YUCABABY

Six

2012-01-27T09:43:00.000-06:00

Happiest of birthdays to our sweet SIX YEAR OLD, Penny. It feels like she was born just yesterday. I know that's a thing all moms say, but truer words have never been spoken, I promise you. Now, she's this big girl, who throws around her own words, like "delicate" and "interesting" and "imagine" as if she were born uttering them, who is writing sentences, composing songs, and thinks she's very good at gymnastics, though she can't touch her toes and doesn't take classes.

She loves the Power Rangers, and not just the girl ones, but the tough, RED ranger, i.e., the mack daddy ranger. She is not afraid of zombies (unlike her mother). She carries around an iPod Shuffle and listens to Glee and Bruno Mars and Britney Spears ("It's me against the music, baby..."). She loves to wear boots (like her mother). She has her father's biting sense of humor.

She loves her extended family. The morning they all arrived for her birthday, the first thing she said was "my family," though she was still drowsy from sleep. She speaks a little Spanish, here and there, but wants to learn more.

She cannot wait to meet her baby sister, and gives me big belly hugs all day, whispering "Mary-Blair, guess what I'm doing?" then telling her she's going to watch TV, or play with dolls, or pet the dog.

She is going to be a terrific big sister.

And we? We are the proudest parents in the world. Six years ago feels like yesterday, yes. But I wouldn't turn back time for all the world because right now is so, so very beautiful.

Happy birthday, mama. We love you.

Holiday Recap

2012-01-04T11:41:00.001-06:00

I miss the holidays already. My tree is still up, waiting for Los Tres Reyes Magos to arrive on Friday. But who am I kidding? Christmas, New Year's, it's all over. And here I am, back at work. Penny went back to school today, though she fought it. Lord, did she fight it. "I can't walk!" she said, limping across the kitchen. And in the school parking lot, she moaned, "I'm just not myself today."

I get that. I'm not myself either. I always feel like I'm my best self during the holidays, and that probably has everything to do with family and friends, a familiar city-scape, and more food than a person should ever eat.

So, in order to make the feeling last a bit, I'm going to indulge in some holiday recapping. Behold, Christmas and New Year's 2011:


Of course, Santa came early for our "Alabama Christmas." He knows we leave town, smart elf that he is.

And, good old Santa turned Penny into a Power Ranger this year. EXACTLY what she wanted. She is fierce, guys.

Then it was off to Disney, where we saw this awesome, made-of-gingerbread scene...

...and were reminded that next year we'll be at the parks with a baby in tow.

We tried on some ears. (They always do this.)


There were spontaneous moments of celebration.


Lots of eating sugary things.

MORE EARS.

AND MOAR SUGAR, OHMYGAWD.

In Miami, there were friends to be seen...

...by the dozen, apparently.

Sparkly Noche Buena dresses to wear.

Toys on Christmas morning with complicated instructions. Yay, Santa!

Family pictures by the tree.

MOAR TOYS. SO MANY MOAR TOYS.

Time spent with the primitas. And Razor scooters. Zoom, zoom.


MOAR COUSIN TIME.

A birthday party the day after Christmas.

Where there were MORE COUSINS.

Including THIS cousin and...

and THIS cousin, both of whom are now 16 years old and make me feel ANCIENT. STOP WITH THE GROWING, KIDS.

Back in Auburn just in time for a little kid-friendly New Year's celebrating. Why hello, Rachel and Ashley.

And hello, my compadres and Ian.

And hello to the last picture taken of us in 2011. It's a good one, I think.

And, we did one more thing during the holidays--we got a sneak peek at Mary-Blair at 26 weeks with one of those 3d-4d ultrasounds. Who do YOU think she looks like?

Hello baby! See you in 13 weeks!

That was our holiday, in a photographic nutshell. Maybe one of the best holidays ever. We're greeting 2012 with a smile and high hopes, and wish you all the very best year.

The Kingdom Guide, or Disney World Tips, Acevedo-Style

2012-01-02T22:06:00.001-06:00

Photo by Penny, who's pretty good with a camera for a five year old.

So, my friend Ashley, who you should all get to know, for she is funny, and a talented writer, and rocks a faux-hawk on occasion, is planning a trip to Disney World. Aaaand she asked me for tips.

Tips? I could write a book on navigating Disney World and its environs. A BOOK. And it would put the thickest fantasy novels to shame in terms of girth. I’ve been going to the parks several times a year SINCE MY INFANCY. I know this place, people. I know its terrain, idiosyncracies, its SMELLS. In fact, yesterday I made myself chili and made Orlando sniff it, saying, “Doesn’t it smell like San Angel Inn? The Mexican restaurant in EPCOT? It does, doesn’t it?” He agreed. Damn, I was proud.

But I won’t write a book. Instead, I will post this behemoth of a blogpost. Call it my gift to newbie Disney tourists. Put down the Fodor’s. Forget those insufferably dense Disney forums. Here’s how the Acevedo’s do Disney.

One caveat: this is how we do Disney with a little kid in tow. Childless us had a whole ‘nother routine.

THE RIDES

Okay, when you think Disney, you think elaborate rides. Boat rides, pirate ships that soar over London, cruises through a lush jungle, all accompanied by the omnipresent smell of chlorine and sugar. Depending when you go, you’ll have to deal with lines. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July—basically whenever kids are free from school—are peak times to visit. January and February, the parks are empty. But it’s hard to go then when you’re tied to a school schedule.

So, let’s assume you’ll be there when everyone else is there, too. No worries. You can do this, and get on those rides with minimal fuss.

You’ll want to get some Fastpasses for the top rides in each park. These are:

Magic Kingdom—Peter Pan’s Flight

EPCOT—Soaring

Hollywood Studios—Toy Story Mania

Animal Kingdom—Kilimanjaro Safaris

I list only these rides because Penny is a total wuss and won’t ride Splash Mountain, Big Thunder, Dinosaur, Star Tours, or Test Track, which are also all Fastpass-worthy. Having a chicken daughter makes park planning easier. All these “thrill” rides can be ridden by most average-sized four year-olds. SO, if you’re little one is a badass, then get fast passes for these early. If he or she is the jumpy sort, avoid the ones listed above.

Here’s how the Fastpass thing works. As soon as you enter the park, and you’ve rented your stroller (more on this in a bit), head to the ride you want a Fastpass for. But first, check the Stand-by wait time. Wait times are posted at the entrance of each ride. If it’s not long—say fifteen minutes or less—forget the Fastpass and hop on! If the line is already long, go to the Fastpass boxes, which look like ATM machines, pop in your park tickets (one for each member of your party wanting to ride), and take your Fastpasses. Don’t forget your park ticket.

Now, the Fastpasses will give you a return time. It will give you a range, like 1:00-1:50 for your “appointment” to ride the ride. Now, here’s the BESTEST TIP OF ALL TIPS: while you can’t go early to your “appointment,” you can go AT ANY TIME AFTER. So, if your Fastpass for Soarin’ tells you to arrive between 1:00-1:50, and you get there are 9:30 in the mothertrucking evening, THEY WILL LET YOU GO THROUGH THE FASTPASS LINE NO QUESTIONS ASKED, I SWEAR. So, no need to rush to get to the ride, okay?

You can only have one Fastpass going at any given time. Again, let’s say your Soarin’ Fastpass reads 1:00-1:50. Until 1:50 comes and goes, you can’t get another Fastpass for a different attraction. We usually only use one or two Fastpasses per park, and we happen to go during peak days.

In short, do not freak out regarding Fastpasses. They are helpful when you want to avoid big lines. But I’ve seen too many families in the parks running to and fro like maniacs, yelling at each other to hurry up because they want to use these things in the allotted hour. Orlando and I always look at each other, sigh, and say, “That’s not magic.” Because, in the end, being at Disney World is about having a magical time. It’s up to you to keep it magical, too;)

Another Penny-pic. Magic, or Not Magic? I'm not sure.

There are other ways of minimizing wait times. Say the grown-ups in the group want to ride the big rides, like The Rock n Roller Coaster. Tell them you’re a single rider. Not all rides have a single-rider line, but the ones that do are incredibly short waits. Don’t be a baby and whine about riding with your friends. You can’t even SEE your friends in the darkness of The Rock n Roller Coaster. Be brave. Go single rider.

There’s also the child swap line at the big thrill rides. Tell them you’re swapping a child, and you’ll get a pass. One of you will have to wait the line, but the other gets to forgo the wait when it’s his/her turn. Combine this with a Fastpass and you’ll both get in and out quickly.

Our favorite, don’t miss ‘em rides, in case you were wondering, are:

Magic Kingdom: Pirates of the Caribbean, the Haunted Mansion, the Jungle Cruise. Peter Pan’s Flight is brief, but pretty special, too. Splash Mountain is terrific, as well. And we never miss It’s a Small World. Shut up. It’s a classic.

EPCOT: Spaceship Earth is maybe my favorite ride of all the parks. Dame Judi Dench narrates. How cool is that? Soarin’ is spectacular. Get your Fastpass QUICKLY for this one. And the Rio del Tiempo in the Mexico Pavillion is great. You’ll be humming the song for days.

Hollywood Studios: Star Tours is brand new. I didn’t get to ride it this last visit because I’m pregnant, but Orlando rode in THREE TIMES and RUBBED IT IN MY FACE. Toy Story Mania is lots of fun, too. Also, cheesy as it is, The American Idol Experience has become a family favorite. Penny LOVES it.

Animal Kingdom: Kilimanjaro Safaris are great. Tops any zoo experience. Dinosaur is a great low-level thrill ride.

THE FOOD

Believe it or not, part of why we love Disney so much is the food. Now you can do Disney like an idiot, and eat crap hamburgers the whole time, or know where to go, and eat like royalty.

At the Beaches & Cream restaurant at the Beach Club Resort (which also happens to have the best pool on Disney property)

If you’re on the Dining Plan, which we recommend, use it wisely. Don’t waste your snacks on cheap stuff like popcorn. Use it on AMAZING, “Really, THIS, is on the dining plan?” stuff.

Best snacks follow:

Magic Kingdom: The Main Street Bakery. Cinnamon buns and pastries and OMGYUM. Also, the cream-cheese filled pastries at The Lunching Pad in Tomorrowland. OR, get yourself some Mickey Waffles at Sleepy Hollow in Liberty Square.

EPCOT: The bakeries in France or Norway are stocked with amazingness. You can’t lose.

I’m leaving off Hollywood Studios and Animal Kingdom here. I can’t seem to find good Dining Plan snacks here.

As for your three squares a day, we sometimes have a character breakfast in the morning—the best is Ohana at the Polynesian Resort (Lilo, Stitch, and Mickey), or Chef Mickey’s at the Contemporary. The breakfast at The Crystal Palace in the Magic Kingdom features all the Pooh characters and is lovely. But expect a long wait, even with a reservation.

(Speaking of reservations—you need them for most character breakfasts. Call before you get there, or check the Disney Parks online reservation page.)

Sometimes, we’ll eat at our hotel’s quick-service restaurant. Or, we’ll make sure to stock our little fridge with some pastries/milk/etc. Breakfast at the Main Street Bakery is always an option, too.

For lunch, we’ll either quick-service it, or have a sit-down. Here are our faves in each category.

Quick-service

Magic Kingdom—Columbia Harbor House, hands down. It’s in Liberty Square, right by the Haunted Mansion. Veggie subs, heaping tuna sandwiches, a grilled salmon with couscous that is lovely. And yes, this is a counter-style place. You can’t do better than this. You might also hop on the resort Monorail, or walk to the Contemporary Resort’s quick-service on the 4^th floor. They have a mahi-mahi sandwich that is brilliant, and a ham and brie and peaches sandwich that is the best thing on Disney property. It’s a five minute walk to the Contemporary, so it’s like you aren’t leaving the park at all.

EPCOT—Morocco has generously portioned quick-service dishes—lamb, couscous, falafels. The Land pavilion has a huge eating area that pleases nearly everyone. Most of the countries have both a quick-service and a sit-down restaurant. The best food of all the parks is in EPCOT, really. Be adventurous—try something you’ve never had before!

Hollywood Studios—Try the Backlot Express for a great grilled veggie sandwich, and other good fare.

Animal Kingdom—Restaurantosaurus is a good choice. Plus, the kids’ meals come in buckets, which they can use at the Dino-Dig nearby.

Digging for dinosaur bones.

Sit-down Restaurants

Magic Kingdom—Liberty Tree Tavern—wonderful atmosphere, Thanksgiving-style food. Or, hop on over to the Contemporary for The Wave—an organic, California-style restaurant, which is always calm and quiet.

EPCOT—This is hard for me. I love SO MANY OF THESE RESTAURANTS. Le Cellier, in the Canada pavilion, is pricey and hard to get seats for, both worth the try if you want the best steak you’ve ever had ever ever. Chefs de France is terrific, plus, a little chef Remy, from the movie RATATOUILLE, might make an appearance at your table. San Angel Inn, in Mexico’s pavilion, is gorgeous and delicious. This is not your everyday Mexican joint.

Hollywood Studios—50’s Prime Time Café is a good place for hearty, home-style fare. Plus, your server, or “mom,” usually makes it a good time, too.

Animal Kingdom—Tusker House is a magnificent buffet. Lots of folks avoid it because they are afraid of the African cuisine. These people are idiots. The buffet is HUGE, the food is fantastic, and I alway leave stuffed. Don’t miss it.

SHOPPING

One word—Mitsukoshi in Japan. I LOVE this place. Someone, buy me a Shinzi Katoh bag if you go.

All the other stores are your typical souvenir joints. Mitsukoshi is the only one I don’t ever miss.

Oh, and sometimes, your food receipts will have 20% off coupons on them. These are gold if you know you’re going to buy souvenirs. But read the fine print—they’re only good at the major stores in each park before noon.

TRANSPORTATION

The Disney buses can be really tiring during peak season. Off-peak, they are a delightful way to get around. During busy times, take your car. Your resort parking pass is also a parking pass, so it’ll be free. If you happen to be at the Contemporary for breakfast, you can leave your car there and walk to the Magic Kingdom, or take a Monorail to Epcot from there. If you happen to be at the Boardwalk, you can walk to EPCOT or Hollywood Studios, thereby avoiding the transportation bottlenecks. If you want to go to Animal Kingdom and avoid parking/buses, well, sucks to be you. Animal Kingdom is at the far end of the property. It’s Disney buses, your car, or bust.

EVERYTHING ELSE

If you have a kid under six, rent a stroller. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a sturdy five-year old in the park lose his ever-loving mind because he can’t walk a single step further. It’s always funny to see the parents early in the morning, giving us stroller-renters the side-eye because THEIR child is going to walk all day. Yeah right. I’ve seen those same side-eyers buying a damn stroller when they find out all the rentals are gone for the day.

Penny, enjoying her stroller thoroughly.

Unless you have a baby, rent, don’t bring your own. Strollers are a pain in the butt on trams, Monorail, trains, and buses you’ll be using.

Bring a poncho. Don’t buy a pricey one at the park. Get yourself to Wal-mart before your trip, head to the camping section, buy a bunch of .50 ponchos, and keep them in your purse. It’s Florida. It rains.

In the summer, bring a bathing suit and small towel to each park for your kid. There are splashy areas and they will want to splash if it’s hot.

If you have a baby, use the baby center. There is one in each park, and they have high chairs, microwaves, changing areas, nursing rooms, and tv’s for the babies and toddlers...

Phew. I’m going to stop now, as this is already my longest blog post ever. I could go on. And on. Feel free to ask me questions in the comments or by email if you have them. If it’s at Disney World, we’ve done it.

And remember, keep it magic, people.

p.s. Readers who happen to be Disney pros, too--leave your tips in the comments!

Numbers!

2011-12-16T09:14:00.000-06:00

300--the number of soldiers--Spartan and hoplite--in King Leonidas' army when they attacked thousands of Persians at Thermopylae...and nearly won!

300--the number of Twitter followers I wanted to reach before announcing...

99--the amount of pennies one needs to purchase SONG OF THE RED CLOAK, my YA novel set in Ancient Sparta, on Kindle or Nook.

16--days until the sale ends, on December 31st.

12--days of Christmas, which officially start on Christmas Day and last through the Epiphany, or as we say around my house Reyes Magos Day!


EXACTLY how I've always pictured them;)

12--my favorite Christmas carols! Here they are!

#12

This is the Gypsy Kings' version of a classic, Spanish carol, "Los Peces en el Rio." For those who don't speak Spanish, the gist of the lyrics is "Look at Mary, combing her hair by the river. Her hair is golden, her comb is silver. Watch the fish in the river. Watch how they drink in joy at the birth of Christ." It always struck me as so lyrical--a snapshot of an ancient, simple moment. And the Gypsy Kings make everything awesome-r.

#11

Sarah Mclachlan has one of those voices that always moves me. "Song for a Winter's Night" is a little sad, a bit of longing in every note. "I would be happy just to hold the hands I love on this winter's night with you." Sigh. Can I admit a dorky fantasy? The first time I heard this song I was in the midst of reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and I couldn't help but think of Ginny, alone in Gryffindor tower on Christmas, thinking of Harry. I know. DORK. SHUT. UP.

#10

"We Need a Little Christmas,' the GLEE version. Again, dorky. I know. This one tends towards the melancholy, too. "For I've grown a little leaner, grown a little colder, grown a little sadder, grown a little older, and I need a little angel, sitting on my shoulder..." Juxtapose that with this bouncy, trumpet-y song? Perfect.

#9

Who doesn't love "Holy Night"? Seriously, what Grinch dislikes this song? So beautiful. And Celine raises it to divine heights.

#8

Jewel's Christmas album is my go-to holiday CD. Her voice has a quality that is particularly fit for the holidays, I think. Sweet, high, alpine? Does that last make sense? I can just see her on a snowy mountain singing this stuff. I think it's that little yodel in her tone that does it. Anyhow, "Joy to the World" is so fun to sing, and it reminds me so powerfully of the Christmas shows I was in as a kid.

#7

EIGHT CRAZY NIGHTS, people. I couldn't leave Adam Sandler's "Hanukkah Song" off this list. This year, upon learning about Hanukkah, Penny told me she's converting. Eight days of presents? Can't beat that logic, can you? Anyhow, this one is fun, and I know all the lyrics, and it always makes me smile.

#6

So many artists put out original Christmas music each year, and of those, only a fraction become classics in their day. Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" is one of those. I dare you not to sing along and try all her amazing vocal riffs (failing miserably, of course, but having fun as you go.)

#5

How many times can "Last Christmas" be covered? SO MANY TIMES. But only one is worth listening to, and that's Wham's version. (Sorry T-Swift, I hate your version). That line, "My God, I thought you were someone to rely on. Me? I guess I was a shoulder to cry on." So sad and honest. I guess we love heartbreak in our songs. Even our Christmas songs.

#4

Feliz Navidad, everyone! Jose Feliciano's classic is one of the first Christmas songs I ever learned. It's so easy, even all you americanos know it by heart. Cheerful, multicultural, so cool.

#3

This is one of the few Christmas songs I listen to all year. It can come on in February, July, September, and I will listen to it the whole way through and not feel weird. John Lennon was killed when I was just a little kid, and I vaguely remember my mother's grief, and my own small sadness, too. It sounds weird, considering my age, but I miss the guy. And the message of the song is one we need to hear every day of the year--"War is over if you want it..."

#2

Oh, this song. Sung by Judy Garland. It is the sweetest, sweetest song, lyrically and melodically. I don't know what else to say. I wish I could sing like Judy. I want her lips and hair. I'm not making sense now, that's how good this song is. It muddles me and makes me happy. "Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow, so have yourself a merry little Christmas now..."

#1

It's "El Burrito Sabanero," kids. If you grew up in Miami, this song starts playing immediately after Christmas on all the radio stations, Spanish or not. It's about a little boy and his burro making their way to Bethlehem. I remember my kindergarten class' record player, and the big Pedrito Fernandez record sitting on top. It played all year, I think. This song, more than any other, means Christmas to me.

That's it! I'm off to make a playlist out of this. We're driving to SoFla soon, and it's a long drive without awesome Christmas music.

Don't forget to take advantage of the Song of the Red Cloak .99 sale. It won't last long. If you're gifting a Kindle or Nook this Christmas, make sure to upload the book on there for your loved one. Or, you know, give yourself a present. You deserve it!

Happy Christmas, Feliz Navidad, and Happy Hanukkah, my friends.

p.s. Hey, before you go, tell me YOUR favorite holiday tunes/artists. Like I said, I've got a looooong drive ahead of me.

Motivation

2011-12-07T10:08:00.001-06:00

Swamped. I am swamped. If my life could be visualized right now, it would look like this:

Still from the movie, "Return of the Swamp Thing." Note, my life here is represented as the Swamp Thing, and I am the ginger kid in the Auburn shirt. This is very accurate.

You know when you're so tired your eyes burn and your feet ache, even though you've been at a desk all day? This is how I feel right now. And on my desk are about a million more files I need to look through. So many files that I've been moving them up and down the hall WITH A HAND TRUCK. A HAND TRUCK OF FILES, PEOPLE.

I should also mention that there are two class sets of fiction waiting to be graded, two sets of grades waiting to be tallied, and two sets of grade averages waiting to be put into the system.

I should also, ALSO mention that I have two meetings this week, a doctor's appointment, and will be interviewing at least twelve people next week.

I am over a month behind on my reading for the Southern Humanities Review. There are a couple hundred poets, fiction writers, and essayists waiting to hear from us.

Also, there is a hole in our roof (thank you, tornado). Aaaaand the weather is all rainy.

Did I mention the kindergarten holiday program? No? If I hear "Jingle Bells," "The Dreidel Song," or "Feliz Navidad" one more time, I may have to Sparta-kick the nearest Christmas tree.

SUH-WAMPED.

But, there is light at the end of this madness. I am Disney-bound once I get out of this mire. And this morning, just as I was wallowing in the muck, I found this picture in a drawer:

I'm pretty sure those ears had my name embroidered on them in the back. You know, so strangers could call out to me.

I'm Penny's age here, five or so. I'm fairly certain that's the Pinocchio Village Haus restaurant in the Magic Kingdom. And though I'm giving my mom the glaring stink-eye that reads STOP TAKING MY DAMN PICTURE, WOMAN, I'm also certain I'm having a wonderful time.

I will see you soon, Disney World! You are the carrot to my will! The mother of motivators! I shall defeat this swamp of work, and don my mouse-ears, and eat french fries on a napkin, and HAVE A GOOD TIME, SO HELP ME GOD.

Sigh. But first, there's a hand truck of files that need my attention...

Psst. Tell me, are you in a pre-holiday swamp? What motivates you to keep slogging?

The Cure for What Ails You, or How I Ripped Off Another Blogger's Post

2011-11-30T15:03:00.000-06:00

So, I JUST read Marta Darby's hilarious new post about Cubans and their liberal use of Vicks Vapo-Rub, or, as we called it, "El Bix."* Seriously, stop right now and go read that before proceeding.

Miracles come in squat blue bottles.

Back? Well, I'm about to rip off Marta's post, because she triggered a slew of memories about taking medicine while growing up in a particularly Cuban sort of way.

I was a sickly kid. Not sickly in a tragic sense, but in an annoying sense. Bronchitis, asthma, allergies, sties. These were the bane of my childhood. Thanksgiving and Noche Buena dinners were all held at my home because I was usually too mocosa (snotty) or podrida (rotten with a cough) to leave the house.

Thank goodness for Cuban remedies. There was El Bix. Always El Bix, rubbed liberally over the chest.

There was La Manzanilla (chamomile tea for everyone else), which cured all stomach ailments.

Still nauseous after drinking La Manzanilla? Feel like you're getting the dreaded fatigas? Whip out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and take deep whiffs of it. You may feel light-headed, which will make you forget all about your stomach problem.

Was your nose stuffy, too? Then you got several doses of El Afrín each day. If you were old, like my grandparents, you needed El Afrín every night before going to bed, along with El Bix.

This was the worst of the worst. I'd run screaming from El Afrín like it was the boogie man.

Does your throat hurt? Then gargle with water and salt. Repeatedly. Gag a little. It's okay! And curative! Probably.

If your cold was really severe, then my grandmother would take extreme measures and get the heavy-duty, under-the-counter stuff from her pharmacist friend, let's call him "Sanchez," who let her buy prescription-strength cold meds without a script.

You knew you were sick (but not so sick that an actual doctor's visit was merited) when Abuela announced, "Voy a ver a Sanchez." I'm going to see Sanchez. She'd come back with some rancid tasting cough medicine, nasty antibioticos, or a refill for the nebulizer within ten minutes. Then it was all "Sanchez dice que..." Sanchez says this or Sanchez says that.

I met this Sanchez fellow once. Very slight, bespectacled Cuban man in a white lab coat behind the counter at his pharmacy. He seemed like he knew what he was doing, and the fact that I'm alive still, after all that "contraband" medicine, must mean he did. Probably.

As for the sties, my grandmother would take off her very thick wedding band, rub it vigorously on the leg of her pants until it got rather warm, and press it against the swelling in my eye. Believe it or not, nothing worked as well as this. She always said it was the heat in the metal, and the love represented in the ring, that cured the infection.

Then there were the non-ingestible cold preventatives. Wear socks. Cover your mouth and nose when the temperatures dip below 75 degrees. Don't wash your hair when the temperatures dip below 75 degrees. Hang beach towels over your bedroom windows to stop any 75 degree or cooler wind drafts from entering the room. Eat meat at every meal.

But my favorite cure is a quiet one, one I'm a bit afraid to share because it's so personal to our family. Still, it's a story worth sharing:

Whenever any one of us is ill, my grandmother prays to San Luís Beltrán, otherwise known as Saint Louis Bertrand. She does this still. Back in the day, when I was wheezing and feverish at night, she'd come to my room, lift my mattress, and pull out a prayer sheet she'd brought from Cuba. Then I'd hear her muttering and praying over me. I always felt better. She knows the prayer by heart, and she says it often for us, her children and grandchildren, whom she adores. I have the sheet in my house, framed in a place of honor. But sometimes, when Penny catches a cold or has an ear infection, I wish I'd put it under her mattress, too.

So, the next time you come down with something, try one of these remedies. Always remember El Bix, drink your Manzanilla, pray to San Luís Beltrán. But maybe stay away from your local Sanchez. For real, people, getting meds from that guy was crazy.

How about you? What do you remember about cold remedies from childhood?

*Cuban pronunciations of medicines are the best part. Dimetapp is Dee-Meh-TAH. Robitussin? Ro-Bee-Too-SIN. Tylenol? Tee-Leh-NOL. For the longest time, you needed a prescription to get Dimetapp, that grape-flavored wonder drug for the perpetually mucus-plagued. When it went over-the-counter, and commercials started airing, I was floored by the pronunciation. The English-speakers were getting it all wrong!

'Tis the Season

2011-11-29T10:50:00.000-06:00

I love this time of year SO HARD. Even though things have been insanely busy (I'm on two search committees at work, am editing the Southern Humanities Review, teaching two fiction writing classes, promoting SONG OF THE RED CLOAK, writing a new book, keeping up with kindergarten "get this" and "do that," and going to doctor's appointments! Phew), I'm still in the holiday mood. Just add gift-buying to my list. I may or may not be a puddle of human goo by the end of December. But it will be MERRY goo, I promise you!

So haul out the holly, people! And because I can't send everyone a Christmas card this year and still afford to clothe the family, here, have a digital one:

Stationery card

View the entire collection of cards.

Tell me, are you feeling the holiday burn yet? Is this the most wonderful time of the year for you, or the worst?

The Name Game

2011-11-16T10:36:00.000-06:00

Here I am, at the midpoint of my pregnancy, and people are starting to ask: "Have you picked out a name yet?" I can't blame them. It's usually the first question I ask a pregnant woman, too. I just LOVE name-gathering. Always have. My first, earliest name crush? KIMBERLY. I had a cheerleader doll with big, fat blonde curls, and that was her name. Kimberly. Adored saying it. Kim-ber-ly. Still, a pretty name.

Another childhood name crush? Believe it or not, PENELOPE. Only because that was Punky Brewster's real name. Punky was just a nickname. And I loved me some Punky Brewster.

Oh, to mismatch one's socks like Punky!

But she's not why my daughter is named Penelope. Actually, Orlando found the name in a book, and he liked it, as did I. Later, he'd admit that his very first celebrity crush was Penny Robinson, from Lost in Space, and how that memory sold him on the name.

Look at Penny. All lost in space and stuff. And wrapped in tinfoil. For shame, parents of the future of the past.

Now, we find ourselves pondering a new name, for a new little girl. (Actually, we're done pondering. We picked it out already. But you're going to have to wait a few more seconds before I tell you what it is. I know lots of folks who keep the name and/or gender secret until birth. That right there is a strength of will I cannot claim! I don't do secrets well at all.)

What to choose? I made up a long, long list of boys and girls names. Orlando hated all of them. He liked Jude for a boy, which IS pretty sweet, but there were no boy-parts on the ultrasound, so someone else can take this awesome name.

We toyed with Sloane for a girl for several weeks. But in the end, it's the kind of last name-as-first name trend I'm not crazy about, and also, ALSO, I can't help but think of Sloane Peterson:


I dare you not to say "Sloane Peterson" in your head in Ferris Bueller's voice.

And...that's a lot of cool to have to live up to, don't you think?

There was the question of whether the name should "match" Penelope. Go with another Greek name? Maybe Pheobe, or Daphne, or Adriadne, or Athena. Too much? That's what we thought, too. Orlando nixed Chloe and Cora, Fiona and Elizabeth, and about a million other names I thought were beautiful.

Then there were the names I friggin love and USED in my fiction because I thought I'd never have another baby--Zoe, Stella, Daisy. All favorites. All done. Trashed. These are characters I did dreadful things to.

Penny had her suggestions. She offered: Makayla, Mackenzie, Karissa, Marissa, Farissa, Tongue, Water Bottle, Jones (again and again with this one), and, finally, ZOOM FRIDAY.

All excellent names, but none go well with Acevedo, know what I mean?

These were dark times. I threatened to name the baby whatever I wanted, family consensus be damned.

Then we remembered.

We remembered we'd seen a documentary earlier this summer called WALT AND EL GRUPO:

The film chronicled the 10-week trip in which Walt Disney and his hand-picked artists traveled through Latin America in order to do research on The Three Caballeros, and to escape an artist's strike happening at the Disney Studios at the time. We got such a kick out of the documentary, which was smart, as well as enlightening about the era and the state of film-making at the time. Talked about it for days afterwards. During one of those discussions, Orlando and I got to talking about the only female artist in the group--Mary Robinson Blair, known as Mary Blair.

Striking woman, no?

Though the only woman illustrator in Walt Disney's cadre of artists, she was, arguably, the most influential. Her modern, mid-century art is bold without being tacky, cute without forsaking depth, and abstract yet heartfelt. Blair's work became THE Disney look:


Concept art for Alice in Wonderland.

Concept art for It's a Small World

Detail of mural tiles in the central atrium at the Contemporary Hotel

All the artwork above is by Mary Blair. If you've taken a boat through the Small World attraction, you've seen her work, too. And though she's mostly associated with the Walt Disney Company, Blair was a well-regarded children's book illustrator in her own right.

Curious, I checked Penny's bookshelf and found a Mary Blair illustrated classic Golden Book--I Can Fly. Check your shelves. You might own it, too.

Blair's art continues to influence artists today. In fact, just last month, Google honored her with her own doodle.

And when Orlando and I talked about this artist, early this summer, way before we even had a baby to name, we said to one another, "Mary Blair is sort of a cool name, isn't it? Sort of Southern. Classic." We left it at that.

Fast forward a few months. Ahem.

The answer to our problem didn't come like a bolt of lightning. But it is an inspired and colorful choice. Our daughter, due April 5th 2012, is named (none of this "will be named" crap. She's kicking me as I type, present and accounted for): Mary-Blair Acevedo.

We hope you like it. We certainly do.

Now the Cuban relatives in Miami, they're having an interesting time pronouncing this one. I've got my grandmother calling her "Maribel," which is close enough...

In Which the Wee Clay Spartans Go on an Adventure

2011-11-09T09:19:00.000-06:00

Galen: (searching the woods at the foot of Mt. Taygetos) Psst. Nikolas. Are you there?

Nikolas: What is it? You look...vaguely content?

Galen: I'm going on an adventure! Just wanted to let you know.

Nikolas: (sighs). Not another one.

Galen: (still looking vaguely contented) What's that supposed to mean?

Nikolas: The last time we went on an adventure we met a dangerous girl with freaky tattoos and fatal powers.

Galen: Zoi! Yes, she's ten kinds of awesome. And scary. You know, she always looked sort of vaguely contented...

Nikolas: Then there was the whole drama with the sibyl. All that mind-reading...

Galen: (sighs romantically. Wipes tear off of cheek) Oh, Korinna.

Galen: (composes himself) Don't forget the Lamia! Half-woman, half-snake child-eater. (Galen shudders)

Nikolas: Don't remind me! Those eyebrows alone...and that wicked and vaguely contented grin.

Nikolas: Why not lead a quiet, Spartan life from now on, Galen? Why seek more adventures?

Galen: Because it's our NATURE, Nikolas. Because THIS IS SPARTAAA! And because we're in some sort of "giveaway."* We're ALL going on this adventure. I promise you, I'll find us a good home.

Zoi, Nikolas, and Korinna: Very well, friend. Farewell, Galen! Send messages. Or tweet at us!

(Galen walks off, slowly, vaguely contented, and a little afraid)

(cue dramatic music)

*Giveaway!

Follow Galen's adventures today on Twitter, @chantelacevedo. Where will he go in search of a new home?
If you'd like to win a signed copy of SONG OF THE RED CLOAK, as well as Galen and his friends, the super awesome clay versions, leave a comment on this here post, or this one, where we're talking about e-books and self-publishing.
OR you can use the hashtag #SongoftheRedCloak today on Twitter for your chance to win!
Contest ends tonight!

Good luck, Spartans!

E-Books, Self-Publishing & a Giveaway: Going Boldly Where Lots of Others Have Gone Before

2011-11-02T09:48:00.000-05:00

I swear I could hear Captain Kirk in my head as I uploaded Song of the Red Cloak to the Amazon Kindle the other day: Space. The final frontier.... There was even an echo to it.

In truth, the experience of self-publishing this novel sometimes had me feeling, to follow my Star Trek analogy...between captains, shall we say?

There was that feeling that this was a mistake. Writerly career suicide. Anxiety. Frustration. Embarrassment. Best summed up as so:

And then, there was the sense that I was taking destiny into my own hands, market-forces be damned. That the book is good, will find readers, and will not languish on my hard drive forever more. THIS feeling:

I think anyone who has self-published and doesn't admit to having both these feelings, being both Kirk and Picard, is lying. So, I thought I'd begin this post with that bit of stark honesty. I am exceedingly excited to share SONG OF THE RED CLOAK with the world, and sort of terrified about it, too.

I've already blogged about HOW the story came to be. You can read that entry here (feel free to enjoy the picture of a skeptical kitten, which always makes me happy).

What I thought I'd do today is talk about this decision to self-pub, and the process of how to go about it, in case any of you are feeling like you may want to join me on this mission to boldly go where, frankly, lots and lots of people have gone before, today more than ever.

I wrote SONG OF THE RED CLOAK without telling anyone. Well, I told my husband. And I told my friend, Rachel Hawkins, who was super encouraging about the novel's premise, and I told my sister, who read drafts almost daily.

I didn't tell my agent.

Here's why: I was afraid of silence on the other end of the line.

The truth was, I'd only written literary fiction up until that point. My novel, LOVE AND GHOST LETTERS, was published by a major press, garnered lovely awards and critical praise. I'd placed poems and short stories in serious journals. I'd finished another novel, which my agent was shopping, and which, I believe, is still floating around out there somewhere.

What I hadn't done was write genre, or Young Adult, both of which SONG OF THE RED CLOAK (herewith known at SoTRC) is. I was afraid this book just wasn't my agent's cup of tea. I was afraid she'd suggest I move on from the project. And I wanted to finish it so badly. I was, in short, a terrific coward about it.

So, I wrote the book, had people I trusted read the draft, and THEN called my agent.

Who was freaking lovely about it.

Who said, send it on, we'll have a look, and see if we can't sell it.

Damn skippy.

A few days later, I get a call from my agent. "This is a trilogy, not a single book," she says. I swooned a little. Shortly thereafter, we're onto full-on edits on the novel, and I'm working with my agent and her wonderful, YA-savvy assistants, and we've got a shiny, edited, polished version of the book in hand, plus an outline for two more.

(Have I told you how awesome my agent is?)

We get an amazing blurb from Julianna Baggott, author of the upcoming PURE.

God was in his heaven. All was right in the world. I was on submission, baby, and there's nothing more nail-biting and wonderful than that.

The book went out to some big editors in YA. Since I'm neither evil, nor stupid, I will not name names. You just have to trust me that you know who these people represent.

The first was a no. A fast no.

The second was a "Hold up, this is a FIERCE book, let me get back to you!" (She totally said, "fierce." I was so happy!) Meanwhile, I imagined myself popping champagne. Meanwhile, meanwhile, said editor called back and said, "We've JUST taken on a book set in Ancient Sparta, and so we have to reluctantly pass." Crap luck. (Also, who are you, fellow-Sparta lover? I want to read your book!)

There were other close calls, namely of the "We rerpresent X, who does historical fantasy, and this book would compete with X," and a few, maddening, "We only want books with female protagonists, and Galen is clearly a boy who does boyish things." That last comment, which I did get more than a few times, probably warrants its own blog post about "boy books" and YA.

There were a few times when the editor decided to champion the book, but marketing came down with a no. Here's something you might not know about publishing--an acquisitions editor doesn't have the power to take on a project on her own. She needs to present it in a meeting--to marketing folks, other editors, number crunchers--and get everyone to vote for her project.

One of these close calls was particularly excruciating. It went like this:

Book goes to an imprint.

Editor of the imprint says, "I love it! I shared it with the VP of our house! She loves it! Can you wait until next week so that we can get a few reads?"

I'm thinking: That's it. The TWO executives involved are loving SoTRC. I'm GOLDEN.

Editor comes back with, "Marketing isn't into trilogies at the moment."

I'm thinking: Eff. Me.

Eventually, we ran the gamut of YA publishers. Unlike literary novels that might not sell to big houses, wherein the author can then try small presses, there aren't many small presses for genre YA. Once you're told no by New York, it's a no forever.

This was a sad time in the Acevedo house. My poor Greeks. All unpublished and angsty.

It was Rachel Hawkins who suggested I do something about it. Honestly, I'd been thinking of self-pubbing, too, but (it's already been established that I'm cowardly), I was scared to bring it up to anyone.

She said, "Eff it. Put it out yourself."

I said something to the effect of, "I should! I should! Eff yeah!"

Because the two of us talk like frat boys over cheap sushi lunches.

So, I called my agent.

"Hey," I said, tentatively, my dog on my lap to steady me. "What if I throw SoTRC up on Amazon myself. An ebook."

She said, "Absolutely. And make it print-on-demand, too. Let me know if I can help in any way."

You see how awesome she is?

And so it went.

There is one thing you should know about this decision: had the response from readers been so-so, or more uneven, I wouldn't have done this. But nearly everyone who read SoTRC loved it. Well, except for those marketing types, who didn't see big profits coming out of a story set in Ancient Greece. They have a job to do, a house budget to protect, and I get it. But the editors were keen on it, as was my agent and her crew, and, more importantly, I knew the book was solid.

Another confession: I've written other novels that either didn't work upon completion, or didn't sell. They won't be going up on Amazon, because I know, in my heart, they aren't quite right.

My writing motto: Just because you wrote the damn thing, it doesn't mean it's any good. And sharing stuff before it's ready seems to me the height of vanity. It's right, or it doesn't go out. Simple.

But oh, SoTRC is right. It's so right.

And it was so edited and polished that I wasn't afraid to show it to the public. The manuscript was "clean," as they say, when it went out in the first place.

Another thing you should know: self-pubbing has become infinitely easier these days, but it still isn't easy.

I used Create-Space to make the paperback, which is a print-on-demand book, which means I don't have to buy boxes of the book and hand sell them. I used Kindle Direct Publishing and the Nook's Pub-it! program for the e-book versions, which are available now. All of these services are free to use.

My husband Orlando, who is the most stupendous human being ever, did all the html coding for the ebooks. It took him a LONG time. While under tenure pressure. He is a god among men.

Perhaps you don't have an Orlando of your own? I weep for you. You CAN upload books without html coding, but trust me, they look jank and unprofessional that way, and damn near unreadable.

As for the cover, you can do that on the cheap, too. Create Space will design one for you. But the free covers look jank and unprofessional and your eyes melt when you look at them.

So, I asked Auburn alum Shanna Lockwood, an incredible photographer and graphic designer, to design the cover of SoTRC, and it turned out better than I could have dreamed. Look Shanna up, people, if you want some graphic design work, or your photo taken. She's incredibly gifted.

A million thank yous, Shanna. You gave SoTRC it's FACE.

People always want to ask self-published writers how much they're in the hole for. Like I said, you can do this totally free of charge. I paid Shanna for her work on the cover, and I bought books to use in giveaways and to send to bloggers. I'd say, I'm about $200 in the red. Back in the old, pre-ebook days, self-published authors could expect to shell out thousands. Today, not so. You can spend as much, or as little, as you want on this process.

Of course, when self-pubbing, you don't have publicists or books in a catalog, an advance of any sort, or any of the perks of publishing with a publisher. What you DO have is freedom to design your schedule, promote the book in your way, and get 70% of the royalties, as opposed to pennies per book sale with traditional publishing (but remember, again, no advance with self-pubbing).

Do I wish SoTRC had gotten a book deal. Absolutely. Yes. Without a doubt.

Will I submit my next novel to publishers? Of course.

Do I think self-pubbing was a good idea. Incredibly so. I'm so happy Galen, Nikolas, Zoi and Korinna are out in the world. Teachers are using the book in their classrooms (the paperback has a big teachers/readers guide in the back, plus an extra chapter), folks are sending me angry messages about the fate of one of the characters (love that!), and the response seems really good.

I don't think SoTRC will make me rich like self-pubbed author turned rockstar, Amanda Hocking. (Don't know who she is? Read the article at the link.) It would be nice, but it probably won't happen. All I wanted was for people to get to read the book, lots of teens hopefully, as that's the target audience, and have them enjoy themselves in an ancient world that is both fantastical and exhilarating. If they learn a thing or two about Ancient Sparta, then that's good, too.

Ultimately, I'm happy. More Kirk than Picard about this whole thing. And I'm proud to be among this newish wave of authors putting their stuff out in a digital format, at an affordable prince ($4.99 people. Less than a sub at Subway. Jared's got nothing on me!), and maybe paving the way for other writers who've written books that are good, amazing even, but perhaps not as "marketable" as publishing houses would like.

Good reasons, all, in my opinion.

If you've stuck with me this long, I thank you. And as a reward, you may have a giveaway!

I'm giving away a paperback version of SoTRC, plus relinquishing my little clay Spartans:

Here's what you have to do:

1) Tweet a link to this post, and use the hashtag #SongoftheRedCloak

2) Leave a comment here with your thoughts on self-publishing and/or ebooks. Have you ever bought a self-published book? Do you prefer paper or digital books?

That's all. We'll run the contest for a week. Hope this was helpful to those of you thinking of self-publishing.

If you've read the book--do leave a review on Amazon, the Barnes and Noble page, or Goodreads

If you're planning on reading the book--mark it as TO-READ on Goodreads

These things help, and I'm beyond appreciative of your support.

Finally, please forgive this last desperate plug:

GO BUY SONG OF THE RED CLOAK! KINDLE! NOOK! PAPER! YOUR CHOICE!

One last thing. You can't talk Star Trek, without some Chekhov humor. And you can't talk about SoTRC without saying something about the Greeks. Lo! Worlds colliding, people:

Besos! xoxo.

"I hope it's a boy. Or a girl."

2011-11-01T15:03:00.000-05:00

The late summer/early fall has been an exciting time for us. There were some sad/scary moments I won't get into here, but for the most part, the last few months have been very good. Here's why:

Orlando's tenure meeting went well, which means, unless something weird happens, Auburn, Alabama is stuck with us (bwa-ha-ha!). We'll keep that Alabama Latino population rate at 4% if it kills us, dammit.

I finally released SONG OF THE RED CLOAK. On the Kindle and Nook even. Just like that, I'm part of the new age of publishing.

My lovely and generous colleagues named me the new Alumni-Writer-in-Residence, which is humbling, and which meant I got to go on the field of Jordan Hare Stadium at halftime last week, my face getting the Jumbo-tron treatment.

The Auburn Writers Conference went swimmingly well. It was amazing. And next year will be amazing-er!

You'd think that would be enough.

(The pessimist in me is poised, by the way, ready for the thing that will tilt it all in another direction. It's the way I'm wired, which sucks, I know. But I work at making that truth about myself untrue.)

Nope, not enough. There's also this:

Meet our little girl.

For the longest time I thought Penny would be an only child. But then, things got easier. She got older. I remembered, quite clearly, not wanting to be an only. I never liked it. When my step-sister came into my life, I felt complete for the first time.

And people. Penny LOVES babies. It borders on obsession. Take her to the bouncy-house place, or the park, or a toy store, and if there's a baby in the vicinity, she will ignore the tantalizing things around her to focus on that baby.

This is not to say we decided to grow our family just for Penny's sake. We like being parents. It's a challenge, but a good one. It made sense, suddenly. A very certain kind of sense. Unshakeable sense. Like it did the first time, when we decided we wanted a baby in our lives in the first place.

So, meet our little girl. We just learned that she is, in fact, a girl, today. We all expected a boy. Penny was hoping for a sister. My grandmother, on the phone today, said, "Las hermanas son importante. Necesarias." Sisters are important, she said. Necessary. Coming from a woman with four of them, I'll take her word for it.

Yes, we're excited. And happy to share the news at last. We're hoping for a happy and healthy winter and early spring, and a sweet little girl to hold and shower with besitos at the end of it.

If this is all coming off way sappier than I normally seem, I ask your forgiveness. I am hormonal, and I just saw my kid wave at me FROM INSIDE ME today, and I finally caved and am wearing maternity pants, which are comfortable, SO COMFORTABLE, and so, am a bit euphoric.

And if all that sweetness doesn't give you a toothache, this certainly will:

Penny Learns She's Going to Be a Big Sister

There are Some Friends I'd Like You to Meet

2011-10-20T09:29:00.000-05:00

Anyone who's written a novel can tell you that the characters we create can feel really real to us. Little wonder, considering most writers spend years putting a book together--from the initial word on paper to the final, polished draft. You know your characters' quirks, their peeves, the things that make them go all angsty, and happy, too. You understand what kinds of household items they throw when angry, or whether they throw things at all. You discover the exact manner in which they lean in for a kiss. In short, you know them intimately. Maybe more intimately than you know yourself.

The cool thing is that while you're writing that novel, as solitary a pursuit as novel-writing can be, you aren't really ever alone. Your characters are poking, prodding, nudging, and bugging you through the whole process.

And that, friends, is one of the best reasons to sit down and write that novel you've always wanted to write. (Pssst...are you writing a novel? I'd love to read the first 20 pages or so! Win the Sparta Kick Giveaway and I'll do just that, and give you some tips about your sample! But hurry! Contest ends tomorrow!)

I thought today might be a good day to introduce you to some of the characters in SONG OF THE RED CLOAK. I've known them for a while now and consider them good friends;)

MEET GALEN

WHO HE IS: Galenos, or Galen, is a fifteen year old slave in Sparta, in the 5th century BC. Slaves were called helots, and he's been assigned to the agoge his whole life.

WHAT THE HECK IS THE AGOGE: Glad you asked! The agoge is the school for Spartan boys. Citizens only, please. It's where boys train to be soldiers--the best the world has ever seen, to this day. They went hungry, and were made to go on helot-murdering missions to test their strength. This was an an annual event called the Crypteia. It was a rough life for a teen boy in Sparta.

WHAT HE HATES WITH THE FIRE OF A MILLION SUNS: The Crypteia, for obvious reasons; Snotty, pampered Spartans; being a helot; superstitions; dogs (they don't seem to like him either); Ares, the God of War; Feodoras, his master.

WHAT HE LOVES: a certain girl with a curious tatoo; a certain sibyl with an intriguing gift; his best friend, Nikolas; FIGHTING! With spears!; finding a decent hunk of meat in his stew.

SIGNATURE MOVES: awkward flirting; on-the-spot thinking; flying off the handle.

IN GALEN'S WORDS: "If you swipe it, the fire does not burn. So tell your story quickly."

CELEBRITY LOOK-A-LIKE:

If you're a mom of a child of a certain age, then the Nickolodeon show iCarly, is pretty much on all the time in your house. HENCE, while writing SONG OF THE RED CLOAK, Nathan Kress kept popping up as a kind of proto-type for Galen. Just picture him in a Greek chiton, and a shaved head. Cute kid. Looks a little like my husband did at fifteen. Maybe I'm biased, but I think this totally works.

NOT THIS GUY:

Been watching Battlestar Galactica recently, and somewhere in Season 3 they reveal that Chief Tyrol's full name is GALEN TYROL. I go: "Huh?" My husband goes: "Isn't that...?" I go: "Damn skippy. THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE GALEN!." You see how possessive we writer-types can be about our characters?

MEET NIKOLAS

WHO HE IS: Nikolas is a student in the agoge, and also a prince of the Eurypontid line. He's also Galen's best friend. It's a total bromance, yo.

WHAT THE HECK IS A EURYPONTID: So, the Spartans had TWO royal lines--the Agiads and the Eurypontids. That meant two kings, two queens, and two royal families. They consulted with wise elders known as ephors to make decisions, and of course, ran things by the Spartan senate, called the Gerousia. Old timey Democracy! Huzzah!

WHAT HE HATES LIKE WHOA: Disloyalty. Killing things. That's about it. Nikolas is Sparta's most laid-back dude. He doesn't fit in the Spartan mold, much less his father's idea of what it means to be Sparta. This causes lots of angst-o-the-ancients.

WHAT HE LOVES: a certain girl with a curious tattoo (do you sense a conflict? I do!); his mother, the queen Isaura; SPARTA!; his best friend Galen.

SIGNATURE MOVES: smooth flirting (lover, not a fighter, remember); following his heart, even when it's wrong; eloquent speeches; losing his head over a girl.

IN NIKOLAS' WORDS: "Where is the nearest temple to Aphrodite?" and "You're a terrible human being [Galen], but a good kid."

CELEBRITY LOOK-A-LIKE: I've said this before, but there can never be TOO many pictures of Andrew Garfield.

Unlike the helots, Spartan citizens did not shave their heads, but liked their hair long. In fact, just before a battle, they'd comb their hair and beards, intimidating their enemy with their metro-sexual hotness. True fact.

MEET ZOI

WHO SHE IS: Zoi is not a Spartan, but a periokoi. That means outsider, or foreigner. She's been living with her uncle Brygus, a goatherder. On the night of the Crypteia, Galen and Nikolas have a close-up encounter with Zoi for the first time. They discover two things--she's got some badass powers, and a strange, lizard-like tattoo on her leg.

WHAT SHE HATES SO HARD IT DRIVES HER TO THINK KILLING THOUGHTS: Morfeo, the Agiad king...sort of; Spartans, all of them...sort of; her powers...sort of. Here's the problem with Zoi--she's conflicted, full of that angst-o-the-ancients I mentioned earlier. She knows who she is, and doesn't like it. But if you underestimate her in any way, then she'll totally hate you, and think about killing you hard.

WHAT SHE LOVES: Her mother; Galen and Nikolas (See? Complicated.); free will; courage.

SIGNATURE MOVES: Taking out men twice her size with ease; keeping 'em guessing.

IN ZOI'S WORDS: "I don't want to be anyone's symbol."

CELEBRITY-LOOK-A-LIKE:

Hello, Kat Dennings, er, Zoi. I've seen her only once before in the movie, Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, though I'm sure she's done other things. She's got an edge to her, a don't eff with me look that I think Zoi would wear on her face all the time, too.

MEET KORINNA

WHO SHE IS: Korinna is a sibyl. The ephors used sibyls, or oracles, to help them make decisions regarding war and politics. They were kept in solitary places, close to sulfuric vents which were said to aid in the visions. She also happens to be a Persian prisoner-of-war, with an interesting connection to Galen.

WHAT SHE HATES, PLAIN AND SIMPLE: Korinna is a girl who knows her mind. She probably knows everyone's mind, actually. She hates one thing only--anything thing that gets in the way of Galen's fate. She has big plans for him, and no one is going to derail the destiny she's seen coming.

WHAT SHE LOVES: Galen; her mother; Sambethe, her Persian mentor; children; bees; doing what is right.

SIGNATURE MOVES: Being impulsive, especially when someone she cares about is in danger; kindness and patience; mysterious predictions about fate.

IN KORINNA'S WORDS: "There is another way to live forever. In the songs. The stories."

CELEBRITY-LOOK-A-LIKE:

There's something incredibly tender AND strong in Elle Fanning's look. That about sums Korinna up. Plus, she's blond like Korinna, which wasn't unheard of in Ancient Greece, though quite rare. Greeks were often so desperate to lighten their locks that they'd do all sorts of crazy things to their heads, often with disastrous results.

There they are, my Spartan teens. There are more, of course. Dastardly types, and sweet types, and others in between. I love them all.

In fact, I love them so much that I celebrated finishing the book by making polymer clay versions of them. Can you tell who is who?

It doesn't get dorkier than this, I know. Keep an eye out for a giveaway next week, wherein I part with these adorable things. It may kill my soul to do, but a giveaway is called for!

Hope you enjoyed this, and grow to love my little gang, too. Don't forget to enter this week's giveaway! And stay tuned for more chances to win, plus a fun e-book launch, in the coming days.

S'agapo, friends!

p.s. To those who've read the book already and liked it, do take a moment and leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or Barnes and Noble. It really helps, especially for those of us doing this on our own. Thank you!

Very Superstitious, Writing's on the Wall

2011-10-14T11:02:00.001-05:00

Part of the great fun in writing SONG OF THE RED CLOAK was all the research that went into it. I read a bunch of Paul Cartledge's excellent work on the Spartans to get me started, and then, devoured most anything I could on the matter. I loved learning about Spartan religious life, particularly as it was rich, and frankly, superstition-laden.

For example, you know those little blue eyes people wear to ward off the "evil eye," i.e. curses?

Pretty, right? Though, the idea that my jewelry is LOOKING BACK AT ME is a bit off-putting.

Do you know how OLD that tradition is? The ancients depicted the evil eye in their artwork and came up with all kinds of ways of deflecting bad curses. My favorite anti-evil eye move is spit-three-times-at-a-person-who-compliments-you. So, um, next time you're in Greece, don't tell anyone you admire their shoes, okay?

Check it: the evil eye, as depicted in a 2nd century Turkish mosaic.

But you know, growing up Cuban, I think I might have the Ancient Greeks beat on superstitions. Those of you who are Cuban, you understand. Everyone else, let me explain by offering you my

5 FAVORITE CUBAN SUPERSTITIONS OF HORROR

so many rocking chairs + a slight breeze = hordes of dead cousins

ROCKING CHAIRS OF DOOM: If you grew up Cuban, you grew up with rocking chairs in the house. Wicker ones, elaborate wooden ones, tiny ones for the kids. And you were told that if you left one of those chairs rocking after you left it, the youngest person in the family would die. Hence, I was forever stilling chairs, lest my poor cousin Belkis keel over from rocking chair exposure. I still have this nervous tick today, and can't abide an empty and rocking rocking chair. Little wonder then, that the effing Cracker Barrel sets my teeth on edge.
CURSED SHELLS--you'd think, having grown up in Miami, near the beach, that I'd have a sweet seashell collection. Think again, my unlucky shell-collecting friends. To bring seashells into the house, according to Cuban superstition, is to invite disaster. Who knows what curses are lolling about in those calcium-rich swirls? I never could find out, because I could never bring a single seashell home with me. Imagine me, collecting my bucket-full of conchs and scallops and sand dollars at the beach. Then, when the family is all packed up and ready to go, see me dumping my precious collection in the sand. Mala suerte, my grandmother would say, and we'd walk away, our good luck intact, and my pretty shells abandoned to the surf.
HEAD TOWARDS THE STREET, PLEASE--I've always loved rearranging furniture. Swap the bed's placement for the dresser's, and boom, you have a brand new room. Alas, if you're Cuban, and your bedroom is small, you most likely are stuck with the same arrangement forever because of one simple reason: your bed must be placed in such a way that your head points towards the street. Not your feet. Never your feet. Why? Because, when removing a frakking CORSPE from your house, they are traditionally taken out FEET FIRST. I'm not kidding. Sleep with your feet headed out the door, and you might not wake up.
No wonder I had so many nightmares as a kid.
PICK UP THAT PURSE!--Ladies, the worst thing you could ever do to your finances is put your purse on the floor. That is a sure way, according to Cuban superstition, to go dead broke. You know you're hanging out with someone who's lived in Miami too long, when, at a restaurant with round-back chairs and nowhere to place her purse, the woman clutches her bag on her lap like it's a baby. Seriously, keep it off the floor, girls.
SEE A PENNY, BACK AWAY REAL SLOW-LIKE--My sweet American friends grew up with this refrain: See a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck. For us Cuban kids, it was more like: See a penny? Ay, mi'ja. Tu sabes que some Santero threw that down to rid himself of a mal de ojo curse, and if you pick it up, you pick up the curse, and your nose might fall off or something. Besides, we don't need pennies from the floor like we're destitute. We didn't come to this country to pick up pennies from the floor. Don't touch, don't touch. Yeah. Don't pick up the pennies, folks.

So, those are just five of my favorites. I'd advise you also to never leave scissors open, or put a hat on your bed, or let someone jump over you (playing leap frog was verboten), or allow a repairman to enter through your front door and leave through the back (he shall leave from the door from whence he came), or go out without wearing your azabache, or forget to bring your newborn home in a yellow outfit, or, or, or, or...

Phew.

Maybe it was easier being a Spartan.

Or maybe, I just saved a few lives today, you never know;)

Just to be on the safe side, tell me about the superstitions YOU grew up with.

The Eye of Sauron is everywhere, kids.

p.s. Don't forget to enter the SONG OF THE RED CLOAK giveaway this weekend! You get a copy of the book, plus a 20 page critique of your fiction, which I promise not to read in a rocking chair, surrounded by seashells, or loose change;)

Is That Allowed?: Writing Across Genres, or How I Came to Write a Book about Ancient Spartan Bad-ass Teens (also, here's a Sparta Kick Prize!)

2011-10-13T10:31:00.001-05:00

Question: How in the world did this Cubana, who's been writing about Cubans and Cuban-Americans most of her life, end up writing a YA book about Ancient Sparta?

Answer One: Because Greek things rock. I've often thought that, had I made a few adjustments in my education, I'd be a Classicist right now. Plato? Socrates? Euripedes? Homer? Sappho? They make my day, all of them. When I was a little girl, and we visited EPCOT Center, the highlight of my trip was always the Spaceship Earth ride, and THIS SCENE:

Ancient Greek dramas, yo, in audioanimatronic form. Be still my eight year old heart.

I've told you all this before. In fact, I told you here, where I obliquely reference SONG OF THE RED CLOAK, all secret-like and stuff.

I especially love the Spartans, who were so different from their Greek counterparts, who treated their women like citizens, allowing them to own property, go to school, show some skin, compete in sport. Sure, they were a pretty brutal bunch, but enlightened in their way.

Answer Two: Because I like a lot of things, and they're not all related to Cuba, so dear to my heart. I like to play the ukulele; I am super interested in the history of the indigenous people of Polynesia; I adore Chinese poetry of the Tang Dynasty; Sylvia Plath makes me want to cry in a good way, every time I read her; I am currently obsessed with Battlestar Galactica.

Am I still writing about Cuba? You bet I am. I don't think I'll ever stop churning out those narratives, poems, books. These are the stories of my people.

But I have other stories to tell. And I've always admired writers who revel in these kinds of artistic departures. They're like palate cleansers for the creative brain. Mini-rebirths. It's like opening your eyes and seeing the world in Wizard-of-Oz-Technicolor, when it's been Kansas-black-and-white for a while.

I recommend the departures, folks. These days, when I go back to my current WIP, set in Cuba during the Spanish-American War, I feel a lot more energized and happy to be in that place again. I can thank the Spartans for that;)

Surprisingly, Cubans and Spartans live very comfortably together in my imagination. I'd like to think those two groups could throw a stupendous fiesta in someone's backyard.

Answer Three: Because no one else did. Picture this: it's October, 2009. A nice, fall day. I'm walking with my husband, and telling him about this idea I'd had.

Me: "There are two boys in Ancient Sparta. One is a prince. The other is a slave. And they're friends. Best friends. But someone is going to try to kill them. And then there's this monster. And, and, and..."

My husband: "Sounds cool."

Me: "I know. I wish someone would write that thing. I'd read it so hard."

My husband: "Um. You write it, boba*."

Me: O_o. "Is that...allowed?"

My husband: >:/

As you can see, I hadn't yet arrived at my "departures" theory, listed in Answer Two. But my husband's skeptical, you-are-such-a-boba-write-what-you-want-to-write look, as odd as it sounds, gave me permission to write a YA historical fantasy. That look set my soul at ease. I am forever grateful to that look.

But I needed more of a push. And that came a month later, in the form of National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. I'd tried NaNoWriMo every year, and failed every year. But this time, something was different. In November 2009, I churned out the first draft of SONG OF THE RED CLOAK. It was fun, too. Like a game. I'd planned on never showing it to anyone, save for my sister, who got daily chapters to read.

But then. I started dreaming about these characters. The monster in the book, the Lamia, haunted my nights.

Lamia, after she's eaten a few kids and turned into a snake-woman. Enjoy the nightmare fuel, folks.

I started thinking of actors who looked like my main characters in my head.

Andrew Garfield? Nay, this is Nikolas, Prince of the Eurypontids;)

I found myself outlining a second book. And a third. And suddenly, I wake up to reality, six months later, with a three hundred+ page novel, wondering when was the last time I slept without traveling to Sparta in my dreams.

All I had wanted, at first, was for someone to write a romantic, historical fantasy with some bad-ass teens in Ancient Sparta. Trust me, I would have read it, put it next to my shelf of other Greek and myth-inspired books (LAVINIA, PERCY JACKSON, THE PENELOPIAD, GATES OF FIRE, BLACK SHIPS, the list can go on), and I would have been very pleased.

But no one did.

So I did.

I'm so glad I did.

Thus, that's the story of WHY I wrote SONG OF THE RED CLOAK. If anything, I hope it inspires you to do the thing you never thought you would, or could, or were allowed to do. If you need a little push, just think of my husband doing this to his face: >:/

Or better yet, here's a skeptical kitten to get your butt in gear:

Now. Are you feeling bold? Cheery? Ready for another push? Mayhaps a giveaway can help.

Not this kind of push. I mean a gentle, less Sparta-riffic push.

Here's the first giveaway in honor of SONG OF THE RED CLOAK.

The prize winner gets a paperback copy of SoTRC, and a short story, or first chapter critique from me.

You send me up to twenty pages of your fiction, and I'll let you know what works so that you can replicate that success, and I'll suggest what needs some gentle Sparta kicking;) My students will tell you I'm sweet as an editor, but real, too.

We'll call this the TWITTER SPARTA KICK PRIZE, and this is how you can win:

1) Get on your Twitter account.
2) Tweet about SoTRC using #SongOfTheRedCloak as a hashtag and this link-->http://amzn.to/rlp1NI
3) Make sure to use the hashtag! That's how I'll find you and give you your prize.
4) You can also tweet about this contest, using the #SongofTheRedCloak hashtag and a link back to this blog.
5) For each tweet, you get an entry. Don't forget the hashtag!

That's it.

There will be more giveaways to come as I unwrap the story of SONG OF THE RED CLOAK, and different ways of winning if Twitter isn't your thing.

The contest ends on ~~Monday, October 17th~~, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 21! I'll have more goodies to give away next week, and more Sparta-goodness in general. I can't wait!

*boba--dummy

The One Where I Tell You About SONG OF THE RED CLOAK

2011-10-12T09:47:00.000-05:00

Those of you following me on Twitter or facebook, have been teased for months now regarding what I've been calling Bookish Things Afoot of the Spartan Variety.

It's been kind of a secret. The kind of secret that's really hard to keep, actually, as I'm so excited about it I haven't been able to stop myself from telling everyone I know.

So, ready for the non-secret?

Ta-da!

It's a book (of course it was)! And it's about Spartans (again, you all guessed that, didn't you?).

The novel is a historical fantasy for young adults, though steel-hearted sixth graders and most adults would enjoy it, too.

Set in ancient Sparta, the book tells the story of Galen, a slave, or helot, who is bound to the Spartan school for boys, the agoge. His best friend, Nikolas, is a Spartan prince. Together, they must face the annual Crypteia, a brutal night in which Spartan teens must hunt and murder a helot in order to prove their worth as soldiers in the Spartan army. Galen, a bit of a loud-mouth, is a target.

But that's not Galen's only problem. There's Zoi, a beautiful and dangerous girl that Nikolas has fallen for, and Korinna, a young sibyl, who is linked to Galen in mysterious ways. There is talk of a helot rebellion, too. Caught between loyalties, Galen must choose what's more important--freedom or friendship.

A lot of research went into this, as I wanted an accurate picture of Spartan culture But it is, after all, a fantasy, and lovers of that genre will find some magic here. There's action, BLOOD, angsty teens, and romance. In short--all the things I loved in books when I was a young (er) adult, and which I still love now.

However, allow me to quote LeVar Burton for a moment:

BUT, you don't have to take MY word for it...

Author of PURE, and a bunch of other great books, Julianna Baggott, had some lovely things to say about SotRC, as you can see in the cover above:

An epic and magical tale about loyalty, friendship and love. Acevedo has created a ripping, fast-paced storyline, of heroes and villains, twists and turns.

I admire Julianna tremendously, and that quote made my YEAR.

My friend and writing peep, Rachel Hawkins, made this award for me, featuring Galen and Nikolas:

The circles are the places where I've had to CENSOR the details of the award. Rachel is ESCANDALOSA and she knows it.

Other folks said some nice things, too, which I'll tell you about in the days to come. And I have a lot of people to thank, too.

For now...

There are two versions of the novel to choose from:

The paperback, which you can get HERE or HERE, or, HERE. The paperback includes a chapter from SONG OF GLASS AND DUST (yep, there's more!) and an extensive reader's guide, great for teachers hoping to use the book in their classes, or readers who want a little more content to chew on.
The Kindle ebook! This should be coming in the next week or so, and we'll fire the glitter cannons to announce the e-version!

I can't wait to talk to y'all about this process. If you'd have asked me five years ago about e-books and self-publishing, I would have given you some serious side-eye. But tides have changed. And I'm glad to be riding this particularly choice wave at the moment. We have SO MUCH to talk about!

In fact, this is the first in a series of posts celebrating SotRC's launch. Here's what to expect:

*How the story came to be (can you say NaNoWriMo?) + a fun giveaway
*The choice to go with e-books + another fun giveaway
*Meet Galen, Nikolas, Zoi and Korinna (hoping you love them as much as I do!) + yet another giveaway
*Firing the glitter cannons in celebration of all things Spartan + a last chance giveaway!

For now, help me celebrate in the comments below, on your Twitter feeds and Facebook pages, and on your Goodreads "to be read" lists. I'd appreciate that.

S'agapo, everyone <3 (That's Greek, for "love ya!")

And the AWC 2011 Giveaway Winners Are....

2011-10-01T10:05:00.001-05:00

We have winners! Allana gets the SALT prize pack, Ashley gets THE NEAR WITCH pack, and Chloe wins the Joshilyn Jackson prizes!

Congrats ladies. Get in touch and I'll get your goodies to you. And thanks to everyone for participating and helping us spread the word about this terrific event.

Only five more days until the AWC! Excited doesn't quite cover how I feel right now. If I had googly eyes, I'd look like this:

Yay, Chloe! I'm going home with you!!!

See you all at the Auburn Writers Conference this Friday!

pssst...if you haven't registered yet, there's still time! Go!

Giving Away ALL THE THINGS: The Auburn Writers Conference 2011

2011-09-23T09:08:00.001-05:00

Happy first day of fall, everyone! And you know what fall means? The Auburn Writers Conference. What a way to kick off the best season of the year! October 7th and 8th is just around the corner, and, like last year, we're looking to you to help us spread the word, giving you a cool giveaway as thanks, and maybe, just maybe, doing some Barbie reenactments for ya in the days to come.

We are lucky to have a SLEW of talented writers joining us this year. Today, we're giving away books from three of them.

First up is our Distinguished Speaker of the Arts and Humanities, the ever-awesome MARK KURLANSKY! He's a multiple New York Times Bestselling author of nonfiction, fiction, books for children, you name it. Mark writes about food culture, sustainability, baseball, Haiti, journalism.

We are beyond BEYOND happy to have Mark giving our final address of the conference on Saturday, October 8th. This event, and only this event, is free to the public. Because we think everyone ought to come out and hear Mark Kurlansky.

So, here's Prize Pack Numero Uno:

You get a conference poster, and a copy of Kurlansky's award-winning book, SALT: A WORLD HISTORY. Here's a quick summary of this amazing book:

Until about 100 years ago, salt, the only rock we eat, was one of the world’s most sought after commodities. Wars were fought over it, other wars were financed with it, colonies were settled to get it. It secured empires and spurred revolutions. Then, fairly suddenly, it lost its value. A cautionary tale of world history. Anthony Bourdain called it “a must have for any serious cook or foodie.” The Los Angeles Times wrote, “Kurlansky continues to prove himself remarkably adept at taking a most unlikely candidate and telling its tale with epic grandeur.” A New York Times and international best seller, Salt has been translated into more than twenty languages. It was a finalist for the James Beard award for food writing and The Los Angeles Times award for science writing. Illustrated by the author.

I love this book. Anthony Bourdain loved this book. Win all around. You also get this:

Don't judge me, blogoverse

I saw this little vintage cheery pear salt shaker, all lonely without his mate, and couldn't resist snagging him for you guys. I mean LOOK AT HIM. The adorableness. I can't stand it. And you know, he's a SALT shaker, so...totally appropriate giveaway item.

Next up is Prize Pack Numero Dos:

You already know how I feel about Joshilyn Jackson. I gush, people. I can't help myself. I've got a lovely book prize pack from this lovely writer. If you win the giveaway, you get:

...a conference poster (and it's SO PRETTY THIS YEAR), and two books: BACKSEAT SAINTS and BETWEEN GEORGIA.

BACKSEAT SAINTS is Joshilyn's latest novel. BETWEEN GEORGIA is my very favorite of her books, and that's saying something, because I love them all.

Bonus:

Autographed! Huzzah!

Joshilyn is our keynote speaker this year, and is offering TWO workshops. It's a triple dose of this marvelous writer that you don't want to miss.

Last, but not least is Prize Pack Numero Tres:

Victoria Schwab is the author of THE NEAR WITCH. She's one of our Young Adult authors this year, and is also offering two great workshops.

V, as I've come to know her on Twitter (and DO follow her on Twitter. She's lovely and fun!), is talented and generous. So, generous, in fact, that she's contributing all of this awesome THE NEAR WITCH swag to the giveaway. Check it:

So many goodies! There are signed bookplates, and buttons, and bookmarks, and a deck of cards from Disney-Hyperion, which features covers from their YA books. How very, very cool!

You get the swag pack, a conference poster, and this:

The Demon-Chihuahua is baaaack!

No, you don't get the dog. But you DO get a copy of THE NEAR WITCH, which, trust me, is better behaved than the dog.

You want these things, don't you? And you want to help us spread the word about The Auburn Writers Conference, of course. Here's what you do:

1) Talk up the Auburn Writers Conference on your preferred social media outlet. Maybe you LiveJournal, maybe you blog, or Facebook, or Tweet. Whatever it is, let your friends and followers know about our awesome conference featuring Mark Kurlansky, Joshilyn Jackson, Victoria Schwab AND SO MANY OTHERS.

2) Then, leave a comment on this here blog with a link or links to your Auburn Writers Conference mention. You get one contest entry per social media outlet (i.e. you can't link to the AWC a thousand times on Facebook and get a thousand entries. Your friends would hate you. BUT, if you mention us on Facebook, Twitter (hashtag #AWC), and your blog, you get THREE entries. How cool is that?).

3) Make sure you tell me which Prize Pack you'd like in your comment. You can put all your entries in for one Prize Pack, choose a few you'd like to try for, or go for all three.

Remember, when helping us promote this, point folks to our website: www.auburnwritersconference.org, or our Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/auburnwritersconference

The contest ends Friday, September 30th!

Thanks, everyone. Your support last year was a big help, and I can't wait to see you at the conference this year!

THE DEETS! (about the Auburn Writers Conference)

2011-09-19T09:44:00.000-05:00

While someone beat me to it, ahem, I'm going to plow ahead with this, my pre-conference DEETS about the Auburn Writers Conference, 2012.

You already know it's called MYTH, MEMORY, and the HAUNTED MUSE. We like the "myth" and "memory" part, mainly because that's what we mean when we say "haunted." What haunts you as a writer? What drives you to the page? Those are the questions we're asking.

We don't mean THIS kind of haunted:

GAH. And NO.

We've gathered a bunch of amazing writers for you, ready to talk about their version of the haunted. Ready to meet some of them?

Mark Kurlansky. Also: I want bookshelves like that.

Mark Kurlansky is a New York Times Bestselling Author. He's a novelist, a journalist, a world-traveler, and generally awesome. I could list more of his awards and successes here but it would take FOREVER. Instead, click on his name and check out his website.

Mark is our Distinguished Speaker for the Arts and Humanities, and will be giving a lecture Saturday afternoon that is FREE AND OPEN TO THE PUBLIC. Do spread the word. And keep a look-out for a special Mark Kurlansky-inspired giveaway in the coming days, right here on the old bloggo.

JOSHILYN JACKSON DESERVES ALL-CAPS.

Guys, Joshilyn Jackson is our keynote speaker this year. She's also offering TWO workshops: Publishing Q and A, and Fresh Eyes (about finding that perfect writing group). TWO WORKSHOPS PLUS A KEYNOTE SPEECH! I AM EXCITE!

Obviously, I'm a fan of this incredible writer. Of her books, my favorite is BETWEEN, GEORGIA, but damn, GODS IN ALABAMA was good, too. And THE GIRL WHO STOPPED SWIMMING? Made me lose sleep! I could go on. And I WILL, to share this:


Is that Joshilyn Jackson, on the cover of VANITY FAIR last year, with a bunch of other awesome authors? Yes. Yes, it is. PSST....there will be a Joshilyn Jackson giveaway on this blog in the near future.

Melissa Dickson is wearing a cameo (I see what you did there, Melissa!)

We are so lucky to have Melissa Dickson at the conference this year. A talented poet, Melissa's collection, CAMEO, was just released. She blogs over at Mama's Cameo, and you should all check it out. There's a new interview up on her blog, too. Worth the listen. Here's her workshop description:

The Moving Line, Marking Time
This workshop will focus on evocative explorations of history using postcards, photographs, and historical documents. Bring something of personal interest to you, or peruse the portable archives available on site. Feel free to Google information and dates using your personal electronic devices as we blend the real and the imagined into transporting vignettes on the page. You will be encouraged to consider the constraints of form, the opportunities of mixed points of view, and the visual details that fix a moment in the pictorial and poetic mind.

I SO want to go to this one!

Patricia Foster brings TWO workshops tot he table this year. Don't miss it!

Patricia Foster is the author of two books of nonfiction, a graduate of the Iowa Workshop, an MFA in art from UCLA, and a PhD in women's literature and creative writing from FSU. Phew! She is a brilliant writer and teacher, and is going to be talking about Family Memoirs and Storytelling and Truth in her workshops. For those of you thinking of finally writing that memoir, or that strange-but-true story, don't miss Patricia's sessions!

She is even MORE BEAUTIFUL in person. AND EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL WITHIN. Trust me.

Meet M. Evelina Galang. Evelina is a fiction writer, a professor at the University of Miami (my alma mater. Excuse me while I fist pump, and shout, "THE U!!!!"), and the Director of the MFA program at UM. She is also an activist, and advocate for Filipina Comfort Women. ("Comfort Women" is a euphemism for women enslaved for sexual purposes, by the Japanese, during WWII. Evelina tells their stories). She's established the FRIENDS OF THE LOLAS in order to raise awareness about the "comfort women," many of whose stories have gone silent for too long.

Evelina, as you can probably already tell, is a generous spirit. She's a talented writer and extraordinary teacher, too. Sign up for her workshop: Is this a Story? On Fiction and Nonfiction Plot. You'll learn a lot, be amazed, and meet one of the loveliest women on the planet. Promise.

Richard Goodman! Go like his Facebook page!

Richard Goodman's workshop, Writing Home: Drawing on a Sense of Place in Writing, really hits, ahem, home for me. As a writer, I nearly always begin with a sense of place. Richard is the author of a creative writing craft book: THE SOUL OF CREATIVE WRITING, as well as FRENCH DIRT: THE STORY OF A GARDEN IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE (you can see where that sense of place comes into play in Goodman's work right there). For those of you who can't get a special place out of your hearts, minds, and imaginations, then Richard is your guy.

If you follow ONE person on Twitter, it should be Rachel Hawkins.

What can I say about Rachel Hawkins that I haven't already said a billion times over? She's one of my dearest friends. I wish I'd met her sooner. Oh, around 8th grade or so. We would have TAKEN OVER the junior high. Rachel was at last year's conference, and you all loved her so. Now she comes back as a New York Times Bestselling Author, and she'll be talking about the ways writers can use the social networks to promote their work. There will be fresh copies of DEMONGLASS for you, and I'll bet you can coax some SPELL BOUND spoilers out of her;)

Peter Huggins is THE BOSS in our conference trailer. Seriously, HOW does he DO it?

You've all heard me go on about Peter Huggins before. He was at the conference last year, talking about writing for children. His book, TROSCLAIR AND THE ALLIGATOR is a favorite in my house. Penny, my five year old, can't get enough of that story. But did you know, Peter is an accomplished poet? He's published THREE books of poems, and will be talking to conference goers about Sound, Structure, and Meaning in poetry. This is another workshop I'm dying to attend. Poets, come get your learning on with Peter Huggins!


How neat is this picture of Wendy Reed? And how badly do I want a camera like that? So badly.

Wendy Reed writes, produces, teaches, and directs at the University of Alabama Center for Public Television and Radio. She's received a regional EMMY. An EMMY. She has a forthcoming collection of essays coming up. AND, a short story collection, too. In short, she's awesome with a pen AND a lens. Her workshop: Making Belief: Memoir, Documentary, and Journalism, will be a unique take on our theme, and a chance for those of you itching to write, produce, and play with the visual aspects of language, to learn from one of the best.

Can't wait to meet Roger Reid! I need to know where Jason Caldwell is going next!

Roger Reid is a writer, director, and producer for the Emmy Award Winning Discovering Alabama public television series. As such, he's spent a lot of time in the great outdoors. It's this setting that has inspired his Jason Caldwell series for Young Adults. A few years ago, someone handed me LONGLEAF, and said, "You need to read this." And I did. And it was awesome. Jason is a hero you want to root for. Check out Roger's workshop description:

Rabbits in the Sky: Using Fiction to Tell the Truth
Disconcerting though it may be to battle an evil wizard or learn to love a vampire, how much more so if your characters have to overcome real-world obstacles. This workshop will explore the wonder, the danger, the mystery, and the romance of the natural world and how to weave it into your writing.

Like I said: CAN'T WAIT.

Look up Alabama Arts in a dictionary. I'm fairly certain Jeanie Thompson's name comes up first.

I had the great pleasure of meeting Jeanie Thompson earlier this year, in the lovely offices of the Alabama Arts Council in downtown Montgomery. Jeanie, an accomplished poet, is an advocate for all things Alabama + Arts. She's the founding editor of THE BLACK WARRIOR REVIEW, has four poetry collections under her belt, and is the founding member of the Alabama Writers Forum. I could go on. Jeanie is a bit of a force;) This year, she's joining us, and offering a workshop on persona poems. Do yourself a favor, and read a few of Jeanie's poems here. You won't be disappointed.

Why, hello there, Victoria Schwab.

Victoria Schwab is the debut author of THE NEAR WITCH from Disney-Hyperion, a fairytale-inspired Young Adult novel that you will all love. Her next book, THE ARCHIVIST, is forthcoming. Victoria is offering two workshops: Fairy Tales for the Modern World, and "The End" is Only the Beginning (it's about writing that query letter).

I've left Victoria for last here because I want this fresh in your memories: WE WILL BE DOING AN AWESOME, AWESOME THE NEAR WITCH GIVEAWAY THIS WEEK! STAY TUNED!

One last thing. I'm offering a workshop, too. It's on writing historical fiction, which is sort of my thing. If you've been thinking of that Civil War novel, that Sparta novel (SPAAAARTA!), that 1950's, Mad Men-esque novel. then come on over to my workshop. We'll get our history on.

That's all, folks. I am beyond giddy about this conference. And I'd love for you all to meet these fine writers. It's going to be a sweet time.

Do me a favor, and help me spread the word? Link to this blog post, or the Auburn Writers Conference website. And if you haven't registered yet, and you're planning to, DO EET! Slots fill up quickly. Don't miss out!

The Haunted Muse: The Auburn Writers Conference, 2011

2011-09-12T10:14:00.000-05:00

What drives a writer to the page? Is a writer a compulsive being? One driven, haunted, maybe, by characters, memories, myths? These are the questions we'll try to answer at this year's Auburn Writers Conference, October 7 and 8, in Auburn, Alabama.

First, a bit of history. The conference is generously sponsored by Auburn University. It's our second annual conference. Last year's event, The Child on the Page, was a tremendous success. But don't take my word for it. Click through the links to read what one of last year's attendees and one of our guest authors had to say:

Heather's Blog: "I am absolutely smitten."
Emma' Blog: "I remembered what drew me to this art in the first place."

This year, we've nearly doubled the number of authors and workshops. There are writers here for all your tastes--from nonfiction, to YA, to literary and popular fiction, and poetry. There is something for everyone. We've added some new, special events, including readings by attendees and a special night to honor the late Katherine Tucker Windham.

This week and next, I'll be giving you a glimpse of all the good stuff The Haunted Muse will have to offer. There will be GIVEAWAYS, and perhaps, if you're all very, very good, another Barbie reenactment, aka, FASHION DOLLS OF ANGST, a la last year.

In the meantime, visit our facebook page and "like" us. Or tweet about the conference to your heart's content, using the hashtag #AWC. And definitely register soon. Workshop slots are filling quickly.

So, let's kick off the Auburn Writers Conference Promo-a-Palooza with this amazing, amazing, I-dare-you-not-to-cry-conference-trailer, created by the incredibly talented duo of Whitney and Dave at Room Eleven Media.

Thanks, Room Eleven. Everyone else, I'll see you on the Plains this October.

Our Mother's Bookshelves

2011-09-07T08:40:00.002-05:00

If you've been in a bookstore anytime in the last five years, you'll have noticed the explosion of books for teens, or YA books. They have their own section! The covers are glossy and glittery! And the aisles are often packed with teen readers.

I've had a number of long chats with my dear friend Rachel Hawkins, who happens to write YA, about the kinds of books WE read as teens. Because, alas, there was no dedicated YA section in the bookstores when we were kids. What DID we read?

As a late elementary/early junior high kid, I read lots of classics. My mom enrolled me in a Book-of-the-Month club for kids, and so I got to read THE ISLAND OF THE BLUE DOLPHINS and THE CAY and BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA (weep...weep...), and so on. There was also ARE YOU THERE, GOD, IT'S ME, MARGARET, for which I blame my confusion regarding sanitary napkins and the use of belts to hold them up (Me, searching under the bathroom sink: DEAR GOD, where are the BELTS??!?!?)

But the Book of the Month club ran out. I figured out that modern girls didn't need belts. And I was out of books to read.

It didn't take long for my eyes to fall upon my mother's shelves. Big, fat, glossy hardcovers. Could I read those fat books? What were they about? Was THE CLAN OF THE CAVE BEARS about bears? Did FLOWERS grow in ATTICS?

Intrigued, I took them off the shelves one by one. There was no YA transition for me. I went from Beverly Cleary straight to V.C. Andrews and beyond. And I dared not tell my mom about it. In fact, I think it's sort of sweet and throw-backy that girls and their mothers read books together today. They both dig on TWILIGHT and talk it out. That's nice.

And SO not the case with me. I'd venture to say that many of us 80s kids, pre-YA section, have a similar, shady story. Here, then, shamelessly, are the shadiest parts;)

It's not about bears, people.

I really did think this one might be about bears. Then it turned out to be about cave people having lots of graphic sex with one another. Go. Figure.

Tuberculosis and twins and horses and financial ruin and PRINCESSES!

I thought this one would be about princesses. But Princess Daisy doesn't even CLAIM her title until the end. After much heartache and sexy times. There was also a disabled twin sister in the mix. Also a princess. She sort of broke my heart.

This book. I am still getting over this book.

I may have read FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC more than once. Probably more than three times. I read the whole, incestuous, arsenic-laced doughnut series, actually. I was about twelve when I read it, so I didn't quite "get" what Chris and Cathy were doing on that mattress in the attic, WHEN THEY WERE STILL CHILDREN. My mental mumblings as I read, and reread, probably sounded like this: "What are they---? But they're brother and sister, so no. But, um. I think that, um. JESUS what are they DOING?" In retrospect, those passages aren't all that subtle, but alas, I was an innocent.

Until...

I don't even.

My mother kept this one in the top shelf of the closet. Little wonder. I like to imagine that she didn't even KNOW she owned this thing. Let's go with that, okay? In short, THE HAPPY HOOKER, a work of supposed nonfiction, is hands down, the dirtiest thing I've ever read, seen, or heard about. Ever. I was all of thirteen when I read it. Certain passages are burned onto the back of my brain still. After finishing it, I understood what Chris and Cathy were up to in that attic.

After putting that slender tome back on the top shelf of my mother's closet, I moved on to horror novels. Because really, after THE HAPPY HOOKER, I could no longer be shocked by anything.

That is, until I picked up this horrifying horror of all that is horriful:

That monkey, people. THAT. MONKEY.

It's a collection of short stories. One of these stories ruined a certain pastry forever. "Survivor" is about a surgeon on a deserted island, who starts to slice off his own body parts for food. By the time he gets to his fingers, hence eliminating his ability to perform self-surgery thenceforth, he's gone mad, and is uttering "Lady fingers, lady fingers, lady fingers..." throughout the procedure. Seriously, eff you Stephen King.

I could go on. I read every single disturbing thing my mother owned, or that the library could cough up for me. I burned out on Anne Rice and more Stephen King (that lesson was hard to learn) and lots of Judith Krantz and more cave bears. Then I was done. I was suddenly a grown up. And other kinds of literature called.

Still, I wonder if I would have been a different writer or reader had the YA section been a big deal when I was a kid. What if I had been milkfed on Stephenie Meyer and Cassandra Clare and Suzanne Collins? Would I be any different? What do you think?

NOTE TO TEEN READERS: I say, more power to the YA section! I'm glad you guys don't have to sneak around your parents' rooms, five-finger borrowing the big books. However, I would say to you that doing so, every once in a while, is not a bad thing either. Your parents are reading fun stuff, too. But if you get to any weird mattress scenes, ask Mom or Dad about it, okay?

NOTE TO GROWN UPS: Tell me, what did you read in Junior High? What books first scandalized you?

Annie and the Rainbow Connection

2011-08-17T15:17:00.001-05:00

Annie and Justin in 2006.

I lost a dear friend yesterday. Annie battled cancer for nearly a decade, and gave it a good, long fight. But this post isn't about cancer, or fighting. It's about my lovely friend, who was gentle and fierce at the same time. It's about her wonderfully supportive husband, Justin, who I am thankful for. It's about her adorable son Christopher, who is all smiles all the time and a wonderful spirit like his mother. It's about my best friend Diane, Annie's sister, who always gave Annie such credit for her strength, and who also is strong beyond measure (though she might not think so). It's about Annie's parents, who watched me grow up and let me use their pool without ceasing all those summers ago. It's about Annie's nieces, Jaina and Vanessa, who will always have this incredible model in their aunt to guide their choices (What Would Annie Do?).

I was glad to see her this past weekend, and say goodbye, and I love you, which I do, and always will.

Here's my favorite Annie memory (and there are many). When her first niece, Jaina (also my goddaughter) was born, Annie was about a year into her treatments. I remember watching her feeding Jaina, who sat in a highchair and was being fussy. Annie started to sing "The Rainbow Connection" in the sweetest voice I'd ever heard. Jaina calmed down, and ate, and watched her aunt wide-eyed as she sang.

Ever since then, I can't hear "Rainbow Connection" without thinking of Annie, and I guess that will be true all my life. I can't think of a better tune to associate with her, a woman full of hope and good will.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
and what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
and rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it.
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard
and answered when wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that and someone believed it.
Look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us star gazing
and what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under its spell. We know that it's probably magic.

Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that called the young sailors.
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
It's something that I'm supposed to be.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

I want to believe that Annie found the rainbow connection, I really do. And I know she's resting in peace, and laughing at all the fuss we're making over her today.

p.s. If you want to give "The Rainbow Connection" a listen NPR just posted a lovely, lovely version of the song by Weezer and Hayley Williams. Just perfect. Annie would have approved.

UPDATED: Please share your favorite Annie memories here in the comments section, or with Diane and her family if you know them. I'd love to hear them.

Kindergarten, 1980

2011-08-08T14:01:00.000-05:00

Penny starts kindergarten this Wednesday. In about an hour, I'll take her to meet her teacher and see her classroom. Right now, she is watching cartoons, and is completely nonplussed about everything. I am nervous enough for both of us.

I remember kindergarten. I remember the Snow White mural on the left side of the room, the powder blue background. I remember the teacher, Ms. Tania, who wore her hair in a jet black chignon every day, until Halloween, when she pulled out the hairclip first thing in the morning. Her hair cascaded down her back and shoulders, and she said, "I'm a WITCH!" And I BELIEVED her. I remember my adorable shaped erasers, the ones a classmate named Zury used to snatch from my desk and make me cry. (I haven't forgotten you, Zury, wherever you are.) I remember my Justice League metal lunchbox, and the smell of peanut butter sandwiches that I never actually ate. I remember our Christmas play. We did a Mexican hat dance, and my partner was Manuel, and my skirt had sequined, red roses on it. There was another play about Snow White, and my friend Danet played the princess, and we sang a song about Blanca Nieve. I remember kindergarten graduation, and my crooked, white mortarboard, and the feel of the avocado green velvet seats in the auditorium (sort of rough in one direction, smooth in the other), and the metal arms with their white swirls, just the right width for a kindergarten-sized finger to explore again and again.

I don't remember a thing about my life before kindergarten. There are snippets of memory, flashes of red rocking chairs, shag carpets; a German Shepherd paws his way around my earliest memory, though I'm certain no one in my family owned one. It's like my life began in kindergarten, at Champagnat Catholic School, Hialeah.

Maybe that's what all my nerves are about. After all, Penny's been in daycare since before her first birthday. She loves school. But if memory is genetic, then this marks the place in her life when those memories start to take hold. From here on out, age five, everything counts forever. That's sort of a big deal.

So, tell me, do you remember kindergarten? Any memories before that? If you have kids, what was it like to send them to "real" school for the first time? Give it to me straight.

p.s. I'll let you know how it goes Wednesday morning. For now, enjoy this picture of me, September 1980, rocking the knee highs, the Dorothy Hamill hair, and the lunchbox, on my very first day of Kindergarten.

Waterworks (of the Bookish Kind)

2011-08-05T14:11:00.001-05:00

I hate crying.

I've always hated crying.

I can't know for sure, but I don't think I even liked crying as a kid.

I've never seen TERMS OF ENDEARMENT. Debra Winger-Who? Or THE NOTEBOOK. I never will. Screw that weepy noise.

I have seen STEEL MAGNOLIAS and MY GIRL. And lo, it was awful. Gut-wrenchingly awful. Why, Shelby? WHY? And why didn't they bury Macauley Culkins' character with his GLASSES?

I have seen these movies exactly one time. Never again.

Ty Pennington can go jump off a cliff with that crying-jag of a show, EXTREME MAKEOVER: HOME EDITION.

In short, I don't like to cry.

Except, when a book makes me cry. I sort of like that. It means the author totally wins at convincing me that the world she created is real, that his characters are people worth caring about. Still, not every sad book makes me cry. A few, however, have sent me right around the bend into UGLY CRYING TERRITORY.

Here they are, then. THE BOOKS THAT BROKE CHANTEL'S COLD, COLD HEART.

Warning: There be spoilers ahead.

The first book to ever make me cry was LITTLE WOMEN. People, when Beth died, something downright broke in me. Right in half. I looked a lot like this, in fact, after reading that scene:

This is a good representation of me reading LITTLE WOMEN. "I"m so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so SAD!" Hold me, Zack.

It was a long time before another book made me tear up. Then I had to go and read the flipping LORD OF THE RINGS. And I was good, too, right until the end, when emo Frodo leaves with the elves. And then the book was over. And I started crying because it was over. Because I would never get to read the series for the first time. Hence, this look at that moment:

I was in a depressed, existential, Fisburnian place, people. Why, Frodo? WHY?

I successfully avoided tear-making books for some time. Then, dope that I am, I picked up Alison Bechdel's glorious graphic novel, FUN HOME. Hey, it's got FUN right there in the title, I thought. Wrong-o, amigos. Fun is short for FUNERAL in this brilliant book about a father and daughter. I can't tell you how many times a panel in this book made me do this:

I know I'm a mess right now, and I should have KNOWN that book would be sad, but for the love of orange spray tan, find Zack Morris so he can hold me.

I knew right from the get-go that I wouldn't be safe with Marilynne Robinson's HOME. You all know my feelings for Marilynne run deeeep. And this restrained sequel (sort-of) to GILEAD is perfection. But the weighty silences between Jack and his father, and the way they hurt each other in ways so cruelly and so human, made me cry again and again. That book was exhausting and brilliant, and the kicker is, I keep rereading it, and looking like this:

I am decidedly less hairy, but equally sad about HOME.

Shall I even mention THE HUNGER GAMES? When Rue dies, IMPALED by a damned CAREER, I whipped myself up into a sad frenzy that can only be described by using a combination Sad Dawson AND Sad Keanu (you knew it was coming):

This is the saddest thing ever. Quickly, someone make Paula Deen ride on Van Der Beek's other shoulder to make this better.

I've been spared the bookish waterworks lately. I can't begin to explain why these particular books hit me so hard, and why they still do. There's some magic on the page I haven't deciphered. People have told me they've cried while reading LOVE AND GHOST LETTERS, as well as other things I've written, but honestly, I don't know how I did that to them. If I made you cry, I am sorry. (And also, yeah, baby, I made you cry!)

You know, I could probably do a similar post about books that have scared the crap out of me. Number one on that list would be Stephen King's PET CEMETERY. That book is just wrong, people. Somewhere else on the list would be Jennifer Egan's A VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD, for it's quietly terrifying vision of the future in the last chapter. I closed the book. Thought, "Way to go on the Pulitzer, Jennifer," and spent the rest of the afternoon looking like this:

What the hell, Egan? That chapter creeped me out. In a good way;)

There you have it. The books that made me miserable. So, what books have made you cry? Can you lend them to me?

Thanks, Harry.

2011-07-15T15:15:00.002-05:00

Dumbledore's Army forever.

With the release of Deathly Hallows, Part II, the Harry Potter era comes to an end. I have not seen the film yet, as I'm waiting to go with Orlando, and he doesn't get a break until Monday. So, I sit tight, avoid Twitter lest there be spoilers, and while away some of the time here, pondering what Harry and company have meant to me.

Perhaps this should be a numbered list. With a title. The Impact of Harry Potter on a Cuban-American Writer and Academic: Magic, Perspectives, and Pedagogy. How does that sound? Academic types like their colons, I've come to learn.

Ahem.

1. Harry got me through a horrible first trimester of pregnancy. No lie. Half-Blood Prince was published early on in my pregnancy with Penny. It had been a hard three months--scary bleeding, nausea, general terror at the prospect of being a parent. Additionally, Orlando was starting an academic job search, and every day he'd come home with a new list. "How about MICHIGAN?" "Does IOWA sound appealing to you?" Then came HBP in June, and everything fell away for a while. I read it slowly. Between first trimester power naps. And as dark as the novel was, it was soothing, too. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore. I knew these guys, and in a way I'll never be able to explain, they kept me sane that summer.

2. Harry taught me a thing about perspective in writing. I should thank J.K. Rowling for this, of course. I was in the midst of writing a draft of a (terrible, shall-not-be-named novel) shortly after LOVE AND GHOST LETTERS was published. An editor friend told me my voice in the new book was too God-like, and I didn't get it. I was reading GOBLET OF FIRE (I picked up the books late in the game), and realized that Rowling had handled this intricate plot, with a thousand subplots, without leaving Harry's perspective. There is only ONE moment in the entire series where Rowling's voice is God-like, or intrusive, as I like to say now. It's in the first book, after Harry and Ron save Hermione from the troll. Rowling interrupts to say that frightening adventures like that tend to bring people together. It's a jarring moment, stylistically, and it helped me realize what I'd been doing wrong in the novel. The novel stayed wrong, and was eventually pieced out into stories and poems. Still. Perspective. Lesson learned.

3. Speaking of lessons, Harry has made me a better teacher. I believe the effect of this won't last long, though. I am currently teaching the Harry Potter generation. They were elementary kids when the first books came out, and grew up alongside Harry and the Weasleys, etc. etc. This is their story. And I use the hell out of that. Citing the above example to discuss perspective; linking myths we read in World Lit I to their HP counterparts (J.K. Rowling was a classicist before she became a billionaire); telling my Creative Writing students that quiet scenes have more power than loud ones. Case in point: in Deathly Hallows, when Harry's wand breaks, he turns to Hermione and says, "Mend it. Please," and it is so quiet, and moving, and heartbreaking when she says she cannot. Gets me every time. Gets my students, too.

4. Harry Potter brought me closer to my sister. No lie. Her dad married my mom when I was fourteen and she was seven. That's a big age difference. It didn't help that I was as emo as they come in those days, and she had a touch of the brat about her. Fast-forward twenty years, and we're good friends, made fast by our mutual love of all things Potter. We can talk about this stuff for HOURS on the telephone. We *may* have dueled with wands at some point. Maybe we did that.

5. Harry Potter improved my Spanish. Now this one is weird. A few years ago, I decided to start reading novels in Spanish. Though I'm bilingual, I'm a deadly slow Spanish reader. Frustrated, I began picking up the HP novels in translation whenever I went to Miami (where they are readily available). The translations are hilarious (as translations are wont), and the stories are fun and familiar. Bonus, my speed has improved, and I can get through other books in Spanish more quickly. Also, the translator changes every single "Brilliant!" in the books to "Genial!" which is adorable. Genial!

6. Harry has Daddy-issues. This always resonates with me, a child of divorce. Harry seeks fathers in every book--Mr. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin, Mad Eye, and of course, Dumbledore. He loses all but one of those. I find myself in similar straits, having depended on my abuelo, my uncle, father-in-law, abuelos-in-law, and other loving men who have since passed. If the orphan trope is big in children's literature, it is for good reason. Nothing is more terrifying to a child than becoming parentless. Harry, sitting before the Mirror of Erised, and seeing his family, hale and whole, is primordially moving. I'm always happy when a writer can articulate the feelings I felt as a kid, and still feel today, in many ways.

Thus ends the many ways in which I am thankful to Harry, that bespeckled boy who lived. These are all observable things, I suppose. I'd be at a loss to put together a list that can accurately represent the excitement I felt for each new book, the sadness I felt when characters died (Why, Dobby? WHY?), the times that Harry sent me to the page to play, compose, imagine.

I'm sorry not to be part of the Harry Potter generation, to not have grown up with Harry, half-expecting a Hogwarts letter to arrive in the mail. I wish I'd met him when I was a kid, too.

But I'm SO glad this generation has their Harry, their fictional child to love. For me it's Anne (of Green Gables), for others it's Laura Ingalls, or Holden Caulfield, or some other kid.

This weekend belongs to Harry, though. So thanks, Potter. See you at the movies.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

2011-07-05T17:41:00.001-05:00

And not the Nirvana sort.

Last week, I had the pleasure of leading the first Creative Writing Studio, a summer camp for teen writers in Auburn. We had eleven campers, with a fair number from Auburn, a few from other places in Alabama and Georgia, and two west coasters, one from Utah and another from California. Graduate students Allie and Garrard were with me for the ride.

We decided that the week should be about writerly craft lessons, quiet composing time, and fun, too. That last bit is important. Here are a bunch of kids who have self-identified at an early age as writers. They're doing something that took me well into my thirties to do--saying, with confidence, "I'm a writer." Even after my book was published, even then, I had a hard time saying it. Not these kids. But they are beginning writers, just starting out, and I wanted them to associate that identification, that impulse to spend a week of their precious summer WRITING, with fun and sweetness. In the Jewish faith, when children first start to read the Torah, they're given a spoonful of honey to sip, so that they might always think of sweetness when they think of learning. And so, Allie, Garrard and I made sure there was some "honey" to go along with all the writing and practice.

We started with four camp rules, accompanied by our camp mascot, Prince Harry Gaga, who happens to have a facebook page already (feel free to go "like" that right now). I'm not sure why Prince Harry Gaga became our mascot, but he either "disapproves" or "approves" of things, and well, he can be a real pain to work with.

Ahem.

So, our rules were simple. The 1st rule was inspired by Henry James' famous quote, "Be a person on whom nothing is lost." A writer is, above all else, perceptive. He's a person who notices. She's got her eyes and ears ready to receive.

The 2nd rule asked the campers to write to the third column. This is based on an activity designed to push students to write beyond that first thought, where things are easy and common, and to push to the "third column," or the place where imagination really takes off.

GTA of Wonders, Allie, leading the "Third Column" activity

The 3rd rule: Kill the darlings. You writers know what this means. It means revision. It means that sometimes, as writers, we have to let go, to burn a couple of pages, to be brutal to the people we made up in our heads. For this one, we borrowed a page from Emma Bolden's amazing Play-Doh Activity. Students created clay characters. They did it lovingly. They took their time. The sculptures were wonderful.

Cute, no?

Then, GTA of Marvels Garrard asked them to obliterate them.

HULK SMASH CLAY CHARACTERS! RAWR!

Kill the clay darlings. And when they rebuilt them, the darlings were better than before. That's revision in action.

The 4th rule was an oldie, but a goodie. Show Don't Tell. And what better way to SHOW than to GO. Places, that is. We spent our afternoons writing in different spaces all around Auburn.

At Pine Hill Cemetery

At the Jules Collins Smith Museum

At Chewacla State Park

There was also the Gnu's Room, and the Arboretum. For one week, Auburnites got an eyeful of teenagers writing in well-loved notebooks, all over town.

They also wrote with their eyes closed, imagining those dream worlds within, the worlds that do not abide by the rules of known physics:

And they ran a murder mystery, which they then had to recreate in a short scene, in order to learn about the importance of details (and good costumes):

And because all of these kids are writers who also love reading, we gave them all copies of HEX HALL, and they got a chance to have dinner with author Rachel Hawkins.


I promise that neither Rachel, nor the kids, were demons. Though their eyes tell another story...

I also got to celebrate my birthday with these fine people, and they made me a Happy Bedazzled Birthday cake, and wrote a poem for me, too:

To top things off, the kids read from their work to a packed house at the local Starbucks. They looked like New York Times bestselling authors up there, all of them.

If only I would have had HALF this poise at fifteen years old...

It was a wonderful, inspiring week, and I am honored to have spent it with such wonderful young people.

The next time I hear people bemoan the state of literature today, or the apathy of youth, or the future of books, I'll make sure to tell them about the Creative Writing Studio, and eleven teenagers who are going to one day make us all wonder what we were so worried about.

p.s. Special shout-outs to the camp counselors, SarahGrace and Schavion. They were terrific! War Eagle, you two.

Mangoes. So. Many. Mangoes.

2011-06-13T11:12:00.000-05:00

The last of my Miami posts is here at last. I have dragged this out for as long as possible, as we were in Miami in MAY and it is now the second week of JUNE.

I have promised you mangoes, and here they are:

This is my parents' backyard in South Florida. Their mango tree is LADEN with fruit this year. I don't think I've ever seen the trees down there so fruitful. I spent a lot of time in the backyard this visit. It felt pleasant in the shade, the air smelled sweet, and every once in a while, I'd hear a THUNK as one of these beauties hit the grass:

Look at that thing. It's like a tropical Easter egg, isn't it? And my God, they are sweet. You can smell the sweetness right through the skin. Penny would walk around with them held up to her nose, taking deep breaths. I like to imagine she was bringing all of Miami into her little body, holding it in there, warmed up inside of her.

Watching her out there with my mom made me think of my own childhood, of another mango tree that still must stand on West 10th avenue in Hialeah. My grandfather and I spent a lot of time under that tree, rescuing fallen fruit. He would warn that I should not ever, ever count the mangoes, or else it would bring bad luck to the tree, and it wouldn't bear any fruit the next year. I don't think my mother counted a single pink bud of fruit this year. Not with this bounty. Anyhow, that bit of folklore made it into Love and Ghost Letters, and it is one of my favorite scenes because it reminds me of home.

But not everything was familiar in the 'rents' backyard. For example, this:

What the hell is this? Turns out, once I asked on Twitter, the tweeps informed me that it was a Passion Vine Flower. Beautiful, no? I don't think I've ever seen a prettier thing.

Well, maybe aside from this:

Ahem.

That's Penny and her Uncle Al, the target of her most exuberant affections. They are often eerily alike in personality, these two.

Uncle Al turns thirty this month (on my birthday. BIRTHDAY STEALER.) Hey, Al, if you want mangoes for your party, I know where you can find some.

Princesses, Age Five

2011-06-05T10:34:00.001-05:00

As promised, here's another post about our recent trip to Florida. The whole reason for going was to celebrate Penelope, Allie, and Mia's fifth birthdays. We cooked up this plot when the girls were born--first Allie, then Penny, then Mia (click the names for the wee-est, sweetest newborn pictures ever). The plan was to take them to Disney World the year they all turned five, and do the whole princess thing BIG.

This plan, of course, presupposed that the girls would be into that kind of thing.

They are SO into that kind of thing.

This is not to say that these three have a narrow princess focus. Mia, for example, loves music, popular music especially, and comes up with her own beats and lyrics as if she were Grandmaster Preschooler or something. Allie gets lost in imaginative play in a way I've never seen any other kid do. One minute she's with you, the next her eyes have gone glassy, and she's murmuring to herself about mermaids or something, and you know that Allison has escaped to her own version of Narnia. As for Penny, she's as likely to put on a princess dress as she is to pick up a beetle and let it crawl around on her arms. She can tell you a lot about insects, NBA basketball, and episodes of Glee and MST3K.

Anyhow, the point I'm trying to make is that these aren't one-note kids, and so I had no qualms about the utter girlishness of the Bibbidi-Bobbidi Boutique (yes, that is its name).

The place is a fancy hair salon, really. But it's tucked away INSIDE Cinderella's castle, and has high arches and stained glass windows, making it the FANCIEST hair salon anywhere.

The girls put on their costumes and were whisked away to their stations by Fairy Godmothers (of course).

Allie was all quiet smiles. Mia kept asking her Fairy Godmother questions, like "Why are you so young? Fairy Godmothers are 'posed to be OLD," and Penny sat with the seriousness of a sphinx. This, by the way, is par for the course for Penny at hair salons. Whenever she's had a haircut, she goes still as stone. I used to think she was terrified of getting her hair cut. But I think the reality is that this is SERIOUS BUSINESS to her, as in "I won't move a jot and the result will be MORE amazing for my self-control." I should add that she is never otherwise this self-disciplined. I should get her hair done every day.

The end result was, if you'll forgive the Disney-speak, magical. While posing for pictures by Cinderella's fountain, a set of fireworks went off behind the castle, and for a moment it felt purposeful, as if the display in the sky was meant for these three alone.

UPDATE: Here's a picture of the me, Andy and Belkis as wee ones in Disney World. There is also a creeptastic Eeyore.

Eeyore will EAT your now.

Princess with Attitude

We spent the rest of the day on the rides, and at restaurants, and wrapped up the long visit with The Electrical Parade:

Who remembers Pete's Dragon? It's Elliot!

This parade had Andrea, Belkis and I waxing nostalgic. We hadn't seen it since we were kids. Furthermore, the soundtrack to the Electrical Parade, which we owned on a long-playing record, featured in our daily play one year, where we pretended we were fairies, carried wands (i.e. hairbrushes), and bounced around my cousins' bedroom while turning one another into different creatures.

We were strange kids, I guess.

The parade score is pretty neat. Very synthesizer-cool. Someone posted an HD video of the parade in Disneyland on YouTube. Here, have a look and listen:

Penny slept through the parade, though Allie and Mia were wide awake.

The next morning, Penny's hair was a nest of hairspray and bobby pins and glitter. Sometime in the night, the clock had struck midnight, and the princess accoutrements fell the way of memory.

Still, all was good. We were headed back down to Miami for a few more days of family and friends (one more post to come!). Happily ever after, indeed!

I'm Still Waiting for My Letter, Dumbledore

2011-05-31T14:42:00.001-05:00

Those of you who follow me on Twitter know I was tweeting up a storm last week, during my trip to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter:

chantelacevedo Chantel Acevedo

Thanks Tweeps! Sprout it is! In line for Ollivander's wand shop! #HP #IslandsofAdventure

20 May

chantelacevedo Chantel Acevedo

Cause I'm in the Hogwarts greenhouse at the moment. #HP #IslandsofAdventure

20 May

chantelacevedo Chantel Acevedo

Help! What's the name of the teacher in the greenhouse?!? #HP #IslandsofAdventure

20 May

chantelacevedo Chantel Acevedo

Ronniekins? Where are you??? #geek #HoggieHogwarts #IslandsofAdventure

20 May

chantelacevedo Chantel Acevedo

Hogwarts! I am in you!

20 May

An on and on it went. And on Facebook. I don't think those tweets quite captured how happy I was to be there with Penny, my mom, Marta, and my mother-in-law, Grise. I quite literally did the Snoopy dance a few times while there.

What is the Snoopy Dance? C'mon, you remember:

Anyhow, I did that a lot at the Wizarding World. The whole place is quite faithful to the Harry Potter books. (Though J.K. should have gone with Disney instead, if only because all the attractions at Universal tend to look run down after a while, and aren't given the maintenance attention one sees at the Disney parks). Hedwig's theme plays on a loop, The books in the bookshops in Diagon Alley/Hogsmeade feature moving pictures, like this one by Gilderoy Lockhart:

Prop newspapers move too, as do these portraits in Hogwarts, which speak to one another:

Butterbeer and pumpkin juice quench Muggle thirsts:

And House Points are awarded to the best and brightest (for the record, I've decided I'm a Ravenclaw. Luna and I TOTALLY hang out):

The place was pretty special, but I wish it would have been a little less crowded, and a good ten degrees cooler.

The ride inside Hogwarts is spectacular, like nothing else I've ever seen, and I found myself talking to Harry throughout the damn thing, like a lunatic. After one bit, where the ride takes you past the Whomping Willow (whomp), and through Aragog's lair, and finally out onto the Quidditch pitch, Harry says, "There you are! Where have you been?" I might have cursed Video Harry out, people: "Effing spiders, Potter. Where were you?"

My good friend, Emma Bolden, who has a terrible fear of Dementors, would despise the rest of the ride, wherein Dementors chase you around and try to suck out your happiness. Then Harry Expecto Patronomed their shady asses, I shouted, "Huzzah! Take that soul-suckers!" and the ride was over.

Then I rode it again.

Overall, I was pleased by the whole thing. So pleased, in fact, that I lost all sense of the value of money, and bought Hermione's wand for Penny, and let her get these three:

Hedwig, Crookshanks and Scabbers. Should Dumbledore send her a Hogwarts letter, Penelope will completely ignore the whole "one-pet rule."

Also, Hogwarts better have financial aid assistance, 'cause I'm broke.

(I may also have bought Rachel Hawkins a Pygmy Puff, and my brother-in-law a Golden Snitch. And a souvenir Butterbeer mug for myself).

Hence, Universal Studios and J.K. Rowling have ALL MY MONIES. Blew my whole summer vacay load on one trip. (Thanks a lot, guys.)

There's more, of course. Penny and I spent a whole week in Florida, and I"ll post the rest of our adventures in the next few days. They include: glowing mangoes, princesses, and so many cousins.

It's Summer. Time for Books. In My Face.

2011-05-09T21:03:00.001-05:00

Ah. You hear that? That's the sound of nearly 4, 000 Auburn graduates getting their diplomas today, and thousands more undergraduates packing their U-Hauls and heading home for the summer; it's the sound of the thermostats heating up, the air conditioners cranking on, and me, sighing, that it is finally, blessedly, summer time.

I don't have big plans for the summer. Hope to do some writing, tackling two big projects at once since I'm feeling especially ambitious and delusional. Looking forward to that, and also, oh yes, ALSO, to all of these:

BEHOLD MY SUMMER READING PILE! BEHOLD IT. BEHOLD IT WITH YOUR SPECIAL EYES, INTERNET.

I've decided that my enormous "to be read" (TBR) pile needs some tender love. It's been pitiful lately, really, getting into all sorts of trouble, obviously keening for my attention. I'd better get on it. One minute, my TBR pile is swiping a few dollars from my wallet, and the next thing I know, it's holding up a 7-11.

So, where to begin? There's Penelope Fitzgerald's THE BLUE FLOWER. I loved Fitzgerald's novella,THE BOOKSHOP so much. It was so very British, and delicately written, and perfect. Then there's William Trevor's FELICIA'S JOURNEY, also set across the pond. Shall I begin with those two perfect writers?

Maybe I should go historical, first. Judith Tarr's BRING DOWN THE SON is about Alexander the Great's flipping MOTHER. Anchee Min's EMPRESS ORCHID is set in the last days of the Ching Dynasty. I also saw Min at the Key West Literary Seminar years ago, and she sang a Chinese opera to the crowd, and she was AMAZING. Michael Faber's THE CRIMSON PETAL AND THE WHITE is set in a Victorian brothel. Huzzah. And also, whoa. That book is bigger than my head.

Speaking of books bigger than my head, and most other parts of me, I've still got Patrick Rothfuss' THE WISE MAN'S FEAR to be read. Holy crap, the first book in the series was good. Kvothe, the protagonist, is an arcanist/musician/college student/barkeep/general badass, and I think I love him.

I've got two YA books in the pile--Meg Cabot's brand-spanking new ABANDON, which retells the Persephone myth (and you all know how I love me some Greek stuff), and Cassandra Clare's CITY OF BONES (no, I haven't read it yet. I know. I KNOW).

I have a very old, and nifty looking edition of Muriel Spark's MEMENTO MORI. I adore Spark, and think more people should be reading her often, hence, I'm assigning THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE in my graduate fiction class this fall. Changing the world, one class at a time!

There's Julianna Baggott's GIRL TALK, too. I love Julianna. She was the keynote speaker for last year's Auburn Writers Conference, is the most prolific writer I know, and a genuinely kind human being. That spirit comes through in her books, too. Always happy to read her stuff.

There's one nonfiction book in the bunch, Jim O'Donnell's THE DAY JOHN MET PAUL (you all know how I love me some Beatles). Should I read this first? Last? In between as a fiction "palate" cleanser. Gah!

Oh, TBR pile, how I do love you.

But first, I have to finish off the two books I'm reading now:

What's this? MORE historical fiction? It's a sickness, really.

I'm about ten pages away from the end of Jo Graham's wonderful BLACK SHIPS. It's a retelling of the Aeneid, told from the point of view of Aeneas' Sibyl. It's a languorous, detailed, rich read. Graham makes some interesting choices in the Dido scenes, replacing Carthage for Egypt. Very interesting, sort of sexy, wonderful stuff. I'll definitely read more of Graham's work.

I'm halfway through Petru Popescu's GIRL MARY, which imagines Mary of Nazareth's childhood and adolescence. It's interesting, and Popescu plays with time, bouncing back and forth in complex ways, which I think I'm learning a lot from structurally.

Then there's all the reading I have to do in the submission pile of the Southern Humanities Review...

Phew. My eyes may fall out of my head by the time the fall semester starts up again. Awesome:)

UPDATE: Finished BLACK SHIPS ten minutes ago. Now I have a headache from trying to keep the tears at bay. Curse you, Jo Graham, and your sad, sad ending. Also, thanks for an incredible read.

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For Las Tres Gracias

2011-05-07T20:46:00.002-05:00

The Three Graces. In Greek myth, these women represented charm, beauty, and creativity. I've known about them for as long as I can remember, mainly because this sat atop our television when I was a kid:

It was made of cultured marble, and I loved running my fingers over the smooth surfaces, wiping the dust from the feet of the graces. The one on the left has let her chiton slip off her shoulder, exposing her breast (sexy!), and it always made me giggle. Their noses were long and straight, a little like mine, and I loved them for it. They were beautiful.

Unlike all the delicate tchotkes in my house, where I lived with my grandparents and my mother, this particular statue was not off-limits. My grandmother, Tita, seemed to like that I liked it. She would say, "Son Las Tres Gracias," goddesses of charm, beauty, and creativity, yes, but also of fertility and nature.

Later, I'd learn the Graces had actual names. Traditionally, they are Aglaia, whose name means "splendor," Euphrosyne, the goddess of joy, and Thalia, the goddess of music.

But when I was a kid, the names were Maria Asela, Acela, and Marta, the names, respectively, of my grandmother, aunt, and mother. I don't know why I thought that they were Las Tres Gracias in real life. It made sense, numerically. My grandmother bore two children, her two daughters. Perhaps it was because I loved my grandmother so very much (still do, of course), and it seemed the reverence paid to the center Grace in the sculpture was an apt representation of that love. I liked to imagine my mother was the shorter Grace, the youngest, (and the sexy one!). The other was my aunt--taller, confident, full of purpose.

To be honest, looking at this photograph, I'm not seeing all of that so much. I was reading a lot into that sculpture, I guess. I was a pensive sort of kid, saw monsters in shadows and heard noises that no one else did, my imagination firing on all pistons all the time.

Still, I see a lot of the splendorous spirit of Aglaia in my grandmother, Maria Asela, my Tita, who never leaves her home without earrings, necklaces, rings, bracelets, her hair dyed and curled, her nails polished, her makeup perfect. She smells lovely, all the time, her wrists and neck dabbed in floral scents.

And my aunt, named Acela after her mother, is so much Eurphrosyne. She smiles a lot. She has four children, my dear cousins, one of whom was in a car accident years ago that left him in a vegetable-like state. My aunt, my Madrina, is caregiver to her son, cheerful around him, around us, around everyone. Beyond that, her house is pristine, she keeps orchids, and tropical birds, decorates, is a fashion fiend, and a dedicated grandmother to her five grandkids. She is made of oak, my aunt. I don't know how she does it. It must be joy.

My Mami, Marta, the youngest, must be Thalia then, that spirit of music. She hums when she works. So do I. So does Penelope. She introduced me to the Beatles, took me to my first concert (Madonna. I know, SHUT. UP), bought me records and cassettes and then CDs, and guided my small hands over the keys of the organ and piano in our house, playing "Heart and Soul" with me and singing along. She studied piano for many years, and when I was a kid, practiced often. The click of her long nails always accompanied the pieces. One of her favorites, "Aquellos ojos verdes," or "Green Eyes," was a slow, Spanish tune, and whenever I hear it, I am instantly there, in that living room in Hialeah, watching my mother's small back arch and flex with the power it took to play the piece. And from the kitchen, my grandmother's voice, a quavering, always in-tune instrument, singing along.

Here, take a moment and listen:

*sigh*

How lucky am I, to have had Las Tres Gracias, living, breathing, teaching and loving me, in my life? So lucky.

Grateful, too, for my Titi Aris, who I've written about here, and my amazing mother-in-law, Grise, who did such an incredible job raising her incredible sons, one of whom I married;) Someone needs to sculpt a FIVE GRACES statue, stat.

Happy Mother's Day to ALL my Graces, Mami, Tita, Madrina, Titi Aris and Grise. I love you.

Acela, Maria Asela, y Marta. GRACEful and GRACiosas aren't they?

A Happy Mother's Day to all of you, sweet readers!

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Easter, the Sixth

2011-04-24T10:22:00.000-05:00

Happy Easter, everyone.

The last five years' worth of Easter have been wonderful. Perfect days. I've written about most of them (check the blog label "Easter" to see them all). Somehow, I forgot to blog about last year's Easter, which had us hosting a full house of friends, and a monster egg hunt in the backyard. For the sake of posterity, here's a pic:

Penny, age four, on the hunt.

This year has been different. We attended Easter Vigil Mass last night, which ended rather late. It's a two-hour service, and Penny fell asleep on us halfway through, and now my back is killing me. The flowers bloomed WEEKS ago, and so our normally cheery Easter yard looks green and solid and a little dry. This summer sneaked up on us and is already threatening to be a bear. The holiday sneaked up on ME, and so, I didn't plan a big gathering of friends, as I do every year.

It's a sunny Easter morning so far, but we're inside. Orlando is working on a grant at the moment. I've been looking through the latest Poets & Writers magazine, angsting about the many contests/presses/conferences that take so much effort, hope, patience. Work is busy, and the fall will be even busier. Orlando comes up for tenure very soon. The beautiful wooded lot across the street from our house suddenly has a For Sale sign on it. I don't have the $50, 000 I need to buy it myself and keep our view. So yeah. Lots going on.

We're still fortunate and blessed in all the important ways, I know, but I guess it's safe to say we've allowed life to hijack the day. This bums me out, and I have a policy against blogging-while-angsting, so...

Have a picture of a kid in bunny ears!

SUGAR!!!

The face of a pleased, and candied-up five year old.

I can't say that Penny is complaining. This is her sixth Easter, and she is ALL ABOUT this holiday. We took her to the city-wide egg hunt yesterday, and she filled a basket bigger than her head with goodies. The Bunny was good to her this morning (thanks, Nana and Abby!).

The semester has only one class day left in it, and I'll be in Miami and Disney World with la familia before May is out. More good things. And next year, we'll do Easter up big again, and maybe the azaleas and dogwood blooms will hold on a little longer.

Let It Be

2011-04-18T10:07:00.000-05:00

From Linda McCartney's LIFE IN PHOTOGRAPHS

Today is the anniversary of Linda McCartney's death. I don't know much about her, really. And this post has nothing to do with the relationship between Paul McCartney and his wife. But my iPod shuffle has been dealing me Beatles music all morning at random--first "We Can Work it Out," then "Something," then John Lennon's "Woman." Twitter's afire with references to Linda, and transcripts of letters from John to Paul (scathing, awful), and other Beatles minutiae.

It feels as if the universe is trying to urge me to contribute to the topic, so here it is.

I discovered The Beatles, truly discovered them, late in life. In truth, I'd known their music all my life it seems. My mother had an extensive collection of Beatles 45s, with that brilliant Apple logo, good looking enough to eat.

"Yellow Submarine" is my daughter's favorite Beatles song. Preschoolers love their submarines.

The early stuff, especially, seemed to get a lot of play in my house. "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah," and "I wanna hold your haa-aa-aaa-aa-and." Even my grandmother knew the words, and she sang along in her heavily accented English, so that she sounded like this: "To no-no-no hair, ees to lob-lob-lob hair." Brilliant.

But, like I said, I didn't really get to KNOW Beatles music until much later, in the tenth grade to be precise, when my favorite of favorites English teacher, Michael Garcia, played "Eleanor Rigby" for us.

I was an angsty sort of teen, and upon hearing those lyrics I was immediately there, a woman keeping her face in a jar by the door, dying alone. When they sang "Ah, look at all the lonely people," I was certain they were looking at me. That plaintive, "Ah," sounded so much like a lament. A song had never moved me like that. Hooked. Held. Inspired.

That song, more than anything else I can note, taught me a lot about writing. Be specific. Show, don't tell. Raise stakes. Think of the heart of the thing. Let the tone and voice harmonize with the content. After that, I sought songs that told stories. It's a wonder I'm not a big country fan. I chose Pearl Jam over Nirvana, as Eddie Vedder's songs were narratives ("Jeremy," "Black," "Alive"). I became obsessed with Billy Joel ("Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" anybody?). I dubbed myself Team Paul, instead of Team John, because Paul was the storyteller.

I learned story from The Beatles. No lie.

I can't say I'm a great sort of fan. I don't know all The Beatles' songs, not by a mile. I don't know much of their history. But I do know that "Blackbird" moves me to tears. That when my daughter was born, I sang "Penny Lane" to her incessantly. That when I sold my book, I hummed "Paperback Writer" like a dork.

And that when I am feeling low, and find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary does, indeed, speak to me:

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree,
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
there will be an answer. let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me,
shine until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

Somehow, a song can shift my mood, inspire me, give me hope in a way that nothing else can. This one, in particular, hits all sorts of spiritual notes for me, and reminds me that my troubles are small in the face of a planet choc-a-block in suffering. It teaches me gratitude. It teaches me patience.

Here's my wish for anyone reading this today: May you find a song that hooks and holds YOU in meaningful ways. May you find your "Let it Be."

Peace, love, and rock n' roll, guys.

Love live The Beatles.

p.s.

Did you know The Beatles were banned in Cuba for a few years? They were considered anti-revolutionary, and folks could get in big trouble for listening to them. Imagine that. At the height of their popularity, in the midst of Beatlemania, teens in Cuba were shut out. That intrigues me, too. I wonder if they knew about "Let it Be"...

p.p.s.

Here's another one of Penny's favorites--a take-off on "Let it Be," Sesame Street's "Letter B," naturally.

C.A.+J.V.=4-Ever

2011-04-07T16:22:00.001-05:00

The first couple of months are a whirlwind. You think about the other person all the time. You delight in uncovering their quirks. You Google-stalk them. You sketch pictures in your notebooks, and write their names over and over again.

Sigh...

You do realize I'm talking about research for a new writing project, of course. And that my current love-affair is with this sexy, sexy man:

The Father of Science Fiction, ladies and gentlemen!

That's right. Jules Verne, baby. I am officially obsessed.

The hard part about new writing projects is that they're impossible to talk about. Mainly, that's because the story is embryonic still. It's a wee thing, only a few chapters long. But I will say that Jules Verne has something to do with it, that I'm stuffed to the gills on Verne research at the moment, and giddy with the possibilities.

In other words, I'm busting with Verne trivia and tidbits and factoids, and if I don't share them I'll bust.

So, in the spirit of supporting my dorkery, er, RESEARCH, here are five cool things about Jules Verne you may not know:

1) Jules Verne's posthumously published novel, Paris in the 20th Century, predicted glass skyscrapers, high-speed trains, gas-powered cars, calculators, the electric chair, and the flipping internet. Eat your heart out, Al Gore.

Yes, this is Al Gore. Someone has mad Photoshop skills. I like to imagine that Al Gore time-traveled and gave Jules Verne the idea for the internet.

2) Speaking of time travel, Jules Verne is the favorite author of one of my favorite fictional people, Dr. Emmet Brown, of Back to the Future fame. He and Clara Clayton Brown even went so far as naming their two boys Jules and Verne.

And the train was named the Jules Verne, too. But the dog was named Einstein.

3) Jules Verne lived in a house that looks like it came straight out of a steampunk novel. Check it:

That's an astronomy tower up there, people. He looked into the FUTURE up there, I'm sure of it.

4) Jules Verne had a homicidal nephew named Gaston, who tried to kill his famous uncle. Gaston failed, but ended up maiming Verne for life.

Not THIS Gaston, of course, though I'll bet Crazy Nephew Gaston made that face a lot.

5) Young Jules Verne was kind of hot:

Je suis un homme sexy.

Thus ends my list of five cool things you probably didn't know about Jules Verne. Now, back to the page!

p.s. The first Verne book I ever read was this one:

This is far more entertaining than that Brendan Fraser movie (though I do sort of love Brendan Fraser)

I remember reading this and feeling that odd lightness I feel whenever I'm in the middle of a great novel--heady, like I'm there with the characters, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, the cramped tunnels of the earth's center, and the glorious expanse of that underwater sea. Sigh...

p.p.s. Just because:

I could never be mean to you, B.

The House That Built Me

2011-03-23T14:13:00.001-05:00

I've been loving this song since I first heard it on the Grammy's:

I must confess here a weakness for certain country songs. Many tell a story, and those are the ones I love the most. Anyhow, the story here is about a girl coming home to the house that "built" her, so to speak. It's a fantasy of mine, to go back to the little house in Hialeah where I grew up.

But it's a scary thought, too. What if the new owners have done horrible things to the house? What if they've erased the drawings I made inside the closet walls? Or torn down the built-ins in my mother's bedroom, where I used to hide inside with a flashlight and memorize lines from Shakespeare? In that room, every night, I'd fall asleep next to my mom (before she remarried, of course), my right leg swung over hers, Dynasty or Falcon's Crest a buzz in the background. She'd walk me slowly to my room next door when she was ready to turn out the lights.

The utility room that connected the kitchen to the garage was packed to the ceiling with bolts of fabric from my grandmother's sewing years. There was a dresser so full of lace and curled up zippers that it wouldn't open. In that room I found the Cabbage Patch doll that "Santa" brought me, and in that room I cried because I'd learned that Santa didn't hide toys in utility rooms. He wasn't real. And that Christmas, in the living room, I pretended for my mom, and told her how much I loved that jolly old elf for her sake. For the sake of her shining eyes, really, that told me without her having to say a word that my belief in magic meant a lot to her.

In the living room there hung a plastic bead curtain, and the beads were sticky from all the fried plátanos and fried bistecs my grandmother cooked in the kitchen. I would run my hands over the beads every day. Every day.

The master bedroom was my grandparents'. My grandfather slept on the left side of the bed. His pillow smelled like Grecian Formula and Ben Gay. His clothes hung in neat rows on the left side of the closet. He kept his classic, eyelet blucher dress shoes under the bed, alongside his shoe-polishing box, which he used every weekend.

In the backyard, I helped my grandfather lay PVC pipe from the house to the banana trees, to feed the plants. I ran down the alley behind the house, challenging the big dogs that lived in a yard at the end. I accidentally killed my pet turtle by leaving it on the A/C unit outside. The poor thing cooked to death in the Miami sun.

From a rattan chair in the Florida room, I watched them take my grandfather, suffering from Alzheimer's, to the nursing home. And I cried into the cushions, realizing all that had changed, and that I had been left alone in the house for the first time in my life.

Out front, I played, dangling from the ironwork surrounding the front porch. Feeling meditative sometimes, I'd touch the face of the concrete Virgin Mary who sat atop our birdbath, prominently displayed in the center of the yard. I posed for prom pictures in front of Her, and She peeked out between me and my date, Her white face calm and bright.

My future husband knocked on that iron front door and asked if I would go to the carnival with him, and I ran to my mom's room to ask permission. She peered out the window at him, decided he wasn't the murderous sort, and let me go.

Our neighbor across the street held up his parents at gunpoint once, and the cops came over to make sure we were okay. His parents were butchers, and sometimes they brought over prime cuts of steak as gifts. Our next door neighbor was un americano, the first americano I ever knew. His name was Mr. Fenton, and he was very sweet. He let me roller skate on the smooth cement of his carport.

I still remember my address. And my old phone number. The house used to be yellow. Then, we painted it brown. Now, it looks like this:

Yellow again. I wonder if the old girl whispered it to the new owners: "Yellow. I like yellow." You can't see it, but they've kept the Virgin Mary birdbath. I said hello to Her when I drove by the house last month. She said hello back, I'm sure of it.

Miranda Lambert sings, "If I could just come in, I swear I'd leave. Won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me." Except, I'm not sure I'd want to leave. Not right away. I'd want to sit in my old room and think old thoughts and probably weep for what once was, for the people who laughed in that house and are no longer with us, and yes, even for the lunatic neighbor, God knows where he is.

Some Levity, Speed Racer Style

2011-03-15T19:43:00.000-05:00

THIS. Not the live-action movie.

So, everyone remembers the old Speed Racer cartoons, right? I remember watching them really early in the mornings, before going to school. I may have had a little crush on handsome, debonair race car driver, Speed. I especially loved all the dramatic gasping.

Of all the delicious pop-culture that's come out of Japan in the last sixty years, Speed Racer, or Mach Go Go Go as it's known there, is my favorite.

Penny's been playing with an old set of her father's Speed Racer toys. She's five years old now and an utter EXPERT at the sort of imaginative play we all remember doing as kids. Also, she cracks me up.

This is what her script sounds like:

Scene 1

Speed Racer: Hi, I'm Speed. What's your name?
Racer X: I'm Racer X, and I'm a BAD GUY.
Speed Racer: (sharp intake of breath) I'm gonna take you DOWN.
(Trixie appears on the scene)
Trixie: Hi, hot man.
Racer X: Hi. I like your hair bow, Trixie.
Trixie: Let's have dinner at a nice restaurant.

(Let me intrude here to explain that she's playing with these toys in the bathtub, and at this point in the scene, both Speed and Pops Racer have sunk to the bottom of the tub)

Racer X: Sure. Yum. This food is so good.
Penny's voice over: Then, they kissed ON THE LIPS.

(commence mashing Trixie and Racer X's faces together)

Penny's voice over, continues: And they lived happily ever after. The end.

Who knew Trixie and Racer X were a thing? WHO KNEW?

Scene 2

Pops Racer: I like your face, baby.
Speed Racer: Let's dance.

(violent wiggling ensues)

Giving Speed Racer and Pops the side-eye.

Gotta love five year olds. Here. Have a Japanese Speed Racer title sequence, with translations:

We Are All Japan

2011-03-13T18:44:00.001-05:00

By now, everyone has seen the images of the devastation in Japan after this past week's earthquake and tsunami. This comes only a few weeks after a smaller, but also way-of-life altering earthquake in Christchurch, New Zealand.

I have been to both of these places. They are the only two places outside of the U.S. that I've managed to visit, with the exception of Canada. Awful coincidence. The horror of the last few days in Japan are beyond description. Articles and photographs can only poke at the surface of that suffering. The comments after online articles have left me in tears these last few days--We are all Japan, many commenters say. Fuerza, Japón, they write (Strength, Japan), and other things in other languages.

What I want to say is that while I was in Japan, I got lost in Tokyo, and a stranger not only lent me his teeny phone, but WALKED me to the nearest train station. I want to say that I stayed with the lovely Hitsuji family--Mika and her husband Takeshi, and their children Mami and Taiga, who used their allowance to buy candy for me. When I left Japan, Mika drove to the airport to meet me there, and brought a two pound bag of miso for me, because I told her I liked the stuff. Three months later, when the planes hit the twin towers, and another crashed outside of Pittsburgh where I lived, Mika sent me a frantic email, full of love and concern. We've lost touch since. I hope the Hitsujis are okay.

In Japan, I heard a Hiroshima survivor talk about the war and the bomb, and say to all of us American teachers that he was sorry for the role his country played in the WWII, and that he wasn't angry or resentful at all, and I thought that if I had ten lifetimes to live, I wouldn't have that man's grace, or a heart so full of love.

In a crowded subway train, a Japanese business man fell asleep on me. A Buddhist monk whacked me on the shoulder during meditation, saying, "Life is suffering. Remember that." I tried natto beans. They were disgusting. I made a wish in a palace in Kyoto, and I can't remember if it came true. I had green tea with a sour faced middle school girl during a school visit. A seventh grade Japanese boy gave me tiny yellow flowers on my birthday. Whenever anyone saw a camera, they flashed a peace sign. I took off my shoes a million times, and prayed at more temples than I can count, and tried climbing to Mt. Fuji, but failed. It smelled like sulfur on the way up. I bought postcards of Hokusai's The Great Wave, and poked at the tiny, powerless people in the corner of the print.

I hope all of those lovely people are okay. I hope their loved ones are okay. I want to go back to Japan someday, take Penny with me, show her how to use those crazy Japanese toilets with the sound effects, how to make a wish at a temple, how to read the subway maps.

While I was in Japan, the people there made me feel at home, in a place that felt so very strange and shiny and foreign. My host family, especially, tried to show me what it meant to be Japanese. We are all Japanese, the online commentators are saying. In my heart, at least, that feels true.

You can donate to the Red Cross via your iTunes. Do it. You are online right now, anyway. One click. Help if you can.

I Wanna Dance With Somebody. UPDATED

2011-03-10T15:40:00.001-06:00

Photograph courtesy of Rachel Hawkins. And some awesome principal in California.

My bosom friend, Rachel Hawkins, texted the photograph above to me earlier today. You see, she is on tour for her book, DEMONGLASS, and is busy reading at bookstores across the country and visiting schools and their amazing, book-lovin' students. Who apparently also like to freak at dances, but alas, aren't allowed.

Anyhow, that picture is crazy awesome. I especially love the stick figures, who are either dirty dancing with each other, or caught in an awkward, "Look! I found a quarter!" incident in the lunch line, which always results in someone bending down to pick up said quarter, thereby throwing the dynamics of the lunch line way off, so that another unsuspecting and admittedly distracted student ends up falling on his or her ass.

The picture, useful object that it is, reminded me of chaperoning school dances back in the day. With the right music blaring from the speakers, students organized themselves into boy/girl/boy sandwiches that, Holy Nelly Music, burned my eyes right out.

Because I never danced like that, though Dirty Dancing premiered when I was in the seventh grade and I was so full of adolescent hormone juice that I WANTED to dance like that.


These two were up to no good.

Also up to no good.

Oh, those St. Bernadette girls...

My first dance with a boy happened during my best friend Diane's fifteenth birthday party, and the boy (who I had a soul-crushing crush on) held me at arms' distance and we couldn't bear to look at each other, and, good gravy, it was awkward. I wish I could remember the song. I don't. But that was back in the era of freestyle music, a la Stevie B, so you can imagine.

Here. Have some "Spring Love," aka, The Miami Jam of the Late '80's.

But I have mightily digressed. Rachel's books, HEX HALL and DEMONGLASS both have teen party scenes that remind me of awkward teen dancing. While I think Sophie and Archer do not dance freakily, or, er, they don't freak. Um, they don't do the freaking dancing? THEY DON'T WHATEVER YOU CALL IT when the naughty bits touch during the dancing. There. Rachel's books capture the amped up emotions these kinds of teen gatherings inspire, and well, they made me think of that cool January evening long ago when the boy with a little scar above his upper lip shared my first ever dance with me.

Sigh. That's what good books do. Connect. Transport. Bring an element of your life you thought you'd forgotten back to you. Give you the language you need to talk about those moments.

What am I getting at?

This is all to say that DEMONGLASS will debut this week on the New York Times Bestseller List at #5!!! FIVE. Really folks, it couldn't happen to a sweeter freaking person.

Rachel--I'm so glad to know you. Congrats and besos!

UPDATE: Posting that Stevie B. song led me to a freestyle music listening binge on YouTube. Guess what? I found the song that was my first slow dance. And it WAS a Stevie B. song. Enjoy the delicious cheese.

Mi casa es su casa

2011-03-08T15:20:00.000-06:00

I spent much of the day yesterday recording a vlog. It took HOURS to get right, to edit right, to upload right, and still it is not right.

Am throwing in the vloggy towel. For now, please enjoy this tour of my office at Auburn, which pleases me mightily.

Let's begin with Paul McCartney:

Paul is taped to the corner of my monitor. In fact, as I type this, I'm seeing two Pauls--the real, flat-Stanley-esque one and the one in the picture above. My mind is sort of blown. Ahem. Paul is, shall we say, easy to look at, and he reminds me to get to work on a WIP about The Beatles. I've also got a Virginia Woolf quote taped here: "To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable." It reminds me that I feel right only when I'm my own agent of change. And yes, that's my Twitter page and some of the fine folks I follow. Right there is Cuban dissident and personal hero Yoani Sanchez, and lookit! Hourglass author Myra McEntire. Roger Ebert, OF COURSE. Miami alum and YA writer Crissa Jean Chappell, and the always funny poet Emma Bolden. You should follow all of these people.

Left of Paul sits the BEST MUG IN THE HISTORY OF ALL MUGS OF ALL TIME:

Lo, a sketch of the Laura Ingalls Wilder home, and a gift from my good friend Tracey. I have never been to this glorious place of wonder, but I vow to. I VOW IT. I will see the place where Half-Pint lived with Almanzo. Note the Sharpie pens. Great pens.

Oh, hey. I'm wearing awesome shoes today:

I feel vaguely Mary Poppinish in them. They have velvet laces with little steel aglets. What's an aglet? Let Phinneas and Ferb explain:

Beyond my perfectly be-soled feet is the view from my office:

That right there is a War Eagle view, my friends. The rainbow is one of Penny's projects from school, and is helpful on rainy days, or bad student writing days, when there are no real rainbows to be had. One day, there will be a REAL rainbow outside that window, and I will have scored DOUBLE RAINBOWS. I promise to videotape this and ask what it means.

My shelves are fun, too. Meet Fleance:

Fleance is the dragon, naturally. Mustaches would never be named Fleance. This also happens to be the name of Banquo's son in Macbeth. Back when I taught high school, at Chase Collegiate in Waterbury, Connecticut, a student launched this particular dragon across the room, quoting the play, "Fly, Fleance, FLY!" I like to keep Fleance, neé Toothy, nearby. As for the 'staches, those once belonged to Emma Bolden, my old office mate, and purveyor of all things marvelous.

Please say hello to Joyce Carol Oates:

She is one of my favorite writers, but I fear that her prodigious writing output is because she is either A) an android or B) from another planet. Might JCO have a spaceship? She might, rabbits. She might.

Question: How can you tell an assistant professor just got tenure?

Answer: She displays a box of Edward Cullen valentine candies, flavored like "An Intense Wave of Cold," and doesn't care who knows. Also pictured: Strawberry Shortcake Happy Meal toys and a bottle of bubbles with a pony wand swiped from my daughter, some of her artwork, a bobble-head pirate frog from Puerto Rico, and a very old copy of the collected articles of Archy and Mehitabel, an early 20th century newspaper column by Don Marquis, about a perceptive cockroach "with the soul of a poet" and his alley cat friend. Two of these items were gifts from Auburn students. I'll let you guess which ones.

That's just the inside of my office. My office door is it's own thing. Here's a detail:

Indeed, that IS Dean Butler as Almanzo Wilder from Little House on the Prairie. And yes, he IS riding the Cozy Horse from Lev Grossman's amazing book, The Magicians. Because you know what? Almanzo + Cozy Horse = Nirvana.

And this is me in my office.

If I look tired, it's because I am. I try to craft a completely neutral look when I'm talking to students about their writing, but sometimes I fail. That little wrinkle between my eyes gets particularly pronounced when something I'm reading is off. And students then look back at me like this:

Well. Maybe not like that. Not all of the time, at least.

Thus ends today's tour. Hope you enjoyed the office. I DO still have some empty wall and shelf space, by the way. Come up with a fun suggestion for my office and I might just put it up and blog about it. Or vlog. Maybe.

This post turned out stranger than I thought it would. My apologies.

Here. Have the cheesiest Laura/Manly Youtube tribute video I could find:

Laura and Almanzo Puzzle of My Heart
Uploaded by gauchi. - Watch feature films and entire TV shows.

Homecoming

2011-02-16T11:28:00.000-06:00

Ah, Homecoming Queen. Never was that. I DID get to be one in a play back in the Pittsburgh high school where I taught. The kids thought it was a kick to see one of the teachers on stage. I had one line, "I'm Homecoming Queen and youuuuuuu're not." I flubbed that line. Acting is hard.

I do, however, love the concept of homecoming. You come home after a while and realize the place looks a little smaller, and you wonder if they've shrunk the joint or if you're still growing yourself. Then, you realize that it's your heart that's grown to fill the place, to miss it so, to carry it with you wherever you go.

That's how I feel about the University of Miami, which I'll be visiting this weekend for a reading in honor of my friend and mentor, Lester Goran.

Lester Goran with one of his books, TALES FROM THE IRISH CLUB. At a bar. An awesome bar.

I can't wait to see campus again, my beautiful, tropical campus. Can't wait to walk past the Robert Frost memorial, which looks, creepily, like a headstone, or the stunted orange tree in front of the Ashe Building, the one that legend says FSU students keep uprooting. Looking forward to that particular UM smell--something sweet in the air, and chlorine, too, in all the fountains, and coming off the swim team members in wafts.

But mostly, I want to be back in that place that first suggested the written word to me as a way of life, and back to my friends and teachers to whom I owe so much.

Go Canes.

I'm coming home.

“Advertising says to people, 'Here's what we've got. Here's what it will do for you. Here's how to get it.'” --Leo Burnett

2011-02-07T11:41:00.001-06:00

"Just marveling at how we decry that books aren't important to the masses - and yet resist promoting them to the masses."--Melanie Benjamin, author of ALICE I HAVE BEEN, on Twitter a few minutes ago.

Rarely do people's tweets on Twitter inspire me to blog about something. Scratch that. Never has someone's tweet impelled me to face the blank space of this Blogger template. And it isn't that Melanie Benjamin wrote anything earth-shattering there, not really. But I've often wondered this, too. We're bombarded by ads everywhere. Even on this blog. Go ahead. Scroll down. See? Ads. Television, radio, on Pandora, magazines, in the form of product placement in movies, on people's cars. EVERY-FLIPPING-WHERE.

But hardly any of those ads are for books. Go ahead. Think of one book ad outside of a writing magazine. There are a smattering of them in magazines like Seventeen (and a mad shout-out to you, Seventeen, for being awesome like that), but little elsewhere.

Our eyes and ears have become advertising-dependent. Oprah moves books because she's ADVERTISING them. If President Obama is photographed carrying a book, that book sells. My average undergraduate and graduate students have no idea what the new releases are in fiction. No clue, whatsoever. How can anyone expect them to know? All we have in town is one, measly Books-A-Million (aka, Books-A-Few), and that New Releases table is a jumble; it's a mess to look at. Where are the ads? And let's not forget the poets, our dear poet friends, who don't even have the new releases table to look forward to when their books launch.

I'm halfway through reading Helen Simonson's darling book, Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. It's a literary love story, detailing the romance between a retired English major and a Muslim grocer. It is FLIPPING delightful. If you liked Anna and the French Kiss, a sweet YA novel, then this is the grown-up version of that.

Here's what I would love to see: a Superbowl ad featuring two attractive leads, under a red umbrella (to recall the book cover's colors), walking through a misty, English cityscape. I want stylistic cartoon thought bubbles over each character's head, blending live-action and animation (to recall the book's whimsy). I want the thought bubbles to have some text from the book, and some visuals, too, showing us each of the character's fantasies playing out. I want to hear a mash-up of classical Pakistani music and an English-sounding fiddle. I want the rain to dry up. I want the two people to part, longing on their faces. I want the cover of the book to loom large on screen, with the words IN BOOKSTORES NOW underneath.

IN BOOKSTORES NOW!

Or something even better than that. I'm no ad person. My creativity does not lean in that direction. And if there were as many book ads as there are movie ads, I'd guarantee more books would be sold. Period. End of story. People saw that stupid, stupid Nicholas Cage movie, The Sorcerer's Apprentice, didn't they? Yes they did. Because there were ads. There were many, many terrible ads. And so, people spent money on that movie.

Would book ads promote terrible books? Of course they would. But there would be lots of money thrown behind good books, award winning books, too.

Here's another fantasy. I've been working on a sort-of seekrit project, in which one of the female protagonists has seekrit powers, and I've always pictured her wearing long braids. Yesterday, I saw this picture:

Salma Hayek in Matthew Rolston's "Beauty Light." Also, she probably has powers that are seekrit.

"That's it!" I said to my computer. That's my girl character with the powers and the braids! It's also Salma Hayek. Then I fell into one of my daydreams, the one where the book actually gets published, and I imagined this beautiful photograph draped over a building in Times Effing Square, with some tempting text about my seekrit girl with her seekrit powers and braids (and Braids of Power) over the photograph, and the book selling like hotcakes.

Sigh. Not going to happen, of course. But a girl can dream.

But it COULD happen. Not to me, but to any number of writers and their books. We begrudged Jonathan Franzen all the hoopla over his latest book, Freedom, but really, we shouldn't have. We should have championed that, then called for MORE hoopla over MORE books.

Hello? Publishers? You listening? Get thee in touch with the folks that do ads for Apple. Get those guys. And start pushing book ads on the world. DO EET.

And start with Salma up there. That photograph has book sales written all over it.

Butterflies and Big Green Buses and SO MANY COUSINS

2011-02-02T10:39:00.001-06:00

Penny's 5th birthday bash has come and gone. My house is still a disaster zone, as in, I might just have to get a hazmat suit.

But it was worth it.

Aside from a few of Penny's classmates, and our friends, we also played bed and breakfast to:

My mom, Penny's Nana
Orlando's mom, Penny's Abby
My grandmother
My two aunts
My two cousins
Their two husbands
And four little cousins, a five year old, four year old, two year old and one year old

And yes, I had enough blankets and pillows for everyone.

The sound was deafening, by the way. That many Cubans in one house create a sort of sonic boom that my neighbors, I'm certain, are still reeling from.

There was a lot of "¡Oye! ¡El niño!" and "¡VEN ACA!" and "AHHHH-LEX!" which is the name of my godson, the two year old, who is in equal measures adorable baby and hellion:


See? Adorable, yes. Also, note the devilish look in those brown eyes. Love you, Alex:)

Did I mention there was a BIG ASS GREEN BUS (not its official name, by the way)?

Inside was a rock wall, and trampoline and zip line, and tumbling mats, and jeez was this thing cool. Also, the kids loved it, so win all around.

El Trío Matamoro for a new generation: Allie, Mia and Penny

Did we get grief from the Cuban family about being vegetarians? Yes, we did. Someone told my grandmother at last, and there has been hell to pay since. Also, someone threw out a newish canister of Ovaltine. Also, my mother left town with my university parking tag still dangling on her rear view mirror. Also, my house smells like hot dogs, still. Also, I am nearly out of laundry detergent (I'm looking at you, Belkis).

Also, who cares about any of that?

The most important thing is that Penny got to spend time with her beloved cousins. This one, in particular, she nearly crushes with hugs:

DYLAN!!!!!

There were tías and tíos (some of whom are really cousins, but whatever), and lots of grandmothers, and love all around.

*****

Saying goodbye was the hard part.

That afternoon, long after everyone had gone, Penny cried for about an hour in my lap. She wouldn't tell me why she was sad, not until the very end when she wailed, "I want my family back." I told her, "I know, mama. I know," and it was all I could manage to get out.

Next year, the girls will all be in kindergarten, and getting away for a birthday party may no longer be feasible. So we made this party count.

Noise and all, it was a wonderful way to celebrate our girl turning five.

Five

2011-01-27T22:23:00.001-06:00

What can I say about this beautiful girl? The day she was born feels like a million years ago, and it also feels like a few minutes ago, both things at once. This, I know, sounds strange. But I knew at once, that balmy midwinter night five years ago at her birth, that loving a child IS a strange thing precisely because it can't be described.

What I can say is that Penelope loves playing the princess, but asked for Final Fantasy XIII figures, i.e. fan boy toys, for her birthday (and she got them).

At home she's boisterous, uses words like "Totally," when answering in the affirmative, but grows shy among others, hiding her small face in my shoulder. "I'm shy, I'm shy," she'll whisper to me.

She loves art. She takes excellent, artistic photographs.

She thinks that Rachel Berry (Lea Michele) on GLEE is The Most Talented Person On Earth Ever. She sings along to "On My Own" like she one day plans to OWN the Glee Club at Auburn High School.

That is, if she can get over that shyness thing.

This is our Penny at five. She is amazing.

And we love her in ways that defy description.

Curiouser and Curiouser

2011-01-18T15:20:00.001-06:00

*sigh* Love Little Golden Books.

As a child, I always loved stories that had secret passageways to other worlds in them. I spent a healthy number of hours searching the depths of each closet in my house, sure that like the Pevensie children in the Narnia books, I'd find a secret room, a tunnel, a rabbit hole in which to fall and be someone new.

And no story inspired me like Lewis Carroll's ALICE IN WONDERLAND. Granted, I didn't actually read the book until I was in college. It was the Disney movie that had me by the imaginative horns and wouldn't let go. I had every second of that movie memorized--from the Caterpillar's strange enunciation ("Ah-who are ah-you?") to the falsetto of the roses singing "Golden Afternoon." If I'd had a cat, I would have named it Dinah.

I felt a lot like Alice--misunderstood, creative, impulsive. Some days, I felt as if I'd taken a chunk out of the left side of the mushroom and had grown fifty feet tall. Other days, I felt as small as the Dormouse.

I especially loved the honesty of the story. When Alice emerges from Wonderland, she comes back to the real world, to a sharp, critical sister and a humdrum life. That's real. But Alice carries Wonderland in her all the time. I like to think that's real, too.

This song was a bit of a theme for me:

Alice sings, "I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it. That explains the trouble that I'm always in..." I guess I thought that if Alice could be wrong sometimes, then I could, too.

So it was with great joy that I heard about Melanie Benjamin's ALICE I HAVE BEEN, a historical novel about the real life Alice, her mysterious/suspicious relationship with Lewis Carroll, and a royal love story, too (no spoilers here. Get thee to a bookstore).

The haunting hardcover edition.

As big a fan of ALICE as I am, of the original book and the various iterations of the story, I had NO IDEA there was so much crazy drama surrounding the real life Alice Liddell, Lewis Carroll's muse. Did you know he used to photograph her? Look! Alice in the flesh:

Benjamin has crafted an amazing scene out of the photograph above. It's the scene that changes everything, so to speak. What an amazing photo, too. However did Carroll get a high-born Victorian child in that get-up? Interesting...

I found this photo online:

Here's a pensive Alice. She would live to be around 80 or so, losing two sons to war, and eventually, would be forced to sell the original manuscript of ALICE IN WONDERLAND to pay off debts. So, Alice did emerge from the rabbit hole straight into the real world again, with all its disappointments. I wonder if Carroll's stories, those she heard on a "Golden Afternoon," stayed with her, or haunted her.

That's the question of Melanie Benjamin's novel. What a lovely, lovely book. With a lovely, lovely paperback cover, too:

So, I'm happy to pass along this book suggestion to those of you interested in Wonderland still. You're in for a treat. We all deserve to get ourselves an unbirthday gift, every now and then, so go buy this book. As for me, I was so inspired by this story, which captures a Victorian England so vividly, that I finally bought myself a pair of shoes that look a lot like these:

Except mine are BLACK and the laces are VELVET. Huzzah!

So ends my book pick of the day. Have at it, reader types.

Football on Ice

2011-01-10T14:28:00.001-06:00

2011 has been very good so far. Orlando's birthday is early in January. Penny and I made him a coconut/buttercream cake. Penny decorated it with snowflakes. BEHOLD:

The snowflakes were a prescient move on Penny's part, as we were due for an ICEPOCALYPSE today:

Pretty frozen holly...

Candied maple tree...

The Ice Princess and a perfectly shaped ice leaf.

And tonight is the National Championship Game--Auburn vs. Oregon. War Eagle! There will be plenty of the following this evening (I hope):

This is the Auburn vs. Clemson game, the only one we attended this year. We don't have season tickets. Hey, AU, want us to buy season tix? Give both of us tenure, then we'll talk about it.

Classes for today AND tomorrow are canceled due to weather, and I'm lined up to teach two sweet Creative Writing courses. Plans for the 2nd Annual Auburn Writers Conference are underway. I'll have another book manuscript on submission soon. (There are swords and spears in this book, so you know it's awesome).

Yes, things are good right now. Time to soak it up.

Adios, 2010

2010-12-30T21:13:00.000-06:00

What is this? Two posts in a row? Are you taking crazy pills?

No, just wanted to share some New Year's Eve traditions with all of you before 2010 bows out. My blog friend, Marta , of My Big Fat Cuban Family, has been asking about New Year customs and superstitions on Facebook, and I thought I'd give a go at answering her questions here (never look a gift blog idea in the mouth).

We'll start with grapes. When the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve, Cubans the world over snarf down twelve grapes, one for each month of the año nuevo. To miss a grape is to invite calamity. As a kid, I hated grapes. But my grandmother would hover over me until I at least BIT each one. Most of the time, the grapes are counted out beforehand, wrapped in cellophane, and tied off with pretty ribbon. I don't like missing out on this tradition, and nearly always have grapes on hand at New Year's.

I remember each New Year's, watching as my grandmother tossed a glass of water out the front door. She'd make sure to fill it before the old year ran out. The water would splash out onto the yard, and she'd mutter, "Solabaya." It isn't a Spanish word. Its roots are vaguely African maybe, Yoruban probably, and a little of that Afro-Cuban syncretism that's so much a part of Cuban culture. The idea was that the bad mojo, juju, whatever, of the past year was being thrown out. Some folks mop the house and toss out the dirty water at midnight. The glass of water seems easier. Or lazier. I'm down with that:)

Here's a fun one. Want a lucky 2011? Then make sure you are wearing red undies when the clock strikes twelve. I don't know where this one comes from, but I do sort of like it. (ALSO, it is damn near impossible to find red underwear for toddlers, which is probably for the best.)

For you married types, put your wedding ring in your toasting glass at midnight and take a sip. It'll ensure a love-filled year. But don't pull a my mom, and forget that your ring is in your glass, forcing the entire party to halt and search for the missing jewelry.

Here's the last tradition, and one that, frankly, my family hasn't done since I was very little and the extended family gathered from all corners of Miami. For many Cubans, the New Year toast often includes one special sentiment: El año que viene en Cuba. Next year in Cuba. For those that keep this tradition, I see it as a both hopeful and bittersweet. How wonderful would it be to celebrate 2012 in the Tropicana, among Cubans that share the same freedoms we do? One can hope. And if it happens, I'm seeking out that awesome feather lady up there, because she looks like a fun time, no?

So there you go. Have a Cuban New Year. For our part, as Alabamians now, we'll be adding some black eyed peas and collard greens to the mix. Happy New Year, y'all! Próspero año nuevo.