Mike Chabala is the new face of the Portland Timbers

As those who follow my blog know, besides writing, my other passion is soccer. Nope, don't play it (other than to keep my 12-yr-old son in shape by smashing him now and again when he's juggling the ball in the house), but, as my dear husband will tell you, I can be a handful from the sidelines. Ask him if he still has any hearing in his left ear after last night's Timbers:Galaxy match--in particular, after the first goal of the evening in minute 26 by newbie Mike Chabala.

Background. I live in Portland. Ergo, I'm a Timbers fan. Last year, in prelude to PDX going MLS, I wrote this article for a local magazine. The piece focused on the anticipated fervor once Portland joined the Major League, and was built around a popular player, Scot Thompson, who the Timbers Army dubbed "The Man with the Golden Heart."

Now, a year later, those scrubby kits of the pre-MLS days are slick Alaska Air-sponsored jerseys. Our coach is a colorful dude with a Scottish accent (have you seen his hilarious Alaska Air commercial?), and Scot with "one T" Thompson is no longer on the pitch. So, who will take his place in the hearts of the Timbers fans?

Well, it was supposed to be Kenny Cooper. The 6-foot-3, 210-pound forward, who was aggressively plucked from the hopes of FC Dallas, made an early splash here in the Rose City. And then ... nothing.

Cooper is big. He's driven. He tries hard. Maybe too hard. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say something I might regret, but from what I've observed, Cooper is a beat too slow, and he lacks that weird nebulous quality, the instinct--the intuition, maybe--for making the killer play.

So strip him of the Captain's badge and slap it on Jack Jewsbury. Jack is a playmaker with an amazing foot. He's speedy, has crazy good sense of where his teammates are, and buries his PK's in the back of the net. "Cap'n Jack" is good, smart, plays well with others. So, is the the next Brandon Royesque Rose City icon?

I don't think he is, and here's why. Though he's plenty talented and solid, and he has the chops to make All-Star from the roster of a nearly-last-place expansion team, I'm not quite sure he's rowdy enough.

What?

Yeah, you heard me. We're talking soccer, guys. The devil's sport. The game that used to be played with human skulls. Smoke bombs and fist fights and chanting. Sure, we play a somewhat squeaky clean game here in the Rose City. We don't brawl and ruckus and stab people in bars after our matches. But, I like to think that we've branded a particular fanbase. The same way Seattle invented grunge back in the dark ages, Portland has its own style. We are hard-core diy, we dress up small dogs in outfits and formalize citywide playdates for them, we've been known to stride naked down the street to make a point, and we have the biggest and best MLS fanbase in the country: the Timbers Army. And, two weeks ago, I think we finally got ourselves the right posterchild for our team. Mike Chabala.

Last night's amazing win aside, the second Chabala touched down in PDX, he started stirring up excitement on social media (hosting a Galaxy match ticket giveaway on Twitter for the best 'beat LA' rhyme), and giving the Timbers the best gift ever: a left-footed back with spirit, intuition, and attitude. Oh yeah, and the ability to find the back of the net! Plus: he has the look. Five-o'clock shadow, lumberjacky, kinda just rolled out of bed, sparkle in his eye.

Don't believe me? Check out the Timbers Facebook page. Scroll down to the "who is the man of the match" poll posted just after the Galaxy game and review the numbers. Chabala has that illusive quality, Portland-sized. He might not be inspiring teenage girls to tat his name on their arms ala David Beckham, but he's got that same special something we see in Brandon Roy and UP alum Megan Rapinoe. Pure love of game, a bit of cockiness, and the ability to lay it all down for the win. (And, hey, he's left-footed, so, extra points.)

All in all, Chabala is the best thing for the Timbers since sliced logs. I'm looking forward to seeing more of his prowess at Jeld Wen, and possibly his Timbers' axe-wielding self on one of those ginormous billboards.

Willamette Writers Conference

One week until the Willamette Writers Conference, where yours truly will be offering two delightful workshops!

Here's the scoopage:

Sunday, August 7 @ 10:30
UNPACKING SEX AND DEATH: APPROACHING GRIEF, LOSS, AND SEX IN SHORT WORKS OF LITERATURE

Vivian Gornick claims that every work of literature has both a situation and a story. Tom Spanbauer refers to these same elements as the horizontal and the vertical. Whichever metaphor one chooses to evoke the relationship between plot and emotion, finding the right balance between the two concepts is central to successful prose. When taking on something as wrenching as death or as provocative as sex, it's particularly crucial to strike that balance. Too much plot and the reader won't care; too much emotion, and you've got melodrama. In this workshop we will consider the continuum of several short pieces: nonfiction to fiction, and look at how the writers balanced circumstance with grief - or sex - and in the process, we'll discover the roles of stance, form, objective correlative, metaphor and structure in issuing a composition that keeps us turning the pages.

Sunday, August 7 @ 1:15
THE HERMIT CRAB ESSAY: HOW APPROPRIATING A FORM CAN FREE YOU UP IN YOUR WRITING

In this personal essay-meets-poetry workshop, we will explore the possibilities of the hermit crab essay, as well as read three short samples of this lyric form. Writers will be invited to participate in a short free-writing assignment, and share their writing with the group. There will be resources and hand-outs.

Oh, and I'll be on an e-media panel on Friday morning (Aug 5) with a bunch of smart folks--including Jane Friedman!

chippendale's

Goofy Summertime. And gin. Bad mixture.

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

What I'm reading this week

Looking for that perfect summer book to read on the plane on the way to your high school reunion, or your in-laws? Look no further. Debut novelist Sarah Gardner Borden delivers a haunting page turner in GAMES TO PLAY AFTER DARK. Seriously, you'll be mad if you don't finish it by wheels down. There you will sit, on the plane, after everyone else climbs off.

Here's the Kirkus on it.

Love is a losing game

Ah. So sad. Such a talent. Rest in peace, Amy Winehouse. You were an original.

murdoch, google+, spotify, borders

Now that I have your attention. Christ. I thought summer was supposed to be mellow and drifty. Whimsical, even. So far July has been a shitstorm of information to process, opine on, and carry out. Especially if you're in, ahem, communications. Who would have thought that the time suck of Facebook would seem like a pinch of sand in the hourglass of social networking?

Back, say, twenty-two years ago, when I rented an electric typewriter and hefted it up to my sixth floor walk-up, slammed it down on the kitchen table and extension-corded it to an outlet in the next room whilst my babies crawled and toddled about at my feet, I thought to myself, "I can't wait until my life is free of all these distractions!"

Ha!

The physical demands of single-parenting two kids under three pales in comparison to the monkey mind default of today's information-obsessed routine. I'm in that weird quagmire of having finished a manuscript (my book is out to editors) and beginning the next (which I've started, but am loath to venture too far into until the publishing world opines on book one). I am ripe for distraction. I have a hard time carrying a concept to its rightful conclusion before being shanghaied by the next bolus of must know abouts.

The result is, I'm walking around feeling largely scatter-brained. I do my work with Tweetdeck shrieking at me in the upper right of my screen. I stop what I'm doing every time I hear the ding of a new Outlook email. No sooner do I wrap my mind around a project, it seems it's time to troubleshoot the latest Facebook conundrum in behalf of my clients.

My days are fragmented by minutiae like never before. I am completely divorced from falling into the dream of story and I just realized that it's making me cranky and anxious and fear-driven. What am I afraid of? Not having enough people in my Google+ circles? Missing out on a Groupon deal?

Clearly, I need to recalibrate. Anyone have any fail-safe ideas on how to do that? Any of you writers/artists out there come up with a way to carve out some time for depth?

USA or Nadeshiko. Size doesn't matter.

I am so totally in love with our women's soccer team. Megan, Hope, Abby. They sound sort of like Powerpuff girls, don't they? But they're beasts on the pitch. All except for Alex Morgan. I have to admit, I have a total girl crush on her, with her girlie-girl pink headband and her pink sports bra flaming under her jersey. My favorite moment of their 3-1 victory over France was Alex's game-sealing left-footed arc into the net in the 82nd minute (set up by my favorite player, former UP star Megan Rapinoe). Alex is young, a little unseasoned, but a total up-and-comer on the world stage, and today she finally showed what she's capable of. There's something "little sister" about her, and you get the sense that coach Pia is a little protective of her, but that girl has wheels.

And then there was the other 3-1 victory today, Nadeshiko. Those plucky Japanese women and their precise, energetic playing. If there's one team I wouldn't mind the USA losing to, it's Japan. Dwarfed by those big European girls, they completely owned the quarter- and semi-final matches. In a country so recently ravaged by disaster, and one also known for marginalizing females, I want to see those gals continue to kick serious ass. Unfortunately, the next asses on the agenda belong to Abby, Hope, Megan and Alex.

It's a win-win, I guess. I'll be happy either way. As long as the football stays as good as it's been this past week, and the "crackers" can be heard way out here on the left coast.

the dog days are not gone

In about a week we're all going to be thinking, Oh my God, the summer is half over. How did that happen? July 4th rolls around, and it feels like summer just blasted out of the revolver (especially in the Pacific Northwest where it's rainy and cold until July 5th), and then suddenly you're watering the lawn every day, rubbing aloe into your pinked skin, and watching leaves curl and bronze. Jesus, it's so depressing.

And yet writing, let's face it, is harder this season than in the cooler wetter months that bookend it. Distractions abound. Kids frolic merrily about with their non-stop needs. And they stay up until two, which is unsettling, because, who knows what they're up to? (The hint that Carson is misbehaving is when he unfriends me on Facebook. Carson. Who is 12, and therefore not legally even ALLOWED to have a Facebook. I am a bad, negligent mom).

But here's the thing. Summer may not be shit for production, but it's wonderful for gathering. The sensual nature of rolling around in the grass. The long days observing human behavior at places like community pools, zoos, parks. The kink leaves my back. Music pours out all the cars and the neighbors' windows. And don't even get me started on the parties.

So. It's mid-July. The blueberries in my backyard are five minutes from ripening. I hear my son and my husband playing ping-pong out back, and earlier today that same son, the one with the illegal Facebook, taught me how to do this thing with sticks (see below). Writing can wait. Right?

An absurdly weird coincidence

So my dad and sister are cleaning out the home of my still-alive grandmother (she'll be 99 on July 4th), and unearth the usual array of sentimentally odd keepsakes: the hospital gown my grandfather died in, letters and cards written in hasty scrawl announcing various grandchildren's births. Handkerchiefs and trinkets from the "old country." Announcements. Tons of black-and-white photos. Three generations of memorabelia.

My father calls me up and says, "As the family historian, I think you should be the keeper of this stuff."

"Um, really?"

My father goes on further to make his case for boxing up the crap and sending it across the country. I interrupt. "Just pick six things. The first six things you lay your hands on. Don't discriminate. Just send me those six things and throw the rest of the shit out."

Thank God he didn't take my advice.

Today, a medium-sized priority box arrived stuffed with envelopes of photographs. Mostly pictures of my dad--a beloved only child of Austrian immigrants. But as I pawed through the detritus of family chronology, I came across an odd envelope smeared in blue ink that announced: Karten von Onkel Wassmuth. Inside the envelope were three postcards signed by Wassmuth, who, my father wrote, was my grandmother's uncle. Two of the postcards are of buildings in some sort of obviously Viennese square. Then there's the third.

Recognize that stately fellow in the blue uniform above? That would be Emperor Franz Joseph.

I shit you not.

In 1915, the year before the Emperor died, my great-great grand uncle, Heinrich Wassmuth painted a portrait of him. "Him" being the husband of Sisi. Yup, that Sisi. The one I just wrote a novel about. There's even evidence on the Internet!

So, moral of the story? Don't be so fast with the directive to go immediately to the nearest dumpster. Thanks for sending this all those years ago, Urgrossonkel. And thanks, Dad, for sending it my way. And as for Franzl? Even as a codger, he has the most amazing blue eyes. No wonder Sisi was, at various points in her life, so smitten.

Start the summer with a reread of Gatsby

Today on Twitter super-agent Janet Reid suggested that in honor of the Summer Solstice we all read (or reread) Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby."

That Gatsby has endured to be one of the most oft-referenced novels of the last hundred years aside, the book is short enough to actually make good on that particular call-to-action (plus, it's a great excuse to step away from my computer in the bat cave and frolic out on the patio with my own dog-eared copy of the slender book).

Gatsby first came out in 1925, was published by Scribner, and was dedicated (once again) to Zelda. Every time I crack the yellowed cover, I get lost in the cocktail party of it all. The glorious bad behavior of the entitled. The unapologetic wielding of adverbs and dangerous bursts of passion within the dialogue. West Egg. Tom and Gatsby. Daisy and Jordan. Fingerbowls of champagne. Oh, it's just the perfect summer read, don't you think?

Not to mention the right choice to herald the beginning of shorter days to come.

Happy To Me

50 Reasons I'm grateful

1. I have a husband who treats every day like it's my birthday.
2. I have 3 kids I adore.
3. I have 2 stepkids who are amazing.
4. All the kids are doing well, and have chosen significant others who bring out the best in them (or, in lieu of SO's keep great company).
5. My business partner is the smartest, most meticulous woman in the world.
6. Except for my mom, who is equally brilliant.
7. From dad, I got the best sense of humor ever.
8. Oh yeah, and my novel is about to go out to publishers, which brings me to...
9. My fabulous agent who sees all.
10. My writing group. There is no better writing group. Anywhere.
11. I live in paradise.
12. I have interesting work, and more than enough of it.
13. My health, oh yes, let us not forget that. So far, so good.
14. The interesting, eclectic and generous group of friends I have of long-standing. You know who you are.
15. Soccer. Yup, I'm one of those. Well, vicariously, anyway.
16. Art. So much of it. I can't wait until I finally decide to be an artist. Maybe in 20 years.
17. My house. My very cool, owned by only one other family, mid-century ranch--AND the fabulous realtor that made it happen.
18. Food. So much of it. All of it so delicious.
19. Netflix. How did we survive without it?
20. Facebook. Same deal.
21. Extended family--you're the best!
22. Books. Hell--oh! Even e-books, but mostly real books.
23. technology. Though some days that's also on my most-hate list, too.
24. Men. Thank God for them.
25. Okay, women too.
26. My grandparents, odd as they were, they taught me to chew with my mouth closed.
27. Green spaces. Such as the park in my backyard.
28. The chickens, and the every-day eggs they lay.
29. Wine. Oregon pinot in particular.
30. Whiskey.
31. Coffee.
32. Flowers.
33. The Empress Elisabeth.
34. Laughter.
35. Love.
36. Yes, the rain. Only, it would be better in smaller doses.
37. The Interweb. Sometimes.
38. Betsy Lerner's blog.
39. Did I say books? I did? Okay, movies then.
40. Twitter.
41. Color. Because who would want to live in a black and white world?
42. Pilates.
43. Yoga.
44. Theater.
45. Music.
46. Our hot tub, the old girl.
47. My car.
48. My sister!
49. Austria.
50. All of you, reading this.

just for fun: steampunk book trailers

Blameless Book Cover (my personal fave)


Leviathan



The Sisters Grimm



Clockwork Angel

ack.

Into every life a little milestone must fall. Right? Two weeks from today I will turn 50. The. Big. Five. Oh.

And in other news, I just sent the latest draft of my young adult manuscript to my agent in what felt like mile 26.1 of a marathon. Breathless and panting, I'm heading to the tent for refreshments. But because I'm turning 50, those refreshments will not contain gin. Nope, it's filtered water for moi--gonna watch the waistline. And the liver. And the brain cells.

I'm saving my drinking time for the upcoming onslaught of relations due to fly in Mary Poppins style for my daughter's graduation--which coincidentally corresponds with? Yep, the birthday.

It's odd, this 50th birthday thing. It feels like a paradigm shift. I'm anticipating that at any moment, my teeth will disintegrate and bunions will bloom. I need a new storyline. My self-concept needs to realign, y'know? Instead of the spacey mop-top girl, I'm now the dotty senior with spectacles dangling on my bosom from a chain. Once an ingenue, I've become Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote.

And yet, oddly, I feel the creative furnace more acutely than ever. The Empress Chronicles, now in its third round of revision, feels solid and full-term.

Ah, the ever-reassessing spreadsheet of the late bloomer. Anybody out there as old as me? Got some advice? (Sage, or otherwise.)

don't think twice (it's alright)

I remember the very first time I thought about a story I was writing when I heard a piece of music. I was writing one of my many, many "bad boy" stories. This one was called "Wrapped," and was my very first published story (1992, if memory serves).

A couple dozen cassette tapes had followed me across the country and up the west coast, and now they were stored haphazardly in a large gold tin that had originally held fancy Christmas cookies. There were the usual suspects: bootleg Grateful Dead, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Johnny Cash. But mostly, the tapes were Dylan. Dylan and the Dead, Blonde on Blonde, Freewheelin', and several compilations claiming to be his "best."

One tape ended up in the sometimes-working player of my Subaru wagon more than the others. It was a tape of unknown origin, any one of a half-dozen bad boyfriends of my past could have left it behind. All the greatest tunes whined scratchily from its film as it blared out my dashboard speakers: Lay, Lady, Lay; Knockin' On Heaven's Door; Tangled Up In Blue; Isis; When the Ship Comes In, and my all-time favorite, Don't Think Twice, It's Alright.

That song would come on and I could see Robert Zimmerman, (and all the drunk, no good boys of my youth), slinking down the other side of the street to escape entanglements of the heart, and blaming the woman for not being kind enough or some line of crap. And yet. I felt sorry for the fellows. Sure, they were cads, but there was a longing in that song that I knew lurked in the heart of any boy I'd ever, uh, kissed. A boy wanting a girl to envelop him with love and acceptance.

Well, I wrote this story, and I'd invented a composite bad boy boyfriend I named Pirate, and the next time I drove somewhere long and pressed the play button and Bob's gravelly voice and passionate harmonica churned the air, my story played in my head like a movie. The whole thing: a composition accompanied by Dylan's ambivalent shuffle off down the road. And this amazing thing happened. Instead of being the girl in the story, I morphed into the boy. I became the fragile soul posing, for all the world, as a stud who was on to the next conquest, or bend in the road--ungettable, untamable, free. In other words, the song made me think twice, and offered me purchase to another point of view, another way in to the story I'd written. So I went home, and rewrote it. I made Pirate more complex. Gave him a wee bit of backstory.

Anyway, I thought about this today, for the first time in a long time--it being Dylan's 70th birthday and all. I'm sure lots of you have Dylan song stories, right?

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

Actually, not chicken. COW. The winner of a brand new signed copy of Chronology of Water is...that overachiever, Sherri Hoffman! Sherri, send me your address (suzy@suzyvitello.com), and I'll put your prize in the mail.

Second place winner gets a most fabulous set of fun sort of water-themed coasters (see pic) -- and that prize goes to Jennifer Bennett! Yay, Jen! (Are you still on Neil?)




And just for fun ('cause random number generator is so awesome) I picked up this very soothing bath salt for ErikaM! (Erika, need your address in order to send you your prize.



This was fun! Thanks everyone for the tweets, re-posts, Facebooks and blog adds.

Chronology of Water Giveaway

The getting people to follow your blog via giveaway is a trend right now. Particularly amongst the YA set. And, I have to say, I've found it to be distracting, annoying, and ickily self-referrential. And now, I find myself doing it too!

Okay, remember that Sunday night movie years and years ago, that was followed up by the regular movie that I think Sandra Bullock was in (amy g, help me out you cinemaphile, you). The conceit was a reporter doing an exposé on the inner workings of a Miss America contest, or some such. And in the midst of the participant observation, the reporter becomes "one of them." Remember? From the inside, she gets caught up, and finds that she's not as cynical as she thought? Maybe I'm misremembering. But I think she wins and she's really happy and all that.

You follow?

So, a couple of weeks ago I entered two author blog "win a book" contests. Social Media giveaways. And guess what? I won them both! Back-to-back priority mail envelopes in my mailbox replete with ... books! I was giddy. I was like a kid at a carnival who got the ping pong ball in the fishbowl. Like Sandra Bullock (or whoever) with the tiara. Damn, I loved seeing my name and the word "winner" next to it on those blog posts.

So I'm having my own giveaway. And, because my book is still a manuscript, it's not for my arc or reviewer's copy or anything, but I do want to generate some more followers for this and my Empress Chronicles blog, plus crow about a book affectionately called COW. So, I'm giving away a signed copy of the best book I've read this year. Which (full disclosure) happens to be written my good friend and workshop mate, Lidia Yuknavitch.

Here's a little bit about this fabulous book:

Chuck Palahniuk writes,

I've read this book cover to cover a dozen times. I am still reading it. And will, most likely, return to it for inspiration and ideas, and out of sheer admiration for the rest of my life.

Jeremy Russell says,

Reading Lidia Yuknavitch is like watching someone marking a map of America with black dots on all the toxic waste dump sites. You aren't quite sure how she knew to mark those particular spots, but know only that her aim is unerring.

So, here's what you need to do, to win a COW:
A. Tweet about this blog post
B. Facebook about this blog post
C. Become a "follower" of this or my Empress Blog or both
D. Add this blog, or my Empress blog to your blog sidebar
E. Comment below (which you HAVE to do to be eligible). Before you comment, add up your "entry points" based on how many of the things above you did.

1. Add up your entries and list them in the comments section (along with email address):
-> comment only = 1 entry point
-> follower = 1 extra entry point per blog follow
-> tweet or facebook = 2 extra entry points
-> blog or sidebar = 3 extra entry points

2. The contest will last until 9pm PST on Wednesday, May 18th. At that point, I'm going to assign all entry points a number, then spin the "random number generator" wheel. Winner of the COW will be announced on Thursday. I'll also be drawing runners up who will get swag gift packs! (I'm not sure yet what they'll be, but they'll be cool!)

Good luck!

soccer mom from hell

I've been a soccer mom for nearly 20 years. That's two decades of orange slices, shin guards and yelling at the ref. I've loved every minute. Number 30, below, is my youngest. The kid on the right, blue jacket, is my oldest, now 24.

So, yeah, I'm a sideliner, but I'm no stranger to the perils of competition from a non-vicarious standpoint. I did the equestrian thing. Ribbons and ratings and judges. Thank God none of my kids got into horses. I remember my father once, after I was eliminated in the cross-country phase of an event, making me go over and over the jumps on my exhausted quarter horse, Sweet William. Etched into my brain is my dad's sunburned and pissed off face, contorted and shrieking from the center of the field, "You take him over that hogsback again and again until it's as smooth as butter!"

I swore I'd never put that trip on my kids. Not me. I'd be a soothing, loving mommy with a Tupperware of homemade Tollhouse cookies. Win, lose, it wouldn't make a difference.

Ha!

It's an instinctual thing, the glee you get watching your kid when he's in the zone, racing down the field like a gazelle, arcing a ball over the keeper and into the upper vee of the net. And then there's the visceral reaction, when your son is pushed off the ball, cleated in the back, given a yellow card for reckless play (or in the case of my oldest, telling a ref to fuck off). Look up and down the sidelines next time you're at a youth soccer match. Watch the parents' feet shuffle as though they themselves plan on kicking the ball down the field. We can't help it, us soccer moms and dads.

So, mid-May is tryout time for club soccer. It's stressful, emotional, and in some cases just plain evil. My 12-year-old is looking at several teams. In his behalf, I've emailed coaches, queried parents of kids in other clubs, driven 20 miles in commuter hell while my son wolfed down a turkey sandwich and a piece of pie. Homework is on the back burner. The house is a wreck. Everything but jerseys and soccer shorts is filthy. Last night I brought home the crappiest Mexican food ever for dinner at 9:30, procured from a place that smelled of Mr. Clean and fryer grease.

Team A, the elite team, is interested in my son. Team B also. And Team C. He's 12! I've filled out reams of forms and waived scads of potential liability. Most afternoons the last couple weeks, I've stood at the side of various fields, like my father, hoping, in each and every session, my kid blows the other kids away. It's disgusting. And by It's I mean I'm.

So this afternoon, my son says, "I'm tired, I'm going to blow off the Team A tryout." And like the Mrs. Hitler I am I sternly pontificate, "Then how will you make an informed decision?"

He rolls his eyes. "I've made up my mind. I'm going to choose Team B."

"But what if Team B doesn't choose you?" I stammer. "You sure you want to burn your bridges?"

He has circles under his eyes, my boy. And he says, "Mom, I need a day off."

"Really? Well, okay, but you're not going to sit around watching i Carly. Finish your snack, turn off the tv and do your homework. Then take out the trash." Yup, I really said that, because in the parlance of the Timber's Army, No pity!

So then my son says, "How come whenever I don't do what you want you throw this chores stuff in my face?"

I sigh one of those long-suffering sighs. The mom version of the red-faced take him over the jumps command. Then I stomp upstairs and pour a merlot.

But in the wine-induced mellow that ensued, I realized a couple of things. My kid has figured out what he wants. He's made his mind up based on gut and experience. And, it's doubtful that the team he wants won't want him, but even if that's the case, who gives a fuck? So, chill, Mom! Enjoy the fleeting childhood of your youngest child. You got maybe six more years to scream at the refs. And then, perhaps, you'll get a little rest before it's time to be a soccer grandma.

Mum's Day

My most memorable Mother's Day took place about eight years ago. I was separated from my husband, and overwhelmed with piles of stuff, a rambunctious toddler, money issues, and a garden that rivaled a rain forest for its overgrowth and canopies of thorns. To say nothing of the various critters that lurked about.

My kids planned to take me out for brunch. Reservations had been made.

The day before, in a fit of overcompensating for months of neglect, I'd purchased some compost tea at a nursery, and sprayed it on my chickweed-filled lawn. It was a rare Saturday without a soccer game, and I spent the entire day with my hands in soil--digging, weeding, clipping. I'd slapped together a sandwich mid-day, and, unbeknownst to me, the microbes from the compost tea had taken that opportunity to migrate to a willing host. Sunday morning I woke up to the lovely sound of my gut rumbling, which quickly turned into vomit spray. I spent the day between the bed and toilet. So much for brunch.

It's taken me a long time to recognize my part in the dynamic of Mother's Day Fail. Our culture tells our kids that honoring your mother means feeding her. Hauling her ass somewhere nice, where she can be fancy and drink Mimosas. I bought into this over the years, accepting invitations to swell restaurants. My daughter has been particularly valiant and sweet in providing several excursions to various eateries about town. But, because I chose to have, essentially, two generations of children, the Mother's Day brunches have typically involved the usual time management responsibility of "fitting in" being honored amidst soccer tryouts, birthday parties, and once, a trip to urgent care because the rambunctious toddler had become a rambunctious 10-year-old who'd skateboarded his way to a sprained wrist. Happy Mother's Day, indeed!

So this year, my dear husband has arranged something for me. And it will take place late in the day, and I won't have to leave my house. The older kids are coming over for dinner. I don't have to cook it or clean up after it. And, in fact, this morning he's taken the rambunctious now 12-year-old skiing (yes, skiing. we've had a crazy snowy spring in the Cascades), and I get to read, write and have the house to myself for several hours. As much as I adore my children, solitude without obligation is a precious thing. The quiet of a Sunday--a true and delicious actual day off--is the best Mother's Day gift there is.

A truly AMAZING week

On the eve of TRW as well as the eve of my beach weekend with my loving husband, I must report the following extremely cool things that have happened this week.
1. I entered Amy Gesenhues' very first blog contest ever, and I won!
2. I entered Gretchen McNeil's "Possess" ARCs contest, and I won!
3. Erin Reel"s (The Lit Coach), interview about my Empress Chronicles blog is up!
4. My buddy Cheryl Strayed is reading The Empress Chronicles manuscript and mentioned it in her recent interview, posted here!

So what do you think, blog friends, should I head down to 7-Eleven for lottery tickets?

teapunk: the long dark teatime of the soul

I've written a book that doesn't fit all that neatly into any particular classification beyond young adult. THE EMPRESS CHRONICLES is part romance, part historical, part contemporary-issue, part mystery, part urban fantasy, part magical realism, part steampunk. Actually, what it might be more than anything is a modern fairy tale. But, there is a mood that I want to encapsulate with some sort of distilling and overarching word or group of words.

At my day job, this would be the perfect opportunity for a branding exercise we call a 360. Essentially, in our 360s, clients and their trusted advisers gather in a room, and, following an agenda, we trot the clients through a brainstorming session that results in clarity and goals and all sorts of cool stuff.

In lieu of a traditional 360, I did some poking around, and, Et Voilà, I found a curious emerging sub-genre known as teapunk. Conjuring a Victorian moodiness and a fantastical Alice and Wonderland element, teapunk celebrates tea culture with a nod to some of the Victorian stylization of steampunk. Some go as far to suggest teapunk is a wide embrace of 19th century culture generally.

But what I like most about teapunk, is the punk-- a hint of the contemporary part of the historical/contemporary duality. And, borrowing from the quick definition of steampunk (a genre that features anachronistic technology in the Victorian era), teapunk might be thought of as a genre that celebrates the mood of Victorian culture via interface with a contemporary perspective. Ok, I made that up. Maybe better would be to quote the facebook page (and I paraphrase): Take the SM out of steampunk and steep in the long dark teatime of the soul.

digital spring cleaning

Taxes? Check. The latest revision of my YA book? Check. Final disgorgement of huge bin 'o books husband set on my office floor? Check.

That's three major left-brained and/or clear-headed activities concluded in the last 48 hours. I'm gonna confess something here. Linear organization is not my strong suit. Sometimes I stand in front of a big, fat mess of odd and jumbled items and my brain just fires off like a pinball in a special bonus round.

I have adopted any number of compensatory strategies for this, including, surrounding myself with pictures of order, e.g. my screensaver feature the perfect symmetry of the Viennese Medical School my father attended; even the twigs emanating from the twin naked elms that flank the central building are identical.

Whenever my hard drive crashes, after I get done throwing stuff, I'm secretly glad because of the tabula raza thing. I get a brand new start, with the hope that this time I'll create files that make sense. I'll not put the document with the kids' social security numbers in a file cryptically called "dugoutisms," for instance.

But today I decided not to wait for the next virus, and get rid of a bunch of crap on my computer, and I started with my Firefox bookmarks. I just deleted them all. I mean, what was I thinking, bookmarking "how to build a snake feeding box" two years ago. Like I'd need that info again? And, I'm planning on following it up with creating useful Twitter lists, rather than the catch all: lit stuff. I mean, pretty much everyone I follow has something to do with literature.

Writers, do you have crazy filing systems for your work? What are your compensatory strategies?

lost and found

Here's a good story.

About a year ago a writing acquaintance, Steve Arnt, called me up out of the blue to ask if I was missing a particular book from my shelf. I drew a blank, because I have several hundred books: some on shelves, some in boxes, some in tubs.

He'd been looking for an out-of-print book by a writer named Peter Christopher. The book was called Campfires of the Dead, put out by Knopf in 1989.

"Yes, yes," I said. "I know that book. I have that book. I knew Peter."

"You certainly did have that book," he said. "It's inscribed to a Suzy V. That has to be you."

I was in Hawaii when I got the call, on a deeply-anticipated holiday, one my husband and I had planned for over a year. We didn't know when we planned the trip that our house would be on the market, and, in particular, that our house would be on the market with a flooded basement, and that we would need to retroactively permit an addition put on illegally by my ex-husband years earlier.

Why all of this is important to the story is, about a month before our trip, during staging and dismembering hell, in the worst real estate market in two decades, my current husband and I hauled three truckloads of "yours, mine and ours" crap from the basement. Lots of it mildewed, moistened, stinky and ruined. But some of it merely heavy and cumbersome.

What I'm getting at is that Pete's book, the one you see in the picture with the very personal, lovely inscription, was a casualty of the dysfunctional triage. Where did Steve Arnt find it? Goodwill.

Now, I've done a lot of stupid, irresponsible things in my life. Once, I left my four-year-old daughter locked in the car while I ran into a coffee shop for an espresso. A cop was at the car's window when I returned, two seconds from hauling me to some sort of bad parenting jail. Back in college, I often swam naked in a local reservoir, and often there were drugs involved, or alcohol, or both. I was a poor swimmer and prone, at that time, to anxiety attacks. Drowning was a real possibility. And I won't even go into all the usual post-adolescent hyjinks. But being careless with something as sacred as a rare book--a rare, personally inscribed book at that, is inexcusably egregious.

So anyway, what happened next was, I conveyed my embarrassment and thanked Steve, who had called me so he could return my book, finished my holiday, sold the house, moved into a new house, and failed to follow up with Steve about my Campfires of the Dead.

But last week, at Lidia Yuknavitch's Powell's reading, there, sitting full-faced across the room, was Steve. And guess what? He still, after a year, was eager to return the book to me. So, we met for coffee, and there, on the cafe table, was Pete's book, not one bit mildewed, water-logged or otherwise ruined. And I'd forgotten how lovely the inscription was, and how it referred to a particularly glorious summer in 1993 when I'd met him on the Oregon Coast during a writing workshop given by Tom Spanbauer, and that I had continually dropped food on my feet while we shared writing and nuthorns and laughs.

wherever you go...

So, I'm here, in my cinder block cell. Unpacked and ready to tackle the empress, and who should show up but my ex-husband and my son, who were in town for the day.

Oh, the irony, right? The one week without Carson, instead of staying home the whole time and barricading myself in my office, I drive 160 miles to this motel and I'm here 5 minutes before turning into "mom."

But here's the thing. If he hadn't shown up, I would have spent the first hour talking to him on the phone and wondering if he's bathed (he has a broken arm, so hygiene actually is a challenge), or done his math the right way, etc. To spare me dark fantasies of doom, he came tumbling forth, backpack, filth and all, so I could administer my "mom" tools, and send him packing down the road.

So now, I have no excuse. There's nobody watching basketball within earshot, I've had my microwaved soup, and there will be no whiskey until I've worked through three more chapters.

Tune in tomorrow--for now, I'm leaving the Internet! (Well, unless I need to do manuscript-related research or something...)

writing retreats. in the real world.

So I've never been to Yaddo or one of those places where writers sequester themselves all day and have baskets of lunch left outside their doors seemingly by elves.

I've never scuttled off, by myself, to an island or the woods or a ranch hundreds of miles from nowhere--though I do often vacation in those sorts of places with my family.

When I do go off on a solitary writing retreat, I prefer cheap motels. Typically, I book the largest room in the least expensive motel I can find. Space is important because I like to spread my work out on the floor, on my bed, on the couch, indeed, on any horizontal surface. I bring my printer, my research material, the latest printed draft, my notes, several of my favorite books, my thesaurus and my ten pound American Heritage Dictionary. My only requirements are free wi-fi and a bathtub.

I like the motel to be walking distance from a park and a bustling downtown area where I can walk for my morning coffee and nightly martini.

This coming week I have such an expedition planned. I head off to Bend on Thursday with three days' worth of supplies and all the aforementioned paraphernalia. Amid the myriad resorts and bed and breakfasts I'm staying at the EconoLodge where I've booked a suite, and I feel mighty smug about it all.

Writers, what's your dream retreat?

interface

Greetings, from the airport affiliated with one of the happiest places on earth. Really!

After five days at Disney World, I'm sane, rested, re calibrated and sufficiently dosed up on my Vitamin D. With an 11 yr old boy as the only kid in our party, there was no need to stand in insufferably long character lines, no Princess makeovers, no It's a Small World. Only had to do Dumbo once. And the teacups, just to make sure they still make me nauseous. Yup. Check. Onward.

Here at "The World," they have four significant parks, the best of which, imho, is Animal Kingdom. Shady lanes, zoo animals in convincing habitats and the usual Disney hyper attention to filth.

Yes, there's excess. Yes, there's bad-to-mediocre food for high prices, yes there's over-stim bordering on the ridiculous. They try to squeeze every penny out of you.

And yet.

In five days not only did I not swear (except for once when my computer bag toppled over), but I didn't hear anyone else swear, either. People were ultra-polite, friendly. Happy. The weather was perfect, perfect, perfect. We went to the Disney Cirque du Soleil (La Nouba), and if it wasn't the greatest show on earth, it was damn close. (Of particular acclaim were a troupe of little Chinese girls in an act called Diabolos. Breathtaking!)

So here we are, at the Orlando airport waiting for our flight home. While here I spent a bit of time with my Empress notes and outlined some new plot shifts--really looking forward to tearing back into the manuscript next week. Rested, happy and if not tanned, at least not anemic looking.

Got style? Check it out!

Ever have those totally vortex days? Like you're in a dream and quicksand is involved, and you open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out?

I've been working and writing and living at a somewhat chaotic pace. Work is gangbusters, lots happening in the writing life, my brain loops and loops at bedtime and I dream about the to-do list and all the unfinished business therein.

But fuck it. I'm going to Disneyworld in a few days. Taking the husband and the kid and we're getting on a plane with our Florida outfits, our mouse passes, our maps and whatnot. It's been raining that cold, pelting stuff since Christmas, the back yard is a full sponge. My kid broke his arm the other day. All our vehicles have "issues." I may need root canal. We haven't finished our taxes. The list of "woe is us" goes on forever.

Ah, but there are some intense silver linings. The writers in workshop are going great guns. Books are out, being sold, hitting the bestseller list. Last week I signed with an agent, and she very promptly sent along revision notes on my manuscript. I can't wait to have at 'em. Really, I feel like my life is on steroids. It's all so amazing, sometimes.

That's why, on this very vague and stressed out day, I put the real world aside and worked on my platform. What is that, you ask? Well, here's the short answer. Steampunk. Although my book isn't dyed-in-the-wool Steampunk, there are some Victorian time-travel elements. There's a magical locket. A diary. An empress-to-be. Corsets, lots of corsets.

While writing my book, I grew fond of the "dreaming the future in the past" motif, so much so that, today, I put together a little quiz on Steampunk Style. I beseech you: if you have 3 minutes, take it and let me know if you were properly entertained!