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I started a new blog, which I promise to be much more diligent about updating... There are more topics to be covered, but don't worry, publishing and kid's books will undoubtedly work it's way in there...

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My Girl Crush - Jhumpa Lahiri

My writer girl crush is Jhumpa Lahiri, seen here reading from her latest book of short stories, UNACCUSTOMED EARTH. I just finished it this morning and it's a truly amazing work of art. In fact, it's the best collection of short stories I've read since INTERPRETER OF MALADIES, which she also wrote and that in 2000, garnered her the Pulitzer Prize.

I'm a big, big fan and one day, hope to be able to achieve at least part of what she can - flawed, true characters, rich dialogue, stories that leave a lasting impression on the reader. She creates masterpieces.

Enjoy!

Speaking of Nostalgia...

According to dictionary.com (ironic that as a book lover I've readily given up leafing through a thick dictionary in favor of bookmarking a website that will reveal a word's definition to me in five seconds), the word "nostalgia" means, "a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life, to one's home or homeland, or to one's family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time."

So, in embracing my nostalgic self I wrote a little piece about my dad. He's the type of person that one doesn't forget: loud, funny, and quite a character.

My father has always had a veritable chest of phrases I like to think he stores in his rather rotund belly, supported by two slim, limbering legs, and a sharp mind celebrated for its acerbic wit. When concerned about leaving enough time to arrive at the airport, or a movie, he will persistently ask, “what time are you leaving?” If confiding in him about a new relationship, he will question whether it is “hot and heavy.” When complaining about a friend’s insensitivity, he will affirm, “that’s not right.”

Many times my father has smiled slyly at me and whispered, “she wants me,” his head cocked towards the tall, slender waitress, a thick-waisted barista, or a blond woman passing by our table. Last year I lectured him about the danger of a diet latent with high-fructose syrup. His response was, “that’s fruck-ed up.” To this day, he refers to “milk” as “klim” and “fish” as “fis.” No one is sure why, but much to his first and second wife’s dismay, it never fails to make my older brothers and I smile.

Then there are the phrases a little girl never thinks of hearing.

“Your mother and I are separating.”

Shortly after I turned seven, my parents sat me down in the den of what would become solely my mother’s apartment, and broke the news. Although inside my stomach turned, I asked whether I was free to go, more concerned more watching my television shows in my room. I do not remember the exact look on either of my parents’ faces, but I am sure it was something close to absolute horror.

When I was younger, television was of the utmost importance; if anyone in my family needed to know when a specific show was on they turned to me. I was the TV Guide model of Small Wonder, able to announce the time, channel, and name of any show on basic cable between the hours of 8 A.M. and 8 P.M. Not even the break-up of my parent’s marriage could tear me away from Blair, Joe, Natalie, and Tutti on the Facts of Life. After all, it is where I first fell in love with George Clooney, twenty years my senior.

My father moved out soon after, to a cramped, furnished apartment on East 54th street. I saw him every other weekend and reveled in the microwave oven I had been nagging my mom to buy. With a few satisfying pushes of a button and a couple of high-pitched beeps, could I really turn a box of previously frozen chicken nuggets into a steaming plateful in under two minutes? How glorious!

After a brief reconciliation between my parents one summer, my father moved out again—this time to East 33rd street. He lived there for two years and permitted me to do whatever I wanted when I visited. I drank Raspberry Snapple morning, noon, and night, rented Wilson Phillips music videos I viewed for hours on end, and lived on Weaver chicken nuggets that burned my mouth, my impatience to eat trumping common knowledge to let them cool.

Some weekends we went to Broadway plays, “A Chorus Line,” and “Fiddler on the Roof” to name a few; others were for trips out to California and Florida to visit my grandmother. Still, on other especially low-key Sundays, I voluntarily mopped his kitchen floors and scoured the toilets, or holed up in my room, began to embrace puberty and the boy I liked by privately daydreaming of the moment when he would become my first kiss.

Every now and again my two brothers, entrenched in their own twenty and thirty-something lives, would come over to visit their aging father and much younger half sister. When I was thirteen I decided my father was lonely, so my brothers and I adopted two cats for him, which we ill-fittingly named, “Bonnie and Clyde.” Bonnie urinated on my father’s leg when he was in bed. Clyde hid under the couch the first night we brought him home and never reappeared until, months later, fed-up of dropping his sheets off at the cleaners three times a week, my father coaxed Clyde into a carrier cage beside Bonnie, and returned them to the shelter.

I am now twenty-eight and a lot of time has passed since the days when I used to dance around my room or subject my father to John Candy movies and Bobby Brown music videos. I have graduated from college, had four jobs, fallen in and out of love, and moved into my own, cramped apartment (without a microwave).

My father’s life has changed too. In the past fourteen years he has retired, lost his older brother to Leukemia and mother to pneumonia, also fallen in and out love, and recently, after hamstring surgery, began walking with a cane. He refers to the thick slabs of skin that hang from his neck as his “jowls” and brown age spots have begun to pepper his hands and arms. His new favorite phrase is, “you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

A couple of weeks ago, I went to visit my father at his apartment. After the usual catch-up conversation, speckled with a few good-humored jabs thrown my way or his, we turned ourselves over to the television, which I still watch, but not with the same fervor of my childhood.

It began to get dark and when I looked at the clock it was 7:30, far past our normal 6:00 dinnertime. I asked my father if he was hungry and he nodded.

“There are some chicken nuggets in the freezer. I picked them up on the way home from my physical therapist’s office for you,” he said.

I smiled and went to the kitchen to make dinner. In under two minutes.

Rejected.

So I received my official rejection letter from a children's agent earlier this week. It wasn't particularly surprising, since I hadn't heard from him in months, but it still stung - I can't lie about that. In retrospect the way in which I received the letter was mildly comical. My boyfriend handed it to me - along with three bills and my latest copy of "The Writer" magazine - while we were in the elevator going up to our apartment. "Oh. This," I said, looking at the thin envelope on which my name and address were unsteadily printed by an aging typewriter. My first thought was that as an assistant, I'd never send a letter out in which the addressee's name is as high up on the paper as the return address. My second thought, having endured many college rejections thanks to lofty goals and a guidance counselor who provided no guidance whatsoever, was "this isn't good."

And so I read through the letter. Three times. Then my eyes welled, at which point my boyfriend rushed over to me and assured me that I am indeed, a good writer. And I am. Even the letter said that. Praised for my characters, my voice, the way I can draw out relationships between two people who exist only on paper. But my plot, I was told, may not be engaging enough for children. "Nostalgic," was what the piece was called. "How ironic," I muttered, since it takes place in a decade I never experienced, and in the South, a part of this country I've barely even visited, save for a two-day business trip to Nashville and a long weekend with a friend in Chapel Hill.

And so I placed the letter in my coffee table, resigned to filing it away at some point and filled up the rest of my evening with take-out food, old episodes of "The Office," and candy. The following day, when I returned home from work, I read the letter again. I expected I'd be angry. Or sad. Or some other feeling that in general, I try to avoid. But I wasn't. If anything, the 24 hours I'd spent drowning in emails, reality TV, and US Weekly, made me realize this - he's right.

Plotting is not my strong suit. I actually hate it. Characters, and their relationships, are. I'd be happy writing an entire novel about two characters talking - perhaps this is why I like "Before Sunrise" so much? But books also need to be about something happening. Perhaps if I my novel took place in some post-apocalyptic 1956, where my main character was no longer just fighting for her family to be as it "was" before tragedy struck, but also fighting large wolverines who were threatening to eat the whole world, it would have been accepted?

All joking aside, what happened was this: I was given a wake-up call to improve my novel. And so, three years later, I go back and start again.

To Product Place... Or Not To Product Place

If you watched the Oscars last night you would've had to endure an additional two or so minutes of your time wasted on product placement--for the Apple iphone and the Nintendo Wii. It was over the top and ill-conceived, if you ask me. We're already subjected to what must amount to an entire hour of commercials throughout the too-long, too-boring show chock full of montages. Why can't I watch the pretty people draped in sparkly jewels who often make strange speeches (thank you, Tilda Swinton) in peace? Frankly, I'm tired of being bombarded with commercials and products and I work in marketing! This is my job! But it's inescapable now. By the time I've had three bites of my dinner I've been told I need to take Nexium and drive a Chrysler. I mean, remember when you there was only two commercial breaks during "Jeopardy"? One between the regular and double Jeopardy questions and another before the final question?

I can pinpoint the exact moment when I first became aware of over-the-top advertising. It was halfway through Men in Black 2, while Wil Smith and Tommy Lee Jones actually spend time in a Sprint store that just happens to be in the middle of the super secret, isolated bad alien bashing headquarters. I was appalled, though at the same time privately amused because if you're a former Sprint subscriber, you know that getting service in the middle of Manhattan was practically as difficult as overthrowing an entire nation of invading aliens, so the chances of Wil Smith picking up his phone to make a call from their HQ are pretty slim.

Since then I've become hyper aware of a marketer's efforts, from the consumer as well as the business side, which is why as both a person with a passion for children's literature and a consumer I was appalled to learn about HarperCollins Children's Book's latest endeavor in a New York Times article by Motoko Rich titled, "In Books For Young, Two Views on Product Placement."

Next year, HarerCollins will publish "Mackenzie Blue," written by Tina Wells, founder of Buzz Marketing - a company that advises other companies on how to market to the teen and pre-teen audience. Now, product placement - especially in books aimed at the status-symbol cravers we know as teens - is not new. But, Ms. Wells intention is for outside companies, like Converse, to be able to sponsor the book is. Yes, you read correctly, SPONSOR. As in how the Oscars are held in the Kodak theater in Los Angeles. Or the L.A. Lakers playing in the Staples center. Soon we could have Junie B. Jones' Adventures with her new Nikon 400 Camera!

HarperCollins isn't the only culprit. The article also mentions the experience of two authors who wrote, "Cathy's Book," published by Penguin in hardcover a few years ago. They worked out a deal with Cover Girl that led to a backlash of the highest order -- even from the new presidential candidate, Ralph Nader! Though it is always said that even bad publicity is good for sales.

"Cathy's Story" and "Mackenzie Blue" aren't the real problem. It's the fact that children as young as ten - or younger - are having brands forced down their throat. Is nothing, not even the blissful selfishness of childhood - sacred? It's no wonder kids are growing up so fast; that they ask for so much. Soon, they won't even be able to read a book without a corporate message, logo, or slogan. What's to happen to all those glorious kids who want to buck the norm? Who don't want to wear Citizen jeans, Uggs, and the Cover Girl's sheer lipsticks.

I'm sorry, literature should stay as just that. Literature. Not a marketing means forced upon kids via large media mania corporations.

I mean, can you imagine Laura Ingalls Wilder in Little House on the Prairie running around in Uggs, while Pa drives off in his Jeep, and Ma hangs up her Downy fresh scented laundry to dry?

No. And that's one final answer I know is correct.

Link

Publishing. In Real Time.

After hopping around half this country over the past few days I took Friday off to recover. Part of this recovery, which consists of consuming ice cream bars and watching 'The Breakfast Club," also includes a little online pleasure reading, sometimes to be found on people.com. Other times I'm on nyt.com, where pn Friday night, while watching Judd Nelson be berated by an overzealous principal circa 1985, I came across an interesting essay called, "Waiting For It," about why it takes so long for books to be published after they're acquired by a house. As the article points out, let's face it, it is possible for a book to go from manuscript form to book form in under two months. If you haven't already read it, I definitely urge you to. If you can't or don't want to, here's the lesson to be learned.

Why don't publishers print book faster?

Word of mouth.

Yep, as simple as those three little words. In an age where competition is high (if you read the article you'll see Rachel Donadio, the author, talks about how in national chain stores like B&N a book basically has two weeks to sell if on promotion and then it's pulled. At stores like Target & Wal-Mart, it's essential that the author be well-known, or have already generated significant industry buzz, to be taken in), you talking to your friends and then their talking to someone else is what publishers are aiming for in all their marketing efforts. Buzz, it's called. The same buzz that drew me to "The Breakfast Club" in 1994, when I was just entering high school and a friend and I went to the video store to pick up the 1985 John Hughes classic on the recommendation of her older sister.

A couple of books and authors have reached new heights the past few years because of "word of mouth." The Lovely Bones, Water for Elephants, and even to some extent--despite rave reviews--The Book Thief (which, by the way, I finished at 1 a.m. this morning while sitting on my bathroom floor trying not cry quietly so as not to wake--and scare--my boyfriend). 

Publishers seek "buzz" as much as clothing or accessory companies like Prada, who will send a celebrity a free bag in the hopes that he or she will be photographed by US Weekly wearing it. Book sales, too, can be influenced by celebrities. Consider the success of Skinny Bitch, after Victoria "Posh Spice" Beckham was seen carrying it in airport last year.

These examples leads me to the next buzz-making avenue. Book Clubs. A forgotten marketing vehicle among publishers. Until now. As a reader I'm always looking for a new book to read and often times I'll rely more on the recommendation of a friend than a professional reviewer. Why? Because my friend and I have similar taste in books, whereas for all I know, the review I've just read was written by someone with an undisclosed distaste for historical fiction, chick lit, etc. Half of my friends are in book clubs and while they're meetings occur only once a month and include fewer than twelve others, if you multiply that again and again the numbers add up.

If you're a writer who is looking to aggressively market your book it's time to start looking at book clubs as an opportunity. Look no futher than... next door. Offer yourself up to book clubs hosted by friends, or friends of friends. Do a short a reading, answer some questions, maybe even get everyone to do a brief writing exercise of their own. I know for me, there's something magical about being in the presence of a real-life writer! (If nothing else, I guarantee you'll meet some real characters who may have a cameo role in a future novel!)

So pack your Tupperware with your latest and greatest and get moving!

Link,

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NBA (Nail-Biters Anonymous)

I think I've mentioned this before but I'll briefly say it again... On some days I relate more to my authors than others. Today was one of those days. Last Thursday after a stressful and somewhat contentious meeting, I did not. But back to today...

I sent a follow-up email to the assistant to the children's books agent at the literary agency I'd contacted a while back. So to rewind... I sent thirty pages to an agency back in October and then heard in December that they wanted to see the rest of it. YAY! I thought. And by "yay" I mean I was pretty psyched, but also quite aware of the fact that this process is slow, tedious, and often doesn't yield one's desired result the first time around. Anyway, a full draft was sent and then today - after weeks of nail-biting (okay, I do this anyway), and a giddy little thump in my chest every time an unknown number popped up on the caller ID of my cell phone (these numbers were usually from one of three people - my hairdresser, my therapist, or the car service in Brooklyn I've had to use repeatedly over the past few weeks for numerous business trips), I decided to follow up.

So now I'm back in the shoes of my authors again. These feelings of insecurity, doubt, and passion for my own work are nearly suffocating. 

Anyway, this is going to be a short post. I'm in between two tiresome business trips. I only just got back from Florida last night, and tomorrow I'm heading to the mid-west. Needless to say I've been short on time which has left me little time for blogging and even less for working on my new novel, since I spend a majority of my time doing writing of another kind, e.g. sending emails. It's all a bit frustrating.

Okay, I must go pack. I am presenting the big Fall 2008 titles to Borders on Thursday and since I'm not the best off-the-cuff presenter I always come prepared with a script. After all, as I said before, I am definitely relating to the work and stress that comes along with this whole process and I deserve it to these authors (and their editors) to present everything as best I can.