Archive | January, 2013

Guest Post over at Working for the Mandroid

31 Jan

title3.jpgI’m over at Working for the Mandroid talking about why middle grade matters. I always find it strange when I hear about people who didn’t start reading until they were older – starting with either YA or assignment books or adult books. I feel bad – they missed out on one of the best times for reading.

Watching kids read middle grade at the library, how engrossed and absorbed they are reminds me of how powerful middle grade books are. At that moment they exist in a multiverse. One that is made up of the slow fade of library books shelves and the chatter of toddlers into the magic of Camazotz, standing before “It” knowing that the battle for Father and Charles Wallace is still far from over. Or the worlds that meld from the sixth grade lunch room into the halls of Hogwarts, the moving staircases and the knowledge that you’re a wizard. If that child keeps reading, and grows up into a reader it will happen for them again, sure, but never with the power that it did then when they were 10 years old.

It’s that awesome time when you truly believe that if you shut the book, the White Witch will win. Everything hinges on staying in the story.

We’re all Bastian. We’re all part of the Never Ending Story

And I’m a HUGE nerd.

Many thanks to Leslie at Working for the Mandroid (because the world needs more robots). She gets the Starburst of Thanks. They’re delicious AND fruit flavored, folks.


New York City Grocery Stores at The Blue Hour

30 Jan

Shopping in this city is a nightmare.

No joke.

It takes three stores to find the minimum of what you need.

Sometimes it takes three stores, a Bodega, a girl, her boyfriend and his friend with a stick.

Thanks to The Blue Hour for taking this desperate little poem, New York City Grocery Stores


Interview at I Am A Reader, Not A Writer.

27 Jan


I’m over at I Am A Reader, Not A Writer today talking about time travel, goals, what book I would live in and as a kid what I wanted to be when I grew up. Hint: It involves large extinct reptiles.

If you could travel in a Time Machine would you go back to the past or into the future?
Definitely the past. And yes, because I’m obsessed with Shakespeare I would go back to the 1500’s in England and risk getting the plague just to sit next to him in a pub.
Many thanks to Kathy for her awesome interview and Giveaway – one signed print edition and an ebook are up for grabs.
Also I hope all my fellow Bardolators got to see the awesomeness that was PBS Shakespeare Uncovered
As always, when people do nice things for us, we say thanks. With candy!

Guest Post at Consuming Worlds

24 Jan


So I’m over….er Jonathan Muse is over at Consuming Worlds talking about what it’s like to be a muse, what Shakespeare was really like and what that wretched Marlowe is up to.

Here’s a snippet:

 I know that you take being a muse very seriously, but have you ever wished to be recognized for the work that you help produce? It can’t be easy watching others get fame and fortune for what you created.

“…Can a great musician be jealous of his cello? Can a cello be jealous of the hands that play upon her? They need each other and without they are only one half of a potential beauty.”

Read the rest here.

And if you’d like to know what Danielle thought about the book Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb go here.

Many thanks to Danielle at Consuming Worlds. We appreciate the invite. You know what comes next – my never-ending desire to express gratitude in the form of the best candy ever created –  The Starbursts of Thanks!


Two Poems at Pyrokinection

23 Jan

Many thanks to the wonderful A.J. Huffman for accepting these two poems, Two Hundred Years to Die and Photograph, Age 11.

I wrote Two Hundred Years to Die after revisiting my old college campus and seeing a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. It’s strange how time can start and stop like that. It was like being a part of the multi-verse. I could see the younger versions of myself everywhere in this wafer thin moment.

The second poem is based on a true story about me, some neighborhood kids and a dead fish. Growing up is weird, isn’t it? All those horrible sad things that happen.

Again, many thanks to Ms. Huffman for giving them a home.

Cemetery Walk

14 Jan

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
– Charles Baudelaire

I’ve always like cemeteries, even as a kid. Maybe it’s cause they’re quiet and sad and beautiful and you rarely see other people. They’re good Thinkin’ Places.

The more I travel, the more I go looking for old graves and old homes and over the years I’ve seen quite a few famous ones. So here’s a few of my favorite graves (we’ll do the homes another day), in no particular order.

Since he got the opening quote Baudelaire gets to go first.

Charles Baudelaire – Poet (Paris)

I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy – Charles Baudelaire

I’ve always liked Baudelaire though I confess to having only read Le Fluer des Mal. But I still liked it. There a lot to be said about a man who was obsessed with Edgar Allen Poe and supposedly lined his walkway with skulls. (Not sure if that last part is true.) And in full disclosure whenever his name is mentioned I still think of this. (What? I wrote a kid’s book. Leave me alone.)

Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir – Philosophers (Paris)

Everything has been figured out except how to live – Jean Paul Sartre
One is not born a woman, but becomes one – Simone de Beauvoir

I absolutely loved the Age of Reason. And the Second Sex has been on my to-read list for about 10 years. It’s a long list. When I was Paris I would pass Le Deux Magots where Jean Paul and Simone were known to hold court. I didn’t spend time in the cafe because my hotel was near La Rotunde and as Hemingway said, “”No matter what cafe in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde.” Taxi drivers are smart like that.

Samuel Beckett – novelist/playwright/poet (Paris)

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better. – Samuel Beckett

Full disclosure: I’ve never read anything by Beckett (yet!). But we found this grave for our good friend Oscar cause he’s the world’s biggest Beckett fan. Honestly. The literary gods should give him a medal for it. And he had never been to Beckett’s grave so when he found out we were going to Paris, we promised to find it and to leave a coin [pictured].

Marie Antoniette – Queen of France (St. Denis)

I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains: take it, but do not make me suffer long. – Marie Antoinette

Marie Antoinette has the privilege of being one of the few monarch graves I’ve ever seen – though all the ones I have seen are French. The rumored quote “Let them eat cake,” I heard she never said. So there’s  a rumor that the rumor’s wrong. Next to her grave was a little glass case that held the heart of her son (Louis XVII)  known as the Lost Dauphin.

petit cœur

Jim Morrison – singer/songwriter/poet (Paris)

Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you. – Jim Morrison

Ah the Lizard King. Probably the most visited and vandalized grave in all of Pere Lachaise. I won’t make any cracks about how This is The End (my friend) or about the supposed ghosts. My husband is a huge fan. Me, not so much. But I appreciate what he means to the rock n roll canon. He’s the Lizard King. He can do anything.

Moliere – playwright/actor (Paris)

We die only once, and for such a long time. – Moliere

I’m never read anything by Moliere but I thought that was a hell of a grave. It’s like a bunk bed for the dead!

Oscar Wilde – novelist/playwright/satrist/poet (Paris)

I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying. -Oscar Wilde

Oh I love Oscar Wilde. He was witty and smart and gay and a perfect dandy. I really want his final words about the wallpaper to be true (“The wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go”.) While in Paris I saw the Left Bank Hotel where he died and where we can only assume the wallpaper lived. I am very glad I got there before his cranky relatives who clearly lack the wit and joie de vivre that Oscar had, walled his tomb off from all those kisses. And no, I didn’t kiss it. A) I don’t wear lipstick and B) ew, it’s dirty. That’s how germs are spread.

Charles Bukowski – Poet/Novelist (San Pedro, CA)

Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times out of 9 I’ll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.
Charles Bukowski

Oh Hank. We miss you and your Bluebird. My husband and I took a trip to LA specifically to see the Bukwoski exhibit  at the Huntington which had his famous “typer” and an old glass of wine. It was very cool. We also stomped all over seedy West Hollywood to the Pink Elephant where he used to get his cans of beer to his old homes, including his bungalow on DeLongpre and the hell hole that was his childhood home, before we went out to San Pedro to pay our respects to the old guy himself. It was a good trip. I think Hank would have approved.

John Keats – Poet (Rome)

The poetry of the earth is never dead. – John Keats

Oh Keats, poor raving man Keats. Dramatic up to the last with his “name was writ in water” line. Classic. He was a beauty. Just Look at this death mask. He looks like Han Solo in carbonite.

Percy Bysshe Shelly – Poet (Rome)

Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips. – Percy Bysshe Shelley

Some of my favorite stories about Shelley are the following:

1. It was Mary (soon to be the famous Frankenstein author) not Percy that concocted the plan to run away together in the middle of the night when her father would not give them permission to marry.

2. In Venice he saw his own doppelgänger, which scared him to death when it said  “How long do you mean to be content” Creepy, right?

3. Before they burned his body, Byron gave Mary a box which contained Percy’s heart. And not a token. His ACTUAL HEART!

Galileo Galilei – physicist, mathematician, astronomer, philosopher (Florence)

The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do.
Galileo Galilei

I’m now humming the Indigo Girl’s song. I can’t help it.  In Pisa, I saw his house with a stained glass image of him in the window. It was very cool.

In Florence there is a Galileo museum FULL of all his inventions and these globes and telescopes and things like this:

I’m not sure what it does but it’s AMAZING to look at isn’t it? I took a billion pictures. Honestly. A billion. And they had his FINGER BONE! Let’s pretend it was the middle one. Just a little “ahem” from beyond the grave for killing the smartest guy in the room.

Michelangelo – sculptor (Florence)

A man paints with his brains and not with his hands. – Michelangelo

After I got back from Italy, having seen and been wowed, and I mean truly wowed by the David I decided to read a bio on Michelangelo. I did a little research and found the one most lauded by critics and I read it. You know what I learned? Michelangelo was a very pissy man who lived a very long time (much to his chagrin) and was very unhappy about working with Popes. He also believed his hands were the hands of God. For a holy man, he spent a lot of time nickel and diming people.

Julius Caesar – Emperor/Soldier (Rome)

Yeah. Caesar. I think this gets the prize for oldest grave. I just realized that my comment about Marie Antoniette might have to be revised. He was a monarch too. So this is where they burned his body. It’s tucked away in the ruins of the Forum. Pretty darn cool, huh?

Veni, vidi, vici. All Hail, Caesar!

Jean Michel Basquiat – Painter (Brooklyn)


I don’t think about art when I’m working. I try to think about life.
Jean-Michel Basquiat

It took a long time to find you, Jean-Michel. The map lied and we searched and searched and finally we were so separated that I couldn’t even see Jay anymore. And then suddenly there you were. I left my very last Paris metro train pass on your tomb. I’ve left a lot of them in a lot of special places. I hope you like that you got the last.  You, of all people, were one of my favorite ghosts to find. Not to mention, it was a beautiful day in Brooklyn.

Leonard Bernstein – Conductor/Author/Pianist (Brooklyn)

To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time. Leonard Bernstein

To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time.
Leonard Bernstein

Leonard Bernstein is an honorary member of the Vienna Philharmonic and as I will be soon be on my way there that makes it even better. For those of you who don’t know, aside from a myriad of other things, he wrote the music to West Side Story. Luck intervened twice in Bernstein’s life – once when was ten and his aunt, going through a divorce, stashed her piano in his parent’s apartment and then later during the war, when he was appointed assistant conductor of the NY Philharmonic  mostly because everyone else had been drafted. Everything else was pure hard work and talent.

Jack Kerouac – novelist/poet  (Lowell, MA)

One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple. – Jack Kerouac

Ah Ti Jean. I find that it is often best to let Jack do all the talking:

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.”

William Shakespeare – Playwright/poet (Stratford Upon Avon)

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. – William Shakespeare

Yes, that’s scaffolding and yes, that’s as close as I got and if you’ve read even one other page on this blog then you know how OBSESSED I am with Shakespeare and that this was a crushing “Wally World is closed” sort of moment for me. I don’t want to go through it again. There’s a whole explanation here.

But I did get to sit on the bench that Will and Anne sat on before they were married. Squee!

And now, the next trip this spring should snag me Beethoven and the area they generally think is Mozart’s grave. And one of these days I’ve got to get back to England to find Marlowe’s grave.

Okay that’s a lot of words about dead people and their stones.

Goodnight Irene!

Over at Tumbling in Books

8 Jan


I’ve got the first couple of pages of Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb over at Tumbling in Books. Here – I’ll whet your appetite

Chapter 1 – Something Wicked this Way Comes
The three witches were huddled so close around a spinning wheel they seemed like one person.
“You’re not supposed to be here”
“Not yet at least–not until we call you.”
There was a flash of light and a smell like burning hair. 
One of the witches limped forward and you could see the spider web of scars running across her face. Where her eyes should have been were two empty sockets, blackened and charred. In one hand she held the soft flax of yarn that was being fed into the spinning wheel and in the other she clutched an eyeball, her black nails digging into the meaty tissue.

If you like what you see, you can buy it here!

So, 2012 recap –  Got some stories and poems published, got my first novel published to some good reviews and was nominated for two Pushcarts. One for this poem and one for this story for which I am extremely grateful to the kick-arse editors. It’s been an extremely fun, extremely humbling, extremely bizarre ride.

2013 has a lot to live up to. But considering it should be starting with the print copy of Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb being available for sale, I’ve got high hopes.*

Thanks to Fara for the excerpt! She gets Starburts because they rule.


* No promises. Small presses and all…..but still, it’s coming so that’s something to be psyched about.

The Cutting Room Floor

2 Jan


Happy New Year kids!

I hope you all played nice and had some lovely days off. Jay and I spent New Years Day walking around Central Park and saw a cardinal and a red-tailed hawk through the binoculars of a lovely nearby ornithologist.  It was a beautiful day.


And now, back to business. So today I’m over at Girl Who Reads talking about my least favorite part of writing. Revision.

Ugh. I dislike it most even though a friend of mine says it separates the real writers from the “noodlers.”

True, but it’s still a pain in the butt. My problem is that I can’t always see what needs to go and what needs to stay.

So when Donna at Girl who Reads asked me to come by and talk about my book I figured why not share the things that were left on the cutting room floor as I went through draft after draft to finalize Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb. Things like this:

1. Lizzy’s name was Hamlet. I’m not kidding. I named a 12-year-old girl Hamlet Shakes.
Oh wait…
2. Lizzy wasn’t 12. She was 8. I named an 8-year-old girl Hamlet Shakes. How cruel.
Many many thanks to the lovely Donna. As always, my favorite candy – the Starburst of Thanks!
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