Vacations, unplugged.

My coworker tweeted this blog about going on vacation and being (gasp!) unplugged. As I read it, the five stages of grief washed over me, much like the shores of the Atlantic must have washed over the writer during his time on OBX*. The red bits are my reaction to his vacation; the blue bits are my predictions on how I would act should I do the same.

• Denial (No way did he actually unplug everything the whole time. It's not possible.) (I guarantee you I would cheat, which must mean he cheated, too.)
• Anger (What an idiot! He could have missed some crucial breaking news!) (WHAT IF SOMEONE GOT MARRIED AND I DIDN'T SEE THEIR FACEBOOK PHOTOS RIGHT AWAY?)
• Bargaining (Maybe he unplugged for, like, two days, but then plugged back in.) (I could do that. An hour on, an hour off. That wouldn't be too bad, and it would still count, right?)
• Depression (What a sad vacation, to not be able to check your RSS. Just think of all the reading he must have needed to do upon his return!) (The thought of arriving home to an inbox filled with hundreds of unread emails, missed tweets, unseen photos, unread Jezebel posts - it's enough to ruin a vacation entirely.)
• Acceptance (I mean...I guess that "unplugged" vacation could work for some people.) (Ohpleasegoddess, pleaseletitbefeasibleforme.)

The thing is, I talk a good game, but I LOVE the idea of being unplugged for long periods of time. But because of my job, I just can't make it happen without a lot of pre-planning. Which is okay, but it does mean that sometimes, on a rare Sunday, perhaps, after weeks of being plugged in 24/7, I find that I'm done. Had it. I just can't bring myself to click on my Reader or read that Facebook notification or check my Tweetdeck. I just, sometimes, need to pretend it's 1995 again and none of those things exist yet and all I have to worry about is which Tori concert I'll be hitting next and whether I should wear my brown Doc Martens or my red ones.

Anyway, kudos to that guy for having a completely unplugged vacation. I look forward to the next time I do that.

* That was me trying to be poetic. I failed.

The sweet smell of loot

Did I mention I'm moving? Just a few blocks away, but to a total upgrade apartment.

Anyway, when K and I moved into our current place we ended up leaving several tubs unpacked. (As you do!) So these two big tubs of stuff have been sitting in our storage area for 3.5 years. (Classy!)

We hauled them out the other night with the intentions of tossing their remnants. The joke was on us, though, when we opened it to find two Christopher Pike titles and three Cheerleaders titles (and we all know how I feel about Cheerleaders). Success!

The rest of the crap in that bin did get tossed, which I suppose begs the question, why did we not simply toss it before moving into this current place nearly four years ago?

Why, indeed.

Edited: I am sorry to say the Cheerleaders series doesn't hold up quite as well as I would have liked. I mean, it's still great and nostalgic and totally 80s, but...there are plot lines and themes it just keeps hitting my over the head with way too directly. Like, I get it, Olivia. You feel like Walt's neglecting you in book 7. You don't need to keep saying on every page "It's like Walt has time for everyone but me." Message received.

Edited again: I mean, I still really love these books and won't be throwing them away or anything like that. Let's not get dramatic here.

Tuning into the seasons

Neil Young reminds me of summer. So too does the entire Forrest Gump soundtrack, and the Indigo Girls, and James Taylor. This is all thanks to my most favorite summer job ever -- Breezin' Up* in Beach Haven, NJ. (Lovingly called BU.) (The store, not the town.)

I worked there from the summer I turned 16 until the summer I turned 20 or so; then came back the summer after college graduation, following my month-long jaunt (note: backpacking and roughing it in hostels) through Europe. K and I got many of our friends to work there with us, which made the whole experience that much more awesome. There are so many things I could say about BU, but I've put some of them into my currently-out-with-agents manuscript, so you'll have to wait until it's in stores.

The thing with BU was, there was a massive collection of CDs from which to choose; and with three stores, and multi-disc players in each store (mid-90's represent!), picking out the music for each store, for each shift, was the ultimate in coolness. (Um, for me.)

So many times,  I would be standing at the front of the store, having just put out the flag and opened the doors, waiting for customers to walk off the beach and realize how desperately they needed washed-red or hunter green tee shirts, and it would just be me and the music. From the Gin Blossoms to Jann Arden, working at BU is what allowed me to stop pretending I hated mainstream pop and adult soft rock, because, let's face it, I totally do. (I still got my Tori Amos fix every day, don't worry.)

So these days, I fully credit BU with introducing me to a lot of music I don't think I otherwise would have appreciated. Edie Brickell? Check. Creedence Clearwater Revival? Check. Michael Penn? Check with a side of Romeo in Black Jeans. And I love when I unexpectedly hear a song that transports me back to BU--back to being 18, back to having tee shirt folding contests, back to watching the lines form outside for the ice cream stand, back to closing the doors on the irrepressible summer heat and thanking my lucky stars I got to work in an air conditioned store. Back to summer.

* THERE'S A WEB SITE FOR BU?!?!?! Amazing.

The women of LBI

One bleak afternoon this past winter, I hauled my trusty Mac over to my aunt and uncle's house in South Jersey. My grandmother (we call her mom-mom) stayed there all through her chemo treatments (that house being closer to the hospital and various doctors' offices she needed to frequent versus her "real" house on Long Beach Island). I had agreed to write an article for Living LBI magazine about the women of LBI. And, considering mom-mom grew up there, still lives there (she's back at home, by the by - chemo worked!), and has always been the epitome of LBI-dom to me, obviously she was the perfect person about which to write.

So K and I interviewed her. Have you ever interviewed an older family member? I think everyone should have to, at least once -- someone at least one generation removed from them. The world they remember is so different, but their plans and ideas tend to be the same as ours, and it paints a vivid reminder of our universality. I digress.

Mom-mom talked and talked about her life on LBI. I had already known the basics (including her three husbands -- which, for a woman born in the 30's, is pretty rare), but I was blown away by the details. Such sass! Even cooler was when she talked about the various jobs she held on the island; how she learned to drink her coffee black; how she memorized her customers' orders and became part of the fabric of the town.

When I went to write about the interview, though, the story took a different turn, as stories are wont to do. So I tried to follow it, and this is what came out of that interview, over hot tea on my aunt's couch with my mom-mom wrapped up in a cozy blanket. (Click on the Summer 2010 issue and scroll over to page 42. You can zoom in by right clicking.)

Let's talk about Pretty Little Liars, and other books-to-tv

As I was inhaling Pretty Little Liars the other night (heretofore known as PLL, or plllllllllll) I realized I was fighting these random pangs of something that felt like jealousy. What? Why was I jealous of a television show? (Note: at first I just thought it was because they use The Pierces as their opening music. I love The Pierces!) Well, think about it. I am the ripe old age of 31 (today, actually! Happy birthday to me!). When I was 14 I would have capital-L Loved PLL. I'm sure, too I would have loved Gossip Girl, and the various made-for-tv or DVD versions of other bestselling teen series. Idda been all over Twilight, maybe. (Maybe not? I had a tendency to dislike things that the masses liked just for the sake of being contrary. Like, I hated No Doubt.)

But did those catered-to-teens shows exist when I was 14? Nope. They did not. My generation decidedly did not have the buying power--or probably even the sheer numbers, though I should look that up--that today's tweeners have, 90210-themed bedsheets and boardgames notwithstanding. (Yep, I was a 90210-holic, along with everyone else. But that's the exception to this blog post, I think.) The YA and middle grade market was just beginning its explosion. I was on the cusp. I could watch Saved by the Bell and California Dreams, but I couldn't watch my favorite books--the ones that were written to reach me!--on screen yet. I couldn't participate in any type of cultural phenomenon; I couldn't be part of a widespread community of people who obsessed over the same characters and plotlines I did. None of that existed yet.

So, I'm jealous. I get to watch and read PLL (and enjoy them!), but it's not really the same. It's not meant for me; I've lived most of those lessons already; I know how they turn out, and I've come to terms with it. You teens and tweens today are lucky. Remember that. Remember it when my generation is old and needs your money to help pay for our nursing home fees. Remember that you had near-limitless options when it came to entertainment as a teen, and we--well, we were stuck with no email, no cell phones, and tapered jeans.

Life changes

Last weekend I followed my real estate agent into an apartment and thought, "Honey, I'm home!" Truly, that was my first instinct. I took the place; I move in on August 1. Earlier this week I had a momentous occasion when I deposited a specific check. It was a Big Deal Check, made Bigger because it was a. the first check I'd received for creative writing and b. for something I haven't even written yet. I felt like buying a cupcake to celebrate, but it was 9am, and I like eggs better.

My birthday is in four days. It's not a Big Deal Number (last year's was), but my age has suddenly hit me this time, like an unexpected raindrop on my brow. I am both old and young, experienced and naive, crying salt into my pillows and swallowing away concerns like cough drops.

I am alternately busy and bored; exhausted and enthralled; bothered and lax.

All this is to say, it's summertime. And these are the goings-on of my summer.

Today in Things I Can't Get Enough Of...

As I mentioned earlier, I can't get enough of The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. But, I also just finished The Help. I finished Lemon Cake sometime last week in transit somewhere (who knows at this point, really. I'm so tired I can't remember which US Weekly I haven't read yet.). I just...actually, I don't know what to say about it yet. Part 1 was the strongest, I think, but who's to say I only think that because I finished the book on an uncomfortable train ride? I need to re-read it, stat, in order to make up my mind. But I do know this: if I could write like anyone, it would be Aimee Bender.

So then I read The Help. Now, this was an unexpected purchase for me. I didn't plan on reading it. But on a whim I bought it for my Kindle (have you seen that hardcover? That is way too heavy to cart around) and I both started it and finished it on the plane. At one point, K looked over to tell me something and I was crying. "This book is just so good," I sobbed.

I'm not convinced, though, that it really is that good. Is that weird? I was just so tired and trying to distract myself as I read it that maybe I was too eager for it to affect me. (Is this what it's come to? Me trying to justify my book tears?)

Anyway. I like books, some more than others, if that's not yet clear.

Dreamy London

This blog has been asleep for several reasons, probably the most obvious being that I just returned from an amazing trip to London and Bath (by way of an airport I will not miss Reykjavik, which is another story altogether). This was maybe my 10th trip to London but I daresay it will go down in history as my best one. From start to finish, I had the *best* time, despite delays, bungled seats, and long layovers.

Now here is where I wax rhapsodic about England: I just love the place. The first time I went to London it was like I was able to exhale, finally. You know how some cities just fit you? London fits me.

After arriving on Thursday midday (five of us flew in together, which was a hoot), we had drinks in Covent Garden on Thursday evening before heading down to Bath on Friday morning. See, my dear friend G was getting married (the whole reason for the trip) in an estate a few minutes outside of Bath. Well, what a cool town -- just gorgeous and historic and all that. But wow, the estate? Like a scene from Pride & Prejudice, truly. Mr. Darcy was waiting around every corner!

It was, hands down, the most fun wedding I've ever been to. (We closed out the dance floor after 4am. I was sore for days. Literally! Days!) And sure, that's partly due to the fact that the bride and groom's friends are my friends, so I knew and loved a solid 70% of the guests, which of course makes for an extra-fun time. G looked incredible, and I spent a lot of time gathering the source material for this fun little big project I'm working on for her and W, her husband.

We stayed in Bath on Sunday where we hit up the Jane Austen Centre for some amazing tea and scones with some of my favorite boys (I mean, it's no Edith Wharton Centre, but whatever) and then journeyed back to London proper on Monday to stay with friends until Wednesday.

I did no writing while I was there, which is a shame, but I feel like I have so much to process before I can even begin to download it. (Also, Iceland Express? Not the most conducive to productive flights.)

Anyway, so that's where I've been. Now I'm home fighting the good fight jet lag.

The Particular Love of an Author

In the beginning of An Invisible Sign of My Own, the narrator recounts a story - a myth - about a kingdom far away that was becoming too populated, so its residents were asked to sacrifice one person from each family. One family decided instead to each sacrifice a part of themselves--a nose, a foot--because they couldn't bear to lose each other. My aunt and uncle have an amazing backyard in South Jersey where I've spent many a summer day, listening to the background droning of a neighborhood lawnmower and swatting away greenheads as the aquamarine water from the pool lapped against me. One day, years ago, to keep my (then-young) cousins occupied, I started telling stories. I told that one, the one from An Invisible Sign of My Own. We moved to the hammock in the shade, curled up on each other, pressing damp hands into large grooves, and I told the story, which turned into a retelling of the book. My cousins loved it.

When I knock on wood, I think of Mona Gray, the book's narrator. Same, when I open a bar of fresh soap.

I don't know that there's any other book that speaks to me as much as An Invisible Sign of My Own does. I'll spare you my own neuroses, but suffice it to say I understood Mona. I understood Lisa Venus's rage. I even understand her father's slowing metamorphosis into shades of gray.

Anyway, I finished Emily Giffin's Heart of the Matter this morning (I liked it!) and, even though I have work reading to do, I remembered to check in on my Kindle to see when Aimee Bender's newest book, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, is out. I thought it was sometime this month. Turns out, I was wrong! It came out last week. Which means it came into my Kindle ay-sap.

I'm about 23 pages in. And I am, once again, shattered at the fact that someone on this planet can write as beautifully as Bender does.

(I totally forgot, btw, that Invisible Sign has been made into a movie. Starring (gulp) Jessica Alba. What's the deal? Is this going to be released or not?)

Mark Twain (really.)

I have this thing about Mark Twain. I loved Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn well enough, I suppose, but more than that, there's something about the author himself--his Americana, perhaps--that affects me. Thinking about Mark Twain is kind of how I feel when I watch America: The Story of Us--like he's a crucial part of our collective history, like we are all his children and we're all in this together, swimming the Mississippi and sucking on blades of grass with him. Mark Twain is ours. Someone else I love is illustrator Edward Fotheringham. Now, as much as I respect their craft, I don't follow illustrators' careers or even the picture book industry very much (I'm a little too enthralled with YA, obvs). But when my niece was born last year and I began buying books in bulk for her, I discovered Fotheringham, and his work just blows me away. It's this perfectly peculiar mix of traditional and modern, and his subject matter is always so unique and compelling (hello, The Mermaid Queen! Who knew?) and I buy his books because they truly captivate me in a way that I'm not sure any other picture book does.

So, here's what I'm getting at: there's a new book about Mark Twain, called The Extraordinary Mark Twain (According to Susy), and it's illustrated by Fotheringham and written by Barbara Kerley (who previously partnered with Fotheringham on another book I love, What to Do About Alice?). What makes this book about Twain so extraordinary is that it weaves in the real words, in the real handwriting, from Twain's 13-year-old daughter, Susy, who was secretly chronicling his life. The New York Times reviewed it, and it's a great review, and absolutely worthy of a read. But what got me most was this:

Twain turned morose at the end. He believed the worst about the human anthill and knew just where we were all going, which, as Huck says, was to “the bad place” — a mood hinted at in this book, whose end brings double heartbreak. The first comes in the way Susy winds up her book on Twain, on a family trip to Iowa in 1886: “We have arrived in Keokuk after a very pleasant — ” And that’s it. Leaving off in mid-sentence like this probably means she was called away for dinner, or to see some spectacle, but suggests a greater going away, that shift known to all parents, that moment when Susy discovered a subject beyond her father. One afternoon, in Iowa, Susy Clemens was done writing about Mark Twain.

Emphasis mine, because really? Is that not the most beautiful, heartbreaking sentence you've ever read?

Page-a-day challenge

I'm generally not big on internet challenges (only because it's so easy to cheat!), but this one caught my eye. Weronika Janczuk is hosting a Page-a-Day Challenge from May 15 - June 15, which is pretty self-explanatory: set a goal to write one page per day. No more, no less. (I'll be in London/Bath/Reykjavik for a few of those days, and because I haven't yet decided if I'm bringing my Mac with me, this might be an interesting challenge for me for a lot of reasons!) Sounds easy, right? That's the beauty of it. I'm in the habit of blocking out entire weekends to write, which means that (while I love those weekends) usually at some point on Saturday afternoon I'm cursing myself for not simply spreading out my writing over the week. Well, this is my opportunity. Because one page a day is so minimal, but it amounts to so much. (And honestly? Of course I'm going to end up writing more than one page a day! Weronika explains how very nicely here.)

Everyone involved will be Tweeting with #padc, too, so you can track us on Twitter, should you be so inclined.

Already today I'm off to a full-day session of Girls Write Now and then two birthday parties, so, uh, apparently I'll be writing my first page sometime around 2am. Cheers!

Edited to add: First page written! I managed to sneak it in after GWN and before I leave for the eve. This is a brand new project, and it feels awesome.

I know what I write.

...which is why this piece from Mandy Hubbard's blog struck a chord with me. (It also struck a chord for a few others reasons which I can't yet talk about, so how's that for cryptic?) It's so seductive to follow the publishing deals and start thinking "Crap! Should I be writing paranormal?" No. No, I should not. You know why? Because I don't really read paranormal, which means a. I'm not really a fan and b. I certainly don't know the market -- which are obviously two things I would need in order to write a smart, successful paranormal.

I'm a contemporary, realistic fiction sort of girl, and I am okay with that.

Sidebar: I've been meaning to pick up Mandy's Prada & Prejudice. Anyone out there have any thoughts on it?

Gimme a G-A-R-A-G-E-S-A-L-E

Check it out: when I graduated from choose-your-own-adventures (really just a passing phase) and Baby-sitters Clubs, I discovered Cheerleaders. It was the 90s, but these books were decidedly 80s. But they were about cheerleading. And I was a cheerleader (until I quit senior year, which is a story I'll save for another time, dear readers). It was fate!

I probably only read the first five or so books in the series, but true to form, I probably read them a dozen times each. K and I would check them out from the town library, where they stood on a spinning rack in a back corner in what I now suppose must have been the unofficial YA corner of the library (the children's section was magnificent - truly - but YA was separate, in the adult section of the library. I think that's also where I found the Peggy Sue books, which I also adored.).

Anyway, my cousin is moving to New York (hey Laur!) now that she's officially a college grad so she had a yard sale at my aunt & uncle's house last weekend. Which probably means that the books my mom scored for me were mine to begin with, but it's more fun to pretend they weren't. So my mom calls me and is all, "I got two books for you! Something about a little sister named Karen and one of the Cheerleaders books!"

SCORE.

Here's what I remember about Cheerleaders: Angie had a great smile and was Italian, but needed to pick up running to keep her figure (because of all the great Italian food, natch); Mary Ellen (Sue?) had a younger sister named Gemma, which I thought was such a great name (still do; it's just that now I know some real-life ones); one of the characters called Olivia a hobbit and I didn't know what that meant at the time; Vanessa was the mean girl and people called her Vanny and she didn't make the squad.

Alas, that's all from book 1, and my mom scored me book 4, so I can't pull a BSC Revisited and compare my recollections with what actually happened. But I can grab my old poms, do a herkie, and dive in and re-read it like it's nobody's business. Stay tuned.

Scenes from my living room

K and I are watching Parenthood. Phone rings. Older sister, J: Put on TBS. Seinfeld is on, and there's a woman George is talking to who is really fair-skinned with red hair--do you have it on? She's not on the t.v. right this second, but you'll see her. Put it on.

Me: Ok, hang on.

Pausing my DVR and turning on TBS. Hey, Elaine.

J: OK, so if anyone will know this, you guys will. Wait for this red-haired woman to come on. She's from a show we used to watch where her t.v. husband tried to kill himself every episode--like, in a funny way--and always failed. What was it called?

In the background, J's husband cracks a joke. J yells "I know, it's the best premise for a show!" They're serious.

The red-headed woman comes on the screen. She is familiar!

Me (gesturing and putting J on speaker): K, what is she from?

J: I can tell you one particular episode I remember if that helps.

She tries; it sort of does. K opens up my Mac.

Me: Give K 60 seconds and we'll have an answer for you.

J (yelling to her husband): I told you they'd know!

K manuevers through IMDB. We exchange theories about Lucille Bluth and Two and a Half Men and a political sitcom from the early 90s. After a few keystrokes, success.

K: Got it.

J: Damn, that was a funny show. I'm gonna go YouTube old episodes.

And, scene.

Oh, Hitchcock

Hello! I have vertigo.* It's been exactly one week since the world started spinning for me.

I'm trying to have a joke-y tone here, but the truth is, this is a terrible feeling. It's quite debilitating; I have a few hours here and there where I feel normal, but most of the time, my body just wants me to lie very still, on my side, with my eyes closed, to help the room settle around me. My head pulses; the drums of my ears feel like that volcano in Iceland--angry, unable to find a nook in which to land, constantly alerting me to their discontent.

It's been exactly one week, but it feels like years.

*UPDATE: I actually don't have vertigo, which I discovered after my 6th doctor's appointment in two weeks. I have a virus of the inner ear, which sounds so much less glamorous but, frankly, feels a whole lot worse. (Do yourself a favor and don't Google it, because it's just depressing. Some people take months or years to recover. I am staying optimistic that that won't be the case for me.)

I don't want to get all Stephenie Meyer on anyone, but...

I had a vivid, crazy, impressive dream last night, in which I was quite literally dictating the first chapter of my current WIP. (That's work-in-progress for all you cool people who don't know. No, really, you're the cool ones for not knowing the term. Trust.) When my alarm went off, I actually looked down at my hands, half-expecting to find a notebook filled with words. Well, there wasn't one. But that's ok. I made progress on the structure last night and then, thanks to my dream, made some more this morning. #MYDREAMSARETALKINGTOMEYOUGUYS.*

*I've been tweeting so much lately (not just for me, but for work and GWN too), that I feel like I now talk in hashtags. Or like hashtags should just be something we all incorporate into our verbal communications now. As in, "I am so tired today. Hashtag, thank goodness it's Friday!" #Iwonderhowthatwouldwork #IbetsomeoneinBrooklynhasalreadytriedit

For your viewing pleasure

I am sah-lammed at work these days and entrenched in Girls Write Now work (our anthology is going to print soon!) so no posts for me lately. To make up for it, here's a video of my mentee and me at the recent CHAPTERS reading series! (I know. You must be the luckiest people on the planet. All two of you!)

Really though. You should check out all of the readings.

Celebrating poetry

Today kicks off National Poetry Month, which proves how nerdy I am, because I get excited about it. Last Friday, my mentee and I read joint villanelles at CHAPTERS, the Girls Write Now reading series (which, btw, I will be emceeing on April 23 with keynote speaker Lizzie Skurnick and NYC's best teen writers!). When I was paired up with Shira three years ago (!), I knew we'd get along swimmingly both writing-wise and life-wise, only because we immediately realized how much we love to write poetry. That first year, we did a joint cinquain project--I would write one and send it to her, and she'd write one using my last line as her first line, and so on.

Last year we upped the ante, choosing six words and each writing a sestina with them. That was a challenge--sestinas are long and highly structured--but I think our pieces turned out beautifully.

And finally, this year, our final year as an official pair (she's off to Wesleyan in the fall--sob!), we chose villanelles. (For an example of an amazing villanelle, check out Sylvia Plath's Mad Girl's Love Song and some other famous ones here.) We settled on an opening line, and each branched off into our own work.

Here's how mine turned out:

My city speaks to me in fits and starts; a still life that’s always breathing. She seeps into my skin like the bleeding lines of a wet painting.

Characters emerge on every corner, hushing me when I try to decipher the mother tongue, the fragrant voices in which my city speaks, to me and only me.

They’re a riddle, these murmurs: how did we all get here, and who will make it out alive? I hang my head, listen, and New York seeps into me, like the bleeding lines of a wet painting.

Somewhere tonight there is a rooftop party, and it hums its songs overhead, spinning into stars, through slate and stone. I listen for clues to the mysteries of this verbal city.

Somewhere tonight there is a subway stalled, people pressing ears to chipped cement walls, calling out. She’s calling, too; seeping in like the bleeding lines of a wet painting.

The languages mingle, blending into colors we haven’t yet named. We dance our dances, knock on buildings, kick up leaves, whistle at buses. My city speaks to me, to us; oil on canvas, dripping on hands. New York, she seeps into me like the bleeding lines of a wet painting.

Today, in things I can't get enough of:

Donna Tartt's The Secret History. A friend across the pond sent me Tartt's The Little Friend for Christmas last year, and by Spring of '09 I had finally gotten around to starting it (I was likely in one of those YA-or-die moods for a few months, I suspect). Well, I was obsessed with it.

But then everyone told me how The Secret History is so much better than The Little Friend, which I found completely improbable, so now here I am, a year later, testing my hypothesis.

Conclusion: I die when I pick up this book, and I die when I have to put it down.

And I am barely halfway through.

Note: I tried in vain to link to Tartt's web site - surely she must have one! - but alas, she doesn't seem to. Another web site refers to her as "vaguely reclusive." Someday, I might like to be known as "vaguely reclusive."

Note #2: I DIDN'T KNOW the college she created in The Secret History was modeled on Bennington!! This opens up a whole new world of understanding for me.

Note #3: Hollywood's been trying to make a movie of The Secret History for years! Gwyneth Paltrow would be a producer/star! (Who, Camilla, I suppose? Or Judy Poovey? LOL.)

Note #4: I'm going to keep adding notes because I knew nothing about Tartt and now I'm researching her and I can't stop and please someone help I may be becoming obsessive.

Fighting stories.

While a certain someone looks at a certain something I've been working on for over a year, it occurs to me that I am suddenly free to begin something entirely new, and entirely different. Now, when I wasn't immersed in my last writing project, I would occasionally have brainstorms about other projects--these crawly worm-like thoughts that nestle into my head and say "I am here! Write about me!" And I would, briefly--little paragraphs or notes or quotes or characters. And now that I am free--for at least a few weeks, I suspect--to try something new, I feel like I'm flooded with ideas. The problem is there are so many things I want to write, but the bigger problem is, two in particular are desperately competing against each other.

But one has slowly won out over the other, even though the loser (is it wrong to call works-in-progress "losers?") is actually completely outlined and the winner is not (and not even close), I am going with my gut and am going to jump in headfirst into this other, newer one. I think about it, and about my main characters, all the time. I am obsessed with the setting they're in, and their main obstacle; and I suspect it'll be the most biographical, in terms of characters, piece I'll ever write.

Anyway! In short, two stories were fighting to be told. Only one can make it out alive right now. And I've placed my bets. (cue dramatic music.)