Mr. Smiley-BobJune 1, 2012

I found a dog while driving home today. Meet Mr. Smiley-Bob: 

You know what pisses me off? That this is so flipping common in my neighborhood. I love Oakland, and even more, I love East Oakland. I have mad love for where I live. But the pit bull problem? It makes me so mad I get those choked hot tears stuck in the back of my throat. 

Mr. Smiley-Bob here had his ribs sticking out of his chest. It's hard to tell because he has the unneutered male's broad head, but this guy was skin over clackety bones. I yanked the car to the side of the road because I'd never seen the bones in a dog's tail before. He barely noticed me coming up to him, he was so busy trying to jaw a chicken bone out of a grate in the gutter. 

And you know what he did when a stranger came right up to him? When I said "Hey, boy, what's goin' on here?" He collapsed against me in joy. Tail whap-whap-whapping. Gave up trying for the chicken bone in favor of getting his head scratched. He had a nice heavy leather collar on WHICH MEANS HE HAD A HOME at one point, goddammit, but no tags. And I pray to god he doesn't have a microchip because the rat-bastard who would starve and/or abandon a dog like that doesn't deserve to get such a sweet boy back. Also, I would like to punch that guy in the nuts. Twice.

I opened my car door, and the dog jumped in. Oh, joy! I put the window down a bit, O frabjous day! I brought him the few blocks home with me and gave him a big bowl of water and dog food, THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! Tail still whap-whap-whapping, his head pushing under my armpit just to get a little more cuddle. 

I loaded him back in the car to take him to the shelter (legally, we're at the dog limit for Oakland residents, as well as also being at our house and financial limit, too). The Oakland shelter does a great job -- that's where Clara came from (via the SPCA).

But you know what else? They have no money. Just like everything else in our city -- schools, public services, roads -- they can't do much with no cash. And on Fridays the shelter closes at 4pm. I got there at 4:30. 

Oh, nuh-uh. I couldn't bring the dog into our home -- Clementine is the best people dog ever but doesn't appreciate other dogs (besides ours) in her house. The outside one-way dropboxes were closed and locked. No one was answering the phone (well, they never answer the phone). 

So you know what I did? (Did I mention I was in a mood?) I hopped their locked fence. I said a chipper hello to some startled people working with a dog outside. I waited until a volunteer opened the door to leave and I literally stuck my boot in to wedge it open. "Hi! I have a dog!" 

"Well, we're closed." 

"OKAY I DON'T CARE I HAVE A DOG." 

The volunteer turned his head to talk to the shelter officer. "Are we taking any more dogs?" 

"HE'S IN MY CAR AND I'M DROPPING HIM OFF. Would you like to help me open the fence, or should I carry him over?" 

The officer just shook her head and followed me to her car. 

See, the Oakland shelter partners with the nationally acclaimed pit rescue Bad Rap, which is honestly one of the best adoptions organizations out there. Take a look at some of their Happy Endings -- the photos are amazing. This boy will find a safe, loving home, I absolutely know it. He had me laughing during the whole drive. 

His ears fly back like this all the time! This was him just chillin'! 

Jumping backward in time for a moment, as I was trying to get into the shelter, the gate opened as a car drove out. The minivan driver rolled her window down. I said, "I found a dog!" She said, "What kind?" I said, "The sweetest pit bull ever." She wrinkled her nose and said, "No way," before speeding up.

You know what, lady? Bite me. Thank you for opening the gate I couldn't get through (oops! your bad!) for me, but otherwise, can it. We own a pit bull who would only like to rapturously lean you to death. Many of our neighbors and friends have wonderful, loving pit bulls. (Yes, occasionally pit bulls do bad things. So do Golden Retrievers (of all my 911 dog-bite calls, the Goldens have been the worst calls). And Rotts. And Dalmations. And, and, and -- the list goes on. Almost any dog trained to be bad will be bad. Almost any dog who is loved (and well-trained) will be loving. There.) 

But people keep throwing these dogs away, like they're trash. At the shelter, by the dropboxes, was a plastic bag with a dead pit bull in it. How's that for awful?

Remember when Lala found Bart? He was a pit that had been thrown out (literally) on the side of the road. He lay with a dead puppy pit bull, but he wasn't quite dead yet. He couldn't move or stand, and was only a skeleton covered in skin, but instead of taking the treat Lala offered him, he just wanted her to pet him (he had a lovely storybook ending -- the director of the SPCA kept him in his office until he was well, and eventually, when he was fat and happy, they let him live with a man in Danville where he probably eats steak dinners every night). 

It is not the city's fault. It is not the fault of breed (good god, after the pit bulls I've gotten to know in the last few years, I don't ever want another kind of dog. There has never been a more loving dog than Clementine in the history of the world). 

Until the city finds the money for more services and more education, we're going to keep finding pit bulls in the trash. And I bet this is the case in many, many poor cities. 

And it's making me ill, and sad, and still, I have hope that Mr. Smiley-Bob will find a wonderful home, because that dog is the BOMB, yo. He needs a home. He's young (maybe a year?) and very strong aand has a heart the size of a taco truck. I wish we could have him. But if we can't, I hope I see that guy at the dog park soon, carrying his favorite squeak toy. 

How I Write a NovelMay 23, 2012

"How do you write a whole book?" I get asked this a lot, and I thought I'd take a moment to answer it specifically rather than with my usual generic answer, "A little bit at a time." While this answer is true, I don't think it's very helpful. It certainly wouldn't have been for the younger me, the one who only wanted to write but could never actually seem to get her butt in the chair to do it, and when she did finally get seated at the desk, usually just ended up playing Solitaire. 

But dude! I just finished my sixth book. SIXTH! So I've changed. It can be done. 

This is my process. It works for me. Your process will be different, but if any of these tips help, I'm glad to share them with you. (And in the comments, let us know what techniques work for you!) 

1. Don't Wait For the Muse. 

As Nora Roberts says, "Sister Mary Responsibility kicks the muse's ass every time." The muse is a fickle beast, and she usually only strikes me in the middle of the night. I'm a GENIUS at three in the morning. However, since I never write down what she says (because I know I'll remember it later), I don't get that much from our relationship. 

In my mind, the best way to write would be to find a whole day or better yet, a whack of days, during which I could lock myself in a hotel room overlooking the ocean and write the better part of a book. 

That doesn't work. The time never comes. I spent, oh, ten years trying to find the perfect block of time, convinced it was always coming up in the next few weeks. 

Instead, the only thing that works for me is to just work every day. Every day. I work from 1 to 8 hours, usually more on the 2-3 hour side. (This gets me two books done a year while still working 60 hours a week at the day job. But I've got no kids and I don't have cable. Your mileage will vary.)

On the days when I go to the day job, I work on my breaks, only as much as I can fit in. I don't stress too much about those days. 

But on every day off, I get up and go to the cafe. Getting out of the house is key for me -- if I'm home I'll find something to clean or organize or DO. At the cafe, they frown when I start to organize the paper cups.

Of course, I could always lose myself in the internet at the cafe, which is A Bad Thing, which leads me to...

2. Freedom

I've written about this a million times, but it bears repeating. This is a $10 program (with a free trial) for the Mac and PC that kicks you physically off the internet. You tell it how long to go offline, hit your password, and you're locked out. The only way to get back in is to actually shut down your entire computer and reboot (which, let's face it -- we've all done it once or twice). 

So I get to the cafe, grab my coffee, and allow myself to check email while I eat my carrot muffin. Then WITHOUT THINKING or arguing with myself, I hit Freedom, enter 45 minutes, and enter my password before I can talk myself out of it. Bam. I have nothing else to do but work. And if, while I'm working, I think of something that I must know from the internet, I jot it down, thus clearing it from my brain. 

After 45 minutes, the computer bonks and DING DING DING, twitter and email messages fall from the skies like confetti. Then I give myself 15 minutes to screw around.

Then I do it all over again. 

3. Write or Die

Also ten bucks (or free if you use the online version), this is THE ONLY WAY I write a first draft. It's simple. Write or Die is like a sweet little cattle prod to the imagination. It makes you keep writing. I like the intermediate level, where your screen turns red and then it makes a terrible noise if you stop writing. (I do NOT use the level in which it erases your words if you don't keep writing, but it amuses me to know that it exists.) 

See, I just lose track if I'm not using it. I open a document and start writing. An hour later, after taking long sips of coffee and absentmindedly staring at people with weird hair in the cafe, I will have 500 new words on the page. And I'd swear to you that I was doing the best I could, writing as fast as possible. 

Then I turn on Write or Die (for first drafts, I usually dive into Freedom and Write or Die at the same time, for 45 minutes) and three quarters of an hour later, I have 1500 words or so. 

Yep, some of these are crap words that I won't end up using, but I would have written those anyway. And it's astonishing -- your voice is your voice is your voice, whether it's a "good" writing day or a "bad" one. You end up using a lot of those words. Some of them are exactly what you needed and never would have come up with while staring out the window. There's something about the pressure of having to keep the cursor moving to the right that makes you figure out solutions to the problems on the page in ways you wouldn't normally think of. 

(I just finished writing a novel, and the first draft was so difficult for me at one point, I had to go into Write or Die for 15 minutes at a time. Just 15 minutes. I always got more words that I thought I would, and I got through that slump. You do what you have to do.)

It's that idea of Flow, right? Getting into the state where time disappears and everything disappears except the work in front of you. I have the best chance of doing this when I'm forced to work fast, which disables my inner editor (oh, I hate that cranky bitch). Another thing that helps me is: 

4. Music

For me, every book has a soundtrack. I listen to music on my iPhone since my computer is offline while I work. But whatever media player you use, the key is this: use the music as a way to drop right back into the writing. Don't end up procrastinating (I see you over there!) by making the perfect playlist. Drop three or five albums that you think might work into a list, hit shuffle, and start writing. When a song doesn't work? Hit skip, and later, when you're done writing, throw it out of the list. Later, when you hear a song on the radio that would be perfect for the list, add it then. Your playlist grows organically that way, and when the book is close to being done, the list will be pretty much perfect.

5. Do the Math

I just finished my sixth book, and I know that it takes me about six months per book (three months for a horrible first draft, two-three months in revision). You know how I know that? Math. I know my novels are around 95,000 words. Writing 2000 words a day (approximately eight pages), it'll take 48 writing days to complete, which even gives me days off in my goal of first draft in three months. 

But what about revision, you say! No one can strap a time frame around revision! Well, it might be a little bit more slippery than its friend, the first draft, but you sure as heck can.

I try to do a full (major) revision in a month (because I write really crappy first drafts -- I know people who revise as they go, and end up with very clean first drafts -- that is not me). I also try to do this because I know, from my process, that I might have to do this two or three times, and I'd better get crackin'. (My revision method is outlined here. Gawd, I love revisions.) 

So I look at the calendar. Suppose I have 15 days off in a month. That means I pretty much have to revise 6000 words a day. Yep, that's a lot. But I can get that done in four hours if I'm working hard, more if I'm brain-dull that day. It's doable, for me. These are my numbers, and yours will be different, but again, it comes down to math. I know, we English majors don't like that, do we? But it works, I promise. 

Now, if your goal is to write a book in a year? OH MY GOD! You're going to have so much fun! Aim for six months to a first draft -- that's only 527 words a day! Then you'll have another six months to revise! That sounds delicious, right? You know it does. The key is not to let it be some nebulous, undefined "year." Make it a year from today. Starting now.

6. Just Do It

Again, writers write. I completely, totally understand wanting with all your heart to write and not writing, because I did that for (too) many years. It's such a frustrating feeling. But the only way to get that urge out of your system and feel satisfied (finally!) is to do the work. Even when it's shitty work (and it will be, at first. All first drafts will be shitty. It's the law). Just sit your arse down and do it. A little at a time. It's like knitting -- the words add up, just like stitches do, and eventually you have something to show for them. 

*Pro tip: If you say I can't write this way because I have to make everything perfect before I move on, that's fine by me ONLY IF this method works for you. In other words, if you are completing what you set out to complete, then yay! But if you want to write books but are stymied because of the whole "perfection" thing, then barrel through a really horrible first draft. Your method isn't working. Try a new one, friend. 

So. What's your process? 

Staying Still and ReadingMay 15, 2012

Staying still is so hard for me. I mean, damn. I was diagnosed as hyperactive as a child (and today I do think that I'm ADHD, but I'm one of those people for whom it works -- I harness that energy, and I've learned how to make it work for me. Even if it means I never, ever, ever sit still). 

So this recovery game? Is so freaking hard. 

Yesterday, I took a shower (this is not the punchline -- I take showers all the time, I promise). To me, a shower is a get-in, get-clean exercise in timing. Four minutes, including shampoo, all the bits clean, and I'm out. I simply do not understand how or why people like showers -- they've always felt like something to be borne. Shower, brush teeth, eyeliner, mascara, deodorant, DONE. I can be out of the house without feeling rushed twenty minutes after the alarm goes off. 

But yesterday, I decided to try that whole slow shower thing (plus I've had no choice lately. I just can't move quickly). I stood under the water, letting it warm me. I thought about how it felt, standing there. It didn't suck. Actually, after about ten minutes, I was kind of enjoying it. I zoned out. It really was relaxing. I wasn't hurrying. No wonder lots of people say they get their best ideas in the shower (I've always wondered when this happened -- between the shampoo and the conditioner? Before or after leg shaving?). I wasn't thinking about the next item on the To Do list. I was just kind of hanging out. Being.

That's not to say it's going to turn into a lifestyle thing. I do like a wham-bam shower. But after exhausting myself a couple of times this week (who knew just sitting UP could be so difficult?), I've learned my lesson. Now is the resting time. 

Luckily, it's also the reading time! 

I'm telling you about this now even though I'm only a quarter of the way into it, because it's been a long time since I fell so hard for a book. The River Witch, by Kimberly Brock. Within the first few pages I was googling Sacred Harp singing because by the way she was writing about it, I knew it would be something real and something peculiar. Which it is (see video below). And her language! Unique, rich, devastating. Just download the sample -- chances are you'll fall in love as I did. And this, by the way, is a little intro to the Sacred Harp singing (also known as "shape note singing"): 

 

 

I just finished A.J. Jacob's Drop Dead Healthy, which is my favorite of all his books. I can't imagine living with the man (his wife needs a raise), but I love the way his mind works. Once he wrote a book about the year he spent reading the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica. For another book, he tried living Biblically for a year. Literally. For this new book, he spends two years becoming "the healthiest man in America." He tries every diet and every health regime touted by anyone, anywhere. He does cleanses, yoga, meditation, barefoot running, and a triathlon. He does veganism and Paleo. He spends two years not eating his kids' birthday cupcakes. And his humor is so funny and affecting that I'm reconsidering the treadmill desk again. 

Ali in Wonderland, Ali Wentworth: a memoir, this one caught me from the first essay. Sometimes it made me shake with laughter (my belly hurt too much to howl). I don't regret reading it -- she's smart and her sense of humor is wickedly, devastatingly funny. However, I think she would have benefited from a firmer editing hand. Some of the essays are so good...and then kaput. They clatter to the floor like a dropped spoon. But overall, worthwhile. 

Um. I've read others, but nothing you have to read, so I'll leave it at this reiteration: this whole post was prompted by my belief that you should absolutely check out The River Witch. I'm beyond impressed so far. The woman can write.

Wow. May 11, 2012

Thanks to all of you for being so patient. The randomly drawn winner of California Revival Knits is: Stephanie Ivy! (You've been emailed.) 

Edible Arrangements - how does it stay so fresh for so longggg?

I had my surgery. This is the way I thought it would go: Surgery last Thursday. I'd be groggy but adorable upon waking up after a short hour's nap. Lala would take me home and I'd eat jello and broth and sleep a little more. Then Friday I'd rest and be sore, and I'd be writing in bed by Saturday (I have a book due in three weeks to Australia). Then I'd recover gracefully, tapering to ibuprofen within a day, writing and receiving visitors, napping when I felt like it, watching the flowers grow in the planter boxes outside. 

This is how it went: Five hour surgery. Reaction to anaesthesia. Did very poorly in the recovery room. Tried not to vomit for, oh, twenty-four hours. Tried to taper to ibuprofen within a day, was yelled at by everyone who loves me. Went back on the Vicodin which I HATE. Then I spent the next six days staring stunned out the window at the flowers growing in the planter boxes outside. There was no writing. There wasn't even Twitter or email. Nothing existed except stunned silence. And tears. LOTS OF TEARS. 

At one point I figured out I wanted a smoothie while Lala was at work. I dragged myself from bed and started making it, not noticing that the blender we haven't used in years had broken at some point, and the milk was running out of it all over the counter, into the drawers, and on the floor. I sobbed. I cried harder than I have since Mom died. I was literally CRYING OVER SPILT MILK. I blamed the hormones (which scared me -- I'm very into the hormones working at this point). Then, a couple of days ago, I went off the hated Vicodin and suddenly stopped crying. I hate that drug SO much (but I'm allergic to codeine). 

I'm feeling so much better now. Still can't sit up for very long, but I can manage the pain with the prescription ibuprofen, and I actually put on clothes today. Real clothes! I can pick up tissues off the floor all by myself. Last night I figured out how to lie on my stomach (a real accomplishment -- I haven't been sleeping well because I'm a tummy sleeper). My emotions are steady. 

Digit (and our new, perfectly-timed bedroom windows) helped with speedy healing.

I'm going to manage an outing tomorrow if I'm feeling up for it (a good, writerly outing which includes a bed I can borrow, the best kind of outing). 

And while I was having a bed picnic with two beloved friends, the UPS man brought me my favorite recovery tool: 

New "barefoot" running shoes (like Vibram Five-Fingers but without those crazy toes that I can't get myself to wear) from Merrell, Pace Gloves. I can't WAIT to wear these, first to walk, then to get back into running. It was a challenge even to get them on to get that shot. But they fit perfectly, and I leave them at the foot of the bed as inspiration. 

Delayed!May 7, 2012

I'm sorry I haven't yet drawn a winner for the California Revival book! I will, very soon, within the next couple of days. I had the surgery (five hours long -- the doc had a lot to do), and I can't quite face my laptop just yet, and only handling things I can do from my cell phone, like this post. Recovering well but so tired. Napping again now. Xoxo

Sent a-go-go from my iPhone

California Revival KnitsApril 30, 2012

My fave pattern, Wrought Cardi

I'm lucky enough to be a stop on the blog tour for Stephannie Tallent's new book, California Revival Knits. As a fan of California architecture, I couldn't help but be interested in a book of knits modeled on buildings that, grouped together, "feature stucco, red tile roofs, coved ceilings, tile, tile, and more tile (with Spanish, Moorish or Mexican influences) and wrought iron."

After drooling over her book (which you can win a copy of by leaving a comment below), I had the chance to ask her a couple of questions. 

Wrought Mitts

What was your favorite part of this book's process? 

I really enjoy all the big picture things:  planning the palette, the yarn choices, the general pattern ideas. 

But I really love seeing it all come together, too.  I’m a big one for keeping myself organized via spreadsheets, and I admit I loved putting DONE in the pattern status column. 

It was also fun getting the patterns to my group of test knitters & getting their feedback and seeing their finished objects.

And having the final PDF is tremendously exciting.  I can’t wait for the print copy.

The photoshoot was a little nervewracking for me – I’d never done one before – but my photographer, Kathy, had fantastic ideas & made it as easy on me as possible.  Kristi Porter, who modeled for the main photoshoot, was awesome too.  I know the next will go smoother, now I know more of what I have to do.

Was there anything about bringing a book to the finish line that surprised you? 

Just how long it takes even after all the initial stuff (patterns, photos, text) is turned in.  There’s a big difference between self publishing a small collection of patterns yourself & working with a small indie publishing company (where, lol, it’s not always about ME). 

Tiles Sweater

What knitting project do you have on the needles now? 

I’m currently working on a second pattern collection of my own designs, and am in the midst of working on a lace cami in Dragonfly Fiber Dance rustic silk.  The back is done & I’m getting ready to cast on for one of the fronts.

If you’re familiar with my designs, two things probably caught your eye.

Designing with the silk is a first for me -- I usually work in wool or wool blends.   I really like the Dance silk; it’s a nubby silk noil that has lovely drape.

Also, I nearly always work seamless tops.  I didn’t have any traditionally non-seamless designs until this one.  But I decided the structure of seams would really help with this top, considering the inherent lack of bounce and memory of the silk.

After that, I have a couple hats for the book to work on next, and another sweater.  Of course there are many more patterns, but that’s the order in which I want to tackle the projects.

Please leave a comment for a chance to win the new book! Or preorder here.  Ravelry link here.  I'll draw a random winner on Friday. Good luck!  

JamApril 22, 2012

I've been playing music lately, drawn to the accordion more and more. It's been about a year that I've been fooling around with it now, and while I'm still not reliable with both hands at once, I can noodle around more or less non-embarrassingly with either hand. I have ONE song I can do with both hands (Eilen Jewell's "Walking Down the Line"). I believe that's what you call a start. And, hey, if I'm playing only the bass buttons, I can sing along. Kind of. 

We got together with a group of women a couple of weeks ago and spent the entire afternoon playing bluegrass. Accomplished musicians and singers, I played as quietly as I could most of the time, as I was by far the least talented, instrument-wise. I managed to tape one short version of "I'll Fly Away." (I'm the low alto.) 

I'llFlyAway

 And the other night, I got together with the knitters to play some tunes. ALL THE WORLDS COLLIDE. At A Verb For Keeping Warm, we had an upright bass (Lala), drums and trumpet (Adrienne, of Verb), and two accordions in addition to mine (Stephen hizKnits and Sonya of the Felt Cervix Project). Lala also had her banjo with her, but we decided that a jam consisting of a banjo, three accordions and a trumpet was just asking for trouble.  

Stephen and Lala bonded over their t-shirts: 

Stephen's has Obama riding a unicorn, and Lala's has Batman riding a unicorn, saying "Giddyup." There was also an almost unbelievable moment when the two of them rapped "Bring the Noise" by Public Enemy back and forth to each other while the rest of us watched, dumbfounded. 

Then we jammed, man. Imagine three (THREE) accordions in one spot. Three is just about two and half too many for most gatherings. At times, it sounded experimental punk music being played by junkies wearing earplugs. At other times, though? It sounded awesome. 

 

Adrienne, with her "drums" at her feet, Sonya's accordion in the foreground. Yes, A's wearing shades at night. That's how trumpet players do. 

It all reminded me of what I love best about playing music--it absolutely forces you into a space in which you are bound to screw up, usually in front of other people. That's really hard for me, and it's scary. But there's a contrary part of myself that absolutely loves doing things that scare me. The high afterward is just so damn high, you know? 

My favorite photo of the night: 

Here, Stephen was about to look up and see the host of accordion angels that Sonya and I so clearly saw (they had wings made of wool and their harps were strung with qiviut). 

 

Migraines and HormonesApril 16, 2012

*TMI alert -- If you're offended by people writing about their lady parts, don't read on; go pet a puppy or something else fun. I won't mind. 

I'll keep it short, because really, who wants to read about other people's medical schtuff? I'm getting a hysterectomy in two weeks, and I could not be happier. I've spent the last ten years trying everything (absolutely everything from East to West, don't you worry) to control/prevent my migraines but they're completely hormone driven, and I'm done. This is the pain train's last stop, friends. I'm getting off. Due to endometriosis, dysmennorhea, and the hormonal migraines, I'm getting the full monty taken out, ovaries and all. 

So I'm going to throw it out there, because you are wise: Let's talk about hormone replacement. I'm going to do estrogen-only supplementation. The hormone replacement therapy (HRT) that's been shown to cause cancer is a combo dose of progestin/estrogen. I'm not doing that because I don't need the progestin (and because I don't want to risk). The studies show that estrogen-only therapy actually lowers mortality (Bing! Zap! I'm like a video game!) and protects against the things that the old HRT caused: breast cancer, heart damage, etc. It might increase the risk of stroke, but only by a small amount. I've done some reading but I know there's a lot of stuff out there I don't know. And just try Googling hormone replacement! Quelle horreur!

Got any experience with this? I'll accept all stories and words of advice, apocryphal and otherwise, because I swallow the internet with a large grain of fabulously colored exotic salt. 

Oh, and I think in a response to all this, I've been SUPER sensitive about the all-over grey hair I've been trying to rock. (I'm 39, for the record.) I think, while I have friends that are rocking it, I was not quite there. I do believe in my heart we ALL should be proud of the grey hair when we get it. I believe my friends with white hair are gorgeous. But me? I was just not comfortable in my skin or my skin tone under grey hair, and I was tired of always feeling not myself. 

So I bought a box (Loreal Feria 56, for the curious), and covered some of my white with foil (because I do love it, just not all over) and ended up with this. Which, I have to suggest, I might be rocking. 

Now tell me everything about hormones. 

Dear Australia and New Zealand: April 12, 2012

I have a new gift book out! The Little Book of Knitting Wisdoms: 

So Eliza and I came up with this together: she came up with the quotes, and I, um, wrote them down for her. Yeah, that's it. (They're compiled from the first three Cypress Hollow novels, so America, don't despair that you can't get the book here.) (If you really want it, I think you can go HERE and request to be notified when they get it in stock.)

I'm excited about it. I love that my character Eliza Carpenter has become Someone (because, to me, she's always been pretty darn special.) 

Colette CrepeApril 8, 2012

Once a year, whether I like it or not, I get sewing fever. This year, it seems like there are more awesome patterns out there than ever. I chose Colette Crepe, and boy, I'm glad I did. I love this dress. 

It's a wrap-around, no zip/button dress, and it was, facings aside, very easy. And fast! Three hours to prep/cut, 4.5 hours to sew. For me, anyway, that's fast. Admittedly, there was a moment when we were due at a dinner party, and I was standing in the kitchen in my underwear, ironing the hem I needed to sew, but that's the kind of race I like. 

You can see by this shot I'd moved the vacuum cleaner. (Classy!) 

Closer shot of fabric: it's orange and tiny white dots on dark blue, with an orange sash. 

Angle of shot is weird and makes me look like a woman in a comic-book. Oh, well. 

It has POCKETS! 

and it's just fun: 

Good FridayApril 6, 2012

Why, yes, yes it has been. Non-religious me got home from work, took a nap, went and bought fabric for a dress from Verb, and then went to kayak Lake Merritt with Bethany. As you can see here, I had a terrible time. 

I've decided this: For my 40th this year, I'm going to learn how to sail. The Lake has lessons, CHEAP, and it's real sailing with tricky winds and tiny little sailboats. Then someday I'll take my show on the Bay, but until then, I'll be happy tacking around the lake of the city I love. 

Tonight I'm gonna tack seams, instead, and try to make a dress. The internet buzz about spring sewing has infected me, and it's all I can think about. More to follow. 

Ciao, OaklandMarch 30, 2012

You know what I love about Italy? That you don't ever enter a place without saying the equivalent of, first, hello! Hello! Oh, hello, how are you, hello, hello! And then when you leave, it's imperative that you must say Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye, take care, see you soon, travel safely, goodbye, goodbye! 

And this is what strangers must do. If you know or like the person in question? Please multiple the number of Ciaos by approximately 17. I got no end of amusement sitting in campo cafes, watching people meet and leave each other. So much genuine affection! None of it sounded forced or cursory. 

Connection. 

That's what I got from this whole trip (along with an extra pound or three from the carb consumption but let's not talk about it). I was struggling with the language, but I was stubborn about it, so instead of falling onto people's mercy and their mad skills with English (because everyone in the service industry in Venice speaks good English), I would muscle my way through things. It was exhausting, struggling to be understood. 

And while I'd gone to Italy by myself in order to find quiet, I found myself strangely lonely sometimes. I wanted to laugh with someone, and to chat easily. I had coffee with my friend Santina, which was awesome. 

 

But for the rest of the time, when I wasn't happily being quiet, I was searching for connection. I craved it. I didn't see that coming. I pictured myself in Italy, perfectly content to wander alone for eight days. But even with Facetiming Lala every night (what a world we live in! How cool is that that I could just DO that for free?), I was looking for someone to talk to.

I would pick a likely-looking person sitting alone and plan on saying something casually (sometimes it felt like I was single again, trying to work up the nerve to talk to someone at a bar). And then, in all cases, their other half would join them. 

No one travels alone in Venice. 

Now, I know that's not true. It can't be true. But in March of this year, I started to believe I was the only one traveling solo. It became a kind of game, watching for people who looked like tourists who were alone.

I became a connoisseur of the small connection.

Like the screaming set of twins on a very packed boat. The girl baby and I bonded. Every time I caught her eye, she stopped crying and started smiling and laughing. I swear I was drunk on the ten minutes of love we shared. 

Or the cat lady (I will tell you about her at some point, I promise) who called me cara and kissed both my cheeks when we parted. 

Or the punk bartender who played Sinatra (I actually ended up lapsing into English with him, and it was okay). 

Or the lacemakers. 

Or the very young waiter who, when I declined dolce, brought me a tiny plate of wee cookies anyway, to make my night sweet. 

Or the young man, sitting opposite me, eating alone (oh! There was one!) and obviously completely miserable about it. Seen above, this is the way he ate his whole meal. I tried for a long time to catch his eye but he wouldn't look at me -- he ate with his head down or occasionally staring up at the sky. I was too shy to just speak out and grab his attention. But by the time he hit his dessert, I gave up and just spoke loudly, "How's your ice cream?"  He transformed, utterly. He sat straight. He grinned. He said it wasn't very good, that I should order something else. He left shortly thereafter and wished me a wonderful evening, still standing straight and walking away smiling from ear to ear.

Those moments, those were the ones that made my trip. I know it seems obvious, but I was kind of caught flat-footed by it. I went with the intention to write, to finish the book I'm working on. I didn't do that. I only wrote in my journal and on the blog. 

I went with the intention of seeking solitude, and found it, but craved connection. 

I went with the intention to catch up on sleep. AND I DID. Hoo-yeah. Not a sleeping pill in sight, just glorious sleep. 

But I didn't know, I honestly didn't know, that other people would be such a big part of my trip. So I'm trying to bring that home with me -- that delight in hearing someone else speak, a stranger. 

Yesterday I was in my home post office, and an older gentleman told me I'd dropped a piece of paper. "No, I didn't, but thanks," I said. I think I had just kicked a receipt, but he was still worried. 

"You never know, young lady. You coulda written an important number on that. You don't want to lose that." 

So to humor him, I picked it up and flattened it, putting it in my pocket. Then I really looked at him. He was COVERED in military pins, from his military hat to his heavily-weighted jacket. Normally I would have smiled and wished him a good day. But instead I said, "LOOK at you! What IS all that you're carrying around there?"

His chest pushed out and he said, "Welp, happens I'm the most decorated veteran in the East Bay."

"Wow!" I said, impressed. I stuck out my hand. "Honored to meet you." 

"Abner Walton," he said [I know]. "I was with the army. Now I'm the owner of Dynasty Investigation, for the last thirty years. I specialize in finding people. And let me tell you, I find the ones who don't want to be found."

He told me stories, and I gawped appropriately, and it was a lovely, lovely few moments. It took maybe five minutes out of my life. And isn't that exactly what life is FOR? 

Being. Listening. Thinking. It means everything, doesn't it? 

Venice kissed me one last time as I left, giving me this as I took the bus-boat away, suitcase at my feet. 

It was amazing to be there. And it was amazing to come home, which is just the right way to travel, I think. 

Digit agrees. (Lala said by the last few days of my trip, he kept trying to get out. She thought he was trying to go look for me. Awwww.) 

* Boots for the win, by the way. I didn't see a single Italian woman under the age of sixty who wasn't wearing black boots. I brought a heeled pair and a low pair, and alternating them daily kept my feet happy till almost the very end when duct tape handled the two blisters I got (duct tape, the best thing EVER for blisters -- I never travel without some wrapped around a chopstick -- just wrap it around the part of foot where the blister is and it forms a new, thick skin that you can just keep walking on. Best thing I learned from running).

Ciao, ciao, salve, arrivederci, ciao! 

LACE! and zomg so much to tell you!March 23, 2012

You GUYS. 

So Burano, a small island about 45 minutes away from Venice by boat, is known for its lace-making. I've been before, and hadn't been impressed by anything but the beauty of the tiny town (they paint their houses vibrant shades so they can be seen by their sailors from far away). Most of the lace for sale in the small shops isn't made by hand, and that which is is obviously extremely -- and prohibitively -- expensive. 

This morning, I hopped the boat for Burano. I hadn't been in at least ten years, and figured it was worth another go. However, the obnoxiously loud tourists clacking away on the boat bugged me (said the obnoxiously quiet tourist), and at the last minute, when we landed at Burano, I decided to get on yet another boat and cross the canal to Torcello. 

Torcello is another small island in the lagoon. Ruskin called it and Venice "the mother and daughter," Torcello being the mother. (And you KNOW how I feel about mamas.) It was inhabited first, before Venice, around the 5th century (!) and in the 10th century had about 10,000 inhabitants. 

It now has 20 inhabitants. Twenty.

And it felt like it. I went on a walk when the boat landed. 

I found a lane: 

And another one: 

I found a church (one of the oldest I've ever been in) and I found lunch (one of four places that looked like they cater to the rich summer crowd, none of whom were in town for the winter): 

 

After a couple of delightful hours, I knew I should at least give Burano a chance, so I left Torcello, passing this on my walk out: 

 Yep. The lonely accordion-player was all by himself out there, with nothing in his hat (until I walked past, of course). Jesus. Just playing this back for myself makes me grin like I'm still there.

Then I caught the boat back to Burano. I looked dutifully at the lace, and no, nothing had changed. Mostly crap. (In fact, I didn't see any real stuff at all this time.) I was heading back to the boat, gelato in hand, when I spotted THE LACE MUSEUM (it wasn't in caps like that, but in my head it was.)

The little movie at the beginning was amazing, 30 minutes or so showing the history of the lace in the islands and where it was now. 

But upstairs? The real jewels? THE LACE MAKERS THEMSELVES. Or three of them, at least.

Please excuse my photo clicks and my bad Italian -- I was seriously so excited that even now, thinking about it, puts a hitch in my breathing. 

I didn't get my friend's name, which makes me mad at myself because we talked for a long time, but I know that she's been doing this for ten years (she got rather a late start, apparently) and her mother, who was with the sculoa when it began in the early 1900s, made lace for 83 years. 

I showed her my lace. And OH MY GOD we had such a moment. She showed it proudly to the other two lace makers: 

and they all said, "Brava, brava!" and she told me this: That we were the same. She and I. She made lace with her craft, and I made lace with mine -- then she clasped my hand -- but we are the same, she said in Italian, which I would repeat here but I'd get the conjugation wrong so I won't.

I wanted to hug my friend! To kiss her! But instead she asked to see my tattoos which were peeking out from under my sleeves -- she liked the yarn ball but loved the mama tattoo. 

I felt annointed.  

(I love how in the picture above she's stretching it out, totally confident, even though she only crochets and doesn't knit much -- she commented to the other women about my tiny needles! And she knits with THREAD! When I pulled out the knitting later, there was a short white thread from her work caught in with the red. For a moment I wanted to save it, like I saved my first gray hair at 21, but then I realized I was crossing into crazy-land.) 

Then the creepy guard who had already asked me out once in the four seconds we'd spoken about lace followed me down the stairs, whispering so his boss wouldn't hear that he could show me Venice at night. He didn't think I knew he wanted to show me Venice in his pants? I know what Venice at night looks like, fool, and she's much prettier, so basta. However that doesn't stop me from loving I got hit on in the lace museum. BAM! 

I'm loading a ton more pictures to Flickr, but I think I'm going to bed now, so I won't title them or even guarantee that they make it there. I'm exhausted, and I have my first well-deserved blisters of the trip. 

* I haven't even told you about going to the Lido and finding where the cats of Venice went yet! (That was yesterday and such a good story.) 

** Anyone ever used one of those Berlitz/etc language courses? Do any of them work? My problem is this: I have exactly enough Italian to order food, to find the bathroom, and to understand 80% of all responses. I can't conjugate a damn thing correctly -- in order to say I did something yesterday, I turn around and point behind me. In Italy, I'm not embarrassed (much) to make a fool of myself trying very hard to speak the language. (I fooled someone today, who corrected himself when he started to give English directions, and gave them all to me in Italian. I understood them all, and followed them, and then avoided him assiduously afterward, lest he learn the truth.) My problem in that in the US, when I'm learning, I hate being wrong all the time. I've done college courses in Italian, and usually drop out because speaking it in class makes me too nervous. Any ideas? 

A Small MomentMarch 21, 2012

I had a glorious moment tonight when I remembered again why I'm here in Venice. 

Because, and I say this with some embarrassment, there are occasional moments when I forget. Like when my feet are tired. Or when I'm lost, and not in the good way (say, if I can't find the apartment while carrying two bottles of wine, and I've had to pee for thirty minutes). Or when I notice that every single damn person in Venice is with someone else. I have lonely little pathetic moments when I remember the times I've been here with loved ones, and how nice it was to have someone to chat with instead of being the perpetual eavesdropper. (And I chose to come alone. This was what I wanted. What I want. So it feels stupid to have these moments. But there it is.) 

Every time I feel this way, I immediately find a cafe and I order either a cafelatte or a spritz, depending on whether it's before or after three pm (the time is arbitrary to my own taste -- I've seen people drinking at nine in the morning). I pull out my knitting or I write in my journal, and the world gets positively radiant. It's amazing. 

Tonight, I couldn't decide what to do. I'd had stunning luck at finding yarn (cashmere at Lellabella!) and bad luck at finding the Hemingway exhibit I read about yesterday (I was a year late). The light was leaving the sky. Should I go home? Find dinner? Have a snack? A drink? Go grocery shopping? I stood on a bridge, confused and tired. Then I saw a tiny old woman in a wheelchair sitting in front of a cafe in Campo Santa Maria Formosa. I sat next to her. Buona sera, I said, and she looked surprised at being addressed by a stranger, but she responded politely if coolly. 

I pulled out my knitting.

She did a double, then a triple take. Then she started grinning at me. I grinned back. At 6:26, the bells started ringing (in eighteen years of coming to Venice, I've never been able to figure out why or when bells ring). I sat in utter, complete joy to be exactly where I was. 

She left shortly thereafter while the bells were still ringing, giving me one last grin and a tiny wave as her daughter pushed her chair away. Sadly, she's not caught by the video below, but in this moment, I had tiny tears of complete and total joy. 

These moments are why I'm here. 

More March 18, 2012

Today, I wandered. I got lost countless times, which still surprises me. It's like getting lost in Oakland -- I feel as if I know it so well, and then I turn around, and I can't find my way out. But by getting lost, I found a great grocery store (hard to find sometimes here) and a few glasses of spritz in squares I've never been to before. 

I'm going to try to put up new pictures every day or two at Flickr, if you want to go visit there. It's easier to load them there than here (the internet connection is spotty, and I swear it shifts with the wind). 

One for you from today: 

And some knitting: 

(This place, where I bought two spritzes, has the best bathroom view, perhaps in the whole world. Will try to sneak a picture another day. I'm the MASTER of toilets in Venice, I'm telling you.) 

And perhaps one more video to show you what Venice sounds like: 

 

In VeniceMarch 17, 2012

It's been a wonderful, if very long, day. 

I'm sitting at a little table, with Wifi that works, and I'm listening to the water lap in the lagoon outside the window. 

Seriously, right outside (this is from my window):

Today, in the time that I've been awake, I've gotten off work, driven home and packed, spent three hours at SFO, taken an 11 hour flight followed by another hour-long one, then taken an hour-long boat ride to find where I'm staying, then walked about a million miles, just exploring and getting lost in Venice. I've been up for about 33 hours now (and I only got 6 hours of sleep in the previous 48) so I think I'm probably tired, but I don't really feel it yet. I've had three glasses of wine, and instead of making me sleepy, they've simply stopped my hands shaking (NO, my hands don't shake when I don't drink. Please. But they do shake when I'm this tired) and it's made made me red-cheeked. My slap-faced rosacea always blooms when I drink more than two glasses, especially when I'm tired. You know the only thing that helps? Extremely bright lipstick: 

I just got done dealing with the aftermath of forgetting to send a cancel on a reservation (I thought I had! But it was still sitting there in Drafts). So my cheap lodging just got quite a bit more expensive. 

But you know what? I've accepted that. I'm in the place I love best (I do love Oakland, with all my heart -- but my soul belongs to Venice). I realized something today (again): It's good not to worry about things before they happen. See, I dream at least four or five times a year about trying to get to Venice, and I can never quite make it. I get close (to Mestre, or some equally awful approximation) and then fumble around, never able to figure out how the boats work before I wake up. 

So it was natural to try to worry about getting here today. But I didn't. 

I could have worried about the taxi not coming (okay, I did, for a minute, quite violently, but I got over it). It came. Mr. Singh smelled like vanilla and coconut oil, and he drove like a saint on rollerskates. 

I could have worried about not making the flight. But I did, with thirty minutes to spare (that was with building in 3 extra hours, thank god for them). 

I could have worried about the fact that SFO wasn't able to print me a boarding pass from Frankfurt to Venice (Frankfurt is my least favorite airport in the world -- it's HUGE and busy and I've missed flights there before). But when I got to Frankfurt (after a lovely flight seated next to people who were the perfect combo of chattty/silent), I got my boarding pass within minutes, and I was standing at the gate already, on accident, with ten minutes to spare. 

I could have worried about the fact that Christina didn't answer her phone when I called her -- she was picking me up after two more boat rides to take me to the apartment. But I didn't worry. I just got on the first boat. At Fondamente Nuova, I looked for a phone to try her again, but there wasn't one. Period. Anywhere. 

So I asked at a bar. And bless them, they let me phone Christina from there. I hopped another boat, and I finally realized this: even without worrying, I hadn't really thought I would make it here. I never think I'll make it back. And I did. I'm here. 

And I'm so goddamn happy. 

Wanna see where I'm staying? (OH! The ambulance boat just went by, code three, lights and sirens. That's always fun.) 

And just a few more that I shot from the window while I was making dinner (usually I go out at night to eat, but tonight I was just too tired to do so): 

Aw, hell. I'm just TOO tired to add any more here. In between writing this and posting it, I went for a long, dark walk to try to stay awake just a little longer. I chased after some students who obviously knew where they were going, and I found a section of town I'd never seen. (The Witch's Garden, that's where I'm going for dinner tomorrow night.) But now the exhaustion has set in.  Flickr set being built here. Love to you all -- more to come. Lots more! I'm home! 

Venice-bound AgainMarch 15, 2012

"In Venice you may occasionally see a man thrown forcibly from a bar, all arms and muddled protests, just like in the films; and rollicking are the songs the Venetian students sing, when they have some wine inside them. I once heard a pair of inebriates passing my window at four o'clock on a May morning, and looking out into the Rio San Trovaso I saw them riding by in a gondola. They were sitting on the floor of the boat, drumming on its floor-boards, banging its seats, singing and shouting incoherently at the tops of their thickened voices: but on the poop of the gondola, rowing with an easy, dry, worldly stroke, an elderly grey-haired gondolier propelled them aloofly toward the dawn." 

This kind of writing (from The World of Venice) is why I love Jan Morris (she has a Tumblr! I am exceedingly excited and fan-girly about this). I saw her speak once at Berkeley years ago, and she was lovely, intensely interesting, and smart as hell. On her recommendation, I'm going to (probably) explore my way through Croatia to Trieste for a day or two while I'm in Venice. Of course, I might not, also. 

The last time I was there, I was very blonde.

This is what I will do in Venice: 

Read. Walk. Sleep. Eat. Ride boats, lots of them. Drink coffee until it is time to drink wine. Take photographs. (Oh, and write. But do you see how that's rather low on the list? This will be a real vacation. I swear.)

I leave tomorrow. Expect either radio silence or tons of pictures if the wifi actually works. I almost hope it doesn't. It would be nice to be disconnected, I think. 

* Travel writer Jan Morris has a fascinating backstory -- he was born James Morris, and he married his wife in 1949, had five children, and then transitioned to female in 1964, when it was a very big deal to do so. Doctors in Britain refused to do the surgery unless he divorced his wife (!), so he went to Morocco for the surgery. Later, they did in fact divorce but remained together, and get this: in 2008, they were legally partnered again when it became legal to do so in a civil partnership. Awwww. She's 85 now, and she's one of my heroes. 

** I finished my Venice Madness sweater, the one I cast on for ten days ago, in a fit of must-have-black-lace-sweater-for-trip (Rav link). Forgive the poor photos, I'll try to get better ones in la Serenissima.

VisionMarch 13, 2012

So I've been having trouble looking at computers and reading lately -- just vague, annoying eye strain, but my computer glasses with their four-year old prescription weren't helping, so I went back to the eye doctor. 

Am I the only one who thinks the whole getting-glasses thing is really woo-woo? I have to tell the doc which image is clearer? Doesn't she know? I can NEVER tell (and I tell her that). Based on me saying, "Um...maybe the first one? Or maybe the second?") she writes me a prescription? 

Anyway. I suppose I can accept that. What's harder to accept is that now I have to wear them all the time I'm in front of a computer or reading. This is, of course, ALL the time. So I need some cute frames. 

Luckily, we live in the future. I got my prescription in my hot little hand, measured my own pupillary distance (because I'm a knitter and I'm good at using a tape measure to measure difficult distances), and ordered a couple of glasses from EyeBuyDirect, hitting a BOGO offer, scoring two pair for $50. Total. Dude, that's $25 each, including prescription lenses. I love the internet. I ordered some kind of funky ones (I think -- I barely remember) because you know what? They were $25. I'll show you those when they come. 

I also ordered 5 pairs of Warby Parker glasses to try on at home (free trial!). These are more expensive, at $99 each, so I need help choosing. I think I know which pair I want but I want to hear from you, please, in case I'm really off the mark.

Poll below. 

#1: 

#2: 

3: 

4: 

5: 

For Fear the Hearts of Men Are FailingMarch 8, 2012

or as I like to call it, the longest band name in the world (says she whose book is title How to Knit a Heart Back Home). 

Lala's on this album! And in this video! They're funding their new album (titled The Wonderful Clatter, which is so great I wish I had thought of it) on Kickstarter. They're quirky and a little (a lot) weird and I love their sound. And I think this video is kind of adorable, especially Lala's last line. 

 

Recent Good ReadsMarch 4, 2012

I went through kind of a dry spell there. I was reading a stack'o'books for a contest and couldn't blog about them (which is fair, since I'm scoring them). But that was a month of reading that I couldn't write about. And while there were some good books in the pile, sadly, there was nothing astonishing that I felt like I had to break the rules to tell you about, so I was eager to get back to my planned reading.

And I'm back! Honestly, I'm loving being back on the Kindle--real books felt so heavy in my hands. Isn't that wussy? And the formatting kept distracting me. I love that on the Kindle all books read the same, formatting-wise (or should), so there's nothing to keep you from plunging into the story.

Horizon, by Sophie Littlefield 

This is the third book in Sophie's Aftertime series. Disclaimer: Sophie is one of my favorite people. She's who you call when you want to be good, and she's who you call when you want to be very bad. And when things go wrong? She's the first to call you. I'm honored to call her a friend. 

And it's a good thing she's a friend, because if she weren't, I'd have to hate her for her talent. She is the MASTER of emotion. She can wring so much out of a seemingly simple sentence that you just kind of sit there, stunned, asking "Where did that come from?" 

I'd say this: read the first one, Aftertime. It's scary and post-apocalyptic (not my usual fare but I gobbled it up) and wonderful. I won't tell you much more, but know this: you'll be hooked. I loved the second book, Rebirth, also. But Horizon blew me out of the water. It's an absolutely stunning conclusion. 

 

A Bad Idea I'm About To Do: True Tales of Seriously Poor Judgment and Stunningly Awkward Adventure, Chris Gethard

This one was a fluke. I can't remember where I read about it, but it was one of those sample chapters I threw at my Kindle while running by, and I loved it. It's a brief, painful, humorous memoir (the best kind) of a seriously funny manic-depressive. From chapters on his intestinal woes to pro-wrestling, he moved through a landscape that was so solidly male that if asked, I would have guessed it wouldn't have been a book for me. Too male, I would have thought. Too something. But his humility and capacity to relentlessly poke at himself made each chapter lovely, and I roared through it in a day in bed sick with the flu. 

 

 

Falling For Me: How I Hung Curtains, Learned to Cook, Traveled to Seville, and Fell in Love, Anna David

Confession: If a memoir is about a privileged 30-something woman learning to do something we all think we should be able to do (but sometimes can't) on a journey of self-discovery framed by a device, no matter how clumsy said device might be, I'm IN* (see My Year With Eleanor, a book this one is reminding me of). Really, I'm in. Anna David finds Helen Gurley Brown's 60s classic Sex and the Single Girl and decided to try living her life by its tenets in order to see if she can figure herself out a little more (and maybe catch a man along the way. Okay, no, she establishes firmly that this is NOT what the experiment is about. But she's candid enough to share that the idea keeps rearing its head).

I'm not done with this one yet and I'm guessing by its subtle title that perhaps a man does come along, but I'm enjoying it enough that I'm sharing it now. 

*Oh, I just realized I'm so in, I wrote one of those myself. Hmmm. 

Now, since I'm in the light-hearted secretly-kind-of-deep memoir mood, Sophie's novel notwithstanding, anything you recommend?