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.