PUGGY'S HILL

 . . . but  Alan and I are both up today  on Terri Windling's blog "The Drawing Board" as part of her "The View from your Window" series!  

Others' views include Karen Shaffer & Charles Vess . . . Bulgarian puppeteer Rossitsa, . . . Ari Berk & Kris McDermott . . . Beth Meacham . . . Wendy Froud . . . . Stu Jenks . . . deliasherman  . . . . I do have to say it's not fair putting real photographers up against us little writers with iPhones . . . . But the view, overall, is terrific!

I bet you thought I didn't have one. But the Massachusetts All-Stars (all of whom used to live within 2 hrs of each other) meet on an ad hoc basis, whenever there is need. And there was need. So:

Plans were made to meet last weekend to go over Delia's ms. for The Freedom Maze, which she must finish for Big Mouth Press soon; and also to look over Sarah Smith (sarahwriter)'s dramatization of her novel Chasing Shakespeares if we had time. And here's the lineup:

Saturday
5:30 pm Delia & I arrived by train in Boston, cabbed to Sarah's house. Delia has head cold. Sarah feeds us lovely soup.
7:15 pm Sarah's theatrical collaborator (Alex C.) & 2 young actors arrive. We divvy up parts, and begin reading script so authors can hear how it actually sounds.
7:45 pm Holly arrives from Philadelphia, where she's been attending family funeral, and reads a part.
9:30 pm We discuss ripping play to shreds, altering plot & focus....
11:00 pm Alex & actors leave. We continue revising. Sarah argues, takes notes....
11:45 pm Delia goes up to bed
12:30 pm I go up to bed
12:45 am Cassie & Josh arrive from Houston, where she's been signing books. Lots of talking.
3:00 am (I'm told) Everyone else to bed.

Sunday
10 am? We crawl out of bed. Sarah makes eggs, coffee . . . eventually everyone appears and eats them. Delia's cold mysteriously better.
1 pm Kelly arrives with Burmese takeout. We devour hitherto unsuspected culinary delights.
2 pm Everyone whips out notes & begins by telling Delia what each particularly loves about her novel, softening her up for the kill - no, for thoughtful and reasoned debate on what works, what doesn't, and what to do about it. E-mail opinions from Karen Joy Fowler & Doselle Young (who are not Mass All-Stars, but deserve to be) added to the mix.
5 pm Delia curls up on sofa with catatonia & the Sunday comics, while the rest of us continue to discuss plot. Kelly leaves to feed baby. Holly collects bags to depart.
6 pm Every conceivable leftover of any sort is eaten. Kelly returns.
6:30 pm Holly, Cassie & I thrash out plots to two short stories they're working on. My advice particularly brilliant. Everyone talks about books. And matchmaking. And travel. And stories. And food. And writing.
9 pm Holly drives everyone home. Sarah, Delia & I hunker down to watch "Emma" on Masterpiece Theater.
9:20 pm Holly returns for Cassie's Airbook, which looks just like the other 3 that were on the table, so easily mislaid. Drives off.
11:05 pm We finish mocking "Emma." Sarah drives me to all-night Shaw's Supermarket so I can buy Country Kitchen Light Wheat bread, which is not sold in NYC, and is the thing I miss most about Boston. Sorry.

Monday
9 am Up & out & on the train home . . . Blissful trip. Still catching up. Which is why I didn't get this written down til today. But you can see why I wanted to! It's already beginning to fade.... We weren't there even 48 hours - but it felt like a weekend and a half!

Thank you, ktempest, for your wonderful post about the Auction:
The Interfictions Auctions Ends Today, Help us Raise $400 More Dollars

It's a short story all in itself! Or is it a memoir? Or . . . interstitial?

. . . and it was my idea, mine mine mine!

I remember it quite clearly: Neil & Charles & Karen were in town for the Blueberry Girl signing at Books of Wonder in March** - we had a lovely dinner all together (with Charles' old roommate Mike Kaluta, and my old college pal Mimi) at our place, brilliantly cooked by Delia with spectacular desserts by our houseguest (Neil said, "Next time I'm in town, if I can't get a hotel, could I sleep in your guest room?" "Only if Mim's not already in it," I said, to which he most gallantly replied, "For such a chocolate mousse, I would gladly sleep on the sofa!" oh, and his friend Kira joined us for dessert as well, and then we tried all of Delia's hats on her. Neil knows such lovely people! As do we).

The day after the signing Charles & Karen came over (with Mike, I think, as he lives nearby & they were staying with him) and we all hung out in the livingroom, a bit subdued as we'd heard the bad news about Neil's dad, I think, but happy to be together. Charles showed us pictures of his Titania fountain, which D&I had seen under construction last summer. Enchanted & enchanting. We were all blissing out about the instant success of Blueberry Girl, and Charles said, "My new probably-agent says we should do another one right away. But Neil doesn't really have time to write something new, oh dear, what shall I do.....?"

"Instructions!" I yelled, jumping up in my enthusiasm. "Neil's poem! It's perfect! It's in the bathroom! [Well, it is. Neil sent signed editions out to everyone one New Year's. We framed ours, and it looks gorgeous right next to Terri Windling's "Briar Rose"* It is a rather splendid bathroom] Everyone loves it." Charles looked dubious - or maybe he was just tired. "Think," I coaxed, "of all the great bits you'd get to illustrate. Besides, it is a great work of art and deserves it. Everyone loves it....."

But don't just take my word for it. Ask Charles Vess, who replies: "It's funny, but I really don't remember you saying that, but then, there were a bounty of lovely thoughts/ideas flying about your living room that night, so I have NO doubts that you did.

That being the case then, thank you so very much for suggesting the idea as I'm having such a ball painting these images."

Oh, really? Then who did? Charles says: I remember Neil calling or e-mailing to suggest that I adapt his poem. And my countering with the idea of an illustrated collection of ALL his poetry.

"Good idea," he said, "but first let's just do Instructions."

Hmph.

Um, OK. Ask Neil, who Tweeted: "brilliant. I think a lot of people had the same idea at the same time (steam engine time as Fort said)."


So even though Charles doesn't remember, and Neil says it was the hive mind, I just want everyone to know that I Said It First. I remember.

Here are Charles Vess's sketches for Neil Gaiman's poem, "Instructions"


**(And, yes, I think it's hilarious that I posted lots that weekend - but never mentioned the visits or the dinner.)

* It's not this piece of Terri's, but one somewhat like it.

On Weds. we went into Blue Hill for the afternoon farmers' market. Not much to buy but chanterelles (aww!) as the rains have been very hard on the gardens. Then we met up with old friend Jonathan Lethem, who's just started a used bookstore called Red Gap, right next to Blue Hill Antiques - part of their annex, really, right down on Water Street - which is, as always, the little jag off Main(e) Street that leads down to the harbor . It's an enchanting little shop, with couches and espresso machine and books floor to ceiling. It is, in fact, the bookstore we all dreamed of owning when we were kids. Figures. Well, I'm glad one of us got it. And the rest of us can visit. Jonathan claims he opened in part to redeem the boxes and boxes of old books he's been hoarding for years. Yes, even with an apartment in Brooklyn & the dearest little farmhouse in Maine, there is never enough room for all the books. I think I first met him when he was working in a little used bookstore in San Francisco. Oh, and if you're interested, it's pronounced "LEEth-um" (and "CHAY-bun," Michael, is his friend. ["U"s standing in for schwas, which I don't know how to type]).

Then we went up to the house, to meet his wife Amy and little boy Everett. Both enchanting. After about 5 minutes, I felt I'd known Amy forever. Everett insisted on driving the car; but since he's only 2, we didn't start it for him. He seemed content anyway. Before Everett appeared post-nap, we sat in J's study, drank tea, and talked about books and writing. J said he's taken the past year off from novel writing - he's got a big fat new one coming out any day now, which has fantastical elements, take note! - in favor of short fiction, playing with a 2-yr-old, and reading. He said he deliberately turned his morning writing time into reading time. I've been thinking about that. I sure don't read as much fiction as I used to. Too much instant gratification online: little gobbets of factoids on demand wherever my fancy takes me, and constant connection with friends & colleagues . . . Not reading isn't good for me, as a human being and an artist. I need to know the field(s), and I need to be inspired. And to shut up from time to time. I'm not as organized as Jonathan - his study was an oasis of calm and bookish order - and never will be; but I'm a quick study, and can take a hint from the Galaxy, I hope.

Delia & Jonathan crossed the street to the blueberry field and picked those tiny little Maine wild blueberries, coming back with colanders well-lined, and many mosquito bites. We bade each other a fond farewell, and drove off to Blue Hill for one more round of internet at the library, and clam rolls.

Not sure when I'll get to send this, but writing it on Sunday morning, our last day here. The owners of the house, Delia's schoolfriend Eleanor & her husband Leigh (always thanked in our novels for the Writing Retreat space) & D's goddaughter Georgina, arrived late Friday night. Yesterday they took us sailing in their wooden boat, and I got to hold the tiller for some minutes. Today we're socked in with pure fog. Those who can, are knitting. I should go back to writing my novel. It probably sucks - but who am I to say? They all do, at some point. There will be occasional flashes of brilliance, yet; and for the rest, there will be Revision. (Yesterday, Georgina - who'd gone to get paper so she could teach Delia to make origami cranes - overheard me reading a new scene to Delia - a rapid monotone interlaced with editorial: "OK, I'm actually going to combine those two bits . . . . Listen, this is brililiant - or will be when I fill in the blanks [a poem]! . . . I know, I know, she shouldn't be able to read, but - oh, wait. No, that's good. That gives it somewhere to go. OK, fine; she can't read, you're right.")

[CORRECTION ADDED: Name of J's store]

In Boston now, staying at a warm little B&B near our old house. Delia's reading & signing at Porter Square Books ['EAT/SLEEP/READ'] went beautifully. If you couldn't get there but want a signed copy of her books, or any of mine for that matter (including trade paperback TPOTS), we left a nice big stack all duly autographed. They sell by mail, as well.

We nearly didn't make it, though. We planned to pick up the rental car & leave NYC at 1 pm. We were excited about getting to ride back with our good friend Sarah Smith, who'd been in town to meet with her editor about a new book(!!). At 5 past 1:00 the phone rang. I heard Delia saying, "Oh my god. Oh. Oh, no." She didn't sound panicked, just a bit shocked.

Sarah was lying on the sidewalk a block from our house, waiting for an ambulance. She'd tripped and fallen, and was pretty sure her arm was broken. The call was from a guy who'd stopped when he saw her, and called 911.

I ran out. She was being a tremendously brave little soldier, but her wrist was looking bad & swelling up. I gave her Advil (racing to the nearby bodega for bottled water), and started calling friends. Ambulance came, and suggested - just in time - we take off her rings before her fingers got too swollen. I greased her fingers with the last of my Ayr menthol ointment from winter! (I'd just changed bags for the trip, and wasn't toting my usual handcreme). I was relieved to see she kept her color when she stood up. In the ambulance, they took her ID info while I found a friend of hers to meet her at Mt Sinai. Then we called her husband, who said he'd drive down from Boston to get her. This relieved my mind mightily; I felt awful just leaving her there, but we had to get Delia to her gig. I took Sarah's pack & computer back to my house, and we left the keys with the doorman (how I love the doormen!) so she could crash there when she got out of hospital. Which is what she did. (And the guy who called 911? Even after I got there, he stood quietly on the sidewalk - with the 2 large dogs he was walking - and watched until we got into the ambulance; must've been there a good half hour. She asked for his name so she could thank him later, but he just said, "Don't worry about it.")

Delia, too, was a brave little soldier; she'd thought her gig was at 6, not 7, and that it took 4+ hours, not 3.5, to drive to Boston. So essentially she thought we'd be almost an hour late, but I had no idea she'd quietly swallowed that bitter pill til we'd been on the road almost an hour. Fortunately, we made good time on a pretty day with little traffic, and were even able to check into the guest house before heading to the bookstore. It was so good to see old Boston friends there - and new ones, as well!

Lunch tom'w with more old friends, a little gentle retail therapy in the old neighb (Delia's knitting baby hats for all and sundry - she finds it soothing, and they are adorable!), and then, off to READERCON! I'll post my schedule separately.

My dear old friend jaguartist, welcome to FaceBook! Thank you for your insights and your wisdom. I've always loved walking & talking with you. (Hey, paddymeboy, when are you going to start posting some of those great letters you send me, so I can link to them & share the joy??)

Also, friends please cruise on over to the newest IAF post to see how you can sponsor an idea - and a book!

A quick note to let New Yorkers know that BINIBON, the highly interstitial Jack Womack/Elliot Sharp collaboration at The Kitchen thru May 9th is very much worth seeing! Acting & direction are terrific. But it's all about Jack's language - sheer poetry, describing the New York we lived in in 1981. A dangerous place. It no longer exists. Very much the NYC I wrote Swordspoint in and about. Jack's characters - waitress, transvestite, teen graffiti artist - ghosts of the night Jack Henry Abbott killed that guy at the Binibon cafe - recall it in speeches so sharp and funny and moving I had to keep myself from rocking back & forth, sticking up my hand and yelling, "Oh, yeah! Tell it, baby!"

They guy playing Abbott is just chilling. As the Narrator (a shaky former jazz drummer) describes him (yeah, I got Jack to send me the script) :
( Here's some text by Jack Womack )

Old friends are The Best. Many hours spent last night with "Isabel, who listened & ironed" (isabelswift) when I was trying to write Swordspoint. (I'll never forget stomping through Central Park with her on a pretty day, worrying about how the novel should start, and she talked about the beginnings of operas: "'Carmen, Carmen, oh, that Carmen -- Why look, here she comes!'" It worked.) She fed me chicken on gorgeous Italian pottery plates. We made pomegranate syrup & Pellegrino fizz. We talked about her projects, and we talked about mine. We talked about the Washington Post's "Date Lab" column, and how to kindly say you won't quote on a novel unless you're really blown away by it, even if it's by a person you like a lot . . . I looked at her and said urgently, "Could you please go back 20 years and tell me that now I never go on another blind date, and instead have to worry about fighting off people wanting me to blurb their books?"

I'm once again stuck on a novel opening - the voice, this time - and also working on 2 stories & a script simultaneously. Out came the Boyfriend similes: "You can date them all, but in the end, figure out which one will really be there for you for the long run." Turns out she's never read libba_bray's divinely wonderful (and accurate) piece, Writing a Novel: a Love Story - so, as I was looking it up to send her, I've linked to it here, in case you haven't either.

The New York Times offers a recipe for Red Hot Ale made with a hot poker. God, I miss my wood stove (and associated tools!). It caramelizes the sugar in the ale. Burnt Caramel is my favorite flavor (well, top 3, anyway). (If you don't want to sign up for the NYTimes, it's also here.)

Remember the 23-yr-old recent Bryn Mawr grad who mysteriously disappeared from her apt in NYC on August 28th? She was found drifting in New York Harbor on Sept. 16th, and just gave a fascinating interview to the NYTimes: she was suffering from dissociative fugue, a rare form of amnesia that causes people to forget their identity, suddenly and without warning, and can last from a few hours to years. “It’s weird,” Ms. Upp said. . . .“How do you feel guilty for something you didn’t even know you did? It’s not your fault, but it’s still somehow you. So it’s definitely made me reconsider everything. Who was I before? Who was I then — is that part of me? Who am I now?”

Our Boston friend, artist Tabitha Vevers, has a show up at the DeCordova (Lincoln, MA) right now. It just got a great review in the Boston Globe. The mermaid picture in the first paragraph is in fact owned by us; we lent it for the show. Very cool; someone from an art shipping firm came to our house to crate it up. There are 7 more images of her work up online here.