Author Interview #1: Bridget Hoida And SO LA

Posted on June 18, 2012 by PB Rippey

Bridget Hoida, author of So LA

Introducing Bridget Hoida, whose first novel, So LA, is due out in bookstores June 20th. I happen to personally know that Bridget is brilliant, but I can also tell you without a hint of bias that she writes about Los Angeles with an original, fresh voice you won’t want to miss. Her prose is exquisite and full of surprises. You can purchase your copy here at Lettered Press, or on Amazon. Bridget’s website is here and from there you will find many interesting links. One of the truly fun things about Bridget’s website is that various blog posts are written in the voice of So LA’s heroine, Magdalena de la Cruz. If you have ever been to Los Angeles, if you are a Californian, if you want to be a Californian, if California attracts or repulses you, even if you can’t imagine ever visiting Los Angeles, you will want to read this book (go ahead, live vicariously!). And now, the interview (10 questions + 1–yes, that’s right):

1.      Describe your heroine, Magdalena de la Cruz, in five words or less.

nostalgic, impulsive, desperately lonely, brave-ish, and tall

2.      Now describe her like you really want to—don’t hold back, feel free to go beyond the book’s synopsis (which is excellent, by the way).

She scares me sometimes, both in her boldness and in her very public exclamations of sadness and grief. She’s a bit “off-kilter” as one reviewer described her, and she haunts me. I’m still not sure if I want to be her or if I just want to give her a hug.

3.      The Book Club Member in me wants to know what was most challenging for you with this novel and why? Then please counteract the bland, institutional quality of this question by telling us where you would most like to eat a piece of your favorite cake—and tell us what flavor that might be.

Selling it. Seriously. I wrote a satirical novel about Los Angeles and if editors didn’t want to slap a pink cover and a pair of high heeled shoes on the cover, then they wanted to impregnate Magdalena with a happier ending and a bundle of joy to “counterbalance her anger.” Her brave outpouring of emotion, her startling display of loneliness, these were all VERY intentional and VERY real emotions for me. Necessary to the telling of a “L.A. story” and I refused (at the expense of a “bigger book deal”) to compromise. I stand by that decision. I’m thrilled with stubbornness. I’m also thrilled with angel food cake, heavy whipped cream and berries.

4.      Revision: BF or Nightmare? How do you handle/attack/plead with/embark upon?

Although I did refuse to “Pollyanna” the book, and/or the ending (and I also refused on more than one occasion to “make it the Sex and the City of L.A.) I was VERY open to revision and revised this novel, fully, at least seven times. Seven full-scale, all-encompassing, 300+ page revisions. In fact, the short story that started it all, “The Blonde Joke” that Magdalena tells about herself (and a story that won several awards) has been completely edited out of the book. Sometimes the spark is just that: a small light that eventually becomes engulfed by the flames.

5.      Robert Mckee’s book STORY was an important resource for you when writing SO LA. What other resources would you recommend for writers? Also, what types of coffee resources would you recommend for writers?

I recommend a mompair. I recommend a best friend, an understanding mother, and children who can entertain themselves with glue sticks and glitter while you write into the wee hours of the night. You need other people, and their honesty, and their generosity in order to succeed. I also fully, and without reservation recommend Blue Bottle Coffee. Specifically the Bella Donovan blend. (Really, even your mailman, once he smells the priority mail package, will invite himself in for a cup. It’s that lovely.)

6.      What color and circumference are your sunglasses?

My best pair of Sunnies, by far, were a vintage pair of off-white Dior glasses. They were HUGE in the best possible way. And they died a tragic death in the hands of my daughter, who, when she was two, went on a spiteful sunglass busting bender. She just snapped every pair she could find: crack, pop, burst, like a wishbone the week after Thanksgiving. I was devastated. In fact, I still am. I keep the left “arm” as well as the right “three-quarters” of these glasses on my desk as a reminder of who I used to be. They are joined by four other, less meaningful pairs, that were also busted by my baby. It’s a variable vintage sunglasses graveyard.

My current Sunnies are newer and slightly smaller (not by choice) and much less fabulous, but in quintessential Didion fashion, they are about three-and-one-half inches round and a muted grey (perhaps because I am still in mourning?)

7.      Do you have a critique group (and, if so, do they adore champagne, Joan Didion and chocolate)?

My group is The Groop. We found each other as undergraduates in Tom Farber’s creative writing workshop at UC Berkeley and after the workshop ended that semester we met at a wooden house on Ashby Ave. When the house burned down (true story), we took to meeting in various locations from San Francisco to Davis. We’ve known each other over 16 years and I still depend on their daily advice and critique (now virtual or phone-based). We prefer whiskey and gin, but we devour dark chocolate and Didion on a regular basis.

8.      Music: Yes, or huge no-no when writing?

Absolutely! Is there any other way? In fact, I’ve been known to create full soundtracks based on a single chapter, and if you’ve read the book, you’ll know my chapters are maybe three paragraphs in most instances. This means I have a lot of “mixed tapes.”

9.      Has your perception of Los Angeles changed/evolved since writing SO LA? Is it the same city for you, or better, or worse?

I was raised in Northern California, which is to say I was raised (through no fault of my parents) to hate Los Angeles. Even still, So L.A. is my love song to a city I adore. Sure, I’ve divorced the 405 freeway on several occasions, and La Cienega and I are still not speaking, but L.A. is my girl. I have always had a terribly difficult relationship with Los Angeles.  It’s messy.  It’s tumultuous.  It’s like that with things you love enormously. So when I came across this breathless quote by Michael Ventura, in his essay “Grand Illusion” I knew it was my epigram, it was the only place to start:

“The beauty [of Los Angeles] is the beauty of letting things go; letting go of where you came from; letting go of old lessons; letting go of what you want for what you are, or what you are for what you want; letting go of so much—and that is a hard beauty to love.”

So L.A. –dare I suggest like Los Angeles itself– is fraught with beauty and self-loathing. Not only do the palm trees of Sunset clash with the Central Valley combines that supply L.A. with the organic soy for its venti lattes, but I’m convinced that the tanned and toned flesh of most every Angelino secretly yearns for the soothing balm of an aloe wrap in San Joaquin starlight. When I first moved to L.A. I was told I would have to give up the levees and lakes of Northern California, where I was raised, in order to embrace the wave-crashed beaches of the Los Angeles enigma. Twelve years later, I realize that you can let go without relinquishing everything and that beauty, no matter how hard (or hard earned) is always, still beautiful.

10.  What are your exorbitant whims as a writer?

I (gasp, sigh) refuse to use quotation marks. Does that make me a diva? Can you even “quote” this?

11.  And, finally, what are you working on now?

I have a stack of fragments. I thought at first they were poems, but then I attended Tin House as a poet, which was new for me, and I learned they were most certainly NOT poems.  So I’m sticking with fragments. Collectively I call them “And Down We Went” after T.S. Eliot’s “The Burial of the Dead” (which I am told certainly WAS a poem). They are about magic, and madness, and motherhood. In the opening “segment” a woman marries a house. It makes perfect sense to me.

Thank you, Bridget! #3 is FASCINATING, the quote in #9 so true it hurts. Thank you for such a wonderful interview. The next time you visit, this blog will be serving generous mugs of Blue Bottle coffee. For more information on Bridget and to order So LA, see below for bio and links.

Author Bio:

Bridget Hoida lives and writes in an imaginary subdivision off the coast of Southern California.

In a past life she was a librarian, a DJ, a high school teacher and a barista. In this life she experiments with poetry and fiction and has taught writing at UC Irvine, the University of Southern California and Saddleback College.

Bridget is the recipient of an Anna Bing Arnold Fellowship  and the Edward Moses prize for fiction. She was a finalist in the Joseph Henry Jackson/San Francisco Intersection for the Arts Award for a first novel and the William Faulkner Pirate’s Alley first novel contest.  Her short stories have appeared in the  Berkeley Fiction Review, Mary, and Faultline Journal, among others, and she was a finalist in the Iowa Review Fiction Prize and the Glimmer Train New Writer’s Short Story Contest. Her poetry  has been recognized as an Academy of American Poets Prize finalist and she was a Future Professoriate Scholar at USC. She has a BA from UC Berkeley and a Ph.D. in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Southern California. So L.A. is her first novel.

Links:
www.bridgethoida.com
Face Book: Bridget Hoida
Twitter: #BridgetHoida
—
So L.A. a novel by Bridget Hoida.
Online and in bookstores June 20, 2012

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Quote For The Weekend (Father’s Day Edition)

Posted on June 17, 2012 by PB Rippey

On his way to new fatherhood

If the new American father feels bewildered and even defeated, let him take comfort from the fact that whatever he does in any fathering situation has a fifty percent chance of being right.

—Bill Cosby

LATELY, our preschooler insists that while he brushes his teeth, his dad count to 10 in Spanish. Then French—with guttural accents. Then “Dubai”, which means 10 grunts, each uttered in a different octave and each with its own bizarre facial expression. Teeth brushing has now gone from 5 minutes to 15, delaying bath and bedtimes, our son crumpling with giggles when Dubai comes around, foamy toothpaste streaming from his mouth. Rather than teaching proper teeth brushing skills and making it clear that people in Dubai do not count to 10 like cavemen on speed, my husband tries harder to make the boy laugh. Every. Single. Night. Someday, in language or cultural studies class, our son will find out our lie and feel betrayed by his parents. RECENTLY, honoring my son’s Ninjago obsession, I allowed him to watch Ninjago episodes without prescreening them. How violent could little Lego dudes in Ninja wear get, I thought, carelessly. The next time I let him watch Ninjago episodes, I watched with him. I cut the viewing short after 2 minutes. Little Lego sticks can do a lot of damage bonking everything that moves and knocking little Lego heads off of little Lego bodies with adequate sound effects, etc. What I did to ease the disappointed sobs from my son: switched to Power Rangers. LAST NIGHT, we had guests. I served up a fancy meal with a fun dessert. I served my son cheese pizza and a juice box, let him eat more than 3 petit fours and stay up far past his bedtime which, the rare occasions this happens, still means he rises at 6:30a.m., if not earlier. Today, he is a wreck. Now that’s good parenting!
PS. Happy Father’s Day.
PPS. Spinach pancakes for dinner tonight, no dessert.

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Quote For The Weekend (Ray Edition)

Posted on June 10, 2012 by PB Rippey

Thank you, RB.

If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go into business, because we’d be cynical. Well, that’s nonsense. You’ve got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down.

—Ray Bradbury

You’ve probably come across this particular quote as it makes the rounds on Facebook. What I love are comments from people saying they’re finally going to read Farenheit 451 or other novels they missed reading in high school or college. When I was 10 or so I read The Illustrated Man and was especially affected by The Veldt, which exudes a sort of matter-of-fact creepiness that has haunted me for decades. He was prescient, to say the least. His books are staples in our home library, of course. Man, those creepy kids——

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Wrinkly Time, Melamine

Posted on June 8, 2012 by PB Rippey

Wrinkle, wrinkle, little sea…

I recently discovered that anything made of melamine, i.e., my preschooler’s plates and bowls, should not be tossed into the dishwasher. Ever. And if you make a knife cut in melamine? Chances are toxins will seep into your child’s food. Maybe not harmful amounts of bad stuffs, but MAYBE. Adios melamine, hola Green Eats dishes recommended by Safe Mama dot com, although still not recommended for the bloody dishwasher (by Safe Mama dot com), even though Green Eats gives their products the dishwashing green light and MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE.

So I handwash a lot of dishes. As I’m fused to the sink soaping primary colored plates and bowls, I reflect on many things, including all things domestic, things I forget about until I’m washing dishes, after which I forget about them again until the next time I’m washing dishes, and many things writing related (pg. 211’s dire fin flip—yes? No? Too much?), and more often than not I’m reflecting on the maddening price I pay for having soul sisters, which is: They must live so far away from me that communication is possible only through Facebook, Skype (the timing of which no one can ever coordinate), and emails.

P lives in a Singapore skyrise. Her balcony comes with an astonishing view I’ve witnessed only on Facebook. Moisy lives in a country town with stone bridges, fat swans and a tea shoppe lifted from The Shire, a world away from my deserty Western valley. I have known P and Moisy for twenty-something years and am never able to comprehend how twenty-something years just happens. It’s nineteen eighty something and we’re graduate students in England, skipping Laban class to picnic by our favorite canal, drink French wine and deliberately not discuss anything having to do with searches of/for lost time. We’re running flat out (with screams) through Paddington Station to catch the last train home. Practicing fencing in my landlord’s overgrown garden, pausing between thrusts to stuff our faces with Hob Nobs and slurp French wine from teacups. Pushing up the sleeves of our black blazers and adjusting our Molly Ringwold skirts (well, mine, anyway), primping for a night out in London. Drinking French wine and watching Betty Blue, agreeing it’s the most amazing movie we’ve ever been brutally disturbed by. Or it’s nineteen ninety-one and—oops. A Green Eats plate has fallen to the floor. I hope it isn’t scratched. I believe it’s made of non-GMO corn, so how can there be toxins, but still. I hear my son practicing his Ninja moves in the living room. Ninja! he shouts, meaning himself. A bottle of French wine chills in the fridge…

Look: My son will be 5 in November (baffled exclamation). P has yet to meet him. Moisy’s children are in their teens, wot! There, now a Green Eats bowl has fallen and rolled straight to the dog’s paws. Was it a mistake to watch John Carter and The Time Machine in the space of a week? In 50 years I’ll be in my 90’s. Older than Molly Ringwold, younger than Madonna (somehow this is important). My preschooler will be grown, long PADI certified and running the Dolphin Rescue Center Emporium he will found fresh out of college. What will I reflect on as I handwash my space-age dishes in my retirement pod? Will my soul sisters finally be my neighbors? Will we still primp for a night out together? Will we prefer Jovian wine to French? Will we agree we are all wise enough to choose Swann’s Way for our book club selection? And: Will my novels finally be published?

Tonight, as I sit in the writing chair, I will channel my inner Burroughs/Wells and see what sort of docx is born. After handwashing the dinner dishes.

And counting my blessings, which include certain blonde Ninjas, vigilant moms who research the meaning of Safe and share their findings, sisters and sleep.

No, this is not a snow goose.

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Short Story Writing Drama

Posted on May 30, 2012 by PB Rippey

No wonder it’s taking me so long to revise…

Because I’ve been a Glimmer Train Finalist several times and, once, long ago, when GT published poetry, a Top 25 Finalist, and because, of course, GT is one of the best fiction journals in the country, I subscribe and receive emails warning of the next submission deadline for whatever category is in the loop. Lately, after receiving such an email, it occurred to me that although I manage to get out the occasional poetry submission (hello poem coming out in Askew Poetry Journal any minute now), it’s been ages since I’ve submitted a short story. And about two weeks ago all those ages and GT emails messed with my psyche. Remember the movie Jacob’s Ladder, when Tim Robbin’s face goes all kooky in the mirror? My brain did that and the next thing I knew I was toiling and tooling a chapter of my adult novel into a short story. Perhaps reading, A Visit From The Goon Squad, had something to do with the brain-spin, too–if you’ve read it, you’ll know what I mean. What the toiling and tooling did, in addition to excite me about my own work—and exhaust me—was slam me with another brain freakout:

I should be giving each of my chapters close line readings every time I read them—I don’t mean turning each chapter into a short story, but providing each sentence and often each word scrutiny deserved.

Well, PB, you say—er, of course?

It’s like this (for me): I skim over certain bits in a chapter without realizing I’m skimming, because way back in some other writing/revising time my creative mind insisted, That part is fine, move on, when actually that part is not fine at all, not after revision/evolution, not when everything else around that part has been closely read, pummeled, invariably tweaked, and/or tossed a lifeline.

Still—elementary, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I’m living that huge chunk of my life that is outside of my nightly writing life (housewiving, mothering, cleaning up cat gak,  pedaling the exercise bike while catching up on Sherlock via the—atrociously sweat streaked—Kindle Fire), it’s too easy to forget that close attention must be paid at all times.

All times, all bits, PB.

Vigilance.

 I am thankful to be reminded.

Posted in Adult writing, books, Children's Books, Fiction, Writer's Angst, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Guest Blogging

Posted on May 29, 2012 by PB Rippey

Guest blogging for the Muses!

Yesterday, which I thought was Sunday due to the 3 day weekend and synapses firing improperly or not at all after my husband and I watched a late-night Sunday (which I thought was Saturday) Mad Men marathon accompanied by intensely seasoned Chinese food, popcorn, homemade quiche and horchata—because I thought it was Sunday and not Monday, I didn’t realize my guest blog post was up at the YA Muses. You can read my guest blog post by clicking HERE and hopefully you’ll stay and check out the wise tips the Muses have to offer—and there are quite a few. Always. I’m telling you, it’s a wonderful site no matter the genre you’re writing in.

AND, while you’re clicking around, check out Miss MOL’s review(s) of Fifty Shades Of Grey. I titter. And, by the time you’ve clicked over there, hopefully she’ll have some photos up of her recent trip to Santa Rosa Island, CA. Recent meaning yesterday. Pictures for all beach-heads: those obsessed with more-than-relatively-unspoiled islands that do not include residents, food trucks, civilization as we know it (i.e. toilets), or toilets.

Happy writing week! Um, Tuesday on…
P (the heck) B.

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Quote For The Weekend (Super Late Richard Henry Dana, Jr. Edition)

Posted on May 28, 2012 by PB Rippey

2 yrs b4 the mast—whippings, manual lbr, butiful coast & idle Califs.

“The Californians are an idle, thriftless people, and can make nothing for themselves. The country abounds in grapes, yet they buy, at a great price, bad wine made in Boston…” 

―Richard Henry Dana, Jr.

Well, Sir—we’ve come a long way. Dana Point has plenty of fine California wine to offer in the 21st century, Jack’s banana pancakes, original surfwear and surfboards, creative gourmet cuisine and, yes, idle (sated, inebriated) Californians lounging on sexy/gleamy decks of high-end power boats in the marina. I myself, a 7th Generation idle Californian (as idle as any devoted mother can be when not overseeing the wiping of a certain precious bottom, cooking, cooking, vacuuming, or answering provocative questions like Mama, who is Nixon?…), idly (gratefully) watched pelicans glide from the patio of the—but the name of the restaurant doesn’t matter. The Wind & Sea, Surf & Tar Blob, Tide & Tumult, Sails and Scoundrels. I lunched (so deliciously idly) on battered jumbo shrimp my father insisted I try, though I’m squeamish when it comes to the dietary habits of shrimp, halibut, scallops and would much rather have ordered the vegetarian cobb salad. But the obvious pain (winces with time lapses of several seconds) on my father’s face when I hinted at my choice moved me to quickly (not idly at all) order a grilled cheese for the boy, battered shrimp and a giant soda (I never drink soda–my idleness at work!) for me and I deftly (not a hint of idleness in my character–how perverse I am) changed all subjects to sky, fishing boats and the statue of a very muscular and book-clutching Mr. Dana studying sky and fishing boats, contemplating the idleness of Californians in perpetuity (with–it’s possible!–the temptation to try a little idleness out for himself–2 years is a long time before the mast with a sadistic captain in charge), statue-foot up on a statue-pier-piling/cleat thing (the sort of nautical-ish object sleepless mothers can never remember proper verbage for), mesmerizing all idling locals and tourists in his apparent mesmerization of the pulsations of the great Pacific. Dude. Ahoy.

The battered shrimp was heavenly. I will order them again the next time we visit my father, a man whose I told you so is unspoken, not smug and correct (this time), so that my better nature swiftly returned strong upon me. Somehow. After all these years.

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Roar While You Can

Posted on May 21, 2012 by PB Rippey

I picked up the preschooler from his place of happy learning and song and drove him up the coast to a museum party celebrating a new installation of animatronic dinosaurs. My husband phoned as I stood in a vast, beamed hall filled with excited children. You know, he said, at least you’re not that old, as old as the dinosaurs, ha, ha. No, he didn’t say that. That’s what I said to myself. And then I phoned my husband and said it to him, holding the phone out so he could hear the roar from a triceratops as big as a bulldozer and roar-bleats from her animatronic babies. What my husband said was confused gibberish and then he had to go. I followed the preschooler to the panting, roaring, slyly moving T-Rex and we both stood before it for some time, holding hands, knowing we shouldn’t be afraid, but feeling funny anyway. I felt scoured by the dino’s shifting yellow eye and was reminded, for about the 50th time, of trying on a sunhat at Target earlier that day while my son was in school and, to my shock, turning into an octogenarian. I thought hats were my friends. Apparently times have changed.

She moves. Her babies move.

It’s a big toy, my son told me and I assured him he was absolutely right, just a big roaring toy, not real. He led the way across a bridge to a woodsy little area set up with catering tables. Our dinner choices: a turkey leg fit for King Henry the VIII (or a T-Rex) with tiny roasted potatoes and salad for me, a small drumstick, skin on, French bread and salad for my four year old. No pizza? my son asked, looking at me with great confusion. I returned the look. Guess not, I said. Just chicken like you’ve never really eaten it before. Well…he said. Luckily they were serving plenty of lemonade and we sipped brimming cups of it and ate bread at a table beneath those other dinosaurs, oaks, branches spreading quietly over us like a bewitching benediction. That’s right. A freakin’ bewitching benediction. Not far from our table a creek murmured pleasantries and often children galloped by and my son would gallop after them for a bit, then return for more lemonade as I gazed up into the oaks and felt not twenty, not thirty-something, not middle-aged and not 80, but a tiny bit peaceful imagining humanity’s thumbprint on the world’s timeline—about as big as a T-Rex footprint, I thought, ocean-blue, remarkably imperfect and cast forever. My husband phoned. When you’re 95 you’re going to look back and wonder what the heck the fuss was all about, he told me. Okay, I said. Roar. As we left the museum in search of a beachside pizza joint, my son waved at the giant T-Rex. Bye, T-Rex! he told it. I’ll miss you! Several people around him smiled and said aw and placed their hands over their hearts as I scrounged in my purse for a tissue. I live with the future. How lucky am I.

Where they live.

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Pig Wings

Posted on May 14, 2012 by PB Rippey

Shh…She’s thinking. I mean, I’m thinking.

This M’s Day I opened up the kind of box obviously designed for special gifts and found a glass pig. According to the teeny tiny piece of paper that comes with her, the pig’s name is Penelope. Nestled into satiny material, I mistook her for an upside down frog with black eyes and faintly pink legs. When I realized the legs were actually wings, I stared at the glass object on my palm, voiceless.

“Because,” my husband said, “pigs can fly.”

When I looked at him, he had the slightly amused, yet ever-so-serious expression he wears when I’ve done something cuckoo-bird, like the time I tripped and spilled a mug of hot coffee all over my jeans on our first date, or when, hiking behind him on that jungle trail, I threw a rock over the edge of the cliff and screamed and made things worse by laughing hysterically at his reaction (I still laugh, which is why we never talk about it),  or when I attempted to open our hotel’s screen door the night before we were married in order to smash a lamp on the head of the guy who had just stabbed the hand of a tourist in the room next to ours and was crawling across our balcony escaping, or the time I came home driving a Mustang convertible, or last week when I locked my keys and cell phone in the car and sing-songed to my son as I bashed the laundry room window with a push toy, not realizing the window was double-paned and not at all like in the movies when people break into houses, and lately that particular look ignites whenever I moan about writer’s block).

“Pigs can fly,” my husband said with that look. “Don’t ever forget it.”

I looked at the pig. Its wings reminded me of cotton candy in sunlight, my son’s toes, Achilles’ amazing heels. With shaking fingers I tucked Penelope back into her satiny bed and slipped her box into my purse as we headed for the M’s Day breakfast joint. Between sips of a complimentary mimosa, I peeked at the box, then scowled at the open parasols hanging from the ceiling. I was working hard to keep it together, determined my son not be scarred for life by watching his mother leap from her chair and shriek-sob I LOVE MY PIG to her husband, then everyone in the restaurant.

The YA Muses recently blogged about objects of meaning and/or inspiration that they keep on their writing desks or wear around their necks and such and I truly get it now. Penelope was an instant mascot—instant winged muse. The kind who relishes flying into impossible odds—

When you hold her, she has weight.

Good pig.

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Quote For The Weekend (Wildlife Edition)

Posted on May 11, 2012 by PB Rippey

Pant hooting. Try it! Seriously. She’d say it’s okay.

You may not believe in evolution, and that is all right. How we humans came to be the way we are is far less important than how we should act now to get out of the mess we have made for ourselves.

If you really want something, and really work hard, and take advantage of opportunities, and never give up, you will find a way.

That I did not fail was due in part to patience….

—Jane Goodall

As I prepare suitcases and cooler and fill snack tins and pack supplies for a week even though we are only going overnight, I’m thinking about the writing and revising I won’t get done this weekend—and, truthfully, I’m a little relieved. Besides, it will be Mother’s Day and now that I am a mother I get it, I get it and am looking forward to a room service breakfast with husband and preschooler. This weekend we will visit the San Diego Wild Animal Park and ride a tram and my son will get a good look at the African animals he so admires—non-taxidermied animals, for a change—living dioramas. I will point out the wildebeasts and lions and expostulate on why antelope lounge rump to rump in circular formations, all the while utterly aware of the crowbar in the backpack by my side in case there’s an earthquake and chaos theory takes over and the animals escape and we must bash our way to safety because this is the extent to which I’ve evolved and I’m not proud of it, but I’m a mother and we carry many vital items in our purses and backpacks in addition to extra underwear for the entire family and sunblock. Because you just. Never. Know.

Happy Mother’s Day to the mamas. May your bellinis be strawberry and extra cold. May your pant hoots be joyful and inspired.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, Fiction, To Explain, Writer quotes, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Oak Drug

Posted on May 7, 2012 by PB Rippey

Oak trees are my valium. Last Saturday I listened to friends chatting and a creek dance over boulders as I gazed up into a canopy of arms at all angles and a puzzle of jagged green leaves on blue sky and—zzzzzz. Whatever I fretted over all week was oaks-diffused the second I entered that grove. As with redwoods, I admire oaks for their longevity (the Los Angeles Encino Oak was 1,000 years old and a protected, celebrated landmark before it was slain by El Nino’s storms). But whereas redwoods contain that towering, majestical presence you want to humbly bow before, oaks are goofier seniors, hippie trees, Shiva-armed and inviting. In my backyard I have 3 potato vine trees. 5 young cypress (toddler sized). And corn. I like the easy rustling of the corn stalks. A pillowy aspect to the potato vine trees and their purple blossoms catch my eye whenever I pass the living room windows. The cypress? Pretty much flatliner material, although what wonderful sunblockers they’ll become some day (when I’m 90). I can write in my yard, but oaks and ocean slam me with ideas—and peace—every time—my tonics, Waldens, my snake charmers, Christmases, my Paris, my churches, reprieve from the red ink of revision. Have you hugged an oak recently? Thrown yourself down on your favorite beach screaming, WHAT WHAT WHAT?—mentally screaming—there are children on the beach—and sensitive hermits—hermit crabs—constantly freaked out sanderlings—tai chi groups—stern rangers—but the trees, it’s so easy to hug one, hug and receive and even if someone notices they won’t call 911—the oaks won’t permit it. Try it. You’ll see. Or sidle up and stroke a limb. Or be braver and press your forehead to the bark for one minute. And then call me up and tell me I’m not crazy.

Please.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, Fiction, ocean related, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Trickle-Down Poem For May (Thank You, April)

Posted on May 1, 2012 by PB Rippey

Full Flower Moon

May (mostly), the petticoat swirl of rising
pink meadow, petite showers, buds. I say:
rose, peony, phlox. And I say: petal-
shorn, plucked, blown until only the head
remains, one pale sticky oval crushed by u-
niverse so formidable it upgrades the dead
into blossoming…Old flower-face–you!
Cruel palette-eye! Where, where is your color?
I say: dearest, warmest, sugar-phlox fairy.
Dare I say: more. It’s May (mostly). And I am
showered and sweet beneath puckered
moon, stem right behind an ear. I am thigh-
deep in meadow and I must know: are you
dressed? Staunch, seasonal gloom cut? Dancy
blue-fires broken through? Show me.
The moon requires it. I confess: May. More.
I confess the kiss: a peony, phlox, a peony,
phlox, a peony, phlox,
the rose.

—PB Rippey (circa 2002, when full moons were a nightly occurrence)

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Quote For The Weekend (Feverish Edition)

Posted on April 29, 2012 by PB Rippey

There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before.

—Henry David Thoreau

In the cocoon with a flashlight. Outside of it all, I hear the preschooler testing his dad, house finches colonizing the trees (since 5:00 a.m.), the dog having his say, some animal scratching at the bedroom door, making the tiny bell attached to its collar sing. This I know: the lawn is mowed at last, sun is a focused summer lens, the novel The Descendants is far better than the movie, strangers are following me on Pinterest, a manuscript tucked into the memory stick in the drawer of my nightstand has the pipes of a foghorn, things buzz and just as I’m nodding off into blackness, the aroma of cat pee wafts from the bedroom closet because I failed to close certain doors in a timely manner. Yes: metaphors are buried in fathoms beyond my powers of exploration. Sad, this. Yes: not even the cocoon blots thought. I repeat: there’s gold beneath that sneeze, that groan. I mean good. I mean, whatever those early transcendentalists offered:

I’ll take it.

Posted in Quotes, Writer quotes, Writer's Angst, Writing Progress, WTF | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Get Thee To Rivendale

Posted on April 27, 2012 by PB Rippey

If you're sick, this is the place to be.

Whenever I feel the slightest hint of a scratchy throat, whenever I’m knocking back the EmergenC or playing The Ladybug Game for the 5th time with a box of tissues in my lap, whenever I’m carrying on despite what I know is pending onslaught of flu, the second my preschooler is down for the night, I struggle into the bed that is suddenly Mt. Everest, haul the laptop up to my chest and freak out my husband by whispering: Froooooodo, Froooooodo…Gollum. Gollum. Sam?

And then I am one with LOTR, until sleep takes over (which is never before Liv pulls Frodo to her stylish Elven cloak and cries on him).

Tonight, I’ve resisted LOTR and instead gazed at the same page of my manuscript for an hour, my mind plotting what will go into tomorrow morning’s smoothie, revisiting that one thing that one person shouted that one unfortunate time, wandering the aisles of IKEA Burbank, ransacking my closet for appropriate shoes for Saturday’s Day Out With Thomas, imagining a yoga mat patterned in ocean—oh. Yes. Etc.

Just. Be. Sick. My husband’s advice as he watches me torture myself with checking out vs. not writing. If I could just Hulu and not know that I wasn’t writing! If I could just Frodo my way into the weekend without guilt—or, not guilt, something worse–something so all-seeing and fiery when looked at properly, I scream. And maybe throw up.

Note: after my yoga sessions, I meditate. Meaning: the world flies like Oz monkeys into my brain for 10 minutes during which I madly process, delve and deflect while breathing as though I’m calm—and then I ask a question. There is always an answer. Lifted from that Nike commercial.

Just do it.

I’m sick! Gollum, Gollum—hear that? See my misery? I think I’ve been stabbed! Whimper. Precious.

Just. Do. It.

Que?

Ser rapido.

Pardon? Padrone? Tecate? Bueller?

Donde esta el bano gringa.

Ah, si, si—no se. Gollum! No se.

Riiight. Sleep. Comprendes?

I am not one to shirk my Higher Self. And hopefully not one to throw up anytime soon. Studies show that throwing up may cause—

Pretend I am wielding a staff above your head. The staff has knocked your head. Quite hard. There was a sound. Like that of a stick meeting a nut.

Good night.

Posted in Avoiding My Writing, Fiction, Writer's Angst, writing, WTF | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Spring Spirit Conference, 2012

Posted on April 25, 2012 by PB Rippey

Not a Starbucks for miles.

What a delightfully smooth, well-run, 1 day conference. As I drove away, the GPS taking me on a spooky off-the-freeway-then-back-on mini-adventure, as I sped past miles of crops (previously mist-blanketed, cooling off from a day of baking in 93 degrees), as the seamy-red, YOU NEED OIL BABYDOLL! light flickered on, shocking me, as Prarie Home Companion kept me calm, I asked myself if driving hundreds of miles to Rocklin was worth my time and effort.

Why, yes—it was.

The best panel of the day was put on by none other than my heroes, the YA Muses. Not only did they give a professional, in-depth talk on revision, but they also gave us candy. Visit their website all week for a recap of their panel. If you are in the midst of revising, you must visit them. I’ve said it before, I’ll keep on saying it: YA Muses is a treasure trove of info, no matter the genre you’re writing in. Plus, I can vouch that they are nice. Professionalism and niceness—what could be better? Go read them. Go see.

Lin Oliver was entertaining and informative with another list of advice. Follow Your Weirdness remains a list highlight. Also, starting your novel on the day (close to the actual second) when your Main Character’s world changes forever was a tip to take home and mull over. Lin critiqued my manuscript’s first 20 pages. Her comments were to-the-point, delivered sometimes with humor and always with a sense of care and consideration for the work. Her notes were a happy antidote to that other critique I received.

I met people, took notes, napped for 10 minutes in the minivan, took notes, stretched my legs and wiggled my toes, breathed in the information.

And then I returned to my father-in-law’s, where my preschooler promptly squealed out a detailed account of his first miniature golfing experience. I didn’t get farther than the living room rug, where I collapsed, chatty little lovely morsel in my lap, my husband massaging my shoulders. A glass of local merlot and a salmon/roasted potatoes dinner from my father-in-law capped off that reunion. Well! Life is full of extraordinary ordinary blessings.

Back home in the Valley-Of-The-Constant-Bake, my son in school, the dog snoring next to me on the bed in my office, it’s time to go over my notes and get to work. With a mini-Snicker’s bar. Courtesy of those wonderful Muses.

Posted in Children's Books, Fiction, middle grade, Steps In Promotion, Writer quotes, Writing Progress, Writing Tips, YA Novels | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Quote For The Weekend (Roadtrip Edition)

Posted on April 19, 2012 by PB Rippey

What is the feeling when you’re driving away from people, and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? -it’s the too huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.

—Jack Kerouac

I saw Jack Kerouac once. He was crossing the USC campus. You wouldn’t have known he was younger than me due to the crease between his brows, but it was him, semi-buff in his black muscle T-shirt, black cowboy boots and black jeans and perhaps he wasn’t Kerouac at all, but James Dean and he was younger than I was, too, shaking his head as he walked towards Kirk, alone, hitting the air with his hands as though he was so, so sorry. I never felt so old. Wiping the tears from my face with all of my fingertips, I found a tree as fast as I could.

And I hugged it.

Until campus security made me let go.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writer's Angst, writing | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Tulip Red Umbrella

Posted on April 17, 2012 by PB Rippey

In case you missed it, Carol Muske Dukes has an appreciation of Adrienne Rich right here, in the Sunday, 4/16/12 edition of the LA Times. There you will find reference to a tulip red umbrella and its owner.

Speaking of Carol, if you weren’t at the 2001 AWP conference in Palm Springs, you missed The Pink Tuxedos and experiencing Rita Dove’s gorgeous singing voice. Don’t despair. Here is a  link, right here. Thanks for the link, Carol—I finally watched the video after all these brief, whipsnapping years.

Quote For The Weekend will come early this week as I prepare to depart (road trip style w/husband, preschooler and Kindle Fire) for the Spring Spirit conference in Rocklin. Apparently the conference is sold out. I’m quite excited to attend. The YA Muses will be there and you can bet their panel will be informative and interesting. Hopefully Beth Hull will be there, too–although she might skip it in order to bring new life into this world. It’s supposed to be 85 degrees in Rocklin. Gah! For a year and a half now each month has had a heatwave tucked into it. It’s only April. Where’s the sunblock.

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KNOCK IT OFF, CUCKOO

Posted on April 16, 2012 by PB Rippey

OF COURSE IT'S A CUCKOO!!!

Please go to this wonderful post by Beth Hull and read—especially if you are a certain literary agent. Or any literary agent or critiquing-type who believes they are so busy and important it’s perfectly fine to be brusque and quippish instead of constructive. I’m busy, too. And extremely important around here. I work hard, too—whenever I can, even when driving home from visiting a terminally ill dad—which is another thing Abrupt Critiquer types should be aware of—that perhaps their victims are experiencing upsetting circumstances, so THINKING TWICE OR MORE before hitting the Send button is very smart, vs. delivering impatient remarks that only madden the already exasperated (cue cuckoo). A pinch of graciousness when critiquing, no matter how irked you are by whatever it is you’re reading, garners gratitude and respect (gratitude and respect are GOOD—Google them, you’ll see it’s true—G and R help the world rotate). And, Crusty Critiquers, remember: studies show that victims absolutely will not send you their novels again, despite your passive-aggressive invitations to once the quipped suggestions have been incorporated into the novels passionate works of art—not even if you are The President Of All Literary Agents, or Universally Popular And Obviously Exceedingly Clever Not To Mention Massively Experienced. Writers understand about killing darlings. We get it. We’ll do it! We’ll slaughter away. But if you prick us: we bleeeeeeeeed.

Oh, look: the sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day.

As I was saying, Beth is wonderfully wise and if she ever decides to become a professional Critter (in addition to Novelist, that is), she will be hugely successful. She will have a waiting list 10 years long. I highly recommend her post. It’s never too late to grow (up).

Yours in rants and a date with the yoga mat,

P the heck B

Posted in books, Children's Books, Fiction, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Quote For The Weekend

Posted on April 14, 2012 by PB Rippey

The whole wide sky of him.

Once the realization is accepted that, even between the closest human beings, infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole and against a wide sky!

            –Rainer Maria Rilke

Driving my son to school, paused at the intersection of Corbin and Sherman Way, barrage of rain on the minivan, wipers working at top speed, I glanced at the DIY carwash on the corner. Lo! An SUV was in a slot, being soaped. Washing your car in a rainstorm. Only in LA?

As I left the supermarket, scrunched under my umbrella, tucked into my coat and scarf and big boots, rain a waterfall of smarting pellets—a small, 200 pound woman spilling out of her short-shorts and tanktop used her shopping cart like a scooter. Wheeeee! she cried, soaring across the parking lot, utterly drenched. Wheeee!

Driving home from Trader Joe’s, wipers about to fly off their hinges from unaccustomed use, red light at Canoga and Van Owen. Road builders! my son shouted joyfully at the mess on the corner and just as he said this a thirty-ish looking man wearing a backpack and no hat in the deluge charged an orange traffic cone. As we watched (watchers included: myself, my son, the road builders huddled miserably under their canopy, jaws slack), the man jumped the cone successfully. On he galloped, to the bustop. When I drove by him, his proud smile was still in place. I honked. My son laughed. Thunder.

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Not A Zombie

Posted on April 11, 2012 by PB Rippey

Am not!

1. Recently I slouched on a bale of hay, waiting for my son to appear at the bottom of a tube slide attached to a combine machine turned playset. A boy of about 10 popped out of the slide first, then his mom. She stood, wobbly from the fast ride. Her sunglasses caught mine. “He is a special needs boy,” she told me at once, as if I might be judging her for being on the slide. “So I must teach him everything.” I smiled and nodded. “It’s a whole other world,” she said. “I understand,” I assured her, frantically searching for something else to say because I will never understand all she has been experiencing in her world. I didn’t want her to think I was presumptuous, or unfeeling. “Thank you,” she said, shocking me, and lurched after her son who was off to explore the stationary tractors. I was groggy from a night of frequent wakings by my preschooler. I needed coffee injected into my veins. The April heatwave was putting me to sleep…Still. I should have said more. Screams from my son as he popped out of the slide— my sweet, gorgeous little world in action.  I wish I had said more.

No Zombie!

2. We hiked through ploughed fields to a well-attended Easter egg hunt. Our son raced ahead of us, singing something and swinging his Easter basket. I hurried after him, passing a mom who, according to my husband, was saying this to her little boys: And then Jesus returned from the dead. But he wasn’t a zombie.

3. Driving up Topanga Canyon, in and out of exquisitely rounded shadow, my son snoozing in the backseat, jazz on the radio, sun glossing canyon walls—the town center always surprises me, appearing just as I’m sinking into total nature bliss-out.Red light. At first I dismissed her: your average person crossing a street. But her bare feet caught my eye, then the oversized blazer straight out of St. Elmo’s Fire and how her right arm was held strangely because perched on it was an enormous cockatoo, feathers billowing, staring right at me. As the bird puffed, I whispered, “What is this place.”

4. Plopped in an Adirondack chair made not of wood, but recycled materials (is it still an Adirondack, then?), April sky a fat blue ribbon over my yard, I checked email on the Kindle and opened a rejection letter. I deleted it and a mockingbird divebombed my head. As I ran for the house through a fresh pile of dog poop, I heard the ocean—but shook off that delusion along with my soiled running shoes. It was the ocean’s infamous stand-in: the Ventura Freeway, its hiss carried miles to my yard on wind flipping through my manuscript abandoned on the chair, messing with just about everything—rose petals, hose spray, my badly bunned locks, thoughts…How long, how long? Thank you.

Stop pointing at me!

5. Here, PB—an A for effort. HOLD ON NOW—you have a child you play with, a husband you talk to, multiple pets, a house you more than vaguely protect from a wheezy, dustbowl-valley environment, and you write—productively—you can write productively—when not blogging. You are no zombie (yet)! A+

Posted in dog, Fiction, Pets, Writer's Angst, writing, WTF | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Switched Hats

Posted on April 5, 2012 by PB Rippey

But is it waterproof?

All week I’ve taken a break from my children’s novels in order to scour my grownup novel—a few chapters a night. I have revised as I’ve read (of course), refusing to backtrack until I make it to The End. Or—something mostly kind of almost like that, in a way…

Switching hats. Leaping from the voice of an eleven-year-old girl into the mind of a late thirty-something (if she’s not lying)—a woman battling writer’s block, backstabbing poets (alive, dead and suicidal), a mysterious seaside town, a virtuoso violinst who has never been seen wearing anything but a skeleton costume and who goes by the name of Death, horrible weather, a great-grandmother who doesn’t realize she’s nothing but ashes (not to mention barefoot), a rogue movie director with a thing for pith helmets, an “earthquake”, Fit Moms Inc., an actor with an assumed name pretending to be someone he once was, and an ex-husband who has somehow resurrected himself from an ocean grave, unfortunately returning with the same irritating habit of quoting Plato that he left with. By Act II of my novel, should my heroine be presented with the butterfly piece in the picture above, she would whisk it to her head and declare she was wearing her exploded brain as a hat. Butterflies for brains? She should be so lucky! That is—if I can pull off the plot and bring her properly to life…Shh. Don’t speak. Dooooon’t speeeeeeak…Oh, my.Perhaps I should turn in early tonight.

I am seaweed.

It’s 10:06 p.m. Do you know where your pith helmet writing/revising armchair is? Well! Happy writing, then. Happy Easter egg dyeing. Happy bonnet wearing. Enjoy playing Richard Scarry’s Busytown game with your preschooler 100 times over the holiday weekend. And don’t call me in the morning.

Posted in Adult writing, Children's Books, Fiction, ocean related, Poetry, To Explain, Writer's Angst, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

3 Days Of Light

Posted on April 2, 2012 by PB Rippey

"In every outthrust headland, in every curving beach, in every grain of sand there is the story of the earth"---Rachel Carson

I’ve been visiting here since I was 4 years old and still this beach works magic on my psyche. At least, it feels like magic.

I don’t wait to be struck by lightning and don’t need certain slants of light in order to write. –Toni Morrison

Certain slants definitely act as lightning strikes for me. This particular light and I bonded. What came into my head as I powerwalked surprised and reminded me not to shove my mental papers under my mental carpets (they are mostly Victorian, paced to threadbare and permanently stained) when feeling overwhelmed, but to have faith in my imagination’s addiction to surprise parties. If I’d been at home (in my bedroom office typing away as the dog snored next to me, the usual threat of housework looming) instead of hoofing it along my beach into a challenging headwind, I’m not sure the same imagination-information would have come to me—or at least not as quickly as it did.

I’ve always disliked words like inspiration. Writing is probably like a scientist thinking about some scientific problem, or an engineer about an engineering problem. –Doris Lessing.

She’s right—especially when dissecting/creating/tweaking plot. But to feel excitement while waiting for something ordinary to ignite the sky with color—the mesmerizing quality of an evolving vista—what a sunset over ocean can produce in me?

Inspiration is definitely the word (take that you old synapsing, chemically attracting, brain affecting negative ions gone mad!), morphing into ideas that write themselves.

Mwahaha

Treasure.

Of course I keep coming back for more.

Posted in Fiction, ocean related, Pets, Writer quotes, writing, Writing Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Quote For The Weekend (Rich Edition)

Posted on March 31, 2012 by PB Rippey

Sleeping, turning in turn like planets rotating in their midnight meadow: a touch is enough to let us know we’re not alone in the universe, even in sleep…

—Adrienne Rich

Diving Into The Wreck made such an impression on me when I first read it and remains one of my favorite poems. And if you click here you can listen to Sharon Olds reading The Burning Of Paper Instead Of Children. Or read it here, but do read it. And, if you haven’t read the news already, here’s what NPR has written about her.   A great American poet who can never be read/taught/learned from enough. RIP.

Posted in Poetry, Quotes, Writer quotes | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Brief Blog Break

Posted on March 27, 2012 by PB Rippey

My beach.

I am stamping the blog with a poem instead of PB’s impressions as I prepare to hoof it out of town.  Hoping that this get-away reboots my brain and produces thousands of words as I work on a certain bit of sequel.

T H O U S A N D S.

Wrong to put reboot and thousands-of-words in the same sentence. See? Time to stick my face in ocean wind while the boy investigates tide pools (I don’t go on get-aways without my preschooler and I wish his father could come, too–I’m bizarre that way). It’s almost April and April is poetry month, I’m told, so have a pre-poetry month poem on me. Or, you know, have an everything bagel in a kind cafe (but not on me). Non-light cream cheese. A book (with covers and pages) or a journal (with covers and unlined pages). A contented sigh because you remembered to bring a pen with you (oh how you love yourself at this second!). A sip of coffee with your cream. And, later, a madeleine.

When

Cracks
in a cobble shaded by my sole.
Turret glimpsed through city elms.
My case thunking floorboards and you
flick on the television–no, not that.
Speaking encouraging bits to a stranger’s pair of black cats.
Toting bags of fruit and wine along a damp un-
familiar street as you sleep–that and figuring out
someone else’s keys in several Scottish locks and later,
from behind, the drizzle on your trenchcoat shines.

We adopted the same posture watching the vicious play, arms
crossed–that and handing my ticket to the man
with the tugged face Berwick-Upon-Tweed–no,
not that–my index finger tracing an outline
on iced window of North Sea fogging–no, not that–telling
the food and drinks trolley boy no thanks
with a smile that is American and overrated–that and kissing
my old friend’s cheek, then my bare foot

on carpeted, musical stair, pushing the door open with my knuckles,
lying beside you one last time in London–no, not that–the foxes,
British foxes on  a terrible 3am tear–shrill, cruel, violent; be-
side you, hearing trees shudder their leaves, all traps
sprung. That is when I feel it.
That is when.

Posted in ocean related, Poetry, Santa Barbara, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Kindle Kinks

Posted on March 26, 2012 by PB Rippey

This is my Kindle, this is my Kindle, I never travel without my Kindle (sung to tune of that one box-obsessed King's ditty in Amahl And The Night Visitors).

Kinks in my brain as I reach for pages to turn, repeatedly startled when THEY’RE JUST NOT THERE. The Content-O-Meter that obediently appears when I tap my finger on the screen does show me how far I’ve progressed in the book—but I miss being able to run my thumb along remaining pages of the masterpiece or fluff I’m reading and feeling satisfied, panicked or devastated by just how much reading is left. I worry about going from staring at a computer screen to staring at a Kindle screen late at night as I cram in minutes of bedtime reading. But I do like not spending as much money on books I have no intention of adding to my personal physical library. And I enjoy watching a movie while I ride the exercise bike…………

I am convinced that Kindles have the power to make readers miss books. Like trying margarine and realizing why you really love butter. Or switching from Crest to Tom’s and hastily switching back again. Or trying kale in your morning smoothie and then omitting it most of the time, not all, but most of the time. I enjoy my Kindle. But perhaps a happy balance between exploding technology and the latest hardcovers can exist. Why not? It’s a magnificent world. Long live Marginalia!

Posted in books, Fiction | Tagged , , | 4 Comments