Simone Martel's Blog
September 20, 2019
Fantasy Farmer
Stonecrop is a gorgeous new online magazine about urban nature. I'm thrilled to have a short memoir included in the second issue. It's about my grandfather, an urban farmer in Oakland, CA., long before it became chic! (Chic? He would laugh at the very idea.) Take a look. (It's on page 102.)
https://www.stonecropreview.com/wp-co...
https://www.stonecropreview.com/wp-co...
January 11, 2019
A tribute to libraries, storytelling, and most of all to my mom, a wonderful children's librarian
I have special memories of my time with my mom at the library in Oakland, California, where she was the children's librarian. Her story hours were the best. This new piece was inspired by those Saturday afternoons.
https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/...
https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/...
November 19, 2018
Stretch Marks: a playful tale of postpartum blues and teenage angst
Announcing this year’s Stories That Need to Be Told from Tulip Tree Press.
I’m honored to have my story, Stretch Marks, included in this fabulous collection.
In Stretch Marks, a DJ on maternity leave hires a popular artist-carpenter to build her a privacy fence. When he arrives, she realizes this is the man who painted her portrait years ago when she was his lovelorn babysitter. The story alternates between present and past, raising questions about body-image and maternity, the male gaze and the passing of time.
(P.S. In real life I did babysit for a carpenter and his first wife, but he was a poet, rather than an artist. I can hardly believe I was allowed to start babysitting at eleven years old. I charged 50 cents an hour! Do you have a babysitting story? I’d love to hear it.)
Here's the link to Tulip Tree's Facebook page. Take a look!
https://www.facebook.com/tuliptreepub
I’m honored to have my story, Stretch Marks, included in this fabulous collection.
In Stretch Marks, a DJ on maternity leave hires a popular artist-carpenter to build her a privacy fence. When he arrives, she realizes this is the man who painted her portrait years ago when she was his lovelorn babysitter. The story alternates between present and past, raising questions about body-image and maternity, the male gaze and the passing of time.
(P.S. In real life I did babysit for a carpenter and his first wife, but he was a poet, rather than an artist. I can hardly believe I was allowed to start babysitting at eleven years old. I charged 50 cents an hour! Do you have a babysitting story? I’d love to hear it.)
Here's the link to Tulip Tree's Facebook page. Take a look!
https://www.facebook.com/tuliptreepub
February 7, 2018
Urban farms, video games and zombie squirrels! (fun new interview)
Please take a look at this new conversation with the editor of Neon Magazine. We talk about my story, Urban Terroir, and a bunch of other things, from organic gardening to video game playing. There's a link to the story, too.
http://www.neonbooks.org.uk/interview...
http://www.neonbooks.org.uk/interview...
July 1, 2017
New giveaway this weekend!
Thanks to EskieMama & Dragon Lady Reads for this chance to chat about A Cat Came Back. Please take a look at this new excerpt, too. I'd love your feedback. And be sure to enter the giveaway for a chance to win a signed print copy of the novel. I hope everyone has a great weekend. Mine will definitely include books and cats--and probably fireworks in the fog.
http://eskiemamareads.blogspot.com/20...
http://eskiemamareads.blogspot.com/20...
May 23, 2017
An appreciation of friends we never meet in "real life"
This piece originally appeared in Hip Mama Magazine. It's all true. The guy I call SoupPuppy was one of my first online pals, and this was the first time I truly realized you don't need to meet someone face-to-face to care about what happens to him--or her.
SoupPuppy
Unlike many posters on a certain foodie forum, SoupPuppy was witty and sweet-natured, less fanatical than the rest of us. We regulars debate, argue: dressing versus stuffing, California Mexican versus Tex Mex, Arborio rice risotto versus Carnaroli. Or, perhaps, Vialone. We nitpick. Sometimes we insult each other and the moderators delete us. SoupPuppy, though, never squabbled.
Often, he made me smile. When the annual multicultural dinner at my son's school had me intimidated and paralyzed—what could a daughter of two Berkeley ex-hippies add to the spread of curries, dolmas, tamales and more?—SoupPuppy suggested I put the pot back in potluck. (My husband made a quiche, but I considered brownies.)
What did I know about SoupPuppy? Even though most members post anonymously, personal details emerge over time. SoupPuppy lived nearby in Oakland, was a one-time restaurateur—I even figured out which restaurant. My mother had been lucky enough to dine there before it closed. The cocktails had been strong, she declared, the goat cheese soufflé heavenly, the young co-owner, Rory, gracious and attentive.
“Of course we were there with his mother; the five of us.”
Turned out my mother played bridge with SoupPuppy/Rory's mother. My mother-in-law did, as well.
At Thanksgiving dinner in my husband's childhood home, I brought up Rory's name again. Was he handsome, I heard myself ask.
Yes, my mother and mother-in-law agreed he was.
I nodded. It came across in his posts; a generosity of spirit that can come easily to the good-looking.
“But he's dying,” my mother said, a forkful of turkey and cranberry sauce halfway to her mouth.
I was speechless, unable to express my sympathy (they hardly knew him), or my own sadness (neither did I). While my mother and mother-in-law repeated to each other their limited information about Rory's terminal cancer, I looked at my plate.
*
“He's not your friend.”
On the car ride home, my son called me out, getting back at me for telling him that the kids who play online video games with him—late at night, when he should be doing homework or sleeping—are not his real friends. Okay, maybe I'd been wrong, I told him, from the front seat. The late night gaming made me crabby, but I guessed he and the other players could be friends, though they'd never met face to face.
However, I still insisted that those online gamers could be lying to him about their age or gender or anything at all. Whereas I knew Rory's age for sure.
“Just a couple years older than you,” my mother had told me.
I felt funny knowing more about Rory than he knew I knew. Now, his unwavering cheerfulness online made me sad. Next time we communicated, I let him know that our mothers knew each other, because that disclosure seemed necessary, honest. I didn't mention his illness, though. Everything we wrote on the boards was there for the world to see.
In the new year, Rory posted less often. His mother gave updates that my mother passed along to me. He and his partner had saved enough to live comfortably and even to travel while Rory remained able. A week-long absence from the board could mean a Caribbean cruise or a hospital stay. But then he'd be back, giving ravioli-making tips or knife-buying advice.
When Rory died, I considered sending his mother a card—I'd run into her couple of times at my parents' house—but couldn't get past the clumsy beginning: “Even though I never met your son...” I also considered posting his obituary. In recent months, dozens of people had added their words to a long thread celebrating the memory of another deceased poster. However, she'd been one of the most popular contributors, better known than SoupPuppy. What if I posted about him and no one added to my thread? I wondered whether anyone else had noticed when he stopped posting. People stop all the time, of course, and we never know if they've met trouble or just lost interest. In the end, I wrote nothing, told no one how I missed SoupPuppy's helpfulness and humor.
That summer, one of the kids who played online video games with my son went away to college and stopped gaming.
“He was the one on live chat who heard our car alarm go off—from Berkeley all the way to South Carolina—and told you how to turn it off, remember?”
“Where's he going to school?”
“Virginia.” My son looked up from his computer with narrowed eyes. “Unless he's lying.”
“I doubt he's lying. Sorry.”
Sorry I doubted him, sorry kids grow up and leave for college, I was just sorry.
My son grieved awhile for his friend—not for a real death of course but, we both knew, for a true loss nonetheless.
I still enjoy the foodie forum, especially the passion I find there: “I want Frank's hot sauce and butter on my buffalo wings. Period.”
“Real buffalo wings are *never* breaded.”
“Boneless wings? Really?”
“Poor bird.”
The last comment reminds me of SoupPuppy/Rory. I smile, picturing a chicken with floppy wings. The reflection on my computer screen smiles back.
SoupPuppy
Unlike many posters on a certain foodie forum, SoupPuppy was witty and sweet-natured, less fanatical than the rest of us. We regulars debate, argue: dressing versus stuffing, California Mexican versus Tex Mex, Arborio rice risotto versus Carnaroli. Or, perhaps, Vialone. We nitpick. Sometimes we insult each other and the moderators delete us. SoupPuppy, though, never squabbled.
Often, he made me smile. When the annual multicultural dinner at my son's school had me intimidated and paralyzed—what could a daughter of two Berkeley ex-hippies add to the spread of curries, dolmas, tamales and more?—SoupPuppy suggested I put the pot back in potluck. (My husband made a quiche, but I considered brownies.)
What did I know about SoupPuppy? Even though most members post anonymously, personal details emerge over time. SoupPuppy lived nearby in Oakland, was a one-time restaurateur—I even figured out which restaurant. My mother had been lucky enough to dine there before it closed. The cocktails had been strong, she declared, the goat cheese soufflé heavenly, the young co-owner, Rory, gracious and attentive.
“Of course we were there with his mother; the five of us.”
Turned out my mother played bridge with SoupPuppy/Rory's mother. My mother-in-law did, as well.
At Thanksgiving dinner in my husband's childhood home, I brought up Rory's name again. Was he handsome, I heard myself ask.
Yes, my mother and mother-in-law agreed he was.
I nodded. It came across in his posts; a generosity of spirit that can come easily to the good-looking.
“But he's dying,” my mother said, a forkful of turkey and cranberry sauce halfway to her mouth.
I was speechless, unable to express my sympathy (they hardly knew him), or my own sadness (neither did I). While my mother and mother-in-law repeated to each other their limited information about Rory's terminal cancer, I looked at my plate.
*
“He's not your friend.”
On the car ride home, my son called me out, getting back at me for telling him that the kids who play online video games with him—late at night, when he should be doing homework or sleeping—are not his real friends. Okay, maybe I'd been wrong, I told him, from the front seat. The late night gaming made me crabby, but I guessed he and the other players could be friends, though they'd never met face to face.
However, I still insisted that those online gamers could be lying to him about their age or gender or anything at all. Whereas I knew Rory's age for sure.
“Just a couple years older than you,” my mother had told me.
I felt funny knowing more about Rory than he knew I knew. Now, his unwavering cheerfulness online made me sad. Next time we communicated, I let him know that our mothers knew each other, because that disclosure seemed necessary, honest. I didn't mention his illness, though. Everything we wrote on the boards was there for the world to see.
In the new year, Rory posted less often. His mother gave updates that my mother passed along to me. He and his partner had saved enough to live comfortably and even to travel while Rory remained able. A week-long absence from the board could mean a Caribbean cruise or a hospital stay. But then he'd be back, giving ravioli-making tips or knife-buying advice.
When Rory died, I considered sending his mother a card—I'd run into her couple of times at my parents' house—but couldn't get past the clumsy beginning: “Even though I never met your son...” I also considered posting his obituary. In recent months, dozens of people had added their words to a long thread celebrating the memory of another deceased poster. However, she'd been one of the most popular contributors, better known than SoupPuppy. What if I posted about him and no one added to my thread? I wondered whether anyone else had noticed when he stopped posting. People stop all the time, of course, and we never know if they've met trouble or just lost interest. In the end, I wrote nothing, told no one how I missed SoupPuppy's helpfulness and humor.
That summer, one of the kids who played online video games with my son went away to college and stopped gaming.
“He was the one on live chat who heard our car alarm go off—from Berkeley all the way to South Carolina—and told you how to turn it off, remember?”
“Where's he going to school?”
“Virginia.” My son looked up from his computer with narrowed eyes. “Unless he's lying.”
“I doubt he's lying. Sorry.”
Sorry I doubted him, sorry kids grow up and leave for college, I was just sorry.
My son grieved awhile for his friend—not for a real death of course but, we both knew, for a true loss nonetheless.
I still enjoy the foodie forum, especially the passion I find there: “I want Frank's hot sauce and butter on my buffalo wings. Period.”
“Real buffalo wings are *never* breaded.”
“Boneless wings? Really?”
“Poor bird.”
The last comment reminds me of SoupPuppy/Rory. I smile, picturing a chicken with floppy wings. The reflection on my computer screen smiles back.
April 14, 2017
Surf's Up!
Thanks to Shelby Londyn-Heath for featuring me in this author spotlight on her blog Surf's Up Writers Bookshelf. It's fun and insightful. And includes cat pics. Take a look!
http://www.surfsupbookshelves.com/
http://www.surfsupbookshelves.com/
March 1, 2017
Book Giveaway During the Month of March
Be sure to enter for a chance to win a signed copy of A Cat Came Back! Here's a little more about the players in this unconventional love story:
Eliza, the main character, finds herself trapped in a cat’s body through a freak accident, so she faces some very serious limitations! Only her lover, Stu, knows what’s happened to her, that she’s still “alive.” This results in some funny misunderstandings with other characters, as well as some sad moments, for instance when her parents visit and she’s unable to communicate with them. Also as Eliza watches Stu interact with his own family, her perceptions of them change. She learns new things about people, but she can’t express what she’s learned. It’s all internal.
As the story goes on, Stu’s interest and attention become increasingly unreliable. She has to watch Stu become interested in a different woman, even bringing her into their bed! Eliza must confront the fact that she’s on her own in this predicament. And if the fate of the world does not hang in the balance, the fate of her world does. Her sense of person-ness is challenged in a very fundamental way. How do you hold on to you are, when no one sees you as human? I think this is a story many people can relate to, especially women: to be not quite seen, or heard, or taken seriously, to be denied the dignity of a point of view, your person-ness, really, with thoughts and feelings.
Eliza, the main character, finds herself trapped in a cat’s body through a freak accident, so she faces some very serious limitations! Only her lover, Stu, knows what’s happened to her, that she’s still “alive.” This results in some funny misunderstandings with other characters, as well as some sad moments, for instance when her parents visit and she’s unable to communicate with them. Also as Eliza watches Stu interact with his own family, her perceptions of them change. She learns new things about people, but she can’t express what she’s learned. It’s all internal.
As the story goes on, Stu’s interest and attention become increasingly unreliable. She has to watch Stu become interested in a different woman, even bringing her into their bed! Eliza must confront the fact that she’s on her own in this predicament. And if the fate of the world does not hang in the balance, the fate of her world does. Her sense of person-ness is challenged in a very fundamental way. How do you hold on to you are, when no one sees you as human? I think this is a story many people can relate to, especially women: to be not quite seen, or heard, or taken seriously, to be denied the dignity of a point of view, your person-ness, really, with thoughts and feelings.
December 11, 2016
Book release interview
A huge thank you to Jessica Hernandez for interviewing me this week on her blog, Architects of Worlds Afar, to celebrate the release of my new novel, A Cat Came Back. It was fun, a little challenging. Take a look!
https://architectsofworldsafar.wordpr...
https://architectsofworldsafar.wordpr...
October 3, 2016
Irish Inspiration
When the Irish literary magazine Crannog accepted my short story, Autumn Sonata, for their fall issue they emailed me an invite me to the launch party at the Crane Bar in Galway, Ireland. Two days later my husband, Paul, and I bought plane tickets. We’ll fly from San Francisco to Dublin, then drive across Ireland to meet other writers in what looks like, online, an incredibly cozy, traditional pub. We can’t wait.
“Do it now, kids,” my mother-in-law tells us, often. Recently she moved from her big house into an assisted living place, giving away most of her things. Paul and I got the suitcases. Paul’s mom’s traveling days are behind her. My own mom has cancer and her traveling days are on hold. Our son’s living on his own in San Francisco, doing well. Now’s the time to be bold.
So we’re doing it, even though we can’t really afford the trip, even though it’s crazy, even though when I imagine stepping into the Crane Bar at 7PM on October 28 the step seems scary. I believe Ireland is a country that welcomes writers, though. While I’m there, I hope to sit beside Oscar Wilde’s statue on a Dublin bench, maybe stand below James Joyce’s Martello tower in Sandycove. I’ve reread the tower scene at the beginning of Ulysses just in case. I plan to pay my respects at W.B. Yeats’s grave in County Sligo and read the words I first encountered in English class: Cast a cold eye/on life, on death/Horseman, pass by!
“Do it now, kids.”
The next time my mother-in-law says those words, I’ll tell her we’re trying. I know. The time is now.
“Do it now, kids,” my mother-in-law tells us, often. Recently she moved from her big house into an assisted living place, giving away most of her things. Paul and I got the suitcases. Paul’s mom’s traveling days are behind her. My own mom has cancer and her traveling days are on hold. Our son’s living on his own in San Francisco, doing well. Now’s the time to be bold.
So we’re doing it, even though we can’t really afford the trip, even though it’s crazy, even though when I imagine stepping into the Crane Bar at 7PM on October 28 the step seems scary. I believe Ireland is a country that welcomes writers, though. While I’m there, I hope to sit beside Oscar Wilde’s statue on a Dublin bench, maybe stand below James Joyce’s Martello tower in Sandycove. I’ve reread the tower scene at the beginning of Ulysses just in case. I plan to pay my respects at W.B. Yeats’s grave in County Sligo and read the words I first encountered in English class: Cast a cold eye/on life, on death/Horseman, pass by!
“Do it now, kids.”
The next time my mother-in-law says those words, I’ll tell her we’re trying. I know. The time is now.
