The power and grace of Abby Wambach

National pride abounds as the USWNT warms up

Nothing like a night with a US National Team to bump up the swell of pride we Americans are so famous for. Last night's energetic soccer exhibition match against Canada was such an occasion. Jeld-Wen is a fabulous venue for national spirit, with its practiced army chants and well-timed cheers. The only thing missing was the green smoke from bombs-bursting-in-air that stayed in the opening anthem.

A rare hot late September night helped, no doubt, and the sell-out crowd stayed until the bitter end, when Alex Morgan nonchalantly stabbed in the third goal in the last second of extra time. Well, most of the crowd stayed. Kirk, Carson and I prematurely departed at the end of regulation, thus relegating my witnessing of the third goal to You Tube.

We were in the stands for goals one and two, however, delivered passionately by Abby Wambach. Die hard fans couldn't have scripted it better -- keeping the game scoreless with several "almosts" by Rapinoe against the crossbar, right up to the 63rd minute for goal number one - an expertly placed left-footed strike by Wambach, and then, as the perfect follow-up, a crowd-pleasing diving header to all but clinch the win in minute 70.

Look at those guns. Abby and co at open practice session September 21

Nothing against pink-studded Alex Morgan, who's extra goal added dessert to the meaty meal at Jeld-Wen, but for pure athleticism and inspiration, Wambach knocks it out of the park. Thousands of young girls in the stands were witness to a role model who is the pinnacle of power and grace, and that alone was worth the price of admission.

It was another great night to live in Portland, and, okay, even a great night to raise a Springsteen-esque fist in Born-in-the-USA delight.

Cooking with Suzy

that one with the erection is a little fresh!

Ack! Blogger has coerced me into adopting their new interface and I am SO not in the mood for a learning curve. Curses! I guess that's why I'm in the kitchen today--disaster must be in my horror-scope.

Basically, what I wanted to do on this post was call out my genius friend Lisa Golden, and her very ambitious blog project: "30 Day Photography Challenge."

Today's topic was "fruit" and her post is a hoot. (I did not mean to rhyme there, so I'm blaming it on Blogger's new interface).

Next to her ambitious creation, my post is a pathetic fetus, but, I'm just so damn proud of this year's tomato crop, any excuse to show it off will do, so I'm snatching Lisa's coattails and doing my own "fruit" blog. Yes, those are eggs from the girls in the background, but eggs are not fruit, not really, so disregard them.

My version of the fruit story is how to take perfectly lovely ingredients and ruin them. Or: Cooking with Suzy!

such unsuspecting little fellows

1. Assemble your raw harvest, and unearth your George Foreman grill:

• reread directions since this is may be the second time in your life you've used this thoughtful Christmas gift
• hunt for the various plastic tools that came with it, lest you ruin the grill by using a fork as spatula. Oops, too late. You really do have to read ALL the directions first.

2. Prepare your ingredients

• which requires locating other kitchen gadgets: the Cuisinart, the immersion blender, the peeler that isn't rusty, and so on.

It started out so promisingly!

3. Forget whether the correct sequence of patty coating prep is eggs, breadcrumbs, tomato sauce OR eggs, tomato sauce, breadcrumbs. Experiment with both, and then wonder if you should drizzle olive oil and salt on after grilling or before.

4. Push down the lid of the George Foreman grill and go off to answer several emails. Forget you were cooking, and get reminded by that unwelcome burn-off-of-new-appliances smell.

5. Ah, well, these will be the "first pancake" then, yes? Good thing you didn't have lunch yet and you're starving and will therefore eat anything. Taste the deliciousness of the nonstick surface which permeates the burnt coating.

No, this is not a picture of skin cancer lesions. Sigh.

6. Think about how to make the final product look more like Foodie blog features, and less like shoe insoles. Should you pluck some herbs from the patio? Should you drown the patties in hot sauce?

7. Resolve that next year you'll enjoy your harvest as you would flowers. Set them in bowls around your home until they mildew and wilt, and then feed them to the chickens. Leave the cooking to your husband!

and now for something obscenely frivolous

Over the weekend, the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences Creative Arts Emmys awarded Mad Men the Outstanding Hairstyling for a Single-Camera Series. Rock on!

I'm completely counting the days until the show resumes, but for now, I'm content with Netflixing the seasons for my mid-century dysfunction fix.

Oh, and the deets: the award was for the Season 4 episode "Christmas Comes But Once A Year."

interface

Another season of frivolity just about over. The gravitas of September looms. As does the throat virus I always get this time of year, but that's another story.

I have a love/hate thing with September that I know a lot of people can relate to. September heralds the spirit of "new" much more than, say, January. Along with the formal construct (read: first day of school), the earth jolts rather abruptly towards autumn as Labor Day approaches.

Gone are the 10 pm dusks, the blazing hot blue-sky mornings, the yearning for air-conditioned matinees.

The alarm goes off at five-something and my husband returns to the classroom, his head bowed in resignation. My son wipes the disappointment from his eyes upon waking, crams half-done homework into his backpack and slinks off into the gloaming.

And as for me, my kingdom restored, I have to admit, I get out the Pepsi.

As much as I love having my family nestled be-next to me, I celebrate the perennial season of hermitic return. Hours of uninterrupted silence (but for the two or three conference calls that worm their way into my day). The potential for deep engagement at the top of each blessed hour. The freedom to pop out for a walk up the hill to compost some thoughts. The array of projects from which to choose without the imposition of lawn watering.

But, somewhere between two and three in the afternoon, so absorbed in my disparate voices, and failed sentences, I have to admit: I crack. This is when I start biting off my arm and it usually takes the form of jumping back into the world with some ridiculous grand gesture. Perhaps a five course meal for which I must fetch ingredients! A trip to the paint store for living room makeover inspiration! Online bulb catalogs! A new workout regime!

September. A new year: new resolutions. The digging, the diving, the hope. What does September mean to you?

the country mouse and the town mouse

Here are the two settings for THE EMPRESS CHRONICLES: the first photo is of the empress Sisi's summer home, Possenhofen. A charming little castle, don't you think? Somewhat shabby by the standards of Bavarian royalty, but beloved to my character (who is a fictionalized version of the actual Sisi of Austria).

This is where Sisi frolicked and misbehaved, chasing her rabbits and dogs and siblings. Cooking up schemes to undermine her governess's agenda of civilizing the wild, spirited girl.

Here's a short passage from my book, illustrating this:

I could not wait to return to the comfortable worn splendor of our farm-castle, “Possi,” where my two ponies, Psyche and Cupid, were allowed to wander among the roses at will. Where my dogs roamed freely inside the house and out. Where my days began as the sun warmed the tops of the trees and ended when I decided it was time to return indoors.

This other house is where my contemporary character, Liz lives during the summer the novel takes place. It's a farmhouse I lived in for three years in the early 90's. Like Liz, I had a hard time adjusting to country life. The whole, 'cooking on a stove from the 1930's' thing (seriously, it was hooked up to a five-gallon propane tank like a Coleman, and I lived in fear of it running out every evening as I cooked up the soup).

Here's a little bit of Liz, toiling with her new digs, after an abrupt move from the posh lofts of Portland's upscale Pearl district:

The windowless staircase was illuminated by a single antique sconce, which tossed its anemic light at a bent-over sunflower painted directly onto the wood paneling. At the top of the stairs Pops grunted and yanked my suitcases around a corner and continued down a long hall. I followed. We walked past a screened porch. Two wasps with spindly legs tangled with each other in the opening to the porch, and beyond them a different cat than the one that had rubbed against me downstairs sat coiled in a yoga pretzel licking its anus.

Now, oddly, the top picture looks fancier, but nevertheless, it was considered a shack by the Bavarian Royal Family. Sisi loves the country. Liz adores a penthouse view. Identical cousins, they are not. Plus, they were born a hundred and fifty years apart. So, dear readers, my question to you is: are you more like Sisi, or more like Liz? Is you a country mouse, or a town mouse?

my writing retreat

I've never been to Yaddo. Never applied for one of those sweet deals where you're sequestered from the monkey-mind real world and given a cot, a desk and a brown-bagged lunch courtesy of an Artist-in-Residence program.

Actually, I take that back. Ten years ago I was the Fishtrap Writer-in-Residence, which came complete with two-and-a-half months in a mountain cabin on the river. In exchange for the cabin, I taught in the Wallowa schools and at the Fishtrap House in Enterprise. The unfortunate aspect of all of that for me was I had two of my children in tow (one of whom was two-years-old). They got sick. Really sick. The potential idyll turned into an Oregon Trail nightmare involving medicine, ER visits, high fevers, infections and even a seizure. Writing? Ha!

I've been a parent for my whole adult life. Many of those years I've been a single parent. Then there's the earning a living part. And my tendency to keep filling my plate with critters, gardens, volunteer work and sporting events. I write around the edges. In the cracks and splits of a robust schedule. Between reheating-my-coffee-in-the-microwave trips. That's my usual style.

But, my kids are older now. Although still unpredictable and busy, my work life is manageable because I have fabulous colleagues who understand that writing is my passion, and when I'm separated from it for too long, I'm cranky. I'm not a good producer when I'm pining for my stories.

Luckily, God invented August for people in my situation.

People (and clients!) go on vacation in August. Kids go to camp. And this year, some old, dear friends with a fabulous retreat-style house just outside of Portland are off camping. I eagerly raised my hand to be the one to watch their dog and water their garden in exchange for five days of space and time to write.

Here are some photos featuring some of the goodies up here. (Beauty and nature are particularly helpful when I'm editing--trying to solve plot issues, getting deeper into a character's head.)

So, for me, it's harvest time: zucchini, beets, spinach, peas, carrots. I have a freshly caught salmon in the fridge. The dog is a wonderful companion for walks in the woods--and, I'm down the road from the setting for a book I'm revising. I'm picking through my sentences, too. Culling, planting, rinsing away debris.

Bliss.

Even though my DIY writing retreat doesn't carry the caché of the infamous 400-acre artist's enclave, it's what I got, and I'm grateful.

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.)