PB Rippey Writes

Spacks Street

Posted on March 10, 2014 by PB Rippey

Painting by Jack Smith

Sunday, a memorial for the poet Barry Spacks took place. I arrived at Santa Barbara’s Museum of Contemporary Arts 10 minutes early for the service to find it mobbed. Wonderful! Seats went fast. I sat next to the poet Dan Gerber. The last time I saw Dan was at a “Moon” poetry reading at the art gallery Sullivan Goss (Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara), which was the last time I saw Barry Spacks. Dan Gerber, Barry Spacks, poet/songwriter Will Jennings and I each read poems in honor of full moons and the art of Lockwood de Forest, whose “moon” paintings were featured in the SG gallery at that time. A bonifide full moon ringed its light through a heavily misted Santa Barbara. Twinkle lights twined every palm tree. On the gallery’s front balcony, artists sketched the moon and sketched the mist as guests mingled and admired Lockwood’s creations. And there was Barry with his moon poem, his eyes radiating his own trademark twinkle.

Santa Barbara Poet Laureate Chryss Yost started off the (standing room only) memorial by letting us know what a blessing it is to have many more friends than chairs, and then she turned the mic over to Barry’s family, close friends, musicians, artists—you could say Renaissance Man, absolutely, to describe Barry–poet, actor, musician, artist, teacher, mentor to so many, including me—he was a dedicated explorer of life.

Barry’s art will be featured at Sullivan Goss Thursday, April 8th. Each piece will cost $108, the money benefitting a charity he believed in. Spacks Street T-shirts will also be for sale. If you don’t know what Spacks Street is, go to spackstreet.com and have a read. After visiting Spacks Street, if you didn’t know Barry, you will wish you had.

My little tribute to Barry was posted in the museum with other tributes. Here it is:

When I was 17 years old, I was cast in a production of Tartuffe’s, ‘The Miser’, at Santa Barbara City College. I played Marianne, the naif slated to marry the miser himself, who was played by Barry Spacks. In the make-up room, Barry sang. A lot. His eyes were constantly twinkling as he powdered up and he was full of a bubbly (yes, bubbly) energy that infected cast and crew. He walked around in his costume tights as though he wore them every day. He was unselfconscious, really friendly and always interested in what others in the cast were up to or their opinions on the works of Moliere and the play. Then he’d get on stage and be this nasty miser guy that scared the bejeezus out of me. One thing I remember so well is how, in the makeup room, powder and hairspray wafting everywhere, he would proclaim how excited he was that his Lady Love was either going to be in that night’s audience, or he was all excited to be joining her for some fun evening after the show. At 17, I had never heard a man call his woman a Lady Love before. I never forgot that. When I was 18, Barry was the first “real” poet to critique my weird fledgling poetry. He was very generous with his comments. He gave me words of advice I remember to this day (luckily). In the theatre, it’s so important to be able to trust your castmates. Everyone trusted Barry. He went for his ‘Miser’ role with major, humbling gusto. In the decades to come, whenever I saw Barry, we shared a giggle about ‘The Miser’. I am so very grateful to have known him. I always have and will continue to learn about poetry through his work.

Thank you, Barry.

Posted in books, Poetry, Santa Barbara, writing | Tagged 2014, An American Gallery, Barry Spacks, Dan Gerber, life, Lockwood de Forest, Moliere, Poet Laureate, poetry, Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara Museum of Contemporary Art, Spacks Street, Sullivan Goss, The Miser | 10 Comments

The Women’s National Book Association

Posted on March 1, 2014 by PB Rippey

Kathryn Fitzmaurice, Keynote Speaker!

I was made aware of the WNBA/LA thanks to my middle grade writing mentor, Kathryn Fitzmaurice (ask me if I am lucky to have her as my mentor and you will hear amplified hell yeah’s).

She gave one of this weekend’s conference keynotes. It was very exciting for her to prepare this speech as she was expected to talk for 45 minutes. A one-woman show, indeed!

Kathryn is as good a choice for a keynote speaker as she is a mentor. She reminds me of Glinda the Good Witch, but wicked smart. Kind, enthusiastic, wise and filled with patience and writing news and constructive criticism, Kathryn is also extremely book-business-savvy, not to mention generous and the list goes on and on. If you’re a middle grade book writer, you must read her novels. You will learn so much and enjoy yourself while learning.

Kathryn and I share a huge love of the ocean, beaches, seashells (her blog is called ‘A Twisted Clump of Seaweed’). Since my middle grade novel centers around all of these things, she is, truly, the perfect mentor. I am very grateful.

If you are looking for a mentor, then keep watch on the SCBWI CA/North Central site for news of the next mentorship program.

And do it.

If you’re looking for an organization within which to network and attend conferences and panels, then definitely visit The Women’s National Book Association LA, or check to see if they have a chapter in your state. They just might.

I really wanted to be at Kathryn’s keynote, but I have a 6 year old with the stomach flu and a hard working husband. I am positive every second inside of every minute of the entire 45 was worth listening to.

Posted in books, Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, middle grade, writing, Writing Progress, Writing Tips | Tagged 2014, children's literature, Destiny Rewritten, fiction, fiction writing, Kathryn Fitzmaurice, middle grade writing, ocean, poetry, SCBWI, SCBWI CA/North Central, Women's National Book Association/LA, writing | Leave a comment

Farewell February

Posted on February 28, 2014 by PB Rippey

Because it’s my birthday month, because it’s not only a pink month, or red for hearts, or purple for amethyst (birthstone), because I had a milestone birthday and went all crazy in the head and panicky in the days (who am I kidding: months) leading up to my birthday, because having the penultimate birthday led me deep into thanks and recognition of a multitude of blessings in my life, because I will use anything for an excuse to have a toast with a glass of good Chardonnay—even though I don’t have any Chardonnay, good or bad, in the house at the moment—I bid you, O Valentine February, a fond–yes, that’s right, fond, not resentful—farewell. I have grown up so much in your 28 days and have calmed down since blowing out the singing blue thing on a birthday cake so perfectly round and sweetly topped and chocolatey I cried and ate more than two pieces. I look forward to growing for the rest of 2014 (not growing huge from eating lots of cake, but growing wiser) in areas of motherhood, spousal partnership, writing, and staying in the damn saddle during my lessons. I am so happy to be here, in this unique world of opportunity and creativity. Thank you, February. In your final hours, go and be good to others—send Muses and excellent grammar to writers, confidence to ever-vigilant mothers and fathers everywhere, and apple carrot cookies to horses.

And don’t forget to write.

The singing blue thing, lights blown out.

Posted in books, Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, writing | Tagged 2014, birthdays, blessings, chardonnay, fiction writing, life, Los Angeles, personal goals, poetry, Valentine, writing | 2 Comments

Speaking of Passivity

Posted on February 25, 2014 by PB Rippey

It went like this: Google. Amazon. Facebook. Facebook IM. Back to Amazon. Weather (from Bing–weather.com is too hideous). Figuring out how to make Bing stop showing up whenever I clicked on a new tab. The Holy Checking of Email. And then I was about to launch into important revisions of my ms when I blundered into Grammar Girl and a post regarding the passive voice. Recently, on Facebook, friends of a friend were all hot and bothered and up in arms about the passive voice and when it is or isn’t and Grammar Girl is quite helpful and succinct and admits that even though was might be in a passive voice sentence, it’s not necessarily the reason the sentence is in the passive voice, but is, rather, a clue that the sentence is probably written in the passive voice or something like that and Ben & Jerry’s just came out with CORE ice cream, did you read about that? Let’s go get some. Right now. And switch into present participles. Before we become too passive. And. You know. Fragmented. And let’s be Advil swallowing! Using wine.

Posted in Faction, Poetry, Writer's Angst, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2014, Ben & Jerry's core ice cream, fiction writing, Grammar, Grammar Girl, passive voice, poetry, present participle, writing | Leave a comment

Staying The Course

Posted on February 17, 2014 by PB Rippey

Saturday morning I rose when our son (impossible to wake on a school day) woke at 5:30a.m. to begin a weekend of attending birthday parties, completing school projects, and constant verbalized hankering for Minecraft (it was Survivalcraft, until we realized the animals “kill” and, therefore, the player must “kill” the animals in order to survive–wolves, lions, it seemed as if even the donkeys attack?—yes, I discovered the non-violent Survivalcraft playing mode after completing Internet Research For Freaked Out Moms Like Me, but in a city whose buses are currently emblazoned in pictures of Liam Neeson wielding a gun, to which my son responds–as I drive him to Kindergarten–COOL–safe or non-safe Survivalcraft must just, seriously, be banned in our happy home.

No, you’re not nuts–I’m still writing within the parentheses: As a kid, I was forbidden to watch The Flintstones, or Scooby Do. My mother despised how the Flintstones yelled at each other. Probably because she and my dad did a good job of that on their own. I don’t know why she objected to Scooby Do, specifically, but all would probably have been well by banning those programs IF we had not lived in England at the time, where The Flintstones was ridiculed, but Scooby Do was HUUUUGE. And, because Scooby was an American show, I was expected, by my peers, to know what was going on episode to episode. I was trying to make new friends in a foreign country and I was forbidden from watching one of that country’s most popular shows amongst its young…

Still in parentheses and lunging for parallels: My son’s Kindergarten pals rave about Survivalcraft. I am the mom saying, NOOOO MY LITTLE LOVECUP . We become our parents? Although, I was never referred to as LOVECUP by my parents…I want him to know about the games his peers are playing–but he’s only 6. He’s only 6. He’s only 6…)

Books–the ultimate antidote for anything troubling

O Weekend! Your sun shines, your parks and beaches and birthday parties and independent bookstores with gratifying children’s books sections are calling as your device screens are touched—–to black.

Posted in Adult writing, books, Children's Books, Faction, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2014, children's literature, Dragons Love Tacos, faction, fiction writing, Iggy Peck Architect, Los Angeles, middle grade writing, personal goals, poetry, Quackenstein Hatches a Family, writer's angst, writing | 6 Comments

Poems By Lantern Light

Posted on February 11, 2014 by PB Rippey

Well, the Good Luck Bar never disappoints, does it? The red and tasseled lanterns are BIG, which is an extremely smart decorating move as they make an instant impression when you trip over the threshold into the semi-seamy (but not really) sparkle-darkness of one of the coolest bars in town. Rhapsodomancy, under the astute eye of Wendy Ortiz, comes on in and turns the bar’s faux opium den into a poetry reading den and it works, it all just works and magic takes over and everyone chats with people they’ve never met before and listens well as they sip their drinks, all cozy on the lounge-like (vaguely tasseled) seating. It’s the sort of bar that transports you into a time you enjoy not actually placing. At least, that’s what happens to me in there. You go on, now, go and see for yourself in April, at the next reading.

I read this poem, among others. It’s one of my favorites, one of the first I wrote coming out of my fog of sleepless motherdom. Askew Poetry Journal first published it. All hail Phil Taggart and Marsha de la O, editors–a truly creative duo.

Run

Sun the fog’s ball snagged by a suburban barrier
of giraffe-necked palms. My lawn in recess: churched
(this formal stillness, fog-tuned).
My lawn is Winter’s readied bride, her chill-
wrap tight over tips, her delicate sweat.
Here, the deciduous
mutter off their leaves by the evening’s folding light
as I watch 2 boys chasing impulse
in cold separating the fog, setting the moon
risen so early in her hypocrisy of flaws
(O pocked resilience).
Run, run.
Their rocket gasps, blood-worked,
tidal energy
pushed the length of my yard’s
walls of safe. I search for comfort
in time-traveling domesticity and grippable
martyrs: books I resented others
owning until I arrived
in this pocket of breathy Eden, clueless.
Cold frills the air. I watch
the Cyclops bent on counter-
clockwise logic, its eye’s glass-cuts
old trickery I won’t translate. Won’t.
Run. Run.
Sun shatters into anemone sky.
My speck-titans so suddenly famous:
they in their sweet hides, I in my cloak-bane,
howling with half-sight, knocked (I get: you),
ever on the chase.

hee hee

Posted in books, Poetry, poetry reading, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2014, Los Angeles, poetry, poetry readings, Rhapsodomancy, The Good Luck Bar, writing | 1 Comment

Rhapsodomancy Reading Tonight

Posted on February 9, 2014 by PB Rippey

Well, it’s finally here–I’ve had it on my events bar for about a year and tonight I get to be a part of the coolest Los Angeles reading series in all of the county and beyond. Hooray for poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and bars that remind you of a 1930’s mystery/detective movie. Stick an umbrella in it. And. See. You. There.

FOR MORE INFORMATION CLICK HERE, or look right at the Twitter feed, or below that the events thingy.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, poetry reading, Writing Progress | Tagged 2014, CA, fiction writing, Los Angeles, Los Feliz, poetry, Rhapsodomancy, The Good Luck Bar, writing | 8 Comments

Double Rainbow (Rainy Day Edition)

Posted on February 7, 2014 by PB Rippey

Not long ago a man left a nasty little comment in my comments section calling my blog piece sophomoric and trite and something else I can’t remember and why this person was so unevolved as to blog-roam and drop his little bomb of negative energy on my page is beyond something I care about, really, although at the time I was annoyed, so annoyed, in truth, that I took his email (a silly email with his name and THE THIRD in it, not Jr. or Sr., but THE THIRD) and subscribed him to several pregnancy sites that would promptly be checking in with him to see how his first trimester was going, if he needed Dr. So and So’s bottle nipples, all-cotton diapers, Butt Cream, etc. And then I deleted the blog piece, not because I agreed with his comments, but because the piece had a fine layer of scum on it and needed to be wiped down and it will reappear eventually, without THE THIRD’S comment, of course, and hopefully THE THIRD has gone back to Goodread’s, where obviously he belongs (with so many others who feel entitled to critique without manners or explanations beyond this annoyed me) and will never visit my nicely swept and cared for doorstep again–because, really, what’s the point? Doh!

I hear rain on my roof, finally come to kill some dust in this desert/valley. That’s either the dog snoring or the rumble of a distant semi truck. The creamsicle cat stretches in his sleep. Even the conure is quiet. This flu of late is receding, so much so I can see my manuscript again.

Away, murk! So much work to be done. And, mostly, a reading this Sunday to prepare for. Right on.

Yours in fought-for clarity,

P (zinc and vitamin C’s) B

primary and secondary rainbow with Alexander’s dark band, ie., double rainbow, people, double rainbow

Posted in books, Children's Books, dog, Fiction, Poetry, poetry reading, Writer's Angst, writing, Writing Progress, WTF | Tagged 2014, cats, children's literature, dog, double rainbow, fiction writing, Goodreads, life, Los Angeles, middle grade writing, poetry, Rhapsodomancy, writing | 2 Comments

Notes From The Retreat #2: Critiques

Posted on January 26, 2014 by PB Rippey

Yes, I am going to go here.

Out of the 10 copies of the first 25 pages of my novel returned to me, scribbled on by the writers in my core group at the SCBWI retreat, I kept 4. Those 4 contained thoughtful, constructive criticism. The 6 I discarded were: mean, rude, and 1 writer actually crossed out my sentences and replaced them with her own as she attempted to turn my story into what she wanted to read instead of the story I am telling.

I found this quite shocking. Not to mention a bad idea.

If you’re a writer, you are well acquainted with criticism. So–be professional. By which I mean: respectful and mindful when offering criticism and far more creative than unhelpful one-liners such as, this is annoying, I don’t like this, doesn’t work. As the red, red nib of your pen hovers over another writer’s work, keep in mind how you’d like your own work critiqued and dig beyond one-liners which are way too easy to come by (key word: lazy).

SCBWI provided a Critiquing Sheet to all retreat participants—healthy, practical, professional guidelines I continually referred to as I poured over manuscripts. I wish more of the writers in my group had taken the guidelines to heart. Or bothered to read them at all.

And look! Here is a book to keep you from turning into Linda Blair at her foamiest in The Exorcist when you are critiquing: The Writing & Critique Group Survival Guide: How to Make Revisions, Self-Edit, and Give and Receive Feedback, by Becky Levine

I am very fortunate to have a writing mentor who immediately, before the words were hardly out of my mouth in yesterday’s video chat, encouraged me to ignore the mean comments and the rewrites of my work. My mentor has many Middle Grade books published, her own beautiful library created through care and sweat (and no doubt blood and guts). She has experienced plenty of criticism and critique groups and now has a group she trusts and consistently benefits from—not because her group isn’t candid about her work, but because she is surrounded by writers who know how to critique without turning into vicious, nasty a******s. “Your critique group is out there, PB,” she told me. “Now, let’s get to work. Tell me everything the editor at the retreat wrote about your novel and let’s discuss. This is so exciting!”

Love her.

Moving on, now. Moving on.

And here is a writer:

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, middle grade, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2014, children's literature, Critique, fiction writing, middle grade writing, personal goals, SCBWI, writer's retreat, writing | 4 Comments

Notes From The Retreat #1: Books

Posted on January 22, 2014 by PB Rippey

At last weekend’s SCBWI retreat, 4 editors imparted useful information–and shared book titles they love–Picture Books (PB), Middle Grade (MG), Non-Fiction (NF) and Young Adult (Y the effing heck A). I know what the abbreviations mean. YOU know what they mean. But, you know, my mom doesn’t, so…

Luckily I was able to decipher my own handwriting:

Charles and Emma: The Darwin’s Leap of Faith, Deborah Heiligman (MG and up)

Watership Down, Richard Adams (someone was having a delightful re-read)

Anything by MG author Sharon Creech, especially Walk Two Moons

Anything by Gary Schmidt, especially Okay for Now

One is a Feast for Mouse, Judy Cox (PB touted for having a gratifying story arc)

One Beetle Too Many, Kathryn Lasky (PB NF-ish–more Darwin)

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, Jacqueline Kelly (MG award winner, w/grasshoppers)

Shadow and Bone, Leigh Bardugo (YA–first of a forthcoming trilogy)

For the editors (Candlewick, Simon & Schuster, Houghton Mifflin etc., Henry Holt) these books are NOT too quiet, contain irresistible hooks that draw the reader in, have characters with distinct voices and——-

Maxed out on last weekend. Was all good, nice to be hosted by cheerful friars who dined with us (their steamed vegetables were delicious–but were they organic???) and meet so many writers, but brain (such as it is) must rest. Will read Proust to knock brain out. And here is a picture of a grasshopper.

Posted in Children's Books, middle grade, Santa Barbara, writing, YA Novels | Tagged 2014, children's literature, David Carradine, fiction writing, grasshopper, middle grade writing, santa barbara mission, SCBWI, writing, writing retreat, YA Writing | 2 Comments

2014 Rhapsodomancy Reading

Posted on January 14, 2014 by PB Rippey

Sunday, February 9th, 7:30pm, The Good Luck Bar, 1514 Hillhurst Ave., Los Angeles 90027

Ah. I am so happy to be a part of this Los Angeles reading series. So many writers I admire have participated–Chris Abani, Louise Mathias, Amy Gerstler to name a few–writers I learn so much from. The Good Luck Bar is in my old Los Feliz/Silverlake stomping grounds. Always fun to visit that eclectic pocket of Los Angeles. Marty and Elayne are still going strong at the Dresden–although not on Sundays. Sorry. But what better bar for a pre-poetry cocktail? (other than The Good Luck itself, that is–doors open at 7:00p.m.) Here is a link with the details and bios of the other readers. I’m looking forward to hearing their work. Hope to see you there.

RHAPSODOMANCY

Yours in (oh Marty, oh Elayne—how do you do it?) Dresden sidecars (I actually haven’t had one in possibly a decade–but I have definitely and fairly recently had chardonnay with poetry at The Good Luck Bar)

Posted in books, Fiction, Poetry, poetry reading, writing | Tagged 2014, Los Angeles, Los Feliz, Marty and Elayne, poetry, poetry reading, Rhapsodomancy, sidecars, Silver Lake, The Dresden, The Good Luck Bar, writing | 2 Comments

2013 Middle Grade

Posted on January 10, 2014 by PB Rippey

Oh, productive, on-the-button-always (not the panic button), well-informed you—you’re already aware of this list. I’m just getting to it. I think I’m most excited about Holly Black’s book. Quite creepy!

The Goodreads Best Middle Grade & Children’s

Any flagrant omissions from this list? Besides Kathryn Fitzmaurice’s beautifully crafted, Destiny, Rewritten?

Information is always appreciated.

Yours in captivating, well-written books,

P (where are my reading glasses) B

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, writing | Tagged 2014, children's literature, Destiny, Doll Bones, fiction writing, Goodreads, Holly Black, Kathryn Fitzmaurice, middle grade writing, Rewritten, writing | Leave a comment

Walking to Floats (SoCal Edition)

Posted on January 3, 2014 by PB Rippey

Rose Parade Floats Viewing, January 2nd:

I walked my son several blocks down a typically—for Pasadena—vast and nicely swept boulevard to another major boulevard (wider than the Rio Grande and as sungleamy in our December heatwave) mobbed by people like us eager to see parade floats. As we waited at the intersection, pedestrians were distracted by a car horn—and booming, deeply anguished voice:

Beep, beeeeeeeep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeep. WHAT IS GOING ON! TELL ME! WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE! WHAT IS GOING ON!

As is typical when it comes to anyone in my immediate sight-range who might be in distress or acting out, fainting, starting a brawl, tripping drastically on pavement, lost, unknowingly dropping items from a stroller, losing a wandering child or dog, unaware of a pending bee swarm, etc., the crowd around my son and I melted away and there was only me and the stranger in his big shiny car, honking and yelling as though his best friend had just been destroyed.

I stepped to the curb.

Float viewing, sir.
FLOATS? WHERE???
I raised my arm and pointed up the boulevard we were about to cross. In the distance, colorful float tops were visible.
OVER THERE?
Yes, sir. Right up there. Float viewing.

Immediately, the man calmed. The WALK sign blazed. My son and I moved off. People in the crowd commented on the man’s frustration. They laughed critically and uttered unkind remarks.

Sometimes, I told my son, bracing his arm as he jumped up the typically—for Pasadena—steep curb. Sometimes, people just need answers.

Mama, look over there, he replied. Shaved ice!

Shaved ice was far more captivating than the space dude float.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, books, Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, writing, WTF | Tagged 2014, fiction, Los Angeles, Pasadena, poetry, Rose Parade floats, shaved ice, space aliens, writing | Leave a comment

As 2014 Looms (Looming Edition)

Posted on December 28, 2013 by PB Rippey

Palm of the Happily Burning variety.

The minivan’s A/C died just in time for the Christmas heatwave of 85+ degrees. As I ferried us home from a visit to the ocean’s cool and calming vastness (all windows dooooown), I remembered my one and only Christmas poem, which includes (apart from Christmas scotch, a hungry coyote and an ill-looking full moon) a palm tree I once saw burning in a supermarket parking lot. For this California native, it is absolutely a tiny bit horrifying, watching a palm tree burn. They are such emblems here—mascots, well studied still life, living flagpoles heralding flip-flops and shorts and sunglasses year-round, dear, lanky constants—except, of course, when Santa Ana winds rip the dead fronds from the trees, cartwheeling them to Earth where they (quite heavy in death) dent the hoods of cars, terrify cats and dogs and unfortunate pigeons and hopefully don’t kill anyone.

From Full Howling Moon

…California’s brittle December:
swells, surfboards, red skin, Christmas BBQ
next to a slide-dunked swimming pool
blooming algae, all palms standing by—city logo,
city tattoos.
The Hollywood Hills Gelson’s Market rescues
its delicacies when a parking lot palm tree’s head
explodes, ignited
by a derelict power line, resembling
a single birthday candle,
lit.
Hello, New England? Hello, DC? Hello, Dear Baltic.
LA calling. Keep your troikas and furs and ploughs,
but send all bells and much of your ice.
The trees are on fire. The palm trees are on fire.
It’s December the 24th. I am…
O my longing, my
longing…And here it comes,
cataract-riddled eye rising lazily
over shuffling Pacific. We carol
(rote, stoned, brown) from Hollywood
to the post-eutrophic canals
of Venice Beach, in a Santa Ana twisting
in from desert, snuffing
scented candles in wide open windows
(O frankincense, O myrrh)
rippling cranberry punch
in the communal wassail bowl.
We fear nothing
coasting through our toasty season.
We enjoy our lighter shade of blonde,
our token brown, parties, dancing strangers
lit by hard-boiled moon—pitted sadsack
belly up over fuss (O dead
thing). Stars bloom…

Etc. This poem was written back when I was bold enough to write a line like post-eutrophic canals. Now? Even if Venice’s canals are post-eutrophic, I would never actually write post-eutrophic. I would write: alligator water, or: puddled hilarity, or: rotting batik. Okay, maybe not rotting batik. But I cop to the others.

O how we evolve.

Happy almost you-know-what. And if there’s anything else you’d like me to throw into italics, feel free to share.

Also: Save the palms!

Sincerely,

P (shut up and drink yer Christmas punch) B

No palms were harmed in the taking of this photo.

Posted in Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, Poetry, writing | Tagged 2013, beach, California, Christmas, fiction writing, fresh batik, Los Angeles, palm trees, poetry, scotch, Venice Beach, writing | 2 Comments

December Whinny

Posted on December 18, 2013 by PB Rippey

Sitting on the patio at Peddler’s Fork, alone out here as it’s a SoCal pre-Christmas bit of chilly, i.e., 60 degrees, way too cold for the cycling clan packing the tables indoors, brrr, but perfect for me as I’m the kind of writer who likes to wear sweaters, for once, and watch the mallards fuss about down in the gurgling creek and the squirrel scurry by my riding boots as I wait for a visit from my muse—and gear up for a riding lesson that terrifies me. Not the horse, the horse is a generous Majesty. It’s the effort I shy from, of being gaspy only half way through the lesson and a noodly wreck afterwards instead of composed and powerful enough to food shop, pay bills, scrub the bathroom, make homemade chicken nuggets, rake the Ponderosa, be a mother, be a GREAT mother (this typically involves playing the Dr. Seuss I Can Do That game, thus hopping around the Trick-A-Ma-Stick with a rubber ball between my knees), be a Taxi Mother, draw the bath, ready the pajamas and the lullabies, and write, all in one, hours-stingy day. But I tell myself:

I can do it.

Something I never let myself in on until I became a mother. And even as I say it, I feel the terror surrender and climb meekly into the newspaper boat I made for it and sail off down the gurgling creek and into the dark drainpipe, instant ghost ship, abandoned. Gone.

Each day, over the last 6 years, the terror that I won’t be able to accomplish what I want to goes away a little bit faster.

May 2014 be full of this kind of s***.

Yours in goals,

P (if you give a horse a carrot…) B

Posted in books, Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, Poetry, writing | Tagged 2013, children's literature, fiction, middle grade writing, Old Town Calabasas, Peddler's Fork, personal goals, writing | Leave a comment

Kickstarted (Coffee Blend Edition)

Posted on December 13, 2013 by PB Rippey

Back again—homing pigeon style—at Peddler’s Fork, I ordered a cup of the restaurant’s Kickstand Blend and a macadamia nut infused scone that tastes more like somebody’s gourmet birthday cake than scone, which is why I ordered it, and carted my spoils outside to the restaurant’s deck, even though it’s Arctic-California in Old Calabasas these days. I can’t resist the view of the vaguely gurgling creek several feet below the deck, and the 2 mallards residing there, birds you know are aware of each other even when she’s paddling for worms and he’s off playing tug-of-war with a morning glory vine. If she paddles too far South, he quacks, sternly, vine in beak, facing not her, but tree. I find this sort of voyeurism priceless, possibly essential, hunched in my little magical pocket of Los Angeles that is Peddler’s Fork at 8:23 in the morning on any Wednesday, sipping Kickstand Blend (better, even, than Starbucks Holiday Blend’s soft and layered, and served year round) with a smile that means I might actually write something new, rather than revise, revise, revise.

I hate it when poets impart bits like: The poem overtook me, or, I knew not myself I knew only the poem, or, I was a conduit for Life, or, Aliens invaded my psyche and messed with things, etc. And yet…

Pure synchronicity.

I’m thinking the dreams I had somewhere between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning lingered in my psyche, producing a poem that surprised me because a) I was actually composing a poem and not revising, yah, yah), and b) the poem is so different than anything I’ve been writing lately. Product of incubation? Is nothing for certain except the Muse, or are her paths (if they do appear) elementary—i.e., far from beyond me and my little muddled maps?

Why ask why? Something came knocking at my icy table on the deck at Peddler’s Fork and I let it in. I might even have offered it a sip of my coffee.

Quack, she said.

Right on.

Posted in books, Fiction, Poetry, Writer's Angst, writing | Tagged 2013, fiction writing, Kickstand Blend, Los Angeles, Mallard Ducks, Muses, Old Town Calabasas, Peddler's Fork, pigeons, poetry, writing | Leave a comment

Bathroom Reading (Scouring Edition)

Posted on December 4, 2013 by PB Rippey

While holiday cleansing the bathroom, on my knees scrubbing corners usually in my blind spot, I glance up and notice books also, apparently, usually in my blind spot.

I have no idea when Dylan Thomas arrived. Definitely wasn’t me who brought him in. I just–I don’t think I could do it, although I could read anything he wrote while soaking in a bubblebath. The last time I had a bubblebath was around 2005 and we were housesitting (pre-engagement, pre-wedding, pre-sleepless-baby, pre-purchase-of-house-in-scathingly-hot-suburbs, i.e., pre-everything) for my cousins who have an exceedingly deep Jacuzzi tub in a masterbath with a view of: a tranquil, leafy canyon, and then: the entire San Fernando Valley as seen from the wild hills of Sherman Oaks. Coyotes howled and a gazillion Valley lights twinkled in their best Vegas imitation as bubbles frothed like a mini-rapids, no Dylan Thomas or any reading material at hand—except, of course, for what we read in each other’s eyes, newly paired as we were, ha ha, sipping champagne, flicking water at each other, wheee, no idea of the five years of sleeplessness ahead of us–although we would do it all again in the wink of a giggle–or something like that.

Same goes for The Turn Of The Screw. I could never read that in the bathroom, not even in a bubblebath and certainly not in a bubblebath lit by candles at midnight, with a storm raging outside.

I could, however, wear Nicole Kidman’s dress in The Portrait of a Lady movie, you know the dress I mean. When Nicole/Isabel meets disgusting Malkovich/Osmond. That satiny one that looks pretty enough to eat? Is bubblebath one or two words? I prefer it as one: b u b b l e b a t h. Truthfully, I’d rather it was already January 1st, 2014, and that we were driving to Disneyland. Pretty sure the cat did something behind the commode it should have done outside. Also noting the importance of opening bathroom windows when cleaning bathrooms, even if using 7th Generation products to, you know, clean and I’ve discovered (or have I always known) I’m very good at not cleaning even when I insist that I am, in fact, reaching around the back of the toilet with a trembling, severely rubber-gloved hand…

Did Henry James read in his bath? Did Hesse bathe?

Under The Sea belongs in here, in this bathroom decorated in shells and several portraits of starfish (knobby, brittle, sluggy, etc.). Some people call them sea stars. Tut!

The Millionaire Next Door, bingo! Utterly apt bathroom reading. I don’t think our next door neighbor is a millionaire. Although he did just install solar panels on his roof…Oh–I see: WE are the millionaires next door. Ha ha! Got it. Where’s my champers? No? Right, a cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend and hanging out with my chirpy Kindergartner in our sparkling-clean bathroom as he bathes in honey scented bubbles with his super hero toys—yes, I am a rich woman indeed. Put THAT on your bathroom bookshelf and read it. Or possibly on your bathroom wall. Or any bathroom wall, really–those you’ve cleaned, those cleaned for you and especially those located inside Greyhound Bus stations and Motel 6’s. Also, this: zzzzzzzzzzz…

Posted in books, Children's Books, dog, middle grade, Poetry, Writer's Angst, writing | Tagged 2013, children's literature, domestic bliss, Dylan Thomas, fiction writing, Freshly Pressed, Henry James, Kindergarten, life, Los Angeles, middle grade writing, Nicole Kidman, personal goals, poetry, Portrait of a Lady, Reader, Sherman Oaks, The Turn of the Screw, writing | 2 Comments

Flashback: Yesterday (Turkey Edition)

Posted on November 29, 2013 by PB Rippey

In the thick of it, I remember thinking: It would be nice if this was catered, but then the caterers would be working on Thanksgiving.

I prepped a millennium of food the night before–even so, that didn’t mean there was time to visit with our visitors–and I had the village helping prepare Thanksgiving, I wasn’t alone by any means (put that in caps). Many dishes were contributed–vegan paella, yam pie, creamed onions, giblet dressing, sweet corn pudding, etc.

Partly due to my fear of cooking a 26lb turkey, partly due to cleaning the house for 5 days before everyone arrived, partly due to being a busy parent, partly due to fighting off the many cough-related-cocktails of colds circulating this time of year–I just wanted the turkey to fly to the table cooked and juicy, on a magic carpet of platter, and the other dishes to, you know, do the same. Like in an episode of Bewitched.

Searching for giblets. The village set me straight.

Searching for giblets. The village’s Priestess set me straight.

However–as the village mingled and played with 3 kids and 6 dogs and ferried plates to and fro, and carved the turkey and filled the Ponderosa with holiday mirth—and not just because wine glasses were refilled and my cousin’s cousin’s artisan beer was proffered/poured without end (Pumpkin Porter–ahhhh)–I knew that I would absolutely host again.

In a heartbeat.

With gleaned turkey-cooking knowledge, secret recipes revealed, prized tips and information that can only be filed from hosting a Thanksgiving dinner.

A village.

Thank you, family.

Let’s all go to the moon for Christmas.

Posted in writing | 1 Comment

Handy Resources

Posted on November 20, 2013 by PB Rippey

Brainpickings has compiled a nice list of 9 writing resources. Some are oh so familiar, perhaps all are to you. But I’m glad to be reminded of them. And quotes such as this one by Kurt Vonnegut, which you’ve probably read a million times, yet here it is, staring you in the mind, staring down your muse and your critique group:

“Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style.”

Mary Pickford, writing.

Stephen King’s On Writing is on the list. Even if you hate his books and believe he never should have been given a National Book Award, you will probably be really grateful for On Writing and, anyway, you can’t help but like lines like this one:

“Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.”

St. Jerome, writing.

Anne Lamott, RayBradbury are predictably (in a good way) on the list. Also Stanley Fish, whose How To Write A Sentence And How To Read One I have never read—and now I’m going to. I would have made it a list of ten, though, by adding Francine Prose’s Reading Like A Writer, which I have, but admit I’ve only partially read, but I will–I swear–finish the book–in a ‘soon’ sort of manner. Francine Prose was teaching at Bread Loaf the summer I was there. I remember watching her cross Bread Loaf’s lawns, her black hair in contrast with the eternally (infernally?) shimmering emerald grass, how she moved rather than walked, probably on her way to a workshop. She was a presence (with a capital P)–or so I mused, crumpled up in an Adirondack chair, open (empty) notebook on my lap, furious that after my first workshop at Bread Loaf, I had no idea who I was as a writer.

Here’s the link to the list.

The inimitable Francine Prose.

Posted in Fiction, Quotes, Writer quotes, Writer's Angst, writing | Tagged 2013, books, fiction writing, Francine Prose, Kurt Vonnegut, Mary Pickford, poetry, quotes on writing, Ray Bradbury, St. Jerome, Stephen King, writer's angst, writing | 5 Comments

Food Glorious Food

Posted on November 13, 2013 by PB Rippey

Speaking of bon bons, I think I’ll switch to madeleines. But stick with coffee, not tea. For now. Coffee served in a teacup? Even better.

The Telegraph is featuring 10 Great Meals in Literature. A fun little slideshow. Especially the Dickens photo.

Madeleines and no Proust? Must they go together? Sigh...

Madeleines and Proust? Must they go together? Sigh…

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, Children's Books, Fiction, writing | Tagged 2013, fiction writing, life, Los Angeles, madeleines, Marcel Proust, poetry, The Telegraph, writing | 4 Comments

Gobbling Towards Vegetarianism

Posted on November 6, 2013 by PB Rippey

It became November.

Day Two, I said: OMG THE TURKEY!

Because this year, we’re hosting the beloved horde.

I navigated to the Whole Foods website. During the Diestel ordering process I was asked to choose: Hen or Tom.

My ~~bedroom~~ office went dark. I heard a crazy woman scream: Who let Sophie’s Choice in here! I can’t, I won’t–THE TOM THE TOM I CHOOSE THE TOM!

I have a feeling this is my last turkey year. Because I’m married to a vegetarian AND have a picky-eater Kindergartner, much of his pickiness revolving around meat? Because I give money to WWF, The Mustang Society, the African elephants, the beleaguered tigers, the homeless pot-bellied pigs and rescued McDonald’s chickens? Because of the movies I watch: Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead, Forks Over Knives, Supersize Me, and so many more? Because I’m basically perpetually Paleo dieting anyway, without the meat? Because I’d rather eat kale-rolled-granola than a creature so young he belongs with his mama?

Centerpiece

Beware of hypocrisy, warns the very Tom I’ll be picking up the day before Thanksgiving. Food for thought. Think before you eat? Off with his head!
Unfortunately.

Posted in books, Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, writing, WTF | Tagged 2013, chaos, domestics, fiction writing, green bean casserole, poetry, San Fernando Valley, Thanksgiving, Tom Turkeys, writing | 1 Comment

The Truth Is…(Maintenance Edition)

Posted on October 29, 2013 by PB Rippey

The truth is, I’m way too busy to blog—sprawling on the couch eating bonbons takes up a lot of time. And let me make this extremely clear: NOT milk chocolate bonbons with cherries tucked inside them.

Lifted from Candyland

If I was even busier, I’d be sprawling on the couch eating (dark chocolate) bonbons while watching soap operas—but although we have a television, we do not receive any TV stations, local or otherwise, partly because my portion of the San Fernando Valley is a black hole (one that comes with, fortunately, coconut sprinkled dark chocolate bonbons) and partly because I’m adverse to exposing my Kindergartner to an abundance of commercials, many of which are movie trailers showing people shoving guns at others (etc.) and young girls with substantial rivulets of blood striping their faces (etc.).

Brazilian bonbons

I’m pretty sure that for the past 2 weeks I’ve been so busy sprawling on the (quite long, actually) couch and eating (coconut sprinkled, dark chocolate, firm-centered) bonbons that I forgot about the blood drawn from my arms, a couple of shots in the a**, I don’t know how many shots in the left side of my mouth, the parts of my anatomy that were crushed for medical purposes, being probed, poked, fasting, revising-crazy and that I somehow still rode a horse without falling off—ah: dark chocolate, coconut sprinkles and a darker (liquid) chocolate with a lava-like ooze upon biting.

Supernovas

Sure, there’s always Hulu.

And the Edward P. Jones novel I need to finish.

Paleo recipes to bake, bag, and freeze for the future.

Google.

And this: computer on my lap as I sprawl on the extensive couch, the dog uber-close, wetting the Pergo with his snores, a cat on the coffee table, bathing its orangesicle paws, a light rain healing the valley-stuck garden, and me, me, me: revising, revising, revising (not a bonbon in sight) until it’s time to meet the Kindergartner and present him with his daily kale-disguised-by-organic-frozen-blueberries-&-honey smoothie.

If I’m blogging, I’m not revising. I worry! I must progress.

Making memories.

Japanese bonbons

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, middle grade, Pets, Poetry, To Explain, Writer's Angst, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2013, cats, children's literature, chocolate, chocolate bon bons, dog, domestic bliss, fiction writing, life, Los Angeles, memories, middle grade writing, Reader, writer's angst, writing | 8 Comments

Appreciation (pre-Dinner Edition)

Posted on October 10, 2013 by PB Rippey

Recently my husband and I listened politely to a woman with green fingernails and an iphone with a ringtone that sounds like something Michael Flatley would raise his knees to—listened as this lady (dressed in a tunic the distracting green of fairy-forest canopy) told us she drove home from work with a sunset in her eyes, the sky so spectacularly fractured by colors that she broke the law and called her husband from the car and insisted he rush to the West-facing windows in their house. “It was the last thing he wanted to do,” she confessed, “get up and move–but once he was seeing what I was seeing? He appreciated the call. We shared something amazing and calming and real without even being in the same room, near the end of a day in which we’d barely spoken and not set eyes on each other for hours, hours, eons. It was,” the lady told us, flicking her Cher-hair from her cheeks Cher-style, “good.”

Michael Flatley in a few hundred years

“Hi,” my husband said as I balanced my iphone between shoulder and ear and flipped my son’s Super Cheesy Chicken Burger! (organic chicken secreted with organic carrot puree, flaxseed and a little bit of cheese so I’m not actually lying to him about what he’s having for dinner). “I’m in gridlock on the 101,” he said. “Go look outside.” I started to protest, but remembered. “Gorgeous,” I agreed, shivering in the back yard as fire-sky seeped into my eyes–then deeper. Eventually my husband suggested, “Why don’t you?” “Already on it,” I said, fetching the boy (and his hoodie). “Oh my gosh look at that,” our Kindergartner gasped, hands in the pockets of his little-dude jeans. “Mama, do you know—sky starts with an S?” “As do Super Chicken Cheesy Burgers!” I replied. We stared at the sunset. He took my hand. We went inside.

Wedding sunset

Posted in Children's Books, Me and Us, writing | Tagged 2013, fiction writing, leprechauns, Sunsets, writing | 3 Comments

3 Cubs & Dodgers

Posted on September 30, 2013 by PB Rippey

Father/Son Dodgers Game!, the elementary school flyer stated, producing an amendment a week later: Due to unprecedented interest in attendance by moms, grandmothers, grandfathers and 3rd cousins twice removed, Father/Son is expanded to Family Dodgers Game! So we all went to the Kindergartner’s first baseball game and, because we were encouraged by the school to do so, and because we are a family of school spirit, we (purchased from the PTA and) wore bright red shirts depicting our son’s school’s name and name of the school’s mascot, CUBS.

I tensed as we trekked across the Gobi-Parking-Lot. “What are the opposing team’s colors?” I asked my husband as another crowd dressed in blue ogled us three in our scathing reds. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Possibly red?”

“Do you get a discount if you show up in red shirts?” a man asked us as he hoofed by. “Ha!” I responded too loudly, but come on.

When you park a mile away from the stadium, it seems as if you will never reach its glorious Oval–but then it looms, shockingly, like Helms Deep. “Wow!” the Kindergartner said. “What the heck is that?” “The stadium,” I said as my husband barked, “Dodger Stadium!”, and I realized my spouse was way more excited than I had realized and, because it was about 2,000 degrees despite being the next to the last day of September, I wondered how sad he was going to feel when we left after possibly 10 minutes–unless, of course, our seats were in shade.

We took the escalator, only to be told at the top: “People? You’re down on the field.” I don’t know–the school purchased the block of seats. We just assumed…

We utilized our Free Dodger Dog! tickets on the way down to the field, even though my son insisted he wasn’t hungry and my normal diet consists of nuts, berries and assorted lettuces and my husband is a vegetarian.

Even though my husband is a vegetarian and we are working on our 9th or so wedding anniversary, I asked him, after saturating 2 dogs in ketchup and tearing open the 3rd’s (presumably toxic) foil: “What do you want on your dog!” “Babe?” my husband responded. “I don’t eat meat.” I stared at him like he was a dangerous stranger.

Yeah. He ate that.

3 Dodger Dogs, 1 carton of popcorn, 2 Diet Cokes, 1 Lemondae, 1 Bag Of Chips and repeated NO’S to requests for cotton candy later (yes, that’s right), we found our seats. “These are fantastic!” my husband declared. “And hot,” I responded, but our son donned his baseball cap and began munching his Dodger Dog and we were so entranced by his cuteness and taking family pictures we didn’t notice the type of heat that makes one certain Global Warming is real. I cried at the National Anthem sung by an extremely talented chick introduced as some guy’s wife (WTH!), we met other red-shirted Cubs and by the 3rd inning I received a phonecall from my husband (I had departed our seats to people-watch from shade): “He’s ready to go.”

My husband was not disappointed. He was exuberant. We barely made it to the end of the 3rd inning, but so what? It was about a Cubling, not us. It was nice to see #66 after hearing his story on NPR and The Green Field was so very green and the players are indeed such fine athletes and the spirit in the stadium was felt and appreciated by us and no, I don’t watch it, I’m no convert, but baseball is good. Thank you, elementary school, even though you encouraged us to wear red.

No. 66

And how great was it driving home with the A/C saturating the minivan. And how great were the sun-induced naps back at the Ponderosa: Right. On.

I’m sure there’s a poem in this. Perhaps in right field. (Or is it left? Arrrgh!)

Posted in Fiction, Me and Us, writing, WTF | Tagged 2013, baseball, Chavez Ravine, Dodger Stadium, Dodgers, fiction writing, Kindergarten, Yasiel Puig | 4 Comments

On Roald Dahl’s Birthday

Posted on September 15, 2013 by PB Rippey

Sometimes I let the agent I’m querying know who my literary heroes are. Only ‘sometimes’ as my query letters tend to change. Evolve? Products of endless, restless experimentation…On Roald Dahl’s birthday I was thinking: I always forget to put Roald Dahl down as an influence. I remember Joan Aiken, Zilpha Keatley Snyder, Philip Pullman. I was thinking (as I made a vegetable smoothie for my Kindergartner, hiding the green color with organic blueberries): I greatly dislike that I forget to put down Roald Dahl. I was thinking (as I poured the smoothie into a BPA free travel cup, stuck in a stainless steel straw and carted it to the minivan): I will not forget!

And then the minivan wouldn’t start. And I thought: Bloody effing f***-all hell in Hades.

My son’s elementary school is very strict about retrieving your child on time. If you are 5 minutes late, your child is walked by the teacher to the office, where your child will wait as the office phones to find out where the hell you are. No child wants to have a parent pick them up late, the principal told us parents at Parent Orientation Night and the mood in the auditorium became frantic for a time as the principal stared us down without blinking, our 1950’s wooden auditorium seats creaking into an embarrassing chorus as we shifted in our frozen smiles, not one of us wanting her to think we were going to be that parent.

The car won’t start, I screamed into my cell phone. I’ll call the cab, you call the school, my husband responded, his own panic risen. I’ll notify the teacher to walk him to the office, the office lady informed me in a calm, neutral tone that could have meant understanding or disdain, I had no idea. My husband phoned again, shouting: Cab. There! 10 minutes. Wait, I screamed, do I have the backup carseat, or do you? No, no, no, I have it, he shouted and disconnected, calling back immediately to say, I’ll call you back.

The backup carseat takes 2 seconds to install in a car. Our son’s everyday carseat, however, is a behemoth with specific strap configurations and exact cinchings and anchors and takes about 20 minutes to secure to a seat. Taking it out of the minivan is not a problem. Transferring it to a cab, under pressure?

I’m on the freeway, my husband shouted. Cab canceled. I’ll pick you up. No, don’t, I screamed. That will add 10 minutes! You call the school, I’ll keep driving, he shouted and disconnected. That’s fine, the office lady told me and possibly she was on the verge of being irritated, but then again–maybe not. If you wouldn’t mind telling him that Dadda is coming? I requested feebly. Of course, she said. I returned inside the house, poured myself a shotglass of vegetable smoothie, downed it as I paced the living room and stared out windows, thinking bits like: Surely we’re not the only parents this has ever happened to? Thinking: Why don’t we have neighbors whose cars we can borrow in emergencies? Thinking: My husband sure rose to the occasion. Thinking: I think I have a crush on my man. Thinking: Did the dog get breakfast?

I’ve got him, my husband said calmly and with a dash of triumph. Is he okay? I asked, trying to match his tone. Have we damaged him? Nah. He was flipping through a book when I got there and wouldn’t let us leave until he finished ‘reading’, my husband reported. What book? I asked, laughing. Huh? I don’t know. You know. The one with the peach.

Posted in Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, writing, WTF | Tagged 2013, children's literature, fiction writing, James and the Giant Peach, Kindergarten, middle grade writing, Reader, Roald Dahl, writing | 5 Comments

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