PB Rippey Writes

Quote For The Weekend (Super Late Edition)

Posted on December 2, 2012 by PB Rippey

She likes red Tootsie Rolls

This time of year is also, always, about how against all humanly odds, there was enough oil to keep the Menorah lit after the temple in Jerusalem was sacked. And how–well, you know the pitch: let there be light, and let it begin with me; i.e. the fourth great prayer, Help me not be such an asshat, just for the next day or so.

—Anne Lamott (from her Facebook page)

I’m looking forward to reading Anne Lamott’s newest book, Help, Thanks, Wow, which is now number 2 on the NY Times Hardcover Advice & Misc. bestseller list, 1 below Ina Garten, 3 above the Smitten Kitchen cookbook (4 weeks and counting, good for her!), 6 above Huckabee’s book, 7 above Deepak Chopra and about 9 above I Could Pee On This, but I have trouble counting properly. While I wait for the book to arrive (via Amazon, as usual, as all the bookstores in our vicinity have closed and the Topanga Canyon Barnes & Noble is too far away, displays way too many tempting toys—distracting certain 5 year olds mommies would rather have looking at books, not toys, not toys in a bookstore, no, no—and, although the kid’s reading nook is lovely, is consistently the mommy-will-scream-shortly sort of crowded most of the time, which is good news for B&N, but maybe not mommies not on solo outings, oh let’s face it–I’m addicted to Amazon), I enjoy Anne Lamott’s Facebook posts, which are long-ish, self-effacing, witty and fun to read. Also, in the meantime, I continue inching my way through The Known World, inching as I’m a wuss–anytime a child is mentioned my eyes flit ahead, scanning for tragedy. If I detect none, I carry on–but I’m not always correct in my assumptions. Story of my life. And, in the meantime, revising, revising, revising. And exercising my a** away before Christmas. I did just write that, but only because it’s late for a mommy recovering from staying out too late on a Saturday night (i.e. past 9 p.m.), something that almost never happens. Hence the fatigue. And my burgeoning a**, tempting, scrumptious bites and bite-sized creampuffs constantly put before me last night—until I ate them and went back for more edible delights, putting them before me, and so on…

Yours in good nighttime reading and cream puffs (preferably reading with creampuffs on a pretty blue china plate next to you on the bed—not on the nightstand, but right next to you, not on the comforter, but on the sheet, so close the plate pushes into your side),

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, Quotes, Writer quotes, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Progress, Writing Publications, Writing Tips | Tagged 2012, Amazon, Anne Lamott, Barnes & Noble, Deepak Chopra, Facebook, fiction writing, Help, I Could Pee On This, Ina Garten, NY Times Bestsellers, preschoolers, Smitten Kitchen, Thanks, Topanga Canyon, Wow, writing | 1 Comment

Gopher Genius

Posted on November 30, 2012 by PB Rippey

Today, over on Nebula, writer Beth Hull’s

A happy follower of Colonel Shifty

website, Colonel Shifty offers up some vital, handy-dandy definitions of publishing terms. Secretly (or not) I am hoping that Colonel Shifty’s next post will be to announce the launch of his gopher T-shirt line–perhaps similar to the Downton line, only (somehow and rightly so) classier. Thank you, Shifty! And perhaps refrain from long distance jogging with your biographers.

Sincerely,

P (would rather not have gophers in her yard, but loves them just the same) B

Posted in books, Children's Books, Fiction, Steps In Promotion, Writer quotes, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Progress, Writing Publications, Writing Tips, YA Novels | Tagged 2012, Beth Hull, fiction writing, gophers, Nebula, quotes on writing, writing, YA Writing | 1 Comment

Quote For The Weekend (The After The Turkey Edition With Cats & Corn Pudding)

Posted on November 25, 2012 by PB Rippey

Al bathes Rudy. This happens a lot. Then someone throws up.

What greater gift than the love of a cat.

—Charles Dickens

We returned to find the dummy comforter on our bed upchucked on, the real bedding beneath saved (mwahaha!), a puddle of cat pee under the slopsink in the laundry room (slopsink is next to kitty boxes filled with fresh sand), but no cat pee in the rest of our home, nor by the front door. We praised and petted them, gave them ample amounts of wet food and obliged their requests to go outside, only to have them all banging on the front door an hour later. I let them in. They stared at us, allowed us to scratch heads and rumps, then inspected beds, rooms, certain corners. Were they were surprised we were home so early? Had they expected us to be gone a hell of a lot longer, hence only a couple of defilements v peeing and gakking all over the whole house? Al curled up on the couch for an evening nap. Diggory clearly wanted to be in the backyard—I made this happen. Rudy drank from the bathroom faucet, then sat on the toilet’s closed lid, gazing at me through yellowy slits and purring. I left him to it. Husband and little boy passed out in the little boy’s room after storytime, I crawled into bed with The Known World. In the middle of the part near the beginning when Henry dies, Rudy appeared and meowed delicately. Hi, I said. Be with you in a sec. And then I heard a trickling sound. The dummy comforter was turning merrily in the dryer. Rudy was getting the good stuff. I was relieved my shriek did not wake up husband or son, but part of me ached to run into the yard, toss a swing in frustration and appeal to the sky like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters, bellowing: WHAT IS IT WHAT IS IT WHAT IS IT. I plunked Rudy in the cat box, shoved the comforter into the washer—cold cycle—and poured myself a glass of wine…Luckily there was leftover corn pudding in the fridge…

Posted in Fiction, Pets, Quotes, Writer quotes, Writing | Tagged 2012, cats, chaos, chardonnay, Charles Dickens, Close Encounters, domestics, Edward P. Jones, fiction writing, quotes on writing, Richard Dreyfuss, Thanksgiving, The Known World, writing | 2 Comments

And May All Your Turkeys Be Bright

Posted on November 21, 2012 by PB Rippey

Just stay alive! I will find you!

It is 197-something and there are cats on the kitchen counter pulling apart the cooked bird with their claws and fangs. It is 199-something and a slobbery Rottweiler mix has hold of a turkey leg and the entire baking pan with turkey in it is heading closer to the counter’s edge. It is every single Thanksgiving and someone is pulling the bag of giblets from the cooked turkey’s cavity and saying (every single Thanksgiving): It wasn’t there before. It is the 21st century and I’ve made baked smashed yams with apples and I’ve made a parsnip/onion/kale saute and I don’t have to check the turkey’s cavity this year or worry about animals scavenging kitchens. The cold is clearing from my head, my son is not so picky anymore that he won’t eat turkey, we are driving north to be with family, there are no bombs raining down on our little portion of world. We are massively thankful types. We care, we care, we care. May you enjoy the day, may you eat well, may you be blessed with firelight (unless you’re still having a heatwave) and more than a few laughs and may you find your pretty birds whole and shiny and hot when you go to serve them instead of devoured by pets and may you pull apart the wishbone favorably. And may all your turkeys—vegan, human, jokes, some cars, situations you’d really rather forget, old boyfriends, poems, certain side dishes made with parsnips—may all your turkeys, made-up or otherwise, be…

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, Fiction, Santa Barbara, Writer's Angst, Writing | Tagged 2012, cats, chaos, children's literature, giblets, Last of the Mohicans, preschoolers, Rottweiler, Thanksgiving, turkeys, writer, writing | 1 Comment

Quote For The Weekend (Strickland Speaking–W/Swedish Au Pair)

Posted on November 17, 2012 by PB Rippey

“Adam had ’em.”

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be —
I had a Mother who read to me.

–Strickland Gillilan

Who read to me: Mother, great-grandmother, grandmothers, godmother, great aunt and uncle, don’t remember The Pater reading, but babysitters, mothers of friends, teachers, of course, my own sisters and Au Pairs. I was extremely critical of the Au Pair reading technique—because how could an Au Pair ever take the place of a mother’s reading, especially when you might be lucky to get any Au Pair reading at all when the mother was off with The Pater touring the Loire Valley and drinking good wine and eating cow brains and practicing her high school French while you and your sisters were left with–that particular Au Pair era–the 18 year old Swedish live-in who hated books but loved bikers, a pack of bikers, in fact, that she invited back to your hushed-suburban home for a party that raged so alarmingly the neighbors almost called the police and you didn’t sleep, jealous of your older sister who was allowed to walk among the melee you peeked at through the banisters at the top of the stairs until the crowd and its music–Rod Stewart, mostly, but also Bob Dylan in the phase when Britain hated him–migrated upstairs and doors banged and bikers guffawed like Santa Claus and you were kind of freaked, but intrigued and the next thing you knew you and your sisters were waving goodbye to the Swedish Au Pair, who vaguely resembled Cinderella-pre-prince, as she ducked into the taxi your parents summoned that fateful day in the quaint neighborhood, zooming that teenager and her limited read-aloud talents and her taste for giants in leather away from you forever…making way, sadly–O Parents! What the he** were you thinking!–for the next Au Pair, an early-twenties-something terrified Parisian who wore a wooden crucifix and saw ghosts…Saw. Heard. Despised us. Despised children in general. Despised children’s books…Sigh…

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, Quotes, Writer quotes, Writing | Tagged 2012, Au Pair, Bob Dylan, children's literature, Cinderella, fiction writing, North Oxford, Paris, poetry, quotes on writing, Rod Stewart, Santa Claus, Strickland Gillilan, writing | 5 Comments

Writing Advice

Posted on November 16, 2012 by PB Rippey

Arriving via Amazon tomorrow. Happy reading!

Just when I think I’ve read it all (which usually means it’s time to read more), the YA Muses post this. Loads of advice from debut authors. In fact, all week the Muses have been posting helpful writing advice from the newly published. Also, William Alexander won the National Book Award for his children’s book, Goblin Secrets, his FIRST book. Right on!

Yours in advice and encouraging news,

P (writing/reading) B

Posted in books, Children's Books, Fiction, Writing, Writing Publications, YA Novels | Tagged 2012, children's literature, fiction writing, Goblin Secrets, middle grade writing, National Book Award 2012, William Alexander, YA Muses | 3 Comments

Space Aliens Blow Up Fast Food Joints

Posted on November 7, 2012 by PB Rippey

Discussing strategy.

Or: Writing In Increments (daylight edition)

Between the post-workout shower and the trip to Redbox to return movies you suddenly noticed on the bookshelf as you craned your neck to see if your leg was straight as it pulsed to the ceiling for the 50th time per instructions meted by the tiny pouty blonde woman on your TV who never sweats and whose long curled locks never move as she twists and crunches and plies like they do in a Bob Fosse musical (wid attitude) and puts you through an arm workout leaving you armless for up to 5 hours and mentally screaming for your bottled water to get its plastic a** out of your refrigerator and into your hands before you D.I.E. Between the post-workout shower and the trip to Redbox (grocery store, Party City, Starbucks for solace and Arco): 45 (hard-won) minutes, not including breaks to fuss over the giant Baby Huey kitten.

Between his nap and the hustle to wake him up, dress him in his gi and drive safely yet swiftly to the karate center where, as your child punches red dummies, that one chatty mom tells you, yet again, how thankful she is for Happy Meals, never asking if you go to McDonald’s, which is lucky because your son is about to turn 5 and has never been to McDonald’s and you have no intention of taking him there for a Happy Meal, ever, unless it’s over your dead body, haven’t told that woman your little family will eat dirt (preferably organic) v. going to McDonald’s and buying crap food for a new, precious, growing life and parents who need to stay healthy for the next 100 years so as to witness possible grandchildren, great-granchildren and the opening and continued success of the dolphin rescue center a certain son is destined to found and what is it with wrecking things, you wonder, as the woman carries on and you counteract being judgmental and awful by wishing McDonald’s would just get seriously zapped by alien spaceships, all McDonald’s, all over the world—and then, across all streets, the Burger Kings. Between his nap and the karate hustle: 62 minutes (not bad at all)

Between steaming vegetables, baking apple chips, whipping up the pancake batter for the next morning, food processing spinach and spices and carrot puree into a mush you will sneak into your homemade organic tomato sauce, feeding the cats wet food for the 3rd time in one day so they won’t pee in your closet, vacuuming up dog hair, singing a love song to the parakeet and drenching plants shocked by the summer that never ends, not even in November—between relentless domesticity and retrieving the boy from school: 37 (right on!) mins.

Hello tiny pouty blonde lady. Hello endless sunshine. Hello hot, garage-mouth wind. Hello giant Baby Huey kitten with your passionate purring. Shh. An increment has arrived. I am inspired.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, dog, Fiction, To Explain, Writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2012, aliens, cooking, dolphins, domestic bliss, fast food, fiction writing, karate, labrador, McDonald's, middle grade writing, organic, preschoolers, Starbucks, writing | 2 Comments

And There Is A Storm And Here Is A Cat

Posted on October 29, 2012 by PB Rippey

Meow.

Locust

After the midnight bell, the battered
book closed, flame of the inherited
candle snuffed, we recover

from stifling night, erasing radical
dream-dyes we will never share
(though not because we are secretive)

and we remember I’ve just returned
from my coveted north where, I confess,
I met a locust on the beach.

Who told you (you ask), meaning
who accompanied me
as I would not know a locust

if it hit me in the face.
My sister (I confess) con-
firmed it. Silence.

We know, you and I
(sheer books warn us),
my sister is a Sybil, simply

ancient and (because you have seen
for yourself) we are in awe
of her layered visions. Locust

(I say). Buzzing up from grey sand.
Deserted beach. Deadbeat ocean. Bug.
My scream…Now that (you say)

I can imagine. You refer
to the small garden spider
high on our bedroom’s

most viewed wall, once, cupped
by me with a see-through plastic con-
tainer it bashed its tiny hideous dark

body against, panel
to panel, quick and hard
as I screamed, watching

my finest methods destroy
life. Perhaps you held me
afterwards and I’ve forgotten.

Perhaps the locust on ghastly
beach was not affirmed
by our Sybil as a sign

and we know why we lie un-
der things, shaded and ravenous—
lost to time.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry | Tagged 2012, cats, fiction, fiction writing, locust, poetry, storm, writing | 3 Comments

Good Morning Boo

Posted on October 26, 2012 by PB Rippey

Wails, moans, boo, etc.

I know it’s a grand revising day when I sit down at the computer to check email, but end up obsessed with the Word document on the desktop instead, until my son reminds me it’s time to brush his teeth so we can head for the pumpkin festival, at which point I flee the computer, get us ready, out the witch-emblazoned front door and into the minivan (with snacks and sports drink bottle thing). When he’s jumping in the spooky bouncehouse with his friend and scream-laughing, it’s then I remember I neglected to check email, Facebook, the YA Muses, Weelicious, Louise Hay, my ocean tides link, Pinterest, any latest postings by those I subscribe to, The Pioneer Woman, hulu, lowes.com/playsets, my Amazon wishlist, and Goodreads.

Oh—a VERY good morning.

“No pushing,” I cheerfully remind all those bouncing in the spooky bouncehouse. I glance at my son’s friend’s mom, my friend. She looks pleased, relieved, at ease. We are out in the world with our children, mired in gorgeous October sunshine. I nudge her and declare I am making a coffee run. She nods, pleased, relieved, at ease. As I purchase 2 coffees and a loaf of festival whole wheat honey bread, part of me is back at the computer, obsessed.

I live in 2 worlds.

Right on, PB. Keep at it.

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, middle grade, To Explain, Writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2012, Amazon, children's literature, email, Facebook, fiction writing, Goodreads, Halloween, hulu, Louise Hay, Lowes, middle grade writing, personal goals, Pinterest, preschoolers, pumpkins, The Pioneer Woman, Weelicous, YA Muses | 7 Comments

Quote For The Weekend (Batman Edition)

Posted on October 19, 2012 by PB Rippey

The Joker: No, nooooo. I don’t want to go back to jail, Batman!
Batman (in remarkably, even slightly eerily calm voice): I know. But—you’re the bad guy.
The Joker: Yeah, I know. I’m the bad guy! But—but—AHHHHH! (repeated screams)
Batman: Robin? Let’s go to the water park.
Robin: Oh man, Batman, all right! Check OUT it! Let’s go!
Batman: Great. Okay. You get the towels. I’ll get the Bat Boat. Good work. I’m proud of you, Robin. Let’s go.
Robin: Wheeeeeee!

—My Almost 5 Year Old, Playing (overheard as I spiked his pizza sauce with carrot puree, super finely chopped broccoli, and flaxseed oil—while stifling laughter)

Da Bat(Man)

Posted in Quotes, Writing | Tagged 2012, Batman, preschoolers, Robin, The Joker, writing | 1 Comment

Quote For The Weekend (About Ends Edition)

Posted on October 14, 2012 by PB Rippey

I really don’t think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don’t mind the failure but I can’t imagine that I’d forgive myself if I didn’t try.
—Nikki Giovanni

Recently Write Naked posted this quote on her website and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. Also this from Nikki Giovanni’s poem Choices: if I can’t have/ what i want…then/my job is to want/what i’ve got/and be satisfied/that at least there/is something more to want

Read the poem in its entirety here. I especially love the ending. Endings are difficult. Knuckle-whitening. The shade of white my knuckles turn when airplanes carrying me take off or land. It’s helpful to read endings nailed by their authors:

The eyes and the faces all turned themselves toward me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room.
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

It’s the magical thread bit that gets me, the salve to the evisceration one receives from reading this outstanding novel.

Before she could lose her neve, or change her mind again, she ran towards the kitchen. She stared at the harmless-looking wall telephone for a second, took a final deep breath and picked up the receiver.
Alison Lurie, The Truth About Lorin Jones

I love this ending because it portends a happy ending after everything Lorin Jones experiences—and I love the prolific Alison Lurie, anyway. Forever. Bias is always at work amongst artists and their followers/aspirational types. You know?

But what if it prove that I am no harper?
That I lied for your love more monstrously?
Why, then, I’ll teach you to play and sing,
For I dearly love a good harp, said she.
Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

The best ‘adult’ fairytale ever written. My copy has marginalia, is battered from traveling everywhere I did for the last 20-something years, and signed. A talisman.

But this post could last forever and I am a mother with an early rising Pre-K-er. Shh, PB! What is bookmarked on your nightstand? The Winter Of Our Discontent. Introduction (Susan Shillinglaw). Page XV. About the angst of history possibly being lost if not written about immediately, but how? About common plateaus unaddressed, writers avoiding looking at the future, giving in to laziness, fear, or wot, wot? And Steinbeck on the brink of becoming a science fiction writer–or was he waiting for science to catch up to his fiction? Fascinating s***! Shh vs. Sleep. Wow–Monday is pretty much here…

Zzzzzzz…

Posted in Poetry, Quotes, Writer's Angst, Writing | Tagged 2012, Alison Lurie, John Steinbeck, Nikki Giovanni, poetry, quotes on writing, Slyvia Plath, The Truth About Lorin Jones, writing | 2 Comments

Nebula

Posted on October 9, 2012 by PB Rippey

Horsehead nebula. So pretty. I could gaze at nebulas all day long. Alllll day…

As I work insanely on revising and getting used to my new progressive reading glasses (gah!), I urge you to pop over to Beth Hull’s website and read what she has to say about pitching agents and matters of that nature. Beth also has a post up at my daily stop: the YA Muses. There you can read about querying and related maddening multi-facets and absorb Beth’s exciting discovery. That’s right—absorb. Here’s to talented, thoughtful, generous writers taking the time to share advice, experiences and discoveries. I am very grateful.

Yours in revision, sequels and Blue Bottle coffee (no, not flies–coffeeeee),
PB

Posted in books, Children's Books, Fiction, To Explain, Writing, Writing Progress, YA Novels | Tagged 2012, Beth Hull, Blue Bottle Coffee, children's literature, fiction writing, horsehead nebula, Literary Agents, Query letters, writing, YA Muses | 2 Comments

Notes From Around Town

Posted on October 4, 2012 by PB Rippey

As I idled at a red light, MacArthur Park and Alvarado, a spry, elderly woman entered the crosswalk, head down, waving her arms. She wore a crossing guard’s vest, jeans, running shoes. After she passed my car (of course she had my full attention), I saw she had taped a little saying in easy-to-read block letters to the back of the vest:

PLEASE DONT GO
TO HELL BELIEVE
IN JESUS

I couldn’t take my eyes off the word please, surprised she had included it. The light turned green, but she hadn’t finished her arms-waving crossing. We waited. No honking. Just. Waited. It was 5p.m.-ish. Pretty sure we were all, each clogged lane of us, weary.

Echo Park: deep in the throes of gentrification, but still a bit creepy. Trash in the gutters. Stray, emaciated dogs (how, why, how, why). Iron-barred windows. Ugly, offensive graffiti, but also lush, eclectic wall murals. On a fairly sad corner, a man had a hibachi going. He cooked meat, right there, and people were buying it. A few blocks deeper into EP, I parked at Chango and waited in line for coffee like I used to when I lived up the street. The waiters were each their own unique version of the Illustrated Man, only not creepy. They joked, or tried to, with customers, shouted out orders just to shout as they were the ones making everything, constantly smiled. The young man in front of me ordered two espressos with bulls shots. Instantly I saw two black bulls in a Spanish ring being shot by matadors holding rifles dripping with roses. I am old, I thought as the young man turned—I choked on a gasp—he was so pale, obviously coming down from some big thing. I am really old.

I moved my office from my bed to the living room couch so as to be right under the open windows and feeling the cool morning before we rocket up to 90 something again. House finches bicker in my yard’s trees. The dog snores, his nails tapping the Pergo as he twitches from dreams. Through the large windows looking out on the back yard, I am startled by how happy the rose bushes are in this heat, all deep green and blooming. Hard to believe the A/C will be on by noon. In October. As it has been since, it seems like, last March. Kids on bikes pass my house. I’ll f***ing kick your f***ing a** f***ing a**wipe-o-f***ing-holic! one yells, followed by scream-laughs fading. I sip my coffee.

It’s really time to move to the sea.

Office.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, Fiction, Writing, WTF | Tagged 2012, beach, Chango, chaos, Echo Park, Los Angeles, writing | 5 Comments

Note From The Writing House

Posted on October 1, 2012 by PB Rippey

Fit for a pharoah…

As I write, a fountain bubbles outside remarkable windows. It was bubbling when we arrived. No note was left instructing me to turn it, or the fountain outside the guest bedroom off, and I wasn’t about to go hunting for control panels or plugs. Both fountains—one lion-mouthed, the other fit for a popular pharaoh–bubble on into purpling evening. Whether doors/windows are open or shut, I hear water.

This consistency of sound is comforting.

I don’t need comforting, but do give me a constant outside of anything I’m used to as I recline in a borrowed house, worn from a day of solo-parenting and—oh. Listen:

An animal just skittered across the roof.
My son slumbers in the guest room, blanket pulled to his fair chin. Earlier? I threw him into nature, my aim so exact he melted down from glory. But there is a bathtub in this house–deep and claw-footed with silver taps completely unlike ours at home and perfect for dangling small, cheaply caped, plastic heroes from. Miracle bath for the wonder boy…Calm prevailed.
The doors here are mirrored—3 panels of mirrors to a door, any door—closet or dividing or otherwise–my image broken wherever I turn. Never seeing the real me is unsettling and a relief.
Glancing up from the keyboard—my face in a third of door-mirror, my head backed by pleated lampshade backed by bookcases loaded with titles provoking the novelist in me. Tortureblisstorturebliss…
Pretty sure we’re staying in the house of the ghost from Pottery Barn past (is there any other kind). Thank you for paisley patterns with birds mixed in. Thank you for jacquard and haiku-inspiring peacocks emblazoning cushions, tapestries, carpeting, life. Thank you for weathered wood far more aesthetically appealing than any wooden items currently occupying my living room (probably because my wood is weathered from cat scratches or cat pee scent removal solutions instead of The Aesthetic Brigade, who obviously know what they’re doing).
And, at last, (or at least since last March when the rainclouds went on strike) we’re only 75 miles from my heated valley, yet we’re cool—25 to 30 degrees cooler here at any severely pinpointed minute. This is what a little extra driving on a Friday in rush-hour, dredged gumption and energy previously classified as untappable get me: my sweater. And a sweetly, deeply sleeping, hopefully-sweet-dreaming son. Those thrills. O. Heaven…

There’s a poem in this house. It skittered through my hair and down my back (no, not creepy). Unraveling.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, books, Children's Books, Fiction, ocean related, Santa Barbara, To Explain, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2012, beach, Fountains, Peacocks, poetry, Pottery Barn, preschoolers | 5 Comments

Quote For The Weekend (The Let’s Pretend It’s Still Saturday Edition)

Posted on September 24, 2012 by PB Rippey

If you prick us, do we not bleat?

Quote potpourri! Quote jambalaya! Quote papier mache! Quote mixed bean salad (with balsamic vinaigrette and BPA-free writing instruments)!

There is no need for a writer to eat a whole sheep to be able to tell what mutton tastes like. It is enough if he eats a cutlet.

—Somerset Maughm

How vain is it to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live!

—Henry David Thoreau (Or, I might add, tasted a mutton cutlet!)

I often quote myself. It adds spice to my conversation.

—George Bernard Shaw (Don’t quote him on this! He was eating a hunk of mutton at the time…Spicy mutton…)

Writers talk too much.

—Dorothy Parker (Wise and true on so many levels. What? Oh, sorry. Shhhhh! Mutton, mutton…)

We romantic writers are there to make people feel and not think.

Barbara Cartland (Bring on the beef, Barbara! I mean: mutton)

All writing is pigshit. People who come out of nowhere to try to put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs.

—Antonin Artaud (Really, AA—obvious mutton deficiency in your mad, mad life–but since you were mad, I forgive you. Baa.)

Mediocrity is more dangerous in a critic than in a writer.

—Eugene Ionesco (I could say the same about mutton!)

Right. Enough (mutton & quotations) already. Here’s to a fabulous week of revisions and creativity. Go forth and publish! And don’t forget the movie rights! Don’t forget to go to the movies. And perhaps a little gander into Veganism?

Posted in Quotes, Theatre, Writer quotes, Writer's Angst, Writing | Tagged 2012, Antonin Artaud, Dorothy Parker, fiction writing, Ionesco, Maughm, quotes on writing, Thoreau, writing | 3 Comments

Once Upon A Time In Gloomy Oxford

Posted on September 19, 2012 by PB Rippey

1970-something, bookstore, downtown Oxford, England. Cloudy, moody late afternoon (there were so many, which makes the memories of sunny days–sky a blue to gasp over, cottonball clouds, Radcliffe Camera’s dome sunsparked, even musty old Carfax Tower rinsed and bright—stand out all the more). The bookstore, my favorite haunt in all of Oxford, smelled like tea (PG Tips) and paper. My mother was somewhere nearby, but I always felt deliciously alone when turned loose in the middle grade fiction section of this store, browsing for books I could really, hopelessly get lost in. That day: a booksigning, possibly the first I’d ever attended. The authors: a woman, whose name I can’t remember, probably because I do remember her novel wasn’t one of my favorites, although I was still excited to have her sign my copy, which I’d brought with me. Signing next to her, a man whose works I knew well and loved. Somehow, I didn’t realize he was also signing that day. Perhaps because there was such a crowd around him, perhaps my mother had told me, but my mind was in a book at the time, perhaps she didn’t know, either. I queued up eagerly. When it was my turn, I handed him the freshly signed woman author’s book and asked for his signature. I think I almost killed him. Oh, no, he said, passionately. This isn’t my book. I can’t. That he couldn’t had not occured to me. I was on the younger side of the middle grade market. Just a voraciously-book-reading-baby, really. Horrified, my eyes flooded with tears. I must have looked as devastated as I felt because he hastily flipped to the back page and, with conciliatory mutters, scribbled his name. When he handed the book to me, I clutched it to my chest in a protective manner and thanked him, all smiles. And stayed where I was, gazing, until the bookstore owner ushered me out of the way so the next child could have their book signed. I remember he was gaunt, a tower even when sitting down, wearing a blazer and although his demeanor was possibly terrifying, his voice was kind (even when panicked) and he looked children right in their eyes. Not so many years later, when I realized what had happened, what I’d asked of him, whenever I thought about it, I blushed.

Ican’trememberIcan’trememberIcan’tremember forgive me (as I try to forgive myself—and my mother, who has no recollection of the event—why didn’t she document it? We had cameras back then!), but I’m 99% memoretically* positive the author who looked me right in my eyes was Roald Dahl.

I can’t remember, but I will never forget.

*What do you mean you don’t know this word? Get back on the planet!

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, middle grade, Writing | Tagged 2012, Carfax Tower, children's literature, fiction writing, middle grade writing, Oxford, PG Tips!, Radcliffe Camera, Roald Dahl, writing | 2 Comments

The After 9/11/2001 Post

Posted on September 12, 2012 by PB Rippey

Photo by Miss B

Last year I posted this piece on 9/11/11, the crux of which is:

One morning, as my boss and I walked across campus after a 9/11 tribute during which she’d read a poem to hundreds gathered at the special ceremony, we came across two young male students sitting in lawn chairs. The sign next to them said “Free Hugs”. The second we stopped, they leapt to their feet and threw open their arms, huge smiles on their faces. My boss and I looked at each other, nodded, and stepped straight into the embraces of strangers. For me, it was one of the most comforting hugs I’ve ever experienced. It filled me with gratefulness. And hope.

This year, I am sharing Miss MOL’s post instead of contributing one of my own. Her account of visiting Ground Zero a few weeks after 9/11/2001 gives me goosebumps, especially the ending. I highly recommend the read. You’ll be glad you stopped by.

Posted in Santa Barbara, Writer quotes, Writing | Tagged 2012, 9/11/2001, Ground Zero, life, poetry, Santa Barbara, writing | 4 Comments

Coasting From One Weekend Quote To The Next

Posted on September 9, 2012 by PB Rippey

Maybe I’m a writer because I’m desperately trying to clean up my mess. Other people go into therapy or become psychiatrists just to clean up the mess. Well, I couldn’t afford therapy at the time I needed it the most, so I started writing. And now I know that the writing helps me a little because, Why do I write about these things? Why do I choose those characters? Why am I so desperate to tell that story? Because there is something inside of me that is bothering me, that gives me a lot of pain and that I need to solve. And by exploring it through writing about other people’s lives, I might reach a particle of truth. Maybe. If I’m lucky.

—Isabelle Allende (from Writers Dreaming: 26 Writers Talk About Their Dreams and the Creative Process, Naomi Epel)

Because all I do is laze around and dream big, I did not blog last week after posting the weekend quote I forgot to post on the weekend. While I was lazing around dreaming big, I made blueberry/coconut popsicles, agave lemonade, Mexican stuffed shells (veggie “meat” instead of beef, no cream cheese), cowboy caviar , berry cobbler, and frozen watermelon stars on sticks. And apple chips. While the sky made threatening rumbles, I made chicken/apple nuggets. Also grilled cheese paninis, of course, as I waited for the rain that never came. And somewhere in there I used cookie cutters on veggie baloney and whole wheat honey bread and when I glanced up from sandwich making, the sky through the windows was blue again and the humidity was practically visible. We took down the old playset in the yard and set it in the alley and from the time it took to walk from the back gate to the house, to the back gate again, the playset was gone. Alley Fairies. We moved the canopy gazebo thingy over the bald spot in the grass left by the perpetually algae-struck swimming pool, rolled a boulder up an Everest-type mountain, and were victorious in bringing peace to many countries after mowing the grass and cutting back the morning glory (followed by a glass of chardonnay for me, a Fat Tire beer for him, and agave lemonade for the boy). Somewhere in there I was revising my novel while juggling 3 oranges to entertain my son (and wearing a stack of books on my head), and explaining to the little guy the kind of unicycle we’re going to purchase soon because you’re never too old or too young to start learning how to ride a unicycle or learning French, for that matter. Oui! He listened, nodding, taking the unicycle thing very seriously. We also made “chocolate” cookies, saved the world and played with the Batcave (possibly same thing as saving the world). Yes, we’re all lazing about dreaming big around here, when not watching Wild Krats, cooking and taking a turn at creativity, that is. Or sleeping. Sleeeeeep. Remember that?

Posted in books, Children's Books, Fiction, Me and Us, To Explain, Writer quotes, Writing, Writing Progress | Tagged 2012, Batcave, cooking, domestic bliss, fiction writing, Isabelle Allende, middle grade writing, Naomi Epel, personal goals, preschoolers, quotes on writing, Wild Krats, writing | 3 Comments

Quote For The Weekend (The “I Totally Forgot” Edition)

Posted on September 3, 2012 by PB Rippey

: Finally going to read the book.

The daily act of writing remains as demanding and maddening as it was before, and the pleasure you get from writing – rare but profound – remains at the true heart of the enterprise. On their best days, writers all over the world are winning Pulitzers, all alone in their studios, with no one watching.

—Jeffrey Eugenides (on winning the Pulitzer Prize)

I don’t know where the weekend went. I do know tar pits were involved, tiny dogs with whiskery faces, no trips to the toy store, dashes of revision, a crazy suspension of gigantic boulder, not having to turn on the A/C until the afternoon instead of 8a.m., a sociable labradoodle on Montana Ave., the Batcave, giant sloths and robotic mammoths, a new front porch light, Dover sole drizzled in balsamic glaze and honey and sprinkled generously in macadamia nuts and then baked, the movie Shame (still showering it off my brain), the movie We Bought A Zoo (ditched it for bed), continuing Big Sur withdrawals and family, family, family. Doesn’t Jeffrey Eugenides resemble Shakespeare? Or is it Francis Bacon? Definitely not the Earl of Oxford. No, I won’t go there. I promise…

May your holiday Monday be filled with cookouts and fun and, most especially, naps. And hopefully a Pulitzer moment (or several) of your own.

Rock on.

Right before I dropped the camera and ran after him in case I had to push him out of the way of the rock falling due to a sudden earthquake–sudden earthquake–is there any other kind…

Posted in Quotes, Writer quotes, Writer's Angst, Writing | Tagged 2012, Batcave, Earl Of Oxford, earthquakes, fiction writing, Francis Bacon, Jeffrey Eugenides, La Brea Tar Pits, labradoodles, LACMA, Matt Damon, Michael Fassbender, preschoolers, Pulitzer, Shakespeare, Shame, The Marriage Plot, We Bought A Zoo, writing | 5 Comments

What Beauty Gets You

Posted on August 28, 2012 by PB Rippey

Candle, wine, deck—listening to the river’s endless monologue, grateful for that natural continuity.

I returned from Big Sur with a line in my head that needed to be inserted into a poem I’m working on. I am lucky the line didn’t leave me, creative synapses firing long and repeatedly enough for me to take care of business. I blame this firing on my receiving a mass infusion of beauty for 4 days, pretty much from Morro Bay’s sea otters bobbing in the shadow of the infamous rock, to Andrew Molera’s wild beach, and back to (okay, I’ll be generous) the southern outskirts of SLO. I blame this mad bout of memory-retaining on the wild turkeys, the Steller’s Jays and the deer I caught with my eyes when I happened to glance into the wilderness flanking our trail. She froze, all of us hikers froze, even the preschoolers and the toddler in the toddler backpack. About 20 feet from us, she stared at our little party, we gazed at her with soft gasps, moving on only when she did. When your eyes feast on beauty, it’s impossible not to hear muses.

Here is the line for my poem:

An idea popped in his pistons

Just kidding. My son is eating “organic” jello and watching a Thomas The Train episode. It’s nice, though, isn’t it, when ideas pop in your pistons—as long as they don’t pop out your pistons.

Here is the line for my poem:

The city’s loose, casual permanence: I am changing.

That’s it. That’s all! But it needed to go in. Whether it stays or not or is axed or brutally revised is another story.

We stopped off in San Simeon to break up the drive home. Elephant seals. An incredible sunset viewed from cold beach. That night I woke up around 3a.m., convinced a tidal wave was coming. As I waited for the tsunami sirens to wail, I plotted our escape—head for Hearst Castle and their gate? But would the castlekeepers remember to drive down and let fleeing types in? Head South, then, to Cambria and promptly inland—but could we make it before the ocean surged over the highway? Head straight up, then, up the road with the “mini-mart” full of shot glasses and sweatshirts and magnets promoting Highway 1. But how far back did the road go? And where was my trusty map of my golden state? I may be a 7th generation Californian, but I am not enough of a native to not need a map! Stop. Breathe, I told myself. Trust life. Oh my god, babe, my husband told me when I heard him sigh at 5a.m. and immediately started talking to him. Oh my god, why didn’t you just wake me up?

We returned home to the news of the earthquake swarms in San Diego…

Trust life.

Back in our own king size bed vs. the rustic cabin’s mounding mini-queen, I dreamed a mildly famous, creepy poet I used to know blasted off to Space and lost his lifeline and for some reason I was designated to be the rescue team. Oh, I don’t think so, I said. I have a little boy. I will not be going. Bye-bye poet.

Letting go can be so cathartic, but sometimes it’s challenging to let go of trails and heart-pounding vistas and rocky beaches inhabited by creatures we rarely see. Yes, it was comforting to bring home photos and magnets and a sea otter Christmas ornament and several t-shirts proclaiming BIG SUR (since my husband forgot his suitcase, the t-shirts were purchased for practical reasons) and a line soon to be part of a poem, most likely, once I am back in the writing chair this evening, procrastinating, or not, remembering, believing—but of course nothing compares to actually being there. Go! Get there. And have a good time. When you report back, remember the deer and what the river told you. Don’t ever forget.

Posted in Fiction, ocean related, Poetry, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Progress, WTF | Tagged 2012, Andrew Molera, beach, Big Sur, earthquakes, fiction, Hearst Castle, middle grade writing, Morro Bay, mule deer, ocean, Pfeiffer Beach, poetry, preschoolers, San Simeon, sea otters, tsunamis, writing | 4 Comments

Quote For The Weekend: Robinson Jeffers (Early Edition)

Posted on August 23, 2012 by PB Rippey

To feel greatly, and understand greatly, and
express greatly, the natural
Beauty, is the sole business of poetry.
The rest’s diversion: those holy or noble sentiments, the intricate ideas,
The love, lust, longing: reasons, but not the reason.

—Robinson Jeffers

What is our relationship with the natural world? Are we capable of admiring greatness and rejoicing in beauty on a daily basis–no matter where we live? Is this admiring and rejoicing the key to everything? Or does it go hand in hand with tragedy? Or hand in hand with a self-fulfilling sort of pereptually crescendo-ing, lovely, addicting sort of bliss?

Do you know where your copy of Cawdor And Other Poems is living?

Tomorrow we head north to Big Sur, Jeffers country (to name one of many writers who loved/lived/visited/understood that particular bit of magic coast). When I stand on the deck of Nepenthe, the Kiva Cafe, the patio at Ventana, or windy Pfeiffer Beach and watch the sun fall—I get it, a feeling of celebrating our big, gorgeous world. I feel tiny, and brimming with hope whenever I gaze at the ocean (instantly mesmerized) from the edge of Big Sur’s California. I feel: the recognition of the transhuman experience providing magnificence for the religious instinct, especially when night swoops in and the stars flicker into reality through the oaks and redwoods—my need (sadly, surfacing when I’m faced with spectacular views and inspiring coastline, yet never when I’m stuck in traffic) to rejoice in nature, because of nature: satisfied.

Posted in Fiction, ocean related, Poetry, Writer quotes, Writing | Tagged 2012, beach, Beauty, Big Sur, Carmel, poetry, Robinson Jeffers, Tor House, writing | 6 Comments

Dear Lucky Agent Contest

Posted on August 22, 2012 by PB Rippey

I’m going to enter. Are you? Follow the link below for complete details.

Link: Lucky Agent Contest

CONTEST DETAILS

This contest will be live for approximately 14 days—from Aug. 13, 2012 through the end of Monday, Aug. 27, 2012, PST. Winners notified by e-mail within three weeks of end of contest. Winners announced on the blog thereafter.
To enter, submit the first 150-200 words of your book. Shorter or longer entries will not be considered. Keep it within word count range please.
This contest is solely for completed book-length works of middle grade fiction.
You can submit as many times as you wish. You can submit even if you submitted to other contests in the past, but please note that past winners cannot win again.
The contest is open to everyone of all ages, save those employees, officers and directors of GLA’s publisher, F+W Media.
By e-mailing your entry, you are submitting an entry for consideration in this contest and thereby agreeing to the terms written here as well as any terms possibly added by me in the “Comments” section of this blog post. (If you have questions or concerns, write me personally at chuck.sambuchino (at) fwmedia.com. The Gmail account above is for submissions, not questions.)

PRIZES!!!

Top 3 winners all get:

1) A critique of the first 10 double-spaced pages of your work, by your agent judge.
2) A free one-year subscription to WritersMarket.com.

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, middle grade, Writing | Tagged 2012, fiction writing, Lucky Agent Contest, middle grade writing, writing, writing contest | 4 Comments

Tribute To Mike deGruy

Posted on August 22, 2012 by PB Rippey

Blanket Octopus

Mike DeGruy loved the ocean. He wrote about it, filmed it, lectured on it (all over the world, to all ages), explored it. He died last February in a helicopter crash, in the midst of doing research for a film he was working on with James Cameron. Crazy. He left behind his wife and two children. Now his wife, Mimi deGruy, has published a tribute to him and whether you are familiar with Mike deGruy or not, I encourage you to visit the site and read the post: Love Radiating From A Life Well Lived.

Posted in fish, ocean related, Santa Barbara, Writing | Tagged 2012, beach, Mike deGruy, Mimi deGruy, ocean, writing | Leave a comment

Status: Guest Blogger

Posted on August 20, 2012 by PB Rippey

My happy place.

Today I am the guest blogger over at M For Mommy. M asked me to write about relaxing and having to write that post made me think: do I relax? Ever? An interesting question to ponder, if not slightly challenging. I’ve just assumed that I do relax. How wrong I was. Go on, ask yourself, see what happens. And then: breathe.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, Fiction, Writing Progress | Tagged 2012, beach, Kauai, Kee Beach, ocean, personal goals, preschoolers, Relaxing, writing | Leave a comment

Quote For The Weekend (Saroyan Edition)

Posted on August 18, 2012 by PB Rippey

The Man.

How do you write? You write, man, you write, that’s how, and you do it the way the old English walnut tree puts forth leaf and fruit every year by the thousands. . . . If you practice an art faithfully, it will make you wise, and most writers can use a little wising up.

William Saroyan (1981)

I obsessed on W.S.’s use of man when I first read this. Was he wielding it—the word man—earthily (as in eyes half-lidded, Birkenstocks on his feet and pen held between fingers like a joint) or in a British (I blame the English walnut tree reference for this next musing) pip-pip manner (as in he’s wearing one of those Brigadier General ribbed sweaters with patches on the shoulders and sleeves and there’s a giant, slightly burnt banger on his fork that he’s waving in your face)? No, no. Neither. I know it. You know it. Saroyan. Man. Saroyan. What ho! He’s right. He also advised writers:

Try to learn to breathe deeply; really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell.

Ha ha! Merci, W.S. Sleep well.

Posted in Fiction, Writer quotes, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Tips | Tagged 2012, English walnuts, fiction writing, quotes on writing, William Saroyan, writer's angst, writing | 5 Comments