It's still Kim Green week at Jordan's Muse. Today we bring you an excerpt from her published novel Paging Aphrodite. In Kim's own words: "this is a scene where two women, 40-something australian mom Claire and 30-something type-A interior designer Parker, meet in a Greek taverna for the first time and compare sob stories."

* * *

From Paging Aphrodite...

I realized Tony was fidgeting in the plastic seat. Over his shoulder, I saw the Australian, whose name was apparently Claire, slide into her regular spot. We smiled at each other. On impulse, I beckoned her over.

“I think they’re ready for you, Tony. You better go over before they decide your ruthless good looks are out of their league.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I only put up with you because you are good customer.” He turned to Claire. “Nice to see you, beautiful. Free dolmas for my two favorite ladies!” he announced, and lurched off toward the statuesque blondes.

“He’s a piece of work, that Tony,” Claire said. “I think he’s had a different woman in his lair every night I’ve been in, which is every night.”

“I don’t know how he does it, but he could bottle it and sell it,” I said. We sat silently for a moment, listening to the island’s dusk settle around us. During the day, the sun baked the scrubby wildflowers and shrubs, leaving behind a confectionery tartness in the air.

“I’m Parker Glass. I felt sort of silly not introducing myself, seeing you night after night.”

“And I’m Claire,” she said in a cheerful Aussie accent. “On holiday with your friend?”

“Yes,” I said automatically.

An image of the Neil nestled in a foxhole with his face pressed between the Belgian’s breasts popped into my mind. The tiny bubble of hope I’d been cultivating swelled and burst in my heart.

“I mean, no, no I’m not,” I said slowly. “Actually, my husband seems to have, um, taken off.”
The amber eyes pooled with empathy, which, strangely, did not piss me off.

“We can talk about something else,” I said hurriedly.

Claire drank deeply of her wine. “Or we can talk about this,” she said, shrugging her shoulders as if either route was okay by her. Something about this woman made the knot of muscle in my neck loosen.

“This trip was supposed to be our honeymoon. Neil—that’s my husband—told me our life wasn’t right for him anymore and joined Habitat for Humanity, I think so he could assuage his WASP guilt, which kind of fucked up the honeymoon part of honeymoon, you know? I thought things were going okay, but then I had a total meltdown in front of a client. My business partner pretty much gave me the choice of going on vacation to Greece or seeing Dr. Lobotomy every week. Since she’s also my best friend and I’m not exactly good at the therapy thing, I chose the former,” I said with a hint of pride. Damn, this wine was sour. I squeezed my eyes shut and gulped.

To my surprise, Claire laughed. “Okay, my turn. I’m Claire Dillon. I’m forty-six but I’ve been told I can pass for thirty. Sadly, all the people who said that are legally blind.”

“Here’s to the legally blind!” We raised our glasses and clinked them together.

Claire continued. “My husband Gary cheated on me. His girlfriend’s got three kids by three different fathers and pronounces cabernet ‘cabernette’ and gives massages for a living. I swear, I’m not usually such a snob, but it’s just so, I don’t know, so perfectly awful. It’s not like it would be better if she was an English professor or something, it’s just that I have to wonder what it is that she’s got that I…”—she held her palm upright in the air—“…Ugh, I don’t even want to go there. It was actually even worse because I used to go to her spa for the occasional shiatsu…oh, nevermind.” Claire paused and shuddered as she downed her wine. “Since we’re doing the confessional thing, I should add that my younger son is gay and his father hasn’t spoken to him for seven years and I don’t think I could have stood another year of it anyway. Now I’m just trying to find something other than these awful Sidney Sheldons to read in English and deciding if I should kick Gary out on his arse when I get home.”

“Here’s to getting out while you can!” I tried to sound as cheery as possible, under the circumstances. We clinked again.

Claire inched her chair closer and lowered her voice. “Just so you know, I was considering having an affair with this gorgeous young bloke called Sven, but then my American friend beat me to it. But I’m not ruling it out. Even if I am forty-six years old.”

I stared at the tablecloth until the red checks blurred together.

“God. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or cheer,” I said.

“How about all three?”

I refilled our glasses, spilling just a bit onto the white paper tablecloth. “I would like to say you trumped me, Claire, especially with the whole cabernette thing. But I’ve got an ace in the hole, you see. I’m afraid I’m a certifiable nut job. Diagnosed!” I cleared my throat and mimicked Dr. Lobotomy. “Control freak, with anal retentive tendencies, a tad obsessive-compulsive and possibly a small prescription drug habit.”

Claire nodded sagely. “But I haven’t even told you about my singing career, cut short in the bloom of youth by an unplanned pregnancy! It’s positively Jackie Collins!”

“Yeah, well my marriage only lasted eleven days!”

“I cut up all of Gary’s boxer shorts!”

“I deleted a message from a law firm I didn’t want Neil to work for!”

“I once sang ‘You Light Up My Life’ to a man in a convalescent home who had died ten minutes before we arrived!”

I paused. “Are you serious?”

“Well, okay, ten minutes after,” Claire admitted.

“I’m sure it was no reflection on your singing,” I said.

She sighed. “You thirsty?” Claire held up the empty bottle so it swung back and forth. The setting sun cut through it, sending green rays across her pretty, smile-lined face. Her auburn hair flamed red at the edges. I felt something tickle at the edges of my mouth and suddenly realized it was the sort of tingly joy you feel when you’ve just met someone you really, really like and who seems, miraculously, to like you in return. For a second, I almost forgot that Neil had absconded with our life, I was a failing interior decorator with an anger management problem and there were three Xanaxes bobbing around in my pocket.

“God, Claire. In this light, you look about eighteen,” I said, quite truthfully.

# # #

Visit Kim's Website: www.kimgreen.com.

Make a Scene goes NEON.

So I'm officially on blog-tour as of today, with the generous hosting of Susan DiPlacido over at Neon Fiction. Susan makes me laugh, and quite often spit whatever I'm drinking through my nose in delight with her spot-on, gorgeously snarky breakdowns of the drivel that calls itself TV these days. She's also a talented author of four books herself, the latest being American Cool. She has graciously agreed to interview me over at her blog. Even if you only just read her previous posts and skip the interview, you won't be disappointed with what you find there.

Also, if you live in the bay area, I'm having my book launch party at North Light Books in Cotati, CA on Saturday at 2pm. 550 E. Cotati Avenue. That's December 1st. Then, the very next day, Sunday the 2nd, I'm speaking (yes, on the scene) at The Redwood branch of the California Writer's Club--at Marvin's restaurant, also in cotati. I hope you can join me for one or both. Books will most definitely be for sale.

JPR

Now that your thanksgiving dinner has finally digested, you've got room for something truly tasty. The final week of Rocketgirl month here kicks off with excerpts from author Kim Green, who will be here to answer some interview questions later in the week. Today, we start with something that you won't find anywhere else, because it's on its way to bookstores. This is an excerpt from her forthcoming book, Live a Little. Visit Kim's Website: www.kimgreen.com.

Chapter 1: We Interrupt This Broadcast…

Have you ever wondered what you’d do if they told you that you were dying? Not like, someday you’re going to die. Imminently. As in three months.

I used to think about it periodically. But when they tell me, my reaction is nothing like what I’d imagined: the raw terror, tingling in the spinal region, crying ranging from dignified sobbing to Irish wake-style caterwauling. Perhaps a swoon. No. What I actually do is thank the doctor—thank him, for God’s sake—proceed to have a calm, rational conversation with him about my prognosis, then—sexual fantasy starring the middle-aged alert!—hypothesize doing him. Yeah, him. Il dottor. The guy nervously plucking at his white sleeve, exposing a swatch of swarthy ethnic wrist.

As soon as the words leave his mouth I wonder, opportunistically, if his dismay can be leveraged somehow. Sexually, that is. I guess when you’re going to die and you can count the number of orgasms you’ve enjoyed in low double digits it suddenly seems absolutely essential to cram in as many as you humanly can. He is young, divinely average-looking and terrifically bad at it. Delivering grim news, I mean.

“But I’m only forty-three,” I say. That part goes as rehearsed.

“I know. Sadly, it’s not as rare as you’d—”

“But surely there’s some treatment, some operation….”

“We’ll operate, of course, but it’s not statistically likely to work against this type at this advanced stage, Mrs. Rose—”

“But they cure people, like all the time! I read something about a new drug from Norway…or was it Denmark?“

Meissner’s eyes flick to the desk clock, which he has cleverly attempted to conceal behind a trophy topped by a golf club-wielding bald man. He nods sagely. “Cyclopaclizole. FDA pulled it. Too many myoclonic seizures,” he says with a trace of regret, as if we are discussing a very effective flea collar.

At the word “seizure,” my shattered brain does a clumsy swan dive, landing in the convivial pool that is carnal escapism.

“Oh, can it, will you? Look,” I say, leaning over slightly so he can get an eyeful of cleavage, which I know is Grade A prime in spite of being riddled with tumors. “Will you have sex with me?”

Then we fuck like demented bunnies on the oversized, big-dick substitute oak desk, right on top of the dreaded biopsy results.

Okay, a girl can dream, can’t she?

Somehow, I manage to stagger out of the office without collapsing on or molesting anyone. I slide into the car and burn myself on the sun-baked seat belt buckle. Something perverse makes me press my hand hard against it, conjuring a sizzle. Chemo terrifies me. I wonder if it will hurt ten times as much as the burn. A hundred times as much? Five hundred?

The minivan skews to a stop in front of our mailbox. For a millisecond, I contemplate moving it to make way for the postman. Then it dawns on me that I no longer have to care what he thinks of me. I don’t realize I’ve left my purse and keys in the car until I’m at the front door.

I ring my own doorbell.

“Yeah?” Taylor swings the door open. Her cell is rammed in her ear. She’s wearing a triangle bikini top and her boobs are insanely perky. It is hard to believe we emanate from the same gene pool.

“Did you look in the peephole? What if I was a rapist?” I am nearly shouting.

“Then I’d kick you in the nuts and shut the door.”

I push past her, pausing in the guest bath to gulp water directly from the faucet. My throat hurts. Suddenly, everything wrong in the universe seems like a symptom instead of just garden-variety Jewish hypochondria.

Taylor blocks my way to the bedroom and holds up a scrap of cloth. “Mom, can you go to Urban Outfitters tomorrow and get me some more of these tanks? Not the girls’ ones, they’re in the guys’ section. Get me blue, green and black. And orange! But not the gross traffic-cone one, the cool one.”

Too wasted to counter the assault with an inspired lecture on the perils of not appreciating your parents properly in case they die prematurely, I ball the shirt in my hand and fall into the pile of murky bedsheets. I close my eyes and pray in what I imagine is a semi-authentic manner. I whisper “amen” and “hallelujah” several dozen times before giving up on sleep and scouring the bathroom cabinet for drugs.

The toilet seat stands at attention, the rim festooned with dabs of pee and hair. For some reason, this detail, this mundane particle of injustice, sends me over the edge.

“Goddammit!”

I slam it down, my hand protected by Taylor’s shirt. A puny scream erupts from the now-cracked seat joint, which, like my mind, has never been completely stable.

“Fuck!” I yell into the bone-dry hand towels (Phil always wipes his hands on my bath sheet).

Afternoon blurs into evening while I toss and turn, willing the catastrophe onto a better-equipped individual. Once every 2.5 seconds, I actually forget I have it. My thoughts are weird. For example: What’s better for the kids, preserving my posthumous reputation by delivering the news with grace and decorum, or maintaining a consistent familial environment by crying and cussing?

At one point, I smell my son and open my eyes. Micah is leaning over me, in the process of stealing my cherished heating pad from the opposite nightstand.

“Why are you wearing cleats in the house?” I croak.

Micah kicks a clod of soggy turf off his soccer shoe, which, for the price, should not only have David Beckham’s signature on it, but also include a charity fuck for the wearer’s mother.

“See ya later, Mom. I’m taking the car.” He waggles a set of keys.

My keys.

I roll out of bed, stomp across the house and lock myself in the off-garage toilet, shaking, until I hear the garage door open and my husband’s evening sacraments begin. In preparation for what lies ahead, I try to do the sort of deep breathing they teach you in yoga, in which you’re supposed to cram healing breath into every possible orifice of your body until you are at peace.

Finally, I go in search of my forever-in-wasted-motion partner in life.

Phil goes utterly still when I corner him in the living room and deliver the news. Then, true to form, he goes on the attack.

“What are you talking about?” he says irritably. His fingers twitch. I can tell he wants to flick the volume button and return to his life’s work: wallowing in flat-screen, high-definition television.

With what I believe any reasonably dignified person would call great dignity, I walk calmly toward the father of my children, plant myself in the path of the TV and obstruct his view of Barry Bonds, my arms crossed just like Barry’s (except that his are big, black and muscular, and mine are big, white and flabby). Then I leap on Phil and wrestle the remote clumsily from his hands. I brandish this electronic sliver of power triumphantly as I crawl toward the couch.

This part I accomplish sans dignity.

“What the hell are you doing?” Phil says. We are both panting.

“I have cancer,” I say, experimenting with the pronunciation a bit. This time, I emphasize the “I.”

“How can you have cancer? You haven’t even been to the doctor.” Phil’s green eyes, which I’d once found feline and mysterious, now exude a grim haze as predictable as the sky over L.A. They flicker back to the screen: Giants, 11; Dodgers, 3.

“We need to make the necessary arrangements.”

I finally have my husband’s attention. “What arrangements? Raquel? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I have cancer of the breast. The doctor says it’s stage four, maybe inoperable. Twelve lymph nodes, Philly! Twelve!” Through the window, I watch as Ronnie Greenblatt strips off his soccer jersey and pulls the lawn mower out of the shed. At seventeen and nine months, my son’s best friend has the kind of cobbled abs that could make a nun weep.

“I thought breast cancer was hereditary. Your mom doesn’t have it. Lauren doesn’t have it.”

“Well, apparently I have it.” I bank the factoid that only five percent of breast cancers are inherited for future use.

“Do you have…”—a maroon flush of shame saturates Phil’s cheeks—“…a lump?”

“Of course I have a lump. That’s why I went for a mammogram and then the biopsy.” I envision myself through my husband’s eyes at this moment: the picture of pale, goddess-like piety and patience in the face of doom. Lumpy doom.

“Good God.” I can tell Phil thinks he should have found it himself. My husband is nothing if not dutiful. If someone had slipped it into our marriage contract—responsibility number three: perform breast lump exam on [blank’s] tits bimonthly—he would have kneaded me like bread dough every other Wednesday without fail. Also, he was probably wondering, as was I, when the last time he actually touched my breasts was. Strangely, it was one of the first thoughts that curdled in my head after my visit with Meissner: Did Phil touch it?

Telling the kids is worse.

“Oh my God, Mommy!” Taylor screeches, lunging into my arms in a manner she had abandoned at eight.

“It’s okay, honey. I know it’s hard. I know,” I say, rubbing her back, which is bare where her baby tee cowers above her low-slung jeans.

“But, Mom, aren’t they even going to try chemo?” Micah, whom I’d considered the smart one until he smoked the joint with Ronnie and plowed the Accord into the side of the Circle K last spring, defaults to calm interrogation. He takes after Phil, that way.

“The doctor says we’ll do chemo, radiation, even stem cell replacement if we have to. After the surgery to remove as much of the cancer as they can, of course.” That’s something I hadn’t understood at the time and had been too addled to ask: How can inoperable cancer be operated on?

“What about Tamoxifen? Ronnie’s grandma had breast cancer and she did chemo and took Tamoxifen for five years and now she’s fine.” My son’s denim-blue eyes are wide and panicked.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” I say, impressed.

The blue eyes snap. “Don’t treat me like a fucking idiot!”

“Mike, calm down.” But I don’t really want my boy to calm down. In fact, I don’t want anyone to calm down, anywhere, ever again. My family, least of all; as far as I’m concerned, they should start building the shrine now. I can already imagine it: my best photos (all taken in the early 1980s and slightly pixilated), my favorite scented candles from Tocca, sympathy cards, a lock of hair, smooth stones to facilitate my journey to the other side—all of it with the faint whiff of idolatry and Catholicism about it. With a dash of Eastern mysticism thrown in, of course. This is de rigueur among the coolest dead young mothers.

“How am I supposed to calm down?” Micah yells. My son goes from zero to sixty in a heartbeat. He takes after me, that way.

Taylor lifts her tear-stained face from my soon-to-be ravaged bosom. “Shut up, you douche! Mom’s dying and you’re making it worse! You’re such an asshole!”

“Kids! Let’s give it a rest, okay. I’m really tired,” I lie. Actually, the conversation has left me weirdly energized. The kids are being so damn attentive, so nice.

“Mom, I love you! You can’t die!” Taylor snuggles against me, apparently now her preferred parenting resource. The runner-up slumps against the couch, his head in his hands.

Micah pushes Taylor aside and folds his five feet eleven inches into the crook of my arm. I am fairly sure that the last time my offspring hugged me willingly was 2001, when our first family dog, Pickle, was laid to rest in a patch of rosemary. Nearly purring, I inhale my children’s gamey teen-scent, stroke their silky skin, lap up their delicious need. It is pure bliss. And that’s when it comes to me: maybe, now that I am dying, it is time to live a little.

Lastly on Terena Scott week, we have an excerpt from Traveling Blind; Life Lessons from Unlikely Teachers by Laura Fogg. This is the first book being published by her press Medusa's Muse.

* * *

From “A Close Look at Dying.”

Michelle and her squirrely third grade classmates had been forced to stay indoors for a full week on account of the storms, and I wanted to get her outside while we had the chance, since I was still charged form the magical energy of my drive to the coast.

This break in the weather was all the invitation I needed to abruptly cancel our braille lesson.

“Come on,” I said to my surprised student, shoving her raincoat into her hand, “We’re going out.”

“I can’t go out in the rain,” Michelle protested. “My mom says I’m not supposed to get wet.”

“Don’t worry. Neither one of us is sweet enough to melt if we get some water on us. This isn’t Oz; we aren’t like the wicked witch that Dorothy killed.”

Ignoring Michelle’s continuing complaints, I grabbed her hand and hustled her from the classroom out to the street. Michelle had lost most of her vision; she didn’t know much about what happens in the rain to the world that the rest of us can observe, and I was determined to take advantage of this opportunity to teach her something new through a firsthand experience.

We breathed deeply of the cool, moist air to clear our lungs of the stifling heat of the classroom we had just escaped. Sensible people were still holed up indoors busy with rainy day projects, so there wasn’t a soul to be seen. In the absence of the usual human activity and noise, the sprites and spirits of another domain emerged quietly from their hiding places to be felt, if not seen, by Michelle and me as we came out to play in this familiar, yet strangely altered landscape. I knew that today I would not be the teacher. Some other source of energy was in charge, and I was only along to offer the most minimal guidance to my student.

“What happened to all the birds?” Michelle asked before we had walked half a block. “It’s usually noisy outside.” I knew something felt different, but wasn’t as quick to put my finger on the absence of the usual clattering of blackbirds high up on the power lines and the raucous cawing of our crow friends in the treetops. Even the seagulls had been driven to shelter somewhere. Without the familiar background racket of the ever-present birds doing their daily bird chores, there was a thick sense of waiting in the air, every molecule poised for something to happen. Something new and special that the rain fairies would arrange just for Michelle and me in honor of our presence in their watery landscape.

What we heard in the silence was the earth drinking. From every direction, high and low, drops of rainwater trickled and dripped from trees, roofs, fence posts and daffodils, moving inevitably downward to the drenched ground in a lighthearted symphony of millions of tiny instruments. No two droplets of water colliding on the surface of a leaf did so silently. No thin rivulet cascading down the rough-barked trunk of a tree merged with the earth without a tinkle of clear bells or a tiny drum roll. No swallow of water was accepted by the earth without a song.

Michelle and I contributed to the symphony as we walked along. We squished. We splashed. We lobbed pebbles of various sizes into puddles, causing a different sounding plunk with every stone we tossed. We created entire songs by gathering fistfuls of stones and tossing them into the water one by one. We conducted a whole symphony, for a moment at least, by walking up to a drenched tree with a low-hanging branch that could be grabbed and tugged. A light tug caused a few dozen drops of water to fall to the ground in an airy staccato, while a harder jerk resulted in a percussive crescendo, soaking us both in the process.

In a beautiful neighborhood of fine old houses and glorious gardens that Michelle couldn’t see, we stopped to examine a cluster of wet Calla lilies sticking out from under a neat picket fence by the sidewalk. “Here, Michelle,” I directed her, “put your hand on this flower. Reach inside it.” In the throat of the sodden bloom she

discovered a tiny pool of water. She poked around a bit with a large smile on her face.

“Yikes!” she yelped suddenly, jerking her finger out of the miniature fairy pond she had discovered “There’s something moving in there. It’s slimy. What is it?” A tiny green frog had hopped out onto her hand, much to its own and our astonishment. In an instant the frog jumped wetly across Michelle’s open palm, plopped down onto the lawn below and disappeared. Michelle, for once in her life, was speechless. She stood motionless, with the fingers of one hand resting lightly on the palm of the other, remembering the touch of the little frog’s damp feet on her skin.

We both knew it was time to return to the world of ordinary events. We walked back slowly with Michelle’s arm looped through mine for guidance. She chattered on, giddily re-living her brief interaction with her frog, while I pondered the impact of this astonishing hour. Sharing this wet and wondrous morning with Michelle brought back the enchanted child world that I had forgotten when my own offspring outgrew it one by one. Michelle’s gift was showing me the path back to that magical land.

www.medusasmuse.com

It's still Terena Scott week at Jordan's Muse. Terena has a more fearsome muse than I: Medusa's Muse is not only the name of her press, but also of her a blog. Here are three excerpts from that blog:

When Muses get bored
(Jan. 2007)

Lately I've been hearing whispers from my Muse, gentle pushes toward one thought: Create a small press. I laugh and shrug them off, but the idea won't leave me alone. It has wrapped itself around my ankles like the snakes my Muse set loose in my room, compelling me to pick up a book and read about small presses. Peruse the Internet for blogs about publishing and web-sites of small press organizations. Just checking things out, I say. I'm not serious. It's always good to learn new things.

My Muse smiles and coaxes another snake to climb up my spine. Come on, what's stopping you? Afraid?

No, practical. Publishing is a whole art in itself and I am but a poor writer who can't get published. Sounds like desperation to me.

But the thought won't leave me alone. My Muse is surprisingly tender, encouraging me to learn more. I'm not saying you should publish your own work. I honestly think you would be an excellent publisher. Now I know he's up to something because my Muse is never this nice to me. I find him lounging on my bed reading a book.

"Why do you suddenly want to be a publisher?"

He slowly closes his novel and looks at me with sleepy eyes, "Because you're wasting your talents."

"Wasting? I'm a writer! A good writer! I'm wasting nothing!"

"I didn't say you weren't a good a writer. I said you have other talents which are going to waste." He rolled off my bed gracefully and stood close to me. "You're better at editing and helping people tell a story than you realize. You're also organized, intelligent, and love a good challenge. What's more challenging than opening a small press?"

"Climbing Everest while blind-folded."

"Exactly." He leaned over, picked up a snake, and wrapped it around my shoulders like a shawl.
"Think of the possibilities."

"You know, you're not really Viggo. You just look like him."

"I know."

"Just because he has a press doesn't mean you should have one too."

"I know."

"You're being too nice to me. What are you up to?"

Grinning, He tapped my cheek with one long fingernail. "I'm encouraging you. Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, but you're never encouraging."

"Time for a change." He walked slowly out the bedroom door and called to me, "Yes. It is time for a change." The snake wrapped itself around my left arm. I stroked it softly and listened to it hissing, “What if?”

Muse vs. Gravity
(May 2007)

I am obsessively reading everything I can find about starting a small press and publishing in general. I began with Dan Poynter's book, "The Self Publishing Manual," moved on to "How to Start and Run and Small Book Publishing Company," bought "The Writers Legal Guide" and "Business and Legal Forms for Authors and Publishers," and have scanned "Book Design and Production," by Pete Masterson. Now I'm reading, "Publishing for Profit," by Thomas Woll. Plus I read blogs and websites and am subscribed to the Publish L list serve. From all these hours of research, I have discovered something extremely important; I know absolutely nothing about running a small business. This is important because that's what Medusa's Muse is. A business. I am the owner of a small business. Yes, a creative, book oriented, dream filled business, but a business non the less, which means I need to learn about tax laws, licensing, book keeping and budgeting. If I don't understand basic business practices, Medusa won't survive, and I don't care how many books I print or publish. Medusa must live in the real world and the real world is governed by tax laws.

My muse hates all this mundane chatter and refuses to help me with this part of building the press. When I brought home "Small Business Kit for Dummies," complete with CD rom of necessary forms, she yawned and said, "I'll be outside."

I glared at her. "This press thing was your idea, remember."

"Yes. I know. All the good ideas are mine."

"Then you're also responsible for helping me with this part too."

She smiled a slow, crooked smile. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" I hate it when I whine.

"Because my dear, business laws are the construct of humans and we both know I'm not human. Therefore, I don't have to worry about that part." She tapped the over sized book in my arms.
"When you're done with this, let me know. I'm getting hungry for something creative."

"You know, it's exactly this reason most artists live in abject poverty. If their muses stuck around to help with the finances, they could pay their electric bill."

"Muses don't need electricity," she called as she pulled off her blouse before walking outside.
I yelled, "Let's hear you say that when I can't turn on my lap-top." The door shut softly behind her.

In my other life, I write grants. Therefore I understand just how important it is to have enough funding to support a great idea. As much as I dislike budgeting and paperwork, I know without a good business plan, there is no Medusa's Muse. It's like trying to live on Earth without gravity. I see too many incredibly talented artists falter because they believe solid business planning is unworthy of their time and energy. I refuse to be a victim of economics. While studying my business book, I felt something brush against my ankle. Looking up at me was a green gilded snake. I picked it up and set it on my shoulder where it snuggled close against my collar bone, reading.


Another Gravity Check
(July, 2007)

My Muse is stomping across the living room, eyes red with fury, every snake stretching out from under her dark hair, hissing and snapping. I stay far away from her. I just got off the phone with the lawyer I was referred to by California Lawyers for the Arts, a non-profit organization that helps artists with legal issues, and she doesn't like what they told me. "Insufferable! Intolerable! This is an insult to my work! Our work! Laura's work! How does anyone write a book or paint a picture, or do anything artistic with lawyers breathing down their back?"

"He was very helpful and friendly."

She waves her hand at me. "Not him. I'm sure he was fine. I'm talking about the lawyers who could come after us a few years from now for publishing a book that might make someone, someday, upset. Scandalous! How can you work under this shadow of fear?"

"Carefully."

"The restrictions on what you can and cannot say. Changing names... intolerable! I mean there's a reason we kept the real names..."

"Yes. But now there's a very good reason to change them."

My muse crosses her arms and glares at me so intently I feel my feet turn hard and cold. "Why are you so eager to go along with it?"

I look away quickly. My feet tingle as if waking from sleep. "I'm protecting the work. I'm not going along with anything." I cautiously walk toward her while keeping an eye on the snakes. "When a story is written down, it becomes tangible and isn't pure inspiration anymore. If you decide to share that story with the rest of the world, that means they get to read it and once that happens, the work is transformed into a living thing. It becomes a part of the reader. That's why it's important to protect the story from harm. Not limit the words or deny its truth, but strengthen the story's impact by giving it a foundation based on the physical world. The physical world is governed by laws, finances, budgets, taxes, and marketing."

"Disgusting! I can't believe I'm hearing this from you. I thought you were an artist!"

"I am."

"Then act like one!"

I stand my ground and meet her gaze. "I am."

She blinks. The red light in her eyes simmers and turns gold.

"I am acting like an artist who believes in this work so much that I am willing to do whatever I have to do to get it out into the world where people can read it. There are too many artists who ignore the rules that govern the art world so their work is never seen..."

"Revolutionaries!"

"Yes. Many are. And they take the risk that their work will cause pain. But if they are smart, they do it with eyes wide open. They don't hide behind the idea that since they are artists they don't have to know the consequences of their actions. They can stand beside their work and say proudly they understand the work may be controversial but they consciously chose to show it anyway. I respect those people enormously." I am standing beside my muse now, within striking distance of her snakes. "We are publishing this book and we will deal with whatever may happen in the future. But we are publishing it with eyes wide open and we are protecting ourselves not by changing the message, but by changing a name. That's all."

I wait. She is silent. The snakes look at me. Then slowly, she nods. "I see. Alright. I'll trust you on this." I take a deep breath. I won't be bitten, at least not this time. I rest my hand on her arm and my muse turns to me, her eyes back to green. Then she smiles a slow smile that makes me nervous. "But if I think for a moment you're giving in to lawyers out of fear, I will leave you immediately and you will never write another word again. Clear?"

"Absolutely clear."

"Good." She grins and pats my hand. "I'm off to get my hair done now. You'd better get to work on that manuscript." She disappears with a wave.

I wonder where muses get their hair done?

I interrupt Terena Scott week here at Jordan's Muse to bring you this rant:

Killing me with Cleavage

I am so tired of breasts. I think it's great that we women are liberated enough to wear more cleavage than actual shirt these days without shame or fear of repercussion, but can I be honest with you? I am not that interested in seeing your breasts as I ring up your books, or buy my turkey sandwich from you. I am NOT more apt to give you a tip at my favorite restaurant (and sorry, ladies, but neither is my husband) if I happen to be seeing more tit per square inch.

I think it's wonderful that you feel so good about your breasts as to want to share them with the world--especially those of you who nature blessed that way. I am happy that you don't cover them up with baggy sweatshirts or overly-restrictive bras. I'm glad that you have a great relationship with your boobs.

But I don't need to know them that intimately. I really, really don't.

I guess I'll just have to suffer.

JPR

We're still in Rocketgirl month here at Jordan's Muse. This week is devoted to Terena Scott (to the right in photo), an independent publisher of Medusa's Muse Press, along with the lady in orange (left, photo), Jane Mackay, and a writer and blogger in her own right. Enjoy!!

1. I love the mission statement of your press: Medusa is the fear of overwhelming chaos when you are convinced you're about to drop dead from the weight of life. But instead of dropping, you look Medusa square in the eye and she blinks. That's the secret. Lock eyes with Medusa and you're free. We publish the stories of those who have used the power of Medusa's gaze to transform chaos into life, and in doing so, transform themselves.

Have you always been a fan of Medusa as a metaphor, or was there something significant that brought the myth to your attention for this purpose?

TS: The first time I used the words Medusa’s Muse was in my novel as the name of a dance troupe. I liked the musical quality of the words together. But then I began to think about what it meant. Who is Medusa’s Muse? What would inspire Medusa? I started writing about my muse on my blog as a way to explore that idea and imagined myself staring at Medusa, frozen by her gaze. Then the idea struck me; what if I made eye contact with her? Really hunted her down and MADE her look into my eyes. That’s where the concept of “transformative stories” came from.

I am fascinated by resiliency. I know people who have been through incredible things, whose lives are one catastrophe after another and you’d think they’d just give up. But they keep thriving and are joyful about being alive. I want to give those people a voice, a way to share their stories. These people have stared down Medusa, through drug addiction, illness, poverty, abuse, death… and survived. Not just survived; thrived. I want to celebrate their victory.

2. Publishing seems to get tougher and more niche-driven every year. Where does your courage to publish in the face of the big conglomerates come from?

TS: It’s a punk rock thing. I refuse to believe big conglomerates rule the world. DIY is alive and well and independent publishers are thriving. Technology has changed, so the cost per book has decreased and the internet has helped small presses market effectively. Plus, I have some great talent on my side. My partner Jane is a phenomenal editor and is very market savvy. Rick my husband is also a tech guru and excellent book designer. He did our website and designs the books, plus he’s helping me create the audio version. And we found a wonderful writer with a compelling story that I had to publish. Laura is also my daughter’s teacher, so it feels very personal.

Publishing a book isn’t impossible; it’s just hard work and very time consuming. And you have to be realistic about your goals. Am I going to make a million bucks? No way. I’ll be lucky if I make a profit. But I’m confident we’ll break even. I keep an eye on the budget and try to make sane choices about what needs to be done to create and market the book. You have to like the business end of running a press because far more of my time is spent on managing the business, not creating books. If you don’t like budgets and inventory management, don’t open a press.

3. What can a reader expect of the books published by Medusa's Muse?

TS: Stories that make you believe in possibilities while having a great time reading them. A tragedy can be transformed into something beautiful. The stories won’t all have happy endings, but the reader will come away from the book with an understanding they don’t have to be victimized by their lives. Readers can also expect quality. That’s my number one issue with some independently produced books out there. Many authors and publishers seem to rush the book and print it before it’s really done. Our editing process is very thorough because Jane has super powers over punctuation and grammar. Of course we make mistakes (well, Jane doesn’t), but there will be very few.

4. Tell us about your first title, Traveling Blind. What sold you on the book? What will readers take away from it?

Traveling Blind is the memoir of Laura Fogg who has been an itinerant Orientation and Mobility Instructor for 35 years in Mendocino County, teaching kids with limited or no vision how to navigate the world. She is a pioneer in the Orientation and Mobility field because she was one of the first to teach very young children how to use a white cane. Prior to the mid 1970’s, only high school students learned white cane, but Laura felt the best way for a blind child to understand the concepts of up, down, back, forward, high, low, etc… was by learning to travel in the world as toddlers.

Back in February 07, Laura brought me the chapter she’d written about my daughter. I loved it! Beyond the obvious reason that it was about my daughter, I loved Laura’s writing. I asked to read the whole thing and then once I’d finished it I asked if I could publish it. The stories she tells about her students are so refreshing. These aren’t stories about “poor little blind children.” These kids are vibrant, funny, and very ordinary, and they taught Laura more about herself and her life than she taught them about mobility. The book is inspiring, but not in the typical, “he overcame his disability” way you see in so many movies. Some of the stories are very sad because many of the children have other health issues other than blindness, but that’s how it ties in with Medusa. Most people can’t cope with the idea of a sick child, or they pity them. Laura embraces these kids for who they are and shares their pain and grows from their experiences. Her life is richer because she has dealt with death and grief and understands the true power of joy. But there are also a lot of laughs because remember, these are stories about kids being kids.

5. What kind of a reader are you? What are some titles that have recently captivated you, and why?

I’m an omnivorous reader. I like all kinds of books. I read everything from Henry Miller to China Meiville, to Harlequin Romances. There are just so many interesting things to learn and explore in the world that I can’t limit myself to only reading Sci Fi or non-fiction. Right now I’m reading The Other Boleyn Girl, by Phillipa Gregory which is really fun to read. I’ve always been a huge fan of epic stories, and what’s more epic than an Elizabethan court? Before that I read The Good Fairies of New York, because I liked the premise of fairies causing havoc in modern day New York. But the book that captivated me recently was Shadow of the Wind, another epic, beautifully written, with a plot similar to film noir. I couldn’t put down.

6. Anything else you'd like to tell us?

Independent publishing is thriving and there are some great small presses out there with excellent writers. And don’t scoff at self published works, either. The quality in the industry is improving and some great books are being produced every month. Seeking out a book from a small press is worth the hunt. You may discover an unknown writer who completely blows your reading mind.

Buy Traveling Blind

Read Terena's Medusa's Muse Blog

Jody Gehrman is Tart--and that's a compliment

In the final day of Jody Gehrman week here at Jordan's Muse, you get the biggest treat of all: an excerpt from one of her books-- in this case Tart. Remember to check out Jody's site: www.jodygehrman.com and her two forthcoming books, Notes from the Backseat (January) and for young adults, Confessions of a Triple-Shot Betty (April).

Meet Claudia Bloom. She's having one of those years. First she steals her ex's VW bus and drives it from Austin to Santa Cruz, where it promptly explodes. Next she lets herself be rescued by Clay, a charming DJ on a motorcycle, falls hard, and meets his somehow-never-mentioned estranged wife while searching frantically for her panties. She tries to forget about Clay and focus on her tenuous new career teaching theatre at UC Santa Cruz, only to discover his wife is her colleague and his mother is her boss. Could it get any worse? When her neo-dead head cousin shows up with her horse-sized mutt, Rex, and the two of them take up residence on her couch, she's pretty sure things have hit rock-bottom. Set in the zany, ultra-liberal beach town of Santa Cruz, this novel explores the rocky terrain of family secrets, forbidden fruit, and all things Tart.

* * *
Excerpt from Chapter One of TART (Red Dress Ink, 2005)

I’m almost to Santa Cruz when my engine catches fire. I’ve got my entire life savings stuffed into my bra, my hair is so wind-matted I can’t even get my fingers through it, and I desperately need to change my tampon.

Things could be better.

It’s mid-September, and California’s crazy Indian summer is just getting started. The hundred degree weather cools only slightly as I careen closer to the Pacific, where a slight tinge of fog is always hovering; it’s still plenty hot, though, and I’m sweating profusely, cursing as my temperature gage lodges itself stubbornly in the red zone. Highway 17 is the quickest route through the Santa Cruz Mountains, but I’d forgotten just how manic it is; the crazy curves force everyone on the road into racecar-style cornering. Three pubescent surfers in a beat up Pinto station wagon keep swerving into my lane as they pass a joint around. I honk at them instinctively; all three towheads swivel in my direction, and the car veers unsteadily toward my front fender again. I hit my steering wheel with the palm of my hand and ease onto the brakes, praying the Jaguar in my rearview mirror won’t slam me from behind. “Cunt!” one of the surfers yells. “Chill, lady,” another one adds. Did he just call me lady? Jesus, I could use a drink.

When the engine makes a sound so primal I can no longer ignore it, I pull over onto the narrow, crumbling shoulder and get out to assess the situation. The bus is producing enormous clouds of black smoke and bright orange tongues of flame are licking at the air vents. I haven’t even bothered to check the oil since I left Austin three days ago; I knew it was making increasingly alarming noises, starting around El Paso, but I told myself that’s what hippy vehicles do, and turned the radio up louder. The smoke is so thick now I can barely see, and I’m afraid to open the door to the engine because I’ve got this sinking feeling it will blow my face off. Woman Found By Highway; Face Found 100 Yards Away.

Shit.

Medea, my cat, is yowling a pathetic, drugged-out plea from the backseat, so I quickly stuff her into the cardboard pet taxi and carry her out onto the shoulder with me. Then I start thinking about the cat valium in the glove box, wondering how much of those tiny pills I’d have to take before this whole scene would take on an underwater, slow-motion sheen.

Of course, there’s something about the utter destitution of the situation that appeals to me. In theater, we’re taught that people are only as interesting as their current crisis. Jerry Manning, my favorite professor back at UT used to scream at us, “Disaster defines you. Where’s the disaster? Come on, give me your disaster!” I feel a tiny trickle of blood as it forms a damp spot in my underwear. Medea scratches at the cardboard, her panic momentarily breaking free from the straightjacket of drugs I’ve kept her in. Her terrified mewling has gone from meek to murderous. “Here you go Manning,” I whisper. “Here’s my disaster.”

Unfortunately, my only audience is the steady stream of traffic roaring past me at breakneck speed, making the bus shudder like a cowering animal. I stole it from my boyfriend, Jonathan, who is now officially my ex-boyfriend, but I haven’t managed to force him into the past tense just yet. If you must know, the bastard’s a Taurus and he’s got beautiful hands and he writes plays that make people swear he’s some freaky genetic hybrid: two parts Tennessee Williams, one part David Lynch. He moved to New York several months ago with Rain, this nineteen-year-old acting student with slick black hair that hangs below her ass and a five thousand watt smile.

The flames shooting from the engine are getting more insistent.

This is not good.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and begin fantasizing about a very stiff, incredibly cold vodka tonic: I can see the ice, smell the carbonation, taste the green of that freshly cut lime swarming with bubbles. I think again of the cat valium and wonder if I have enough time to secure the stash before Jonathan’s beloved VW explodes in a pyrotechnic burst of orange, like something from a Clint Eastwood flick. Woman’s Charred Remains Found Clinging to Glove Box.

Jody Gehrman: Catalogue Junkie

It's still Rocketgirl Jody Gehrman week here at Jordan's Muse. Today you get a taste for her wry non-fiction style with this essay, "Confessions of a Catalogue Junkie." Enjoy! And don't forget to stop by her website: www.jodygehrman.com.

Confessions of a Catalogue Junkie

The other day I sat zombified on my couch, surrounded by a sea of catalogues. I picked up one after the other, flipping through the pages in a kind of daze. After observing this behavior for a good hour, my boyfriend asked, “Are you looking for something?”

“Huh?”

“Are you looking to buy something?” And then, when confronted with my blank stare, he added, “Catalogues usually sell stuff, right?”

The truth is I rarely buy anything from catalogues. I use them the way some people use bad TV or celebrity gossip sites. They put me in an eerily calm, hypnagogic trance of retail escapism; I could never afford (indeed, hardly desire) even a fraction of the things I gaze at, but nonetheless, just staring at them, mentally trying them on, envisioning the glamour they’d add to my life, has a narcotic effect on me.

Of course, this hobby, if you can call it that, is a colossal waste of time. If I spent half as much energy organizing my space as I do drooling over "Hold Everything" catalogues, I’d be living in a shrine to tidiness instead of the ode to grunge I call home. My actual wardrobe is a bizarre hodgepodge of second-hand treasures and desperate pre-vacation purchases that fell apart on the beach, but I study J.Crew’s instructions for going from the office to a night on the town in the same wool gabardine suit as if herein lies the secret to my ultimate salvation. Who am I kidding? I’ve never gone from the office to a night on the town in my life, let alone in wool gabardine.

In the end, I suppose it’s a shamelessly indulgent habit, and I should quit. Then again, some people unwind with a needle, some latex tubing and a spoon, so I guess there are worse forms of stress reduction.

My catalogue addiction started at the tender age of thirteen. Bored, glamour-starved, with intelligence-zapping hormones coursing through my system, I found a page of catalogue offers tucked into the back of my Teen magazine. I sent away for all of them, and quickly received mail from every clothing, make-up and shoe producer in the Western hemisphere. Since then, my mother’s house has been buried in the resulting onslaught. Every counter and coffee table is covered with slick offerings from J.Jill, Crate and Barrel, Victoria’s Secret, Pottery Barn; every bathroom is abundantly stocked with on-the-pot shopping sprees.

That’s the thing with catalogues: once you get into the master mailing list, your name and address are forever the property of the corporate powers that be, and your catalogues reproduce with a life of their own. Mind you, I doomed my mother’s house to its catalogue curse long before the advent of the internet; now, all you have to do is think about entering certain sites and you’ve got five catalogues from them within the hour.

I will say I’ve been a faithful junkie, if nothing else; even when I went through my anti-materialism phase and refused to shop anywhere but the Salvation Army, Sunday afternoon might find me lazily perusing Nordstrom’s newest eveningwear. It doesn’t matter if I’m the furthest thing from the target audience. Just last week I planned a garden that would set me back at least four or five grand; I had it all mapped out, right down to the miniature dragonfly lights and the frost-resistant rutabagas. Will I ever plant such a garden? Of course not; I can barely keep my windowsill cactus alive. Did it fill me with a strange sense of euphoria just earmarking those pages? You know it.

This week begins the first of three visitations--no, not the ghosts of Christmas! These are three lovely women who, along with me, are the founding members of Rocketgirls, a collaborative web presence devoted to writing. The official web site is almost finished and when it is, I'll link to it here. Meanwhile, please enjoy the effervescent, joyful and talented Ms. Gerhman. Today we start with an interview. Wednesday and Friday I'll post writing excerpts of hers.


Jody Gehrman grew up in northern California, a place that has gotten so thoroughly into her blood she's been forced to return. She attended the University of California, Santa Cruz, where she studied playwriting and Japanese. College confirmed her commitment to writing, and after graduation she freelanced as a journalist in San Francisco before becoming a contributing editor at The San Francisco Review of Books. In 1996, Gehrman won a New Women Playwrights Award for Tribal Life in America; she has had nine of her plays produced across the country.

Writing is Gehrman's primary obsession, but she still indulges in other forms of exhibitionism now and then. She's been an aspiring singer-songwriter since she was eight, and she performs frequently as an actress. In 1998 she founded the Women's Theater Ensemble in Bellingham, Washington where she wrote and performed her one-woman show, Stone Sisters. She considers her addiction to the arts to be a direct bi-product of her bohemian upbringing; as a kid she spent weekends at her father's commune in Berkeley, hanging out with his anarchist friends.

Like many writers, Gehrman has had way too many jobs and addresses; she has been a massage therapist, an editor, a cocktail waitress, a publicist, and a travel writer. She has lived in California, Spain, Texas, Japan, Washington and Canada. She has an MA in English and a Masters in Professional Writing from the University of Southern California. She currently teaches writing at Mendocino College in northern California.

* * *

Regardless of how your books have been marketed, how do you qualify the genre you like to write in? In other words what turns you on enough that you can begin a novel?

I BEGIN WITH A CHARACTER NAME AND WORK FROM THERE. ONCE I FIND THE CHARACTER'S NAME AND A THEIR BASIC APPEARANCE, MAYBE A FEW QUIRKS, I GET CURIOUS ABOUT WHO THEY REALLY ARE AND WHAT MAKES THEM TICK; THEIR STORY UNFOLDS FROM THERE. SETTING IS ANOTHER MAJOR PLEASURE FOR ME-FINDING THE RIGHT WORLD FOR THIS CHARACTER TO INHABIT. I GUESS I'D CLASSIFY MY NOVELS AS COMING OF AGE STORIES OF VARIOUS HUES. THE CHARACTERS IN MY ADULT FICTION TEND TO BE ON THE MOVE, TRYING TO FIND THEMSELVES THROUGH ADVENTURE, THROUGH OTHER PEOPLE, THROUGH ENTERING ALIEN LANDSCAPES. THOSE ARE COMING OF AGE NOVELS FOR LATE BLOOMERS, I GUESS. MY YOUNG ADULT FICTION SO FAR IS MUCH MORE CONTAINED GEOGRAPHICALLY, BUT THE WORLD OF A TEENAGE GIRL IS SO INTENSE, IT HARDLY REQUIRES ANY ROAMING--THE ADVENTURE IS HAPPENING IN HER BEDROOM, HER LOCKER, HER HEAD.

Though it's clear that writing is where it's at for you, you have a real love of theater, too, and even started a women's theater group in Washington state. Most writers are introverts, so how'd you come by that "exhibitionist" streak as you refer to it?

I'VE ALWAYS LOVED THE STAGE, SINCE I WAS A LITTLE KID. I FIND MANY WRITERS TO BE AT LEAST MILDLY THEATRICAL. THEATRE AND FICTION SPRING FROM A SIMILAR INSTINCT--THE DESIRE TO BE SOMEONE ELSE FOR AWHILE, TO TRANSCEND OUR OWN SMALL SELVES.

As someone who has published multiple books (Summer in the Land of Skin; Tart) now and has new one (Confessions of a Triple-Shot Betty) coming out soon, what has been the most unexpectedly positive, and unexpectedly negative aspect of being a published author?

POSITIVE: SOMETIMES WHEN PEOPLE READ MY BOOKS THEY START TO FEEL LIKE THEY KNOW ME. IT'S A LITTLE CONFUSING, BUT ALSO SORT OF GREAT, BECAUSE IT CUTS THROUGH ALL THE AWKWARDNESS WE TEND TO FEEL AROUND STRANGERS. I'LL BE AT THE GYM AND SOMEONE IN THE LOCKER ROOM WILL COME UP TO ME
WHILE I'M APPLYING DEODORANT AND SHE'LL BE LIKE, "READ YOUR BOOK. LOVED IT!" SHE'LL THEN PROCEED TO TALK TO ME LIKE WE'RE INCREDIBLY INTIMATE FRIENDS, EVEN THOUGH I DON'T KNOW HER NAME. IT'S WEIRD BUT WONDERFUL.

NEGATIVE: THE DISMISSIVE ATTITUDE SURROUNDING "CHICK LIT" MAKES ME CRAZY. WHEN YOU'RE MARKETED IN A CERTAIN WAY, PEOPLE SOMETIMES THINK IT'S OKAY TO TELL YOU THE BOOK YOU JUST SLAVED OVER FOR SEVERAL YEARS IS "CUTE." THAT REALLY SHOCKED ME AND MADE ME FEEL SMALL.

Okay, from one bohemian child to another, please dish on your father's commune. Voyeuristic readers want to know what it was like.

"COMMUNE" IS POSSIBLY A MISLEADING TERM FOR THE WORLD MY FATHER ESCAPED TO IN THE EIGHTIES. IT WASN'T A GOATS AND HERB GARDEN TYPE COMMUNE; IT WAS MUCH MORE URBAN. HE WAS A FULL TIME PEACE ACTIVIST LIVING IN BERKELEY AND ALL HIS ACTIVIST FRIENDS POOLED RESOURCES TO LIVE IN A BIG, RAMSHACKLE HOUSE WITH AN ORGONE BOX IN THE BACKYARD WHERE THEY'D DROP ACID AFTER A LONG DAY AT THE PEACE CAMP. I LOVED HIS SCENE, THOUGH IT WAS SOMETIMES OVERWHELMING. I WAS LIKE TWELVE, FROM A VERY SMALL TOWN AND I WAS DISCUSSING CARL JUNG AND WILHELM REICH WITH DRAG QUEENS AND BEARDED FEMINISTS AND I FELT LIKE MY MIND WOULD EXPLODE. I'M VERY THANKFUL TO MY FATHER FOR EXPANDING MY WORLD, THOUGH I'M ALSO REALLY GLAD I HAD MY MOM'S MORE STABLE ENVIRONMENT TO COME HOME TO.

What elements do you have to work out ahead of time before writing a novel? How much is planned, in other words, and how much is organically discovered?

IT REALLY VARIES FOR ME DEPENDING ON THE BOOK. LATELY I FIND IF I CAN SCRATCH OUT A FIVE PAGE SYNOPSIS LOOSELY OUTLINING THE THEMES AND THE PLOT, I'M HAPPIEST FINDING THE REST AS I GO. WHEN I REVISE, THOUGH, OR GET STUCK MIDWAY, I OFTEN HAVE TO JUST BRAINSTORM AND OUTLINE FOR PAGES AND PAGES TO FIND MY WAY BACK TO SOME UNIFIED VISION.

Okay, here's a hypothetical. If you were forced to give up both writing and theater, what else would you do with your life?

HMMM...I THINK I WOULD DANCE AND BE A MUSICIAN. THESE ARE BOTH PASSIONS I'VE PUT VARYING DEGREES OF ENERGY INTO AT EARLIER STAGES IN MY LIFE, SO IT WOULDN'T BE ENTIRELY NEW. IT'S ALL THE SAME THING, REALLY--IT ALL SPRINGS FROM A NEED TO SYNTHESIZE AND EXPRESS THE WORLD WE'VE ABSORBED THROUGHOUT THE DAY...AN ONGOING EFFORT TO MAKE SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL.

Buy Jody's Books:
Tart
Summer in the Land of Skin

Pre-Order:
Notes from the Backseat (January)
Confessions of a Triple-Shot Betty (April)

This is a VERY exciting day for me. Over two years ago I conceived of this idea for a book. To my great astonishment, I sold it. Then I had to write the damn thing and then...I waited. In the world of non-fiction writing books, it's rare to see an advance review copy, so I knew that I would have to wait for the finished product.

Yesterday it came!

I say this without ego or boasting: it's one beautiful book. Actually, I say that with awe and gratitude to the designers who did a magnificent job on the cover and internal design. It's eye catching. It does not shout "boring textbook" but rather "fun book about writing!" Or so I think.

The edition pictured below is the hardcover version that ONLY members of the Writer's Digest Book Club will get. I have been a member of said club, in fact more than half of my most beloved writing books came from it at ridiculously good prices. No, they don't ask me to plug them--I'm just trying to offer you incentive to get this gorgeous hardcover version for yourself. There's no difference in cost, even when you join the book club.

Either way, next thursday you will find it hitting actual bookstores. If you plan to purchase a copy and have not done so online, I would love it if you went to your nearest bookstore and asked for it. If they don't have it in stock yet, all bookstores will order a copy for you at no extra cost.

* * *

The rest of this month, my blog is going to be mostly devoted to three special women. They are my partners in a new group web effort called Rocketgirls (web site to launch soon), a collective of writers working together and supporting each other's success and offering writers original content and resources. Next week, author Jody Gehrman will be dropping by with some questions and original works of fiction and non-fiction. Following her will be Terena Scott, owner and publisher of the new press Medusa's Muse. After her comes that talented author Kim Green. I will be making blog visits elsewhere, and will keep you posted.

Sorry I've been absent. Most recently, my husband and I went on a whirlwind trip to NY to see The Police in concert at Madison Square Garden. We somehow managed to miss all their CA visits. The concert was on Halloween, so we got the added benefit of New Yorkers in costume, which was a riot. I had no idea how big The Garden is, either! More so, I was impressed at how good the band sounded (though I'm told this was not the case at the beginning of their reunion tour). Sting's hair plugs were looking nice and his fame and fortune have allowed him to purchase a little more youth than Andy Summers, though I actually thought Stuart Copeland looked in the best shape of them all. They played many of my favorites and even though we were behind the stage, it was a great show. The last time I saw The Police in concert, I was 8 years old. Oakland Coliseum with my mom.

And I'm not a bad sleuth either. The lead singer of the opening band, Fiction Plane, sounded so much like Sting that at first I thought it was Sting pretending to be someone else. A little research turned up that Fiction Plane is a band fronted by Sting's son, Joe Sumner. No wonder he sounded like the old man!

* * *

In other news, the countdown to Make a Scene begins. 11 days until it is available on bookshelves. If you pre-ordered your copy, you will probably receive it in the mail around that date or a few days after. I'm doing a bunch of events between now and February, too, and I'll be visiting friends blogs, and having some other bloggers stop by here to promote their good stuff.


To purchase: Visit your local independent bookstore (here's a store locator via Book Sense) and ask for it. Most stores will order it if they don't already have it in.

My favorite online sources: Powell's Books. Booksamillion.

** One note. Though all online sources say that the book is in hardcover, I'm told that the only people who will actually be able to lay hands on the hardcover are members of the Writer's Digest Bookclub--which I can unequivocally say offers really good deals if you are interested in stocking up on writing books.

EVENTS:

November 15, 2007. Make a Scene is PUBLISHED and available through all online and media outlets.

December 1, 2 p.m. Make a Scene Book Launch Party at North Light Books. Cotati, CA. 550 E. Cotati Avenue (about 1 mile from Sonoma State University).

December 2, 3-5 p.m. Jordan will speak at the Redwood branch of the California Writer's Club. 3-5 PM at the Marvin's Restaurant, 7991 Old Redwood Highway , corner of William St.

December 8, 1 p.m. Scene-writing workshop at BookSmart, an independent bookstore in Morgan Hill, CA. Free with purchase of book, or $10.

Workshop description: Without scenes, fiction falls flat and leans on the dull bulwark of expository writing. With scenes, fiction comes alive and makes for a page-turning experience. Which would you rather write? This 1 hour workshop will provide you a quick and easy recipe for the most fundamental building block of good writing.

January 17. Time TBA. Write Free: Attracting the Creative Life Book Launch Party with co-authors Jordan Rosenfeld and Rebecca Lawton. Reader's Books, Sonoma. 130 E. Napa Street.

January 26. Place and Time TBA. Jordan will present a workshop on revision at the Redwood branch of the California Writer's Club.

February 2, 10 to 4 p.m. Let's Make a Scene. A workshop co-taught by Jordan Rosenfeld and Jody Gehrman at Book Passage in Corte Madera. 51 Tamal Vista Blvd. Corte Madera. Sign up at: http://www.bookpassage.com/.