Sarah Strohmeyer's Blog
April 28, 2016
Jackson + Juliet
In writing my upcoming YA book, THIS IS MY BRAIN ON BOYS, my editors were concerned about an arc involving two star-crossed students. The students are Chinese, pressured by their over-bearing parents to concentrate on school, not love. romeoWas the story line racist? Cliche?
The truth is, it never would have occurred to me to include these characters if I hadn't witnessed the blossoming - or, rather, wilting - of such a romance in my own home.
A few years ago, we decided to host a pair of Chinese exchange students, two fifteen year olds from the Szechuan province who temporarily adopted American names: Sam and Jackson.
Sam was the more immature of the two, still very much a boy. Every morning he came to breakfast in a baby-blue windbreaker zipped to the chin and stared in horror at the offerings: eggs, pancakes, cereal. (I finally broke down and gave them noodles!) He had narrowed down his colleges to two choices - Harvard or Oxford. His study schedule began at 7 a.m. and ended at 11 p.m. with a half-hour break for dinner. His only relaxation seemed to be a Nintendo DS and Gods of War.
Jackson, on the other hand was cooler. While Sam was prattling away about potential American boarding schools that had earned his strict grandmother's approval, Jackson would stare the window dreamily. Fortunately, he took to Charlie and it was while they were hiking up a mountain that he made his first confession.
"I have a friend," he said. "She's in another program, but she's come to Vermont and knows no one. She's very lonely."
"She's his girlfriend," Charlie said later. "He's desperately in love."
I was surprised. Jackson had never mentioned a girlfriend and, believe me, we'd asked. He was cute and very adolescent and that just type. "What are we going to do?"
"We're going to get them together, no matter what," said my husband, the sudden romantic.
Gradually, their story unfolded. Though Jackson and this girl attended the same school, her parents (or maybe his, Jackson wasn't entirely truthful about the details) had forbidden them from seeing each other. Supposedly, the excuse was that dating would eat into their schoolwork. Therefore, they would be free to see each other during the summer, right?
"No. Way." The host mother on the other end of the line was firm. "I'm telling you, I won't even consider it."
We had finally tracked down the girlfriend who was staying about forty miles away near Burlington in the home of a no-nonsense school nurse. She knew the girl's parents disapproved of Jackson and that they would be very upset if we facilitated their reunion. Moreover, as a school employee, the nurse worried her job would be on the line if something bad happened.
"Bad?" I said, shocked and kind of pissed off by this cranky attitude. This was young love here. This was passion in its truest form. How could something bad come out of a simple - and chaperoned - meeting in a park?
"Do you know the first thing this girl said when she walked in the door?" the nurse snapped. "How old do you have to be to be married in America?"
There was no cajoling. The nurse was so adamant she practically slammed down the phone.
That night, Charlie had to break the news to Romeo. Jackson was crestfallen, tearfully confessing that the only reason he and she had joined the exchanged programs was so their trips would intersect in heart fortuneVermont where, for one, brief, glorious interlude, they would be free to be in each other's arms. A Venn diagram of love.
So when I wrote about brainy kids at a summer program in New England, naturally my thoughts turned to Jackson for inspiration. It's rare to see parents here so dictatorial about whom their children do or do not date. While we might disapprove of our offspring's choices, I don't know anyone who's actually locked the door and taken away the car keys over a budding romance. Maybe you do. Or, maybe you have yourself.
For awhile, Jackson and Charlie kept up a chatty correspondence though, eventually, they drifted apart. I've often wondered if he and his girlfriend did, too, or, through some amazing divine intervention, they found each other at last.
I guess that's what fiction is for - to make finish the story when reality won't.
Sarah
The truth is, it never would have occurred to me to include these characters if I hadn't witnessed the blossoming - or, rather, wilting - of such a romance in my own home.
A few years ago, we decided to host a pair of Chinese exchange students, two fifteen year olds from the Szechuan province who temporarily adopted American names: Sam and Jackson.
Sam was the more immature of the two, still very much a boy. Every morning he came to breakfast in a baby-blue windbreaker zipped to the chin and stared in horror at the offerings: eggs, pancakes, cereal. (I finally broke down and gave them noodles!) He had narrowed down his colleges to two choices - Harvard or Oxford. His study schedule began at 7 a.m. and ended at 11 p.m. with a half-hour break for dinner. His only relaxation seemed to be a Nintendo DS and Gods of War.
Jackson, on the other hand was cooler. While Sam was prattling away about potential American boarding schools that had earned his strict grandmother's approval, Jackson would stare the window dreamily. Fortunately, he took to Charlie and it was while they were hiking up a mountain that he made his first confession.
"I have a friend," he said. "She's in another program, but she's come to Vermont and knows no one. She's very lonely."
"She's his girlfriend," Charlie said later. "He's desperately in love."
I was surprised. Jackson had never mentioned a girlfriend and, believe me, we'd asked. He was cute and very adolescent and that just type. "What are we going to do?"
"We're going to get them together, no matter what," said my husband, the sudden romantic.
Gradually, their story unfolded. Though Jackson and this girl attended the same school, her parents (or maybe his, Jackson wasn't entirely truthful about the details) had forbidden them from seeing each other. Supposedly, the excuse was that dating would eat into their schoolwork. Therefore, they would be free to see each other during the summer, right?
"No. Way." The host mother on the other end of the line was firm. "I'm telling you, I won't even consider it."
We had finally tracked down the girlfriend who was staying about forty miles away near Burlington in the home of a no-nonsense school nurse. She knew the girl's parents disapproved of Jackson and that they would be very upset if we facilitated their reunion. Moreover, as a school employee, the nurse worried her job would be on the line if something bad happened.
"Bad?" I said, shocked and kind of pissed off by this cranky attitude. This was young love here. This was passion in its truest form. How could something bad come out of a simple - and chaperoned - meeting in a park?
"Do you know the first thing this girl said when she walked in the door?" the nurse snapped. "How old do you have to be to be married in America?"
There was no cajoling. The nurse was so adamant she practically slammed down the phone.
That night, Charlie had to break the news to Romeo. Jackson was crestfallen, tearfully confessing that the only reason he and she had joined the exchanged programs was so their trips would intersect in heart fortuneVermont where, for one, brief, glorious interlude, they would be free to be in each other's arms. A Venn diagram of love.
So when I wrote about brainy kids at a summer program in New England, naturally my thoughts turned to Jackson for inspiration. It's rare to see parents here so dictatorial about whom their children do or do not date. While we might disapprove of our offspring's choices, I don't know anyone who's actually locked the door and taken away the car keys over a budding romance. Maybe you do. Or, maybe you have yourself.
For awhile, Jackson and Charlie kept up a chatty correspondence though, eventually, they drifted apart. I've often wondered if he and his girlfriend did, too, or, through some amazing divine intervention, they found each other at last.
I guess that's what fiction is for - to make finish the story when reality won't.
Sarah
April 14, 2016
Pigs and Dogs on the Lam
IN my other life, I am the Town Clerk of a scrappy community stuck in the Vermont woods. We're not given to much drama here except during mud season when nerves fray over the ruts on Molly Supple. (That's actually a road, not a saucy maid from Victorian erotica.) Or when some domesticated animal makes a run for it in the winter, which happens more than you'd expect in a season where temperatures frequently dip below zero.
The latest fugitive to grip our attention is Sole, a small collie who busted loose in December from a house in Middlesex while her owner was busy fixing Linda's hard drive. Linda's on our ZBA (Zoning Board of Adjustment), so she got on the horn to me and I got on the horn to Erika, the Best Animal Control Officer Ever, and we put out an APB for Sole.
She was spotted instantly and, unfortunately, several well-meaning residents tried to catch her. But as Erika will tell you, even the most pampered pooch will revert to her inner wolf when she suddenly finds herself in the wild, dodging hands and treats, leaping over fences with the agility of a tough coyote despite a prior life as a couch potato. Murphy the golden retriever eluded capture for over a year until Erika finally trapped him and then - poof! - he was instantly back to snoozing by the fire and snarfing Milk Bones.
4227895-Funny-little-red-billy-goat-in-a-road-Stock-PhotoAnd it's not just dogs who go crazy. For example, a billy goat was terrorizing Middlesex for the longest time, raiding people's garbage and emptying their compost piles. Tammy spotted him on Molly Supple (yeah, the road gets a lot of action) and tried to lure him back with a bucket of feed, but he bolted - only to ruin someone else's garden a day later. Finally, he was spotted again and this time Erika called Sue who happened to have a rag soaked in nanny-goat urine (as one does) and the two of them went out there, waving the pee-rag over their heads in what essentially amounted to a goat strip tease that sure enough lured him to the back of the truck. Sucker.
Tiny the White Pig was being carted to slaughter last fall and decided, "Screw this." Being some sort of porcine James Bond, he actually leaped from a moving vehicle onto the interstate and headed into our woods. This backstory was unknown to us when he first appeared by the side of I-89 on the first snow of the winter that was causing cars to skid all over hell's half acre. The state police were concerned, and rightly so, that the pig might attempt to cross the highway and cause a multi-vehicle pileup, so they parked by the exit and kept a bead on it.
Shooting was out of the question. As one state police dispatcher told me, "Pigs shooting pigs. You can't. You just....can't." The temps got really cold right after that and we were certain Tiny was done for until he approached a father and daughter deer hunting. They fed him a peanut-butter sandwich and let him tag along for the day, before taking him home. Supposedly, the slaughterhouse let him live. Supposedly.
As you can see, we have a lot of experience when it comes to dogs, pigs and goats on the lam. Unfortunately, all our knowledge has been no match for Sole who has been sighted as far as twenty miles from Middlesex and, lately, not at all.
So if you're in the area and see a small collie wandering aimlessly or a pig by the interstate or a goat helping himself to someone's recycling, take my advice: don't try to catch it. Call your ACO and just hope he or she is handy with a pee rag.
Sarah
The latest fugitive to grip our attention is Sole, a small collie who busted loose in December from a house in Middlesex while her owner was busy fixing Linda's hard drive. Linda's on our ZBA (Zoning Board of Adjustment), so she got on the horn to me and I got on the horn to Erika, the Best Animal Control Officer Ever, and we put out an APB for Sole.
She was spotted instantly and, unfortunately, several well-meaning residents tried to catch her. But as Erika will tell you, even the most pampered pooch will revert to her inner wolf when she suddenly finds herself in the wild, dodging hands and treats, leaping over fences with the agility of a tough coyote despite a prior life as a couch potato. Murphy the golden retriever eluded capture for over a year until Erika finally trapped him and then - poof! - he was instantly back to snoozing by the fire and snarfing Milk Bones.
4227895-Funny-little-red-billy-goat-in-a-road-Stock-PhotoAnd it's not just dogs who go crazy. For example, a billy goat was terrorizing Middlesex for the longest time, raiding people's garbage and emptying their compost piles. Tammy spotted him on Molly Supple (yeah, the road gets a lot of action) and tried to lure him back with a bucket of feed, but he bolted - only to ruin someone else's garden a day later. Finally, he was spotted again and this time Erika called Sue who happened to have a rag soaked in nanny-goat urine (as one does) and the two of them went out there, waving the pee-rag over their heads in what essentially amounted to a goat strip tease that sure enough lured him to the back of the truck. Sucker.
Tiny the White Pig was being carted to slaughter last fall and decided, "Screw this." Being some sort of porcine James Bond, he actually leaped from a moving vehicle onto the interstate and headed into our woods. This backstory was unknown to us when he first appeared by the side of I-89 on the first snow of the winter that was causing cars to skid all over hell's half acre. The state police were concerned, and rightly so, that the pig might attempt to cross the highway and cause a multi-vehicle pileup, so they parked by the exit and kept a bead on it.
Shooting was out of the question. As one state police dispatcher told me, "Pigs shooting pigs. You can't. You just....can't." The temps got really cold right after that and we were certain Tiny was done for until he approached a father and daughter deer hunting. They fed him a peanut-butter sandwich and let him tag along for the day, before taking him home. Supposedly, the slaughterhouse let him live. Supposedly.
As you can see, we have a lot of experience when it comes to dogs, pigs and goats on the lam. Unfortunately, all our knowledge has been no match for Sole who has been sighted as far as twenty miles from Middlesex and, lately, not at all.
So if you're in the area and see a small collie wandering aimlessly or a pig by the interstate or a goat helping himself to someone's recycling, take my advice: don't try to catch it. Call your ACO and just hope he or she is handy with a pee rag.
Sarah
April 10, 2016
Why I Quit Counting Calories...And Words
In the spring of 6th grade, all hell broke loose. My face broke out, my hips expanded, my thighs ballooned, and, naturally, I got my first period. I went from being a kid to a woman literally overnight and it was terrorizing. Boys flashed me predatory looks that, contrary to Me, Margaret, were not at all welcomed. To memorialize the pain, there is a photo of me at 6th-grade graduation innocently displaying my diploma with pride, my boobs busting out of a Garanimals shorts-and-shirt set. My friends, in comparison, are toddlers.
Flooded with hormones and the cruelty of the age, not a night went by when I didn't cry myself to sleep. I longed to be loved, to be invisible, to be flat-chested, to be simply normal.
That summer was the start of what would be many diets. I don't know if my mother blamed my early adolescence on fat (I was only 11 when this happened), but she and my doctor decided I needed to be put on a 1,000-1,200 calorie regimen. Unfortunately, this being the 1970s, that meant Sweet 'n Low, fake butter, Tab (for which I still have a strange fondness), and "diet" bread, a slice of which you could squish into a ball the size of a pencil eraser. God only knows how those chemicals messed up my DNA; I imagine the chickens will come home to roost, soon.
Of course, any weight I lost quickly returned until I went to college and discovered smoking. THEN I got thin. (Lord, how I miss them cigarettes.) Later, I learned that I kept off weight only when I paid attention to what I ate (thank you, Jane Brody) instead of how many calories.
Perhaps my early obsession over calories was partly responsible for my fixation on word counts or, as we referred to copy measurements in journalism, column inches. A good day was when I could turn off the computer at my paper having logged in 30" or more. My friend, colleague and later internationally acclaimed author, Patty McCormick, laughingly dubbed me the "inch queen." She didn't worry about inches; she worried about content, which is probably why she's been nominated for a National Book Award, twice. (And has a movie coming out - SOLD. Important stuff!)
Having written 17 books while raising two children of my own and, at times, hacking away at another career, word counts were my salvation - or so I (erroneously) believed. But looking back, all those days of "if I can just reach 2,000" actually cost me more time and energy. Like the Tab and fake butter, many - and sometimes alScreen Shot 2015-09-22 at 11.20.28 AMl - of those words were empty and I found myself rewriting and rewriting in the most inefficient model possible.
And, yet, like training for a 5k (as I am currently attempting), I still needed a goal. Otherwise, the hours would disappear and I'd be left with nothing to show for my work but, "Chapter Two...." I was a year behind turning in THIS IS MY BRAIN ON BOYS, my editor was beginning to lose hope and I was working as a Town Clerk four days a week. I needed help.
The solution came to me while reviewing an outline. What if, instead of focusing on words, I focused on scenes. And really specific scenes at that. I even jotted down notes on what exactly I'd write that day.
Addie gets off plane, makes awkward contact with boy,
meets friend who knows his secret
Addie goes off and friend reads him the riot act. end chapter
He meets school headmaster who also knows secret, implies such
It was enough, oddly, to get me to sit down, without distraction, and immerse myself in Addie's world. I also obeyed the trick of leaving off at a GOOD stopping point, which is a point where you don't feel like stopping. That way, when I picked up the book again (having noted my scenes for the day), I could jump right into the action. Also, my subconscious would have been hard at work in the interim, flushing out characters, adding more details to the scenes I'd written and honing my voice.
And, voila! - book done. Occasionally, I'd peek at the bottom of the page only to be surprised that instead of 2,000 words, I'd written 3,500. Yeah, that temptation is always there. But isn't that always true about stuff that's destructive? (I'm talking to you, cigarettes!)
Okay, off to apply theory to practice.
Sarah
Flooded with hormones and the cruelty of the age, not a night went by when I didn't cry myself to sleep. I longed to be loved, to be invisible, to be flat-chested, to be simply normal.
That summer was the start of what would be many diets. I don't know if my mother blamed my early adolescence on fat (I was only 11 when this happened), but she and my doctor decided I needed to be put on a 1,000-1,200 calorie regimen. Unfortunately, this being the 1970s, that meant Sweet 'n Low, fake butter, Tab (for which I still have a strange fondness), and "diet" bread, a slice of which you could squish into a ball the size of a pencil eraser. God only knows how those chemicals messed up my DNA; I imagine the chickens will come home to roost, soon.
Of course, any weight I lost quickly returned until I went to college and discovered smoking. THEN I got thin. (Lord, how I miss them cigarettes.) Later, I learned that I kept off weight only when I paid attention to what I ate (thank you, Jane Brody) instead of how many calories.
Perhaps my early obsession over calories was partly responsible for my fixation on word counts or, as we referred to copy measurements in journalism, column inches. A good day was when I could turn off the computer at my paper having logged in 30" or more. My friend, colleague and later internationally acclaimed author, Patty McCormick, laughingly dubbed me the "inch queen." She didn't worry about inches; she worried about content, which is probably why she's been nominated for a National Book Award, twice. (And has a movie coming out - SOLD. Important stuff!)
Having written 17 books while raising two children of my own and, at times, hacking away at another career, word counts were my salvation - or so I (erroneously) believed. But looking back, all those days of "if I can just reach 2,000" actually cost me more time and energy. Like the Tab and fake butter, many - and sometimes alScreen Shot 2015-09-22 at 11.20.28 AMl - of those words were empty and I found myself rewriting and rewriting in the most inefficient model possible.
And, yet, like training for a 5k (as I am currently attempting), I still needed a goal. Otherwise, the hours would disappear and I'd be left with nothing to show for my work but, "Chapter Two...." I was a year behind turning in THIS IS MY BRAIN ON BOYS, my editor was beginning to lose hope and I was working as a Town Clerk four days a week. I needed help.
The solution came to me while reviewing an outline. What if, instead of focusing on words, I focused on scenes. And really specific scenes at that. I even jotted down notes on what exactly I'd write that day.
Addie gets off plane, makes awkward contact with boy,
meets friend who knows his secret
Addie goes off and friend reads him the riot act. end chapter
He meets school headmaster who also knows secret, implies such
It was enough, oddly, to get me to sit down, without distraction, and immerse myself in Addie's world. I also obeyed the trick of leaving off at a GOOD stopping point, which is a point where you don't feel like stopping. That way, when I picked up the book again (having noted my scenes for the day), I could jump right into the action. Also, my subconscious would have been hard at work in the interim, flushing out characters, adding more details to the scenes I'd written and honing my voice.
And, voila! - book done. Occasionally, I'd peek at the bottom of the page only to be surprised that instead of 2,000 words, I'd written 3,500. Yeah, that temptation is always there. But isn't that always true about stuff that's destructive? (I'm talking to you, cigarettes!)
Okay, off to apply theory to practice.
Sarah
April 9, 2016
Stercus Accidit Ipso…Write A New Bubbles
Stercus Accidit Ipso…Write A New Bubbles
“I have a request….”
Uh oh. From anyone else, the dreaded “I have a request” would not prompt an immediate block-and-report. But this was from Josh who, besides being the type to blurt penis jokes at funerals, had also just been given 4 to 6 months to live.
“My ex says I should stop doing this,” he wrote.
There was so much Josh needed to stop doing, it was hard to predict. “What?”
“Quit making a Death Registry – like for a wedding.”
I laughed. That’s the thing about my friend for the past 40 years, he’s got a helluva a sense of humor. Even in the past few weeks when a strange built-up of fluid led to disturbing test potiphars-wiferesults and a more troublesome cancer diagnosis followed by what I personally feel was a brutal prognosis from the doctor – “four to six months to live, maybe twelve with chemo”- the guy’s been a laugh riot, in a sly way. Just last month, he posted a video of Donny Osmond from Jesus Christ Superstar (Or Jason and the Tecnicolor Dreamcoat, whatever, it was from the 1970s,) this being Josh’s “penultimate or maybe ultimate Easter.”
“Penultimate” was on a quiz in Latin, where Josh and I met in eighth grade, fellow victims in a vicious war launched by our parents to ruin our adolescence. Because every other normal kid was taking Spanish or French, We of the Doomed, were forced to trek to the high school from our respective junior high hell holes to study our declensions with the ever frustrated Miss Fay. Josh was from across town at Nitschmann. We were from Northeast, an orange-brick, Soviet-style fortress so infested with drugs and urine, it has since been demolished.
Josh was then, and still is, short-ish with wild curly hair and glasses, the cynical, wise-cracking Woody Allen figure (before the sexual assault charges), who could decimate the cocky jocks with a rapier slam. Unfortunately, one of those jocks, a wrestler, happened to have a thing for Josh’s secret crush, a brilliant, pretty and slightly awkward fellow Latin student who happened to be on Josh’s math team.
Hence began a love triangle that overtook our calculus class. Whom would she choose? The wrestler who was valiantly willing to cross the Forbidden Zone between jock and nerd to save the princess from a future of slide rules and pocket protectors? Or would she finally realize that no one would love and adore her more than Josh even though, upon receipt of his driver’s license, he took up the hobby of stalking.
If you’ve been through high school, you know the answer. And being a writer for whom another’s heartbreak is simply more copy (thank you, Nora Ephron), I later used this drama as a template for, um, Mike and Gigi in SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT. No shame, no shame at all.
And that’s when it hit me. I knew what Josh wanted. Yes, yes, yes! “You want me to put you in a Bubbles book!”
Of course! Because being from Bethlehem, PA, the setting for Bubbles Yablonsky’s Lehigh, PA, Josh had been a good and loyal reader, often coming to my signings down in his area. And THIS TIME I’d see to it that Josh would get the girl.
Also, he would be a porn star because….hey, Josh.
In seconds, the old gang from The Lipstick Chronicles was on it. Kathy Sweeney (aka La Sweeney) started up the porn-o-meter, spitting out screen names rapid fire. Buck Naked, Roger R. Hard, Mike Hunt, Dick Strong, Heywood Jablome, and on and on and on.
The next I knew, I was several chapters in to my first NEW Bubbles book – Bubbles Reboots – in which Bubbles ventures to the Ingot Gold, the casino that replaced the Lehigh Steel mill, inMike-Nesmith-mike-nesmith-29546983-1280-1623 search of a kidnapped teenager. Ends up in a Erotic Film Industry Annual (not Anal) Convention with Local #169 of the Adult Film Workers where Josh, aka Will Hung, is the hunky union boss triumphantly returning home from Hollywood for his high school reunion where, of course, his crush from high school will fall madly in love with him – if they can save her from her jealous ex, first. Along the way, the powerful Edgar Winters, CEO of the Edgar Winters Group (which naturally Bubbles consistently confuses with the Edgar Winter Group, creators of the masterful “Free Ride”) decides he will have Bubbles for his own, oh yes, and then Stiletto and then, as my former agent used to say, “madness ensues.”
I updated Josh, eagerly awaiting his thrilled response. “Is that what you wanted?”
Pause. “Actually, with chemo coming up, I wondered if you could knit me a Mike Nesmith hat. You know, from the Monkees. With a pom pom.”
Josh.
Stay tuned!
Sarah
“I have a request….”
Uh oh. From anyone else, the dreaded “I have a request” would not prompt an immediate block-and-report. But this was from Josh who, besides being the type to blurt penis jokes at funerals, had also just been given 4 to 6 months to live.
“My ex says I should stop doing this,” he wrote.
There was so much Josh needed to stop doing, it was hard to predict. “What?”
“Quit making a Death Registry – like for a wedding.”
I laughed. That’s the thing about my friend for the past 40 years, he’s got a helluva a sense of humor. Even in the past few weeks when a strange built-up of fluid led to disturbing test potiphars-wiferesults and a more troublesome cancer diagnosis followed by what I personally feel was a brutal prognosis from the doctor – “four to six months to live, maybe twelve with chemo”- the guy’s been a laugh riot, in a sly way. Just last month, he posted a video of Donny Osmond from Jesus Christ Superstar (Or Jason and the Tecnicolor Dreamcoat, whatever, it was from the 1970s,) this being Josh’s “penultimate or maybe ultimate Easter.”
“Penultimate” was on a quiz in Latin, where Josh and I met in eighth grade, fellow victims in a vicious war launched by our parents to ruin our adolescence. Because every other normal kid was taking Spanish or French, We of the Doomed, were forced to trek to the high school from our respective junior high hell holes to study our declensions with the ever frustrated Miss Fay. Josh was from across town at Nitschmann. We were from Northeast, an orange-brick, Soviet-style fortress so infested with drugs and urine, it has since been demolished.
Josh was then, and still is, short-ish with wild curly hair and glasses, the cynical, wise-cracking Woody Allen figure (before the sexual assault charges), who could decimate the cocky jocks with a rapier slam. Unfortunately, one of those jocks, a wrestler, happened to have a thing for Josh’s secret crush, a brilliant, pretty and slightly awkward fellow Latin student who happened to be on Josh’s math team.
Hence began a love triangle that overtook our calculus class. Whom would she choose? The wrestler who was valiantly willing to cross the Forbidden Zone between jock and nerd to save the princess from a future of slide rules and pocket protectors? Or would she finally realize that no one would love and adore her more than Josh even though, upon receipt of his driver’s license, he took up the hobby of stalking.
If you’ve been through high school, you know the answer. And being a writer for whom another’s heartbreak is simply more copy (thank you, Nora Ephron), I later used this drama as a template for, um, Mike and Gigi in SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT. No shame, no shame at all.
And that’s when it hit me. I knew what Josh wanted. Yes, yes, yes! “You want me to put you in a Bubbles book!”
Of course! Because being from Bethlehem, PA, the setting for Bubbles Yablonsky’s Lehigh, PA, Josh had been a good and loyal reader, often coming to my signings down in his area. And THIS TIME I’d see to it that Josh would get the girl.
Also, he would be a porn star because….hey, Josh.
In seconds, the old gang from The Lipstick Chronicles was on it. Kathy Sweeney (aka La Sweeney) started up the porn-o-meter, spitting out screen names rapid fire. Buck Naked, Roger R. Hard, Mike Hunt, Dick Strong, Heywood Jablome, and on and on and on.
The next I knew, I was several chapters in to my first NEW Bubbles book – Bubbles Reboots – in which Bubbles ventures to the Ingot Gold, the casino that replaced the Lehigh Steel mill, inMike-Nesmith-mike-nesmith-29546983-1280-1623 search of a kidnapped teenager. Ends up in a Erotic Film Industry Annual (not Anal) Convention with Local #169 of the Adult Film Workers where Josh, aka Will Hung, is the hunky union boss triumphantly returning home from Hollywood for his high school reunion where, of course, his crush from high school will fall madly in love with him – if they can save her from her jealous ex, first. Along the way, the powerful Edgar Winters, CEO of the Edgar Winters Group (which naturally Bubbles consistently confuses with the Edgar Winter Group, creators of the masterful “Free Ride”) decides he will have Bubbles for his own, oh yes, and then Stiletto and then, as my former agent used to say, “madness ensues.”
I updated Josh, eagerly awaiting his thrilled response. “Is that what you wanted?”
Pause. “Actually, with chemo coming up, I wondered if you could knit me a Mike Nesmith hat. You know, from the Monkees. With a pom pom.”
Josh.
Stay tuned!
Sarah
June 3, 2012
Why I Wrote SMART GIRLS
When my first YA book SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT comes out June 26th it will mark the end of a journey that began four years ago when Alessandra Balzer, editor and co-publisher of Balzer + Bray at HarperCollins, had just finished THE CINDERELLA PACT and remarked to my agent that I should write YA.
I'd already been thinking the same thing and not just because my writing style tends toward the fast, flippant and emotional. Ever since high school, I'd wanted to write a book about "my people" - smart girls I knew growing up who were often pigeonholed as stuck up prudes. Seemed unfair to say the least since I remember us as extremely funny and irreverent.
My high school was huge - 750 kids in my class alone - and largely blue collar. At Liberty High in Bethlehem, PA., the students who mattered were the stars on the football field, either as players or cheerleaders. A group of girls who fought to get As in calculus were largely ignored.
I'm not gonna lie, it hurt. Let's just say (my husband hates this part) that I played a lot of Janis Ian's At Seventeen when I wasn't invited to the prom. (Which I mooned from the backseat of my friend's car.) Cliche? Maybe. But there you have it.
Fast forward thirty years and now I'm the mother of a smart girl and former Girl Scout leader to her smart girl friends. Things have improved somewhat. Kids are more accepting. The football stuff not so big. (Then again, it's Vermont). But I'm disappointed because I see familiar patterns reappearing. My daughter and her friends are pegged, just like I was, as aloof. And, in some ways, they ARE aloof. All I know is that they're not getting the full high school experience, the richness and rewards that come from those first tastes of freedom.
Why not? In theory, the smartest kids in the school should rule the roost. Carpe diem! Grasp the thistle! Go for it!
The result was my fourteenth baby, SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT. The best part was that from the get go, Alessandra was right on board with my vision of a book triumphing smart girls. And we agreed on a few ground rules:
a) This would not be a "mean girls" book, not that I don't LOVE Tina Fey. But it's been done, it's unproductive and, in my opinion, meanness sucks out the good karma. I'll leave that to Jennsylvania who is brilliant.
b) No cliches. Because smart girls are not cliche. They are usually interesting, well-read people, though hardly goody two shoes. For example, my daughter, a junior at Bryn Mawr is a horrible reality show addict. Her equally smart friend, Thea, and she were totally addicted to Gossip Girls. What they do now in college, I don't wanna ask.
c) Boys, yes! But not for boys alone. My smart girls would not break out of their shells to get guys. If along the way a few guys happened to come their way :) then so be it. And in SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT, there are a couple of brilliant boys who turn up the heat.
So, that's my book and that's why I wrote SMART GIRLS. By the way, my smart girl friends from high school went on to live very fulfilling lives as a dentist, a Princeton professor, a mathematician, a pharmaceutical executive, an airline pilot (oddly enough, she was the WORST driver) and a Presbyterian minister.
My daughter's friends graduated from their Vermont public high school and went to Tufts, Vassar, MIT, Hampshire, Skidmore, BU and University of Chicago. They've got exciting internships this summer in film, journalism and psychology. Mostly, they have a lot of fun with and without guys.
In other words, I'm here to testify, smart girls DO get what they want!
I'd already been thinking the same thing and not just because my writing style tends toward the fast, flippant and emotional. Ever since high school, I'd wanted to write a book about "my people" - smart girls I knew growing up who were often pigeonholed as stuck up prudes. Seemed unfair to say the least since I remember us as extremely funny and irreverent.
My high school was huge - 750 kids in my class alone - and largely blue collar. At Liberty High in Bethlehem, PA., the students who mattered were the stars on the football field, either as players or cheerleaders. A group of girls who fought to get As in calculus were largely ignored.
I'm not gonna lie, it hurt. Let's just say (my husband hates this part) that I played a lot of Janis Ian's At Seventeen when I wasn't invited to the prom. (Which I mooned from the backseat of my friend's car.) Cliche? Maybe. But there you have it.
Fast forward thirty years and now I'm the mother of a smart girl and former Girl Scout leader to her smart girl friends. Things have improved somewhat. Kids are more accepting. The football stuff not so big. (Then again, it's Vermont). But I'm disappointed because I see familiar patterns reappearing. My daughter and her friends are pegged, just like I was, as aloof. And, in some ways, they ARE aloof. All I know is that they're not getting the full high school experience, the richness and rewards that come from those first tastes of freedom.
Why not? In theory, the smartest kids in the school should rule the roost. Carpe diem! Grasp the thistle! Go for it!
The result was my fourteenth baby, SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT. The best part was that from the get go, Alessandra was right on board with my vision of a book triumphing smart girls. And we agreed on a few ground rules:
a) This would not be a "mean girls" book, not that I don't LOVE Tina Fey. But it's been done, it's unproductive and, in my opinion, meanness sucks out the good karma. I'll leave that to Jennsylvania who is brilliant.
b) No cliches. Because smart girls are not cliche. They are usually interesting, well-read people, though hardly goody two shoes. For example, my daughter, a junior at Bryn Mawr is a horrible reality show addict. Her equally smart friend, Thea, and she were totally addicted to Gossip Girls. What they do now in college, I don't wanna ask.
c) Boys, yes! But not for boys alone. My smart girls would not break out of their shells to get guys. If along the way a few guys happened to come their way :) then so be it. And in SMART GIRLS GET WHAT THEY WANT, there are a couple of brilliant boys who turn up the heat.
So, that's my book and that's why I wrote SMART GIRLS. By the way, my smart girl friends from high school went on to live very fulfilling lives as a dentist, a Princeton professor, a mathematician, a pharmaceutical executive, an airline pilot (oddly enough, she was the WORST driver) and a Presbyterian minister.
My daughter's friends graduated from their Vermont public high school and went to Tufts, Vassar, MIT, Hampshire, Skidmore, BU and University of Chicago. They've got exciting internships this summer in film, journalism and psychology. Mostly, they have a lot of fun with and without guys.
In other words, I'm here to testify, smart girls DO get what they want!
April 27, 2012
Love The Ones You're With
There are a lot of songs I could do without, but the one I absolutely can't stand is Love the One You're With by Steven Stills. I blame a guy I was seeing in college who, after an intimate night, explained that he had a longstanding girlfriend in the Midwest at school X but since we were in New England and he wouldn't see her until Thanksgiving it was, ya know, "love the one you're with."
Fail!
I hadn't really thought about that until recently when I finished the superb IF I STAY by Gayle Forman. The book's been on my TBR for awhile and I'm sure everyone else here has read it, but I hadn't. I finished it in one sitting. Or, rather, lying. In bed. Crying.
IF I STAY is about love, all sorts of love. Love for a friend, a boyfriend, parents and a brother. Love for life. And here's the question: are these loves enough to make living worthwhile even if living means pain, both physical and emotional, and loss?
That's why I loved the book, because Forman asks this question with such calm and real insight using characters who make sense. But I also loved it because, unlike a lot of YA books, Forman proudly heralds the love her protagonist, Mia, shows for her quirky family. Even her little brother.
Teddy is not a "stinky little brother" and to that I say damn straight. I've found that many YA authors, especially YA authors who've written adult before, start off with a middle-school character who hates or is annoyed by a younger sibling.
Really?
Sure, siblings fight. Husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends do, too. But how many books begin with "I hate my stupid boyfriend" as though it's supposed to be cute.
Worse, we all know what's going to happen. The older sibling will come to realize his love for his "stinky little brother" and, voila!, instant character growth. Just add tears!
Nah. Forman's right. We love those whom we're with otherwise, in most cases, we wouldn't be with them. Unless you're talking about a crappy abusive family in which your character had the tough luck to be born.
But that's another story and, fortunately, not mine to tell.
Fail!
I hadn't really thought about that until recently when I finished the superb IF I STAY by Gayle Forman. The book's been on my TBR for awhile and I'm sure everyone else here has read it, but I hadn't. I finished it in one sitting. Or, rather, lying. In bed. Crying.
IF I STAY is about love, all sorts of love. Love for a friend, a boyfriend, parents and a brother. Love for life. And here's the question: are these loves enough to make living worthwhile even if living means pain, both physical and emotional, and loss?
That's why I loved the book, because Forman asks this question with such calm and real insight using characters who make sense. But I also loved it because, unlike a lot of YA books, Forman proudly heralds the love her protagonist, Mia, shows for her quirky family. Even her little brother.
Teddy is not a "stinky little brother" and to that I say damn straight. I've found that many YA authors, especially YA authors who've written adult before, start off with a middle-school character who hates or is annoyed by a younger sibling.
Really?
Sure, siblings fight. Husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends do, too. But how many books begin with "I hate my stupid boyfriend" as though it's supposed to be cute.
Worse, we all know what's going to happen. The older sibling will come to realize his love for his "stinky little brother" and, voila!, instant character growth. Just add tears!
Nah. Forman's right. We love those whom we're with otherwise, in most cases, we wouldn't be with them. Unless you're talking about a crappy abusive family in which your character had the tough luck to be born.
But that's another story and, fortunately, not mine to tell.
April 20, 2012
The Plight of "Unhooked" Girls
This spring hundreds of bright, intelligent girls, the ones who stayed up until four a.m. studying for calculus exams, who by sheer ambition aced the SATs and exhausted themselves on the hockey field, who sang Christmas carols at the senior center and rewrote the prom rules, have been rejected in the cruelest form – the dreaded thin envelope from _______________ (fill in your Ivy dream school here).
The spurning of a boy, in comparison, pales.
Who cares about boys when you have just been told that despite all your hard work and determination, Princeton’s leafy green quads are forever off limits? Anyway, it was that boy LAX player one seat over in American Lit (the one who asked to borrow your notes from last class) who got in Seems like boys have it easier – still!
It’s enough to send a valedictorian to her book-strewn bed in tears. Why, she is asking herself. Or, rather, why not?
The answer is an irony to rival Austen’s own. There is an abundance of riches; there are too many smart girls.
Seriously, can there ever be too many smart girls?
Well, yes, apparently, if you’re in Ivy League admissions. “Unhooked white girls” – please, don’t even get me started on deconstructing that term – is the phrase school counselors use to describe the above: intelligent overachievers who earn all A’s, who score 2300 on the SATS or thereabouts but who have no “hook,” i.e. special skill/passion/Tiger-Mother-Induced talent to get them noticed. In other words, all that straight A, perfect SAT stuff is just the foundation. Here’s what the Ivy admissions counselors want to know: when did you last play Carnegie Hall?
“There are so many high-achieving … girls who have studied hard, participated in all the right activities, and expected the top colleges to appreciate their efforts,” Scott Farber, president and founder of A-List Education and a test-preparation and admissions expert told The Daily Beast recently. “Do they deserve to get in? Sure. Would they do well if admitted? Absolutely. But colleges are not looking for the well-rounded kid; they want the well-rounded class. And unless you are a superstar in some area, you’re just one of thousands of smart, all-around, but unhooked white girls. It may be unfair, but that’s life.”
Fellow unhooked smart girls, let me assure you I have received the thin envelopes and so has my smart twenty-one-year-old daughter. All is not doom, as I’m sure your parents have repeated over and over while privately gnashing their teeth at the system’s unfairness. All is well.
Just as we avoid partners in life who believe they are too good for us, so we avoid said colleges. Seek out the university that desperately wants your verve, wit and insight and you’ll only vaguely remember how you longed for that bulldog in blue.
Better, consider these hidden gems discovered more recently by my daughter: all-women’s colleges.
Smith, Wellesley, Mt. Holyoke and Bryn Mawr boast the rich history, the Gothic architecture, the academic atmosphere found at You Know Where. Plus, these colleges are obviously pro women. They believe in smart girls and always have, challenging them to study diligently, to reach beyond their limits and to trust their intelligence. The alumnae networks of all-women’s colleges are famous for actively supporting recent graduates with recommendations to jobs and grad schools.
Correspondingly, the sizable endowments at these schools make a top-notch rigorous education surprisingly affordable. I know because for three years I’ve written tuition checks to Bryn Mawr which has been more than generous.
In addition, many all-women’s colleges have decided SATs and ACTs are not mandatory. Their admissions rates are refreshingly reasonable – or, rather, “self selecting” - thanks to the current prejudice against single-sex education. None of this 5.6% business you’ll find at Harvard. If you’re smart and hard working, your chances are good.
Sure, there’ll be a few classmates in capes riding bikes with fairy wings and distant relatives will rudely inquire how you’ll be able to survive four years without boys….but so what? Fairy wings are fun and boys are everywhere, often in pursuit of girls. Funny, that phenomenon.
Need a role model? Look no further than Hillary Clinton, Wellesley ‘69. She was an “unhooked” smart girl too. Now, she pretty much rules the world.
So sit up, dry your eyes and send in your acceptances to the schools that want you. It’s time to show Harvard/Yale/Brown what they missed because, let’s face it, better to be “unhooked” than “unhinged.”
The spurning of a boy, in comparison, pales.
Who cares about boys when you have just been told that despite all your hard work and determination, Princeton’s leafy green quads are forever off limits? Anyway, it was that boy LAX player one seat over in American Lit (the one who asked to borrow your notes from last class) who got in Seems like boys have it easier – still!
It’s enough to send a valedictorian to her book-strewn bed in tears. Why, she is asking herself. Or, rather, why not?
The answer is an irony to rival Austen’s own. There is an abundance of riches; there are too many smart girls.
Seriously, can there ever be too many smart girls?
Well, yes, apparently, if you’re in Ivy League admissions. “Unhooked white girls” – please, don’t even get me started on deconstructing that term – is the phrase school counselors use to describe the above: intelligent overachievers who earn all A’s, who score 2300 on the SATS or thereabouts but who have no “hook,” i.e. special skill/passion/Tiger-Mother-Induced talent to get them noticed. In other words, all that straight A, perfect SAT stuff is just the foundation. Here’s what the Ivy admissions counselors want to know: when did you last play Carnegie Hall?
“There are so many high-achieving … girls who have studied hard, participated in all the right activities, and expected the top colleges to appreciate their efforts,” Scott Farber, president and founder of A-List Education and a test-preparation and admissions expert told The Daily Beast recently. “Do they deserve to get in? Sure. Would they do well if admitted? Absolutely. But colleges are not looking for the well-rounded kid; they want the well-rounded class. And unless you are a superstar in some area, you’re just one of thousands of smart, all-around, but unhooked white girls. It may be unfair, but that’s life.”
Fellow unhooked smart girls, let me assure you I have received the thin envelopes and so has my smart twenty-one-year-old daughter. All is not doom, as I’m sure your parents have repeated over and over while privately gnashing their teeth at the system’s unfairness. All is well.
Just as we avoid partners in life who believe they are too good for us, so we avoid said colleges. Seek out the university that desperately wants your verve, wit and insight and you’ll only vaguely remember how you longed for that bulldog in blue.
Better, consider these hidden gems discovered more recently by my daughter: all-women’s colleges.
Smith, Wellesley, Mt. Holyoke and Bryn Mawr boast the rich history, the Gothic architecture, the academic atmosphere found at You Know Where. Plus, these colleges are obviously pro women. They believe in smart girls and always have, challenging them to study diligently, to reach beyond their limits and to trust their intelligence. The alumnae networks of all-women’s colleges are famous for actively supporting recent graduates with recommendations to jobs and grad schools.
Correspondingly, the sizable endowments at these schools make a top-notch rigorous education surprisingly affordable. I know because for three years I’ve written tuition checks to Bryn Mawr which has been more than generous.
In addition, many all-women’s colleges have decided SATs and ACTs are not mandatory. Their admissions rates are refreshingly reasonable – or, rather, “self selecting” - thanks to the current prejudice against single-sex education. None of this 5.6% business you’ll find at Harvard. If you’re smart and hard working, your chances are good.
Sure, there’ll be a few classmates in capes riding bikes with fairy wings and distant relatives will rudely inquire how you’ll be able to survive four years without boys….but so what? Fairy wings are fun and boys are everywhere, often in pursuit of girls. Funny, that phenomenon.
Need a role model? Look no further than Hillary Clinton, Wellesley ‘69. She was an “unhooked” smart girl too. Now, she pretty much rules the world.
So sit up, dry your eyes and send in your acceptances to the schools that want you. It’s time to show Harvard/Yale/Brown what they missed because, let’s face it, better to be “unhooked” than “unhinged.”
April 17, 2012
Women vs. Women
Days after the Ann Romney, Hillary Rosen smack down, my Facebook friends were still trying to sort through the detritus trying to answer the question that has plagued our gender for the ages.
How come women can't get along?
Now, personally, I believe this women-hating-women is largely hogwash. Women do get along in the office, on the field, in the home, in hospitals. We work together just fine. What divides us isn't women, but men.
For as long as men have had the power, some women have benefitted (or not) by men who are willing to carry them financially, especially if they are beautiful. I know these are incendiary words and some of you may argue those days are gone. As evidence to the contrary, I give you Exhibit A: Real Housewives of Orange County.
If you're anything like me, you watch these idiots with your jaw open. How is it that they live in these gorgeous homes, seem to do little to no work that doesn't involve promoting their own line of clothing/shoes/perfume and still afford the limos, the multiple body readjustments and nannies? Who pays for all that vanity?
Men. Somewhere there's a man making all this possible. Perhaps not legally or frugally. One husband committed suicide. Many battle debt. They all seem to have problems with alcohol and even if I had to live in a shack pulling potatoes out of the dusty ground for sustenance I wouldn't sleep with one of them.
But it's different for men. Men who are financially carried by women because of their looks are called gigolos. Granted, that day is changing. Hallelujah! The concept of "being kept" is fading because now women are beginning to earn more than men, men are staying home to raise kids and they certainly don't appreciate the slur that they are somehow existing on the good graces of their wives. They want respect and rightly so.
My mother used to say women's liberation was as much for men as it was for women and this is a case in point. When men are liberated to earn less than women and be okay with that, when they're respected for taking care of the kids while their wives earn cash, then I think we'll find that resentment among women who work outside the home and those who don't will disappear.
And then, watch out, because women united might just change the world forever. Unless these stay-at-home guys start getting spray tans and tossing white wine in each other's faces, whereupon I'm just totally giving up.
How come women can't get along?
Now, personally, I believe this women-hating-women is largely hogwash. Women do get along in the office, on the field, in the home, in hospitals. We work together just fine. What divides us isn't women, but men.
For as long as men have had the power, some women have benefitted (or not) by men who are willing to carry them financially, especially if they are beautiful. I know these are incendiary words and some of you may argue those days are gone. As evidence to the contrary, I give you Exhibit A: Real Housewives of Orange County.
If you're anything like me, you watch these idiots with your jaw open. How is it that they live in these gorgeous homes, seem to do little to no work that doesn't involve promoting their own line of clothing/shoes/perfume and still afford the limos, the multiple body readjustments and nannies? Who pays for all that vanity?
Men. Somewhere there's a man making all this possible. Perhaps not legally or frugally. One husband committed suicide. Many battle debt. They all seem to have problems with alcohol and even if I had to live in a shack pulling potatoes out of the dusty ground for sustenance I wouldn't sleep with one of them.
But it's different for men. Men who are financially carried by women because of their looks are called gigolos. Granted, that day is changing. Hallelujah! The concept of "being kept" is fading because now women are beginning to earn more than men, men are staying home to raise kids and they certainly don't appreciate the slur that they are somehow existing on the good graces of their wives. They want respect and rightly so.
My mother used to say women's liberation was as much for men as it was for women and this is a case in point. When men are liberated to earn less than women and be okay with that, when they're respected for taking care of the kids while their wives earn cash, then I think we'll find that resentment among women who work outside the home and those who don't will disappear.
And then, watch out, because women united might just change the world forever. Unless these stay-at-home guys start getting spray tans and tossing white wine in each other's faces, whereupon I'm just totally giving up.
April 11, 2012
How Did You Live Your Life?
Lisa, my best friend since I was four and the woman to whom I have dedicated a chunk of my books, is a voracious reader. She's also unmarried and childless which I think helps in this department and I will admit to occasionally envying her tidy house with its impeccable garden, her knitting to any TV show she pleases, her freedom to come and go without worrying about getting dinner on the table, and her gorgeous antique glass liquor caddy.
But I've often found it interesting that what Lisa most loves to read are memoirs. It doesn't matter whose life, either. From Wallis Simpson to A GIRL NAMED ZIPPY to Tori Spelling, Lisa's read them all and she's turned me onto them, too.
Of course, my favorite continues to be Jeannette Walls's A GLASS CASTLE, a testimony to the unstoppable power of creativity. I've thought of it often and passed it down to my daughter, Anna, who also loved it. I read HALF-BROKE HORSES, too. Good, but lacking, I felt, in the raw childlike confusion, wonder and, eventually, brutal epiphany of GLASS CASTLE.
Now I'm reading WHY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU COULD BE NORMAL by Jeanette Winterson, a book I feared would set back adopting mothers yet again. The excellent writing style is at times disjointed, the punctuation odd. But it's irresistible. I think about Jeanette during the day and crave to read more at night even though she comes across as rather tough and, though she denies it, angry. Still.
Why do memoirs draw us in?
Me? I'm just plain nosy. This is why I became a reporter, for the license to ask people personal questions that were not my business. I drive slowly past houses at night to better peer into their illuminated living rooms. I watch HGTV just to see the hideous colors of old bathrooms. I snoop.
I am not proud of this.
I've often considered writing my own memoir - who hasn't? But my life sounds so, well, blah on paper. Childhood in a Pennsylvania steel town in a leafy suburban neighborhood. College. A stint of newspaper reporting in the very gray areas of Central Jersey and Northeast Ohio. A husband. A child. A move to Vermont. Another newspaper job, another child. Barbie. Books.....middle age.
Yet, even as I write down the particulars, weedy memories pop up in the cracks. The family fights over the Vietnam War. The Rambler that overheated. The rabbits I raised and let go to the wild. The first kiss that made me vomit, the plane that nearly crashed....
So in the ordinary is found the extraordinary, I guess. Which is maybe why Lisa loves memoirs, because they remind her that her life, sans other markers the rest of us believe are necessary for fulfillment, is just as rich, just as powerful as Tori Spelling's. Without, you know, that selfish witch for a mother, Candy.
But I've often found it interesting that what Lisa most loves to read are memoirs. It doesn't matter whose life, either. From Wallis Simpson to A GIRL NAMED ZIPPY to Tori Spelling, Lisa's read them all and she's turned me onto them, too.
Of course, my favorite continues to be Jeannette Walls's A GLASS CASTLE, a testimony to the unstoppable power of creativity. I've thought of it often and passed it down to my daughter, Anna, who also loved it. I read HALF-BROKE HORSES, too. Good, but lacking, I felt, in the raw childlike confusion, wonder and, eventually, brutal epiphany of GLASS CASTLE.
Now I'm reading WHY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU COULD BE NORMAL by Jeanette Winterson, a book I feared would set back adopting mothers yet again. The excellent writing style is at times disjointed, the punctuation odd. But it's irresistible. I think about Jeanette during the day and crave to read more at night even though she comes across as rather tough and, though she denies it, angry. Still.
Why do memoirs draw us in?
Me? I'm just plain nosy. This is why I became a reporter, for the license to ask people personal questions that were not my business. I drive slowly past houses at night to better peer into their illuminated living rooms. I watch HGTV just to see the hideous colors of old bathrooms. I snoop.
I am not proud of this.
I've often considered writing my own memoir - who hasn't? But my life sounds so, well, blah on paper. Childhood in a Pennsylvania steel town in a leafy suburban neighborhood. College. A stint of newspaper reporting in the very gray areas of Central Jersey and Northeast Ohio. A husband. A child. A move to Vermont. Another newspaper job, another child. Barbie. Books.....middle age.
Yet, even as I write down the particulars, weedy memories pop up in the cracks. The family fights over the Vietnam War. The Rambler that overheated. The rabbits I raised and let go to the wild. The first kiss that made me vomit, the plane that nearly crashed....
So in the ordinary is found the extraordinary, I guess. Which is maybe why Lisa loves memoirs, because they remind her that her life, sans other markers the rest of us believe are necessary for fulfillment, is just as rich, just as powerful as Tori Spelling's. Without, you know, that selfish witch for a mother, Candy.
April 5, 2012
Kids: Why Can't They Be Like We Were....
....cynical?
Because that's how I felt growing up in the 1970s, as if I'd narrowly missed the cool generation and was doomed to a bogus youth of disco, tight polyester shirts and frizzy hair. (Thank GOD for Springsteen!) My all-purpose attitude back then? This. Sucks.
Fast forward to my son's generation. He's a high school sophomore which I think we can generally agree is the lamest of all teen years having, sadly, come of age in the worst of decades. He was stepping off the bus from Kindergaten when I met to tell him terrorists had flown into the World Trade Center and it was generally all downhill from there - global warming, two wars, a painful recession, teens shooting up schools. Awful.
And yet, amazingly, he doesn't think This. Sucks. Quite the opposite. He thinks this is the best time in the world to be his age.
Excuse me? Where's the teenage cynicism for which I was prepared to do battle with idiotic parental comments like, "It's up to YOUR generation to pick up the banner and march for a better world"? (Oh, I'm so glad I never had to say that.)
In Sam's view, incredibly exciting things are happening - live! Technology is bringing us closer together and the idea that a heretofore brain scratcher like, oh, how to stop cancer cells from replicating without killing the body, could be solved by putting it on the internet and letting everyone have at it, is thrilling to him. People are more tolerant about previously taboo subjects like gay marriage. We've evolved, in Sam's opinion, we're getting better!
Of course Sam has an older sister who doesn't quite see the world through such rosy glasses but why bring in Debbie Downer. (Expect Debbie Downer, a Goodreads member, to chime in with a rebuttal. Razor sharp tongue, that one. Funny, too.)
All I'm saying is it's easy to get mired down in the gloom of front page news. I know I'm more angry and bitter than I was before 9/11, not purposefully, but gradually so. The old boiled frog analogy. My arm is growing tired from the fist shaking I've done, most recently at our out-of-touch Supreme Court.
Maybe it's time for me to relax and uncurl my fingers and like the kids in Sam's generation open them to the possibilities. I just hope for people like me it's not too late.
Because that's how I felt growing up in the 1970s, as if I'd narrowly missed the cool generation and was doomed to a bogus youth of disco, tight polyester shirts and frizzy hair. (Thank GOD for Springsteen!) My all-purpose attitude back then? This. Sucks.
Fast forward to my son's generation. He's a high school sophomore which I think we can generally agree is the lamest of all teen years having, sadly, come of age in the worst of decades. He was stepping off the bus from Kindergaten when I met to tell him terrorists had flown into the World Trade Center and it was generally all downhill from there - global warming, two wars, a painful recession, teens shooting up schools. Awful.
And yet, amazingly, he doesn't think This. Sucks. Quite the opposite. He thinks this is the best time in the world to be his age.
Excuse me? Where's the teenage cynicism for which I was prepared to do battle with idiotic parental comments like, "It's up to YOUR generation to pick up the banner and march for a better world"? (Oh, I'm so glad I never had to say that.)
In Sam's view, incredibly exciting things are happening - live! Technology is bringing us closer together and the idea that a heretofore brain scratcher like, oh, how to stop cancer cells from replicating without killing the body, could be solved by putting it on the internet and letting everyone have at it, is thrilling to him. People are more tolerant about previously taboo subjects like gay marriage. We've evolved, in Sam's opinion, we're getting better!
Of course Sam has an older sister who doesn't quite see the world through such rosy glasses but why bring in Debbie Downer. (Expect Debbie Downer, a Goodreads member, to chime in with a rebuttal. Razor sharp tongue, that one. Funny, too.)
All I'm saying is it's easy to get mired down in the gloom of front page news. I know I'm more angry and bitter than I was before 9/11, not purposefully, but gradually so. The old boiled frog analogy. My arm is growing tired from the fist shaking I've done, most recently at our out-of-touch Supreme Court.
Maybe it's time for me to relax and uncurl my fingers and like the kids in Sam's generation open them to the possibilities. I just hope for people like me it's not too late.
