Blog A Go-Go

In which I have a poppy

A corn poppy to be exact. When I was in Houston, I visited the Museum of Fine Arts and was instantly smitten with this piece of art http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.artchive.com/artchive/d/dongen/corn_poppy.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.artchive.com/artchive/D/dongen/corn_poppy.jpg.html&h=749&w=623&sz=46&tbnid=ddu6MEGjtXQJ::&tbnh=141&tbnw=117&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dcorn%2Bpoppy&sa=X&oi=image_result&resnum=2&ct=image&cd=1 I don't know what it is about her, but she reminds me of something I've seen before that I found charming. She is a young woman with secrets, I can just tell. I was lucky enough to find a print in the gift shop--again, that weird Houston retail magic intervened for me--it was the very last one. I haven't framed her yet, but I'm thinking plain black would suit her nicely.

(Finally, I remembered who the Corn Poppy looks like: the illustrations in Cameron Tuttle's Bad Girls books! Thank goodness, that was driving me mad...)

In which it is JULY

Yes, JULY is in all caps because I am just that excited. Why, you ask? Because July is one of my favorite months of the entire year--the month of the Tour de France. Besides the gripping drama of the race itself, I love the fact that for this one month, my life is predictable and patterned. There is order to my existence, dictated by the stages. Each morning I am up early to watch the coverage live at 7:00am on Versus. (The morning commentary is done by Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, whom I adore.) Then lunch and work in the hottest part of the afternoon when I am not inclined to go out anyway. Then after dinner, the evening commentary gives a different slant on the stage events and updates on the injuries. Usually, that works out to about seven hours of Tour watching per day. (And if you noticed there is no room in the schedule for errands, grocery shopping, dinners out, or other excursions, you are quite right. I get very cranky in the heat and more so if I miss a stage. I stupidly planned an overnight trip to DC later this month and FORGOT to check the stage map for that day. If I'd been smart, I would have planned it for the rest day, but no. I will be relying on tivo to catch me up in the medium mountains.) This year's Tour starts in Brittany, historically a superb start. Check out the official site here: http://www.letour.fr/indexus.html 

In which I am home from Houston!

I am HOME! Houston was most excellent. Had a fabulous time with my womenfolk--although I did miss my husband and my father who stayed home to hold down the fort. (Apparently this involved painting projects and Chinese food.) This was the first three-generation, all-girl trip and it was forty kinds of fabulous. We hit the Galleria and I am SET for RWA in San Francisco now. No spoilers on the dress, except I will whisper the words "Neiman-Marcus" and "python print" and let you wonder. The shoes were my major score. I needed the most specific pair of shoes in the free world--3 1/2 inch heel, strappy black satin evening sandals with a thin sole. I must have looked in every shoe store in the Galleria before I stumbled into Jimmy Choo. (Technically, I was pushed. By my mother.) A delightful salesman welcomed me and, almost as an afterthought said, "Oh, and this table here is fifty percent off today only." I looked on the sale table and there they were, calling my name softly, like poetry. The most beautiful black satin slingback evening sandals with a thin sole and 3 1/2 inch heels. He went to find my size and they had ONE pair. Reader, I bought them.

As if Wednesday wasn't already fantastic enough, I had a SUPERB event at Murder by the Book. They are always gracious and lovely and we had a standing-room-only crowd to nibble scones and sip tea while we chatted about the books and writing in general. I got to sign books and see some people I adore--including my galpal Kristin who came with her adorable baby Will in tow and my godfather, whom I love fiercely and was completely surprised to see. All in all a fabulous time, and HUGE thanks to the fine peeps at Murder by the Book. (Is it time to come back yet?)

But the BEST part is that my cousin Lisa was there! Those of you who follow the Blog A Go-Go know that she recently received a bone marrow transplant at MD Anderson. She was released this past Monday, and though she still has to spend time at the medical center each day for drug therapy, she is out and about and doing AMAZINGLY well. Thank you so much for all your good thoughts, prayers, and encouragement. Cancer is a bitch, but she doesn't always win. My sweet Lisa:

And my darling godfather, Billy:

In which I am intrigued

I admit I am fascinated by this story: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24889337/?GT1=43001 In brief, a homeless woman in Japan moved into a single man's closet and lived there undetected. For a year. Never mind the fact that food disappeared, she took showers, and she MUST have made the odd noise or occasionally disarranged his shoes. No, the fact that has me completely enthralled is that she moved a mattress into the closet. She actually set up housekeeping in there. There is something to be said for the human instinct to feather one's nest, I suppose, even a borrowed one. And I know it was a tremendous violation of this gentleman's privacy, but I think it's rather nice that at least one homeless person had a roof over her head for a year. Of course, after I read this story I dreamed there was a homeless man living in MY closet and it freaked me right out. Hypocrisy, table for one?

In which I wonder how much my Viewmaster is worth

So a gentleman in England dug a treasure out of his childhood toy chest. It was a cup, fashioned out of a single sheet of gold, and decorated with the faces of two women crowned with snakes. It was generally supposed to be Persian and almost three thousand years old. It had been given to the man by his grandfather, a scrap dealer, who apparently picked up the artifact on his travels. You can read the article and view the cup here: http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20080528/od_afp/lifestylebritainauctionhistory_080528122922

Last week, the cup sold at auction for fifty thousand pounds--roughly $100,000, and personally I think the buyer got a bargain, although the faces on the cup are a trifle sinister. (I'm pretty sure they would watch you when you sleep.) What I love most about this story is the fact that the gentleman's grandfather was a rag and bone man, a Romany whose business was so prosperous he gave up the caravan for a house. There is something immensely satisfying about the fact that a man who dealt in other people's castoffs brought home something so beautiful and so rare. And it seems oddly in keeping with the romantic view of the Romanies that he gave it to his little grandson to play with rather than selling it. Perhaps he didn't know what he had. Or perhaps he just wanted to watch his grandchild play with a cup fit for a prince. Either way, it makes for an interesting story, and one that has me wishing I had played with something more interesting than a Mrs. Beesley doll.

The link to the auction article: http://arts.guardian.co.uk/art/news/story/0,,2284255,00.html 

In which there is simply NO WAY

French explorer Xavier Rosset is embarking upon an expedition to a small South Pacific island where he will live, alone, for 300 days. Apparently, he is bringing nothing with him except a Swiss Army knife, a machete, a video camera, and a solar panel to charge the camera. Everything else is up to him, and I can only say better him than me. Seriously. I can think of few challenges I would be worse at. As much as I like my solitude--or to be strictly accurate, as necessary as solitude is for what I do--I cannot imagine 300 days without human contact. (And why 300 days? Why not a full year? I mean, I like the roundness of the number; I'm just curious about the rationale behind choosing it.)

And I was also curious about the documentary that will be crafted from his footage. I wondered why it was only slated for 52 minutes when he ought to have ten months' worth of video. Then it occurred to me that it will most likely be ten months' worth of him saying, "It's me again. Nothing new." I do hope they show the documentary in the US. I'm wildly curious about what sort of effect this experiment will have on his psyche. He could be a terribly creative person and end up fashioning a pentium processor out of coconuts and a bit of washed up fishing line, or he could go completely 'round the twist and start talking to the rocks. Either way, it should be interesting.

In the meantime, if you haven't watched "Survivorman" on the Discovery Channel, DO. It's fabulous. The host, Les Stroud, gets dropped alone with his video cameras in someplace terribly remote and usually dangerous. He spends a week living on little more than his wits, and it's always entertaining. (Long about day five, Les is usually getting a little loopy, which is great fun because he KNOWS he is.) And the show is hugely informative. I've learned more from a few episodes than I ever knew before about survival, and while I'm pretty sure I would just give up and let the lions eat me if I were stranded in the middle of South Africa, it's good to know that a thorn bush palisade might give me a few seconds' warning so I could finish up whatever I was doing before they attacked.

In which I am forty

Today is my birthday. I am forty today, and for reasons I cannot quite fathom, I am more excited about this birthday than any since my sixteenth. Forty, which used to seem so OLD and so faraway, seems impossibly young and full of expectation, and nothing like what I thought it would be.

On that sixteenth birthday, I had my life all planned out. I was going to get my degree and go travel the world. I was going to live in Paris and write and have a string of lovers with names like Giancarlo and Stephane. But then I was going to get married to an amazing guy and have a beautiful house in the US and have children whom I would occasionally forsake to go off and do glamorous, writerly things. 

I deviated from the carefully-thought out plan a long time ago. In fact, I haven't thought about that other life in a very long time. I have been too busy with the life I have to think about the one I meant to have. But the other day I pulled it out and dusted it off, and to my astonishment, it IS the one I have.

With the exception of the string of European lovers and the Parisian apartment--both of which I suspect might be higher maintenance than I would have appreciated--I have at forty the life I imagined at sixteen. I am married to my best friend who supports me in ways I couldn't begin to explain. I am lucky enough to have parents who literally live underfoot, and whom I actually like and don't just love. I have a glorious daughter who still speaks to me in public in spite of the fact that she's a teenager and who reminds me every day that the pain of childbirth was totally worth it. I have a house I love so much it pains me physically to leave it. And I have the immeasurable gift of being able to do what I always wanted to do with the help and support of an amazing team of people who think I'm talented and want me to succeed. And, perhaps most surprising of all, the life lessons I have desperately been trying to learn for the last forty years seem to be finally, incrementally, sticking. Once or twice in the last few months I have glimpsed a new me, a wiser and more confident me, a little braver, a little kinder, and a lot more comfortable in my own skin.  

So, I write, I live, I love, I laugh. If the view from sixteen was promising, the view from forty is pretty damn spectacular.

In which we do a little housekeeping

There have been loads of new visitors to the Blog A Go-Go. If you have left a comment to which I didn't reply, mea culpa. The truth is, I got WAY behind in keeping up with the blog comments when I was eyebrows deep in the line edits for Silent on the Moor, and I still haven't caught back up. So, a few notes: if you are just joining us, welcome! If you've made a recommendation for a book, thank you. I did take notes, and have been assiduously adding things to my "to be read" list. If you asked a question and I haven't answered, please feel free to ask again or to e-mail me directly using the link on the right sidebar. (I am almost caught up with the e-mails!) Also, if you have questions about the books or some of the discussions we've had in the comments section regarding history, books, etc. feel free to post your query or e-mail it to me and I'll try to address it in another entry. I am always happy to chatter about the process, the research, and whatnot, so ask!

Tuesday evening I had a lovely book chat with a readers' group in Wisconsin--do remember if your book club is getting together to discuss my books, I am happy to call in and answer questions. (They even got some information about the fourth book that I haven't put on the blog yet!)

And finally, if you replied to the post about how weird it is to blog with an introduction, thank you!! It was lovely to read them all and get to know y'all a little better. It feels like I have friends tucked away all over the world, which is a lovely thing indeed.

In which I check my referring stats

From time to time I peruse my referring stats to see where my blog visitors are coming from. (There has been a LOT of traffic from Germany lately for reasons I cannot begin to fathom. My books aren't out there yet, and I'm pretty sure I haven't starred in any amateur German online porn. In any event, Wilkommen!) Anyway, I saw a new link I hadn't noticed before and followed it, and this is what I found in a livejournal entry: So the woman who wrote my two favorite books from this year has a blog, and there's something kind of weird but very endearing about reading the details of an author's personal life. She blogs about food and clothes and history, and it's really an engaging and fun read.

I'm not including the exact link because, honestly, I don't know how, and even if I did, you'd just get referred back here and it would turn into some weird Mobius strip of a post. Anyway, the thought that occurred to me when I read this--besides being incredibly happy that I wrote someone's TWO favorite books this year--was that it's weird from this end too. I don't always know what to write about when I come here. I don't always know what your expectations will be, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter because I wouldn't be able to meet them anyway. (One of the first things I learned about being a published writer is that it is impossible to please readers unless you please yourself first. And even then, it's still a crapshoot if they will be happy.)

I know some people would like this blog to be firmly restricted to writing. Um, no. My life is not firmly restricted to writing. I don't know how to compartmentalize, you see. Everything--family, work, friends--is kind of mixed up in a nice, spicy bouillabaisse and I like it that way. Besides, predictability is DULL. I don't think we would have very much fun together if you knew what to expect every day. And just between us, I don' t actually have THAT much to say on the subject of writing. It's like magic. I love the romance of the old-style magicians--Devant and Maskelyne. And I love not knowing how a conjuring trick is done. Writing is a conjuring trick of the first order, and I don't particularly like lifting the curtain to let you see the wires. (And if I'm REALLY honest, I don' t always peek behind the curtain myself.)

So I blog about the occasional serious thing and lots of silly and inconsequential things, because that is me in a nutshell. I am just as happy discussing the latest variation on the Dior gaucho bag as I am the role of Jane Austen in post-Enlightenment feminism. (Plus, I think it gives encouragement to aspiring writers to see that those of us who have gotten published aren't any different. We don't sit in ivory towers composing impressive prose and only talking to each other. I mean, there may be SOME writers who do that, but I don't know any, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to. No, I'm much more concerned about WHY I cannot find a decent white pencil skirt this summer--seriously, people, I'm not asking for the earth here--and how to curb Emma the Yellow Wonder Dog's occasional flatulence.)

But it is odd to write these posts and never know exactly who is reading them and what they think. And because of that uncertainty, I censor. I don't publish pictures of my daughter's face or her name, or my husband's for that matter. (Emma is on her own.) I don't discuss politics or religion, not because I fear intelligent debate, but because I don't like to exclude people from here and I like this little corner of the internet to be a pleasant place. And I try to mind my manners and not complain about too much--partly because I don't want to seem like an ungrateful ass and partly because I believe gratitude is one of the guiding principles of a successful and prosperous and happy life.

So the blog is me, the real me, just at about 80%. And if you find it weird and endearing, then it's pretty accurate because so am I. But know that even though I started to blog because it was supposed to be a useful tool for "getting my name out there", I have come to enjoy it and you. And if I didn't sit down and send these little nonsense poems out into the universe, I would miss it.

In which I ponder travel

What is it, I wonder, about travel that is so enticing? Is it seeing new places? Or seeing ourselves in new places? Are we different people when our setting is different? Or are we the same people trying on a fresh place? I find that I buy things when I travel that I would seldom purchase at home. Skirts seem to be my souvenir of choice. Last year in a tiny shop in Yorkshire I bought two--a heavy red cotton flounced affair from Nepal and an Indian sari silk that floated to my ankles in a swirl of green and gold and coral.

Last weekend at a street fair, I bought a fresh blue full skirt printed with retro astronaut children flying vintage spaceships. And then I wore it to meet with one of the publishing executives who works on my books. It wasn't professional or serious in the slightest. It was silly and I wore it with a small fitted black cardigan and a quadruple strand of pale sea-green beads, a riff on June Cleaver. It was nothing like what I had planned to wear, but a few days in an impossibly energetic and hectic city made me long to stand out, to shed the urban uniform of careful black and wear something to generate surprise and perhaps a touch of disapproval. (I also bought a Paul Frank t-shirt in soft green, with a generic green soda can and a smiling, bewimpled nun on the front--"The Nun-Cola".)

The trick for me is keeping a little of my travel persona with me when I return home. (Travel Deanna is more independent and confident, more poised and capable than my stay-at-home self.) Maybe that's why I buy wearable souvenirs--not the flimsy t-shirts that trumpet where I've been, but the more decisive things that announce who I am.