World Book Night II

Dears, I HATE to miss it, but I'm outta town this year during WBN. So, am posting a rerun of last years WBN blog in case you're interested.
Lots of Love, Amy

Here's all I knew about World Book Night, when I applied on-line to be a book giver --  I'd be volunteering to hand out 20 copies of one of 30 titles especially printed for this event, authors foregoing royalty, publishers foregoing profits, everyone just spreading a love of reading to people who don’t normally have easy access to books. The idea was to hand out a half a million free books, in 6,000 towns and cities across the country, all on the same day.

On the application I said I’d leave the books on park benches and bus stops & I chose to pick my books up from Vroman’s, an independent book store where I teach. Picking the book was a little harder, it was a great list.  

I decided not to do a teen book, because that was too close to my real life. So I chose Tim O’Brian’s brilliant Vietnam novel The Things They Carried, because I could remember exactly where I was when I’d read and loved it many years ago, and for a compulsive reader like myself, that’s saying something.

I’d asked a few friends if they wanted to give away books with me. Many said they’d love to, but it ultimately whittled down to one pal saying she'd try to join me for an hour or so in the late afternoon, and my husband agreeing to go with me at night.

I pictured one of us driving the get-away car, trolling the streets, slowing by a park bench and idling while the other one pops out, places the book at a tempting angle, and we zoom away.

That brings us to World Book night - day.  It was rainy as I drove to Pasadena to pick up my box of books. I figured I’d stop on the way back and get plastic bags to wrap each book in.  In my minds eye, however, they looked a whole lot less tempting in bags on soggy benches.   

At Vroman’s will call, I was given a small black pin with white letters that said, World Book Night, Book Giver, April 23, a xeroxed thanks and congratulations, a sheet of hints and reminders of no significance, and, ta-da! My box of books!

I tore it open the second I got back to the car. Then pulled out of the parking lot, suddenly so giddy, that I rolled down the window and offered a book to the first person I saw. 

“Want a free book?” I called out through the drizzle to a guy waiting at the light. His eyes darted for a second, but then he shrugged, “Sure,” and stepped closer to take the copy I was waggling out the window. 

“It’s World Book Night!” I shrieked in explanation.

I pulled away, thrilled with my first triumph, until I realized he'd been wearing a snazzy bright green jogging kind of thing and was probably a rich Cal Tech student with more books in his library than I had in mine. 

I had to be more selective. But really, my adrenalin was pumping and I suddenly knew how Santa must feel with his big bag of presents. 

So, too excited to wait, never mind my plans to take people with me later, I immediately got on the freeway and headed straight for Skid Row. 

As I drove, ok, sped, I decided two things. 1.) I would pace myself and only give out 10 of my remaining 19 books down town, saving eight for my originally planned park benches and bus stops.  And 2.) There’d be no more impulsive giving to people who might possibly be rich.

But as I got off the freeway at Hill I had to stop myself from rolling down the window at every light and hysterically hurling books at whoever passed by. I did let myself give one out at a light in China Town, but then I took myself firmly in hand and sternly reminded myself to face the grim reality of already being down two books. 

I found a parking meter a block and a half before the mission on 6th. I only had enough change for 15 minutes, so I hastily stuffed eight books in my purse and two under my arm, and hit the street. 

A few dampish folk, sitting beside their blue-tarp tents said, “no thanks,” or “I’ll get it next time,” but others accepted my books with pleasure. Some looked a teeny bit suspicious, one asked if the book was of a “biblical nature.” But in no time my ten books were gone.  I hadn’t even made it all the way to the mission, where a crowd of rain-soaked people were waiting outside. 

I  returned to my car and dealt a few more books out to people passing by. One woman pulled the book she was reading out of her cart to show me that she was almost done with it. Another told me he didn’t want a Vietnam story, “Vietnam was boring.”

Good! I thought. I'm giving way too many out down here anyway. But trying not to give any more away, was like trying to save the last few cookies for later. Ha! The next guy who passed wanted one.  And then, there were only two left.

I’d wondered earlier if it would be considered stealing for me to keep one commemorative copy, since this was a special one time printing, and the first World Book Night in the States, and all... But fate answered for me, as the last book left my hand. 

My parking meter hadn’t even run out, and all I had left was my Book Giver pin, which I hadn’t even put on yet, and an empty cardboard box that I’d bequeath to my Guinea pig as a new hidey-hole when I got home. My World Book Night -- over by noon!

xo

amy

P.S The WBN facebook page is full of great stories. 
 https://www.facebook.com/worldbooknightusa

Garden War!

I woke with a constellation of scabby, pustules oozing across my face.  A ghastly scroll through google image showed that rashes exist on a continuum, from a scattered few bumps to a full body take-over of icky raw hideousness. 

Am I using a new soap? No.

Shampoo? Laundry detergent? Lotion? No. No. No.

Did I eat something weird? No. 

Not that I can remember what I ate or where I went yesterday... 

Oh wait. Yesterday I worked in 

(cue ominous music)

THE GARDEN!

Was there some misunderstanding?

Did my plants read my puttering ministrations as a slashing sap-bath of horror? 

Could they, in their photosynthesizing-paranoia, interpret my weeding and re-potting as going hostile with the trowel? 

Is this out-break on my face their REVENGE seeping pure hatred from my stinging pores! 

If so --- Hear this, you spiny spiteful cacti & flesh-eating succulents: 

While you plot my itchy demise and plan for the glorious composting of my flesh, know that even poisoned and disfigured 

this is a desert and I control the HOSE!

Amy   

The Bad End

I seem to have a blog-rant against books with lousy endings on a five month cycle. I guess that's how long it takes for my reading toxins to build to rupture, as a reader, as a writer and as a writing teacher. 

So many books begin with great premise, interesting characters, compelling situations... But no matter how much fun we have splashing around in dialog and plot twists, eventually we’ve all got to put our pants back on and get out of there. 

Why is it so hard to do so with grace?

When a real-life relationship ends, the other manifestations of life go on. Even broken-hearted, we continue our involvement with breathing, with the production of mucus, with blood circulation. These activities may be affected by the ending of the relationship; We can’t eat -- or can’t stop eating. We can’t sleep -- or can’t stop sleeping, but still, we continue to pee. 

When a reader's relationship with a book ends, however, everything must cease. Even the indulgence of an epilogue must eventually stop peeing. 

But how?

We can’t just stop writing, and pretend the dog ate the last few pages. 

The main character’s suicide or murder isn’t the universally appropriate conclusion. Nor can we always end things with a tsunami, apocalypse, or catastrophic coronary event even if foreshadowed by the character’s poor diet and slovenly life style...

Many otherwise competent writers opt for selecting one of the Ever-Populars from the Auto-Ending list:  It was all a dream, or the ugly duckling / swan thing, or a revealing death bed confession of all missing facts, the radical personality transformation from good to evil... Or, a hail of bullets / backing out with guns blazing to ride into sunset, or, the tried-and-true cliff hanger.

BUT to quote myself from my November 7, 2012 blog rant:

A gift from Sally!

And I agree with myself to this day;  Shitty endings unravel all the charming character construction, clever world-building, and compelling insights, and leave the reader PISSED OFF. Resentful of any emotional involvement with the characters, regretting the time invested reading to the end, wishing revenge on the author who cheated us out of a clean, believable honest end.

A good book DESERVES / CRIES OUT FOR / DEMANDS -- a good ending. Not a punchline, but the inevitable ending that the author had been building toward, steadily and invisibly from the novel’s first breath. 

Is that too much to ask? To read such an ending? To write one?

Sigh. 

And yes, ending a blog with a sigh is crap, too.

xo

Amy

The Easter Basket

Several years ago my daughter's friend, who we shall call Lucy, came to live with us when her mom suddenly and unexpectedly died. 

I hadn’t known Lucy’s mom, or anything about Lucy's holiday traditions. Of all the worries and possible obstacles that could attend taking in a kid, I realize now that it’s a bit odd that it was the fear of messing up her Easter that really got me by the throat. 

I’d been on Easter-egg-hunts, eaten more than my share of Jordon Almonds and Cadbury eggs and I’d certainly seen and coveted any number of Easter baskets over the decades. But I’d never had an Easter basket of my own or created one for anyone else. Let alone someone with a recently deceased mother. 

I snuck away to Michael's while the kids were at school, and promptly discovered that there was no one right way to do this Easter Basketing thing.  Who knew there were so many kinds of basket grass, not to mention baskets. Big? Little? Wicker? Cloth? Plastic in classic Easter pastels? 

Whole aisles were dedicated to cuteness, including myriad pre-filled, ready-made Easter baskets tented in colorful plastic-wrap and tied with pretty bows. 

Had Lucy’s mom nestled toy lambys in her Easter grass? Did she arrange a tableau of wind-up chicks, chocolate Easter Rabbits and marshmallow Peeps?  

Had her mom left the basket by Lucy's bed so she’d wake up and see it first thing? Did it include a note from the Easter Bunny?  Perhaps there had been a trail of clues... little bunny droppings or jelly beans leading to the basket?

Oy. I asked the Michael's sales staff probing questions about their personal basket experiences. Then made frantic phone calls to gentile friends. 

Ultimately however, as with every crisis, I had to accept that I was alone. For better or worse the decisions were mine to make.

That realization didn’t make me particularly calm or confident, but I did manage to make some purchases. I lugged my stuff home to stress over and arrange while the kids slept. Then I lay in bed fearing that my Easter basket failure would topple poor Lucy into bottomless grief.  

Was the wrongness of my basket going to shock Lucy into realizing that this wasn’t just a long pajama party, that her mother was really gone, and that nothing would ever be the same?   

I nervously shoved my baskets at the kids the second they awoke Easter morning. 

“Oh cool!” Lucy said. “An Easter basket! I’ve never had one before.”

xo Amy

  

The Impossible Library!

Here’s an idea! 

How about if we buy all the books we can, new and classics in every genre and many languages, and subscribe to dozens of newspapers and magazines from around the world. Then let’s organize these materials in logical order, cataloging and cross referencing them by author, by subject, and by title. 

Then let's get some computers and copy machines and printers.  

We’ll put it all in a building, and we’ll heat and cool that building, and light it well, and keep it clean and safe. Then let's arrange chairs and tables and cozy reading spots and clean bathrooms. 

We could hire people who have trained for many years to use the system to work as helpers and guides. Then we'll open the doors to anyone who wants to come in and read the books and magazines and newspapers, or use the computers, and we won’t charge them a single cent.

Yes, anyone; and yes, free.

And if people want to borrow the books and movies and audio books and take them home, we’ll give them a card and let them do that, too, at no charge.

How about if we offer lectures for the adults, and story hour for the tots, and book clubs for the teens, and movies for everyone? And summer reading programs? And let's make that all absolutely free, as well.

It doesn’t sound possible, does it?

Sounds like some Utopian idealist’s unachievable pipe dream. Such free, public access could not possibly work in our reality, our harsh times. All the books would surely disappear. The free open spaces would be vandalized.

And yet, here we are. 

Welcome to the Library!

xo Amy

(I wrote this piece for the Friends of the Glendale Public Library news letter. But please do feel free to pass it on to your own libraries, librarians and library patrons. And join your local Friends of the Library! Your tiny dues buys so much for so many!)

On Re-re-re-writing

Today I finished writing a book that I have finished writing at least three times before. Here’s how that works: I type, type, scroll up, scroll down, ponder, celebrate, pace, stew... And finally, when I'm sure I’ve got it right, I write THE END.

A few months later I take a look, expecting to be wildly impressed by myself, but.................  What time away from a manuscript does is erase all the things I thought I said and meant to say, leaving only what I actually said. The good intentions are gone, and only actual results remain. 

It’s not really like when the snow melts revealing thawing dog poop. It’s more like when the makeup, spanx and push-up bra are removed... No, that’s not it either. 

With fresh new eyes, or rested forgetful eyes, or perhaps older, weary eyes, the passage of time lets me -- or forces me to -- read my own manuscript and see only my manuscript!

After the cringy chagrin wears off, I attack the thing anew. 

Again, it gets better as the blinders of immersion re-form. 
Again, when  I’m sure I’ve said what I meant to say, and told no more or less than the story I meant to tell, I type THE END, really meaning it this time!

Then, when I am far enough from the process to no longer be reciting whole sections by memory instead of sleeping at night, I bring it up on the screen and.... EEK! WARTS!

The old warts haven’t returned, but new ones have sprouted! Or been revealed!

Ew! A little self-hate, a little humiliation in front of self. A little wine. A little pie. A little blaming the husband for some real or imagined transgression. Then, I’m back at it.

That said, I REALLY finished that book today. I mean seriously, for real this time! And it's absolutely perfect!

xo Amy

Valentine's Day Blog

Unfortunately, before one may attain the blissful age of indifference toward Valentine's day, she must endure a few decades of annoyance. 
My annoyance era began at Schulze Elementary School in Detroit, where love and history were inexplicably entwined on the bulletin boards. Washington & Lincoln's silhouettes were pasted on red construction paper hearts with paper-doily lace trim.  A naked cupid taking aim at them, further confounded the whole presidential-assassination thing. 

At our desks below, we transformed shoe boxes with tin-foil and ribbon, into Valentine Mail Boxes. No tape or glue happily sticks to tin-foil so the boxes never turned out as one might have hoped. But still, it was all very exciting and romantic.

Everyone bought more or less the same box of Valentines from the same dime store on the corner where the selection was limited to romantic cartoon characters like the Flintstones or Yogi Bear. 

There were pricier ones with glitter or  velvety texture, but only rich kids bought those. Well, rich kids and kids like Ruth who had brothers so much older than her that she was practically an only child and was treated like a princess.

We were to give valentines to every kid in the class, but we all knew that not all valentines were created equal. Even out of the same box some were more and others less wonderful.

I remember agonizing over them, carefully selecting the one that would tell Timmy Hicks how I felt about him. The kitty that said, You are the purrrr-fect Valentine? The skunk saying, I'm Scent-i-mental about you? 

Like shamans who foretell the future by interpreting sheep intestine, my girlfriends and I spent hours after school struggling to decipher the deeper meanings behind the Valentines we'd received.  

What was Timmy telling me? 
On reflection, I doubt Timmy's era of annoyance had yet begun. His mom probably bought and signed his cards for him to pass out arbitrarily, one per mail box, with no idea which card went to whom.

And, after scooping the few chocolates and candy conversation hearts out of his own Mail Box, I suspect he dumped the rest in the trash without a thought.

Sigh.

Whatever I may feel about the ache and sag of time's passage, at least I am truly, deeply grateful to no longer be in fifth grade.

Amen

xo Amy