the ampersand cafe

things not expected

2011-08-18T17:27:00.000-05:00

He looked for himself but he could not find himself anymore. -Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Well. Here I am again. Post-blogging break, post-everything break. I did, indeed, get that life sabbatical, and so many things that I wanted to happen... well, they happened!

I went off to England for two weeks, and followed it up with another week in Louisiana. Three full weeks of change: I swapped time zones, I swapped cultures, I swapped food and habits and patterns.

I searched for beauty and found it. I looked for good reading and found it. (My nightstand is piled with books, books of all kinds. I'm an unabashed reading glutton, lately, and I am loving it.)

And I wanted to write aimlessly and vulture-free, and oh my friends, did I ever do that.

Quite aimless. Quite vultureless. In two weeks of English rain and English sun, I filled a notebook with crazy drawings, copied conversations, notes on what strangers were reading, lists of street names, ideas for the future, thoughts, descriptions, and pure heedless rambling.

Yum.

There's just one catch.

I promised myself I would come back with something to say. I went off looking for new ideas. A new gist, a new crux, a new kernel that would turn into something, something great. Ideas for novels, chapters, character names. Ideas for our Etsy store, ideas for this lovely blog.

And it's funny. I searched everywhere for ideas, and all I found was a huge plateau of silence.

I'm back home, facing my computer, and where there used to be tangles of words and armies of characters, milling around in my brain, there's just peace and quiet.

At first, I was completely taken aback.

And then, being me, I asked myself "what the heck does that mean?" a dozen times, and in a dozen different ways.

I've settled out what it means for my writing life: I'm taking this peace and this lull, and turning it into days of reading, studying, diving into creativity books, savoring new pages of my trusty dictionary, and generally praying my head off.

Not a bad way to spend an August.

But as for the blog: well, my friends, I'm not going to be posting anymore. Not for the foreseeable future, anyway.

The foreseeable future: a phrase that's made me laugh lately. This summer has taught me many things, one of which is: I can't see five minutes in front of my face, let alone The Future. Three months ago, I felt sure of all kinds of things. And now, I'm sure of ... well, not much.

But there's such peace in this quiet, peace in the not-knowing, that I'm not sorry for it. And no, I wouldn't trade it for the three-months-ago me.

It's a lovely break from the Jenn who knows everything. For a while, I get to be the Jenn who doesn't know much, and it's a stunning relief. Like mental rain after too much sun.

If that's not a life sabbatical, I don't know what one is.

So. Here is the last thing I have to say:

It is an enormous privilege to have an audience. To be read by my friends and also found by strangers. And so, for all your kind listening, thank you.

Good luck, with everything you're doing. I know you're doing big things: I wish you well in that.

But take some time, this late summer and early fall, and seek a little mental rain. Bring a stack of books, and a cup of coffee, and know that I'll be doing the same.

... and straight on 'til morning.

2011-07-14T08:08:00.000-05:00

One of the symptoms of approaching nervous breakdowns is the belief that one's work is terribly important. If I were a medical man, I should prescribe a holiday to any patient who considered his work important. - Bertrand Russell

They say in the blogging world that you shouldn't stop writing for a while. "Your readers simply won't be there when you come back," is what I've heard.

But a break, my friends, is precisely the thing I need. I've been in a strange place mentally, and I've been there for quite a while. And I'd like--actually, I crave--a good step back, from everything.

"Like a life sabbatical?" my sister asked. Yes. Like a life sabbatical.

I've had a few months of wondering and wandering, and then this past week, a time of real malaise. Now I'm itchy with a restlessness that I've been fending off for nearly a year, and so yes, I think it's time to pursue a break.

Because I do weird things in this frame of mind. Yesterday I chopped three inches off my hair, without quite realizing I was doing it. One moment, long hair. The next: well, not so long. (Or even. Hmm.) I had to put down the scissors and back away, because who knows what else I might do? Turn my Dickens collection into a series of paper cutouts? (Interesting idea, though.)

So. I'm off in search of real rest, in search of beauty, in search of good reading. I want to write aimlessly, without a vulture sitting on my shoulders, snarking at me over the usefulness of every word. (Yes there are vultures at my desk. Aren't there some at yours?)

I'm taking a break from blogging too. I'll come back in mid-August, which, I know, is kind of a long break from a blog. But I'm taking courage from others who have had breaks as well: habit is on summer vacation after all, so ... there you go. They always seem so wise and savvy.

I'm off to put my pieces back together. And I promise you this: when I come back mid-August, I'll come back with things to say.

that says it.

2011-07-14T07:38:00.000-05:00

Here's a quote for your morning: the genius Nick Hornby was able to define a condition that I've noticed all my life...

Xenagorabibliomania: an obsessive curiosity about the books that strangers read in open spaces.

I knew I had it; I just never knew what it was! I can be a complete reading parasite if I'm not careful. I've literally read whole chapters over the shoulders of strangers... yes, really, it happens.

happy wednesday

2011-07-06T06:57:00.002-05:00

caffe latte: noun: a bit of morning bravery in a cup

I feel better already.

what started it all...

2011-07-04T10:56:00.000-05:00

Every time I watch this brilliant video, I get the goofiest grin on my face. And laugh my head off.

Watch it. Be blessed. Celebrate a few good things.

And happy Fourth!!

PS: Thanks to Chris, for showing me this in the first place. You always have good taste. :)

not a tale of love and devotion.

2011-06-29T21:10:00.002-05:00

This is The Amazingly Improbable Celia.

Why improbable? Because her face and her body don't really match up: she stole the face from a pug, and the body from a beagle, and no, it really isn't that cute. (The photos... well, they make her look good.)

She has a rude sense of humor, lies through her teeth, and is even lazier than I am. I spent a lot of time with her recently, calling her as many names as I could think of, and then rhyming them all in a long ballad of Celia-ness. (Not a flattering song, but oh-so funny.)

She doesn't have many good qualities, but I will give her this much: In spite of my not-especially-warm reception of her, she still wanted to sleep curled up at my chest, staring at my face.

Which was kind of endearing.

And I just might admire that kind of insane, blind, foolish devotedness. Just a little.

Or, I don't know, maybe she just wanted to bite my nose off, as soon as I closed my eyes.

(Wholly undeserved. After all, she was the one who devoured The Joy of Cooking, not me, I don't care what she told you.)

But even in that case: I'd have to admire her cunning.

And her general Celia-ness.

i'm not always so good with pep talks.

2011-06-28T22:40:00.001-05:00

The significant, life-forming times are the dull, in-between times. -- Jan Karon

Sometimes I get homesick for the way things used to be. For faces that are more home than any house is. For patterns and moments already past.

For the feel of a certain kind of night (the velvet fog, the street light tenting down, that one path, the paper coffee cup, remember?). For the smell of a particular day.

And sometimes I get homesick for things that haven't happened at all.

Do you ever get this way? It's the beginning of a storm, the start of a trip, or maybe the first crazy itch an insect feels, before it wriggles right out of its skin.

I'm gearing up for something, something big. Many somethings. Not all with names and faces, and certainly not all have endings in sight.

In fact, there are no guessable endings at all.

I find myself saying the same things over and over in conversations. Do you get this way too? I hear my own voice echoing around my ears later: We'll see, I keep saying. We'll see, we'll see, we'll see.

Just to switch things up, I also say: I'm learning a lot!

It's in a perky voice, too, and I wonder who I'm trying to convince: my listeners, or my own stubbornly scared self.

Maybe I say, I'm learning a lot, to drown out the little whine that begs, but could I please just learn one thing at a time?

Do we need seventeen lessons all thrumming along at once? Because I'm feeling just the littlest bit sore and tired.

I don't like that whining voice.

Because of course, I am learning. Each day has more in it than I can hold, and I spill over, all the time. All this thinking, pages and pages of writing, all the reading I'm doing, the wondering, going in circles that are sometimes familiar and sometimes not.

The air is extra-charged, and any moment the spark will come, will set everything off. Maybe burn off all this mist, and then I can see clearly. (We'll see.)

I usually don't mind learning. But sometimes, I don't want to we'll see, I want to know. To have learned.

To get out of the car at the end of the road, stretch my legs, get the crick out of my back, and smile and smile.

Poor cowardly heart. Poor cranky brain.

Sometimes I don't want to grow anymore. I just want to settle. ... It's one more reason to love (already-written, already-published) books. When the suspense is too much, you can skip ahead, can't you? Skim a bit, get the feel of things, and head for the finish line?

But I know I'd regret it, I'd hate it, if I turned around now.

What happens to the bugs that decide to stay in their old skin, all zipped up and buttoned down tight? Do their little insect brains blow up?

Sounds like a nastier fate than being tired.

Besides. I can just go make more tea, right? Right.

And then keep going, somehow, somewhere. We'll just have to see, right? We'll just have to see.

(Because I think, eventually, eventually, and by the grace of God, the view will be well worth it.)

a summer 100

2011-06-26T08:00:00.002-05:00

Hula Seventy is good at so many, many things. One of them is appreciating summer: she always inspires me to love summer better. (And on ugly humid days, I need the inspiring. Not today, though. Today's been perfect.)

Go peek at her list, and the rest of her lovely blog, and get your summer off to a yummy start.

what's still there.

2011-06-24T17:00:00.001-05:00

The Source of Stories was a hole or chasm or crater in the sea-bed, and through that hole, as Haroun watched, the glowing flow of pure, unpolluted stories came bubbling up from the very heart of Kahani. There were so many Streams of Story, of so many different colours, all pouring out of the Source at once, that it looked like a huge underwater fountain of shining white light. -- Haroun and the Sea of Stories, Salman Rushdie

How can I describe it? A moment impossible to catch, even as it happened, and a sensation I don't know the name for, though I've felt it before.

And what called it out? Some kind of alchemy, brought about by the Illinois highway, through perfect wheatfields and growing corn, the old watertowers, the clouds tangling at the horizon.

Maybe the music (Mumford & Sons, Freelance Whales) lately doing dances in my ears. Maybe because my busy full brain was sitting back in exhaustion. Detaching for a while, and letting go of all it held.

And there it was.

If Salman Rushdie didn't talk about a Stream of Stories, I'd think I was crazy. (At least now if I am crazy, I'm in elite company.)

I could literally feel its presence on my skin, the otherness of its air, and my eyes tricked me into seeing it, flashing in and out of the shadows beside the road. Real glimpses of impossible places, keeping pace with our car.

Rushdie calls it a stream, and I agree. Though this time, it was a river: fast, cold, and deep. I've felt the current of it before, and best of all, that giddy conviction that there are stories there for the drinking, thousands and thousands. Some have my name on them, and they're looking for me.

And if there was a way to reach them, I'd have stuck my fingers out, my hand riding the wind, and I'd have trailed my fingertips in it...

For now, it's enough to know it's still there. Under the exhaustion, busyness, recent conversations, errands, activities, distractions... it's still there.

Fast and cold and deep.

two minutes of yay.

2011-06-18T08:00:00.005-05:00

I hope your weekend feels like this.

(Only a little less blurry.)

a book crush, the dream discussion, and #10. (at last.)

2011-06-16T15:25:00.000-05:00

So here's a new book for your summer list, especially if you're an artist, a dreamer, or a candlestick maker...

I admit, it's not my usual kind of recommendation. A book about business, Christian media, VeggieTales, success, failure... not my typical cup of tea. And I thought it was an okay book, until I hit Chapter 21: "Dreams, Part II."

Which is currently changing my life.

Phil Vischer, obviously enough, created VeggieTales. Watched it get really really big. Watched it die. And in the end, he learned a lot about business management, creative enterprise... and dreams.

It's the dreaming thing that got to me.

I've dreamed of writing for as long as I can remember. I was a good student all through school, a super good student. Give me a tough assignment, I double-dog-dare you. I worked hard; I did well. And when I graduated, I came home to write, determined to change the world.

Or at the very least, the young adult section of every bookstore in the U.S.

(What can I say, I'm modest. Ha ha ha.)

Over the last five years, I've worked hard. I've got drafts of three novels, in various states of disrepair. I've learned a ton about characters, pacing, plot, setting, dialogue...

I also decided that my identity was that of Girl Writer Taking Over The World. My sense of worth depended on how well work was going. I loved the books I was writing. I also hated how crazy I felt, how exhausted I was, and how it felt like these books would never be good enough. Ever.

I knew I was working against myself somehow, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. (Hence #10 on The List: my attempt at quelling the noise in my head.) And I was pretty sure that if I just worked harder, it would all be good.

Enter Phil Vischer, Me, Myself, & Bob, and Chapter 21. Where Vischer talks about a lot of crazy things, super-crazy. He talks about Christians and their dreams of changing the world for God. And a lot of what he says sounds just like me. Exhausted, driven, determined, Girl Writer me.

Crazy things. Like:

When people of great faith in the Bible don't know what God wants them to do, they don't just run off and make stuff up. They wait on him.

I've actually read that before. I've read this chapter before, nodding my way through. I know what God wants me to do: how many times have I said I was called home to write? I sincerely believed that, and I still do.

But what to write?

That's where I made stuff up.

Then he said this:

The Christian life wasn't about running like a maniac; it was about walking with God. It wasn't about impact; it was about obedience. It wasn't about making stuff up; it was about listening.

Maniac. That rings a bell. So does "impact." And "making stuff up."

He asks if we serve our dreams, or if we serve our God. And he also says of himself:

My ambition, my dreams, my misplaced sense of identity and value were dragged kicking and screaming up onto the altar. And now they were dead.

Like I said, I've read this chapter before. I always flinched away from those sentences, but this week, this week it feels like something's unraveling inside me.

Something that, surprisingly, I don't mind losing as much as I thought I would.

Misplaced sense of identity and value? Hmm. Hmmmm.

God is enough for you, Vischer writes. But you can't discover the truth of that statement while you're clutching at your dreams. You need to let them go. ... The impact God has planned for us doesn't occur when we're pursuing impact. It occurs when we're pursuing God.

Over and over, Vischer talks about walking with God. And waiting on God. Waiting. That's what got me. Wait? I don't want to wait for anything. I wanted to write a brilliant novel in one year flat.

But this week, that goal has fallen away. All that running uphill, all the urgency and frustration... those crazy ambitions are unstitching in my heart.

And here's what I'm left with: if I write at all, I only want to write the book God tells me to write.

I don't mean that in a silly way--like there would be a cherub sitting on my shoulder, dictating every paragraph. That's not what I mean. But I want to be still in the midst of my writing life. To be still, and to listen, and to wait.

I don't want to keep chasing every novel idea that comes along. I want to write the book I'm supposed to write. It's actually that simple, that strange, and takes effect immediately.

My June plans are still in full swing: I'm still journaling, reading, doing those writing exercises. I'm also praying a lot more, and feeling the burden of my writing life slip from my shoulders. And can I just say: that's a huge relief.

So that's summer. Tending the soil of my writing life. Being faithful to still put my time in, practicing, and listening. I don't know what's coming next, what seeds there might be in this soil. But I'll keep watering it and waiting, and we'll see.

I feel free. Excited. And free.

Recommendation: Frankly, you don't even have to read this whole book if you aren't interested in VeggieTales. Just skim it, get the gist of it, and then slow way down at Chapter 21.

Read every word, my dreaming friends, and I promise it will change you.

right this moment.

2011-06-14T07:44:00.009-05:00

I am wearing socks, which is confusing for my feet. They thought they were in flip-flops from here 'til October, but no.

It's cool outside and in, and it puts me in the mood for cozy things. Coffee. Lap blankets. Quiet music on the radio. It's a day to have a dog curl up on your lap, but no dog. So I'm wearing the socks.

I'm awake rather earlier than usual, and the day decided to celebrate with a thunderstorm. I love how the sound of rain feels so companionable. A nice old-fashioned chat with the sky, that's what I'm having.

It's pouring. Plenty of thunder, a fabulous morning for Noah. In fact I can see myself with him, at the edge of the ark, squinting into the rain and waiting for that feeling of lift-off. I'm saluting him right now with my coffee.

Noah definitely had a dog, I'm sure of it.

I'm catching up with some of my favorite blogs, like Joy the Baker. Please tell me you read Joy the Baker. She makes me laugh so darn hard, I want her to be my best friend. And all her recipes are swoon-worthy, truly.

And then there's the lovely habit. I haven't been by in so long, so I'm catching up, piling all those gorgeous images and words in my head. ... It's hard, actually, to describe just what kind of mood habit always puts me in. Something exhilarating, yet quiet at the same time.

... Makes me want to have twelve kids, an uproarious garden, fantastically casual dinners (on a huge pine table), grass-stained knees (again), a ramshackle house, and a pretty sweet camera. Makes me want to not worry so much. To laugh with my mouth wide open. ... Not to mention, find even more time to read and time to write. Um, and more rainy days. And more sunny ones.

Something like that. (How many hours in a day would that be? 48? Or 60-ish?)

Dangerous.

Well then. The storm is finished, and light is soaking through the window. My socks and I are off to my writing chair, eager for a good day of work. A lot of questions on my plate today, and heck, maybe there will be a few answers.

Who knows what will happen? Because it's a Tuesday.

And Tuesdays--even with socks--are full of promise.

it's ReLove-ly.

2011-06-10T09:56:00.000-05:00

In all the commotion of late May and early June, the wonderful Squirrel & Serif hasn't gotten much of my attention.

Which is to say, I haven't done anything with it. At all.

(Probably this is something that savvy businesswomen do not admit on their blogs. Probably I am not a savvy businesswoman. Fair enough.)

I've been trying to comfort myself by saying it is truly meant to be a hobby store, created for the love of knitting, the joy of making things for other people, and--why not--a fun way to earn a little money.

And I tell myself that it's perfectly understandable that the store has taken the back seat, with everything going on. (And not just the back seat, really. It's been put right out of the car and is sitting on the roadside.)

Two road trips to Louisiana, graduation ceremonies, and then even more ceremonies, loading that moving truck on the hottest day of my life (maybe), all kinds of goodbyes (ack!), and then, finally finally trying to resurrect a writing practice. Which is, after all, what I'm supposed to be doing all this time.

Nevertheless, I've felt a little panicky. So much neglect of the poor store!! What's going to happen to Serif the Wonder Child, my knitting alter ego? In fact, where is she, with her lists of brilliant ideas, her unending romance with yarn stores, her wizardry with the knitting needles?

If I can just find her, she would be undaunted by the idea of knitting in hundred degree heat. She'd be undaunted by knitting at all.

Because I really don't want to let the store go. I still love Etsy and will sing its praises to anyone who asks. Just browsing the site makes me happy--I feel like I could be a better person if I look at enough items. I'd certainly have better style. I get lost in all the treasuries, and I think I've taken their taste test twenty times.

(This same feeling slaps me in Anthropologie, until I'm downright giddy. And--while I'm confessing--I almost didn't leave a perfectly tiny model apartment at Ikea. Seriously. I wanted to move in.)

So a few weeks ago, I launched what I'm calling The Etsy ReLove Project. It's like I'm revisiting all the reasons why I love knitting. Snuffling through my knitting books. Cruising through the creative happy blogs I love. Brainstorming.

Trying to avoid the inspiration myth. (You know the one. It says you have to be inspired before you write, or cook, or clean, or knit, or ... I don't know, floss. It's a complete lie.) But at the same time, I'm trying to reinvigorate that part of my brain, find that knitting time again, recover the creative energy that's a part of me, somewhere.

We'll see where the ReLove Project takes me. I have high hopes and long lists, so how could it go wrong? I'll get there. Somehow.

So I guess this is just a long note to say: Please don't give up on our little store. Because I haven't.

writer in progress: homesick.

2011-06-07T08:00:00.058-05:00

It is the gift of all poets to find the commonplace astonishing. -- Margery Sharp

So it's been busy. A busy week, a busy month, a busy year so far. Busyness. Bleck. It's like the opposite of writing. Dashing about at a million miles an hour, versus letting words drip onto a page.

No surprise, then, that writing has pretty well tanked these last two months. They have been wonderful months in their way, full of family and celebrations and joy and change. But then when I sit down to work, all my brain has is a slideshow of past events, or far worse, a gently hissing static.

Which is when I start asking myself bad questions, like, Why am I writing anyway?

But last weekend I had a brilliant conversation with a good friend, and we were talking about rest. Rest. Just thinking about that word makes me want to breathe differently.

Anyway, as we talked about what recharges us, I felt my vision for June shifting. And I started asking myself, with a very different tone, So, why am I writing anyway? Why do I write? Why is this part of me, what do I love about it, what's so great about words?

So instead of whipping myself, my writing life, and my novel back into shape (my usual tactic), I decided to try a different kind of strategy. I'm putting the novel aside temporarily, and I'm going back to basics this month. As in: really basic.

Like--writing exercises. I haven't done writing exercises in an eon! I usually despise them, but all of a sudden I'm thirsty for miniature writing challenges... working my way through this lovely book and its sequel. I love Monica Wood's perspective on the whole writing life: she is so cheerful and sound.

Also, I'm getting reacquainted with journaling. How did I let journaling go, for pete's sake? No idea, but somehow it turned into a burden, when I felt obligated to do it.

Not anymore. I've been sitting by the window, letting myself ramble across the pages, talking about anything, anything, anything. Just writing for the bliss of solitude. Putting one word after the next for the sheer joy of it. Such a luxury, really. And if I'm writing about the view out my window as the sun sets, and if I'm sipping a glass of wine, well, so much the better.

And then reading. Oof. I've so let my reading life slide, and it's horrible! How can you write novels when you forget the intoxicating feeling of being swept away in someone else's world? Encountering their characters, and being encountered in return?

I'm firmly convinced of reading's importance in a writing life, and yet it's so hard to make time for it. It feels too much like relaxing, like something I should just wedge into my day at the very end... not anymore. I'm giving myself acres of time to just sit and devour novels.

So that's June. And I'm giddy about it. ... Can ya blame me?

Because I do love writing. So very much. I've missed these basics, and it's good to come back to them, good to come home.

i couldn't agree more.

2011-06-05T06:30:00.002-05:00

Here's a little Bach for your morning:

Without my morning coffee I'm just like a dried-up piece of roast goat. -- Johann Sebastian Bach

Ha ha!! Who knew he was so funny?

Cheers to all my fellow roast goats.

listapalooza 5: let's go back.

2011-06-03T08:00:00.044-05:00

When you're a kid, everyone talks about growing up like it's the prize destination. And, well, yay for growing up.

But I've been watching my niece and thinking about how awesome childhood can be, and I can't help thinking: there are some things I gave up that I didn't want to give up.

You know what I mean?

So here's some of the stuff, the ideas, and the habits from childhood that I want back.

1. my imaginary friends. (Oh wait. I write fiction. It's kind of the same.)

2. my popsicle stick collection: it was truly huge. And felt so useful, except ... it wasn't.

3. stickers. We don't have to outgrow stickers, do we? I don't think we do.

4. naming the trees in the backyard

5. keeping spiral notebooks filled with one-page stories... I really should bring back the whole one-page story idea.

6. my repertoire of handclap rhymes. Where did they go? Probably pushed out of my brain by utterly useless things, like chemistry equations and memorized lists of history facts. Pfft. Who needs it. And now that it's time to teach my niece handclap rhymes... I got nothin'.

7. expecting to walk on the moon. I was so sure I'd get there one day. Now? Now I think I'll just stick to waving at it.

8. I used to plot my escape from any room that I was in. Just in case I became a spy and that habit would be useful. So... where's the air duct I could crawl through, or how would I break a window, or what could I do to cover my footprints... yeah. Haven't thought about that in so long...

9. my habit of hiding random notes where I thought strangers might find them

10. dreaming about what amazing, life-changing secrets could be hidden in our attic

11. those awesome gel sandals... kids' clothes are so fun!

12. keeping massive lists of names I would give animals, if I ever happened to find, say, a hedgehog or wildebeest I could call my own.

Because you just never know.

And that's what's so awesome about being a kid.

listapalooza 4: surprise, surprise, i love you.

2011-05-31T14:44:00.000-05:00

It's only fair, after the last post, to have a kind of corollary, right? So here's a list of the things I love in spite of myself. At some point, I was skeptical about each entry on this list, but now... well, now I'm a really big fan.

1. coffee ice cream. Once upon a time, that sounded horrible. Now? Well, now it's a bit of heaven in a bowl.

2. kalamata olives--briny bliss.

3. that old-book smell in libraries and used bookstores... it used to make my nose itch, now it smells like perfume

4. the wonderful Kristen introduced me to Karmin: completely amazing!! Totally worth a listen, and just so much fun...

5. sweet potatoes

6. The Killers ... love them so much now.

7. wearing red lipstick. Usually I'm all for subtle makeup ... usually.

8. crappy 1980s adaptations of Charles Dickens novels. ... Really. I mean, I shouldn't even admit that in public, but they're weirdly addictive... (This one's more recent and is genius, so go watch it. Make some tea.)

9. the redesigned Bon Appétit. Yay. The May Italy issue was brilliant, and I'm so excited about where that magazine's going. Better photography, better writing, better layouts... it's fantastic. I do a little dance when I see it sitting there on the coffee table.

10. sushi. Yum.

11. granny squares... I was a hard sell, because I loved knitting so much, but I'm still awfully smitten with these bright pieces of color.

12. Mumford & Sons. I really didn't think I'd enjoy them, but they're awesome, so go listen.

13. Iron Man. I was so burnt out on comic book adaptations, but, uh, can anyone not love Robert Downey Jr. as Tony Stark?

14. M. Night Shyamalan is a genius.

15. oof, and then nerd glasses. I admit, it took me a long time to be reconciled but... they're complete fun.

So there it is.

What can I say, sometimes it's good--so good!--to be wrong.

listapalooza 3: sorry, but i just don't love it.

2011-05-27T06:30:00.034-05:00

I feel like I should love these. But I don't. I just ... don't. So I feel kind of apologetic for some of these, but confession (they say) is good for the soul.

So for what it's worth, I'm not wild about

* bubble tea!

* Jack Johnson

* jeggings (yiiiiikes.)

* Glee

* or, for that matter, Modern Family

* nail polish on my own fingernails (looks so weird! and I can hear my old piano teacher snarking at me again...)

* Ernest Hemingway

* milk chocolate

* iPods (yikes)

* okay, and since I admitted to that, I also can't like cell phones. Really.

* carrots (never ever ever could manage to like carrots)

* cast iron pans

* cake pops (ack!)

* food coloring

* spearmint

* ooof, or black licorice

* taxis

* Toms shoes (I love what they do, I just don't love the shoes, okay?)

* soft cooked eggs (shudder)

* annnnd, while I'm in a confessing mood: Harry Potter. Yes really. Just couldn't get interested, though I promise I tried.

Wow. Confession really is great. I feel so ... relieved, some how. And like I've just designed some weird utopia, strangely free of all the above...

hee hee.

listapalooza 2: book sirens

2011-05-24T06:30:00.044-05:00

There's something wonderfully safe about owning books that you haven't read yet. I mean a certain kind of book--it sits there on the shelf looking like money in the bank. It's waiting for just the right time, the right mood, the rainy afternoon or the late late night... and it might be your new favorite.

I love the books I haven't read yet.

Of course, when I get too many of them, with their beautiful spines and titles haunting me, I want to just lock all the doors and close the curtains and read myself sick. Just take a week and read and read and read and read.

Maybe that means I'm already sick, I don't know. But here are the unread books that are whispering at me from my shelves...

* The Great Typo Hunt (this looks so awesome... and like a proofreader's dream come true)

* Don Quixote

* The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

* The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop

* Poirot in the Orient

* A Thousand Days in Tuscany

* A Tale of Two Cities

* Alone in the Kitchen With an Eggplant -- this one seems to be brilliant on so many levels, I just can't wait...

* The Undertaking

* West with the Night

* The Count of Monte Cristo

* Sonnets from the Portuguese

* Gilead

* The Thirteenth Tale

So, apparently, I'm a miser, a hoarder, lining my little nest with brilliant unread books... Or maybe I'm just looking for a week of rainy afternoons.

Maybe June will be filled with words.

listapalooza 1: bakery wishes

2011-05-22T00:17:00.000-05:00

What is it about flour, sugar, butter, and eggs that can turn the unbearable into something bearable? Add a bit of chocolate, and we might even come through smiling.

As a wise aunt of mine said recently: I think if I could bake my way through life, everything would be okay. She is so right.

So. If I had limitless energy (and a bottomless pantry), here's everything I'd learn to make right this minute:

* Homemade doughnuts. It just sounds like a good idea.

* Palmiers

* Biscotti

* This crepe cake and I still need to get together

* Tiramisu

* Eclairs... or profiteroles... heck, let's make 'em both.

* Brioche

* Those pistachio-cardamom macarons are still calling me...

* Croissants

* Annnnnd croissants with chocolate

* Clafouti: I've made a cherry one, and somehow feel like I've only just scratched the surface of something wonderful...

* Madeleines

* Truffles

Mmhmm. That's a good place to start.

listapalooza. or, surviving the end of May.

2011-05-22T00:00:00.000-05:00

There are times when I hate to be right, and this is one of them. I was dreading May, way back at the beginning of it; and here comes the end, the goodbyes, and all that bittersweet.

And I only like bittersweet when it's applied to chocolate.

But here's the thing: I can't make all my lamenting sound interesting to myself. So I'll spare you the moaning. And we can all breathe sighs of relief.

Instead of talking about the anxiety tunneling through my heart--yikes--I thought: let's do a festival. A festival of lists. Because I love lists.

A list is a collection of brain splinters, in neat order. Just looking at one gives me a thrill. (Yes. You already knew I had a fair streak of nerdiness in me, right? So there it is. Lists thrill me. Now you know.)

Also: I think a series of lists might just preserve my sanity. So that's what we'll do. Scatter about a bunch of lists, like a breadcrumb trail, and somehow somehow I'll make it from this moment into early June.

Listapalooza 2011. I'm so up for this.

(Obviously, very inspired by the brilliant Hula Seventy.)

love is sandwich cookies.

2011-05-09T23:07:00.000-05:00

"Do you think you could get away with that?" "There are no limits to what I can get away with when I am functioning properly." -- P.G. Wodehouse

So there was a birthday celebrated last weekend. And I thought: hey! Let's make macarons! It's been a while, and isn't it time for that kind of crazy baking challenge again?

I've had a quarter century with the best little sister in the world... I think that's worth some snooty French cookies, yes?

And if one flavor is a good idea... surely three flavors is a much, much better one?

Of course it is. Waaaay better to splash a lot of culinary love around: Espresso-Blackberry, Chocolate Earl Grey, and Grapefruit. (Like all good things, these recipes came from Gourmet magazine.)

Next question: Is it possible to make those tricky beauties assembly-line style?

Why yes. Yes, you can.

Finally: is it wise to pile all the cookies on top of each other, and balance a candle-lit cookie on top?

Probably not. I did it anyway.

Worth it.

Because she is a darn awesome little sister.

jenn versus the month of may.

2011-05-02T18:28:00.002-05:00

Some Monday mornings I wake up full of pluck. Today was not one of those mornings. I had the covers over my head, thinking maybe, if I decide not to get up, this week doesn't have to start.

This certainty cut through my heart: once I get up, the days will fly by, and I will reach the end of May much too soon. The end of May threatens with a fistful of goodbyes. And while I have a very long list of things I love, goodbyes are not on it. Not anywhere.

So yes, it's true again, I'm the Chicken Little of the calendar. (The days are flying! The days are flying!)

I got up anyway, still clutching the warm memories of yesterday, and hoping that somehow, I can learn to greet May with an open mind and a quiet spirit.

Getting back to my writing desk helps. Hey there, characters. I think I write so I can create people more brave than I am. And then I try to be like them. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I'm not brave at all.

But today's been about more than bravery (lost or found): I've made peace with chapter three (I think). And then rewarded myself with a warm banana muffin, and white chocolate peanut butter smeared over it... that will restore some pluck, let me tell you.

You can face a lot of things with a warm banana muffin. And that white chocolate peanut butter? That's like a superhero cape.

Went for an afternoon run in the rain. Chased sixteen mallards down the road and got myself quacked at. Waved at all the dog walkers, dodged the dripping-est trees. Came home feeling better, so much better.

And I made a decision about number 12 from The List: that vintage-y knit skirt? I love it so much. But maybe next year. The project I'm making instead has to do with these gorgeous things...

Yes. A granny square quilt. I'm so excited. I mean, really.

Over the last few weeks, I've been turning all kinds of yarn scraps into these cute little squares. I love watching the abandoned bits and pieces come together in one unique patch after another...

And then gathering up all those patches into a quilt that's both warm and full of stories. Yes. Making much of leftovers.

Shoot, that isn't just a quilt, that's a whole philosophy.

And maybe that's the spirit for May. We will make much of all we have, right?

Every scrap of color, every bit of time that's worth a stitch. We'll turn this calendar page into something warm, something full of stories.

Yes.

color for a grey day

2011-04-27T17:50:00.000-05:00

A little late, but we still went for it.

My niece's "OH-H-H!" was completely worth it.

And much as I've been loving all this rain... it's nice to look at something bright.

writer in progress: drink deep

2011-04-22T17:50:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I was privileged to see the exhibit of Carol Carter's Italian Suite. It was the perfect kind of night to begin with: great conversations with my family, all the collective excitement of an opening night, and, um, Thai food.

And then, the paintings. The paintings were exquisite.

As in, draw in as deep a breath as you can, because you think you can probably smell the Italian countryside, you can hear the voices, you feel the change in air. That kind of exquisite.

Her paintings are full of a bright, clear beauty that reminds me of the best summer evenings, the very best. You want cool white wine and your closest friends, and you don't want the night to close in, not just yet.

I thought: gorgeous.

I thought--not for the first time, either: So, when can I move to Italy?

And I also thought: she spent ten days in Italy, ten days. And produced eighty paintings for that exhibit. Eighty stunning paintings.

So, what kind of mega-inspiration can I pursue for ten days? What kind of landscape can I immerse myself in? And might I have a similar outpouring of work?

Landscape. Hm. I've been wishing to trade my landscape lately.

Maybe I'll move into the art exhibit, or run away to an art museum? Maybe I'll find a train after all?

(Also, it is totally fun to mess around with the kids' section of an art gallery... yay for interactive paintings! Completely brilliant idea... they should do that with novels, yes?)

The exhibition opening also reminded me of this: the deep, deep value of spending time around other artists. The important exchange that happens between creators.

I love to think of us all sitting around an endless feast of inspiration, all kinds of artists, each sparking off the others. I was walking around that exhibit, drinking in the way Italy looks through Carol Carter's eyes, and it make me think of essays I could write, of a slim perfect novella of self-discovery in Italy, of food essays (shocking!), maybe a children's picture book ...

It made me think of who I am, who I've been, who I want to be. It made me want to write the way she painted--to get down the feeling of her colors, get that into words somehow... I walked around and around, and I felt like I could write forever.

I forget too easily how much I love this kind of thing. And lately, especially lately, when my brain feels like a collection of lists, it is too easy to forget the need for inspiration. The need to see things I couldn't dream up on my own, the need to hear new sounds, taste a different kind of air, to be challenged out of the way I usually think, see, imagine.

So maybe I'll hop on a plane to Italy. Maybe I will. Until then, I'll stare at the Carol Carter postcard I've tacked to my bulletin board, and I'll think, dream, and write myself there.

beautiful red number 6

2011-04-14T14:35:00.000-05:00

Two more reasons why this April has changed my life for the better. The much much better:

1) I now have a nephew. Yes!!! He's a week-and-a-half old and so tiny. I've spent much of this week memorizing his perfect face.

2) Number six from the list. It happened yesterday. Oh my.

Like I said, I've been at my sister's place a lot this week. It hasn't been a week for writing, but it has been a week for living. Living so that there's something to write about. My next book will be peppered with nephews and jam-makers. Quite sure about this.

Yesterday, after some quality time with stuffed animal acrobats (my niece's stuffed white rabbit can do a wicked cartwheel, that's all I'm saying), I collapsed next to my sister on the sofa. Niece and nephew both napping; she in her room, he on my sister's lap.

And as I looked down at him, Adrienne and I had a conversation that went something like this:

Me: You're the mother of two! That's so crazy! That's so awesome!

Her: Also crazy: I have two pounds of strawberries in the fridge.

Me: Whoa. ... Let's make jam.

I used this recipe, and found it supereasy. You mash a bunch of strawberries, sprinkle some sugar and pectin into it, squeeze a bit of lemon, boil it, and let it cool. I mean ... so easy.

Even after the stuffed animal olympics. And with half a brain functioning. It was still easy.

We tasted it before it had cooled properly, spooning bits of jam on some quality bread. We popped that bread-and-jam into our mouths and then burst out laughing. In spite of the sleeping infant on her lap.

This is true: Wide-eyed laughter is my highest compliment to a recipe. Laughing over food usually means: We Just Made Something Good.

And this strawberry jam, my friends. Oh. It's just so good. Really. You'll laugh too.

(Some of the reviewers on that recipe say that it makes for a runnier jam than they'd like. And yes, I needed to spoon this over bread. But we were all too busy exclaiming at the astonishingly good flavor to say "hey, wish it was jellier." Besides, it thickened a little more overnight. So, no complaints here.)

You really must try it. So easy, so impressive, and it will make you think of summer and all things good.

If you're very very lucky, you'll also get to watch your niece smear it all over her cheeks.

A strawberry jam grin is a beautiful thing.

I may or may not have made a few ultra-lame jam puns. (A strawberry jamboree? Jam sessions? I wouldn't have said such things, would I?)

I may or may not have eaten this jam by the spoonful.

I may or may not have licked my plate clean, like a four-year-old.

Oh toast. The newest fine dining experience.

heart heart heart.

2011-04-11T15:04:00.023-05:00

One of the many reasons why I'm jumping up and down today: this gorgeous book arrived in the mail this weekend, and is as truly lovely as I'd hoped.

Actually, it's rather lovelier.

Also, I now want to use the phrase kitchen journeys whenever I can.

Kitchen journeys. Isn't it perfect? Makes me want to pack a little bag with vanilla bean and harissa and raw cashews and dark chocolate and a loaf of coarse bread, and then stow myself away on a train, and see what I can see. Hmm.

And instead of a pillow, I'll put my head on this cookbook, and have the most delicious dreams of my life.

So, if I go missing, you'll know what happened.

decoder rings and black tea: aka, saturday night.

2011-04-09T15:30:00.002-05:00

Do we ever outgrow wanting to be spies? Or, I don't know, maybe that particular bug never got to you, but it certainly infected me when I was little.

My sisters and I would confer in our basement closet, sitting on cinder blocks under a naked lightbulb, decoding the notes we had taken during the day.

Usually, it was such breathtaking news as, Lou is out weeding his tomato patch today, wearing those saggy pants. And Barb called him inside, because he got a phone call.

Wow. You can see why we were careful, with neighbors like that. That's some volatile information right there.

Then a few years after the Tomato Patch Files, I discovered Harriet the Spy (!!!), and a few years after that, the Mrs. Pollifax stories.

Maybe it's why I'm a writer--license to eavesdrop in cafés, to make up stories to explain the glimpses we see of our neighbors our friends...

It's certainly why I loved watching the new version of The 39 Steps over at Masterpiece. It's a completely fun spy movie, with a healthy dose of romance and stunning Scottish landscapes. Probably won't win any awards for "most brilliant movie," but it's perfect for a fun Saturday night.

With a mammoth cup of Earl Grey.

And my new decoder ring.

writer in progress: learn from the little

2011-04-07T18:08:00.000-05:00

The first secret of good writing: We must look intently, and hear intently, and taste intently. ... We must look at everything very hard. -- James J. Kilpatrick

Once again, some of the best writing lessons come from watching my niece. Watching her intent expression as she studies everything, as she looks at everything very hard.

Little writer in training, perhaps? Not that I've been reading her my writing advice books. Well... not often.

Spending just two full days with her (and for the best and loveliest of reasons!), I'm amazed all over again at what she notices. The spot of chocolate on the floor, the faint freckle on the back of my hand, the way a paisley print looks like a turtle.

She sees it all, and points it out earnestly to me.

And there it is, a tiny slice of world at the tip of her finger.

And I'm so grateful to her--for many reasons, but this is certainly one of them. She slows me down, brings me close, and helps me notice, helps me see everything like she does. The little things.

Together we crouch down and look intently, we look very hard.

A vital refocusing. And today, on my own, I'm noticing, looking very hard at the new burst of flowers on our crabapple, looking at the little hyacinths, blooming when we thought they were dead.

I thought everything was dead with the freak snow last weekend. But no, everything is blooming, and so I'm hopeful for the rest of spring.

That trick candle hope. I had given up on so many things, and now, suddenly, I'm eager for the lilacs to come, craning my head to spot the early tulips.

And when they come, I'll take a cue from my niece and put my face up to them, too close, and let my eyes refocus, and then, and then, I'll see what I can see.

what? who writes this thing? is that me?

2011-04-01T17:58:00.001-05:00

Okay, so here's some news: I wrote myself a little About Me page. Yes, really.

For some reason, writing about myself that directly makes me blush, so I interviewed myself. In the third person.

Right. Somehow that made it easier.

Anyway, if you stumbled across this blog without knowing who I am, well ... now you can know.

Just click that picture at the top of the left column: So, I'm Jenn. That one.

Then you get to read more about me.

Um, only if you want to.

Right, I'll stop talking now.

book crush friday: The Good Thief

2011-04-01T16:19:00.000-05:00

At times Ren felt like he was reading fragments of his own dreams, reassembled into words that pulled at his heart, as if there were a string tied somewhere inside his chest that ran down into the book and attached itself to the characters, drawing him through the pages. The boy read and read and read and read. -- The Good Thief, Hannah Tinti

Every now and then, I itch to read a literary novel. Just to prove I'm an adult, or a successful English major. Or maybe to give the librarians a break from handing me huge stacks of middle grade fantasy.

Who knows why it strikes, but the solution is usually to pick one of those books that says in the blurbs on the back that it has luminous writing.

Luminous writing. I love that. You can read them in bed after dark, and you don't need a flashlight or a lamp, nothing--the words glow in the dark. You should try this. Probably tonight.

Ahem.

Actually, I suspect I'm not grown up enough to read most literary novels, never mind the English major. I don't think I appreciate them like I'm supposed to. I give up about three or four chapters into stories of semi-psychologically-tortured-women-returning-home-or-having-affairs-and-then-not-finding-a-real-resolution-to-any-of-their-problems... I just can't take that kind of storyline. I want to strangle the characters. I say rude things about them.

Also, good English majors probably do not laugh at so-called "luminous" books. Sigh. I might be a hopeless case.

In spite of all this, my curiosity gets the better of my reason, my craving for gorgeous writing builds to a pitch, and I start looking around for another literary-ish novel.

So recently, I picked up The Good Thief, enticed, I admit, by the cover. And inside, it was everything I was in the mood for, without knowing it. I mean--really, it hit me just right. Hannah Tinti is a truly stunning writer: I'm in awe of her sentences. Really. And there's a fantastic cast of unusual characters... and, let me be honest, most of this book is quite bizarre.

And I love bizarre.

There's the mousetrap factory, the ever-shouting Mrs. Sands, the dwarf on the rooftops, Dolly the giant, grave robbers, the enigmatic Benjamin, and through it all, there is Ren. One-handed Ren, finally out of the Saint Anthony orphanage, hoping to find out about his parents, hoping to somehow navigate the weird and wonderful world of this book.

Okay. I loved this. I'm flipping through my copy as I type this, rereading my favorite moments. There's such a brilliant mix of the deeply believable and the highly bizarre...

I want to lean close and reread chapters of it to you, just so you get a feel for it... but maybe I'll just let you discover it for yourself. You'll love it.

Like I said, it was exactly what I wanted.

Recommendation: This book makes me think of a patch of sunlight, a slice of apple cake, and a cup of black coffee. Yes. Read it while there's still a little chill in the air.

today, and other things that flew by.

2011-03-30T22:32:00.000-05:00

This morning, at 1:50 a.m: Finish the last sweet pages of a novel and turn off my light, knowing I'll regret the late night, but not the novel.

7:00 a.m. Regret the late night. Not the novel. Reset alarm.

8:00 a.m. Plunge into work. Yes! Work! Some days, it's so full of promise. Today? Today's one of those days. I remember to be deeply thankful.

10:00 a.m. The French press and I get reacquainted. I love our breakfast dates. We have such witty conversation.

10:30 a.m. Brilliant new details for the re-revision of Chapter Three fall from the sky (or from the caffeine) and onto my computer screen. Yes. I'll take it.

12:30 p.m. Crocheting some granny squares for a massive project I fell into (and am loving). Stitch away while coming up with more brilliant details. Chapter Three is looking great. So is this afghan. Two levels of productivity? Love it.

1:00 p.m. Realize next year's a leap year. Yeah! The work is going so well today (for the first time in--what, months? months!--it feels almost effortless), and I think, hey, another fabulous day to work on the novel!

I'm not actually singing "It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood," but I kind of think about it.

3:00 p.m. My sister and niece stop by for a few hours, with my brother-in-law to follow. Time to set aside writing for a while, in favor of talking, eating, laughing, and chasing my niece around the table, while she screams delightedly at the top of her lungs.

I scream at the top of my lungs too. Delightedly.

4:30 p.m. Making a cherry pie. Handing a cherry to my niece.

4:31 p.m. Niece hands back partially-chewed cherry.

5:30 p.m. As the scent of warm cherry pie fills the house, I make my niece laugh so hard, she gets the hiccups. I'm pretty sure there's nothing better in life than this.

5:45 p.m. My niece points to Lord Whitmore and says, owl!

5:46 p.m. I tell my niece what is true: She's a genius.

6:45 p.m. As we eat dinner together, we wonder and wonder: how soon until my nephew is born? Is it days, or a week?

And I wonder more quietly, if being an aunt to one little person can fill me with this much joy... will I explode when there's two?

7:15 p.m. And we eat the cherry pie. We talk about etymology, because my brother-in-law is awesome like that. Etymology. How I love it. And how it always hits my brain like a glug of Champagne. (Seriously. Just thinking about the Latin, Old French, the usage varieties, spelling changes... makes me tipsy.)

9:30 p.m. The work wasn't done, so I'm back at it. Brain's a little numb, but I'm happy. And the house still smells of cherries.

9:42 p.m. Realize: it's been another whirlwind day, of being a writer, of being part of a family, of being a die-hard pie lover, of trying to find some kind of balance.

Some days, I storm around like a crazy woman (which I probably am), saying Balance! Balance! Where is balance?! ... Like I'm trying to find the one single thing that will save us all from fiery destruction, this little key to the secret of balancing my whole entire life. (Because surely that's possible.)

Ha ha ha.

Tonight, though, I am remembering what one of my wisest professors once said: Balance is a dance. Not a heavy black line between right way and wrong way. Not always the rock or the hard place. A dance.

I like that.

Today was good.

Today, we were dancing.

in pursuit of stout denial.

2011-03-26T16:16:00.000-05:00

"What is this sun that you all speak of? Do you mean anything by the word?" -- C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair

It looks like January. The middle of winter. And I've been craving spring for weeks and weeks, only to get cheated out of it, now that the magnolias are blooming and there are fine little leaves on our bushes...

All snow-clogged, poor things.

So I'm going out in search of virtual sunshine. And this song does it for me:

(Ending's a little morbid, sorry.)

Annnnnd that always reminds me of this one:

(Confession: I love that trailer so much more than the actual movie.)

Yay. There it is: my snow antidote.

Happy weekend.

book crush friday: Yarn Harlot

2011-03-25T15:25:00.000-05:00

Well. I've been writing feverishly, listening to the genius Inception soundtrack until I turned into a zombie. A zombie with a keen appreciation for Edith Piaf.

I've been trying to straighten out a bit of mid-chapter dialogue that won't work no matter what I do. Plus, there is snow outside again. It's all too much. So I'm here with a mug of tea and this wonderful book, for a much needed break.

If you're a knitter or fiber-appreciator and you haven't heard of the Yarn Harlot, aka Stephanie Pearl-McPhee... well, you're in luck.

A lot of luck.

Because in her brilliant books and blog, she will prove she understands your knitterly psyche inside and out. She will also make you laugh until you collapse. Medical intervention may be required.

I love her because she gets knitting. She understands the sweet, deep, emotional significance of it... and also the raw fury and tantrums that accompany the mistakes. (Remember those tangles yesterday? Right. I never throw tantrums.)

So, consider this quote, from Yarn Harlot: The Secret Life of a Knitter:
Each knitted gift holds hours of my life. I know it looks just like a hat, but really, it's four hours at the hospital, six hours on the bus, two hours alone at four in the morning when I couldn't sleep because I tend to worry. It is all those hours when I chose to spend time warming another person.

And this:
Knitting is love, looped and warm.

I love that. Love it. Because she's so right.

It's why I love knitting for family and dear friends, and why I feel a rush of pride every time we send one of our scarves or neckwarmers out to a customer. I always want to say: this is part of my life I'm giving you! And I'm so happy to do it!

Love, looped and warm.

... And then there's the dark side of knitting. The obsessions. The crazy shopping sprees. Needing sedation the fifth time you tore out the same inch of stitches...

I cannot bear the look on the children's faces when we are all homeless (with fabulous sweaters) because I've spent the mortgage money on yarn.
...
The sight of this mess is enough to send a seasoned knitter into a catatonic state; as it is his first sweater, I expect his reaction to reduce him to the fetal position, gibbering and weeping. This sweater is cursed.
...
I sit on the floor clutching the sleeves and waiting for the blackness around the edges of my vision to go away. ... With God as my witness I swear that I am going to pick up the scissors and cut up this sweater.

Yes. I have been there. And it gives me such delight to read her tales of knitting success and knitting, um, not successes.

I'd love to read those chapters to everyone who said, "Oh, you knit? How ... quaint."

Nothing quaint, thank you, in our knitting, not the way Stephanie Pearl-McPhee (or I) go about it.

Recommendation: Read her books or her blog in a wide window-seat, hopefully in a yarn shop. A yarn shop that sells coffee.

Oh, that sounds great. Save me a seat. I'll be right there.

because, sometimes i only see the tangles

2011-03-24T18:45:00.001-05:00

Even when all we see are the tangled threads on the backside of life's tapestry, we know that God is good and is out to do us good always. -- Richard Foster

This quote's been on my mind a lot this February and March.

A lot.

And I have a hunch I'll need it in April and May, too.

Heck. It's just a good one to memorize.

Thanks to my knitting alter ego (Serif the Wonder Child), I've spent a lot of time with tangled threads. (Have you tried to do intarsia knitting? Or that Fair Isle stuff? Wow. Intense. It takes tangles to a whole new level for me.)

I'm not always the most patient with the stuff I can't understand. A snarl in my yarn (or my life) usually strains my vocabulary. And then I find the scissors and hack away.

This is probably why I'm not God.

I think that if I could scissor away at what I don't understand these days... well, I'd have a pretty small life. With some pathetic, tame little stitches that don't add up to much.

You risk a snarl every time you add a new color, you know.

So it's good to be swimming through a much larger canvas, to be walking across that enormous tapestry. Even when I don't get it.

Even when I'm itching to cut a thread or two.

There. That's as philosophical as I'll get on a Thursday, I promise. (It's that second mug of coffee today... it did me in...)

P.S., Speaking of tangles, I'll have a new Book Crush tomorrow. It's yarn-related and is another funny book. Yay! I love funny books. And so do you, of course. So stay tuned.

the best of yesterday

2011-03-21T19:26:00.001-05:00

The best of yesterday was the way my little niece screamed, just screamed with the fiercest delight, every time we sent a batch of bubbles floating toward her across the lawn.

I can't wait 'til she discovers fireflies.

Happy spring.

book crush thursday: The Book of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks

2011-03-17T23:25:00.000-05:00

People are developing new and exciting ways to use the quotation mark every day. In fact, there are literally "millions" of ways to use these little word adornments to express yourself. -- Bethany Keeley

Here are quotes as we love them best: Doing horrible damage to the English language. -- from the back cover

I don't know whether to call this a book, an ab exercise, or therapy. Because The Book of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks is certainly all three.

... And I am really struggling with the impulse to pepper the rest of this post with possibly unnecessary quotation marks. I mean... really struggling. But I'll spare you.

So. It's about the unnecessary quotation marks. I mean... need I say more? It's a collection of all those signs and notices that just arbitrarily add quotes, or decide that a quotation mark is a form of emphasis. We've all seen them. And maybe (hopefully) winced.

But if you're like me--and like followers of Bethany Keeley's hilarious blog--you reinterpret those marks as signs of sarcasm or code words... and then, instead of cringing, we all get to laugh.

And we laugh a lot.

As in: this book incapacitated my whole family.

And it was certainly a great excuse to get out my snarky inner proofreader, and let her have a good run around the block.

So please do yourself a favor, and spend some time with this book. And then spread the word.

Because the more of "us" who know how to "use" quotation marks, the "better" our "communication" will be.

(I could only hold out for so long, guys.)

Recommendation: Under no circumstances would I eat or drink while reading this book. Nope. I would probably choke, in a moment of hilarity. (Seriously. Even just preparing this post, and browsing her book while I do... I'm wiping away tears.)

Certainly read this with friends, though. Quotation marks are best shared.

it wasn't dead, it was just sleeping...

2011-03-14T16:26:00.000-05:00

Guess why I'm freaking out right now.

Right now. Right this minute. (And all of yesterday, incidentally.)

Hint: It's not the crazy, what-the-heck-is-happening massive snowfall. (!?) Nope. It's so much better.

(And warmer. And yummier.)

Okay, here. Look:

Gaa!!

My beloved magazine! In print, bless you. Back, however temporarily, from the grave! Hello you gorgeous cover, you!

Recipes and stunning photos from the Gourmet archives.

We're talking drool-worthy.

Thank you, thank you, Gourmet, for this little posthumous visit.

(I keep thinking of that line from Sherlock: What a busy afterlife you're having.)

If only all ghosts were this pretty.

And of course it's all on Italian food. I think that's appropriate. I think that means we'll all be eating Italian food after death, and Gourmet came back to tell us so.

This totally fits my personal theology of food.

Yay.

book crush thursday: Les Miserables

2011-03-10T19:39:00.000-06:00

To travel is to be born and to die at every instant. -- Les Miserables, Victor Hugo, trans. Julie Rose

You don't want anything to change, for you hold the face of your homeland in your heart as you would your mother's face. -- Les Miserables

Winter was going, and winter always takes something of our sorrows with it. -- Les Miserables

Well. You saw this coming from a month away, didn't you? How can I not be talking up this book, after spending a wonderful February in its company?

Wow. Where do I start? Where do I start? After 1200 pages, it's like trying to sum up a continent, an ocean.

Is there any way to describe Les Miserables? It's certainly the epic of the life of Jean Valjean, and a miniature epic of the myriad lives that intersect his. It's also an epic of Paris, an epic of France. And in its way, an epic of humanity, of what it is to live.

It's also pretty funny.

... I always used to get stumped by that question, If you were on a desert island and could choose only one book to have with you...

Ha, but not anymore. I would so bring this book. It's like bringing all of civilization with you! That desert island would be packed with lives, voices, bustling, noise, the very highest, the very lowest...

Exquisite dramatic moments (I was gasping!), hilarity, poignant love scenes, clashes with villains, and then ... vast swaths of information. About convents, Parisian sewers, the Battle of Waterloo, urchins, even slang. It is massive, and it is brilliant.

And I admit: I was a little nervous about reading this translation. What if it was awful? What if it felt all slangy and packed with modern idioms? A cheapo version of a classic? I would feel so cheated, and my bold book dare would feel a bit silly.

But I was impressed. The writing was beautiful. Listen to this--

All the birds that fly hold the thread of inifinity in their claws.

And:

To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable spelled out sparkles.

And other times, I literally laughed out loud...

To brush your teeth lies at the top of a slippery slope at the bottom of which lies: losing your soul.

How hysterical is that?

Or this:

A heap of crap has this going for it: It does not lie.

That's no inaccessible classic, my friends. That's pretty hilarious. (And true.)

So it's a huge book, no doubt about that. But it's like the Grand Canyon, or a forest of sequoias. You need to witness something on this scale. You need to wade through something this enormous. You don't even have to do it in a month, you can take your time...

But I promise it's worth it. So go do it. Meet Jean Valjean and the bishop, meet Cosette and the horrible Thénardiers and silly Marius and the amazing Monsier Mabeuf. Be astonished by Enjolras, and let Javert make you nervous, and laugh at Petit-Gavroche. Do it. You'll love it.

Recommendation: Eat something French, for pete's sake! Black coffee, or a cafe au lait. Take it to your window seat with a buttered croissant, brioche and raspberry jam, or--for the love of sweet goodness--make this. If you're reading Hugo (and yeah, even if you aren't), you totally deserve it.

Seriously, if you're reading this book, give me a shout out and let me know. I'll totally cheer you on.

so that's who we are.

2011-03-07T17:03:00.001-06:00

Here's a brilliant quote for all my fellow writers (artists, cooks, creators) ... from the wonderful Heather Sellers:

We aren't better than other people. We're just paying better attention.

Just what I needed to remember this Monday...

Here's to another week of noticing.

writer in progress: what my characters sing in the shower

2011-03-03T21:31:00.001-06:00

So, this much you already know: The major theme of my last five years has been: How do you write a novel?

And part of that is coming up with dozens of ways to answer this question: How do I cross the gap between my life, my thoughts, my voice ... and get over to where and who and when my characters are?

How do I get rid of Jenn and jump into them?

I'm finally getting a few clues, a few tricks. There is, finally, something up my sleeve.

I work up some kind of mental shorthand: for a character, a moment, a theme.

So, for last fall's project: If I could conjure up the smell of rain hitting stone, if I could think about the sound of rain and a certain color of grey... then I was ready. I could keep writing.

Something about the feel and sound of the rain got me right back into the world of that book, the sense of who those characters were.

Wow. ... That looks so funny typed out, and yet it was such a huge part of my process!

And then, last summer, I realized that one song could be a thumbnail sketch for a whole character's story--her worldview, captured in three minutes of lyrics. The song held a place in my mind, got me right back into that character's point of view, reminded me of what she was up against.

It was invaluable. I could slough off everything that had been on my mind, whatever dramas, whatever busyness, whatever familiar chaos I had in my pockets, and presto: I was set. I was writing. The characters came out when they heard the music, and they had so much to say.

So now I have whole playlists for my novels-in-progress, dozens of songs that sum up the main character, the love interest, the villain, the funky little side character that (hopefully) makes us all laugh... it's all done in songs.

If I listen to it straight through, I'm itching to get back to work. It's like my novel's musical. (Just without the brilliant dancing.)

I've been wondering all week why this song has been in my mind so much:

And this afternoon, I realized it. It is the perfect song for one of the characters in this current project. I mean it. The perfect song.

For anyone else, it's just a fun little love song. But for her, it represents everything that she's gone through, how she's changed by the end of the book. Oh, this character. She's learned so much, she's a different girl... and this is exactly what she'd say.

Yep. This is Jane's song. Jane's song in the last chapter. There we go.

(Jane would like me to mention: the lyrics sound like her. Ingrid's whole space-travel-plant-thing? The hair? The mascara action? Not so much her. The gloves--well, okay. She'd like the gloves. And the words: yes. Crazy eyelashes: no. Not this book at least. Check back for the sequel.)

a dangerous formula.

2011-03-02T17:32:00.000-06:00

So, just to warn you:

If you happen to read Hula Seventy's brilliant posts about train travel, follow them up with Chez Danisse's beautiful musing on escape, and do it while listening to this song...

Well.

You might find yourself checking your savings account, just to see what's in there.

You might find yourself booking a ticket, or at the very least, tying a few things in a kerchief, hitching it to a stick, and setting off.

You might find yourself on a train, next to a girl in huge sunglasses. By her side: a stack of blank books, a clutch of new pens. She just might be me, going as far as she can.

And you can't say I didn't try to warn you. You can't say I didn't try.

oh yes i did!

2011-02-28T19:10:00.000-06:00

... Just finish Les Miserables? Absolutely love it?

Why yes. Yes I did.

And with five hours to spare!

Mmmm. Nothing like a crazy book challenge to keep you cozy in the winter.

book crush thursday: Lost Horizon

2011-02-24T20:21:00.001-06:00

"I don't recognize this part of the world," he commented. Then, more privately, for he did not wish to alarm the others, he added into Mallinson's ear: "Looks as if you're right. The man's lost his way." The plane was swooping down at a tremendous speed. -- James Hilton, Lost Horizon

So it begins with a kidnapping. Four people in a plane. A crash landing. The Tibetan mountains. A mysterious, polite guide. And a little journey into beautiful, puzzling Shangri-La.

I loved Conway, the main character. He makes me think of old Hollywood. Classy, black & white movies and handsome old-school actors. Yep.

Oooh, this is such a good book for a rainy night like tonight. Just dive into it, as the rain patters on your windows and the wind picks up. Lost Horizon will slowly pull you in, and keep you guessing until the very, very end.

Just thinking about it gives me a chill.

Recommendation: Definitely tea. Definitely strong.

Give this book your whole day: read it start to finish for a perfect late-February getaway.

all good girls eat their veggies.

2011-02-24T19:38:00.001-06:00

Okay, so I'm here on a cold, rainy, windy night, wearing my coziest sweater, with a book in my hands. Which means it's Book Crush Thursday, of course.

But first. Since I'm still so happy about dinner... I had to say this: If you haven't personally experienced the Brussels Sprouts Revolution, then click right over here and try this recipe.

Because it will change your life.

Because you had no idea how awesome green could taste.

Okay, you're going to try them, right? Of course you are.

Because you're fabulous like that.

the days feel more real when i take notes.

2011-02-22T18:32:00.002-06:00

I take a simple view of living. It is to keep your eyes open and get on with it. -- Laurence Olivier

Perfect toast and hazelnut coffee to start with. As starts go, that's not bad. (Someone needs to write a sonnet about perfect toast. Amber-colored, and the butter oozing into the holes? Yeah. That's what we want.)

And there was a run--my fourth! It's great to be outside... though running in thirty-eight degrees is a bit different from running in sixty-eight. Just to let you know.

Browsed some wonderful cooking blogs (like Joy's, Molly's, and Aran's). You know what's dangerous about food blogs? They make me dream about opening a café, a real bricks-and-mortar café, with the steamy windows and a bell on the door. Making crepes, soups, tea, and decadent chocolate amazingness.

Really. I can just see myself handing out warm scones and refilling mugs with coffee and wisdom...

Wisdom? Am I that wise? What would I say to myself, right now, if I were the customer with the empty mug?

No idea. Back to the novel, then.

I wrote the conversation scene, the one I'd been worrying about. I worried about it on my run. I worried about it in the shower. Usually all the brilliant ideas show up when there's water and soap, but not today.

But my character was ready when I got to the desk. I knew none of my dialogue ideas would work, but she knew what she wanted to say, and it was just right. Inspired! Effortless! And maybe even a little funny. We hope.

And then, what's left? I'll make myself a few promises: about spring cleaning. About running errands that I usually put off. About finishing all the knitting projects I've begun and then set aside. (Hmm. Knitting. Time to daydream springy things to make for the store. Time for a spring update, in fact!)

Finally my after-dinner date with Monsieur Victor Hugo and Les Miserables. He probably has more to say about the riots of 1832. And then, hopefully, a lot more about Jean Valjean, whom I can't help adoring.

And then there's poor foolish Marius and poor silly Cosette. I like them, but I also kind of want to kick them. Am I allowed to say that? I'm about fifty pages behind schedule, but maybe tonight's the night I get caught up.

Me, Victor Hugo, and a huge cup of tea. Just the right ending.

like today

2011-02-21T22:46:00.001-06:00

Some days I feel a lot closer to six years old than twenty-six.

why i've been eyeing my running shoes lately (or: me & number 5)

2011-02-17T18:58:00.000-06:00

Because a few weeks ago, life looked like this:

And this:

But we turned a corner. And this week has been this:

And this. I'm still speechless.

And this. Lovely. They look like hope.

So buckle up, number 5. I'm coming for you.

i am happily buried in a pile of pages.

2011-02-10T19:04:00.000-06:00

I promise that I haven't forgotten that on Thursdays, I usually blab about my latest book love. I really do remember that, and I still have a list of books that you certainly shouldn't live without. Promise.

But my brain has been very happily full of Les Miserables lately, and between that and my work-in-progress (you remember the old lady, of course?), I haven't had much room for other books. I'm so sorry.

But these have been good days for a reader. Very good days. Cold days, warm blankets, a bit of wine, and a massive French novel on my lap? I'm doing just fine, thank you.

412 pages down. So I'm a third the way there? I'm a third of the way through.

And oh my goodness, I completely recommend this experience. It's selling me on the concept of the massive book. I can see myself doing this every February, certainly: maybe next February is Don Quixote, and then War and Peace, and then, and then?

It makes me giddy.

Seriously, friends, Hugo is blowing me away. I've gotten so absorbed in this story, and I'm gasping and laughing out loud. (Who says a book isn't interactive??)

And I love how it fits into my days. I love getting time to read... okay, I love forcing myself to read! Reading in huge gulps. Love. It.

Reading is why I write: so then, why is reading so easy to skip? Pfffft.

Go get yourself lost in a sea of a novel, a big wide country of a book. Pack your blanket, your tea or coffee or wine, your soft pillow, your quote book, your patch of sunlight. And then go get lost. Seriously. You'll be so glad you did.

three fingers against the wrist

2011-02-09T09:50:00.001-06:00

This morning, I spent a while prowling through the last month or so of posts over at habit. I know I've said it before, but I love love love that project. After browsing a few entries, I feel myself relaxing, focusing, noticing my own life differently.

Celebrating the small moments again. (Heck, and the big ones.)

Today is another day of quiet. I'm typing this directly above my coffee, catching the hazelnut-scented steam on my face.

And while I'm excited for another productive writing day (it's going so well!) and another evening of Les Miserables (which I am loving), I think I'll miss the activity of yesterday.

Because I lose my mind with happiness every time my niece calls me by her name for me (Ga-ga), and because every time she hands me a book and crawls up on my lap, I melt.

I'm so glad to have all those moments lining my pockets today. As well as the image of ice and fountains, somehow perfectly reflecting the wintry evening sky. It was a busy but beautiful day.

Today, then, is for brilliant productivity... but I might take a cue from habit, and pursue productivity with a sense of quiet.

Maybe I'll stay in my shabbiest coziest cardigan, and keep my feet buried in my favorite slippers, dream up the next few scenes of the book, enjoy the view out of my window. Notice the feathers that caught on the tips of the pine needles. Pick out the call of the bluejay.

Maybe I'll bake that pumpkin bread tonight after all. Or maybe it's an afternoon for crepes. (You can make and enjoy crepes alone, right?) I'll pay closer attention to the beauty and solace in the domestic little world around me.

Okay, and then yeah, I'll also write like a fiend.

truth is stranger than whatever.

2011-02-02T20:38:00.000-06:00

After a patchy autumn and a hit-and-miss holiday season and--well--a rough January, I think I can confidently say: the writing is back on track.

Such a good feeling, too. When the work hits a wall, I feel like I'm being eaten alive. Slowly. By a million tiny jaws.

For it to be moving ahead steadily... well, it's a relief. Warm, buttery, sunshiny relief.

I've been stalking this project for a while, now, and longer than I originally planned. (I know, I know. Surprise.) Oh, those plans. They always get me in trouble. I've discarded about a dozen plans for how to make this book work, how to make the writing fly onto the page, how to get all the characters singing their perfect parts.

In the end, what has worked? A series of somewhat monotonous days at a desk. Carefully putting in my time. Asking the questions I know I need to ask. Waiting--not forcing--just waiting for the answers.

And suddenly, yesterday, one of my characters showed up. A very old, sharp-tongued woman, with zero tolerance for self-pity, and a no-nonsense stance on everything else.

I was--well, okay, I was taking a shower, and thinking, and staring at the soap suds around my toes, when I heard her voice in my head, scolding me.

I tried scolding back: Is nothing sacred? I'm showering, for Pete's sake!

She didn't really care. I guess I didn't expect her to. And in the tirade that followed, I gathered that she's ready for the plot to move forward. It's high time, she said, for this book to continue.

I'm still unclear on some things, I explained.

Does that really matter? she answered. We're waiting.

I forgot. You don't try to argue with her.

Today? Today, major plot pieces are sailing into place. Simple. Easy.

She was right.

i have this hunch...

2011-02-02T00:49:00.000-06:00

that my life would be really perfect if I could learn how to knit socks.

I'm very sure of this.

now and then, i like to try impossible things.

2011-01-31T16:17:00.000-06:00

There are two motives for reading a book: one, that you enjoy it, the other that you can boast about it. -- Bertrand Russell

So I have a few confessions to make. Why not? After all, it's a bleak, icy Monday afternoon. Isn't that a good time to get things off your chest?

Brace yourselves: here's the truth. In spite of my proud English major training, I still judge (and buy) books based on their covers. I do. I really, really do.

Also, I sometimes lose my head entirely when I'm in a bookstore. All logic goes out the window. I become impulsive in a whole new way.

Two summers ago, I was going through a pretty rough time. I was kind of a mess. And then I wandered through Barnes & Noble, and fell in love. At first sight.

With a 1331-page, $28.00 hardcover edition of Les Miserables. And I made sure it followed me home.

So now it's been on my bookshelf, haunting me with its glorious cover, and all those pages...

There's something about a massive book, I mean a really massive book, that whispers to me that I will, one day, have the time and intelligence and presence of mind to actually read the thing.

I like to believe that about myself. Even if it never happens.

But lately, that never happening has been getting on my nerves. I look up at my collection of large books, like Don Quixote, War and Peace, and a fair amount of Dickens. And I'd really like to believe that I'll read them all someday, but I never make that kind of time.

So last year, I put number seven onto this list. I want to read this book before September rolls around.

February 2011 is a really bad time to try and wedge a 1331-page book into my life. I mean, I have so much else on my mind. So many things happening, changing, rearranging, moving forward, falling behind... Who has the time?

But, like I said before, I'm not a mentally well-balanced kind of girl. One of the happiest semesters of my life had three major literature classes in it. I miss having hours and hours of reading. I miss getting completely lost in a book. Word drunk. Book binging. Page diving.

So this is my plan. I'm reading Les Miserables. I'm finally doing it, getting to know this book. And I'm hoping to read the whole, messy, glorious thing during the month of February. Which is a little crazy. But after all, it turns out to be just 1194 pages of text, which, if I'm doing my math right, works out to about forty-three pages a day.

Which is, um, a bit more than I've been reading lately. Okay, a lot more.

But if I don't do this, then I'll be terrified that every emotional crisis of my life will warrant another huge literary paperweight. Or that my attention span will calcify. (Have you read this article? There's a quote in there about how we can't absorb information as well as we used to... People are actually losing the ability to read books.That's enough to give me nightmares for weeks...)

So, here goes nothing. Me & Victor Hugo: we'll be spending February together. And I'll let you know how it goes.

Nothing like a good book dare, an impossible reading challenge, to take the chill out of the air.

book crush thursday: A Girl Named Zippy

2011-01-20T16:39:00.001-06:00

The day ended with me laughing so hard I thought my appendix would burst. -- Haven Kimmel, A Girl Named Zippy

My earliest memory is of a wolf in my baby bed.

Somehow my first wig and my first really excellent pair of slippers arrived simultaneously.

So, here's the truth: I'm not much of a "memoir person." I've begun a few, trying to branch out in my reading life, but they were so hopeless and so depressing I had to stop.

And then I read A Girl Named Zippy, by Haven Kimmel. And I loved it so, so much.

It's a brilliantly-written memoir about Kimmel's quirky, astonishing, hilarious childhood in Mooreland, Indiana. It's full of wonderful stories about her family, friends, her adventures in that small town, and all the unusual things that made up "Zippy's" life.

Even so, it's not a saccharine story: there are still moments of difficulty and sadness. But overall, it's so funny and so full of warmth, it makes me want to do childhood over again. And be a little more like Zippy.

(And I'm serious about the hilarity: that last quote about the wig and slippers? It's the first line in a chapter called "Hair," which is so amazingly funny, it made my sisters and I nearly sick with laughter.)

Recommendation: I love the idea of reading books about childhood while having tomato soup. Could anything be better? So that's what I'd say: a sunny afternoon, tomato soup, and this fabulous memoir.

writer in progress: clothes make the writer

2011-01-18T14:53:00.000-06:00

Today I'm rediscovering the joy of writing in pajamas. It's overcast outside, but inside it's cozy-warm and I'm oh-so comfortable... and the writing is going brilliantly! So I'm being productive... and lazy... at the very same time. I love it.

The only thing we need now is chocolate.

number 1 & number 21

2011-01-12T20:42:00.002-06:00

Slowing down is really, really good. We live in a world where it's become a talent, a lost art, something we have to relearn: Slow down. -- Heather Sellers, Chapter after Chapter

Ever since the week of Christmas, my brain seems content to move at half-speed. I'd like to blame Kristen's winter vacation... I think the idea of "being on break" is completely contagious.

Or, maybe I'm just staggeringly lazy.

But even as I acknowledge that, I have to admit this too:

I am so unworried.

Maybe it comes from spending so much time recently with my niece.

There's something about hanging out with a little sixteen-month-old girl. You start to notice the tiny things: the very important yet very small.

The way her hands move. The new words, even new syllables, that she says. Her little dance moves.

And then the even smaller things that she notices: the speck on the carpet, the microscopic tear in a piece of paper.

And I think her attitude may have spilled over, because I feel content to celebrate the small and beautiful things that I'm seeing everywhere: like the icicles growing beyond our kitchen window.

The snowflakes catching on my scarf.

And, too, the little victories in my writing day. The slow progress that is still progress. A handful of sentences that make me laugh. A touch of good dialogue.

I'm content to write this chapter of my book slowly. I don't need to whip myself into a writing-wonderwoman frenzy. Maybe I can let myself savor every decent sentence, every bit of description that's, somehow, just right.

... I've been savoring other things too: Kristen's amazing sugar cookies, still warm from the oven (swoon). Knitting an insanely fun hat for the store (helloooo cabling needle, how I've missed you). Organizing and neatening my writing desk, until I can find those wonderful sentences I had, somehow, mislaid.

Which brings us to Number One from this list: yes, I finally did the much-needed book purge. There they are, facing the wall in a neat little stack, awaiting further judgment. Poor things. I guess it's not their fault that I don't need them anymore... but it's a relief to keep only the books I want. Goodbye, extra baggage!

And what else is good already in 2011? The long wonderful conversations with family and friends. Tromping through the snow until my toes are so cold they hurt, and yet not really wanting to go inside.

And then, most definitely: Number Twenty-One from the list. I love greeting at church! I love seeing the friends and the new faces, and I even kind of love getting blasted with icy air every time the door opens.

Wakes me up quicker than coffee...

one last peek: 10 from 2010

2010-12-31T23:59:00.055-06:00

I always have a little trouble coming to grips with the end of a year. Just a little.

And though I'm doing a lot better than I used to, it still takes me a while to adjust to the thought of it, to a clean calendar lying at my feet. All those boxes... waiting to be filled. Filled with what?

2011's gonna be a big one, I just know it.

But as a way to say goodbye to 2010, I spent some time poking through the old posts on this blog, sifting through the words of the past year. Wow. We've been through a lot, oh blog of mine! There's a lot we've chronicled here, you and I.

So here are a few posts from the past, a handful of moments from 2010, maybe the best ones, or maybe just the ones that still hit me.

Ten from 2010:

1. these things i keep

2. spring cleaning

3. gusto

4. the small & unguessed life

5. dear summer,

6. lost & found

7. a platter of figs

8. let's count the days like falling leaves

9. for the love.

10. the gift of your presence

Okay. Okay. Now I think I'm ready. ... Bring it on, 2011.

*I admit, I kinda stole this idea from hula seventy. Elsie has a similar list. It's a fun way to celebrate the past, isn't it?

store update! (and number four.)

2010-12-30T23:12:00.000-06:00

Take pictures on a cold and windy day? And then celebrate with a post-photo snack of ... hot, crispy bacon? Oh yes we did! (It was a really good day.)

Kristen designed a new kind of neckwarmer for Squirrel & Serif's new year: here's a peek...

It really was cold out, and let me say: these neckwarmers work! My neck felt so cozy. The rest of me ... not so much.

Annd, in other Serif news, I can finally cross number four off this list: five new scarves for the store? Check!

The Sir Michael Scarf:

The Christopher Scarf:

Perspective Scarves:

Waffle Scarves:

And the Winterfield ... mmmm, which might be my favorite:

Whew! It's been a busy scarf time... suddenly I'm dreaming of hats.

Bright red hats.

Hmmmmm.

book crush thursday: Clementine

2010-12-30T21:22:00.000-06:00

I have had not so good of a week. -- Sara Pennypacker, Clementine

When a million pigeons take off at the same time right above you, you can feel their wing beats exploding inside you, like fireworks. -- Clementine

This year I am in the gifted class for math. And here is the bad surprise--so far no gifts. -- Clementine

Clementine is one of the most brilliant books about being a kid that I have ever read. Ever.

I mean: seriously. Wow. I am so glad I stumbled across this book: an instant favorite. I read it in one sitting, one headlong happy gulp.

Sara Pennypacker is just an amazing writer. Amazing! Clementine's voice is absolutely dead-on. She captures the feelings and moments of childhood in beautiful sentences that left my ears ringing. And Marla Frazee's illustrations are the perfect complement.

And what to say about Clementine herself? And her busy, crazy, trouble-filled week?

I wish I could beam myself back to third grade just so I could be her friend. She's so warm-hearted, so quick and insightful, and ... just completely hilarious. I laughed so hard through this book, and yet she also captures the sweet-sadness of being a kid as well. The ending ... was exquisite. So much fun.

A genius of a book! I want to give this one out to everyone I know.

And ... oh. Ohhh. Guess what I didn't know. Guess what I just found out: this is the first in a series.

So... my day just got better.

Recommendation: Grilled cheese and a chocolate milkshake. Read this one by the window for one glorious afternoon. You'll be so glad you did.

writer in progress: cobwebs

2010-12-27T18:04:00.001-06:00

It used to freak me out.

I'd have a few days--sometimes, a few weeks--of being, oh, just the littlest bit brain-dead. Something would happen, some kind of huge renovation project, or a minor crisis, or a major happy occasion. My routine crumbled to ashes, the writing stopped, and the story grew cold.

Sometimes, I just forgot that I was a writer for a few days in a row. Sometimes it was that simple.

Whatever the cause, there have been times when I've stopped writing.

Which means, there have been many times when I've had to figure out how to start again.

For about four years, my "favorite" technique was: Let's make a list. (You're shocked, aren't you. Aren't you? Yeah, me neither.)

You can make a list for anything, right? It's like building a beautiful, optimistic ladder in black and white, and if you touch every rung, you make it to the top! Brilliant! Perfect!

I'd program myself to death, and maybe I'd get started again.

Lately, though, I've abandoned the list-making technique.

This morning, the first Monday back at it, after the blaze of holidays and vacation... I've come back to it peaceably. Without lists. Without stress.

Instead of the programs and lists, it's a lot more fun to find the bits of the project that I love.

To flip idly through the last draft and come across the moments I still believe in, the bits of dialogue that make me laugh. It helps to look my characters in the face, and remember why I'm writing about them, why I'm telling their story, when it could have been anyone else's.

When I get reacquainted with the heart of the story, when I find my own heart as a writer, then it's the easiest thing to brush out the mental cobwebs, and to start typing again.

I write because I love it, after all.

It's a small lesson, maybe. But one I come back to again and again: if my heart isn't engaged in the words, then I might as well not do this. If I'm not writing for the love of it, then it's time to find a new job.

just like the ones i used to know ... kind of.

2010-12-25T11:58:00.000-06:00

Last night, I wasn't dreaming of a white Christmas.

I didn't even have visions of sugarplums, dancing in my head.

Nope, every dream was about assassins, near misses, quick getaways, explosions, and lethal intent.

Fortunately, the white Christmas came true... the adrenaline-filled chases did not.

And I can live with that.

The only sad thing is, with the last bits of my holiday cold, I can't dash outside for snow angels.

Maybe next week.

Merry, merry Christmas, white or not.

And don't let the bad guys get you.

merry & bright: the Christmas week

2010-12-21T21:13:00.001-06:00

Instead of just a Christmas Day celebration, my family's doing a kind of Christmas week celebration. And I'm pretty okay with that.

Even if it does mean that all the presents were opened yesterday, and the massive family gatherings are yet to come.

Which puts me in a bit of a holiday-spirit limbo right now.

I'm still soaking in the afterglow of yesterday: our family together, eating epic food, watching my niece do laps around the house with a bright yellow giraffe...

And then unwrapping presents, which is never a quick thing. Each gift seems to bring a story with it, and we take our sweet time, talking and laughing and passing things around.

So, yes. The memories of yesterday make me linger today: I don't want to cover them up too quickly--I just want to savor it.

Today, then, was laidback. A day for watching White Christmas yet again.

And then googling "how do I cut awesome paper snowflakes?" and not finding anything noteworthy. But trying my hand at it nevertheless. (Always good to keep those grade school art skills at the ready.)

Today was also devoted to drinking as many Vitamin C drinks as I could manage, hoping to stave off the latest of colds... and whatever else colds might bring my way. I'm not in the mood to chance it, so: bring me another fruit smoothie, if you please.

As I sip, I'm dreaming up better plot twists for my novel-in-progress. Draft Two is definitely happening in a very big way come January. A very big way. Like: cue the goose bumps. It's going to be fabulous.

Not gonna lie: There have also been naps, today. And I've been reading Terry Pratchett's Nation, which looks fantastic. And, too, peeking over Kristen's shoulder, as she posts our latest batch of awesomeness to our Squirrel & Serif site.

Tomorrow will probably be more of the same. More rest, more Vitamin C (I'm not going down without a fight!!), more reading, more plotting, more peace.

And then hoping for a bit of snow to fall before the weekend, just to sweeten things up.

Merry Christmas, wherever this finds you! May your days be merry and bright.

And blessed.

book crush thursday: Jamie's Italy

2010-12-16T20:25:00.000-06:00

If you want to blow people's socks off, make this soup. -- Jamie Oliver, Jamie's Italy

This is a fantastically quick recipe to make, and when you open the bags you'll be rewarded by the most amazing smells from the earthy mushrooms and the herbs. Really nice. -- Jamie Oliver

I walked around the town one day asking the locals who made the best couscous, and, of course, every answer was "Mia mama!" That is, until one lad took me along to meet his grandmother--Nonna Giusy. She was the most incredible woman. -- Jamie Oliver

Lately, when it seems like the sun is setting around noon each day (you know what I mean), I start craving food that tastes like summer.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still loving the wintry overcast days. But I'm also in the mood for ... lemons. And rosemary with chicken. Pasta in tomato cream sauces. And risotto.

A lot of risotto.

Enter this book, Jamie's Italy by the brilliant "Naked Chef," Jamie Oliver. He's the one who taught me how to make risotto: white risotto, risotto with pesto, and then ... roasted mushroom risotto with parsley. I know. Get out. It's so amazing.

... Okay, so Jamie didn't teach me in person, but I was stirring and chopping with his book open in front of me, and he's so much a part of his cookbook. So many pictures of him cooking, and his writing sounds so fresh, like he's talking face-to-face with you about all this food he flat-out loves.

So though it was just me, the risotto, and the book, I felt like I was being coached by an exuberant older British cousin.

And that's okay with me.

(Incidentally, the risotto turned out awesome. Every time.)

The recipes are so inspiring. Just reading the titles feels like a vacation. And you know I love Italian food...

And then the photography... every cookbook needs a brilliant photographer, agreed? This one delivers. I completely love all the outdoorsy shots--most of this book feels like the food was purchased, prepared, and eaten outside. And I love that.

Can I say it again? I love that.

Something gets put back together in my soul when I eat outside.

There's also a handful of pictures of amazing old Italian women. ... I want to be an amazing old Italian woman when I grow up. I really, really do. They look so wise, saucy, and sweet, all at the same time. Can I spontaneously become Italian when I turn, say, 75, and work up to wise/saucy/sweet from there?

It's a goal.

... You need this book. It's a trip out of winter for a while. Not to mention: a ticket to some pretty astonishing cooking. Have fun.

it's beginning to look a lot like Etsy.

2010-12-13T23:55:00.000-06:00

If you're still stumped on holiday shopping, and if you haven't spent some time on Etsy, well... consider this an invitation. I love this site!

... Best of all, I love doing random searches, and seeing what comes up. You never know what you'll find! So... with a tip of the hat to number 13 on the list, here are my ten favorite searches lately:

writerly, especially this one

ferret, especially this

London (yeah, I know, that was a hard one!), especially this!! makes me wish I had a laptop!!

library chic, especially this

repurposed books, especially these

unicycle ... look at this!!

typewriter... especially this one!

Sherlock Holmes, especially this lovely thing ... and wow, I couldn't resist, this too!!

ink ... so many gorgeous things, but check this one out!

And last but far from least ... ampersand. I'd love just about everything on this list, but especially this. Okay, and this. Annnnd this.

So much fun, isn't it?? Happy browsing!

book crush friday: Weekend Knitting

2010-12-10T16:38:00.000-06:00

I knew it was my stitches and the love I knitted into them that were keeping his hands warm. -- Melanie Falick, Weekend Knitting

[These projects] fit into my idea of an idyllic weekend, one filled with fresh air, beautiful scenery, good friends, delicious food, laughter, and time to knit. -- Melanie Falick

Yes, this book crush is a day late. Yes, it's also worth it. Because this is a book that, against formidable odds, flat-out changed my life.

And I can't say that about just anything.

First of all, it was August. A hot, sticky, 100 degree day on our vacation, and we wandered to the cabin next door, which turned out to be: a yarn store.

And that's where I, an off-again, on-again crocheter, who repeatedly turned down offers of knitting lessons, first saw this:

I pulled it out of the crammed bookshelf, to see this:

And when I opened it up, I fell in love with an entire lifestyle.

Melanie Falick certainly knows how to present a book! The photographs are charming, the projects are intriguing, and she really does do it: she sells a way of creative, beautiful, joy-filled living in Weekend Knitting.

In between the wonderful projects and their photos are great quotes about knitting or creativity ... and we all know by now how great quotes are a direct path to my heart...

He who works with his hands is a laborer. He who works with his hands and his heart is a craftsman. He who works with his hands, his head, and his heart, is an artist. -- St. Francis of Assisi

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. -- Pablo Picasso

Certainly knitting is not the only thing that fingers can do, but it is a good thing: simple yet capable of endless complexity. -- Anna Zilboorg

And then, there are recipes, for the perfect cup of tea, or hot chocolate, or butter cookies. She's compiled lists of movies for a knitting-movie festival, or books for a knitter's reading list. There are ideas for decorating with yarn, or gifts to give a beloved knitter.

After resisting for such a long time, I fell so hard and so fast for knitting.

I sat outside in the August heat and flipped through these pages, again and again, trying to decide what I'd make first. (It turned out to be the lap blanket on page 20, and then the union square poncho, and then the look-back leg warmers...)

I showed it to everyone in my family at least once, I begged my mom to teach me to knit as soon as we got home, I dreamed about wearing the hats, the mittens, the legwarmers.

Now, as you know, I'm a full-out knitter. I've made a bazillion scarves by now, launched this sweet little shop with my sister, and hey, I'm off to a ladies' knitting night in two hours. I dream, quite literally, of new projects to try.

I guess it's not surprising, though, that it was a book that finally opened my heart to knitting. Pick this one up and see if it does the same to you.

Recommendation: Yes, absolutely, you need to page through this whole book in one glorious sitting, with your cup of earl grey tea and a few shortbread cookies. Most definitely. It's ideal for a Sunday afternoon, so grab a copy before then.

On a side note, I can never get enough of anything done by Stewart, Tabori, & Chang. They are geniuses of design and presentation, and I drool over every single book they produce.

this is one of those.

2010-12-07T23:00:00.001-06:00

It's kind of a year-end tradition, this thinking through, sweeping cobwebs from the rooms of my brain. Shaking out all the rugs in my life, washing the curtains that hang on the windows of my mental universe.

I have some questions muddling my mind, big and helpful and extraordinary questions. Directions I'm looking for, ideas I'm feeding. I'm not always sure quite how to puzzle out what I'm thinking... perhaps I'll find it at the bottom of my next cup of coffee.

But it means that this blog and its schedule have gotten a little... short changed? And I'm so sorry about that. I've spent so much time thinking, and not so much time posting.

This isn't meant to sound dreary, because nothing's wrong. Actually, I'm exploding with happiness. (Yes, my one-year-old niece has been kissing my nose again. It's like sunshine.) I've just also been thinking a lot, considering where and how my writing might go next year, what our plans are for Squirrel & Serif, even what the future might hold for this, The Ampersand Café.

I'll be back soon with another book crush for Thursday. Meanwhile, have you been keeping up with the beautiful posts over at habit? I've always admired the calm and simplicity of their presentation... they make me want to be a better person. And lately, the posts have put me in a holiday mood. Go take a peek.

book crush thursday: Calamity Town

2010-12-02T19:42:00.000-06:00

The slopes of Bald Mountain looked as if they had been set on fire and everywhere you went in town you breathed the cider smoke of leaves burning. ... The stars were frostbitten, and the nights had a twang to them. Out in the country you could see the pumpkins squatting in mysterious rows, like little orange men from Mars. -- Ellery Queen, Calamity Town

Mr. Queen found it harder and harder to work on his novel. For one thing, there was the weather. -- Calamity Town

The leaves are down by now, and all we have are skeleton trees and dull lawns. Crisp air. Overcast afternoons. ... I think that means it's time for another mystery, don't you?

I'd heard of the writing team Ellery Queen before, but never read one of their mysteries. I was surprised to find that Mr. Ellery Queen is the name of the protagonist--he's a novelist who also happens to solve mysteries. How brilliant is that? I'm a sucker for any writer appearing in a book, but the self-referential aspect of this one completely delighted me.

And this is the perfect mystery for this season. All the main events happen on holidays (including a wedding on my birthday--that was unexpected!)... Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's... I love reading books in their season! So it's the right time to pick up Calamity Town.

It's the kind of puzzlish mystery that I love... gently-paced, but as it unfolded, I found it harder and harder to put down. I read the last fourth in a rush. I do want to give you a taste of the mystery itself, but I don't want to give anything away... Hmm. I'll need to tread carefully...

There's the mysterious house, nicknamed Calamity House, which split up a couple a day before their wedding. Another man died just taking a look at it. So Mr. Ellery Queen rents Calamity House and gets to know the family who owns it, and hears the story of their jilted daughter. And then, one day, the runaway groom returns...

Three cryptic letters. Arsenic. Poisoned drinks. A love triangle or two. Blackmail. A complicated trial. The enigmatic Mr. Queen himself. You'll be guessing till the very end...

It's all that good stuff you wanted in your December! After all, what's Christmas Eve without a little murder attempt?

Recommendation: Apple cider, definitely. Some warm socks. And a window seat. ... Have fun!

i guess it's just that time of year...

2010-12-02T18:27:00.000-06:00

... when I catch myself humming "Let It Snow," sitting on the floor of the office supply aisle at Target, contentedly picking out mailers for Squirrel & Serif...

I don't feel as stressed as I should. There's all the work to be done during the Christmas season, I'm a little behind on my writing, the gifts to seek and wrap... Nope. I'm just not too worried. The days are going so quickly, but each one feels precious and happy and golden.

I love this season.

I love how the air smelled like snow last night, how the stars felt so very close. I even liked, just a little, the way the icy air cut right through me, making my nose tingle, making me dream about gingerbread and cocoa.

I love it, love it, love it. Trying to savor each day as it slips past...

scarf weather & number eight.

2010-11-30T15:50:00.000-06:00

Brrrr... It's definitely scarf weather around here! Kristen and I are working on another batch of products for Squirrel and Serif, but until then, check out what's already posted...

... Ha, that picture totally cracks me up! It took me a while to come around to the nerd glasses phenomenon... but I think I've been converted.

(And this is what happens when someone tells me I'm squinting...)

Also, I did, in fact, take care of number eight from this list... the new ornament for 2010! Though, strictly speaking, it isn't knitted... I went back to my childhood and called up some long-lost crocheting skills for a granny-square design. Here's to a homespun Christmas!

How fun is that?

So we'll toss in an ornament with any purchase between now and Christmas. And stay tuned! More awesome scarves coming soon...

book crush friday: A Year in Provence

2010-11-26T17:14:00.000-06:00

The year began with lunch. -- Peter Mayle, A Year in Provence

I missed the sounds that marked the passing of each day almost as precisely as a clock: Faustin's rooster having his morning cough; the demented clatter--like nuts and bolts trying to escape from a biscuit tin--of the small Citroen van that every farmer drives home at lunchtime; the hopeful fusillade of a hunter on afternoon patrol in the vines on the opposite hillside; the distant whine of a chainsaw in the forest; the twilight serenade of farm dogs. -- Peter Mayle

This is the book I indulged in during the deadlines and chaos of my senior year at college. It was like anti-stress medication: I'd take this book and crawl into the cavelike safety of the bottom bunk... and escape to Provence for as long as I could.

And if you read those quotes, you can already see why... A Year in Provence is a warm, fantastically conversational memoir of--well--a year in Provence! Which Peter Mayle and his wife spend fixing up a farmhouse and learning about the people and customs and villages around them.

I let myself read it quite at leisure, dipping into it now and then, or soaking it up for an hour or two. I love snooping around in the lives Mayle writes about, learning about his acquaintances, and all the trials of fixing up a house. And traveling vicariously through southern France.

Maybe this book is dear to me because it's about so many of the things I love most. Community. Food. Travel. Living well. France.

... And especially, enjoying food among French community.

(I am such a sucker. Combine food and friends, and I'm there. Combine them in a great setting... well then. Even better.)

Recommendation: A glass of wine. A sunny room and a comfortable chair. And this book. That's my prescription.

thanks & thanks

2010-11-25T15:21:00.001-06:00

The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life. -- Robert Louis Stevenson

To which I'd add... toasted hazelnuts, poached figs, simmering sauces, turkey legs, and the sparkling combo of cranberries and raspberries... not to mention the deep joy of sharing good food with good people!!

I thought of making a list of everything I'm thankful for ... but my heart is so full right now, I think I'd deafen us all. So I'll keep it simple.

I'm thankful for fine pencils, for a stack of blank books, for the awe-inspiring privilege of learning to write.

I'm soooo grateful for my dear and amazing friends, from the oldest to the newest. Most of you are too far away... but I miss you and love you, wherever you are.

I'm overflowingly thankful that God turns family into friends. I love these people! I don't know where I'd be without my dear family!!

I'm so grateful for the rain that's finally come, wrapping our house in soft grey, tapping at the windows with sleety fingers.

And, because it's me, I'm still thankful for a beautiful buttery pie crust.

Heck. To be frank, I'm grateful for butter, period.

Oh, and what else? I'm thankful that it's snowing. Right now.

Right now, our first snow of the season... I think I might burst.

Happy thanksgiving, everyone. Thanks for reading! I'm grateful for all of you, for your kind comments and willingness to listen to me raving about books and pie. I hope your days are filled with wonderfulness.

PS: ... there will be a book crush tomorrow. Till then, enjoy your turkey!

writer in progress: me and my nine-to-five

2010-11-22T17:05:00.000-06:00

"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." -- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

The significant, life-forming times are the dull, in-between times. -- Jan Karon, In This Mountain

When I am fifty-three or so I would like to write a novel. ... For the next thirty years or so I shall be collecting material for it. If anyone asks me what I work at, I shall say, "Collecting material." No one can object to that. -- Stella Gibbons, Cold Comfort Farm

It's actually not as alarming as it once was.

When I first came home to write, answering the question What do you do? was a white-knuckle event. And I would stumble through some kind of explanation, a mini-autobiography. So terribly afraid of what people would think.

Now, it's a lot easier. Now it's just a little weird.

Sunday was a day of introductions, meeting new people. I found myself talking with a Navy pilot and a forensic pathologist, and thinking about their worlds of propellers and bloodstains. And then the question comes, of what is it that I do?

Though I don't break out in a sweat anymore, I still don't know quite how to answer that. I'm a writer. I'm writing a novel. I'm learning how to write novels! I'm working on a novel...

I write things down on paper. And try to get better. And hope it all amounts to something good eventually?

The challenge is in the tone of the thing: how do you say I'm writing novels! without sounding like you're saying "I'm building a moon rocket in my backyard! All by myself!" I feel about six years old.

I think that's the trouble.

I've decided not to talk about manuscripts: it's hard not to make manuscript sound snotty, a little too inkstained. I say projects. That sounds so tidy and productive! Sometimes, too, I wave the word three around, three projects! Think of all those pages! I promise it's really work!

That makes me feel a little more stable...

It's such a silly, simple thing, but I'm not the only one who has a hard time saying it. Which is why I have a soft spot for that moment in Anne of Avonlea, you know? I'm a teacher, I'm a writer, Actually I write books... I have so been there.

Embarrassment isn't so much the issue anymore; it's just a tricky thing to talk about, a hard thing to describe. I do something that's ill-defined, which takes all my time, and isn't generating any money (yet).

Maybe novel writing is too limiting of a term. Maybe sometimes I think the noveling process is what's writing me. Maybe there's no good way to describe it, to say, this is what I do:

Right now? Right now I'm spending my weeks redefining a ficticious world, with its village matriarch (the one with the weird feet), underground passages, lamplit waterways, owl costumes, and the man with the missing hand. I'm having a blast, and working hard, analyzing, changing, fine-tuning...

There! There, I finally have it, that's my explanation. Now I'll just commit that to memory and toss it out next time the question comes up...

book crush thursday: Speaking of Books

2010-11-18T08:00:00.040-06:00

She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain. -- Louisa May Alcott

[... Um, that may be true of me. Hmm. And yet, I feel remarkably unconcerned...]

When we are collecting books, we are collecting happiness. -- Vincent Starrett

When you sell a man a book you don't sell just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue--you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night--there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book. -- Christopher Morley

I'm about to encourage us all to an act of gluttony, and I hope you're okay with that. After all, it is Thanksgiving season, a time for, well, gratitude. And feasts.

And Speaking of Books (edited by Rob Kaplan and Harold Rabinowitz), is basically both of those: a massive feast of quotes, all about the love of books.

I would rather be a poor man in a garret with plenty of books than a king who did not love reading. -- Thomas B. Macaulay

When people ask me, "Do you collect books?" I always say, "No, books collect me." -- Nicholas Barker

... So, why do I like this? I know, kind of an easy one. A book of quotes about books. Could anything make me more gleeful, more apt to fall over in a dead faint of happiness?

(Well... yes, actually. But we're talking about books here, and not the pies I'm planning for Thanksgiving. So, in the bookworld, this is tops.)

I used to read it before bed, a pinch of non-fiction to escort me to sleep. The mental equivalent of a midnight snack, right? Except it failed miserably, because I'd start copying them out and reading more and more, and eventually I'd go a little mad. Had to swap it out for something more tame.

So, I suppose that if you're a die-hard bibliophile, you might need to tread carefully. It is a feast, after all. Go easy and savor every bite.

When you walk into a room of books, you're embraced by them. -- Timothy Mawson

I do not read a book: I hold a conversation with the author. -- Elbert Hubbard

I like a thin book because it will steady a table, a leather volume because it will strop a razor, and a heavy book because it can be thrown at a cat. -- Mark Twain

Recommendation: This is a book for all seasons, all situations, all weather. What else can I say? Take it everywhere. Dip into it again and again.

... If I did have the café/bookstore of my dreams, these quotes would be stenciled and scrawled and carved all over. Even on the plates.

Especially on the plates.

a bit of fortitude for your wednesday.

2010-11-17T10:45:00.000-06:00

This one goes out to all my friends in the midst of Nanowrimo, or the stresses of schoolwork (be they teachers or students)...

It comes from the acknowledgments page of Leif Enger's So Brave, Young, and Handsome:

Sometimes heroism is nothing more than patience, curiosity, and a refusal to panic.

It's the "refusal to panic" that gets me, every time. And the thought of a heroic curiosity intrigues me...

writer in progress: the gift of your presence

2010-11-16T12:43:00.000-06:00

Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pocket. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past. -- G.K. Chesterton

Personally, I want the sea always ... and with it sunshine, and wine, and a little music. -- Max Beerbohm

I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. -- Charles Lamb

I guess I said it last week, didn't I? And I'll say it every time I think of Leif Enger and his work. But it's still true, and so I'll keep saying it: words are gifts. It is a gift to read and a gift to be read.

Even Starbucks has picked up on it: did you see the new cups? I tacked one of their cardboard sleeves on my bulletin board for inspiration: Stories are gifts: SHARE.

It's so true. Receiving such a thing, a gift like that, makes it obvious that you have a debt to pay, some huge story account to feed your words back into.

I have so much wonderful time I "owe," so many moments where stories, essays, words were gifts to me. And yes, that's a fact that keeps me at my desk: books have done so much for me. Without that awareness, there's no way I'd be a writer.

I remember one Grand Rapids winter that was particularly rough. I was going through a hard time, and most of my close friends were traveling. I ended up facing the cold and loneliness with a book of essays (actually one of my class textbooks--oh the joy of being a nerd and loving your assignments!).

I sat by the fireplace in the lobby of my apartment building. I brought my coffee, and I would read for hours, devouring these personal essays. Their words were so immediate, so fresh and frank that my loneliness evaporated, there in the company of Seneca, Montaigne, Thoreau, Fisher.

My favorites, though, were the three I adopted as my uncles: G.K. Chesterton, Max Beerbohm, and Charles Lamb. I read their essays over and over, imagining the men themselves sitting around me in tweed jackets, smelling of pipe tobacco, their eyes large behind their glasses, gesturing with strong square fingers as they spoke. They were encouraging, entertaining, and laughed me out of my self-pity.

I mean, really. No matter how grey the weather, how exhausting and lonely the weeks, how can you not laugh at G.K. Chesterton's "On Running After One's Hat." The title alone is a little bit of brilliance, and the essay itself is wonderful. ("I am inclined to believe that hat-hunting on windy days will be the sport of the upper classes in the future....")

Near the end he writes: An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.

You see, a perfectly charming uncle. Funny, engaging, and full of that wisdom that stays with you.

I remember those essay-reading nights and think again about the gift our words can be, across classes, across oceans, across generations. How books can meet us even in the places where other people cannot. And I feel both humbled and determined to work again.

book crush thursday: Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

2010-11-11T16:02:00.000-06:00

Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home. -- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Today is one of those excellent January partly cloudies in which light chooses an unexpected part of the landscape to trick out in gilt, and then shadow sweeps it away. You know you're alive. You take huge steps, trying to feel the planet's roundness arc between your feet. -- Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

I didn't have much experience with Annie Dillard until I enrolled in a creative writing minor, and found her books and essays assigned in all my writing courses. It was easy, once I dug into Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, to see why...

I remember stumbling around as a freshman, wide-eyed after reading the first few chapters, and thinking, why bother? She took all the stunning sentences already!

And yet, there was something addictive about her words, about the observations she makes. Something that made me pick up my pen and try to write an answer.

Simply put, this is a book of essays, thoughts, meditations, and observations about the land around Tinker Creek in Virginia. Oh, but that's far too simple. She has a way of showcasing the dramas of nature, enough drama in the little things to make me shiver and keep shivering.

This book has a way of haunting me: once you've read it, how can you forget the giant water bug dissolving and draining the frog? Or the tragic Polyphemus moth creeping down the driveway?

There's a weight, a heft, to her prose. Her language gets in your blood. She splits your brain open, really, and pours in Tinker Creek.

Even now, I'm not immune. Browsing my copy of Pilgrim, I have to come up for air, frequently. It wouldn't surprise me to feel a wind coming out of this book, to smell the wet rocks, to reach up and pull leaves out of my hair.

She will make you see differently. She changes the way you wonder. Her prose is dense; gorgeous, but dense. And it will go right to your head if you're not careful.

One last quote: every time I think about this book, this is the passage I'm trying to remember--

I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood in the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. ... I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.

Gorgeous!!

This is one for the new season, one to read as the world around us shakes itself and changes its clothes. Give it a weekend or two, and let it keep you company.

Recommendation: I can't even begin to think about eating something while reading this book. Nope. You're on your own. But read it in a patch of sunlight. Or under an umbrella in the rain. Or at the very least, by a wide open window.

leaf stalking

2010-11-10T13:57:00.001-06:00

I meant to do this earlier, to kick through the sweet gum leaves, document the look of fall 2010, and get that crumbly leaf smell in my nose...

I can't believe how many are already down... is autumn really this far along??

I jump at the shishh of another leaf hitting the pile. They're surprisingly noisy things, falling leaves. Nothing subtle about them and their raspy voices.

And I find myself thinking of the line from Charlie Brown, when he asks the fallen leaf, Did you have a nice summer?

I come back inside wishing that my cheeks were cold... but thinking of whipping up sweet potatoes anyway. Mmmmm.

We have three of them, ready to be transformed into something extraordinary, and now I'm thinking of brown sugar and cinnamon and maybe a hint of maple.

Nothing like a good shot of maple syrup to defy unseasonable weather...

i know how to take defeat.

2010-11-09T22:05:00.003-06:00

All right. So it didn't rain. In fact, it was crazily gorgeous outside, a reprise of summer's best.

And while I wrote outside, marveling at orange leaves against the clear sky, tonight I'm still missing rain.

So I rummaged around and came up with the next best thing: There's dark chocolate. And a glass of red wine. And I'm listening to Edith Piaf.

I'm in luck--it's not a perfectly clean recording. And in the faint, underlying hiss, I can imagine all the rain I need. I'll even sing along, pretending that I know enough French. I sing nasal gibberish, she hits the right words and notes, and somehow it's exactly what I wanted.

writer in progress: the joys of being nosy

2010-11-08T16:28:00.048-06:00

Writing is not hard. Just get pencil and paper, sit down, and write it as it occurs to you. The writing is easy--it's the occurring that's hard. -- Stephen Leacock

A book is not an end in itself, it is only a way to touch someone--a bridge extended across a space of loneliness and obscurity. -- Isabel Allende

You will wonder: Is the work hard because you're following the wrong path? Or because it's just hard? -- S.L. Wisenberg

Eventually everyone learns his or her own best way. The real mystery to crack is you. -- Bernard Malamud

It goes without saying, but just in case you missed the memo, here I am to say it:

If you write, do yourself a favor, and read books on writing.

If you're like me, you can't help it. You do this regardless. I have stacks of books on my desk right now that are crammed with writerly wisdom, writerly advice. Not so much of the "here's how to plot, here's how dialogue works, here's how to find an agent." That's all vital and good, but it's businessy, and what I'm after is this:

Here's how I sit, this is my morning routine, this is what works for me, this is what doesn't.

I am deeply nosy about how they do the work they do. It's both a comfort (when I'm stalled, scared, procrastinating) and a friendly spur to get me started on my own projects.

So I read. I eavesdrop on their lives.

Read Rules of Thumb to get permission from Kate Bernheimer: you're allowed to keep your work a secret. Or to hear from Steven Barthelme: fill your work with your obsessions. His: cats. Mine: outcasts. Good to know that's allowed.

Or pick up Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, and learn about short assignments, fill your life with index cards, learn to do a plot treatment. Along the way, watch how she copes with disappointment, how she finds inspiration. And for goodness' sake, let her teach you how to forgive your first drafts.

One of my favorites is The Writer's Desk, with its stunning black and white photos of Stephen King, Eudora Welty, P.G. Wodehouse...

And how comforting is it to know that Anthony Powell has a hard time ignoring the telephone, just like me? That Robert Coles stares out the window, that Joyce Carol Oates daydreams, doodles, doesn't hurry?

Maybe it's silly to need permission to be a writer, to have writerly quirks, but I do love to get it.

It's the camaraderie of the thing: someone's keeping you company in what is, otherwise, a lonely, weird, and occasionally desperate endeavor. They shine light into the places you're confused about; or at the very least, they say hey, that's dark for me, too.

They keep me company in my flaws, speak to my weaknesses, identify the craziness and blindness of it all. They're also good at giving permission to celebrate those successes, joys, and all the bliss when the words are right.

It's a wonderful cycle: Writers comfort other writers with words. They send us our favorite gifts (books!) with wisdom attached. It's kind of sweet.

no offense, sunshine...

2010-11-08T15:27:00.000-06:00

But we could seriously do with another rainy day. Please.

Not too much, just a thin, gentle, grey rain. Just enough to make the evening feel drowsy, just enough to lullaby us all to sleep.

And then we can go back to startling blue skies again tomorrow.

Okay? Okay.

book crush thursday: The Mysterious Benedict Society

2010-11-04T22:23:00.000-05:00

As is always the case with a society, some arguing remained to be done. -- The Mysterious Benedict Society, Trenton Lee Stewart

It has so much going for it, right from the start. First off, it has one of those titles I wish I'd made up: The Mysterious Benedict Society.

Second of all, fantastic cover, isn't it? And every chapter has an illustration by the wonderful Carson Ellis, and, well, what can I say, I still love a book with good illustrations.

Best of all, it's just a darn good book. Reynie Muldoon and three other uniquely gifted children pass a series of tests in order to go off to a special institution and, quite frankly, save the world. So it's all about their secret mission: codes, danger, puzzles, mysteries, teamwork... all those good things.

Everything else is wonderful too: it's full of quirky and loveable characters (how can you not adore Sticky Washington? I kept wanting to send him warm cookies every time he got nervous), frightening villains (seriously, Ledroptha Curtain would scare me spitless), and unguessable plot twists (... which I don't want to give away. But beware of suited men with silver bracelets...). It's full of danger and yet so much heart. You'll have a blast.

Recommendation: It's the sort of book you'll want to read with a flashlight in bed. Better yet, make yourself a tent and spend your weekend inside with this book. It's perfect for an autumny, blustery weekend like this one.

If we're all lucky, there will be rain.

not gonna lie...

2010-11-03T14:50:00.000-05:00

Okay. Here it is: I'm actually listening to Christmas music today. I know. I know it's super early. And I'm usually the one saying, can you wait just a little longer?? It's the first week of November, for crying out loud!!

But I can't help it.

I blame it on being outside a lot yesterday, enough to get chilled right through. The air had that cold smell, that Decemberish smell.

I blame it on going to the mall and seeing those gaudy fake snowflakes hanging everywhere...

I blame it on some brilliant gift and cooking plans for the holidays.

So, I caved in. And now there's Christmas music.

The Nutcracker theme is playing right this minute. It reminds me of gingerbread and mittens and the way snowy nights are never really dark. (It also reminds me of the smell of my elementary school gym, squeaky bleachers, and jittery nerves before our Christmas production. So there you go.)

But seriously! There's something about colder weather. You want to bake something with cloves in it. You think about making stews. You find yourself trying on one woolen sweater after another. You start ordering 1940s Christmas movies. It gets in your skin like that.

And if you're like me, you start hunting for your copy of T.S. Eliot's "Journey of the Magi."

(If the above link is your first time with this poem, read it yourself first before letting T.S. read it to you. He has such an unusual voice that I usually absorb that and accidentally forget the poem. Okay, I confess, and then I practice mimicking him. I still think a good T.S. Eliot impression is a skill worth perfecting.)

Maybe "Magi" isn't very Christmasy in the traditional way, but I always find myself reading it in the weeks (okay, months) before December 25.

No matter how many times I've read it, it still surprises me, somehow. In fact, maybe it's best read now, in early November, because it's about the journey toward Christmas, right? About the way that journey shifts you. How it moves some things around, how it makes room for more than just trees and ornaments and pies.

So, maybe I'm not apologizing at all for this early Christmas celebration. Maybe it's the exact and perfect time.

writer in progress: you have the right to revise

2010-11-01T17:05:00.000-05:00

Begin doing what you want to do now. ... We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand--and melting like a snowflake. -- Marie Bryon Ray

In writing, you can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, but first you have to create the sow's ear. Your first draft is the sow's ear. -- Charles Parnell

There's no Muse of Epic Revising. But I say: This is where the real miracle takes place. -- Carole Burns

Revision: though it can be the never-ending bane of my existence, it's also one way that writing is better than real life. You get do-overs. A lot of them.

A lot.

How many times have I looked over my shoulder and thought: could I revise that conversation? That isn't what I meant to say. Or, alternately, I had the perfect reply on the tip of my tongue, but couldn't figure it out until just now...

So behold the constant, writerly pleasure of revising. The cut and paste. Select all and delete.

Welcome to the cutting room floor, the eraser smudges, the palimpsest.

The unending search for the perfect word.

If I may say so, I'm a pretty decent reviser. All you need, really, is enough dogged persistence to keep moving forward. That and an iron stomach: it can be a bit of a shock to tear up paragraphs, chapters, whole drafts.

Or maybe the key is this: loving the book it should be more than you love how it looks right this moment.

Maybe that's the real mindset that has galvanized me through four drafts of my main novel. There's a gem of a story buried in there somewhere; it's just taking me a long time to find it.

And yet: knowing this, knowing that I can revise and revise, knowing I can keep questioning the characters and the plot: it gives me courage to face new drafts. That's what got me through some truly horrible places (I have no idea what I'm doing!! And neither does my character!!) in my latest project.

That's where I get the guts to reopen last year's Nanowrimo novel. I'm pulling it out of storage and diving back into it tomorrow. Kind of fun, really, to work on its second draft while all the Nanowrimo writers fire up their engines.

I'm excited--really excited--to see all my characters' faces again, to see what I think of them, after a year apart. To listen to their voices. I can't wait to see how they'll grow in these next two months.

Revision. It's thrilling, isn't it? It's a chance to grow, to change your mind.

And in the spirit of that, the blog has had a facelift! Goodbye to Serif's Yarn Cafe: I haven't posted about our Etsy work or my adventures in knitting nearly enough to warrant that name. And yeah, while we all know yarn also means "narrative," the first thing I think of is, that stuff we all knit with. So it had to go. I still plan to post about Squirrel & Serif (we're posting fall stuff now! woo hoo!), but you know and I know that I'm mostly here to talk about books.

Books and other things. Coffee and pie. Writing and reading. This and that.

And you can't argue with the ampersand: it insists that good things go together.

So welcome to the revised blog: Welcome to The Ampersand Cafe.

book crush thursday: for the love.

2010-10-28T19:22:00.001-05:00

Unsurprisingly, a side effect to blasting my way to the end of my draft this week? My brain is a little bit dry. (Meaning: only the dumbest movie lines are running through my head. I stare off into space. A four-year-old could whip me in Scrabble. That kind of dry.)

Which means that if I tried to talk up a favorite book, I'd probably let both book and you down. I might even drool on the keyboard a little, as I squint at the screen and then forget what I was thinking about.

You don't want that. I don't want that. The beloved novel in question doesn't want that.

So I'll save it for next week. Meanwhile, what will I do to recover?

Read, of course. Bellyflop into fiction for the evening, with my feet up, with some tea.

And for goodness' sake, why don't you do the same?

In fact, yes, let's make that an order. You absolutely deserve this sort of pampering. Cozy up to a little fiction tonight. Isn't that a good, sane thing to do, when it's getting colder and you might have an afghan in reach? Find the novel you've been saving, or unbury a childhood favorite.

Whatever impression this blog presents, I don't read as much as I used to. Chagrin!! But truly, I used to read all the time. All the time.

I'd try to read while getting dressed. I'd stick a book under my chin and pin it open so that I could read while I was making the bed, or putting butter on toast. The all-purpose hands-free reader, that was me. Multitasking before I knew that was the name for it.

(I also would have mismatched socks, rumpled sheets, and sometimes I'd miss the toast and put the butter on the counter. Whatever. It was worth the cost.)

Maybe you can do the same tonight--with or without the under-chin method. Have yourself a merry little fiction festival. Get word-drunk.

Or binge on poetry. I, for one, never read poetry reasonably. I'll go for weeks without thinking about it, then read a whole volume in a day or two. It goes right to my head, literary Champagne, but it's such a lovely rush.

So there it is. I'll be in the writers' recovery room tonight, digging into My Brother Michael, by Mary Stewart. (I'm soooo excited!!) Wrapped in a creamy flannel blanket, sipping some mint tea. I think that will do. It will do nicely.

it's the little things, right?

2010-10-27T20:10:00.001-05:00

Guess what. Yesterday I woke up, looked around, and ... took a deep breath. A really deep breath. An oh-my-goodness-I-think-I'm-finally-well kind of breath.

I made it. I'm alive. The world's still here. I'm in one piece. And I have energy again.

This is, without a doubt, the best part about being sick: the getting well again. Seeing everything fresh, and having the energy to dive back in.

So I feel newly aware, like I just woke up. And I'm thanking God for being well, and for all the wonderful little bits of life around me.

Like falling asleep the other night to the roar of wind and rain... tricking myself into believing it's the sound of the sea.

Like wearing fingerless mitts for a neighborhood walk yesterday, as twilight settled in, gawking at the trees. Welcome back, fall. Welcome back, me.

Like making plans for this, my much-belated birthday cake. (Crepes. Yeah, you saw that coming, didn't you?)

Like savoring a soy chai, and catching the first episode of Sherlock. (Did you see it? Finish reading this and then jump right over, you won't be sorry...)

And, you know, other little things... like--oh yeah!--finishing the first draft of that novel. Right. I kicked it into a higher gear this week, and added 21,000 words in three days flat. Nope, not my normal rate--that's absurdly fast.

I can only get away with it because it is, after all, just a first draft, and as Anne Lamott says:

The first draft is the child's draft. ... If one of the characters wants to say, "Well, so what, Mr. Poopy Pants?," you let her. No one is going to see it.

Yeah. It was the Poopy Pants draft. And it's done: 307 pages of childish glory, and I love it.

Hooray for putting the pneumonia quarantine to good purpose.

Hooray for finishing a draft.

Hooray for really deep breaths.

(26 before 27: For those of you keeping score? Finishing that draft means scratching off #23. Yeah. That's a good feeling.)