Food for thought

I watched an interesting segment on telly last night where a chap sets up situations to see how the general public will react. One of the scenarios involved a trip to the Bronx where he began to spray-paint graffiti on a wall to see if some of the neighborhood residents would get angry and stop him or call the police. No one did. Some chaps even offered to help.

More disturbing was his visit to two bars, one at NJ shore and the other in Manhattan. At the NJ pub, he chats to a couple of thirtyish chaps, points out an attractive woman in the crowd (his accomplice), tells them he wants to have sex with her and is going to 'roofie' her. They laugh energetically. He behaves as if he's adding something to her drink in their presence, hands her the drink and fifteen minutes later leaves with her. On his return half-an-hour later, the guys crowd around him and he tells her he's had his way with her and left her to sleep under a pier. Three of them laugh and congratulate him and one tells him he's going to go and get her as he doesn't mind 'sloppy seconds'. A few minutes later, the camera watches him looking under the piers for the sleeping girl, allegedly under the pretext he wants to check if she was okay. Hmmmm!.

He finds no upright men in NYC either. There, a herd of twenty-something chaps laugh, slap him on the back when he tels them he's had sex with his victim and they admit they've always wanted to 'roofie' a girl.

"Whatever it takes," one of them says as he slaps the 'assailant's' back. "Whatever it takes."

They also admit they'd do it if they knew how to get the pills, to which he offers to supply them and they eagerly give him their cell numbers so he can contact them. Two gave him false numbers, but one--a reptilian looking chap--gave him his legit number.

Have young men become so predatory, so hard-assed, so criminal of mentality? Have they got no respect for women, regard them merely as meat to satiate their thrusting penises? Or did the chap making the documentary ask lots of chaps in the bar and some walked away. The fellow making the documentary didn't say if any men walked away and I feel sure he would have had it occurred, which makes me conclude he met far more men willing to be complicit in rape. If so, God help society, young women in particular.

On reacquainting

Spent a lovely evening a little while ago in Portrush in the company of my cousin Adrian--a guy I've been friends with since we were kids--and two of his lovely friends Molly and Smokie who live now in the England and Wales but come to vacation at their family home here. Marvelous girls and much laughter and vino was consumed by all. Their house commands breathtaking views of the East strand--a gently curving golden sand beach that dips without fuss until engulfed by the cold, frothy Celtic eye-blue waters of the unpredictable Irish sea. Waking up was a treat because I pulled the bedroom curtains open to look down on the beach where a two muscular chestnut and black horses were being put through their paces, first cantering then galloping along the length of the beach.

The previous evening--after first meeting the ladies and sipping a few glassfuls of champers--Adrian took me out to dinner at a very decent Italian restaurant where we caught up with a lot of family stuff (immediate and extended) and stuff we'd been both been doing for the past few years. The week prior my sister Siobhan and her hubby Michael had had him and our Aunt Mary over for a delicious supper (a supper that included my favorite sherry trifle pudding for desert) during which Adrian regaled us with anecdotes from a recent Russian trip he'd made that was hilarious, so much so indeed we were doubled over with laughter. He should have been a writer, too. I think its in the familial genes.

As I watched him at my sister's and then at Molly and Smokie's, I thought how grateful and happy I am to have re-acquainted with him. Life has many twists and turns and it becomes so busy we can never seem to carve out space and keep up with the doings of cousins and past friends. I love meeting new people, immediately knew Molly and Smokie will be good friends, but it's wonderful to be able to make time to spend with relatives and old friends. It's what life's about.

So many 'shades' of rain

I'm presently in Northern Ireland visiting family, which is wonderful, but I'd forgotten just how many different kinds of rain there is on this island. There's driving rain, gentle rain, blinding rain, tepid rain....on and on it goes and people know by the color of the clouds exactly what kind of shower they're going to get. I suppose the many types and quantity is the price to pay for the enormous variety of colors of grass there is that ranges from emerald to kelly-green. And it's also responsible for the fantastic vibrancy of the flowers adorning the street corners of every town and village throughout the province. Every town also has huge arrangements by their entrances--some arranged in the ancient crests of the town--and the colors of the petals is so intense the flowers actually appear as if made of plastic. An artist's paradise.

Last week we nipped up to the ancient city of Derry (Londonderry to some)to meet our friends from New Orleans who're on a trip of Ireland that began in Belfast. They're traveling with their friends Jan and Bob Carr--who were formally the 'Richard and Judy' of New Orleans, later moved into radio and had me on as a guest on their show just before Hurricane Katrina struck and their radio station has not returned to the air waves--and all were stunned by the beauty, cuisine and wealth of Northern Ireland.

Gorgeous Ibiza

Gates to the ancient city of Ibiza
What a wonderful vacation destination the island of Ibiza is. It lies off the coast of Spain and is one of Europe's real holiday destinations because it's full of Germans, Italians, Spanish mainlanders (of course), a smattering of French and no Americans. I was truly astonished by the latter reality, so used am I to encountering American accents.

Of course the dollar is performing so crap against the Euro and Pound this past few weeks that's it's hardly surprising Americans aren't flying overseas this summer--but while painful, this doesn't fully account for the paucity of my fellow countrymen I was told by some of the tourists residing at the hotel Larry and I stayed at. Apparently, while it's an open secret that it's a hotspot for Europeans, it really isn't known or been discovered by Americans...as yet.




A fascinating island, the main city bears the same name as the island and was established by the ancient Phoenicians who built the old city on top of the hillside. (Indeed, a friend informed me that the Phoenicians were marvelous traders who created salt flats using plumbing that is still in use today and that much of the salt is sold to Britain for use on their roads In many respects it's similar in outlook to Dubrovnek in Croatia--meandering streets, museums, Roman ruins, spectacular views of the shimmering bay below, but the restaurants are of a better quality and the buildings better maintained more vibrant in appearance.

We met up with our friends Niall and Poul who'd flown in from France for a 50th birthday party of a good friend and spent the following four days in their company. Days were spent at the beaches and, as a result, their friend David (the birthday boy) and his partner Domingo invited us to join in the celebrations, including a delicious Paella lunch cooked over an open fire by the seashore and a marvelous BBQ at their sunwashed 'Can' (which means 'house') just outside the city of Ibiza. There we met a great number of their friends who'd flown in from all over Europe (and even a few guests from Boston).

Only downer of the whole trip was the dispiritingly sour attitude of one of our middle-aged German hosts at the hotel. The chappie was a wee bit mutton dressed as lamb due to a foppishly boyish haircut and a penchant for clothing far too young for him. Constantly on unblinking surveillance, he prowled the common areas from morning to night as if expecting us to pee on the patio when present or perhaps move a table, umbrella or rickety chair out of precise alignment or even imbibe a second cup of cheap coffee over our unchanging continental breakfasts. (I never want to see another razor thin slice of fatty schinken (ham), grayish leberwurst or a previous night's hard-boiled egg in my life...at least for the next twenty years. What was most annoying was how his attitude changed when he knew a guest was German--then his face creased into an unnatural smile and he laughed and giggled and chatted, even joked in German, totally oblivious to the fact I could speak it, which I made him aware of on the last day. I also left him a little note in their guestbook. Maybe it'll work wonders--though probably not.

I'm wrong...apparently

While watching one of the evening entertainment mag shows on telly tonight, I was informed by Nancy O'Dell (I think that was her name) that Victoria "Posh" Beckham is definitely posh.

'How so?' You may be thinking.

Well, apparently her PR machine has leaked the following factoid (one of ten including she went on a pea diet) for, and no pun intended here, American consumption:

Victoria is posh because, as a kid, she was dropped off at school in a Rolls Royce...every day.

So the evidence is now before you America--straight from the horse's mouth, it seems. She is posh.

Was the school Roedean School, I'm now wondering. Hmmm. No. No, definitely don't think so.
And I wonder if Fergie, Duchess of York was driven to school in a Rolls Royce or a horse and trailer.

Another Factoid:

Son Brooklyn is called Brooklyn because he was conceived in Brooklyn. No Brooklynite worth their salt would consider Brooklyn posh.
(Related factoid--Son Cruise is called that because...have you guessed? Yes, because Tom Cruise is a friend. Why is he not called Tom, I wonder? Why the guy's surname?

I have just got up from the telly because Posh is now on doing her Coming to America stichk. She has just passed her LA driving test and told the driving test official handing her her documentation that she owns a Bentley--one wot the top comes down on.

Very nice. Very posh. Oh, unquestionably posh.

Mommy, who's Posh Spice?

I was watching the telly yesterday with some friends and they showed the arrival of David Beckham and Posh Spice at LAX. It's the official move state-side apparently. He's to play for a soccer team in L.A. and she will be on the telly next week (courtesy of NBC who hope they'll get a summer ratings lift because it's the silly season) showing America what it's like for her moving to the United States and her attempts to settle in, buy a house, apply for a driving license. Yet another reality show.

Apparently, they (NBC) must think their American audience is very gullible because it's supposed to be a reality show but they show her applying for a CA driver's license which means she has legal residency here already. No cliche was left unexplored because the promotional clip shows her asking if she can have her mugshot retaken for the driver's license. She pitches the show "Victoria Beckham, Coming to America" as a great opportunity to show America what the lives of the Beckhams is like. Judging from her remark, I guess America is definitely the target market. Get the picture? Pardon the pun. I imagine most of regular America will be indifferent. Some Americans will devour the pitched Hollywood glitz of course, but I'm not sure the ratings will be a high as "Fearfactor" unless she serves them worms and stink bugs for tea.

Judging by her accent, Posh is definitely not posh. (I'd never heard her talk until today.) It's not the enunciated, dulcet English vowels that Americans associate with 'cute British.' So that will undoubtedly disappoint. She admits she and her hubby have courted the press and want this to happen, but also states it's tough on the children.

If I hadn't had a publicity campaign for the launch of my novel a few years ago and learned about generating 'buzz,' I'd have been very impressed by the way the media and NBC are attempting to sell this couple to an American audience. Moreover, I believe "American Idol's" Simon Cowell is the magic wand. (Believe me, this campaign is costing millions not the mere thousands that my publishers spent on my book.)

It's amazing really. But all in all I think the whole things doomed. After all the Spice Girls are done. Posh doesn't even sing anymore. Her fifteen minutes are over as is the way of the world. Why Ginger Spice is now hawking salad dressing on an telly ad here--barely recognized by an American audience, I might add--and Posh is no Princess Diana despite the pretty couture. She's not even Sharon Osbourne, whom we love because she's warm and witty and bright. There's a rumor doing the rounds about a Spice Girls reunion tour, but there audience has moved on.

David is also being packaged but might have too many tattoos for mainstream America and he plays soccer which is not America's game. (I think that was a major mistake to feature his tattoos because they're not very artistic--a mish mash on his arms and something like a cross with wings on his back--not like the fantastic artwork you come across over here.) He made his inaugural appearance at the footie stadium today and it was hyped as only American media can do, but the background of an empty stadium did not help to convince us of the thousands and thousands in attendance. It was his loyal fans who attended. The rest of sports mad LA were getting ready for...er.... the LA Dodgers game tonight.

But summer's boring so it'll be interesting to watch this circus via the entertainment shows. And no, I'm not going to watch Posh's show, which runs up against America's Got Talent--the irony, the irony--and Big Brother 8 or is it 9.

Insistent characters

A lot going on at the moment as I'm preparing to leave for Europe soon--Spain and Ireland. To top it all of, it's July 12, Orangeman's Day back in the old sod though of course I don't take part because I'm the other sort. Live and let live! New Northern Irish tourism slogan--or should be.

Editing started on Unusual Steps--the new novel--and the UK publisher has now emailed 12 edited chapters. As I read Scott's edits, it struck me that perhaps the Unusual Steps manuscript contains two novels (I'd thought this originally)as it's a long manuscript and alternates between three people's points of view. There's Marcus, the shy Irish chappie who moves to London in search of adventure, and Julia, a wellbred young English woman who's an immigration officer at Heathrow and hedonistic, and finally Tilly Hartley, a meddling widow. Oh, and by the way, Julia's lesbian.

I'd always conceived of this novel as a series from the beginning. It's kinda 'in' to write series now, right!!. Well, that's not the reason I'm doing it...not at all. It's just I love the characters and they have a lot to say. They're interesting and some are just downright eccentric and I'm having a lot of fun with them and, let's face it, writers should have a bit of fun with their creations when they labor alone in quiet studies and dens.

It's certainly a very different novel to Gabriel.

Anyway, both the editor and I chatted today after a few days of pondering--via Skype, which is the way to go if you're calling the UK because it's computer to computer and free--and we've decided its definitely the first two books in a series and I'm now going to pull the story apart and write Marcus's story. After I've done it, it'll be sent back to Scott who'll edit it.

It's a lot of work, especially since I've just emailed my agent the finished nonfiction manuscript of my first few years in America. After he and Lyndsey read it, they'll send me changes they recommend and that'll have to be reworked, too. But stories must be written the way they're intended to be written. No half measures allowed, not in my book. And besides, my characters refuse to allow me to tie them up in one big novel.

So all in all, it's going to be a busy, busy Fall.

A bit of reconnaissance

As it's a friend's birthday, we popped into a local strip mall that contains an amazing shop that makes homemade chocolates (that are as good as Belgian chockies though I believe the owners a frenchman) and an expensive day spa/hair stylist that boasts to its clients 'it's all about me' and then proceeds to define the definition of 'me' and 'pampering' on a parchment inside one of their front windows.

Not finding a parking space near the candy store, we parked in a bay belonging to said spa. Larry ran in to order the chockies and I remained in the car in case any of the irate owners came out and asked us to move. Two well-shod ladies came out--dripping in gold jewelry, matching fresh platinum blond hair tumbling over the nape of their Pierre Cardin scarves, wrinkled face skin, heavy blue eye shadow and blazing white teeth. They dropped their Gucci handbags into the leather back seat of the Mercedes, climbed aboard--the driver put on a pair of crimson spectacles--and off they rode for lunch.

A small red car with many dents zipped into the freshly vacant spot, the passenger door creaked open and a young teenage girl climbed out.

"You comin', Mum," she shouted when she got to the sidewalk opposite the spas entrance.

I was surprised.

"You go in," Mom shouted out the open window and she expunged her cigarette and flicked it onto the pavement. "I need to get decent."

The remark amused me endlessly. Mom was very jowly, very hefty and she had a mullet haircut--the sort of do some baseball players like--that made her rather mean of appearance.

"Shit Mom. Hurry up will ya'!"
"I said 'go on in' for chrissake. We're late already." She nodded at her daughter like an annoyed filly. "Go"

"Aw, shit, Mom." Her daughter disappeared.

With utmost care and discretion, I surveiled Mom. She brushed her mouse colored hair fiercely with a large brush, shook her head vigorously, then checked in the rearview mirror. Next came a potion of some sort, white, from a nubby stick, which was dabbed on the forehead, the fleshy cheeks, the chin, part of the neck. A fierce rubbing commenced during which she turned and saw my surveillance. I looked away instantly, raised a book I was holding and turned a page to give her the impression it was all in her imagination. Sidelong I checked, saw her continue to regard me for moments further, and then the rubbing of the potion continued again. A lipstick followed--color indeterminate--which was applied with a brush as one would varnish. Lips were smacked and checked in the mirror. The brush was taken in hand again and another spurt of vigorous grooming began again, this time followed with the bizarre act of raking heaps of her hair in between her small fingers and scattering them about her neck. Another check in the mirror seemed unsatisfactory because more desperate brushing continued until parts of her hair flew out due to static.

Her daughter put her head out the spa door and beckoned madly. Opening the door, Mom got out, seized her battered handbag, and slammed the door shut and walked away without locking the vehicle. All about me, indeed. Amazing what happens in a parking bay in front of a day spa/hair stylist.

Debut novel review and an author interview

As a rule I'm not a lover of novels that experiment with fonts and
grammar as a means of telling a story, perhaps because I'm a product of a rigorous Catholic school education where Latin, ancient Greek and the rules of English grammar are so inculcated (in my day with the aid of a leather strap) that one dares not stray or experiment even in adulthood. I'm also deeply suspicious of such experimentation because, more often than not, they're lazy gimmicks used in an attempt to gloss over flaws in the plot as opposed to flaws in the protagonist's character. But every now and then a work comes into my hands that does break all the rules magnificently and, as a result, rises above the fray of novels that do experiment so. Without question In Search of Adam by British debut author Caroline Smailes is one such novel.

(For the sake of full disclosure, I wish to state at this juncture that her publisher, The Friday Project, is the same publisher who will publish both A Son called Gabriel and my second novel, Unusual Steps.)

Set mainly in a gritty, working-class council housing estate (project in the US) in Newcastle, a coal producing city in the North of England, the child protagonist, Jude Williams, happens upon her mother who has just committed suicide and left a cryptic note bearing the words "Jude, I have gone in search of adam. I love you baby." What begins from that instant onward is the end of innocence for Jude and the commencement of a search for her mother and the meaning of life amid harsh circumstances.

A quiet, courageous novel, the author in simple direct prose--occasionally seasoned with Newcastle dialect in order to present and anchor the setting--unflinchingly and with admirable skill tackles huge universal themes including sexual abuse, parental dysfunction, bulimia (as Jude grows older) and the loneliness of childhood. In less accomplished hands, these themes would result merely in the reader journeying through the terrain of a dark novel landscaped only by ominous hillocks of pain and ponds of sadness; in Smailes hands however, while pain and sadness is certainly present, we are engulfed in the swirling current of the story so abruptly and powerfully that within twenty pages we already love and feel so protective of the protagonist that we'll follow her anywhere--a feat made all the more remarkable in that the protagonist does not speak a great deal throughout the work and yet we get to know her as intimately as we would a family member.

Moreover, Smailes does not resort to the trick of presenting us with a perfectly formed, unblemished and blameless protagonist to admire and cherish. Jude has flaws that exacerbate her situation, flaws that include silence, a terrible failure to tell her secrets at critical moments--understandable when she is a child but perhaps less so as she matures--and promiscuity in late adolescence. It is these flaws that are the essential keys to our growing understanding and sympathy.

One aspect of the novel that struck me particularly was Jude's observations during a street party to celebrate the wedding of Charles and Diana and the author's juxtaposition of dualing scenes of extreme happiness and danger. To many Brits, this is a moment of time that's permanently frozen within their cores and they remember exactly where they were on that day in exactly the same way that Kennedy's assassination is frozen in the American psyche. A very interesting interplay in the novel arises in the "Thoughts" section of the book. As the author begins to answer questions posed by an unknown interviewer, Jude intrudes and begins to speak her mind much more forthrightly than she has done throughout the story, even to the point of teasing the author and it's endearing. My only quibble, though it is a minor quibble, is that the fate of the molester during her childhood is left unresolved and I would have liked some kind of confrontation by Jude; but then I imagine the author is mirroring reality where the vast majority of these situations remain unresolved.


Kudos to Caroline Smailes for writing such an accomplished and insightful debut novel. It deserves a worldwide audience and I hope it gets it.


Author interview:


Caroline, thanks for stopping by to talk about your novel. I should have bought a couple of bottles of Newcastle brown ale that's available here in the US as a treat to myself.

CS: Thank you so much for inviting me.

DMN: I read on your blog that you felt compelled to write this novel,which reads so true-to-life it's as if it is nonfiction. What prompted you to write In Search of Adam and desire its publication?

CS: I started writing /In Search of Adam/ after having a miscarriage.The writing gave me an outlet to express the emotions that I was experiencing. I didn’t realise at that time that the story would continue to unfold. That initial part is still within the novel. I didn’t actually get around to seeking publication. I finished the final draft in August 2006, and then I launched my website and blog. I was beginning to write a list of possible agents to send the manuscript to, I’d managed to pull together a synopsis and a cover letter. Then, within 3 weeks of starting blogging, Clare Christian (an aside: Clare Christian is MD of The Friday Project and recipient of the 2007 UK Young Publisher of the Year Nibble) emailed me and requested the manuscript.

DMN: Who is Jude Williams and why did you decide to set your story in a council housing estate (project in the US)?

CS: Jude Williams is a little girl who lived and grew inside of my head. She lived inside of me for the 18 months that it took to write/ In Search of Adam/. I still have days when I am writing and I hear her voice, so I guess that Jude is now part of me. The setting of the story is very familiar to me. I grew up in a similar estate on the North East coast of England. I wanted a strong sense of place to emerge through the surroundings, place names and dialect, and so the setting emerged as Jude grew as a character.

DMN: How did you research the book?

CS: Unfortunately, In Search of Adam was not difficult to research. My research stemmed from extensive reading. We exist within a society where abuse is common place and is now documented within books and online. The accepted evidence of abuse, neglect, self harm and eating disorders are easily accessible for those who wish to look. I also referred to my own diaries as part of my research and I have acknowledged that some of the events within /In Search of Adam/ stem from personal experience.The researching was not difficult, but the findings often left me devastated.

DMN: How long did the writing process take?

CS: It took me 18 months from start to finish. I enrolled on an MA in Creative writing 5 months after my miscarriage and this ensured that /In Search of Adam/ became a priority in my life. Until I enrolled, I was juggling writing with motherhood and work. By studying, I was forced to meet deadlines and became less precious about my work. I am sure that this hurried the writing process along.

DMN: You have taken on some very large themes--sexual abuse, family dysfunction, abandonment, mental illness--in your novel and successfully treated them as if you have been writing for a long time and been much published. Were you nervous as to how your book would be received upon
publication?

CS: Thank you for your kind words. I have to admit that prior to publication. I was terrified. I had sleepless nights and was full of panic. I think people were expecting me to be ecstatic that I had been published, but inside I was terrified of reaction. Receiving praise from professionals, from others who understood Jude’s very core and from general readers has touched me beyond words. I set out to present an authentic journey of a young girl growing within an abusive and neglectful environment. I realised early on that I had a duty to present
as authentic a portrayal as possible and some of the reactions that I have had have overwhelmed me. I never expected to receive as much support as I have.

DMN: I am intrigued by the way you experimented with format and fonts in the book? How did you come to use this in your first novel?

CS: I teach linguistics and I have always been intrigued by the representation of spoken language. The different fonts were used to
indicate altered voice and mood. The first person child’s voice of Jude Williams had restrictions. I could only describe her world through her eyes and with her sounds, so the limitations of her language were expressed through altered fonts and variation in grammatical constructions. I wanted to give the words life and breath on the page. I wanted the words to speak and have a unique voice depending on Jude’s mood. I wanted the words to be given a creative expression beyond the surface meaning, so I experimented with format and fonts to add a depth that could not be obtained through standard presentation.


DMN: I see you are busy with your next novel. Can you tell us a little about that?

CS: During the countdown to publication of /In Search of Adam /a writer told me to focus on my next book. He said that it would keep me grounded. Those wise words stayed with me and guided me. I am currently on the second draft of /Black Boxes/. The story unravels through two very dissimilar voices and stories, as the reader is presented with the evidence that is left after a breakdown in communication. The story is in two parts and the clues that are held within two black boxes are presented after a mother and daughter’s relationship has crashed. I hope to have completed the final draft by the end of the summer.

DMN: Your novel is not yet published in the US. How can interested readers acquire a copy?

CS: Unfortunately, the rights to/ In Search of Adam/ haven’t been sold into the US yet, but the novel can be found in a number of ways. There is of course Amazon, or there are limited edition copies available direct from my publisher The Friday Project, or there are a series of travelling /In Search of Adam/ copies journeying around the world. One blogger has started a forum where readers cover postage costs and In /Search of Adam/ is travelling. I know that one copy is currently in Australia. All details can be found on the sidebar of my blog.


Caroline, I wish you much success with In Search of Adam and your next work.

Thank you.

Sipping life's nectar--a jolly evening with friends

Last night Larry, as a pre-independence Day sort of thing, Larry and I entertained L&L, Lynne's birth mother Joyce who was down from Connecticut and whom we love to bits, her friend Barbara from Staten Island, and Paula and Maddie--hereinafter to be known as P&M--from Long Island. All arrived in one enormous SUV, which Maddie (sporting an elegant new Susie Quattro-ish hairdo) handled with admirable expertise though Paula was playing Cinderella because I had to 'lock her' into the trunk when they left for home.

It's amazing how one experiences the countryside though another's eyes on occasions because P, Larry and I were standing outside on the steps peering into the bossoms of the trees (the snort of M's SUV audible in the background as she was executing said admirable maneuvers) and P remarked how breathtaking beautiful the area where the house is situate is--the tall trees with their sprawling canopies, the intermittent flicker of a million fireflies within them, the glow of the lilies in the flowerbeds, and the absolute silence.

"Good night," I said, after I'd walked her to the garden gate.
"Not yet. You have to lock me in the trunk."
Hahahaha. "Good night."
"I'm serious," she said.
I looked over at the SUV, at M who had both hands poised on the wheel and smiling over at us, at L&L, Joyce and Barbara nattering and laughing within because much vino had been consumed by all. I looked at the back door of the SUV, its window pane at an angle toward the sky as if waiting for the sun to rise. P, petite and very suntanned, skipped over, leaped inside and crouched, awaiting me to perform my duty.
I slammed down the trunk door and M did another quick maneuver (just to show me she could) and I waved as they sped past, the sound of laughter piercing the silence, though wasn't sure if Paula could see me. (Paula's beloved horse had to be put to sleep a few weeks ago, so I hoped especially that she'd enjoyed the evening.)

An enjoyable evening of rigorous conversation. One that touched on a myriad of subjects from Hillary and Obama that got a wee bit hot and sent P fleeing to Larry who was busy in the kitchen because some of the guests asserted testily that Hillary can never win and Obama was inexperienced, through the arrival of the latest Harry Potter novel in shrink wrapped crates at Lee's Borders store in NJ with an order written on their sides that they weren't to be opened until 12.01 on the day of the launch or there'd be consequences, and finally illegal immigration. Regards the latter, the discussion was whether foreigners should be compelled to speak English in the US. Everyone agreed they should. To everyone's astonishment, Barbara (who's studying Hebrew in NYC because she wants to read the Torah in its pure form and interpret it herself and not depend on a third party's interpretation) informed us that there's a part of Brooklyn where the road signs are only found in Russian.

Wishing everyone everywhere a great Independence Day. Now how does that go in Russian!!

Mommy Doe and the triplets

We decided to go to the shore for some R&R last weekend so we headed to Rehoboth in Delaware to stay with friends who have a condo there. Weather was disappointingly overcast though thankfully not as humid and brutally hot as we had last week in Pennsylvania. We were hoping to catch the spectacular fireworks display that the town lays on (from a barge on the ocean) and learned that this year it will take place on the actual July 4th--Independence Day falling on a Wednesday this year--as opposed to the weekend as they've done in previous years.

We did, however, eat delicious crabcakes (they were the size and shape of navel oranges) in a restaurant that is actually an old ship in the pretty nearby historic town of Lewes.


On our return, I chanced to look out our driveway and saw the doe and triplets who've made our grounds their exclusive territory. She's extremely vigilant, hears the slightest noise and senses the tiniest movement and begins to drum her hoof into the ground and flash her white tail to warn her babies. It's comical watching them dash into the underbrush--sometimes tumbling over one another--while she heads in another direction to distract the predator. Nature is truly amazing.


The fawns are still skittish so these photos were taken from a bit of a distance and you can't really see the clouds of white spots on their bodies. I will try again when they're more accustomed to humans.

Paris Hilton, John Street and bloody iPhones---Grrrrrr!

I am sick of the Paris Hilton crap passing as legitimate news here in the United States. Are fans of all things Paris Hilton now such a large demographic group that they're eclipsing what the rest of us want to watch? Adding to the freak fest was the fact she was invited on Larry King Live. That's truly disgusting. Is Larry King so desperate for the attention of this demographic? I really can't believe so. I watch his show and it's good in general.

Barbara Walters had the good sense to ignore the whole Hilton fiasco and refused the offer of the first interview after the talentless but media savvy Hilton was released and in a lather to divulge the specifics of her miniscule incarceration that included a "humiliating" strip search. Aren't all strip searches humiliating? Shocking to have
to watch her father drive into his house in a large BMW, stop before the electronic gates, and stick his neck out the door to a reporter to say something to the effect that his daughter is weathering the whole ordeal. Does this man or his family give back to society I want to know--in the way Bill and Melinda Gates gives back. If so, that's at least something mitigating.


And here in Philly, this morning, John Street, the mayor of a city that's rapidly approaching a murder body count of 200 for 2007 and we're only just passing the six month mark, decides he must join a line of kids probably playing hookey from school for the past three days (my friends are bringing me food" said one) and selfish yuppies waiting to buy the latest iPhone that's to be released at six tonight. There he was on the local news proclaiming shamelessly that he's an electronics junkie and has been camping out since three o'clock this morning. And Rome burns and burns around his ears.


It's outrageous what we have to put up with here in the states. Is the dumbing of America perhaps irreversible? Scary thought. Very scary. Too scary.

Taking the initiative

What I Meant...


My friend and a co-founding member of our writers group Rebel Writers of Bucks County, Marie Lamba, wrote a wonderful YA novel entitled 'What I meant...' that's scheduled to come out in July. It's receiving great reviews that'll post after publication and Cosmogirl.com have selected it as a Summer Pick. (You can click to Marie's website via my sidebar.)

Marie learned yesterday from her agent that Random House will not be publishing What I meant...in softcover and her already approved sequel.

Naturally, Marie was devastated.

A fighter who takes charge of her destiny and aware that decisions can be reversed, Marie has developed a strategy to save her book and has emailed all her friends and requested them to help by buying the book from Amazon and B&N.com as pressies for girls aged twelve through adult and it's working.


The day of an author sitting in an ivory tower churning out novels and/or nonfiction and insisting it's their publishers responsibility to market their precious darlings and their duty is only to write gorgeous prose is well and truly over in this age of the internet. Authors need to develop time-management skills and write as well as help their publishers market their work. But this is a double edged sword and publishers, especially the large commercial houses, need to reprogram and come to see that authors can be an integral part of the entire project, not just the producers of the raw material.(Granted some authors will be incapable of wearing a marketing hat or be clueless as to who the audience is for their work, but they are in the minority, I feel.) My publisher involved me in the process, sought out my marketing ideas, called me in to the sales meeting to present my book to the teams, and we brainstormed. Sell-in to the chains was excellent as a result of the synergy and A Son Called Gabriel became an ABA Booksense Pick with independents as a result.

There's just too many forms of entertainment competing for the consumers dollar so all steps have to be investigated within budget.


Here's my interview:

Hello Marie, thanks for dropping by and it's nice to chat about books in a forum outside see our writers group

Thanks! It's great to be here.


What's What I meant about...?

What I Meant... is the story of 15-year-old Sang Jumnal, who is crazy about a guy, but her Indian dad won't let her date until she is 16, maybe. And her American mom, who usually sticks up for Sang, suddenly thinks she's a liar, a thief and a bulimic. Sang knows why. Her aunt, who has been living with them for a few months, has been stealing food and money and setting up Sang to take the blame. But who will believe a 15 year old over an adult?

Who do you think the reader is for this work?

Girls ages 12 through adult (including the adult chick-lit audience) will get a kick out of this comic novel. There's lots of wacky humor, so it's a fun read, but there is also a more serious theme. Here a girl must fight to be believed, even when an adult is lying about her to everyone. When all the truth finally comes out, it's a humbling moment for her parents and a touching moment for Sang. I think this appeals to any teen who has told the truth, but wasn't believed or trusted.

The book will also will have a huge appeal to biracial kids, and Indian teens.

Tell us about the day your agent told you the novel had sold?

You know, all I remember is saying, "You're kidding," over and over again. Then I called my husband, and he said, "You're kidding," over and over again. I wandered around the streets smiling like an idiot for hours. All those years of struggle had finally paid off!

What has the editing process been like?

First of all, I have the world's best writer's group, with wise mentors like one Damian McNicholl on it. My group helped me focus my novel, and shaped it up before I even sent it out. Then the editor at Random House sent me this huge letter of suggested changes, and words of encouragement. No contract, though. This was clearly a test. I spoke with her on the phone first, to understand her vision. Fortunately I totally agreed with her suggestions! Then I set to work. The contract for a two book deal soon followed, along with several months of back and forth corrections. My editor was wonderful. She'd suggest changes, never demand. I usually agreed with them, though, because they made a ton of sense.

How have you found the process of working with a publisher? Frustrations, joys, laughs

For writers, working with a publisher really translates to working with an editor, which was great. I've never met anyone else at Random House, truthfully. And I just started working with my publicist there, a nice person who I've emailed back and forth with.

Okay, now to the turmoil of the other day. Tell us what happened and how you felt about it?

Two days ago, less than a month prior to publication of my novel, my agent called to tell me she had terrible news. My already written and accepted sequel What I Said..., which was to appear in 2008, was cancelled. The paperback of What I Meant... was cancelled. The hardcover of What I Meant... was being printed but at a smaller than anticipated number. The reason? Prepublication sales were low because the major chains mostly passed on carrying What I Meant... I don't know why. Perhaps they didn't know where to put a YA novel that was clean enough to be enjoyed by younger readers, too. There is nothing wrong with the book, which is being enjoyed by reviewers.

Naturally I am devastated and heartbroken. I haven't slept much since...

Would it have helped if you could have met with the salesforce and been able to have given them pointers, do you think?

Definitely. Who can pitch a book better than the author? As you can see, authors are simply not involved in sales at all. In a way I can understand it. Can you imagine the zillions of authors that'd be running around these meetings? All with varying degrees of abilities to pitch and speak to a sales force? But on the other hand, I certainly could have helped. This book has a huge market and a wide appeal.

Have you done or been allowed to do any marketing for the book?

The publicity department at Random House has been sending out press announcing the book's publication. Because it won't be seen in most chain stores, I know I have to get involved by really stepping things up if I want to get this book into the hands of readers throughout the country. I've laid a lot of groundwork on my own, and that is definitely paying off now.

I have a website www.marielamba.com. A myspace page with lots of friends and groups. I've participated in blogs and contacted other authors. And I've just begun to spread the word that this book needs extraordinary support from readers in order to succeed.

One thing I'm doing on my own is helping out girl scout senior and cadette scouts throughout the area by offering a workshop. In 2 hours they can earn a Reading badge that would take them normally about 2-3 months to earn, and at the end of the workshop they each get a signed copy of my book. Various girl scout councils are getting excited about this, and it ensures anywhere from 10-100 book sales per event. I hope to do much more of these in the future, and will drive throughout PA, NJ and perhaps even NY or DE, depending on the venue, if any readers out in cyberspace are interested in setting up a date.

How did you come up with the strategy to 'save' your book?

I came up with this strategy because, quite simply, I had to. I couldn't let this book I'd believed in so much die quietly. Nevermind my poor sequel.

My strategy is this: I figure the only way to save What I Meant... is if there are massive pre-orders, followed by a groundswell of support. We need to quickly sell out the first smaller printing and go into reprint. We need readers, press, and bookstores to take notice. I'm contacting EVERYBODY I know and asking them to please pre-order ASAP through their local bookseller, amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com. I'm asking people to talk to librarians and bookstore managers to tell them that this book is in trouble, not because it is a bad book, but because pre-publication sales were low. If we all ask them to champion this cause, help the underdog, great things can happen. A great time to ask booksellers about What I Meant... is when readers go in to pick up their copy of Harry Potter. What I Meant... will be out just three days after Harry Potter.

You know, without the Internet, it'd definitely be over. But now with a click of a button, thousands of people are informed. It is truly miraculous. I am overwhelmed with the support and kind words I've received. I watch my numbers on amazon and barnesandnoble improving by the second. I read about people who have bought 4 copies, forwarded my message to 100 people, to 14,000 people even, and I feel so lucky to have people like this in the world.

What words of wisdom do you have for a writer about to enter the process?

You know what? All I can say is be brave and believe in yourself against all odds. It ain't over till it's over. But then again, we writers already know that!


Thanks for these insights, Marie.
And let's wish Marie lots of good luck as she moves to turn the fortunes of her first novel around.

Obese cats and doggies: some thoughts

Now we're in the throes of summer, people are walking about the streets and parks with their dogs. I was watching one couple--a young man and woman in their early thirties and their young, very fat labrador (American breed because it was taller and had the boxy head)--the other day in a town near where I live and a thought suddenly occurred to me. Do people who are overweight also own animals that are overweight? I began to look around.

Sure enough, all the dogs that were fat belonged to overweight people? I couldn't believe it. Yesterday, I was in NYC to sign my Friday Project contract at my literary agent. Finding some time to spare, I went into Central Park for a bit of research. What did I learn? I learned it isn't just a Pennsylvania phenomenon. All overweight dogs in the park belonged to overweight people. And teh more overweight the dog, the more overweight the owner. So there was a decided correlation

Another idea popped into my head. If these owners managed their animals diets and exercise scrupulously, would they also begin to manage their own diets and exercise regimes too? It's very possible. Maybe that's the way toward a more healthy society. Focus on the fat percentage of our animals, not on our own weight. Hey presto.

The only other way I think the health of a nation can be improved is if the government mandates that we go to gyms in the same way they mandate that all children must be educated to a certain grade. As part of that initiative, they could give corporations tax benefits if they enroll their employees in gyms and pay fro the indigent to go to gyms, etc. they coudl alos impose higher taxes on corporations producing junk food, food with too many calories due to too much saturated fat and/or sugar.

It probably wouldn't go down well in the US where many people are hypersensitive about governmental interference in their private lives. But hey, we allow the government to set the rules for school kids attending school and we monitor their attendance. We do so because it's a legitimate benefit to society to have an educated population. So why can't we do it in this area. It's a legitimate benefit to society to stamp out obesity. It would produce a healthy population and we'd save billions of dollars on medical bills for heart disease, diabetes and a raft of other ills. And we'd have healthy dogs and cats, too.

On writing and a bit of news

For anyone aspiring to have their work published, there's a very illuminating entry in Scott Pack's blog today that's entitled What was the name of the chap who rejected the Beatles?

Scott is the commercial director of the The Friday Project, an independent publishing house in the UK. I'm delighted because they will publish A Son Called Gabriel early next year and my second novel, Unusual Steps, thereafter.

I love independent publishers and TFP is the perfect house for me because it has the energy, creativity and huge enthusiasm of a small house backed by the distribution muscle of Pan Macmillan which gets their books into all the places where books ought to be. Scott will be my editor for Unusual Steps and we've already begun the edits a few weeks ago. It's hugely exciting because he 'gets' the novel and he actually edits, as opposed to some at the larger houses who, due to corporate policy and/or lack of experience, do no editing at all. As I go through the process I'll post my thoughts.


Anyway, back to writing and the acquisition process. I think it's wonderful and very useful that writers are able to tap into insights like this from a publisher's perspective. And, while he's realistic and remarks how competitive the market is, he gives encouragement and hope to unpublished writers, which is vital. He also talks about writing competitions.

Without the net and blogging, it just wouldn't be possible to get such valuable info.

Here's the link:
Me and My Big Mouth

Kudos to Sweden

Have been listening to a wonderful radio show in which I learned Sweden has been very diligent and busy accepting for immigration Iraqi refugees whose lives and families are being threatened by the insurgents for helping the coalition forces spearheaded by the US. This behavior one expects from Sweden. It is a country of people with a conscience, makes a good faith effort to treat all its citizens justly, and they've always been ahead of the curve in deciding how their laws should develop as society becomes more complex.

Another bit of the show was very troubling--dismaying actually. The United States has accepted only about seven hundred refugees. I was astonished. What is going on? Is procrastination linked in some absurd way to the immigration debate in Congress?.

I know we're currently being urged (and certain sections of the the media are buying it, to wit CNN) to fear immigration--read Mexicans and South Americans storming across our Southern borders--by the "small-town-America" brigade. But surely we have a moral duty to accept and speed up the processing of legitimate Iraqi refugees, people who have assisted the United States and who are endangered as a consequence. Why is Sweden, a country infinitely smaller than us, having to bear a disproportionate share of the burden?

Human quirks

It's amazing how anticipation and excitement affects us humans, how it causes a natural high that makes us act out of character sometimes.

On Saturday morning, someone whom I've seen at the gym for nearly two years but whom I've never spoken to approached as I was completing my first set of arm curls.

He's a man in his early sixties and is a friend of another guy who's Irish-American who once told me he's conservative and doesn't care for Hillary Clinton, couldn't imagine America being led by a woman. I'd imagine this chap feels the same way. We've passed each other on the way to the various pieces of equipment but never spoken or acknowledged one another. He's always come across as unfriendly, actually.

"You're Irish, aren't you?" he said, his smile as broad as Nellie's dresser. (an Irish saying.)
I had to clamp my mouth shut so as to stop my jaw from slamming into the floor. "Er...yes," I said after I finished the last rep of my set. "The genuine article." I tossed him a grin.
"My wife and I are going to Ireland."
"Really. That's very nice. When?"
"Tonight...at six." He smiled like a schoolboy who'd been praised for good marks.
"Out of Newark?" I said.
"Nah. Philly."
"Which part?"
"County Meath."
"I'm from the North. That's in the republic...but it's not far. Everything in Ireland isn't far from anywhere else."
He laughed. "Yeah, I'm Irish American and my relatives live in Meath."
"Well, have a good time."
"Thanks. Will do."
"Have a nice time."

I picked up the handles to start another set but stopped to watch the man walk away. He knew I was Irish yet we hadn't even traded names. This isn't the first time I've seen this sort of behavior. He was buzzing. I think the anticipation of something pleasurable makes normally reticent people drop their guard or shyness and approach others to share their news. It's almost a compulsion--a snap decision by the brain to act when an opportunity presents. In this case, the nexus was my Irishness and his trip to Ireland to see his relatives. Wonderful. It'll be most interesting to see if he speaks on his return.

Happenings in the American countryside

This is a pic of the house.

As you can see, I live in the countryside and it's teeming with wildlife at this time of the year.

There's a doe 'breakfasts' on the lawn every morning and the other day we came out to discover she'd had triplets during the night. I'm going to try and get a photo when they're less scared.

Early yesterday morning we had a bit of drama. Police and ambulance sirens shrieked in the stillness and a chopper arrived and began to hover above the house. We ran out to discover it was the news chopper from our local NBC affiliate out of Philly. Turns out our neighbor and a friend had decided to go on a fishing trip to Canada (only a couple of hours away by air) and his plane crashed within seconds of taking off from their house. Turns out his friend was a surgeon and he called 911 on his cell phone but the emergency rescue couldn't find the whereabout's of their plane because it was so foggy. An hour later they found it (and them) hanging upside down amid some dense trees. Both escaped with minor injuries, but the plane wasn't so lucky. Don't think it'll be flying ever again.




Sometimes we just sit on the front door steps drinking spritzers and listening to the bluebirds (beautiful bright blue with red breasts), chaffinches, red wing-tipped blackbirds and wrens some evenings. Occasionally a hawk will soars high in the sky and the birds go ape-shit.



This is a view of the iris beds. Fantastic this year, though they're now done for the season. Next come the lilies.

Adam will be in Manchester

It's thrilling for novelists when their first book is about to hit the book stores. From this side of the pond I've been watching and cheering and laughing at Caroline Smailes' journey as her already critically acclaimed novel In Search of Adam has been wending its path toward the day of publication, which will be June 14th.

On that day, Caroline will in Manchester (in a new 'launch dress') for her book launch party, as will members of her innovative and exciting independent publisher, The Friday Project. Caroline's novel is the first to be published by their Friday Fiction imprint.

She and I have been in touch and I will be reviewing her book on this blog soon and she will answer a few questions so you can get to know her a little better.

In the meantime you can check out Caroline's blog on my Authors who blog sidebar and catch up on her ups, downs and doings as she has traveled the path from unpublished writer to published author in two days time.

Way to go, Caroline. Enjoy your launch.

Twins offering their faces to the sun

Planted this clematis three years ago on one side of the archway leading to the front door of the house. For the past two years it's looked pathetic, but this year it just grew and grew and produced about twenty beautiful flowers the sizes of side plates.

These two grew side-by-side and I couldn't resist taking a pic. Twins, I guess. If you enlarge the photo, they look so vibrantly palpable, it's as if they can be touched. Incredible.

Took some pics of the house to put them up later on. To much time on my hands at the moment!

Turning it over

Yesterday afternoon after a marathon session--and it was a marathon session with no interruptions permitted and the imbibing of lots of cups of rich, fragrant Puerto Rican coffee, no switching over to the internet at the flick of a button (the peril of having high speed) to check pinging emails or surf fav' sites--I finished the first draft of what is still called America and Me:The first two years.

(I've decided the title stays until I come up with something I feel is the publication title, which will in all probability be in the US first as it's set mostly here. I know. I know what you're thinking. Publishers acquiring the work change working titles all the time. However, I lucked out with A Son Called Gabriel because my US publisher loved it and didn't consider anything else. My second novel, Unusual Steps, will also get to keep its title, but more about what's been happening when I have something concrete to relay.)

It really is so satisfying to enter that final period (full-stop elsewhere) on a manuscript and gaze at the screen and say 'I've finished the first draft.'. It came in at 87,872 words; 31 Chapters and 313 pages. It's also split into three sections--the first and tiniest dealing with London followed by New York and Pennsylvania in a more or less equal split. I'm pleased with it, but know from my experience of working on 'Gabriel' that scenes will be added and deleted. The difference is that I have lots of material to work with.

I am now turning the project over to my subconscious--which'll work behind the scene as I focus my attention on other things--editing, chopping, analyzing and rewriting so that when I take it out again I'll be able to start writing immediately. It took me a while to trust that this is a necessary part of the creative process. I look forward to it, though I'm sometimes accused of being too distracted or 'far away', not enjoying living in the present because my mind is indeed working out issues, toying with alternative words and improving descriptions,etc. and can tune out. One thing I do know is that, during the rewrite, I will give the chapters titles rather than plain old numbers, something I've never before done.

It's been a tremendously positive experience writing about how I came to America and my first two years here. I highly recommend writing about your past to everyone. Life moves so rapidly today, I think we forget to take stock and see where we've been and how people coming into our lives and experience has affected us. I'd forgotten so many of the downright whacky and funny things that have happened to me here and the struggle to assimilate and it's shown me how American I've become.

When is it art and when is it shite?

Though I mull this question often--especially when I start reading new books whose covers I find attractive--this question came into sharper focus when I learned the iconic album Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club was released by The Beatles forty years ago today. Though I was far too young to understand its significance then, I am always deeply moved every time I hear one of its tracks played out of the blue on radio now. That it is still relevant and moving today is a sign of true art in my estimation.


I wonder if the same will be said forty years hence of another Brit's work. The artist Damien Hirst will exhibit his latest and most expensive piece at a gallery in London early this month. Renowned, admired or ridiculed for his steel and glass tanks containing a 'pickled' shark, sliced cows, whole sheep and sides of hogs, he has now cast a skull of platinum and encased it with 8,500 diamonds in collaboration with a Bond Street jeweler, which will sell for fifty million pounds to an art collector. The artist states the piece represents his 'to hell with death'--what better way to depict it than taking the ultimate symbol of death and covering in in something that represents absolute luxury, decadence and desire.

Already speculation is mounting as to whether the American financier Steve Cohen who bought Mr. Hirst's shark for millions (a shark that is now so deteriorated another replacement had to be pickled and installed) will now pony up for the skull. Or will it be new Russian money or a rich Arab, perhaps?

Some speculate that Hirst is taking the mickey, that by creating this piece from such expensive raw materials he is really deriding all the nouveau riche art patrons who fork out huge sums for his and other similar works.

Is a shark pickled in formaldehyde that rots and has to be replaced art? Or is it just a shark suspended in formaldehyde? Is the art the original shark or is it the replacement shark?

I don't have the answer. What I can honestly say is the following: if I had fifty million dollars I would neither buy a jewel encrusted skull nor a Jackson Pollack.

Turning my musings to the book world, I find I am confronted with the same dilemma when I begin a new book, most often fiction. Sometimes I will eagerly begin to read a work from a much celebrated writer, a writer who's feted and puffed in the review sections of newspapers, a writer who's won prizes, and a few pages in I slam it shut and set it aside in disgust. At first, I used to blame myself when I could not enjoy such a work. After all, he or she was critically acclaimed so who am I to judge that it's illiterate, plotless, whiney? (the latter relating to nonfiction).

Now I just say it's shite and move on.
Some might say that I'm a writer and thus jealous because these writers have received tons of exposure, sold millions of books, and their opinions are swallowed whole when they render them in public. But it's definitely not that. I love good writing. And shite is shite, whether it comes from an unpublished or much ballyhooed author.

The parrots of the city I love

It's no secret I LOVE San Francisco. I fell in love with it from the moment I read the first chapters of Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City in my cozy London home in Ravenscourt Park and it's a love that has endured, especially now since I went on my own book tour to the city a few years ago and instantly felt at home albeit houses and apartments have become outrageously pricey and there were a lot of homeless which was very troubling to me. It reminded me of nineties London when Margaret Thatcher threw the mentally ill out of the hospitals and institutions to make the National Health Service leaner and meaner. Some say there are homeless in San Francisco because, unlike say New York City, the city has a heart and provides services for them. Others say--admittedly those entirely of a strict and right-leaning Republican mindset--that there are homeless because of the 'damned liberals.' I don't know what the reason is, but they are there in abundance.

So it was a pleasant surprise that my local PBS station aired The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill on the telly last night. The documentary follows Mark Bittner, an out of work musician, a man who is not concerned with the rat race and at ease with himself, as he transforms from a chap who just happens to feed sunflower seeds to the cherry-headed conures (and one blue-crowned conure called Connor) living wild in the city.

I'd heard of the wild parrots, indeed had hoped to see them during my visit but they proved elusive. If only I'd known of Mark and his cottage perched in Telegraph Hill with its magnificent view of the bay during my visit. Apparently, the flock started when a few conures that had been brought from South America as pets were deliberately released by San Francisco residents years ago and they've bred and been able to survive because of the warmer climate and abundance of food. (New York City and other American cities have their flocks of wild parrots now, too.)

At first Mark was merely curious about the birds, but then gradually he learned about and from them and became something of an authority on their habits. With a little macho bravado and humor, he states he does not love the birds but then acknowledges it's not true and breaks down when he discusses the death of one parrot that he'd taken in because it was horribly injured and how it showed him great affection, particularly on the night it died, affection that he'd found very strange and palpable when he'd carried it to its sleeping place for the night. Next morning he found its fragile carcass beside the heater;during the night, knowing it was dying, it had managed to crawl across the room so as to be close to the heat as parrots do when they're cold and sick.

During the documentary, the viewer is treated to the glorious sight of the flock (about fifty birds) swooping and diving in the azure skies above the shimmering bay and city. Two parrots are very different from the others. One is called Mingus and somewhere in his life's journey he broke his leg and thus can't function fully within the flock. As a result, he does not like to fly with them because they pick on him and much prefers to stay indoors, though he has a Jeckyl and Hyde personality so Mark punishes him for misbehaving by putting him outside. Another character was Connor, a blue-crowned conure (a different species) who was tolerated--and tolerated--his cherry-headed cousins, but was never fully accepted. He would come to the defense of the smaller cherry-heads if they were being bullied by their larger siblings. Once he had a mate, but she died. Later, he was introduced to another blue-crowned conure and the two formed an extremely close bond, despite the fact that a mistake had been made and his companion was male. His friend was called Busby (I think that was it) and he was an indoor bird but proved very jealous when Connor left to fly wild with the flock during the day. In the end, Connor decided he'd couldn't handle the possessiveness and stopped coming indoors to spend time preening his friend.

Mark lost his apartment a year ago and had to say goodbye to his birds because he moved to the other side of the bay. Shortly after he left, the documentary producer, Judy Irving, returned to do some last bit of filming of the birds. It was fortuitous because it was Connor's last day of life. Three hawks (they're the flock's mortal enemy) attacked and there is a picture from a SF resident on that day showing a hawk with a conure under its claws that's believed to be Connor because of a wisp of blue on his head. He was fearless of the hawks, only flew away when he was sure there was mortal danger, but perhaps old age caught up with him and he made a fatal error.

A check of the website shows Mark is back on Telegraph Hill again, living next door to his old flat, and he's now married to Judy and writing a memoir about his experiences. (He had a very straggly ponytail which he'd said in the documentary he would cut when he had a girlfriend.)

A gem of a documentary from PBS's Independent Lens.

Hovering parents

While drinking my coffee as I surfed the morning news shows, my attention was seized by a segment about 'helicopter parents' and 'black hawk' parents, the latter being a recently minted pejorative term for those who cross the parental/adult offspring dividing line to commit acts that are at best deceitful, at worst border on the criminal in order to protect their Gen Y 'children.'

Gen Y refers to people born from the early eighties onward and apparently they are the most pampered, over-achieving, technically and financially savvy, and parentally micro-managed generation ever to enter the workforce, which they are now doing in huge numbers. Their schooling, hobbies, friendships and social activities have been meticulously managed to exhausting degrees. The upside is that these young adults feel very connected to their parents. The downside is that these young adults feel very connected to their parents.


Gen Yers are used to constant positive feedback from their parents and, as they enter the work environment, fully expect to have this affirming, ego-boosting feedback shuttle continue from their bosses and become disorientated, resentful and alienated when it doesn't. Simply stated, they have been unable to cut the apron strings and continue to involve their parents in the minutest details of their lives, allowing them to write their college entrance essays (hence the term 'black hawk' parents because Mom and Dad are prepared to resort to this and other forms of cheating in a sort of 'the end justifies the means' strategy), to scope out possible employers, prepare their resumes, attend and inspect the workplace,interview bosses and in other ways interfere.

It must be said that some Gen Yers resent their parents continued interference in their adult lives, though the parents ignore their wishes and often justify the unreasonable interference by asserting they are simply looking after their investment. Indeed some corporations have become so frustrated with this form of bizarre parental interference that they now invite parents in to inspect the workplace and arrange for personnel departments to discuss their 'children's' prospects were they to accept a job with the company. I kid you not.

Interestingly, I noticed a few years into living in the States that America parents really do seem to have trouble letting go in comparison to Europeans parents in general. They still refer to their children as kids after they've left for college, for example. Perhaps it's the laws that have something to do with it because I've always found it a bit bizarre that someone can vote or marry at age 18 yet can't buy a bottle of booze until after turning 21 here. Let's face it, one is a fully functioning adult at 18. In Brit and Ireland, we leave to go to university at 18 and we're on our own from there. That's how it should be and, in this respect, I think the European approach is far more mature. I think helicopter parents just doesn't exist as a dysfunction over there.

Here's a link I came across at ABC to a day in the life of a helicoper parent that I thought you might find amusing...or sad depending on one's perspective.

I suspect this dysfunction to be more associated with mothers than fathers but time will tell. Though I realized many years ago after the thunderheads of teenage angst and petulance had dissipated, my parents were actually very normal. Now I know it.

My bleatin' neighbors

I've been noticing an intriguing and welcome phenomena in Bucks County of late. It's to do with goats. Yes, goats.

First I should explain that, although I live in a rural area that's easily commutable to both Philly and NYC, there isn't much farming done here any more. In fact many of the old farms have been purchased by wealthy New Yorkers for the most part and they use them as their weekend getaways. (My township historical society is currently on a mission to find photos of Dorothy Parker at her old farm which lies a stone's throw from my house for a book they're doing--it was a humble place rich in the aroma of its Quaker roots then but through the years has metastasized into a multi-million dollar mansion that's hardly recognizable though the grounds are stunning. It's said she wrote Big Blonde there, which is one of my favorite stories of hers.) Of course, there are still some old families here who still own their farms, but they are now the exception to the rule as opposed to the rule. Sad, but true.

One family near us has a sign out that says "Organic chicken, beef and pork." And the township or County gave them a problem about their hanging the shingle for a while instead of giving them a whopping big bloody tax break. It'd surprise me if it was the township because, all in all, they are in favor of preserving rurality and its traditions. Many residents here are not in favor of cookie-cutter development of the kind the Toll Brothers and others like them do throughout the US, which is the erection of McMansions or tract housing. Oh, you can call these places enticing names like "Summer Meadows" or "Pastoral Mews at Bluebell Farm," but they're still McMansions or tract housing at the end of the day. In addition, the damned school taxes always jump horrendously when these houses get built in country areas.

Anyway, back to my goat observations. As I drive through our County I'm seeing more and more herds of goats at some of these farms. And some of the farmers have constructed interesting climbing and play areas for them because goats are intelligent and love to explore. One restaurant in the area also has a herd of goats, right beside their own organic vineyard--and their wine's (red and white) drinkable which might surprise some because we're stuck in Pennsylvania. An old llama and donkey and a flock of guinea fowl and turkeys live there, too. It's wonderful, refreshing, a tonic for the eyes.

I'm very very happy to report it's a growing phenomenon because I'm spotting goats grazing on farms in New Jersey, too. Maybe the Federal government has given these last remaining farms a subsidy to make goat cheese or something, I don't know. But if they have, kudos to the Federal government and the USDA.

A word about 75,000 words

Yesterday I reached a critical point in the writing of my first work of nonfiction, the one about my coming to live in America, and have been toying with the idea of publishing an excerpt on the blog.

Anyway, I reached a critical point yesterday and passed the 75,000 word mark. I don't exactly know why 75,000 thousand words is so important, but suspect it's because it would be a pleasingly thick book, a book with heft, if it were to be published tomorrow--the sort of heft that asserts 'I have 270 ragged-edged pages inside for you to feel and I am well worth the $24.95 you'll fork out for me in hardcover.' ($24.95 is a sort of median price for hardcovers here in the US.)

I also know the ending now--the final scene ran in my head yesterday like the speeding ticker tape at the ABC TV studios in Times Square--and the manuscript will come in at around 80,000 words in its rough form.

Of course, word content doth not a quality book make. I know that. That takes good writing and an interesting story, which requires a great deal of drafting and redrafting until one is sick of the manuscript so one doesn't ever want to see the manuscript again, hates and loves and hates and loves the manuscript, sometimes wants to hurl it into a blazing fire because it makes one think one is a shite writer. Oh, and a great book requires a great editor.

But, to get to the love-hate-love stage I must have words, at least 75,000 words. Because then I know I have written a book and I can slash and add and edit with impunity. I can because I do not have to fear facing a blank screen page that cries to be filled. I need to have that knowledge. It's my security blanket.

Now to think up an interesting title because I don't think America and Me cuts it for me any longer.

Volvo Mom

There I was in my car, stationary at the traffic lights this morning, when Volvo Mom pulled up alongside me in a silver-gray station wagon. Early thirties, very pretty in an intellectual sort of way and swaying her head from side-to-side wildly as she sang along to whatever song was belting from the radio. She struck at the steering wheel a few times, then began drumming enthusiastically.

Something flitting in the back of the vehicle caught my eye. Her child escaped from its booster seat, perhaps? (I did see the empty booster seat.) But surely this could not be possible. Volvo Mom buys a Volvo precisely because they're sturdy and safe, a veritable army tank on wheels. I looked into the back but still could see nothing.

I resumed watching Volvo Mom who was now swaying her head more vigorously. She bent towards the radio, turned up the volume, and began to drum even more enthusiastically utterly oblivious of her surroundings and now I could now hear the heavy beat of rock music rushing from the cockpit. Further movement. I turned my head quickly and found myself staring into the eyes of a handsome Pomeranian. Its cute little paws balanced on the ledge where the frame of the door and the window connect, the eyes large and glittering like amber in sunlight. The doggie pushed away from the window and disappeared only to return three seconds later. Again our gazes locked and this time his ears pricked comically and he opened his mouth.

"Yep, this is my Mom and she's crazy about music," he seemed to say. "She does this all the time."

The lights changed to green. Instead of rushing from it as I usually do, I pulled away slowly and the Volvo passed by with the cute Pomeranian still staring out at the world, Mom's head still swaying wildly as she crooned.

I really bet she's a lot of fun to know.

Dare Poodles pee on Bushes?

Just listened to an excellent program on our local national public radio station about Tony Blair's resignation and what his legacy would be. The guests included an American chap living in the UK and an English man.

The American chap said Blair was instrumental in investing in and building up some of Britain's ailing quasi-governmental institutions including the National Health Service. He added the nugget that he sends his daughter to NHS doctors and hospitals and has found the service and experience very good in general. That surprised me and "tell that to my mother" ran through my mind. Wait times for appointments are horrid, so horrid Americans would find them unacceptable.

Blair deserves much credit for some successes and I think many Brits are just so angry with him over his support of the Bush administration's policy in Iraq that they overlook the good he has done for the country in general. The passage of time will rectify that in his favor. Britain's economy is doing well, I believe. He had staying power when it came to getting the two sides to talk and form a government in Northern Ireland. He ended the absurd system of privilege in the House of Lords by ending the right of hereditary peers to sit in the upper chamber of Westminster--apparently 92 hereditary peers are sitting currently but, when they die, their offspring cannot take their seats as before. It was time for modern Britain to end that sort of undemocratic crap.

His moniker as 'Bush's poodle' was discussed in the context of his unshakable belief that Britain has a 'special relationship' with the United States. It was pointed out that benefits of this 'special relationship' ran only one way, namely to America, during the Bush presidency.

Very illuminating for me was the fact that America considers and trumps up a 'special relationship' with no less than nine countries, including Japan--which it must actually articulate every time an American head of state visits Japan because they expect to hear it--as well as Poland, etc. In other words, the United States does not consider itself to have a 'special relationship' with Britain that is more unique, more valuable, more critical than any other countries enjoying such a title. An administration currently in power--whether Democrat or Republican--is perfectly happy when a country such as Britain asserts it has a 'special relationship' because there is no obligation or downside for America.

The conclusion seemed to be that this is where Blair did make a huge mistake; he was so driven to maintain this 'special relationship' that he was prepared to ignore the wishes of his constituency, namely the British people, and go along with the actions and policies of the Bush administration who, quite simply, did not care whether he agreed or disagreed with their decisions. In the end, Blair got only to influence America in a mere two instances--one being to do with Palestine/Israeli issues--as a result of this perceived self-sustaining duty to keep the 'special relationship' on track and thereby give Britain prestige.

It seems to me the next British Priminister should spend his time working with the European Union because that is where Britain's destiny and power is truly tied. That is where they can truly be effective. (Gordon Smith is apparently not a huge fan of Europe and is a bit of an Americanophile--loves the Boston Redsox, vacationing on Martha's vineyard (who doesn't?) and our economy, though is not hot on Mr. Bush.) Because, only when Europe speaks to an American administration regardless as to who is in power with one consistent and powerful voice will a 'special relationship' be acknowledged.

Scents and other simple pleasures

Every morning now I sit on the deck and drink my second cup of coffee after returning from the gym. I do this because this is the time in spring in Pennsylvania--most of the northern East coast really--when the Russian Olives and lilacs are in bloom and the breeze is heady with their thick sweetish scent. For having such small trumpet-shaped flowers, the Russian Olive--it's a shrub that grows wild here--sure packs a heck of a punch.

Just before dusk, I'm back in the garden--watering this time, because we hoed all the patchy parts of the lawn which the weeds claimed as theirs and spread some grass seed. It looks kind of ugly now but that'll change in a few weeks.

Sometimes, when I'm working in the garden covered in dust and sweat and sneezing because of the pollen, I stop full of amazement at myself. As a kid back in Ireland and an adolescent, I despised gardens and gardening, didn't give a shit about flowers and things. Now I'm out breaking my back to get it all beautiful and in shape just so we can sit out on the deck in the evenings, drink wine or sometimes beer, and listen to the finches, wrens woodpeckers and cardinals in chorus. We even put red flowers in the pots on the deck so we'll have humming birds stopping by in mid-summer to drink the nectar. Times sure change.

On an unrelated note, Debra Hamel of Book Blog has a new site called Twitterlit up and running. It gives the opening lines of published novels (mine is currently her first pick of the day, which pleases me very much) and if it tweaks people's interest to know what works they are, it then links to Amazon.com so you can investigate. Here's thelinkif you'd like to check it out when you get a mo'.

Sailing forth

Today is another historic day in the annals of Irish or British history (depending upon one's leanings)as the Northern Irish ship of state once again leaves the harbor under the control of its own citizens and begins the long voyage toward rehabilitating its reputation of being a bit of a bleak place to live and becoming a viable member of the world community. I am convinced they can do it because the Northern Irish are a tough and determined people. I know because I'm one of them.

The province has a new power-sharing government seated at historic Stormont castle. Democratic Unionist Party leader Ian Paisley and Sinn Fein's Martin Mc Guinness were sworn into the office as first and deputy first ministers and five years of British direct rule ended.

I wish them well and hope the two can find common ground and work together for the good of all the people. They owe it to the thousands murdered during The Troubles.

Marigolds and beer

Nothing like getting a bit of earth dirt on your hands in spring.

Yesterday was a warm, sunny day and I felt the need to do some outdoors work instead of sitting at my desk typing on the laptop. I like writing but sometimes get tired of it and just want to do some hard manual graft, the sort of graft that makes you feel like you've accomplished and achieved something of significance, the sort of graft that makes you feel good to be alive as you slake down a good, ice-cold beer afterwards--and I'm not talking about the weak mass-produced pee that passes for beer here in the US. No sir, I mean good beer, beer of the sort that that comes from Ireland, England, Germany, Belgium and American micro-breweries like Victory's Hop Devil here in Pennsylvania or Berkshire Brewing Company in Massachusetts. No matter how good a job I did working on a legal brief or how good I did in court of how well I think I wrote that paragraph or sentence in a novel, I've never been able to feel the depth of satisfaction I feel when I've mowed the lawn just so or mulched the flowerbeds so that the contrast between the ink-black mulch and bright green leaves makes an indelibly pleasing impression in my brain. I think I always feel this way because one can immediately see the fruits of one's labor, stand back and see the big picture--the sprawling velvety lawn, the lush flower beds.

So yesterday, I weed-whacked the untidy grass and weeds growing alongside the edges of the stone flowerbeds and underneath the picket fence. And after that was done, I got my trowel and dug deep into the musty soil, turned up the earth and popped fifty-five baby marigold plants into their new homes. I love the bright orange of marigold flowers and I love their lacy foliage.

Miss Brody thought carnations 'sensible' flowers. Well, I think marigolds are joyful flowers. In mid summer, after the lavish lily shows have come to an end, one can always count on the faithful marigold to maintain the sunny atmosphere...and they do, right up to the first frosts.

I can't wait for them to grow up and bloom.

Oops!!

We decided to go to our local town and have a sandwich for lunch as well as do a bit of shopping yesterday. Because I had my writers group meeting that day too and have to leave the house early in order to get to Jeanne's, I eat supper before Larry so always prepare the dinner a bit earlier and leave some for him to heat up later. It's about the only time I cook, really. Feeling like something tasty, I browned some chicken breasts in a pot, added mushrooms and onions, oregano and white wine--lashings and lashings of white wine--and then let it simmer. I was practically drunk with the fumes of wine wafting into the study as I labored at my writing. I was really looking forward to having this with brown rice on the side. Yummy!

At noon, Larry came back from the other house, peered into the pot and said,
"Where are the carrots? There's no carrots in here. My Chicken Caban recipe has carrots."

Shit, I'd forgot the damned carrots. Without a word, I went to the fridge, rummaged and found an entire pack of peeled baby carrots and chucked them into the pot.

He turned up the heat and we started to chat about our trip to Europe that we're organizing at the moment.

"Hey, let's go and get that sandwich cos' I'm hungry," I said.
"Okay."

I went out to the car. A minute later he came out and we drove to town, which takes about twenty-five minutes because we live in the Pennsylvanian sticks.
Just as we entered the tacky part of town, the part where all the car dealerships with their huge American flags and tinsel bunting lay, I said, "Did you turn off the Chicken Caban?"
No response for a moment. "You know, I can't remember."
"Well, try."
"I think we'd better go back."
"What? let's get a sandwich first. I'm sure you did turn it off and just can't remember."
"No, let's go back now."
I turned in the yard of a tacky car dealership and started home, fuming because I was now ravenous--the sort of ravenous that's exacerbated by the fact you're being denied food.
"Hurry," he said.
"I don't think we want to argue with that," I said, nodding to the cement truck ahead.
"Go. You've got room to pass."
I ignored him.
Twenty minutes later, we drove up the driveway and he told me to stay in the car because he was sure he'd turned it off. Five minutes passed and still no sign of him. Another two minutes and I went inside. The stench of burnt chicken and a wall of smoke vied for my attention. he was nowhere to be seen, but the pot was in the sink, its base black as tar and thick with chicken skin that had merged with the metal to make some form of strange amalgam.

He came in from the back garden carrying the lid.

Well, there goes supper," I said.
"We just got here on time. Another five or ten minutes and the walls and ceiling would have been shelacked in grease."

I shuddered to think of the hours we'd have had to spend cleaning the kitchen cupboards, etc. And because we'd opened the two main doors before we'd left, the fire alarms hadn't gone off.

A little sad about what I would not be having with my brown rice that evening, I picked up a carrot that still looked the correct color and tasted it. It was acrid, tasted of burnt steel, smoke and chicken, the bitter taste imprinting permanently on my taste buds.

"All I have to say is you wash the pot..." I said. "...if it's salvageable."

A rigid mindset

Today's a holiday in Europe celebrating workers and it reminded me of a story I was told at a party. I met someone who manages a large corporation and he told me he'd helped three Irish guys (in this case all came from Northern Ireland) obtain a visa to come to the US to live and work here in order to get some experience. I think it's the visa program that succeeded the Donnelly Visa program because the successful applicants must return home again rather than stay permanently in the US.

These chaps arrived to work at his company. He noticed two of the men quickly became friends, but made no effort to befriend or socialize with the other man.

After three months or so, one of the two chaps comes up to him and says, "Did you know that other Irish fella' working with us is the other sort?"

(The man telling me the story was American Irish and brought up Catholic.)

The manager knew exactly what he meant and couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I just waanted ye;' to know, like," the Irishman said, as if he were doing his American boss a huge favor and he should immediately fire the guy.

Astonishingly or not surprisingly depending on one's perspective, the other man left and the manager wasn't sure whether he went home or decided to travel around the country. To me the only thing that was surprising was that this Catholic chap felt he had a God-given right to spew his hatred and prejudice in the United States and try to influence his superiors. And it's incredibly sad, too. He gets a visa to work in a sophisticated environment in a large US city, an opportunity to gain some top-notch work experience,and all he can think about is that someone he is working with is an Irish protestant. Talk about leading a limited life. And he's going back to Northern Ireland without learning a thing.