Léna's Lit Life

Goodreads or Badreads?

2012-02-24T21:29:00.000-05:00

Good-reads!

I have succumbed, I have knuckled, and yes - I have buckled. I quit Goodreads after a trial run because I came to think of Goodreads as Badreads. In fact, I was just being a big baby.

It was becoming yet another tool for me to measure myself by, and when I say that, I mean against. Because according to Goodreads, when I compare myself to many of my friends, nobody is reading my book. Poor Edges is sucking out against paranormal romance, fantasy and even after other contemporary fiction. And it's not that my friends have any better ratings, but what they do have are readers. Thousands of them, whereas I have 54. (Who is counting?)

And Edges got some outstanding reviews.

And a couple of "meh" ones.

But guess what???? I wrote a polarizing book! Yee freaking ha! How cool is it that people have opinions and get to express them? How cool is social media where we get to meet and interact with people we otherwise would never have a chance to meet?

And guess what again? I don't like every book I read either! Who does? So much depends on my mood and my state of mind - where I am in my life.

The important thing is, I want my book to be read. I believe in my book. No matter how you feel about alcoholism and recovery, spirituality and differing world views, I think it's important both think about and discuss all of these things.

And I've written and am writing other books where these subjects don't come into play.

I talk a lot about re-vision here, not only in writing, but in my personal life. So let's re-vision Goodreads right now. I can't shy away from potential readers.

Notice: I've been brave and put a Goodreads widget on this here blog. If you are so inclined, you can click to it and if you've read Edges, show it some love. If you haven't, I'd be most honored if you would add it to your TBR pile.

Vacation, Crosswicks, and Re-Vision

2012-02-23T18:42:00.000-05:00

Vacation: a period of suspension of work, study, or other activity, usually used for rest, recreation, or travel; recess or holiday

I don't write when my kids are on vacation, and I am out of my routine.

Therefore, I am on vacation too: a vacation from my vocation.

I have to remind myself that writers need "a suspension of work" too: after all, we are with my mother up in Crosswicks, the family homestead in Northwestern Connecticut. This is where my grandmother set A Wrinkle in Time and the early Austin books. (And even she needed time to decompress and let things marinate.)

The winter has been strange with nary a snow flake - the trees are bare and the grass a yellowish-brown. Climate change brought us a white Halloween and then sixty degrees in February.

We always have to keep what we think we know in check.

Crosswicks has undergone so many permutations since I was a child, running in the fields. There have been additions and renovations. In my mind's eye, I still see the weeping willow that was in the front yard during my childhood.

This picture, above, shows me that another tree has been in it's place for the past twenty years.

Vision is a funny thing. Can I really see what is in front of me, here and now without my whole life intervening?

This is why re-vision is so important, changing our perspective, our point of view. We have to deal with what's in front of us and accept it. The willow tree isn't there anymore, my childhood is gone but I have so much more than I ever dreamed.

And the author Patricia O'Brien finally makes it under a pen name at the age of seventy.

Who is Patricia O'Brien, aka, Kate Alcott? I was blown away by this article in the New York Times yesterday: this author has thirteen rejections of her sixth book, in large part because her previous books don't have a stellar track record. Her agent sends the same manuscript out under an alias, and voila - she gets a 6 figure deal in THREE days! Talk about a book being judged by it's cover!

The fear-based state of today's publishing industry had Patricia O'Brien re-visioning her career. She (and her agent) gave her book a chance to judged on it's own merit.

This post comes about because I have a very big revision of a manuscript looming large, one in which I am taking a "vacation" from, and will relish sinking my teeth into.

Humiliation or Humility?

2012-02-15T14:47:00.000-05:00

There are such a myriad of ways to experience our lives, aren't there? This morning, I went to a class at the gym called: Boot Camp - a class I was clearly not ready for. (For someone whose workout entails an elliptical trainer and some yoga asanas, I should have known better.) There was a step and weights, and entirely too much jumping around. I felt sick to my stomach. Still, I persevered.

In that moment I had a choice: was I going to feel humiliated because my abilities didn't match my expectations, or was I going to be humbled and learn from my experience?

The older I get, I become more in touch with my own humility, which is wonderfully freeing. (And there are always so many opportunities to be humbled!)

It is interesting, because both words come from the same root: humus - earth, but the words have vastly different meanings.

Humiliate: to cause (a person) a painful loss of pride, self-respect, or dignity; mortify.

This is an isolating feeling. It makes us want to crawl into a hole to hide.

How could anybody have the power to do that to me save myself? I am certainly not saying that I've never been or felt humiliated. Those of you who follow this blog know some of the things I've had to overcome, and I think part of growing up is making mistakes and (hopefully) learning from them.

Humble: to be conscious of one's failings.

This state of being grounds us, and makes us part of the human race - no better or worse than anyone else.

Last spring I started Weight Watcher's, and wrote about it here, but once I started getting really busy with growing Writopia Lab, I found that I couldn't focus on it anymore. I wasn't able to get to meetings and I lost my mojo. When I was younger, I would use this as an excuse to beat myself up. But who am I to expect things to be easy? Focusing on losing weight is hard work and takes a lot of energy. I would love to be able to focus on it, but I can't right now. I am humbled, but I don't hate myself for it. I am not humiliated.

And I have felt lost in the world of publishing - saddened that "success" is so numbers and sales driven, and not based so much on literary merit. But I am certainly not the only writer who has felt or feels that way, so I am humbled. Humility brings me community, while a feeling of humiliation has only ever served to isolate me.

Finding the courage to call myself a "writer" and to seek out other writers has brought me a tremendous community, and the knowledge that I don't have to be perfect, or indeed, hide my imperfections in order to be loved is very freeing indeed.

We have to have a healthy amount of humility in order to be able to write - to get those words on paper. Because we will fail sometimes! That is a guarantee. But we keep trying, don't we?

And maybe I won't ever like a Boot Camp class, but who knows?

Where are you on the spectrum between humiliation and humility in your life?

Loving Bloggers: Spread the Love

2012-02-14T11:36:00.002-05:00

Love is glue, an ephemeral word that means more when it is used as a verb rather than a feeling. Love in action is what makes the world go around, and the world needs it, we need it to grow and to evolve into more enlightened human beings. We create, we write, paintactdancesing as a way of expressing and processing love.

Say what you want about social media - yes, it drives us crazy, yes we never feel like we're doing enough, but it has taught me something about community, and anything I learn about how communities work also teaches me about love.

Reciprocity. One of my gorgeous compadres on this writing journey is the fabulous Gae Polisner, who has passed this Versatile Blogger award on to me. In 2010, Alison Roskos Treat invited me to play the reciprocity game but I was brand new at blogging and didn't know what to do, and then in 2011, I was invited to play by Demery Bader-Saye and made my very first attempt.

This will be my second attempt, and I will not be following the original rules to a tee, because of time constraints. So I will be following Gae's rules of bestowing the award onto six other author/bloggers, who in turn should do the same, and use the Versatile Blogger Award badge when you do so!

Now, are you ready for a love-fest?

1. Jen Violi: I love this woman and I have never had the opportunity to meet her on the physical plane (although we have been known to astral project.) She views writing and teaching as a ministry, much in the way that I do, but she is all groovy and West Coast. She is also very funny, writes love notes, and is the author of the YA novel, Putting Make-Up on Dead People which I loved and reviewed last May. Who could be more appropriate for Valentines' Day? She sends out a newsletter rather than blog regularly, so get on that list people! You won't be sorry.

2. Keith Jennings: my soul brother! Who I have also never met. He has a wonderful blog called Keitharsis: Creativity, Roots and the Portfolio Life. His posts are always very thought provoking and inspiring. Love him! I command you!

3: Katie Davis: you need to know about this wonderful author of some of my daughter's favorites, Kindergarten Rocks, Little Chicken's Big Day (and much much more!) and who does so much for the writing community in terms of reciprocity and networking. She is a beautiful dynamo who goes non-stop and is the best marketer I know. I have learned so much from her. Plus, whenever I see her I just want to squeeze her!

4: Emlyn Chand & Novel Publicity: This marvelous young woman in Michigan has redefined "karma" and reciprocity! I have watched her grow this past year into a marketing tycoon and it's been amazing. Her debut YA novel, Farsighted, is available as an ebook on Amazon!

5: Hope Perlman: Her blog, Unmapped Country is fantastic. She has written a remarkable series about Success that I think should be published! I love her writing, and I love hugging her too when I see her, which isn't often enough as she lives in Albany!

6: Lisa Ricard Claro: Writing in the Buff? How could you not read a blog like that? I "met" her when she "discovered" my blog. Isn't that just the coolest?

PS I just found out I was nominated for another Versatile blogger award, with different rules! Thank you Maryj!

Celebrating A Wrinkle in Time

2012-02-12T13:50:00.000-05:00

In February of 1962, fifty years ago this month, a little book called A Wrinkle in Time was published under the radar by two up and coming publishers, John Farrar and Roger Straus.

The author, my grandmother Madeleine L'Engle, had fiercely believed in her book and suffered through 26 rejections, before luck had brought her to John Farrar. He agreed to publish it, but warned my Gran that it wouldn't sell very well.

Thankfully, he was wrong about the book, and very right to publish it.

Now A Wrinkle in Time is still one of the business' top sellers and the forward thinking team of Farrar Straus became Farrar, Straus, Giroux: the créme de la créme in the publishing industry.

Yesterday afternoon on February 11th, FSG put on a "celebration" at the distinguished Symphony Space, and live video-streamed the event to 85 book stores across the country. My family and I arrived to a packed house, and I was thrilled to see friends from our old neighborhood, as well as some of my Writopia Lab students in the audience. We had reserved seats in the second row with my brother Edward, right in front of my sister Charlotte and her family.

The event kicked off with a screening of the 90 Second Newbery Award video of A Wrinkle in Time, the brain-child of YA author James Kennedy, who hosted the first festival of kid-made videos last November. Betsy Bird, the fabulous children's librarian from the main branch of NYPL came out as the host for the afternoon and gave us some lovely words about her own connection to the book, and introduced us to the book trailer on the screen, followed by my sister Charlotte who spoke beautifully about the importance of community celebrations.

I was caught off guard by the amount of video and aural footage they had of my grandmother, hearing her voice fill Symphony Space, either from interviews or reading aloud from her book. Indeed, it made me feel as if she was in the room with us, and I remembered seeing her at Symphony Space LIVE, many times.

Betsy curated a panel of Newbery award winning authors Lois Lowry, Katherine Patterson, Rebecca Stead and R.L. Stine. It was an interesting panel because neither Lowry, Paterson or Stine had read Wrinkle as a child, so their perspective was much different from Rebecca's who is younger and was tremendously impacted by Wrinkle as both an author and a human being. (Just read When You Reach Me to find out why!)

Rebecca really shone on the stage, and even wore a 1960's dress with dark blue and green circles on it, reminiscent of the original cover. She completely rocked that panel!

You may think that would be enough for the event, but we were treated to more! The actress Jane Curtain did a stellar reading from WIT - the scene in which they tesser for the first time. Then we had another amazing performance from Greenwich Academy students, taking us through Meg's father saving them from IT but leaving Charles Wallace. And last but not least, the astute Leonard Marcus read us an excerpt from his forthcoming biography on M L'E entitled Listening to Madeleine, in which he compiled a book through a series of interviews. I already was excited to read it, but am even more now that I heard him read part of his interview with Sydney Offit - about what a remarkable speaker and performer my grandmother was.

Charlotte, Edward and I were whisked off to a table at the back of the theater where people could say hello while they were on line to get books signed by the authors from the panel, and we signed some posters and book plates as well. A lovely reception followed in the Thalia Café downstairs where it was fun to hob nob with lots of people from the publishing industry, and where my daughter Scarlett was the belle of the ball in her Wrinkle in Time tee shirt. (She was asked to be interviewed about Wrinkle by the publishers and immediately jumped up and down in glee, my little actress. Her favorite part of the evening? Why, the party and being interviewed of course!)

My favorite parts? Hearing my Gran's voice fill the room, seeing my sister on stage, my buddy Rebecca, Leonard Marcus, and the feeling that it really was a celebration.

If you were there, what were some of your favorite moments?

Turning Points & a Giveaway!

2012-02-08T20:54:00.000-05:00

Last December, I was asked by the lovely writer, Nova Ren Suma to participate in her blog series called Turning Points and I unhesitatingly said yes. It was such a wonderful exercise for me, in that I really took my time writing it, thinking about my struggle to honor my and commit to my passion for writing. (And yes, I honor my grandmother, Madeleine L'Engle!)

All of these stories are fascinating.

Without any further ado, let me lead you over to Nova's blog: Distraction99, where you will not only find out about the author of the tremendous Beautiful Girls, but you will find inspiring posts from some very distinguished writers, and I am so honored to be included!

And there are LOTS of giveaways - Edges too!

xoxox

I Am Not John Green

2012-02-07T14:47:00.000-05:00

I have been guilty of one through ten on the list RIGHT at one point or another, resulting in me figuratively banging my head against the wall.

We artists are sensitive folk, aren't we? This is one of the many reasons I write: to exorcise these demons. I know that I am not alone, but I do applaud those of you who are above not doing anything on this list.

Comparisons are odious - William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

Indeed.

My latest crime against myself is wishing that I were John Green. (I wish that my name would extract ecstatic sighs from people the way his does - oh ego, how dost thou mock me!) I compare myself to him because we are both obsessed with the meaning of life, yet he unravels his thoughts in a way that is glib and sarcastic while I do . . . not. He is a master of dialogue, and shows me where I need to focus my practice. My dialogue is awkwardly sweet. I am "normal" funny, whereas he is "gifted" funny. He is a "nerdfighter" whereas my demons are . . . different.

But there's only one John Green.

I picked up a copy of his latest book yesterday, The Fault in Our Stars, and I felt as if John were in the room with me. Why aren't I as cool as he is? Because for all of his "nerdiness", I got to hang out with him at LeakyCon in Orlando last July when we were on some panels together, and let me tell you, he is HOT, people. He's the real deal. I wish that I could say that he's a big faker and be done with it. But I can't, because he really IS all that and a bag of chips. And he would be the first one to tell me NOT to compare myself to him. (DFTBA: Don't Forget to be Awesome!)

Comparisons are odious.

First of all, I am not a dude, I don't live in Indiana, and I don't have a brother named Hank. We'll just stop there.

So tell me, Léna. Who are you? I preach what I need to hear - that everybody's voice has value, that there is nothing original under the sun save for our uniqueness and authenticity.

I had best be leaving John Green to John Green, and revel in my own Léna-ness. Nobody wants me to be him. Y'all want me to be myself, don't you? As I want you to find your you-ness as well.

Now hopefully my blogging has served it's purpose: I can go back to being an adoring John Green fan, finish his latest literary tour de force (with his own Shakespearean nod to Julius Caesar) and kick the green-eyed monster to the curb.

I heart you John, I really do.

A Wrinkle in Time Turns Fifty

2012-02-05T22:03:00.002-05:00

Do you remember the first book you fell in-love with, the first title that inspired you to read, to ingest all other books and other worlds like there was no tomorrow?

I am sure that I am not alone when I tell you that A Wrinkle in Time was my book.

Thirty-six years ago, I was in second grade when Sister Madeleine Mary started reading it to my class. I remember sitting ramrod straight on the floor in my navy blue uniform dress and white knee socks, listening to Sister intone the words of Mrs. Whatsit and Meg.

I wasn’t reading books that complex yet on my own, but I couldn’t wait until the next week when Sister would read us another chapter: I had to start reading it at home. It was then that my reading took off, and my life was never the same.

Did it make a difference that my grandmother was the author, Madeleine L’Engle? I don’t think that the author/grandmother connection would be my only motivation to surpass my teachers’ reading expectations. It was the wonderful story that compelled me, and kept compelling me to rediscover over and over again. I am sure that I felt the closest kinship to the book when I was eleven or twelve, but that didn’t stop me from falling in-love with the possibility of “story” when I was seven. I grew up with the characters - I understood Meg, marveled at CW, and crushed on Calvin.

From the beginning, when Meg is scared in the attic on “a dark and stormy night” I slip into her skin, going downstairs for the comfort of hot chocolate and my mother and brother. I too am wary of Mrs. Whatsit at first, not trusting the world “out there” - the world that has not only taken my father, but uses his absence as a way to isolate my family. I too tingle with surprise when we meet Calvin in the woods and bring him home for dinner, and I am ready to believe the Mrs W’s when they call on us/them to save my/Meg’s father on the planet Camazotz.

It was the first book I read where I - so closely identifying with Meg - got to be the hero, where I realized that parents are fallible, and that anger and stubbornness aren’t necessarily “faults” - that our anger and stubbornness can protect us and serve a purpose. And that love is most important when it’s not just a feeling, but an action, a verb.

For it's fortieth anniversary, I developed a workshop based on Wrinkle - first for a Drama Therapy conference, and then for the education department at The Cathedral of St. John the Divine. I still love to lead this workshop: using both drama and writing exercises - with a combination of collaborative and individual work, my hope is for participants to emerge empowered through working with the archetypes of Meg, Charles Wallace and Calvin. (I will be leading this specific workshop at the Mobile Library in Mobile, Alabama on the morning of March 3rd, and the Chappaqua Library in Chappaqua, NY on the afternoon of March 20th.)

Now to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of a book that almost didn't get published (26 rejections!), Farrar, Straus, and Giroux has republished a gorgeous special edition of A Wrinkle in Time with a stunning retro jacket flap in FLAMES, and then, when we remove the cover, SURPRISE! We are treated to the original navy blue circles gracing the hardback.

This Saturday, February 11th, if you are anywhere near New York City, come celebrate with us at Symphony Space at 4PM where my family and I will be in the audience applauding Rebecca Stead, Lowis Lowry, Katherine Patterson and others, who will be giving props to my all-time favorite book.

What would Gran think? I KNOW that she is thrilled that we are keeping her memory alive and that all of us are making such a big fuss over the 50th birthday of her amazing opus. We will be feeling her beams of joy radiating through the universe, holding us. All of us who love Madeleine L’Engle, whether as a family member, a friend or a fan - we all share in her legacy of the power of her written words and the joy of reading them. We have all become more quintessentially “us” because of “her”. Wouldn’t you agree?

What is your book, the one that turned you into a life-long reader? (For my boys it’s been Harry Potter and Percy Jackson.)

Uninspired by the Groundhog, but Inspired by . . .

2012-02-02T15:15:00.001-05:00

Imbolc, Brighid, St Brigit's Day, Groundhog's Day - whatever story you want to tell, February 2nd marks the day of mid-winter. It is a day to remind ourselves that spring is around the corner.

Although we really don't need much reminding this year, do we?

Okay. Now I am going somewhere with this post, but I have to stop mid-stream.

I am uninspired. That just has to be expected some of the time, but we write through it, even if it is not our "best" work. What is it - 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration?

I had all of these plans to write an inspired blog post linking Brighid and the groundhog, but I only have fifteen minutes to write, I have a little headache from driving into the city for a meeting and tomorrow will be too late. (Groundhog's Day will have come and gone . . .)

My kids are about to come home from school and then I go off to run a Writopia workshop AND I'm thinking about other things that really do inspire and sustain me:

1) 65% of my Writopia students who submitted were recognized in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards with either gold or silver keys. (The other 35% should have been recognized too, by my reckoning, but I have no control over these things.)

2) My next book pic for our In beTWEEN book club will be Vanished by Sheela Chari, and I have just heard from the author that she will come to our book group in March! So thrilled.

3) My last blog post (Sex and Drugs and Rock n' Roll) will be published in an Anthology by Roaring Brook Press.

4) We are going to open two more Writopia sites in Stamford and Tarrytown

5) Oh goodness, the list goes on, but the bus is almost here!

How are YOU????? What inspires you????? I want to know!

Sex And Drugs and Rock N' Roll

2012-01-31T23:54:00.004-05:00

What was it about the black tee shirt displayed high on the wall behind the cash register at my favorite record store that had me so smitten? There were other tee shirts to choose from, but I just had to fall in-love with the one that had the words Sex And Drugs and Rock n’ roll emblazoned in white across the front. I thought that whoever wore that tee shirt must have been the epitome of cool.

It hinted at things I knew nothing about.

It was 1981 and the summer I turned thirteen, right before 8th grade: I was brimming with unbridled excitement and energy because I was finally allowed to begin to walk around on my own, exploring the mile distance between where I lived in Chelsea, down to the West Village where I went to elementary school.

This was the summer of Raiders of the Lost Ark, the Royal Wedding (Charles and Diana) and when MTV made it’s debut, changing the face of popular culture for good. And I wanted to be the epitome of cool.

It was also the summer my father and I argued about words. Yes, words.

Sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

We had to have strong words between ourselves before he learned how to deliver a message and I learned how to accept it.

My father was an Episcopalian priest, and I was growing up in a seminary, a school for priests. (No wonder I was desperate and misguided in my search for “coolth”!)

From the age of ten, I spent all of my allowance and babysitting money on records and music magazines, which would provide lyrics for some popular songs. My money went to Blondie, David Bowie, Elvis Costello and the Clash. But I listened to the radio too, so I wasn’t all that discerning. I was hungry for the power of the beats and the music. And of course, the lyrics would float right over my head.

The first argument with my Dad that summer was over the lyrics he found in a magazine to the song Urgent, by Foreigner. His irrational rant just made him sound like a punitive old fart.

I think these were the offending words:

Got fire, in your veins, burnin' hot, but you don't feel the pain
Your desire, is insane, you can't stop, until you do it again
But sometimes I wonder as I look in your eyes
That maybe you're thinking of some other guy
But I know, yes I know, how to treat you right
That's why you call me in the middle of the night
You say it's urgent, so urgent, so-oh-oh urgent...
Just you wait and see, how urgent, my love can be, it's urgent...

“What junk are you poisoning your mind with!” He railed at me and at the magazine. “Do you know what this song is about?”

I didn’t like the song that much, but I said: “They’re only words, Dad.”

“They’re only words?” My dad’s voice echoed around the room in his rage. I had finally done it. I had driven him crazy.

“It’s about mindless sex and objectifying both men and women!”

Huh? Why was I trying to defend this song? He grounded me from record and magazine buying so that I could think about his perspective. “Words. Matter,” he said to me very slowly, once he had calmed himself down.

I felt completely distressed and disrespected. What a jerk, I remember thinking.

Legend has it that I cried in my room for a week, trying to think up better words to Urgent, or at least trying to think about another interpretation for the lyrics. Every time I read the lyrics, they made less and less sense. My family valued imagination, and there was definitely nothing of value in these lyrics. He was right in that regard, but I didn’t want to admit it.

A few weeks later, there was a new wave/rock concert at the seminary. One of the priest’s older children had a band called The Clonetones. It was a bright day and an oddity - a rock concert had never happened on seminary property. The female singer was the coolest person I had ever seen. She was wearing a white wedding dress and had long bleached blonde hair å la Brigitte Bardot. Cat eye make-up. I wanted to be her. One of the guys in the band was wearing a Sex and Drugs and Rock n’ roll tee-shirt.

I wished that I could walk around in a white wedding dress, combat boots, bleached hair and heavy eye make-up.

But if I couldn’t go all out, I could settle for trying to dye my hair and buying that Sex, Drugs and Rock n’ roll tee shirt I coveted, couldn’t I?

I remember taking the long walk down to the Village with my sister and some friends on a beautiful, sunny day to the record store. The black tee shirt with white writing was still there and taunting me.

“Why don’t you just put yourself out of your misery and buy it?” A friend said to me. Yeah - why didn’t I? I wanted it. I knew that my dad would freak out, but it was babysitting money - it was MY money! Fueled with excitement and self-righteousness, I made my purchase, and I wore it on top of my other clothes.

That was the one and only time I ever wore that tee shirt.

I arrived home to a very calm father who had obviously had time to think about his own message.

“Hey, look at my new tee shirt!” I announced to my parents who were sitting in the living room, listening to Bach. “Isn’t it cool?” (My tack was to be up front about it.)

“No, it’s not cool,” was the response, said in a calm, almost soothing way. “Sex, drugs, and rock n’roll. What do you think you are advertising?”

I had no answer except: “I used my own money.”

“Oh dear. Then, since you used your own money, I will buy it off you.”

“But, but, but . . .” I couldn’t get any words out.

My Dad stood up. “How much was it?” He reached into his pocket.

“Ten dollars.” I was sullen, having lost the battle before it even began.

He took out a ten dollar bill. I pulled off the tee shirt.

“Words matter, Léna. What we say about ourselves matter. The words we use to represent ourselves matter.”

I handed him the tee shirt and stomped upstairs. In my embarrassment and anger, I didn’t understand what he was saying. They’re just words. What about the thing kids say to each other: sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me?

I knew better. I knew that words had the power to hurt, to cut deeply. I also knew that words had the power to heal. I was falling in-love with language and with storytelling myself. Did I want to tell the world that at thirteen, I was available for sex, drugs and rock n’ roll? Was that my story?

A few years later he gave the shirt back to me when I didn’t think it was cool anymore, and obviously, I never wore it then either. Instead, as a talisman of my philisophical growth and homage to my father's lesson, I cut up the tee shirt and Sex and Drugs and Rock n' roll became part of the collage I had pinned to my wall.

The Power of Story

2012-01-31T08:55:00.001-05:00

I woke up yesterday morning to a friend, Lois, posting a question on my author page. She asked me to write a line or two about the power of stories, particularly family stories. A line or two? This is worthy of a book! I will humbly attempt to answer her question, although many authors far above my scope of philisophic imagination have written about this, including my favorites: Joseph Campbell, Rollo May, James Hillman, and my grandmother, Madeleine L'Engle.

Lois writes:

Lena, I'm teaching a course called the Power of Story to my college frosh; the first unit is about family stories. Could you share a sentence or a few about the power/influence/necessity/effect of story (either crafting it or receiving it) in the life of an individual or of a culture, and/or what happens in its absence? Thanks!

Everyone loves a story, but not everyone believes that they have a story to tell.

You do. Believe it.

"Tell me a story about when I was a baby."

"Tell me the story about the time you and Da met."

"Tell me a story about princesses and dragons."

My children bombard me with these requests and I happily oblige, for I know that it is through story that they will understand their lives.

Story is the lens through which we see the world: is it a good one - where love and hope reign supreme, or a bad one - where evil lurking behind every corner, no-one and nothing is to be trusted. For most of us, it's somewhere in the middle.

Story helps us craft our own world view, which is passed through our culture and our families. When we tell stories, we are asking people to bear witness to our experience. Nobody can deny the healing power of being heard. Stories also make us feel like we are part of a tribe and that we matter. Without our stories, we have no road map.

I am a writer. I process the world through story and essay. I am drawn to dark material, yet I work hard to find the silver linings of hope.

And yet - we don't have to be "writers" to do this. We devour books, movies, television shows, newspapers, family lore. We rely on "story" to tell us who we are.

But what if the stories we tell ourselves lead us on a destructive path? The power of story is not only positive.

When I was a therapist, I worked with my clients on "reframing" their experiences, because the stories that they were telling themselves weren't serving them anymore. They needed, as I myself have at times needed, to rewrite the script. They needed to take control of their own narrative.

Healer, heal thyself: I used to think that my stories were boring - worst of all that my own personal story didn't deserve to be counted. The stories I was telling about myself were dangerous. I was telling myself the story that I was unlovable. That I had nothing to offer, that I had no personal power. That I couldn't cope. I was reactive, rather than proactive. The glass was half empty, even though I pretended that it was half full.

Rewriting my story has changed me. The facts remain the same, but the way I view them aren't, because I today I take responsibility for myself and for my actions.

In the end, stories are all we have.

Author Page: Do You "Like" Me? and Other Marketing Insanities

2012-01-26T11:36:00.001-05:00

It's been a couple of weeks of in and out illness. A real doozy. Have you been there? Five of us smashed in a house, infecting and reinfecting each other, no matter how many times we wash our hands. In fact, right now I'm home with two sick boys watching reruns of MONK and PSYCH.

What does this have to do with the insanity of marketing? Well, I'll tell ya.

Saturday night I went to bed early with my feverish daughter, and was toolin' around Facebook when I decided to throw caution to the wind and create a more official "author" Facebook page. I already have a page for Edges, created over a year ago in the lead up to publication, watching way too closely for my mental health at the rate it's "likes" were ticking upward. I naively hoped that my book would take the world by storm - instead it's been a slow build.

Just the way our careers should be. Yet publication, and the need to be "liked" has been a challenge to my maturity. It makes me uncomfortable because I feel both needy and tacky. Dirty.

Although Facebook and other social media has been a good time and an incredible tool for creating community, I have often felt like a fifteen-year-old all over again - who doesn't experience a flush of excitement when a comment or a post garners fun or thoughtful interaction? And then the opposite - it's even easier on Facebook to compare our insides to other people's outsides and judge ourselves based on who "likes" us. Sometimes I just want to delete my accounts just so I can focus on my writing.

Yet I am an author, and need to use the tools at my disposal. I have to treat myself like a business, and the fact is that I wrote EDGES years ago. I have written two (as yet to be published) novels since then. I run an after-school creative writing program, I live and breathe writing. I need to have another page where I can post things that are not necessarily related to Edges. And Facebook makes it so darn easy!

My author page. I had 40 "likes" in the first half hour, 80 "likes" in the next half hour. All friends full of love and support. Phew!

The goal? To increase business, to reach more potential readers of my blog and my book(s).

So. The next few sentences are not going to be pretty - they're going to highlight an insecurity that I need to keep in check: I have to admit that I've been obsessively checking my page for new "likes". 145, 146, 147 . . . I have to seriously get over it. After all, I've been blogging regularly for two years now (oh! I missed my anniversary?!) and I "only" have 158 followers, yet I still write.

How many "likes" do I need? Will it ever be "enough"?

It's foolish to focus on that.

Writing is the way I process the world, and if I stop because I'm uncomfortable, because I'm not popular "enough" then I will be denying myself the key to my personal freedom.

Marketing is a tool to use and not be used by, but I like that my imperfections remind me of my vulnerability and my need for humility. It keeps me authentic. Don't you agree?

And yes, go "like" my page! And follow my blog! ;-)

MLK and My Sobriety: For Realz?

2012-01-16T22:25:00.001-05:00

Yes Virginia, for realz.

Last Friday my status on Facebook just said: eighteen years. Those who know me personally and read this blog knew what that means: I celebrated eighteen years of continuous sobriety. I celebrated by going out to dinner with some of the women who have been on this journey with me. I don't white-knuckle it and go it alone - I need that kind of community, just as I need other kinds of community too.

We all need community, we need each other. We all have our demons and our issues; we all want to both understand and be understood. We all have our humanity in common, no matter our race, gender, sexuality or religion.

Who better to thank for this reminder than Dr. Martin Luther King?

As I take a moment to celebrate him, I am put in mind of a particular Martin Luther King Day, fourteen years ago. I was working on a dual diagnosis unit in San Francisco. In many of the psychotherapy groups I was leading that day, we discussed Dr. King's famous I Have a Dream speech.

I will never forget one gentleman in particular, who spoke about the impact Dr, King had had on his life and his future sobriety. This man was in his mid-30's, African-American, astoundingly intelligent, but his brain had been hit with severe depression and alcoholism. He wanted to stay sober because of Dr. King's words. He yearned for faith because of Dr. King's legacy.

He quoted Dr. King: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

His eyes glistening with tears, he went on to say: "Alcoholism and mental illness is another form of oppression." His voice was a slow, deep baritone. He had been taking his medication, wasn't drinking and was starting to feel better. Heads nodded, and all faces turned toward him. (Which in itself was a miracle - one of my therapeutic goals with several "clients" was eye contact in a group setting.)

He stopped, looking to me for assurance. I smiled, encouraging him. He was able to connect Dr. King's messages of non-violence, faith and dreams of equality to his own hopes for sobriety. He was able to strike a chord with his fellow group members talking about MLK's message in a way that I, as a young white girl wasn't able to.

He struck a chord with me too, and now MLK is indelibly a part of my sobriety.

Abstinence isn't for everybody, but it is for me, because I recognize that I have the dis-ease of alcoholism. It is a dis-ease of body, mind and spirit. It almost killed me.

It doesn't mean that I'm a lower form of human, that I can't handle my liquor, that one drink is too much for me because I don't know when to stop - and nor does it mean I'm a higher form of human, that I have transcended the need for spirits. (I haven't - I need an ever-evolving relationship with a Higher Power - I just don't pretend that I can heal myself or my stress with alcohol anymore.)

It means I get to be human, I get to live. And I get to share myself with you.

Thank you Dr. King: your reach is wider than you ever knew.

In BeTWEEN Book Clubs and Open Mic Events

2012-01-12T09:34:00.000-05:00

Oh yes, I am playing with words on this rainy morning, before I get ready to train into the city with Judy Blundell for a meta lunch with writers Rebecca Stead, Deborah Heiligman, Carolyn Mackler, Rachel Vail, Elizabeth Winthrop and Jeanne Betancourt. At Henry's - my grandmother's favorite restaurant.

(What happens at lunch, stays at lunch!)

And I am inbetween book clubs and Open Mics - last Sunday we hosted an Open Mic for my Writopia kids in Larchmont and packed The Voracious Reader to the gills, and last night we had our InBeTWEEN Book Club at the Bedford Hills Free Library, where we discussed this month's pic, A Mango Shaped Space by Wendy Mass.

Later in the month there will be another Open Mic (at the Mt. Kisco Library), and there will be the first meeting of our new book club that my friend Erika insisted we start. (Since we both, you know, like to read and stuff.) We will be reading and discussing Swamplandia (Karen Russell) with four other people. (If you want to read it too, we can start a discussion on here!)

And in February, I have been invited to one of Wetchester's longest running book clubs, comprised of TEACHERS to discuss Edges.

Our InbeTWEEN Book Club members, ranging in age from 11 to 13, (okay, I'm almost 44, but I can pretend, can't I?) all thoroughly enjoyed the book.

From Booklist: For 13-year-old Mia Winchell, the world has always been filled with a wonderful, if sometimes dizzying, sensory onslaught--numbers, letters, words, and sounds all cause her to see a distinct array of colors. She keeps her unusual condition a secret until eighth grade, but then her color visions make math and Spanish impossibly confusing, and she must go to her parents and a doctor for help. However, this is more than a docu-novel. Mass beautifully integrates information about synesthesia with Mia's coming-of-age story, which includes her break with her best friend and her grief over her grandfather's death. The episode where Mia fabricates an illness to try out acupuncture for the color visions it produces is marvelously done, showing Mia's eagerness for new experiences even as it describes a synesthete's vision.

We were all fascinated by synesthesia, and most of us wouldn't mind having that special condition ourselves! I couldn't help but see a correlation to addiction, especially in the acupuncture scene where she goes because she heard that it can enhance her experience of colors. For an adult reading this, we see Mia go on a hallucinogenic trip. The boy she meets on-line, another synesthete, hints that alcohol and kissing can enhance the colors as well.

If I were Mia, I would probably be doing anything to enhance my colors, but that's me. It would have been a very slippery slope indeed.

Striving for Excellence

2012-01-05T11:44:00.003-05:00

As a writing teacher and mentor, part of my job is helping kids get ready to submit their work for - you got it - public scrutiny, either in the form of a reading, publishing in a literary journal or for an award.

I have to practice what I preach as well - having goals inspires us to write at our highest level, and more importantly, to complete projects.

It is both rewarding and inspiring to help them strive toward excellence.

Tomorrow is the deadline for my Westchester Writopia kids in grades 7 through 12 to submit to the prestigious Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. I have nine students submitting work, and all are worthy, in my humble opinion, of some kind of recognition. (In the last three years, Writopians have won the most awards out of any group of kids.)

Yet it doesn't always happen, does it? We don't always get rewarded or recognized for our efforts. Last year I had two students submitting, both in the same age group and category. Both are excellent writers: yet only one of them was awarded a gold key.

(I think there might be a chance that I was more disappointed than she was.)

I want my students to feel empowered by their writing and their voice in the world. And they do! They are.

So I'm anxious, excited, proud: if some of them don't win, so be it. All of us suffer some slings and arrows for our art, and we keep on trucking, keep refining, keep practicing. And we learn that any art form is subjective. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder - yet we have to be in it to win it, and to feel strongly about our right to be in the game. (Or at least fake it!) You all know very well that this is something I myself struggle with. (Why wasn't Writopia around when I was a kid?)

This month, Writopia Lab in Westchester will be hosting two Open Mic events, to celebrate the students who have finished pieces this past fall. The first one will be at our beloved bookstore in Larchmont, The Voracious Reader this Sunday, January 8th from 2PM - 3:30PM. The second one will be on January 20th at the Mt. Kisco Library, from 5PM - 6:30PM.

If you live in the Westchester area, please come and support these wonderful emerging writers and let them know that they are all winners. (And if you know of a child who loves to write, this is an Open Mic, so they are welcome to come and participate in these events.)

Have a Writing New Year!

2011-12-31T12:08:00.000-05:00

Before 2011 goes to sleep (forever), does it need to do anything else? Has there been anything left undone? Is there anything I need to do quickly, before 2012 begins? (Besides clean the bathrooms, one last time . . .)

It is the end of the winter solstice period, of the darkest nights of the year where we set our hearts, homes and lives ablaze with light to keep our spirits high. And we have one more celebration for the coming of light and the New Year.

2011 was our first full year living in Northern Westchester, and has most certainly been life on life's terms, yet we absolutely have no regrets and are thrilled with our choice in moving here.

We splurged on a Disney family vacation last February. We saw two big storms and experienced lengthy power outages. My kids turned 11, 9 and 6 and have pushed the boundaries beyond what they thought was possible in academics, swimming, football, music, reading. My husband revealed himself as a chef, I revealed myself as a competent driver. Writopia turned into an almost-sustainable business, with the addition of Larchmont this summer, and I have been working steadily since then.

I have written much, whilst I have had multiple frustrations with the publishing industry, leading me to wonder why I even bother. But I somehow always come back around to bothering: I write because it's worth doing. I believe in the power of words and that everybody has the right to write, to develop their voice and sense of self.

I have continued to blog in an effort to share my authenticity and not my "platform" - I do not want to be a persona - writing is thinking, and I have explored my thoughts here with you. I will continue to do so.

2012 will bring more resolve, more work, more writing. I will celebrate the 50th anniversary of A Wrinkle in Time and I'll get another book submission-ready. My kids will turn 12, 10 and 7. I'll take the 12 year old with me to Mobile, Alabama in early March where I will speak and lead workshops on the craft of writing. My husband will renovate all of the bathrooms *and my website* and my godson James will be born. (In the next three weeks!)

Tonight we have another family coming over to celebrate with us: dinner, games, and a children's candle ceremony. We will honor the lights in ourselves and each other, honor the past and the future, so that we can stay in the present.

(Okay, was that shmaltzy enough for you?)

Happy New Year! xoxox

The Willing Suspension of Disbelief

2011-12-24T16:39:00.001-05:00

This time of year is rich in layers of story and cultural myths no matter what we believe.

As both readers and writers, we are practiced at the willing suspension of disbelief. We have to have some kind of faith in order to write, to create inner and outer worlds. We also have to have faith in order to read fiction, don't we?

I believe in the power of redemption, Santa Claus and babies. I believe in giving gifts to the spirit in all of us, just as the Wise Men brought gifts to Jesus, and the Norse God Wotan dropped gifts from the sky.

I believe that we have the chance to be reborn again, and again, and again. That believing is keeping our eyes alive, and being open to the concept of seeing what we believe.

Because I don't only want to believe what I see - that is too limiting. What if I am cranky, as can sometimes be the case with all of us? Then I will only be able to see the glass as half empty.

Believing takes a certain amount of work, of risk.

My friend Amanda, a writer friend in Chicago, sent me one of my grandmother's Christmas poems yesterday. The remembering made me smile, and I thought I would share with you here:

The Risk of Birth
by Madeleine L'Engle

This is no time for a child to be born,
With the earth betrayed by war and hate
And a comet slashing the sky to warn
That time runs out and the sun burns late.

That was no time for a child to be born,
In a land in the crushing grip of Rome;
Honour and truth were trampled by scorn --
Yet here did the Saviour make his home.

When is the time for love to be born?
The inn is full on the planet earth,
And by a comet the sky is torn --
Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

That says it all, doesn't it? Love.

Right now I am smelling the turkey my husband is cooking for our Christmas Eve feast. I am looking forward to going to church tonight, and then afterward, giving the kids their Christmas pajamas, (the husband and I get some too) and getting ready for bed, only to stay up late to have cookies, hot chocolate and watch It's A Wonderful Life. (Yes, we leave some for Santa!)

Then it's time for visions of sugar plums to dance in our heads, and the willing suspension of disbelief.

Merry Christmas, to my friends who celebrate, and to my other friends, thank you so much for being in my life and helping me to broaden my world view.

In love,

Léna

Happy Solstice

2011-12-21T19:03:00.000-05:00

I love this time of year unabashedly. I love all of the different religious symbols of light, I love how we are challenged at every turn by the commercialism of the season to break out of our own cynicism and be better. To love one another. To embrace our light and our dark. To breathe in love, and breathe out love, to give, yes, but also to be open to the power of receiving, of connecting.

I offer you three great posts by other writers who inspired me today:

The first is by my new buddy in Westchester, Dan Zevin, a master of the personal essay and author of several collections - whose latest, Dan in a Minivan is forthcoming in May. He wrote about How (He) Learned to Love Latkes.

The second, is by an author I don't how, a Reverend Emily C. Heath on Keeping the Christ in Christmas. "It's not the 'Holiday Tree' out in a public park that makes me think Christ has been forgotten. It's the ability we Christians have this time of year to confess our faith in one breath, and then be breathtakingly small-minded or just plain mean in the next."

The last is by my friend Keith Jennings, who has a fantastic blog exploring the spirituality of creativity. His latest post is about inspiration.

Oh! It's 7PM, time to go to my solstice gathering where we revel in the coming of the Light. And you all are lights in my life too!

xoxo

Madeleine L'Engle is a Doll!

2011-12-19T08:38:00.000-05:00

A friend of my bro's found this pic on Flavorwire and I couldn't RESIST sharing it on Léna's Lit Life.

It's our Gran, Madeleine L'Engle, all "dolled" up and with a copy of the original cover of A Wrinkle in Time no less! I love the details - the bright colors and chunky jewelry, the highly arched eyebrows. She wore her hair cropped short since the late 1970's.

She would whoop with laughter if she saw this! Especially that the pants are pulled up way too high, but she would love that they have multi-toned stripes and the sweater - is that angora? She would hint wildly that she wanted "something cyclamen pink" for Christmas.

Speaking of which, my Gran was so much fun to go shopping for. She absolutely adored gifts, and always opened them with the eyes of a child. She collected unicorns, giraffes and angels.

I think that our big gift to her this year in keeping her memory alive is with the big celebration of the 50th anniversary of A Wrinkle in Time this February: there will be freshly minted books with the retro original cover, but with a colorful twist. I believe the book comes out again in January.

I miss you, Gran. You are still shining lights to all the dark corners for me and many others.

xoxox Léna

Practicing Principles Before Personalities in Publishing

2011-12-17T21:56:00.000-05:00

I don't want to be the Grinch . . . but I'm mad at the publishing biz. I wish that I could take my ball and go home. Have a tantrum, scream "No fair!" and slam the door to my room.

What happened? You may ask, and the answer is a resounding: nothing. Okay, maybe I'm just hormonal, but still. What do I have to do to get someone to email me back? (I emailed the publisher a while ago simply asking for the contact info of the person who could help me BUY MY OWN BOOKS and . . . nothing. I want to sell them when I go to Alabama in March. Don't they want that too? Or do they make more money if there is a middle man? Still, the least they could do is answer my question. I'm okay if it's no, really!))

So . . . the way out of this funk for me is writing, and to remember to practice principles before personalities. Nowhere is this more apropos in the world of publishing where it's really not personal that the business doesn't care about ME or my book, or YOU and your book. It cares about the bottom line, and so it should.

My principles, in case anyone was wondering, are: honesty, hope, faith, courage, integrity, willingness, humility, brotherly love, self-discipline, perseverance, awareness, and service.

This is where I practice the art of being human, and if I slip into Grinchy-mode for an hour or two, I can forgive myself and move on. It's progress, not perfection.

And . . . I know that I'm a day late in announcements, but hopefully, the post-person will get these goodies to you by Friday, in time for Christmas if that is your celebration-of-choice. The winners are . . . Melissa B and Kelly Andrews! Shoot me your email guys or DM me on Twitter so that I can get your addresses, and you will get a care package!

xoxox

PS Thanks for reading - I feel better for the writing!

InbeTWEEN Pages: Dead End in Norvelt

2011-12-15T10:01:00.001-05:00

I was thrilled to be asked to lead a middle school book club at the Bedford Hills Free Library and even more thrilled when my own 6th grader, Cooper, agreed to join. We had our second meeting last night, where we discussed our first book pic, Dead End in Norvelt by my new author crush, Jack Gantos.

Thank you Francine, owner of the much beloved Voracious Reader in Larchmont for the recommendation! This book is an excellent example of storytelling, with rich characters who jump off the page. Gantos takes us on a fascinating ride that helps his readers understand the importance of learning from our past. How does he do this? Through our protagonist, Jack (Jack Gantos himself) and our unlikely heroine, Miss Volker.

Melding the entirely true and the wildly fictional, Dead End in Norvelt is a novel about an incredible two months for a kid named Jack Gantos, whose plans for vacation excitement are shot down when he is "grounded for life" by his feuding parents, and whose nose spews bad blood at every little shock he gets. But plenty of excitement (and shocks) are coming Jack's way once his mom loans him out to help a fiesty old neighbor with a most unusual chore—typewriting obituaries filled with stories about the people who founded his utopian town. As one obituary leads to another, Jack is launced on a strange adventure involving molten wax, Eleanor Roosevelt, twisted promises, a homemade airplane, Girl Scout cookies, a man on a trike, a dancing plague, voices from the past, Hells Angels . . . and possibly murder. Endlessly surprising, this sly, sharp-edged narrative is the author at his very best, making readers laugh out loud at the most unexpected things in a dead-funny depiction of growing up in a slightly off-kilter place where the past is present, the present is confusing, and the future is completely up in the air.

Dead End in Norvelt was not only a huge hit with me, but it was a home run for the tweens. They loved the interweaving of history through this book that's set in rural Pennsylvania in the summer of 1962. The writing was so textured, that I had to stop myself from underlining passages as I was reading a library book! (Jack Gantos, if you are reading this, I am buying my own copy for you to sign for me, because meeting you someday is now on my bucket list!)

We all wanted to know what was fact and what was fiction in this book. Did Jack Gantos the author really have an anxiety disorder that manifested itself through nosebleeds? And did he really have an old lady cauterize his nose on her kitchen table?

We also named ourselves so that we are a real entity in our community. Seventh grader and Writopian, Sammy, came up with InbeTWEEN Pages and that moniker was unanimously agreed upon by the 6th - 8th graders in our "club". We will be meeting the second Wednesday of every month, so if you are a tween or love a tween who also loves to read and live in Northern Westchester, our current read for January is A Mango Shaped Space by Wendy Maas.

Hope to see YOU inbetween some pages!

PS Today is the last day to enter the contest to win a signed copy of Edges - in book or audio form. Multiple chances to win! Enter here . . .

Monday Lights Up

2011-12-12T11:13:00.001-05:00

I'm getting the hairy eyeball from "Monday" after a weekend of mayhem and joy in Western Massachusetts. (Baby shower for my friend Amanda who has named me godmother of her second child, James.)

All I want to do is lounge about and eat chocolate. Do you ever feel that way? And then I feel guilty when I'm not "productive" . . .

I don't want to discipline myself, yet I need to. Us creative folk crave structure deep down inside, even when we profess an affinity for loosey-goosey-ness. I need to be organized, to know what I'm doing.

And this is a wild time of year, isn't it? We're getting ready to embrace the darkness with all of the light we can muster.

My mind however, can't settle down and I know that I can't trust myself alone with the computer today. I have to be out in the world, collecting lights. Or in between the pages of someone else's words, or catching up with a friend.

There are other ways to light up my day than expecting myself to have a certain word count. Sometimes, you have to just let things marinate.

(Or maybe I'll just clean my daughter's room . . .)

My Dad's Christmas Poem: White Christmas?

2011-12-10T09:37:00.002-05:00

My dad, The Very Reverend Alan W. Jones, Dean Emeritus of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, sent me his latest poem yesterday, and I asked his permission to share it. I have been trying to get him to blog for a while now - he is a master storyteller and the author of eleven theological books - indeed, he has much to both teach and share with us! So I will leave you with this while I am on my way to Northhampton, Mass, where I have the honor of participating in a baby shower and being godmother to baby James who is due in January. There ain't nothin' like a baby at this time of year!*

White Christmas?

“Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives, power to retell it, to rethink it, deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless.” Salmon Rushdie.

Irving Berlin remembered the sight of an Irish family’s Christmas tree when he was a child on the Lower East Side. He later said it seemed to him to tower to heaven. In fact, it was a tiny, miserable little tree, but for the immigrant the holiday represented the magic and wonder of a New World.

Dreaming of a White Christmas?

Why not? Irving Berlin did, based, by the way,

on no experience.

So, here’s your chance to escape the mess of belief and disbelief.

Grab whatever story

you’ve been telling yourself about yourself

and fling it into the season’s whirlwind!

What comes flying back may surprise you.

It may make you cry. It may make you ache with laughter.

Wandering into the story didn’t bother Irving.

Why should it you?

Besides, he had the knack of remembering

something that never happened.

It wasn’t a matter of belief

but an openness to be changed by stories.

Can’t we give this baby-in-the-manger stuff a chance to deconstruct whatever nonsense

we’ve been telling ourselves about the world?

Jesus, Izzy, Emma, Fred, and Sue? What in a name?

The baby’s the one that matters.

Don’t knock nostalgia.

Irving’s “White Christmas” did something to those who heard it in 1941.

The story of the mother and her baby

might do the same for us.

There are plenty of Pearl Harbors to go round (Who bombed the financial markets?

Who made the golden parachutes?

Yours and mine lost in the mail?)

One of our poets* said this sentimental song crooned

by Crosby, “caught us where we love peace.”

Not a bad place to get caught, a good way to start dumping the story that’s trapped us

with the angst of clutching and fussing over what?

You name it.

Bethlehem, like the Lower East Side,

offers us a new world.

Just like the ones we used to know! Hardly!

Izzy didn’t know squat – this Jewish kid from Russia.

His dismal story didn’t stop him from telling it anew -- discovering a New World.

So, start deconstructing!

See yourself in the mystery.

It’s your story too.

And given the mess we’re in,

isn’t it time to grow into a new one –

into the one where God slips in among us –

the divine New Deal?

Merry and bright!

Alan Jones, dean emeritus of Grace Cathedral, San Francisco

*Don't forget, multiple chances to win a copy of my book or an audio of Edges!

EDGES: The One Year Anniversary

2011-12-06T09:46:00.000-05:00

My first novel came out exactly a year ago. A sweet book with two teen protagonists, it explores addiction and spirituality on the streets of New York City and the red canyons of the desert Southwest.

A year ago, paranormal romance was trending, so Edges didn't come out with the BANG! I had hoped for. Still, I was/am incredibly fortunate to have been published in this exciting technological era where all of the rules are changing. I am ecstatic that I finally gave myself permission, albeit slowly, to write, and that I have become the person I was meant to be: a writer and a teacher.

I believe that everybody has the right to write - if they want to. Everybody has a story to tell, and we don't all have to be Shakespeare.

The most important factors to becoming a writer are passion, practice, discipline and a little bit of luck. In terms of luck, is it "lucky" to be the eldest granddaughter of Madeleine L'Engle? Of course it is! But it is also a double edged sword. It might make people listen for five seconds, but it also sets up unrealistic expectations. (And that's not the reason I was published.) I have to sink or swim on my own, I have to have my own authentic voice.

Many of you know that I have had to table my second book, a companion to Edges called The Land of the Lost and Found due to "lackluster" sales of Edges. (And people, anything short of a best seller is lackluster these days.) I am happy with the sales of Edges, happy that it is being read.

The strategy is for me to move onto another publishing house with something new and fresh, and then publish The Land of the Lost and Found, timing it with the paperback release of Edges. Makes sense, right?

So I have India Flips, a tween novel. It is about flipping out, flipping for, as well as literally flipping. (In November, for Nanowrimo, I started from scratch, but took the basic premise from another novel-in-a-drawer and completely changed the characters - from ages to personalities.)

I will celebrate my anniversary by going to the gym, and by throwing myself into revisions. And I think it's a good excuse for another contest, don't you? Since it's the season of giving and all.

I have one book (signed of course!) and an audio to give away. And bookmarks! (Everyone who enters will get a bookmark.) You will have multiple chances to have your name in the lottery.

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Oui, Oui Christmas Concert

2011-12-05T15:18:00.000-05:00

Happy Monday everyone. Today's post is about how I found myself involved in a Christmas Concert with CHARIS, "the finest vocal group in Westchester" . . .

We say yes for many different reasons (besides not being able to say no.) My biggest reason for saying yes is to help my community (friends) and to stretch myself as a person.

However, saying "yes" can be uncomfortable, and sometimes I wonder what I have gotten myself into.

"We are desperate for a narrator for our Christmas concert," Amy said to a group of mutual friends a couple of weeks ago. This was the first time I had heard Amy talk about singing, let alone that she was part of a choral group. And I don't want anybody to be desperate. I mean, I know how to read aloud, don't I? Isn't that what a narrator does?

"Maybe I can do it," I offered, and immediately Amy jumped on my words. It snowballed, and I got way out of my comfort zone.

I had no idea that the choral group Amy is involved with, Charis, would be comprised of over thirty singers, tenors, sopranos, altos and baritones and artistically directed by Art Sjogren. I had no idea they would be so professional. I don't know what I expected - a rinky-dink choir? I didn't think, I just said, "yes I can." I've read in church many, many times. (Of course, I haven't done it in years, but isn't it nice that my impulse was to engage instead of to cower?)

I was to play the part of "narrator" during a choral piece called Annonciation by Frenchman Daniel-Lesur's. There were no long monologues, I just had to know when to be able to come in on the music. Oh, just that. Challenge #1. Gulp. Now that I have never done before.

I managed to go to one rehearsal immediately following a workshop and was stunned by the singers. I had actually been thinking of auditioning until I heard them. You want me to sing Mack the Knife? I'm your gal. But these folks aren't amateurs. I didn't want to embarrass them.

Then there were the performances this weekend.

Saturday was a FULL day, and I squeezed this concert in between events. I didn't have time to think about it, let alone be nervous, but then, during one of the parts of my narration, I started struggling with a cough.

And then I coughed once during a soprano's solo and . . . don't worry, I made myself stop. Have you ever tried to stop a coughing fit? (You end up crying instead, which I guess is apropos for the Annunciation.)

But still, I did not feel great about my performance. Coughing is not cool. (I kept thinking that it had been hubris to say "yes".)

I ran out to make the Christmas Tree lighting in Bedford Hills, where my son Finn was singing in the chorus. (He was delicious.)

Sunday I didn't have to rush around or be anywhere else, so I could just focus on the concert. My mom drove down from Connecticut, and my 6 year old daughter Scarlett came too. I had time to be nervous, but also was able to arm myself with throat lozenges and water.

No coughing, my voice was loud, measured and clear. I rocked it. The singers were just phenomenal.

So. Moral of this story? Get out of your comfort zone. Just do it. And if you live near Westchester, do yourself a favor and come to one of Charis' concerts. (It's not just church-y stuff. :0)

And now I have to focus that moral on exercising more regularly. NaNoWriMo coupled with not having time to work out has wreaked havoc on my back. Just do it. Heh, heh, heh.

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You do. Believe it.

"Tell me a story about when I was a baby."

"Tell me the story about the time you and Da met."

"Tell me a story about princesses and dragons."

My children bombard me with these requests and I happily oblige, for I know that it is through story that they will understand their lives.

Story is the lens through which we see the world: is it a good one - where love and hope reign supreme, or a bad one - where evil lurking behind every corner, no-one and nothing is to be trusted. For most of us, it's somewhere in the middle.

I am a writer. I process the world through story and essay. I am drawn to dark material, yet I work hard to find the silver linings of hope.

And yet - we don't have to be "writers" to do this. We devour books, movies, television shows, newspapers, family lore. We rely on "story" to tell us who we are.

But what if the stories we tell ourselves lead us on a destructive path? The power of story is not only positive.

When I was a therapist, I worked with my clients on "reframing" their experiences, because the stories that they were telling themselves weren't serving them anymore. They needed, as I myself have at times needed, to rewrite the script. They needed to take control of their own narrative.

Rewriting my story has changed me. The facts remain the same, but the way I view them aren't, because I today I take responsibility for myself and for my actions.

In the end, stories are all we have.

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