Perhaps they are not stars in the sky, but rather openings where our loved ones shine down to let us know they are happy.
—Eskimo Legend
RIP Cousin Carolyn. You are missed.
We crawl out of the masterpiece, brushing beach sand from our legs, welcomed by pets, baby birds hatched and complaining in the former lantern hanging from the patio’s eaves, floors that need attention (especially behind the stove that is being replaced) and a lopsided gazebo that must be dismantled immediately as the wind-gusts that followed us home tear into it. Domestic chaos blooms—and it is good to be here in our personal late Spring mayhem, unpacking, reorganizing and then stopping all that to play soccer with the boy who stops all that to gallop with the dog while the parents recline on cool grass (until they’re trampled).
Then, suddenly, somewhere between dinner and bathtime, I check email.
She was only my age. No one knows, yet—apparently may not know for weeks—the how part. She was here and then she wasn’t. She is gone, but will never leave our thoughts or the house in which it happened, not for the sweet family who carry on living there. I always thought I’d see her again. This I took for granted. We all—family on this side of the country—did.
Then, suddenly, later that night I am seized by a flu. I lie awake fretting, my insides ebbing into illness, thinking about her, wondering if she knew, if it happened in her sleep, too fast for her to register a pain, a fear, any dire certainty. I almost wake my husband to tell him—what? It is just the flu, I think. You have a son to raise tomorrow. Sleep. But I can’t sleep because I’m remembering her, thinking bits such as: Death is only a horizon. Fragments. I think in fragments that enrage and frighten me. I know nothing, except that I am sorry. So sorry she is gone.
In the morning, the warm Spring persists. Details are sorted involving the sending of flowers. More emails are exchanged. Words shared. Shocking. Devastated. Awful. Of course we all want her back, but more than anything I want my cousin to have her sister back. I rise from my sickbed to behave like a mother. My son tries to make me laugh. There is that cat and that cat and that kitten. The dog plants his nose on my mouth. Outside, rose petals wafting, those tiny birds carrying on, bumblebees doddering in the potato vine tree.
Carolyn—I have no idea what death is. Carolyn! You will always be missed.
Beach as mental equalizer (despite persistent wind). Impossible to crack open a book or uncap a pen here (though not because of wind). The way the sand is riled, looks as though whole, transportable cities (twirling towers of particles) are whisking past my stripy towel, perishing on the bare legs of my husband and son as they search for anemones on those sun-baked rocks out there. I peek over my rock-break until wind sends me a mouthful of grittiness and I’m ducking again. One glance at the ocean has me dreaming and scheming about my novel. Shoot to the next morning as my husband and I powerwalk the still wind-rushed beach. I ask him what he’s thinking and for the next forty minutes we’re sharing thoughts on our writing. This is where the ocean sends us—straight to our creative projects. God how I wish we lived closer!
R. Dufy saves the day!
I am taking my little family, the dog, the new kitten, Mockingjay, sunblock and bathing suits and crawling into the photo on the left (yes, that strikingly cheerful Dufy masterpiece) for a weekend getaway involving serious beachtime, naps, organic salads and a baby blessing. My spouse, the Professional Writer in the family (at the moment) has been keeping odd hours due to a project involving the word: Lebowski (as big as it sounds—with a rug that really tied the project together…). He is overdue for a mini-break. And there is nothing like the ocean to inspire me to persevere with revisions, face fresh critiques and—all that. Until Tuesday (and the anticipated delivery of a new stove)! I bid you bon mots and bons vacances of the petit variety (j’ai oublie tout ma francais—merde). Or, in the words of 30 Rock: Suck it monkeys, we’re going bohemian. Woof.
Wonderful piece in the June Smithsonian about whale sharks. If, like me, you are an ocean fanatic (often more than just the armchair variety) and in the throes of revising your middle-grade novel that has everything to do with the ocean and many of her bizarre inhabitants, run to the newstand–or smithsonian.com. Although I feature a whale shark in my novel and have studied pez dama, Ca Ong, Rhincodon typus, I did not know that their gorgeous markings are unique to each individual fish. How did I miss this? Apparently scientists use a computer program “first developed to study star constellations” to identify a fish from its neighbor/cousin/best friend. I did know that whale sharks will descend a mile deep in the ocean and hang out in the dark and that no one knows why. I think they’re sleeping, escaping their increasing fan base, the paparazzi of divers and tourists eager to swim near the Jurassic “gentle giants”. I suppose a swimming paparazzi is better than those igniting flashes behind glass, viewing whale sharks in aquariums–a sight that brings me to tears, no matter the size of that incredible tank at Osaka Aquarium Kaiyukan. I won’t provide the link, I won’t! I will quickly move on to mentioning the Shark Lady, Eugenie Clark, an icon of mine. I would like to bottle the shark repellent she discovered and smear it all over myself when I flail-snorkel in tropical waters. Dr. Clark is the inspiration for a character in my middle-grade novel’s sequel, which involves sharks, whale sharks and a roving band of super angry eleven-year-old environmentalists slash amateur marine scientists who–hang on. Holy carp eggs! It’s bathtime for the boy. Where does the weekend go…
NIPR (w/uber-blur)
In a previous post I mentioned the YA Muses were holding a very generous contest. Winners would have the first 15 pages of their WIP or NIPR (novel in perpetual revision) read by one of the Muses. The grand prize winner would have 15 pages read by all four Muses. Yesterday I found out I was the grand prize winner. I am so pleased, grateful and frightened! Luckily I have evolved enough as a writer to welcome critique. And of course I relish critique from talented professionals. This is a wonderful opportunity. My pages are sent to the Muses and I await their comments with anticipation, curiosity and probably a bowl of homemade hummus and a roll of antacids. Thank you, Muses! You remain my favorite writers-on-writing blog. I learn something of value from each visit.
Kathryn Stockett on her rejections and perseverance in More.
Memorable quotes:
A year and a half later, I opened my 40th rejection: “There is no market for this kind of tiring writing.” That one finally made me cry.
After rejection number 40, I started lying to my friends about what I did on the weekends.
The point is, I can’t tell you how to succeed. But I can tell you how not to: Give in to the shame of being rejected and put your manuscript—or painting, song, voice, dance moves, [insert passion here]—in the coffin that is your bedside drawer and close it for good. I guarantee you that it won’t take you anywhere.
Sound advice for W r i t e r s L i k e M e (uttered through bullhorn in hurricane)
I wonder if that’s a Pottery Barn rug…
We have a new muse around here since Mother’s Day. He was this writer’s huge, completely unexpected, big-deal surprise. I’d forgotten how much joy kittens bring, endless chuckles for both adults and a little boy excited to share his toy train expertise, stuffed animals, tiny turtles and tree frogs collection, submarines and pillows with a rapt kitten-audience. At night, Diggory curls up for storytime on my son’s bed, staring at the book as though reading it, then joins me as I write, curling up on my shoulder, surrounded by my hair, purring. Yes, he wakes me up at 2 and 4 and 6a.m. by attacking my toes, scampering the length of my body, or my husband wakes me up with his yelps because Diggory has just clawed his arm, but it’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll sleep again when everyone grows up. I’m pretty much resigned to that. Hooray for the little ones and all the love we can give them. I am so—excuse me—what was I saying? zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
My brain on fraught...
“People always say that to be a good writer you have to read; that sounds like they’re collecting ideas and information. But what it ought to mean is that you have to be able to read what you write critically. And with distance. And surrender to it and know the problems and not get all fraught.”
– Toni Morrison
No whining when it’s hard to write/revise because:
1. because a dog charged your cats at 6:00a.m. and in her haste to control her animal, the owner, lunging across your front yard and bashing into the wall below your kitchen window, managed to turn off the water for your entire house, a thing you will discover after you—in a sing-song voice so as not to alarm the little boy eating his breakfast before Diego saving Baby Jaguar—dash outside in your mini-nightie to call your terrorized cats, finding one on the roof (the nimble one) and one on the ground by your back wall, huddled over an anthill, staring at you as though you’ve betrayed him and as you cuddle his largeness and carry him back into the house, you notice the woman with the offleash dog is whipping the dog with the leash she had all along and moving off and you can’t go after her because of Mr. Big in your arms and anyway you aren’t wearing anything under your mini-nightie, nor have you had any coffee so you simply head inside, hoping for the best.
2. because as your large, traumatized cat sleeps on your son’s oversized giraffe pillow and you vent enraged monolgues to the woman with the offleash dog who can’t and will probably never hear you, you notice your living room floor needs mopping.
3. because you Googled Scotchgard last night and found out it is full of nasty-sounding toxins, and yet the new (inherited) Oriental rug is already smudged because it’s so fun to move the coffee table and build pillow forts with your son as rug is so soft and gentle on the knees and also perfect for rolling around on when engaging in tickle fests and of course the dog loves to sleep on the rug and really it’s clean days are totally numbered and you need to take the time this morning—while your son enjoys preschool—to Google all-natural (if such things exist) carpet protectors; gah.
4. because you don’t live within sight of the ocean (yet).
5. because you are blogging about carpet protection instead of writing/revising.
And so you exchange your ridiculous, out-of-tune, puny violin for gratitude, remember that all is, in fact, exceptionally well and you return to work—after another cup of coffee. And taking a moment to proclaim: Long live Mr. Big.
Julian The Muse
If, like me, you welcome critique on your WIP, which is actually a complete novel you can’t stop revising, then visit the YA Muses and participate in their contest. The prizes are very generous. I hope I win. Something. Thank you, Muses, in any case–I so enjoy visiting your site for book reviews, writing tips and glimpses into the minds and experiences of published/about-to-be-published writers.
Speaking of muses, the included picture is of my morning’s perky muse. He monitored my every move, eyed the red chain on my reading glasses and emitted endearing whistles as I deliberately avoided Facebook, drank too much coffee and revised, revised, revised.
Perhaps it’s in bad form to compare this novel to the Twilight series, but I am struck by how much more horror-packed credible dystopia is than books with credible, contemporary vampires and their various friends and foes. Yes, I’m still in the shallow end when it comes to reading the YA genre, maybe only up to my ankles—but The Adoration Of Jenna Fox reeled me in immediately and lingers although the book is read, closed, shelved. Not only do I admire the author’s writing style and her talent for writing characters convincingly, but the subject matter is so juicy and so easy to accept as a part of our not-too-distant future that I couldn’t help but be riveted—couldn’t help but think. This book goes on the Special Shelf in my house starting to get cramped with books intended for my son when he’s much older than 3. I look forward to discussing Jenna Fox with him one day (along with Tin-Tin, Pullman, anything C. S. Lewis and Tolkien, Moomintrolls, spiders that speak to pigs, cauldrons that cause a lot of trouble, boys with weird scars on their foreheads, Scott O’ Dell, The Wizard Of Oz, Joan Aiken’s novels, Kipling—surely sooner than later—more Moomintrolls, Filijonks and Hemulens, etc.—that is, if he’s interested, of course…….)
PS. It’s May. May! It’s May…
For the love of nudibranchs...
If, like me, you are mad about the ocean and all manner of marine life, like googly transparent things with 10 stomachs that live at extreme depths and if you, too, receive the Holy Viperfishes, Batgirl! reaction when viewing a 35 pound anglerfish, then by all means fit your mask and snorkel in place, grab your coffee mug shaped like an orca’s head, get comfy in your wetsuit, kick your boogie-boarding-flippers up and, armchair deep-sea diver that you are, go HERE. Check the brightly colored tabs on the right side of the page and prepare to lose yourself in ocean oddity. Also, if you, like me, happen to have a 3 year old boy into tide pools, lionfish and Nemo, you will get much–and I stress it–much mileage from this link. Go. Dive in. Pretend you, too, could get up close and personal with a pygmy seahorse without worrying a shark is about to eat you from behind. It’s a wonderful world.
To be or not to be...
It’s April. I’m quiet. I’m revising. Being a vigilant mother. Cooking for house guests (i.e. Costco-ing for house guests). Hulu-ing Parenthood (help me, Obi Wan—it’s my only vice). Typing in my quips on Facebook (help me, O.W.—it’s my only other vice). Juicing oranges from our generous tree. Lining up vital crafts for certain peppy fingers. Working out (but not enough). Dreaming of Cornwall. Dreaming I’m on stage and have no idea what play I’m in. Engaging in teamwork—including stepping up to scoop dog poop from the lawn. Revising (repeat—repeat—repeat).
My new thing is copying a chapter from the current draft of my manuscript, pasting it into a fresh Word document, printing out the chapter, muddying it up with ink from my zebra pen, and transferring edits to said fresh Word document. This eases my mind as far as the cutting and slashing I’ve been experimenting with—i.e. by keeping my current draft alive as I create a current-current draft. THAT’S RIGHT, THIS IS THE GIBBERISH I WRITE AT 9:11 P.M. AFTER BEING UP AT 4:30 A.M. TO LET DOG OUT INTO CHILLY NIGHT, WIPE CAT GAK FROM THE HALLWAY, COVER BIRD AS FORGOT TO EARLIER, CHECK ON LITTLE BOY AND RETURN TO BED ONLY TO HAVE NIGHTMARE OF BEING ABDUCTED BY ALIENS. WHO PUT ME ON A STAGE. IN A PLAY. ABOUT WHICH I KNEW NOTHING. NOT TO MENTION MY LINES. Then up at 5:45a.m. For. The. Day.
Yes, revising is a quiet business. It’s best I get back to it. Good night. Sweet dreams (!!!). And please don’t ring the doorbell.
Zzzzzzzzzzz…
A striking thing happened this morning after dropping my son off at his preschool. I returned home, did not check email, vacuum up dog hair, make a Trader Joe’s list, stare intently at Yahoo news while groaning at the spelling errors, or workout with my DVD peeps. I wrote—and experienced: Happiness.
I never expect to feel happy when writing—not because I hate it, but because with an active, early-rising three year old, writing is about accomplishing what I can before the next little-boy event, rather than consciously enjoying the creative process. As I worked, I was on some level aware of the house finches in my front yard’s trees—instead of the dog snoring, cats gakking and/or the many lawnmowers of suburbia. When I glanced at my watch, two and a half hours had passed in a blink and my heart was fat with—I think it’s safe to say: Bliss.
Knowing I would grab my weird-coat that only I can love, minivan keys and the dog by 12:50p.m. and zoom to pick up my son made the morning even more—I’m thinking precious is the word.
Since I became a mother, life is always surprising me with its myriad of ordinary miracles and pockets of personal bliss I used to—I’m pretty sure, although life before my son and his early waking hours is persistently fuzzy—take for granted.
Tweet.
Little window
Amazing minus tide Friday in Santa Barbara (coinciding with—or because of?—the Super Moon). I forgot my camera, but my sister had her phone and all its very cool, very smart apps. The wind was up, so we couldn’t stay long—my boy still has a lingering cough—but we enjoyed what we got. Whether she’s wild or crazed or placid to the eyes, the ocean never ceases to inspire me with her colors and moods and artsy puzzles when she gathers up her skirts and takes a break from old beach. To see my son delight in tide pools? I mean—I hoped he would at least like the ocean and visiting the beach, but that he would squeal and yell I SEE ONE, MAMA, I SEE A HERMIT CWAB and get so excited by anemones and mussels and barnacles—perhaps we share an “ocean” gene. This is fast turning into a post for my other blog, so I’ll end here, and continue there, just a little, as Los Angeles is flooded by rain. Perfect rainstormy evening for revising.
Because sometimes tubeworms are da bomb.
The ever helpful YA Muses blog has wonderful posts up on the writing process and revision and what the heck writers do to make novels make sense (including cutting mass portions, creating charts—oh, go see, go see). The YAM posts couldn’t come at a better time for me as I struggle with revising Trouble Beneath The Waves—again. Laundry is going, animals are fed, Target run completed, teeth are brushed, bed is made, lavender plants are watered, Courtyard Hounds on “low” in the CD player, doors are all open, letting in the warm, pre-Spring sunshine and air. Aaaaaand—off I go to revise (3 hours until I pick the little man up from preschool). Yes, yes, yes.
Is the doctor in?
I need the sort of writing fever that allows multi-tasking. I need to be able to be ill AND revise a novel and engage the 3 year old and toss the tennis ball for the dog, fold laundry, garden (i.e. yank the dug up pencil plant from the dog’s mouth AGAIN and shove it back in the dirt), boil hot dogs and vacuum beach sand from the mini-van—all, all, all from my sickbed, which bears my impression for about 10 minute increments anyway, whether the Dadda is home to field juice box requests, or not (preferably home, though, in the name of all that is holy, preferably home). I escaped the flu in 2010—only to be struck down by it with accompanying headcold in February, 2011, the cruelest month (but mostly because of my birthday). There should be a gene ingrained in all mothers and writers that doesn’t allow us to get sick. Mothers for obvious reasons. Writers because sick means hulu on the laptop—which means Doc Martin—which means seasons 2 and 3, then frantic Google searches for seasons 4 and 1, which, do you know, can be purchased on Amazon for nominal fees and instantly watched. Brilliant, ‘en it? But then–when all of Doc Martin has been viewed and hulu is meaningless because it’s the darkness before the Oscar’s red carpet frillery, as I lie feverish and askew on too many pillows, the guilt sets in, powerful enough to keep me away from the Oscars en masse, and from Googling Cornish real estate for the windswept house on the cliffs with the view of dazzling, crashing ocean that is MINE MINE MINE in some life. This guilt intensifies as the little bluey icon that is my novel catches my eye on the laptop’s desktop when I accidentally minimize the browser window. And this guilt sets in permanently when my son says, “Mama play trains and lions?”, as I writhe on my sickbed—wait, no. That’s that other guilt. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” my husband suggests. He never gets sick. He does his Tibetan-ish deep-breathing-with-tongue-stuck-to-roof-of-mouth number, successfully warding off illness. Every. Single. Time. Usually. “You’re sick. Let it pass. Then pick up where you left off with your writing, revising, mommydom.” Um—okay!
Thus: February is the cruelest month, but March, tomorrow, is the month of:
D e t e r m i n a t i o n
Right, then! I feel so much better (instead of Bodmin*).
Cheerio, Doc Martin. I can’t believe I won’t see you for a whole year while you film your 5th season, but it’s probably for the best. I will take 4 Advil and call you up on hulu (or Amazon!) in 2012. Until then, I will dream of your scowl. Or—not.
Yours in Cornish pasties, wild surf and Tintagel in the sodding rain (not to mention adventures in potty training),
PB
*Possibly Cornish for insane.
Shawls of cool sea fog wafted along Anapamu Street just in time for the event, chilling the artists set up on the gallery’s front patio and across the way—in front of the hushed, monolithic library—attempting to capture the full moon on their easels. I was handed a glass of wine and introduced to poets and songwriters and artists and local bookstore owners and scientists and professors and musicians (their full-moon-playlist as easy on the ears as the gallery’s outdoor courtyard—subtly festooned in twinkle lights—was on the eyes). Even though I hadn’t read yet, I did it: Relaxed. The atmosphere required it. The distressing traffic from L.A. to Santa Barbara, worry that my son didn’t eat enough dinner or wouldn’t sleep 
for his grandmother, my weariness from sacrificing a nap in order to get into town—lifted with the fog (lifting to veil the moon). Everywhere I turned there was an appealing view, inside and outside the humming gallery. My introduction to Lockwood de Forest? The beginning of a wistful awareness of his art. Poems were read on a raised stage in the courtyard, into a standing, silver old-fashioned microphone—the best kind. I read my poem—and heard myself. Eventually we moved into the cafe for the kind of dinner my son would never stand for: Delicacies in vertical. Divinely complicated dessert. The moon, yes, the music, right, the art, of course, the poets, bravo!—but more: In the company of two of my sisters, discussing the paintings, sharing that wistfulness, wine, moon(s)— hearing them…My son not needing me for any of those magical hours…It’s becoming imperative that we find a way to move home.
A moon to read by.
On Wednesday, January 19th, somewhere between 630 and 700 in the evening, I will be at Sullivan-Goss An American Gallery, 7 East Anapamu Street, Santa Barbara, reading a few of my moon poems in conjunction with the gallery’s full moon event celebrating the paintings of Lockwood de Forest (on full gorgeous exhibit). I will be reading with poets Barry Spacks, Dan Gerber and songwriter/Oscar-winner/poet Will Jennings. I look forward to hearing what they have to say about the moon. If you’re in the area, please attend. It’s not often this tired Mama gets out to read—and in the company of such greatness and in such a beautiful gallery in the town that always renews my poet’s breath via a good, hard, endlessly inspiring beachwalk. Hope to see you there. The event is from 6 to 9p.m.
Gecenin Koynunda, "In the Night's Soul"
It’s going to take longer for me to reach my number one goal. I can’t rush this revision, even if I wanted to. Yes, domestics ALWAYS come into play when it comes to writing, such as: My son’s flu, this week-long California rainstorm and subsequent leaks in our attic, the cats gakking incessantly on things I love (the hallway carpet, some of my printed out poems) and don’t love so much (bills, the latest New Yorker)—and yet, chaotic domestics are not responsible for my not making my latest self-imposed deadline.
(cue flashback music—ooo weeee ooo—)
There was a poem I wrote that was accepted by a (paying) journal I had been trying for ages to get published in. Before I sent the poem out, I instinctively knew it was a piece that had taken me to another level of my own writing world. When the poem was accepted by the journal, I felt as if I had punched a hole in sky and wriggled on through the awkward opening.
(Glowy) Beach At Night
I feel similar with this current revision of Trouble. My critiquing is—refreshed? Wiser? I am happier with my edits and the notes I am taking as I pour over my work. I return to certain chapters and hopefully am enhancing pertinent goings-on. Deadlines are precious, but I can’t have one at the moment—or not one I can predict for this week. Possibly next—taking my laptop with me over Christmas—eager grandparents will monopolize the little man’s attention—I know where the nearest Starbucks is in H…
Public Art, Night
Have you visited YA Muses? They are a lovely, helpful, inspiring quartet, all with backgrounds, current writing-situations and future-talk I appreciate. They inspire me. They give me hope, or remind me that there is hope when it comes to writing the book, searching for publication and—well, you might give them a peek. I peek in at least twice weekly. Last week, I won a book from them. Since I’ve just finished The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins (yeah, I know: PB? You are the last person on the planet to read this book), I am ready for fresh bookmeat. The dystopian YA world, a genre I have never written in or read much of, is starting to uber- fascinate me.
And now? Back to the middle-grade genre and meeting my goals sooner rather than—next week. For the love of all frogfishes, happy revising!
My little shining writing-prize moment of 2010 made the Kite Tales newsletter. I am the giant on the far right. (???) I will never forget hearing the name of my book called out and almost falling off the auditorium chair, then galumphing down the aisle in boots I wasn’t used to wearing and that suddenly felt like Diver Dan’s silver, ocean floor thudding monstrosities. What a good day that was.
Not going to make my current deadline (see previous post, or—not), however I’m making great progress and improvements as I plough through Trouble. And, I am enjoying the process enough to make me cyber-shout: For the love of frogfishes, woo hoo! Pushing deadline to next Friday, if it doesn’t occur before then. Preschool (see previous post—or, you know, skip it) is a beautiful thing (he thinks so, too).
A frogfish
Sometimes, writing is better than Trader Joe’s Vegan Chocolate Chip Cookies, or Kauai. Although writing IN Kauai would be very nice. Am obviously delirious. Back to it, before the wonder child’s nap is up.
PB Rippey Writes 
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