll. Seattle '95."

Rest in peace, Jim Carroll.

Summer Time and the Living Is Easy

While it wouldn't be quite accurate to say summer has arrived to New England, we do finally have a day decent enough to sit outside. I'd be happy if it were a tad warmer--lower 70s would be perfect--but it's not raining at the moment and I'm happy to simply accept that. Our yard is finally in, and while the backyard is not-yet-suitable for walking upon, well, we're walking upon it anyway. We put down grass seed in the back and all this rain has washed a third of it away and the birds have gotten the another third. So our backyard currently looks like a failed Chia Pet. Lovely. I do appreciate the fact that the wireless connects in the backyard so I can play on the computer while Pie plays with her friend. The front we used sod on, which kind of depresses me, because it is the ultimate in suburban lawns. However we've got a lovely planting plan that will transform it into something romantic and inviting--we just need to wait till the coffers are refilled enough to afford all those romantic and inviting plants.

But summer it apparently is, and we had a lovely 4th of July and now both kids are at camp. I had a hard time sending Doodles to camp, putting him on a bus to be carted off with all these children who were about twice his size to go off to swimming and boating and ropes and T-ball on his own. Pie is at her preschool camp and she, in her spunky way, "LOVES IT!" while Doodles in his typical more subdued way "kinda likes" camp, but definitely enjoys it more than he would staying home. And me? Me, I've got a three and a half hour stretch in front of me every day. And while I am doing a bit of puttering and cleaning--finally getting the clothes Pie has grown out of out of the house, doing the grocery shopping and baking cookies for friends with a new baby--I am also working on the novel. I'm getting in a good hour a day of decent writing time. It's one of those things that I have a hard time starting, but once I get started, I have a hard time stopping. I find my thoughts frequently drift back to my characters and I'm trying to take notes at odd times so I don't forget ideas. It feels good to get back into a writing routine again. I've got three more weeks of kids' camp (maybe more!) so I hope to really get a solid portion under my belt. (I'd like to write "under my typewriter ribbon" but it's been too long since I've used one of those... Maybe "under my web camera"? as that's what's atop my computer.) I make myself a pot of tea (because, yes, it's been that chilly), sit at my computer, attempt to ignore Facebook and Twitter, and plug away. My novel readers are awesome and have been giving me great feedback, which I'm working hard to incorporate. Writing is a lot like exercise--when you're not doing it, you can't imagine doing so. But once you start, you simply can't stop.

So yes, the blog posts may be a bit more infrequent. But that's only because there's other writing to be done. Because it's summer time. And the writing is easy.

Conspiring Against Me

For the past few weeks, my life has been all about unpacking and preparing for Passover. Well, the seders have passed. The house is 97% unpacked. And I was looking forward to finally getting my office all in place and getting back to my writing! I'm jonesing for my computer. Eager to get back to my writing. Last week, Pie didn't have school on both Wednesday and Friday for Passover. Doodles was out of school on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday because he was sick. Friday no school for him because it was Good Friday.

So this is my week! Except... Adam just reminded me that tomorrow we have to go to close the loan on our house refinance. So I won't work tomorrow. And he's leaving town tomorrow night for a couple of nights in NYC for work, so there's no back up at night. And normally that's rather fun for me because I can put together a girls' night in, but with the kids being sick, I can't count on them to reliably sleep through the night and I don't want to leave guests for two hours while Pie has night terrors/trouble sleeping. And of course there's no extra night of sushi ordering, because of Passover. Oh, and Wednesday Pie has no school for the last days of Passover. And Friday is a short day--Pie is only in school from 9 till noon, which means I can either get my office going or I can get a smidgen of writing done.

But the week after... Oh, wait. The week after is spring break. Right. Both kids have the entire week off. And Adam's company, for all the things they do right, don't see Patriot's Day as a holiday.

My to-do list is growing: I have birthday gifts that are well over a month old waiting to be mailed. My office supplies are rustling loosely in a box, waiting for a home. I still don't have a desk. I have a Torah portion to read at my bat mitzvah in, oh, about a month, and I haven't even begun to try to decipher the Hebrew never mind the Torah trope. Nothing major, but as a Type-A label-making, superorganized person, the little things not being in their place make me crazy.

Enough whining. Time to go to bed. I'm got a closing to go to tomorrow. At least it's close to a Container Store. Organized drawers, at the very least, here I come!

The Printed Word

I feel so dirty. I mean downright nasty. My mom had all these extra Delta miles that were about to expire. So she called us up an offered us magazine subscriptions. Adam took one to Barron's. I immediately claimed one to Martha. But then she tried to push more subscriptions on us. "I have to get rid of these!" she said. And that's when I did it. My nasty deed. I told her to get me People.

My first issue just arrived. And, oh, it was good. So very, very good. Just don't tell anyone...

As I hear more and more about the decline of the Boston Globe and it's possible demise, I become increasingly nostalgic for a time I never lived in. How can newspapers be disappearing? How is it the publishing world is in a state of decline?

On one hand, yes, I contribute by reading People magazine, getting my headlines off the NYT app on my iPhone, and watching Real Housewives of New York City. But on the other hand, I still subscribe to the Sunday papers (the Globe and NYT), even if I never get much farther than the Style section and Week in Review (okay, the Style section). And while, yes, I do subscribe to the aforementioned magazine and Real Simple and Running World, I also subscribe to The Sun, Creative Nonfiction, Brain, Child, and One Story. While I do make ample use of my library, I also try to buy books on a semi-regular basis, because I think it's important to support authors you like.

I always wanted to be Dorothy Parker, but without the suicidal tendencies. To have lived in that era, when writers were glorified and the written word meant something. To be a glamorous, witty writer and sit around drinking martinis with other glamorous witty writers, turning out brilliant News About Town pieces or scathingly funny reviews ("She ran the gamut of emotions from A to B").

I use my toys more than most--I update Facebook, I tweet, I'm a compulsive e-mail checker, my iPhone entertains me when I'm waiting for my kids, and while I've slacked on it lately, I've been a blogger since the wee days of blogging--but I really think that the Internet and computers has detracted from the quality of my life. I miss the days of being unconnected. I miss picking up a book because there was nothing on one of the four channels. I miss the feeling of having to hurry to get to a movie because soon it would be gone and that would be it, I'd never get to see it. Once upon a time, I read The New Yorker from front to back. Every week. I'm sad that I don't even subscribe anymore.

But then things change. Things evolve. Newspapers died even then. Remember "Remember me to Herald Square"? The Herald was sucked up by the Times before I was even born. It's not always for the worst. I know I'm not alone in nostalgically longing for a simpler time (and even as my life grows bigger, I become more obsessed with those go the voluntary simplicity route). But things change and it's really not a bad thing.

I think it's time to restart my subscription to The New Yorker. Right after I finish this week's People....

Yea, Readers!

Three readers in fewer than 24 hours! You guys rock. I think three readers is a great place to be and if anyone else wants to read, let me know and I'll come begging to you when this first draft is complete and my current readers are so sick of my novel they hide when they see me coming.

Once Upon a Novel

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, known as 2008, I said I'd have a completed draft of my novel done by January 31. Well, it here it is, February 4, and you haven't heard anything about that completed novel, have you?

No, you haven't. And there's a reason for it.

It's not done.

Are you shocked? I bet you are. But I will say that I'm plugging away at it steadily.

Last time I tried writing something, I plopped down the whole thing and then tried to have some friends read it. It was too overwhelming. For them. For me. Couldn't go back and revise as it was this massive task that I didn't know how to begin. So this time around, I'd like to do it as I go along. Have people read a few chapters at time. See if their interest is piqued. See if there are things they don't like. Plot lines that should be halted in their tracks. Characters who are flat. Scenes that simply don't add anything.

Which brings me to you. Yes, you. Oh, put down that coffee and hear me out. Would you care to be my critiquer? You must be brutally honest with me. You must wield a red pen (or red tracking marks) without remorse. You must have the time and inclination to get through a chapter or two each month until the bitter end. You should probably like fiction. Not chick lit, but women's fiction (I mean, you can like chick lit, but this is not it). The book has strong Jewish themes so an interest there would be good.

Are you still with me? If you're game, drop me an e-mail at jenny at jennyandadam[dot]com. And I'll get you some chapters tout de suite.

At a Newstand (Nowhere) Near You...

My latest piece, a creative nonfiction essay entitled "In Bulgaria," just came out in Sojourn, the literary journal of the University of Texas, Dallas.

See. You may not see me writing. But I'm still doing it. And yes, I did not complete Nanowrimo. But I'll have a finished first draft of my novel in, I think, two months. Actually, if I commit to you guys, then I pretty much have to have it done, don't I? So let's say by January 31. You can call me on it.

For Emily

Day 12 of Nanowrimo (and yes, I'm totally behind) (the challenge [modified] "And then she said to me, 'I know Barack Obama is really talented. But don't you think your expectations are a bit too high? Don't you think it's dangerous to put him on a pedestal?'):

Chaim jumped to my defense. “If she doesn’t like the word, don’t use the word! She’s a guest in our community. She doesn’t know our ways”

Lilach quickly agreed. “Yankel, use another word.”

“Fine, fine. But can you imagine…”

I jumped in. “And can you imagine the alternative? That hotheaded, arrogant, socially repressive McCain?” I sawed into the brisket until I realized that there was absolute silence.

“Perhaps we change the subject,” Tzippi said quickly.

“No, no. I’d like to hear this,” Yankel said, a little snidely. “I’d like to understand how this little one could think that a man with Muslim roots, a man who has publicly sided with the Palestinians, could possibly be a better choice than one who has fought America’s wars, who has come out on the side of Israel, who wants to return real values to our country.”

“Bush has done a truly—” I stopped myself quickly, censoring the “fucked up” out my speech as I saw the flash of fear cross Tzippi’s face—“messed up job with this country and this old man is going to change things? If there’s any hope of ending the war, if there’s any hope of getting health care back on track, if there’s any hope at all of the United States being able to hold our head up when we face other nations, then we’ve got to go with Obama.”

"I really don’t see how the Obama devotees can ever in future mock the Moonies, the Scientologists or people who claim to have been abducted in flying saucers. This is a cult like the one which grew up around Princess Diana, bereft of reason and hostile to facts. The man has no experience.”

Tzippi entered in the fray, clearly seeing that things had the potential of spinning out of control. “Don't you think that, just possibly, your expectations are a bit too high? Don't you think it's dangerous to put him on a pedestal?"

“I don’t think I’m putting him on a pedestal. I’m just not pulling McCain out of the gutter.”

“Listen—” Yankel started, clearly getting hotter by the moment, but Lilach jumped up right then.

This Year's Nano...

So, I am to some degree doing Nanowrimo this year. But let me come right out and admit this: I'm cheating. Yep, cheating. I'm a cheater, cheater, cheater. The FAQ clearly states, with no ambiguity:

Do I have to start my novel from scratch on November 1?

Yes.

This sounds like a dumb, arbitrary rule, we know. But bringing a half-finished manuscript into NaNoWriMo all but guarantees a miserable month. You'll care about the characters and story too much to write with the gleeful, anything-goes approach that makes NaNoWriMo such a creative rush. Give yourself the gift of a clean slate, and you'll tap into realms of imagination and intuition that are out-of-reach when working on pre-existing manuscripts.

I'm not starting from scratch. Not even close to scratch. The plain truth is I actually liked the novel I started last year, and I'm determined to finish it. I plan on writing 50,000 words--or really the completion--of this novel, however many words that takes. It goes against the rules. They'll kick me out! They'll publicly chastise me! They'll, they'll, they'll... Okay, they won't do a damn thing because it's all on the honor system and there are no real prizes other than the satisfaction of writing. They don't give a hoot what I do.

Just wanted to come clean with you guys. But I still need your help. I've got one line to work in tomorrow (and, Emily, I will be taking liberties with it, just because the action takes place pre-election), but I still need more props, lines, tidbits, etcetera to work in.

I'm a little behind. But I'll catch up. That's just the kind of slapdash, half-assed, writing-without-editing kind of person I am.

For Yuri

Day 9 of Nanowrimo (the challenge: "a french baguette"):

I hid my iPhone under the table, so I could surreptitiously text Gary what was going on. It was rude, I know, but it wasn’t breaking any rules. Luckily, I was very good at the one-handed text. He was having an early breakfast in Paris before his shoot began as I was having a dinner that wouldn’t rate many Michelin stars.
Just served something brown. Could be meat. Might be a basketball. Can’t tell. I texted while smiling across the table.

Gary texted me back immediately. Just served an absolutely delectable French baguette—crispy outside, buttery inside. Spreading on Nutella as I drink the most perfect café au lait I’ve ever experienced. I could practically see the taunting smirk on his face. A moment later he wrote, I’d share it with you if you were here.

I smiled as a blob of what looked like carrot slaw filled with dried out looking raisins was slapped onto my plate. “Can you have slaw with meat?” I whispered to Tzippi. “Isn’t the sauce dairy?”

She shook her head. “Mayonnaise is parve. No dairy in it.”

I texted back, I’d give you all my carrot slaw if you were here.
Tzippi saw me peering under the table cloth. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head ever so slightly.

Whoops, caught. I’ll text later. xxxooo

A bientot, he wrote back.

“Try this,” Tzippi said, watching to make sure I put my phone away. “You’ll love it.” I looked at the blackened noodles of a kugel on my plate and forced a smile. A bacon cheeseburger, I love, I thought, as I smiled widely at Lilach at the end of the table and forced a large bite down my throat.

“Delicious,” I choked out. I didn’t even have any excuses not to eat. One can’t plead lactose intolerance at a meat dinner.

NaNo NaNo

I'm back to Nanowrimo, but, as usual, I'm stuck. Anyone got anything for me? A line, an object, an anything I can work into this thing? Look at that poor word counter in the right hand column. It's hungry for more words! Feed it!

Treat Me Gently

Love this article, which came to courtesy of Alisa Just remember: Don't leave me alone with the baby. Ever!