I love the movie– you know, massive tidal wave flips over a cruise ship and survivors, including Shelley Winters, Red Buttons, and Pamela Sue Martin, have to climb their way to the top, er, now bottom of the ship.

Great Fun!

In any case, I’m hoping 2011 will bring a full-time teaching job for me; a substantial draft of my book; much creative inspiration; new friends and stronger ties to current friends; travel; bigger things for the writing community in San Diego; even greater love, closeness and appreciation for my wonderful husband, Ted; a vintage letterpress (anyone know where I can get one?); more visits with family; more reading for pleasure (so many books, so little time); more time spent in NYC; patience and understanding; health and prosperity; peace.

Below are some of my favorite photos and memories from the year (especially the bloody Justin Bieber that I made with a faux-wood stamp! and Hermia, my cat, 1991-2010).

Two weddings (in one night…) but no funerals thankfully.

We did get to meet up with some of our favorite people: Aaron Hamburger and Anthony (by the way, Aaron’s new cooking blog , Aaron’s Sweet Spot, is fantastic!), Lee Houk and Kip (Lee’s book comes out in August! Yee haw!), and Alex Chee and Dustin– it was a creative and literary round table not unlike Dorothy Parker and her crew (a little less vicious, though, and i’m not sure who would be Ms. Parker?). I miss these guys!

Other highlights:

Had dinner at Moustache (see picture above left–the best Pitzas ever).

Ted’s family and friends

Seeing David and Mark, Matthew, Liz and Jason, Michelle and Jake, Micheal F, Steve C, and Frank and Audrey (congrats!).

There’s some NYC pics on my Flickr in the right sidebar—–>

Ted and I sat at the W. Village Piers and read on a glorious Monday afternoon. Finished the book I was reading– A Sudden Country, by Karen Fisher (whom I’ll be working with at Fishtrap in July). Didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want to leave these characters and places. I found that Karen Fisher’s website has journal entries– a journal she kept while writing the novel and it gives such insight into the characters though even more important to me is insight into her writing and thinking process while working on the book. Wow.

Now I’m reading this year’s Pulitzer winner, Tinkers, by Paul Harding. It’s a quiet book, with lovely sentences and a dream-like quality and these really intricate, beautiful, intriguing bits about the interworkings/mechanics of clocks.

And speaking of New York– have you been catching up on your NewYorkers? I have.

Several months ago I was drooling over Marisa Silver’s new story “Temporary” (her collection has just come out and was reviewed in the NYTimes this past weekend). Lordy she captures the city of Los Angeles like no other current writer out there.

I also loved Ben Loory’s story The TV, from back in April. So much so that I facebook-stalked him and told him so. He was actually very gracious. The story is absolutely hypnotic and strange; I read it in the bathtub (TMI?). His story collection had just sold that week or somewhere near there– can’t wait to read it.

And just yesterday I read (while on the treadmill, in fact)  Jeffrey Eugenides’ new story, “Extreme Solitude,” from last week’s NYer. I’ll read anything by Jeffrey. Lordy, I love his humor:

Looking back, Madeleine realized that her college love life had fallen short of expectations. Her freshman roommate, Jennifer Boomgaard, had rushed off to Health Services the first week of school to be fitted for a diaphragm. Unaccustomed to sharing a room with anybody, much less a stranger, Madeleine felt that Jennifer was a little too quick with her intimacies. She didn’t want to be shown Jennifer’s diaphragm, which reminded her of an uncooked ravioli, and she certainly didn’t want to feel the spermicidal jelly that Jennifer offered to squirt into her palm. Madeleine was frankly shocked when Jennifer started going to parties with the diaphragm already in place, when she wore it to the Harvard-Brown game, and when she left it one morning on top of their miniature fridge. That winter, when the Reverend Desmond Tutu came to campus for an anti-apartheid rally, Madeleine asked Jennifer on their way to see the great cleric, “Did you put your diaphragm in?” They lived the next four months in a twenty-by-fifteen room without speaking to each other.

The film, “Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid,” starred William Powell and Ann Blyth and looks quite similar to the Ron Howard-directed “Splash.” The reviews aren’t very kind, Halliwell’s Film Guide calls it “a boneheaded quick cash-in…”

And IMDB states that one of the goofs includes: In the underwater fight scene, one shot shows that the fishtail costume had clearly separated from Lenore’s (the mermaid’s) back.

Nice.

Click to read the excerpt on the back cover.

“It was incredible but there it was: his catch, from the waist up, was a woman! Her little breasts were pointed and rosy tipped. On a small scale, she was maturely voluptuous!”

Hmm, rather, erm, titillating for 1945, eh?

Brown Bag is a 1 hour drop in writing session downtown at the organization where Ted and I teach. It’s from noon to one so we often get folks coming in on their lunch break.

One of the prompts was:

Write what was broken (though I guess you could have read or heard it as Right what was broken, huh?)

I’ve decided that whenever I do these Brown Bags, and this is my second time going, i’m going to follow the prompt but apply it to my novel. So, I wrote about what was broken in this character in my book.

Here’s the first sentence I wrote for that prompt:

It was as if my world had cracked, broken open so that everything and everyone and every moment of that summer had spilled out in front of me.

Not the greatest sentence, but it was a terrific exercise, really. And I’m finding much joy in that I’m able to steal moments like this to write .

Then Tuesday night I heard this amazing poem on The Writer’s Almanac, written by Jack Gilbert. I especially love the last line. And I’m always drawn to the Icarus myth (for a fantastic short story inspired by the Icarus myth read Gabriel Brownstein’s “Musé de Beaux Arts” from his completely compelling story collection, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Apt. 3W, which I had the pleasure of reading in manuscript form when I worked at a publishing house –that eventually purchased the book).

Icarus by Hendrik Gotzius

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

“Failing and Flying” by Jack Gilbert, from Refusing Heaven. (c) Alfred A. Knopf, 2005 .

Today had one of the longest (and most productive) days of writing since I got back from Vermont.

Also, kind of nice to go with the hubby and write.

We went to down to The Ink Spot, the writing group/organization (San Diego Writers, Ink) that I work for and we both teach for downtown. Every other Sunday they have what they call, Room To Write, from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. for members and provide a quiet space and tables and chairs and lots of light to write. If you live in San Diego you should really think about joining SDWInk!

After nearly four hours of working on a new scene in the book, I looked through my journal, the one I kept while in VT at the VSC.

Read through the notes I took when Amy Bloom, the visiting writer, gave her craft talk. Bloom is, in my humble opinion, a queen of the first line.

Here are some of the things I wrote down:

Make the characters come alive from the inside.

Create a dream the reader enters; the errors in syntax, form, character, etc., can destroy that dream.

The best novel strives to be like the best poem.

Character: see the world as he sees it.

And, if you spend the time to give them a name, they should also have a soul.

How does it feel inhabiting that world as that character?

They should sound like themselves, not like variations of YOU.

If you can’t imagine what it is a character does or says, don’t write about it.

A reader should encounter and create their own relationship with a character.

Always keep in mind:

1. Illuminating the character
2. Advancing the story
3. Giving a beautiful sentence

Don’t walk us through every moment—crossing the room, grabbing the door knob, etc.

Sometimes start with the very bare bones of a scene and then go back.

When you write, your loved ones, your audience, your parents are DEAD.

You make this good because it matters to YOU.

Read it aloud without inflection so you can hear every bad thing you’ve done.

Move a reader—like an actor—into and out of every scene.

Make your readers believe things really happened, even if it didn’t.

I’m really drawn back to the line: They should sound like themselves, not like variations of YOU.

So much of my writing has been autobiographical, even if loosely based on me or my life. And so I’m trying very hard to make this book, these characters, sound unlike anything else I’ve ever written. But I’m also wanting to move forward and not get hung up on lines and images in this first draft; so, gulp, I’m going to try to do a little bit of both. Work on language, but not get trapped and stopped up by the language—yet—so that I can press on and get through.

In 1845,  they wrote 574 letters to each other over the course of twenty months.

They secretly got married in 1846. Right before the wedding, Robert mailed off to Elizabeth a letter that said:

“Words can never tell you, however, — form them, transform them anyway, — how perfectly dear you are to me – perfectly dear to my heart and soul. I look back, and in every one point, every word and gesture, every letter, every silence — you have been entirely perfect to me — I would not change one word, one look. I am all gratitude — and all pride (under the proper feeling which ascribes pride to the right source) all pride that my life has been so crowned by you.”

And she wrote probably one of the most famous romantic poems ever:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints — I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

(info from The Writer’s Almanac)

Today I’m gardening– finally working on the cactus garden, and Ted and I are making a Valentine’s Dinner of martinis, steak, baked Fennel with Parmesan and Thyme, roasted potatoes, and chocolate souffle.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Been back from my residency in Vermont for two weeks now. Ooof, talk about withdrawal. Luckily, Ted made me dinners for the first two nights I was home (he was trying to ease me back into the real world; the world where three meals a day aren’t cooked for me and a world without continual access to a fully stocked salad bar).

It’s been a strange transition back. I had to jump into teaching again– though (sadly? happily?) only two classes. I guess sadly since It means less money. But I’ll be teaching a one night a week class for 5 weeks in March.

So I get back to teaching– two great classes, thank heavens. Get back to Ted. Get back to the kitties. Yes, Hermia is STILL alive–18 years 10 months, despite a few scares while I was gone and then one REALLY big scare last week involving too much insulin. Luckily she pulled through but not before I had said my teary goodbyes. A good dress rehearsal I suppose.

And now the writing. Getting back to it  has been tough. Mostly, I hope, because I’ve been so busy getting caught up with school. But there’s also just this whole transition back, out of that world where I had no responsibilities and could read for two hours and then write for two hours then read for two hours then write again.

Still, I came back with such incredible feedback and ideas about the book and more chapters. I’m ready to move forward with it. I also have decided i’m going to take a break every once in a while and write something short– a short story, an essay, a poem– in order to feel that sense of accomplishment more often. I miss that. I mean, I feel some sense of accomplishment when I finish a chapter or a really great scene or description or even line, but I miss the feeling of being done with something.

This week I revised a short story from several years ago; actually, I turned it into a short-short, in the hopes of sending it out to places. And i’ve got an idea for a short essay that I want to work on too– it involves this book, Shelley, Also Known As Shirley, a memoir by Shelley Winters (incidentally, it’s a book I first read when I was eleven. Do with that what you will…).

Is this procrastination? Is this going to keep me from my novel? Only time will tell, but I’m hoping not. I hope it will get me back into a regular routine of writing– like I had in Vermont. No make that a regular routine of CREATING.

I miss my Vermont friends. The snow. The fresh baked bread and chickpeas at the salad bar. But i’m glad to be home, too.

So much to say but my head is utterly pounding and the thoughts in my brain a-jumble — anxiety about travel tomorrow, the strange ritual of packing up after 5 weeks away, the  goodbyes to dozens of wonderful people. What is there to say? How to put it into words how important this residency was, how inspiring, how enlightening.

Some fragmented thoughts (Part 1):

I love snow (and it’s now snowing on our last night–yay!)

layering of clothes– forgot how fun it was to accessorize with a scarf–though I didn’t wear my hat as much as I should have (worried about bad hair)

learned so much about the characters in my book.

was inspired by the art and artists here: collage, painting, sculpture, jewelry, print making

decided I really want to buy a print-maker, print press (anybody have an old one they don’t want?)

felt pangs of jealousy that I wasn’t an artist making paintings or sculptures or other visual art

dance parties are fun again

in a pinch Jim Beam will do nicely

really worked on voice and language in my book

VSC has probably the nicest, funniest chef i’ve ever had the pleasure of working with (Go Mark!)–as well as everyone else in the kitchen.

Leni Zumas is my new favorite writer. If you haven’t read her, go out and get her book Farewell Navigator NOW.

People here were very interested in my book. WHEWWW!

I learned some new collage techniques, including ‘tearing.’

Learned the word Gesso. Also ‘underpainting.’

Ate a lot of salad while here.

Crashed into a ditch/snow bank but was rescued by friendly Vermonters.

Saw sled dogs up close and personal!

Twirled around in a black dress while having my picture taken.

Washed about 17, 294 dishes (ok, I just rinsed them).

Made photograms with Rachael!

Finally got good use of my duckboots!

Missed Ted.

Missed the kitties.

discovered Green Mountain organic distilled Vodka (awesome martinis)

the founders and employees of VSC are the greatest

**more about my work at VSC later…

Lovely here– snow fell yesterday and we went to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. I misread the website for the museum– thinking that the Costumes of Edith Head was an exhibit, when in fact it is a film series. So we walked around the museum and saw some Toulouse Lautrec and an exhibit about music, Seeing Songs which included this funny, endearing video installation featuring about thirty videos of people singing Madonna songs all at the same time.

I’ve been keeping warm, wearing Ted‘s silk long underwear and his puffy winter jacket. Also, this super warm (and, don’t you think, fashionable) Cowl’s Neck that I bought from Etsy seller Pip Robins. She makes them all herself and they are expertly tailored and chic. I’ve been getting lots of compliments. Well, ok, I’ve been complimenting myself but I did get one for my Sister-in-Law (Ted’s brother’s wife) who loved hers too. If you want to treat yourself to a New Year’s treat, I suggest checking out Pip Robins’ etsy store.

Ted and I walked around Cambridge. And, of course we stoppe in at the Harvard Book Store–where I could

spend hours, days. We then cut through Haah-vaad, Ted’s ole alma mater. It was just getting dark and the lights made the whole place glow like an old oil lamp.

Ted’s family is wonderful and we celebrated Christmas last night, whereupon I was given two lovely sweaters for Vermont. I think tomorrow, though I’ll need to go out and get one more pair of thermals and also some gloves and long wool socks, just in case.

Ted gave me Joyce Carol Oates’ book on writing: The Faith of a Writer–Life, Craft, Art, which I read a few of the essays last night.

One of the essays is called “The Writer’s Studio” where she muses on her writing space.

“The precious room-of-one’s-own. The private place, the sanctuary. to rephrase a famous remark of Robert Frost, our private places are those that, when we seek entry, we are never turned away.”

and also:

“Rarely do I invent at the typewriter (a Japanese-made Swintec 1000 with an approximate ten-page memory, printing capacity, storage for disks), and virtually never do I try to foce anything into prose in this way. I need to imagine first, purely without language; and then remember.”

I myself find it hard to invent at the typewriter, though I do it more now than I did in Grad School, during my MFA. I’ve always used notebooks to plan, sketch, and outline.

**I did a search for Swintec 1000– very cheap machine! I wonder how well or how it works

It was only a week, I know, but when it’s just me and the kitties it gets a little weird. I wonder what he’s going to do when i’m in Vermont for a month doing my writer’s residency?

So, the other night in one of my classes a student, talking to me after class, asked: how long has your hair been thinning?

WTF??!!!

He is actually a very sweet student, but very chatty. Also, his own hair is thinning so I think he was trying to relate to me… in a strange way…

It did get me thinking though… my hair IS thinning. Not in the back but definitely at the top, or where my [feathered] bangs used to be. What is that part of the head called? Above my forehead.

It’s thinning enough that it’s just starting to look a little, er, funky. And not funky in a good way, but funky in a ‘do I look like I’m trying to grow my hair out so you can’t see that i’m thinning?’ kind of way.

I’m thinking it’s about time I stopped trying to rock a trendy mullet or faux-anything. I might be at the point where

GASP!

i’m going to have to start cutting my hair really really short. Not shaved, by any means, but really short. Sort of Chris Meloni in Law and Order SUV short.

Plus, i’m going to be in Vermont for the month of January, and that means I’ll be wearing winter hats, and that means messy hair, so why not avoid all that and cut my hair short?

I was also thinking of growing a beard, but nah. I like my stache still.

Speaking of beards, I found the COOLEST artist on the website Fecal Face, Keith Shore, and love love love his print called “The Bearded Portraits.” I’ve got to put a bug in Ted’s ear so he’ll get it for me for Christmas.

If you check out Shore’s website you can see more of his paintings– I like how they look almost childish, but there’s something in the way he paints the characters’ eyes and mouths that to me look very tense and real.

Anyway, The Bearded Portraits reminded me of Walt Whitman’s musings on beards so I thought I’d leave you with a couple of excerpts.

Whitman rocked his own beard, as you all know, and mentions them in the preface to Leaves of Grass.

About America, he writes: “Here are the roughs and the beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves.”

Then again in “Song of Myself”:

Washes and razors for foofoos …. for me freckles and a bristling beard.

*Whitman image from here.