Operators Are Standing By

I'm not ready! I'm not ready! I'm not ready! This week feels huge and busy and really great and terrifying, too. I read at Powell's on Hawthorne this Wednesday, the launch party is on Sunday and somehow I feel as if I've fallen under the wheels of a runaway wagon. It's my lack of skill as a marketer of my work and self--how does Facebook work? Don't ask me, though I've had several tutorials--thanks to the magnificent Liz Crain, I still don't get it or why I should blog, if it seeems no one is reading these posts. I think of the David Bowie song--can't remember the title just the lyrics, "Ground Control to Major Tom--Can you hear me, Ground Control?" Yeah, that's me.
Anne Lamott says that if you're waiting for publication to give you something it will be a long wait. I'm paraphrasing here, but she's right. I've never felt so out there and exposed--along with a good measured dose of embarrassment about my words--the book is lovely--the cover all of it but looking through to choose what to read it all seems like doody. I can see now how lame a writer I am or maybe I'm better now but it's too late for that to matter with this book. And all the nice things people have said are canceled out by the bitch in my head.
And then there's William Stafford who once wrote that he'd give it all up to write the next thing.On my shelf is the next book waiting for me to love it again. Karma's story is so different than Janie's and I have not the time or energy to go to it now. Junot Diaz says he hasn't started another project since Oscar Wao because he's still busy with that. I get it and I'm overwhelmed.
I so want this book, Little Green, to sell well and to be read by people for whom the story will resonate and produce some little burst of light in their own life.

Black beans in the Manner of Cookie

I make these a lot. I invented them when I was writing Little Green and became intrigued by Cuban food. This is not a Cuban recipe, it’s more a hippie girl take off of a Cuban recipe (measurements are eyeballed). You can use leftovers for enchiladas, quesadillas, mixed in with mac and cheese or under a big old blanket of corn bread. Mmmm…. corn bread!

3 cups dried black beans soaked overnight, rinsed, drained. Cover with fresh water and cook until tender with a fresh bay leaf. Do Not Salt Your Beans, cowgirls—makes ‘em tough.

In olive oil saute 2 chopped onions until translucent, add 1 chopped red pepper, 4 fat cloves of garlic chopped, I chopped and seeded jalapeno pepper, 2 heaping spoons each; cumin, oregano, chili powder and kosher salt and red chili flakes to taste. Peel and chop into stew sized chunks—2 medium sized yams or sweet potatoes, big handful chopped cilantro, 2 small or 1 medium orange quartered, peel and all. Pour in beans and 1 cup of their liquid. Add fresh orange juice to barely cover contents. Bring to a simmer uncovered and cook until vegetables are tender. Adjust seasonings. Serve on rice. I love to make a salad of jicama, orange and avocado with a little lime and olive oil drizzled over on a bed of bitter greens.

A Room of One's Own

Working on a second novel as the first one comes out has been a challenge. I'm not complaining. Well, maybe a little. Certainly not about the publication part, but trying to hold two things at one time in my fifty year old brain pan has been exhausting. I find myself wishing for a chunk of time thick enough and deep enough to sink into the new story. The one about the mothers and daughters and all those family members and food--Lord, all the food! I'm not a multi-tasker. I'm almost not a tasker at all. I like to do one thing at a time and I'd rather have less and do less than be real busy and productive. I aspire to be a shut-in one day.

Nobody ever tells you that the best part of writing fiction is resuscitating the imagination you locked away when you started grade school. Writing fiction is a lot like the days when you were a kid and could play make believe games with fantastical plot lines and characters for hours, and in my case, days/weeks on end. Some of those games I played with the neighbor kids and some I imagined and played by myself. Inventing a world where I would marry John Lennon--actually, I think we just shacked up--live on a farm with a cow named Eleanor Rigby and a horse named Penny Lane, and have adventures that had something to do with traveling by balloon to countries that don't exist and playing air guitar.

Writing fiction gives me that part of my brain back--the inventive, playful and darkly twisted mind that loves make-believe and thrills when a character walks into the room and wants to be written.

Even though my novel, Little Green, is rooted in my own life experiences, it is also make believe and so I could invent the resting places for Janie that didn't exist in real life. How cool is that? When you write about your own life, or make it the jumping off place for a novel, you get the chance to give the 'you' character some gifts that maybe weren't there when you were living it all in real time.
Stella was one such gift. He came to me early on in the writing process. A huge man the color of my favorite crayon (Burnt Sienna) who could love Janie but not be in love (or lust) with her. As I got to know him through writing him, I kind of fell in love with him myself.

I want more of that! Having more of that means having quiet time to space out and stare out the window and follow the imagination's trail to the next thing. I better get on that.

Miz Loretta Reads To You June 17 7:30, Baby

My first official reading is tomorrow night at Annie Bloom's Books in Multnomah Village. Yes, I've told y'all before, but I really am excited. I lived the first nine years of my life at 6491 SW Capital Hoghway. I even remember my first phone number--246-4363! All four of my sisters attended Wilson High School. I went to West Hills Christian School--yup, I did--and later Mary Reike Elementary but back in those days we called it Little Wilson. My library was the Hillsdale branch. My grocery store was Lynches (where Nature's is now). Lynches had these little brown paper grab bags that I loved to buy. They came in two sizes--large for a quarter and small for a dime. You never knew what kind of junk you'd get. It was the surprise that mattered. My sister was married in the Hillsdale Community Church when I was five--I was the flower girl and very proud to be dressed entirely in pink.
I still love that part of Portland. After my divorce I moved deep into the heart of Multnomah within walking distance of Annie Bloom's. I spent many lazy afternoons and evenings curled up in one of their cushy chairs reading, then stopping by Fat City or Marco's or O'Connor's for a drink or a bite to eat. I lived on a gravel street that got little traffic. It was a small house with a huge yard. The owner had been my brother-in-law's friend from school. He lived in Baltimore and needed someone to keep up the yard and live in the place. The rent was only $200 a month. Like I said, it was a perfect place for me to try out my wings. I worked and went to school and had incredible potlucks every weekend all summer long.
Multnomah Village is truly one of the treasures of Portland. It's a part of town that makes me feel like I'm out of town on vacation somewhere small, quaint and charming. So much of my personal history has taken place within walking distance of Annie Bloom's it is absolutely perfection to be reading there tomorrow and having a drink next door after. If you're out and about, stop by. And if you've never been to the Village get yourself there, toot sweet, baby. You won't regret it!

Just A Little Green

This Thursday I'll be reading from Little Green at Annie Bloom's Books in Multnomah Village. It's hard to figure what to read--something from the beginning so the listeners don't get lost? Something from the middle? Some place where things get interesting and the story is moving? Definitely not from the end. I don't want to ruin the ending for anyone. My two little girl friends (5 & 7) had waffles with me yesterday. I asked the girls what they were reading these days. Sylvia said she was reading Charlotte's Web and Kika said, "It's sad when Charlotte dies." Yeah, not so much reading from the end.
In workshops, you're always reading what you're working on, the pages you're holding are still warm from the copy machine, but once a book is bound you are, too, to the words printed and the story as it exists on the page. You can get caught up in revision and I think some writers never finish the longer project because the story keeps changing on them. Little Green is my first book, my baby really but would she be the same baby if I wrote that story again? She was my training bike. Zadie Smith compared her first novel, White Teeth, with a slightly overweight not totally attractive child. You send your work out into the world and you hope for kindness and a welcoming reception and then you let go and start the next project. Such is life, I suppose.
As for Thursday's reading, I believe I'll choose something seasonal and hope for a warm and sunny day!

Ready, Set, Read!

Reading aloud to grown ups, at least from my own work, used to make me nauseous and sweaty like I had the beginnings of a flu. This is a problem if you're in a fiction writing class. When it was my turn to read part of a chapter in the workshop, my face would turn deep red, my hands would become cold and sweaty, my mouth would dry up like I'd been smoking the wacky weed, my stomach would shiver like jello and my voice would tremble, quake and threaten to crack at the most inopportune moments. By the time I'd read my piece, I'd have to leave the room for water--some to drink and some to splash on my face.
And then it changed. I told the professor, A.B. Paulson, how bad it was for me to read to the members of our class and he told me to think about my breathing and slow down. He didn't promise I'd feel better. He just said breathe and slow down. Thinking of filling my startled lungs instead of freaking out about the words on the double-spaced page in front of me helped a bunch. So did practicing alone with no audience except little Musoweinie, our dachshund.
It wasn't until about a year ago reading a story I'd won the Doug Fir Fiction prize for at the Someday Lounge that I actually enjoyed--no, loved the experience. Since that night in a packed bar when I read my work to a crowd of friends and strangers I haven't been afraid again. I hope that doesn't change as I go into this season of events for Little Green. Thursday June 3, I read at PSU from my novel. I've been practicing like crazy and I really can't wait to bring my inner diva out to play!

A Portland Moment

Moments of synchronicity seem to happen more frequently these days. I'm not sure why. Is it that I'm finally driving this bus in the direction it was always meant to go? Or am I just noticing it more often than I used to?

My partner, Ben, had a piece of art in the Cascade Aids Project auction Saturday night. We got ourselves all cleaned up and fancy, me in a shorty black dress and pink brocade jacket Prince may have worn back in the day. Ben in his sharkskin suit and red-checked tie. We drove over to the Bison Building at NE 9th and Flanders, a great industrial space which had been turned into a cocktail party art gallery. After getting set up with drinks and snackage (the best Dirty martini I think I've had in my life). We looked at the art and then I stole away to listen to legendary diva, Linda Hornbuckle and her band play some old school soul and R&B.

During the first set, as is the custom in P-town, not a body on the floor was shaking it and I have to admit I was shy to be the tipsy fifty-year old woman dancing alone. I stood off to the side and just watched. My god, that woman can sing! Deep soulful tunes that had me swaying despite myself. The second set really got the party started and the dance floor soon became hot, crowded and jumping. Just like it ought to be.

A woman nearby put her evening bag on top of the packet with our drink tickets so at some point we started talking. Turns out this glamorous woman also had been married to a man who was married to his addiction. Turns out she, too, had to leave in a rush and suffered for years from what we'd now call post traumatic stress disorder. She said to me that when women do finally leave, "We just get stronger." I agreed. I told her about my book, Little Green and a little about my own history, how hard it is to walk away and not go back, how frightening it is to start over but once you're out you would never go back to that other kind of fear. The fear that's all about if he's drunk, if he's high, if he's mad--all the shit you can't control. She told me her sisters are both still in abusive relationships. I asked her if she'd seen her ex since she left him. She said that he still lives in the town where her family resides. When she goes home to visit, she can count on him showing up unannounced. "It's like he can smell me." I know that feeling. I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be free of it. Yes, I'm stronger in some ways, but at what cost?

If the statistics are right, one out of four women will experience violence a the hands of someone she knows. Maybe it isn't really surprising I would meet a stranger at a crowded and unlikely event and find that we share experiences that had us nodding in recognition during our brief conversation. There are too many of us out there, ladies. Far too many of us.

Ninja Writing Practice

When I worked as a preschool teacher there were a couple of different ways you could approach making art with little kids. The first way--the only way for a very long time--was to have a project that focused on the end result. A teacher would spend hours cutting out hearts or pumpkins, or long, long ago Christmas tree shapes and making all these uniform pieces that could be easily assembled by a four-year old child with minimal mess and uniform results for all children. There weren't choices about color, shape or size. There was a wrong way and a right way to make the project and it was obvious to everyone. A child who ventured to make something different by choice or chance weren't called creative by lots of the teachers I worked with--they were just plain naughty and probably not allowed to have extra supplies.
The other way to do art with kids is all about enjoying the making and doing. It's much messier than the other way. Paint will be spilled, glue, too. Supplies will be decimated. Pumpkins may end up triangular and not the standard orange circle. Odd (to the adult eye, anyway) color combinations will probably arise. Children encouraged to experiment and take risks regardless of the mess involved will discover things about the materials and themselves that are more important than the product at the end of the line. I'd like to suggest that not much changes as we get older.
Writing is kind of like a messy art project for me. I don't know where I'm going when I start. Something shiny grabs me and won't leave me alone. An image, a sentence fragment I overhear at a coffee shop, some little piece of conversation I can't quit thinking about. I start wondering why a sad brown-eyed woman is moving her family in the rain on the bus and what her oldest kid is thinking about during the long ride across town, each kid carrying a box or garbage bag stuffed with clothes. I don't have an outline for the story because I'm writing to find out what happens next and it will take some time to figure it out. Of course, I can't really know what anyone else experiences except in my imagination. That's the beauty in this whole "process" approach to writing, and to life. Writing a story is like playing make believe when you're about seven-years old. You can lose yourself in time and space. It's magic when you're doing it and thankfully it doesn't require any special skill set to do it.
Writing is just writing--a practice, if you like, or a discipline, an art, a craft. We sit down with our tools and quiet up. We pay attention and soon enough we're writing and the time melts away. Later there will be revision and maybe soup if I get off my ass and make it but not until later.

Read You A Novel

On Sunday, in the New York Times Book Review, I was delighted to find a full page review of Gina Ochsner's latest book, The Russian Dreambook of Color and Flight. It's a book I'm recommending to everyone I know and not just because the woman wrote a lovely blurb for my own little book. I'm telling people to read it because I haven't had such great luck with my adventures in reading lately.

I use the Sunday Times to give me guidance about books. I make a list in the back of my journal titled "Books To Read", but so many of those books fail to keep me in their stories and that, my friends, is what I want--to be kept like a mistress in the tight box of a good story. I've given up on famous books by famous writers who need better editing. I'm not naming names here. Suffice to say of the NY Times book list, I've started many and finished few. I've been aching for a story--a good, well-told story about characters I wanted to live with and cozy up tight with while my spring allergies rage. I wanted a book that could withstand a heavy dose of Benadryl and weepy red-rimmed eyes. A book that could keep me awake in bed and make me want to return to its unturned pages first thing in the morning.
When I saw that Gina Ochsner was about to publish her first novel, I was excited. I like her short stories a lot. She's won just about every literary award and grant for the quality of her amazing little stories, and she lives in Salem, Oregon, for chrissakes, so of course I've got to love her work, but novels are what I love best. And finally she has one!
I won't say too much about plot. I won't use words like magic realism or post modernity. I will say there's a place you've never been "The All-Russian All-Cosmopolitan Museum". There is grinding, horrific poverty.There are latrines and street kids and much to do about toaster ovens and icons. There is a character who dreams of being a fish and a dead man who refuses to be buried. And there is a woman who should be hopeless but isn't. Read this book. Read it now.

Ovenless

Our oven broke. It's not the first time or the worst time. The worst was a couple of years ago at Thanksgiving. I had to truck our turkey up and down the stairs to Tammy's oven (much smaller than ours) and rearrange it on a different pan because the ROASTER DIDN'T FIT! That time the service repair guy came out and fiddled around to get our not-so-Magic Chef working again. Of course he didn't come out until after Christmas, so the baking I usually do wasn't done either.

I've known for some time the stove could and probably would go out on me again--two of the burners have to be lit manually and have never worked quite right, but two weeks ago on a Friday evening when I decided to make pizza with sun-dried tomato pesto, chevre, spinach and olives, I didn't realize I was baking my very last thing in that oven. I think the thermometer burned out. 450 for thirty minutes did the poor thing in. The next morning I turned the oven on to make some home fries for breakfast and after an hour it was barely warm.

Ben and I went to Standard Appliance on Martin Luther King Day. We went early determined to find a gas stove and have it installed by nightfall--so much for determination. First I have to say I don't love shopping, especially for expensive things I can't afford. The store was pretty empty when we first arrived. We were greeted by two salespeople standing on either side of the door--an older balding man in a suit and a woman in her thirties with long red hair. She was packed tight as a tick into a low cut sweater and poly-blend pants. She had on heels. It was kind of like going to a not so popular kids birthday party. I felt as if they'd been waiting at the door a very long time with their little faces pressed against the windows waiting for fresh meat like us to saunter in the door. We said hello and the woman shadowed us into the store introducing herself and asking questions. I'm sure she was nice, but I hate being followed around when I shop. I also hate when people I don't know keep calling me by name as if we are friends--"Oh I cook too, Kim. I love my Jennair, Kim. Kim, what color are you thinking?" Frankly, Kim wanted to color her gone. She finally showed us where the gas stoves were and then didn't leave even when I nicely and with great effort said we'd probably just look and let her know if we had questions.

What I was looking for was a plain, old-school stove--gas burners that self light, easy to clean, sturdy, good sized oven. If my dream stove was a vehicle it would be a standard transmission truck from the 60's. But alas, what they had on the floor were ovens that proofed bread and dried apples and worked on a timer that could be set weekly and came with a book the size of a Henry James novel. I know what happens to those manuals that come with appliances--they disappear unread and you can never figure out how to work whatever it was you bought. I didn't want a stove with too many "features". I wanted and still want a basic stove. The only ones they had that fit the bill were the Wolf and Vikings and why is it that the most basic of appliances cost $4000 dollars or more?

We almost bought a Jennair with the bread proofing and apple drying and a 100 page manual that I know I'd never read or figure out if I did. But I didn't want to spend $1300 for something I didn't love. We decided to shop around--on-line, restaurant supply stores, craiglist, ebay--and not rush into an appliance the way we tend to rush into things only to regret them sooner than we hope to.

For now that means my project and resolution to bake all our bread this year has been put on indefinite hold. No more pizzas, no more oven roasted vegetables, no more warm plates for cornmeal pancakes on Saturday mornings, no chocolate chip cookies and no Guiness cake. Hell, no more tater tots. A girl could weep, I tell you, just weep.

Low Self-Steam

Is it laziness? Fear of failure? Or is it perpetual procrastination that fuels this dead-zone of inactivity writing-wise. Since I sold the rights to my first novel, Little Green, I've had a terrible time sitting down to actually write. I thought starting this blog would give me the assignment I need to produce a little something, something on a regular basis and keep my writing feet wet. Nice thought, but as you can see by the giant gaps in time between posts I'm not actually doing it. Other things I'm not actually doing:

The yoga class I say I'm signing up for every term.
Getting rid of the piles of papers lurking in small and large piles all over the house.
Cleaning the refrigerator and defrosting the freezer.
Going through all closets, drawers and boxes--sorting, and dumping and only keeping the essential stuff.
Sending short stories off to magazines and contests.
Writing on book number 2.

Enough! It's so easy to feel bad about every blessed thing I think I should do and don't. So what have I do that I do with love and happiness everyday?
I write in my journal and stick things in there with a glue stick and I even draw in there sometimes.
I've quit watching tv and started listening to Radio Moth on NPR.
I've been reading like crazy: Animal Vegetable and Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver; The Children's Book by AS Byatt; A Gate At The Top of the Stairs by Lorrie Moore; My Life in France by Julia Child; The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb.
I've also been cooking a lot and looking forward to a bigger, better garden in the spring.

Every year I have a little cooking goal in mind--something I want to master for myself and this year it's looking like bread is it. When I taught preschool I made bread with the kids all the time. The oldest kids in my class could whip up a batch of Tassajara bread without a recipe by the end of the school year. There's nothing better than the experience of making bread. It is a supremely tactile and sensual thing to do. From the kneading of the dough and the smell of the yeast as it rises to the taste of the first delicious bite every step pulls me into the present moment and connects me to all the people baking for their families all over the world. So my goal this year is to do all the bread making for or family unit. I want to develop a sourdough starter from scratch and keep it going through the year. My mentor-teacher-friend Tony has been baking from a starter for his family (a much larger unit than mine) for decades. He makes a killer whole wheat seeded loaf--long and slim as a baton--with so much dense and hearty flavor it's a meal in itself. Now that I've given up meat and am heading toward a mostly vegan diet I think it's time to get baking. This is the recipe I used with my preschool kids. If you've never baked a loaf of bread this is the recipe to start with. I got it from the Tassajara Cookbook back in the 80's. It never fails:
1 package (2 1/2 tsp) active dry yeast
2 1/2 cups warm water (baby bath temp)
1 T honey
1 T oil
Put it all together in a bowl and wait for 10 minutes for the yeast to get fuzzy.
Stir in 2 cups of flour and 1 T kosher salt. Keep adding flour and stirring until you can't stir in any more and then dump the dough on a floured surface. Add flour a cup at a time and knead until you have a smooth ball of dough. Put the dough in an oiled bowl in a warm place (not too hot) and cover with a dish towel. An hour later it should be doubled in size. Turn it out on a lightly floured surface and shape into two loaves. Slide those babies into greased loaf pans and cover again for another hour. Turn the oven on to 350 and when the loaves have risen pop them into the oven for about 40 minutes--until they are golden brown and sound hollow when you thump them. Let the loaves cool on a rack before slicing them or just eat it hot and fresh out the box slathered with jam or honey or butter or all the above!