did i mention...
...that George won the Team Trials? And I'm so proud of him I can barely stand it? Check this out -- Down To The Wire at the Bermuda Bowl Trials
Thursday, August 31, 2006
counting noses
Maybe you've noticed the pretty little multicolor box in the nav bar on the right of this page. Some of you have clicked on it. I'll wait while you do it now. Ok, welcome back. Until fairly recently I'd been blogging in the dark. Which, incidentally, feels very strange. I'm talking to myself, full of the belief that somebody is actually listening, but upon nothing in particular to base that hope. Ah, the lightbulb went off. Add a counter. Easy. I checked out a couple and ended up with Site Meter. It seemed the least annoying of the couple services I considered. Now, with the click of the pretty little box I get to learn more about all of you, too. I can, if there is one, see the referring URL (how you got to me in the first place). It tells me where in the physical world you are when you check my blog. It tells me how long you stayed and how many pages you loaded. Occasionally I can wheedle out of Site Meter which site you visited right after me. Does this change things between us? I sort of think it does. See, there's something nice about surfing the blogs -- checking in (or, I suppose, up) on someone without having to orchestrate an actual interaction. Before, I was in a fishbowl (a fishbowl of my own design, I'm not complaining) and you looked at me. Now we're looking at each other. Almost face to face. Sort of makes you want to stop visiting? I hope you won't. I'm pretty sure you'll come back, because most of you are my friends. Most of you found the blog because I showed it to you and you're willing, for the moment, to indulge me. Thank you for that. Seriously. Thanks. Some of you find your way here in other ways. I'm every bit as curious about you as you are about me. In the last day or two I've seen visitors from new places. Istanbul and Verona (I'm guessing bridge players). Help me out -- the suburbs of Wichita, Kansas? Atlanta, Georgia? Southold, New York? Some time when you have a spare moment, stop in and say hi.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
from the journal
"The dog days of summer, when the leaves hang full and heavy over the lane, when eye glasses ride sweat and boredom down your nose and the droning baseball voices compete with lawnmowers in the distance, when thunder rolls in off the prairie and sneaks off with the passions of small-town families, when tales of violence in the cities seems more malevolent and the nights are nothing if not oppressive .... " 4/16/06
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Miss Completely
Right. So first day of school is behind us. It has become something of a tradition -- the first day of school has typically been a half day, after which the girls and Tara and I go for ladies' lunch. We've done casual and fancy. Yesterday was Cheesecake Factory. We sat in the booth, the four of us, having a fair time. My head was elsewhere most of the meal. While we waited for the chocolate cheesecake Kate ordered, a mom and daughter walked over to say hello. The little girl was in Kate's class at the montessori last year. Her name is Katrina. She has a small sister. The girls look vaguely Asian. The mom -- not Asian. Italian perhaps. Greek. We sat together at the end of the year stuff in June -- we were both getting ready to travel. She was speaking an unfamiliar language to the children -- I was surprised when she said Arabic. It took a good bit of that first conversation for me to figure out that the mom (whose name I still, regrettably, don't know) grew up in Israel. Her entire family is in Israel. She speaks Arabic and Hebrew, English and a little Chinese to accommodate her Chinese-American husband. Katrina and her sister speak Arabic, English, Chinese. Mom and I discussed our synagogue's Hebrew program at great length in June -- she thinks it's important for her children to speak her national language. Katrina tried to teach me to count to ten in Chinese and didn't laugh when I got it wrong. They were supposed to be spending the summer in Israel. We were spending a bit of the summer in Italy. We talked about travel and the short summer left to us and the thrill of seeing the world with our children. We didn't talk about The Situation. I don't know if she's Christian or Muslim. It couldn't have mattered less. When I saw her yesterday, I wasn't thinking. "How was your trip?" I asked, all smiley and cheerful. "Oh, well," she said, looking a bit uncomfortable, "you know. We couldn't go." Duh. So I felt like a complete moron. Of course they didn't go. I inquired about her family and she waved me off. "Most everyone's fine." Most, only? Yikes. Katrina and her sister and her mom are getting on a plane this week for Jerusalem, anyway -- Katrina's uncle is getting married and they can't miss that, no matter what. They're coming back October 11th, Katrina's mom wanted to know what she could bring us from Israel. I couldn't quite bring myself to tell her how much I really just wanted her to come back safely, with a story of a big Arab wedding gone off perfectly. I want to hear about henna and honey and how brightly the bride smiled and with how much abandon the grandmothers danced.
Monday, August 28, 2006
sniff sniff
First day of school -- always emotional. Moreso because there are exactly two places I want to be right now ... but of course that's the curse, right? I'm here because there's nothing more important to me than my children, and the first day of school is a huge thing. I can just hear the teary accusation in the therapist's office down the road ... great gushing sobs from Joanna, who'll moan, "You even missed the first day of 4th GRADE!" Nope, not doing it. That's not me. So I'm here, where I belong.
But of course I'm desperately interested in the happenings in White Plains ... I can't believe George is playing for the win in the team trials ... for the most important event in the game he loves so much ... and I'm missing it. Sigh. We're down about 40 with 10 boards to play, it's looking grim for Team Jacobs.
Joanna got the teacher she was hoping for and a few good friends in her class. 4th grade is a big deal where we live -- they have lockers, switch classes, mentor younger students, the whole nine yards. Joanna is such a little mentor to begin with ...
And then there's Kate. Happy Kindergarten, Kate Jacobs. How lucky to have your buddy Kyle in your class! (Kyle's mom and I are thinking a big spring wedding...)
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Half Way Home
Can I just say I haven't yet been nervous about the outcome of this match? The first fifteen boards were pretty grim, nobody wants to be down 30-something to a good team. But George and Ralph went in strong and played lights-out for three straight sets. Some critical great decisions. The spectators all raved about your declarer play this afternoon, George. As far as I can tell, you're the favorite (of everybody rooting for you). The masses are all still rooting for Fred. I dunno, something about being the founder of the service that makes it all happen these days ... sentimental favorite ... :) So up a little with a full day of play behind us and a full day to come. Go George Go
for love or money
the universe is calling
My horoscope today (courtesy of iVillage):
Saturday, August 26, 2006
And Then There Were Two
Friday, August 25, 2006
Advice From Kate
Jacobs v Nickell
You know I'm just sitting here watching Vugraph eleven hours a day, right? I try and catch the ballgames, I make sure to cuddle with my kids, I even squeeze in a workout ... but really I'm just managing my email and watching the game. This is my favorite kind of kibbitzing -- the hands are wild, everything's on the line, we're still in it. George faces Nickell today. He's feeling strong, playing great. Last time these two faced off in the semifinals of the team trials, Jacobs pitched a shutout - 64 to 5 - in the first quarter (never won a second quarter), but Nickell was never able to recover. Playing with Garner-Weinstein and Berkowitz-Cohen, Jacobs & Katz went on to represent the United States at the Olympiad in Maastricht, Holland; they brought home the bronze medal. I haven't liked our chances this much since George mailed in the entry. Nickell is tough, but we can't lose: either George will win and go on to face the winner of Ekeblad/Meltzer, or he'll get to come home and I can get back to work. :) Go George Go.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Round of Four -- really, this time. I mean it.
George in the NYT
Good or bad, just spell his name right! One Wrong Signal Dashes Bermuda Bowl Hopes by Phillip Adler
It's Raining
It's raining and the sky is that shade of blue you see matched most frequently with chocolate in the bed & bath places. It's a pretty blue, a bit dark perhaps, but all in all the sunrise thunderstorm is a nice way to wake up. This time. Because, say, if the powered gone off? Not nice. Half way through the Round of Eight and George leads Jimmy 113-84. In the other match Meltzer leads Robinson 109-98. Sounds like basketball scores. Lots of bridge behind most of these guys (Cayne and Meltzer came through the round robin, so they've already played six full days), and for some, lots to come. Sox win over the Tigers, still alive....
Character
The work has been going so well. I've taken a quick detour into Beckett's childhood and learned so much about him. Several pivotal scenes came up and I am pretty confident I know how to use them. One of the best and most useful things I've learned to do is to constantly ask (myself, my characters, whatever) WHY? Why's he there? Why him? Why not somebody else? Not all the questions or answers make it in, but I feel like my writing is much stronger when I know why things are happening. Lately I find myself moved most by letting the characters tell me why. In their own words. When Anna Met Eleanor, Part II Gawd, so I walk up to them, this scraggly bunch of Flight A players, you know, the stars of this particular tournament, the people you whisper about when you're a beginner. "That's Lew Grissom," somebody will say, and since you're new, you know, you can't help but ask. "His team wins the Sunday Swiss here every year," they'll tell you, reverently. What they don't know is that Grissom hires that partner. Not that they haven't got tons of great results, Grissom is a pretty good player in his own right, but winning a twenty-team Swiss on a Sunday in Rockford, Illinois isn't exactly beating the world. Besides, Grissom is a jackass. Convicted child molester. Don't have to have children to loathe child molesters. Anyway I walk up to this scruffy bunch. There's Anna, looking irritated. Who could blame her? The client was Martha Singer, a lovely old bird, maybe eighty. They had special rules for playing with Martha -- wait a second, wait. It wasn't Martha. It was somebody else. Damn. I am always forgetting stuff like this. Bill. It was Big Bill S., that's right! Bill was Miguel's client for years -- a great, hulking teddy bear of a guy, former college basketball star, mellowed into a big-hearted recovery junkie who couldn't play any of his local tournaments since they all took place on a riverboat with a casino and Bill was 23 years in Gambler's Anonymous. He wasn't much for the anonymous bit -- Bill loved getting his picture in the paper & speaking out on gambling issues. He led the charge for problem gamblers to self-exclude on the boats and at casinos -- they put their names on the permanent prohibited list of crooks, cheater and card counters. Of course I didn't know a bit of his until much later. At the time, I think I was just terribly excited to have found a way in. So we go sit a few tables over and I'll be damned if Miguel doesn't spend all his time staring at me. Anna's lover. Staring at me. At first, of course, I thought he must just be the jealous Latin husband, wary and protective. Which, of course, appealed to me. But that wasn't it at all. He was just staring at me. With a funny look, almost a smile. Anna's asking me to describe my game, my abilities and all I can think of it how much it turns me o to see Miguel looking at me like that. Anna looked over at Miguel once, I couldn't read her face at all. --- ps - Ok, Mary. No more disclaimer.Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Round of Eight
Players in the 2006 US Bridge Championships enter the Round of Eight this morning. George plays Jimmy Cayne, the honcho at Bear Stearns. Go George Go! Oh, and those White Sox playing in Detroit. Yuck.
Journal Days
Beckett slips into his roast-pumpkin cashmere jacket and adjusts his shoulders and sleeves with a self-conscious glance back toward the full-length mirror. All these years later, he's still the gangly, bespectacled undergraduate completely bewildered about the important things in life: getting her cell-phone number, executing a crisp dive into the pool, negotiating the discount, closing the deal. One backward glance and it all melts away -- the highrise corner office overstuffed with Elizabethan period pieces in a building bearing his own name, the two-story condo in a shiny glass Mies Van De Rohe building downtown; the four-thousand square foot cottage with its ancient imposing chimney reclaimed from a scottish castle -- they all fade away and Beckett is once again a child, left standing alone at the edge of a thick wood. They hadn't meant to frighten him, probably, but those few heartbeats when he'd believed himself lost left a stiff and permanent scar. He has, in a very real sense, been expecting the reprise of that first act. It's not just waiting for a shoe to drop; Beckett anticipates the next crisis with a calm certainty -- indeed he wears it draped over his shoulders like a Don's hood. He likes to think that he bears up well under the circumstances; he'll say it just like that, with a wry chuckle. In his quietest moments, Beckett is prone to consider what he has come to think of as his affliction (cough-shrug). Beckett fears he will descend into an alltogether different realm. Beckett says to himself on occasion, "I seem to have stepped one foot into the quicksand of phobia." In fact, Beckett is on the brink of mental illness. He is perpetually that child, standing cold and alone at the edge of the thick wood. The trees whisper and call to him, reaching out with stinging jabs to draw him closer and steal his breath. The others were there just a moment ago, they've run off laughing and Beckett was too afraid to follow. He ran across the quiet meadow, right up to the place where the black forest floor overpowers the fragile green a few feet in front of the first towering Pine. Beckett's resolve faltered and he turned back toward the meadow, confused and afraid. Evan would come back, Beckett was sure of that, and not at all embarassed that he relied on his younger brother for safety and comfort. The boys both knew that it was but an accident that forced Beckett into roles for which he couldn't possibly be suited and Evan into his place with no expectations upon him at all. It was later that afternoon, when that business at the forest's edge was nearly forgotten, when Beckett and Evan were summoned to their father's office. He made his announcement and was appalled when Beckett balked. "The firstborn Eaton son always attends Camp Wishniwaw's leadership summit!" Mister Eaton boomed, "I did and my father did and my grandfather Westminster Eaton was the God Damned FOUNDER of the young man's leadership summit and you, Beckett Westminster Eaton will most certainly attend and be a credit to the Eaton name!" Beckett and Evan looked down at the tips of their dusty sneakers while their father bellowed instructions they were certain to heed. Mister Eaton turned without waiting for a reply and marched from the room. Beckett watched the perfect one-inch cuff of his father's custom charcoal pants brushing his shoes mid-heel, every crease and fold a testament to his exacting nature. "I don't know how I'm supposed to get through this," Beckett whispered to his younger brother. "Come on," Evan said sadly. "I'll help you make the lists, so you'll always know what to do." With a terrible twelve-year-old sigh, Beckett followed his younger brother.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Round of Sixteen
Bridge
The Round of 16 at the USBC in White Plains starts this afternoon. I'll be glued to my BBO today and tomorrow, hoping to kibbitz Jacobs to a win. Want to watch the scores? Click here
Psst -- did you hear about Peggy Bundy? They're gossping about her in the Twin Cities. The photo up top, featuring Microsoft Chairman Bill Gates, Bridge Champion Bob Hamman, Berkshire Hathaway's Warren Buffett and little Bundy down in front, was taken at the recent Omaha regional.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Does This Sound Familiar?
ROFLMAO. This is me. To a tee. Or is it T? Check it out... http://www.lisagardner.com/musings/index.html
if at first i don't succeed....
The blogs are talking success this morning, which suits me just fine. Sandra Scoppettone did a reading that sucked, and she sounds pretty unhappy about it. Said they only sold three books. Hm. Sandra Scoppettone is the author of nineteen novels. I haven't read any of them, though I'll definitely read at least one because I enjoy the blog so much. If she's anything like other writers, she's probably written a couple more that didn't quite measure up for whatever reason. According to my yard-stick, getting nineteen books into bookstores is a wildly-successful career. So what if some of them didn't fare as well as others? So what if a few didn't fare at all ... to have a publishing record include nineteen novels is something I'd be thrilled to accomplish. She calls herself a c-list author, which sounds disappointing. Note: she doesn't sound particularly disappointed, I found that interesting in and of itself. The author of nineteen mediocre books ... does that sound as successful as it did before? Hm. Not quite. If you had to trade -- right now, knee-jerk reaction -- one or two a-list books or nineteen b-/c+list books? My knee doesn't jerk. I guess I'm not evaluating success in terms of volume. What then? Miss Snark writes about Lee Child today -- the poster-child for success. The other big winner, I think, is Elizabeth George. It just so happens that these two sell tons of books and have enjoyed great commercial success. Miss Snark really does say it all, "Lee Child is a very very good writer." Bam. That's what gets my butt out of bed in the morning. It's the great big sugarplum that dances in my head. It's not about numbers, or wide audiences, or fame or whatever (I'm not sure I'd be any more enthusiastic than Scoppettone is for the process of promoting a book), it's about getting it right. I may fail. I know.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Isn't She Cute???
The new glasses. Yummy. We only tried about 40 pair of glasses on before finding the Perfect Pair. Of course we found a pair. The smart lady behind the desk offered us buy-one-get-one-free -- saved the hard, hard work of choosing between the rock-star clear Ray Bans and the uber-chic Adrienne Vittadini. The purple ones will take a couple of weeks, but we are patient.
The Best Intentions
I got up a bit early this morning, around 5:30, because the weekends come early around here and I have great working momentum. From noon or one o'clock when Tara goes home on Fridays, it's officially weekend. Frequently it's shabbat, and the girls and I do something special in the kitchen. Other times it's holiday, or party, or sports, even (gasp) once in a while, shopping. So, if I'm going to get any work done on a Friday, it'll happen between the time I wake up and noon. This morning was supposed to be great. I knew exactly what needed doing, I knew exactly how I was going to make it happen, the characters were talking to each other at really interesting cross-purposes. A solid couple of hours and I'd have accomplished absolutely everything I'd planned -- about 10,000 words, some of which had an outside chance of being the right words. Then things derailed when I waded into my email. Then Tara showed up. Then Joanna has an appointment this morning and my presence is required. By the time I get back it'll be after lunch. A bridge partner wants to play this afternoon. The kids want to go to the pool. There's no chance I'll get my to-do list done. And it's okay. I'm guarding my writing time so jealously because there is precious little of it. If I owe you a letter (and I know I do!!) then forgive me, it may wait a little bit more. But not a lot. Standard Disclaimer.
You've Been Warned
Though I intentionally avoid giving bridge hands in Keeping Score, because after all it isn't a bridge book -- just a book that takes place at a bridge tournament, I am still a bridge player and so love a conversation that starts "You hold...." So, Fridays'll be bridge hands day. Yummy. The hand I'm giving came up online this week. Partner got us to the right spot and should have been a hero ... I got it wrong. Playing IMPS, equal red, you hold: ATx AQx AQT9 Qxx You open 1D and hear 3C from partner. (Invitational, 6+ clubs) What's your call?
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Character Days
I love Kate special on Thursdays. She was born around 6:00 p.m. on a Thursday in April. She is one of toughest characters I've ever encountered -- in her honor, Thursday will be character day. For me, pushing the story forward means following the energy generated by the characters themselves. Their voices come easily to me (maybe because they're too similar? I've been looking hard at that), their quirks and imperfections delight me. I love finding the sparks of hope and redemption in each of them. Eleanor, certainly. And Beckett, who you'll meet very shortly. Anna and Miguel, Jen and Sanchez ... Upon which "real" people have I based them? Do you think you recognize any of them? Do you know all the words to the Carly Simon song? After I wrote and published this, I found a great post about this same thing on Murderati. Check it out. Yesterday I was struggling to get through a critical scene -- do you know how disappointing it can be to delete word after word, particularly if you've struggled to get just two or three down on the page in the first place? Writing a story is like playing a hand: you can do it word by word with no particular plan at the outset, but it certainly isn't best. Very early on, my bridge partner taught me the wisdom in taking my straight-guess finesses the same way every time -- that way I'd be right half the time. At least in writing I am permitted liberal use of the undo key. Standard Disclaimer.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Journal Days
I love Joanna special on Wednesdays. She was born at 6:53 a.m. on a Wednesday morning in November. Went wandering through my journal from the earliest days of Keeping Score. I think I'll post journal bits on Wednesdays, in honor of Joanna. 3/22 6:13 a.m. Just after 6 am, just past the middle of March. The window behind me is slightly open and the birds twirl carefree notes between tree branches on Yadda Avenue. If I remain still, refuse to turn around and confront the messy urban mess behind me -- asphalt and parking structures -- I could be sipping coffee beside the sea, or framed by snow-capped mountains and wildflowers. My toe itches, though, and the birds have moved on and it is the winter-into-spring moment when it is raw and a little painful. Change is ever thus. Transformation is not (apparently) a comfortable thing, regardless of the happy outcome. Standard disclaimer: I may fail. I know.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Dialect
"< Dialect on >" Can y'all blog in dialect? Ah wonder how it'd end up workin' if I blogged for y'all in my Georgia accent. It'd be annoying as hell to write the thing phonetically, but surely there has to be some indication occasionally that a speakah sounds more like Bill Clinton than Mario Cuomo. Ah'm getting off to a slow start today -- stayed up too late last naht. It's ab-so-lutely gorgeous out today, so ah'll take the laptop outside and try to keep moving. Although ah certainly agree that it does not have to be perfect, ah always start bah going over yestaday's work. Ah'm bogged down raht now, but there sure does seem to be a laht at the end of the tunnel. "< Dialect off >" Yikes. That's annoying in the extreme. Go Sox Go.
Monday, August 14, 2006
When I Look Back
Time Management
My Delta itinerary (for september) has changed. Well goodness. I looked at the email and am completely clueless -- I have no idea what's different. The days are the same, the connections seem do-able. Strange. What if they change my itinerary and it isn't ok with me? Do I have any say in the matter? I never know what to do with the odd hour or two that pops up from time to time. It's four in the afternoon and I've got nothing much that needs my attention until I figure out what we're doing for dinner and start that ball rolling. I could try diving into Keeping Score, but long about the time I'm figuring out what needs to happen next, it'll be time to wrap it up and move on to the next part of the day. I might curl up with my notebook and pen somewhere, but then I might fall asleep. I used to have a girlfriend I'd chat with on the phone every morning while I was taking Joanna to school, but we drifted apart because my bridge travel is hard on friendships. Then I had a bridge girlfriend I'd chat with in odd hours like these, but we drifted apart because real life is hard on bridge friendships. So now I'm blogging in my "spare" time (which is really my spare spare time). What do you do in your spare time?
Men Who Walk Dogs
At six in the morning. A man of a certain age, who will rise while it is dark and dress in flat-front beige chinos and an oxford-cloth shirt made mint-green in cotton/poly, his comb-over tending to greasy (They're natural oils, he'd say with the grin his mother loved when he was a child.) They were good boys; now they are good men walking dogs past me every morning. A different kind of man would notice me sitting at my desk. A subset of that kind would offer a wave, and a subset of that would have some agenda beyond simple greeting. I can't help wondering about the ones who aren't nice. It's a blog. I have to keep reminding myself.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
When Anna Met Eleanor
Some nouns from George:
- spring
- dishes
- grass
- November
- bicycle
- pizza
- bridge
- animal
- book
- bread
Bits and Bites
Think Ocean's Eleven meets Bobby Fischer. A brilliant, reclusive businessman must step in and navigate through a completely foreign high-stakes world where ambition, passion, jealousy and deception are the norm while the lives of those he loves hang in the balance. The poker fad helps me. The poker angle in the story is central enough to translate to that community. The Will Shortz movie was pretty big with the NPR crowd, that's really the group I anticipate finding ... the game players. Then there's the Wall Street / High Finance / insider group -- they'll find something crunchy in here too. Bridge players, obviously. That's a lot of book buyers. They're filming Oceans Thirteen, so there'll be more gambling/heist buzz, I can ride that wave into the offices of some publisher somewhere. Right? Standard disclaimer: I may fail. I know.