Working Title

moving

2006-10-29T14:49:00.000-06:00

day coming up. Leaving blogger for stacyjacobs.com. Join me there?

testing

2006-10-29T08:49:00.000-06:00

1-2-3

saving

2006-10-29T05:54:00.000-06:00

daylight, fall back and all that. What a concept! I'm still pretty uncomfortable, so tossing and turning until my bedside clock had a five in it, at which point I decided to toss it in and re-acquaint myself with my normal routine. Come down to the computer where it says something obscene like 4:15 a.m. Just now figuring out that it's the fall back morning. Duh. Good thing it will be an hour earlier when I finally get tired again and go back to bed. I'm seriously behind in everything, but starting to feel like my old self. My family arrived on Friday, we're together to celebrate the fall birthdays (Zach, Tristan, Grandma, Larry, Mom, George, Joanna, Haley, Jim) ... wow, Kate and I are the only non-birthday'ers. We're BBQing at my brother's this afternoon at his house in Minooka, Illinois (which I believe you'll find on e-podunk.com); on the way out there we'll all stop at the Hallmark store (Walgreens, more likely) to buy birthday cards for everybody, going to do the great birthday card exchange. I anticipate some significant chaos in the birthday card department. Clean up on Aisle Six. My poor story has been sitting in a drawer for far too long. Unless I stumble upon a secret wellspring of writing energy, I won't be finishing this draft by the first of the year. But I'm actually pretty far along, so the situation isn't completely bleak; if I am able to get back on track and spend four or five mornings a week really working, then I'll certainly have a good shot at meeting the goal. I worry that if I don't stay committed to the goal, I won't finish the story. I'll be fine, of course. I'll be getting ready to play championship bridge, I'll be working out, I'll be playing on the beach with my children, I'll be hanging with some of my most favorite friends for Thanksgiving, I'll come back and my upstairs floors will have been re-done, the hall will have been re-painted, my shower may then be free of rot. Then I'll do a lot of laundry and start the planning/shopping/wrapping concerto that plays through the month of December, until, with a contented sigh, I'll kiss my family to welcome the new year. Then I think about Eleanor -- held against her will -- and Barbara and Beckett and ... why do these folks all have names that start with B? That's very strange.... 5:39 a.m. now. I think I'll get to work. Thanks for waiting, I'm sorry I was gone so long. xo

rooting

2006-10-22T17:11:00.000-05:00

for an NL win tonight and overall. Dontchya think the Cardinals are overdue?

too much

2006-10-18T10:45:00.000-05:00

Talking. When my reading group read through the first chunk of text (roughly corresponding to chapters 1 & 2), they came back and said there was just way too much talking. Too true. My second chunk of text comes up in the workshop tonight. I anticipate more "too much talking." Again that's a good and fair criticism, and one I'm spending lots of time working through. The truth is, I have an ear for dialogue; it comes easily to me. When I'm stuck in a section, I dip into the conversations to see what's going on, and therefore my chapters are pretty dialogue-heavy. This morning I'm reading Lee Child and Elizabeth George for some perspective on effective ways of showing without telling. Seems like something I should know by now. Like I said, I may fail. Booking the spring and summer bridge travel this week. Very exciting. We're actually working on planning a summer at home. Wow. Haven't had one of those ... since who knows when! Taking a short blogging break starting this evening, will be back early next week.

look

2006-10-17T15:10:00.000-05:00

what we did this afternoon. Getting ready for the big day!

regular angst

2006-10-17T07:05:00.000-05:00

This morning I'm considering it a victory -- I've reached that point in the writing of a chapter where I doubt everything that's written; I'm thinking about my characters and second guessing each and every decision I've made thus far, almost convincing myself to go back and start from page one. That's where I am now. Talking myself out of going back. In fact I think I'm all done with thinking about going back. Now the fun starts. The next step happens when I engage myself in debate about the general merits of the various pieces already on the page. What kind of victim is Eleanor? What does her suffering look like, from the inside out? Or is it not really relevant, what's happening with my victim -- am I writing a story where the character is completely revealed but never actually seen? There's something cool there, but I'm not sure I want to get into it. But wait, that definitely goes along with the bridge setting, doesn't it? And so I go, meandering through the various steps and aspects, until finally I give myself a good old-fashioned scolding, tell myself to plant my sorry butt in the chair and get the work done. Part of the problem, realistically, is that the early sections are still so raw. The voices are indistinct, the characters are, in some cases, unsatisfyingly filled. I tell myself that the best thing to do is continue moving forward, applying what I learn as I go, with the intention of going back through it once it's all on paper and making it right. I think the art comes in the second draft... I know. I may fail.

the end

2006-10-14T12:49:00.000-05:00

isn't finished, but it's off to a great start. Yesterday got away from me, as days often do, so I didn't set about writing the ending until 5:30 this morning. I finished about 4,400 words before the kids got up at 8:30. Since then it's been busy, but I'm well on my way. Those first 4,000 are the hardest, you know?

ambition

2006-10-13T06:34:00.000-05:00

My closet is generally choking on pants and towels and t-shirts, usually there are tank-tops and bathing suits dripping from drawers, pajamas are often shoved into an available nook or out-of-sight cranny, so as to be hidden from the mindful eye of She Who Does Laundry. Shoes ooze out of the baseboards. As a sturdy room nobly doing its purpose, the closet would be pitiable -- classically overworked and underpaid; into this trembling structure toss a mountain of discarded tags stashed under and between, silken threads with concealed gold safety pins looking to strike. A collection of fabrics still wrapped in plastic, suited up and ready to do battle, an enemy army of shoes still in boxes, armed and dangerous. Yesterday I cleaned it all out. My cold weather clothes sit quietly in place, calm and relaxed and ready for a productive and peaceful season. Today I write the ending.

2006-10-12T21:42:00.000-05:00

Too tired to be witty. Or clever. Or even coherent. Last of the Door County photos...

character

2006-10-12T09:45:00.001-05:00

My favorite two characters: Joanna & Kate. Focusing on that housecleaning -- will write this evening. Cheers!

journal wednesdays

2006-10-11T06:39:00.000-05:00

I'm taking two classes this fall: the one on Tuesday mornings is an exercise class, of sorts. The instructor prompts us with a starting sentence or the direction to "write a scene where..." We write for three or four or five minutes (it's never enough) and then read what we've done. It isn't competitive in any way: the writing's not great, we don't comment on the content of the work, only how it speaks to the particular exercise. The value in the exercises is the practice just writing. The practice writing descriptively, and quickly, and without the constant feedback of Myself, The Critic. I walked into this class planning to direct all of my exercises at Keeping Score, and with one exception I've done that. I've made several interesting discoveries about the secrets my characters are keeping -- from each other and themselves -- as a result of the scene's I've written in five minutes or less. "Take an alien character and put him/hr in a setting that is familiar to us, but make it unfamiliar to the character." Ugh. I can't imagine wanting to apply this to a bridge room. Well, damn. Now that I'm thinking about it again, I can think of all sorts of ways to work usefully within my manuscript. But I couldn't think of anything quickly at class yesterday, and I hate to waste the writing time trying to think of something to say. So here's what came out.

Squealing, they are. Separate, together, singly many. Darting, they are, herky-jerky bodies in motion. Hard and cold, this is. Bumply black with yellow lines around which they shriek and holler. Cold, it is. Colors, they sound and boing around, orange balls like heads pushed and shoved, kicked and caught. Across the way, the smaller ones, infants, they are. Hatchlings, learning to fly. Soft, woody, the landing pad for hatchlings. Yes. My own hatchlings would land softly there. These small ones are afraid, never let go. Curious, they are. How will they learn to fly? Jangling, loud and cold. Primitive, they are. A call to order, it is. Darting and shrieking again, and cold, their essences alight inthe atmosphere, little breath-puffs of life riding out on their laughter as they arrange themselves, smallest to largest, and stand still.

door

2006-10-10T07:55:00.000-05:00

I'd been thinking that we'd go to Minneapolis to visit our dear friend Peggy, hit the Mall of America, bop around and see the colors in the great north. George came home on Thursday and said he'd booked us a house on the water in Door County, Wisconsin. I'd never been up there and was a bit put out that he was raining on my parade, but in the interest of peace and harmony managed to keep my mouth shut. (Nod sagely...) We stayed in Sturgeon Bay, in a dumpy little house right on the water. We drove around and around, looking at the colors and talking about buying a place and stopping to check out the art fair, the pumpkin farm, the rocky Lake Michigan shore. It was a lovely few days with George and the children -- completely relaxing. I have such a fondness for rural America. We went into Fish Creek on Saturday night for a fishboil. George raved and raved about the spectacle and great food. Fish Creek -- great little beach town, right next to Egg Harbor (a Jacobs family favorite breakfast spot). The food wasn't all that -- salted water, Lake Michigan Whitefish (eeew), red potatoes, small sweet onions in a vast cauldron, gurgling away pretty merrily until ka-fvoooom!, the beefcake throws a pitcher of kerosene on the fire and it tosses up an explosion's worth of fire that the saltwater boiling over quickly douses. My girls are better eaters than I was at their age, they both ate the fish and loved it. I like my fish like my steaks, for the most part. (Jen, was I totally ridiculous eating lobster in Boston that time? Yesyesyes....) Now we're back and I'm doing some housekeeping -- emotional and otherwise. Gearing seriously up for Hawaii. Starting to think about what I'm going to look like in a bathing suit. (eeek!) Working on the book, the bridge, the body. Oooh, Baby!

back

2006-10-09T18:17:00.000-05:00

and wiped out. photos and the story tomorrow. xxoo

at long last

2006-10-06T23:27:00.000-05:00

the family Jacobs is heading out on a road trip. We're leaving in the morning for Door County, where Geo has booked us a cottage on the lake. I'll take photos and post them when we're back -- unfortunately, looks like no internet connection there. Hoping to spend some one-on-one time with Eleanor. Wish me luck!

a-o-k

2006-10-06T07:27:00.000-05:00

"I see no reason to keep you from the exercise," said the ultrasound guy yesterday as he smeared the gel around on my chest. I hadn't realized that the echo part would be an ultrasound of my heart. I've had two babies, I know about ultrasounds. So I walked on the treadmill. My heart rate when I got on the thing was 70. My resting heart rate (terrifies me that I know this) is 64. My target was 160. Took just over ten minutes. The cardiologist, the ultrasound guy and the Ukranian nurse were there the whole time, cracking jokes and making me laugh. Thirty seconds after I achieved the target, they laid me back down on the table and took another ultrasound. It was tough to hold my breath for that. "Everything looks perfectly normal," said Dr. Miller, the cardiologist. "You're good to go." And that, as they say, was that. (Yes, chest still hurts and I'm still having trouble catching my breath, which is annoying and uncomfortable.) I'm about to be hard at work on brand-spaking-new chapters, the scenes have been swirling around in my head. The group critique looms large in my thinking -- they liked the dialogue, but were bothered that there's so much of it. That kind of feedback is so useful -- brings back the Francine Prose book yet again -- I see very clearly that the chapter one dialogue is too one-dimensional (all they're talking about is bridge -- there's no subtext). Easy to fix, after a fashion. I've mentioned it now several days in a row -- how tempting it is to go back and tweak the chapter while the comments are still fresh in my head. I'm resisting that urge (argh, maybe I should just do it, quit talking about it!!), and finding that the remarks are informing my new work instead. That's every bit as good, as far as I'm concerned, provided the new work also reflects the stuff the group had to say. Also a new project looming on the horizon, means I'm back dabbling in web design -- an easy way to waste boatloads of time. Stay tuned, there may be a moving announcement in my future.

heading

2006-10-05T09:56:00.000-05:00

to the hospital for an echo-stress-test thingie. I believe that's the technical term. According to the fabulous Dr. Hulesch, the results of this will be largely meaningless, because I don't fit the profile. What's "the norm" ? White 40 year old male. Why wouldn't they measure me against the universe of young, fit women? Wouldn't that just make so much sense? Did I mention Tara is on vacation this week? Rushing from hospital to pick up Kate, who's out of school at 11:25. Then lunch, then nap, then picking up Joanna and taking Kate to Kindermusic then cookng dinner then, maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll sit down and work on Keeping Score a little bit more. The comments last night were so helpful. I am still so tempted to go back and incorporate the suggested changes. But I'll never finish if I wait for Chapter One to be perfect....

chapter one

2006-10-04T22:05:00.000-05:00

disected at workshop tonight. so many good comments! I am tempted to step backward and fuss with that chunk again, but will do my best to hold off on that. The goal from here to January is forward. Always forward. Beat. Will write something snappy or smart tomorrow.

wednesday

2006-10-04T15:08:00.000-05:00

Started with a trip to the doctor's office. I love our doctor -- he's a neighbor, a really good guy. Been having some trouble breathing, a little chest tightness, that sort of thing. Echo-stress-test tomorrow. My paternal grandmother started having heart attacks in her early thirties ... certainly can't hurt. Don't know that we'll find anything, but I'd be ecstatic to get to the bottom of the can't-take-a-deep-breath thing. Quit smoking five years ago after smoking two packs a day for fifteen years. Maybe it's emphysema? Stay tuned... Ended up skipping class yesterday to take Joanna to the ortho yet again, another sprained ankle. Starting physical therapy next week. Poor kid! Finished a draft of the new chapter, heading to workshop shortly.

back to school

2006-10-03T06:58:00.000-05:00

after the holiday yesterday and the hurricane-force storm we had here last night. Driving home was a scary affair -- the streets were flooded, a tree was down blocking our street entirely, the rain came down so hard we couldn't see the tail lights of the trucks around us. The power was out when we got home (no great surprise there); we were pleasantly surprised when it came back on at 11. Working this morning then heading to class. Then perhaps a field trip in the city, then a dinner date. Till tomorrow...

yom kippur

2006-10-02T17:39:00.000-05:00

shouldn't everyone have a day of atonement? Isn't it a good thing, to be responsible for our words and actions and to actively repent? In Judaism we believe that God can and will forgive us our lapses of faith, but that only the people we wrong can forgive us for the harm we've done them. I grew up in a faith that demanded I confess my sins and that I do a prayerful penance for those sins in order to be forgiven. So when I kicked my brother square in the ass, I confessed and said my Hail, Mary's, and went on my merry way. It's easier, by a lot, to confess and pray to God for forgiveness. God might forgive me, but would my brother? Did I forgive him? Not for years and years, until the collective good we have done each other has overwhelmed all the internecine sibling warfare between us. Would have been far simpler to just apologize. Isn't retrospect grand?

i love this

2006-10-01T09:53:00.000-05:00

So the Torah Is a Parenting Guide?

unbelievable

2006-10-01T07:54:00.000-05:00

but ... have you any idea how impossible it is to find a great web designer anymore? Argh!

2006-09-30T08:19:00.000-05:00

Went to a lovely wedding last night. I always cry at weddings. Autumn is such a tricky time -- on one hand: I adore watching the colors get warmer as the air gets colder. I love sweaters and jeans and boots and fires in the fireplace and the steam that rises from the hot-tub on a hung-over Saturday morning; on the other hand: long about Homecoming time I start to squint down the narrow tunnel of winter, dreading the stinging cold that never fails to freeze my every nerve ending mid-contraction. It used to be that the post-Halloween-sugar crash would ignite a bleak depression lasting through mid-January, when for whatever reason that end would finally come into view ... My sweet, patient husband banished my December-holiday blues, and despite the wild summer running around I'm definitely ready for a slower, more intimate season. I'm very much looking forward to gathering my girls in close. Of course two weeks in Hawaii in November and a girlfriends getaway in January are adequate bright spots in even the darkest winter, right? Deadlines early this week. The pressure is mounting.

quote

2006-09-29T16:12:00.000-05:00

Of all the books about writing, my favorite is still Story. What do you think of this?

"The art of story is not about the middle ground, but about the pendulum of existence swingting to the limits, about life lived in its most intense states." --McKee, Story, p 146

remember friday bridge hands?

2006-09-29T07:29:00.000-05:00

Last night I had this hand: QTxx x AKxxxxx x Playing imps, unfavorable. So let's say you're not a bridge player. How do you make sense of this? The four suits -- spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs -- sit in that exact hierarchy. When we "give" a hand (which is to say, when we talk about bridge hands we have to actually say what the cards in the hand are so that our audience can follow the story), we tell the spade suit first, followed by hearts and then diamonds then clubs. Early this morning (don't ask!) I "gave" this hand to George. I said, "Can I give you a hand?" "Sure." "Ok. You have queen-ten-fourth, stiff, ace-king-seventh and stiff." Look at the hand above -- QTxx/x/AKxxxxx/x. Can you see how that becomes queen ten fourth (spades), stiff (hearts)...? The x's are insignificant little cards. "Ok." Means George can visualize the hand. "You're up." He's supposed to bid (or pass). "One diamond." Let's stop here for a second. In order to evaluate the hand, you need to know a little more about the game. If you've read Chapter One, you know a little bit about this. Bear with me. Evaluating a hand begins with looking for face cards. We assign a numeric value to each face card: Aces are worth four points, Kings are three, Queens are two, Jacks are one. "You have a nine count." "It's a player." Right. Here's the next step: there are a total of 40 points in a deck of cards. Ace/king/queen/jack in each of four suits. In order for one side to take more tricks than the other side, they need to have a preponderance of the high card points. So in general, we bid when the high cards in our hand hit roughly 12. The hand above doesn't fit that. But we can all look at the hand and know that it's a player. We have seven diamonds. And four spades. "Let's say you pass." Shannon, my regular partner, will probably be in the camp of passers. I thought for a long while before passing -- wanted very much to bid one diamond. "I guess so." "It goes pass, pass, one diamond from partner." George chuckles. When partner bids one diamond, we know for sure that she has three and probably four diamonds. After three passes, she might have a weak hand, ten or eleven high card points, or she might have a gazillion. Unknown. "Righty bids one heart, so we bid double, showing our four spades." Someday I'll blog about doubles. Not today. "Lefty bids two hearts, partner bids two spades. Righty bids three hearts." Now what? Back to work. Big busy day. Thinking of you.

peeling back the covers

2006-09-28T09:40:00.000-05:00

This morning the alarm went off at 5:25. I snoozed in six-minute increments until 5:52 (cool, eh?) then found my way downstairs. Turned the coffee on, set the dog down to potty in the mudroom, turned on the light in my office and collected the overnight email. I don't use the auto-check every x number of minutes feature of my email program -- I like the process of actively collecting it myself. Very strange, I know. Once the coffee's made and the dog has pottied, we curl up with the keyboard and Miss Snark, Murderati and The Outfit Collective. By then it's six-fifteen and I have to decide if I'm going to blog first or write first. Writing won this morning, and between six and seven I managed almost a thousand words. They're not very good words, many of them will disappear upon the very first reading, but that's not particularly relevant. I happened to work out some important information and found some really exciting details. Then it was time to wake the girls and get the day started. Now here it is, 9:40. I've answered emails, played with the dog, met with Iwona and Tara about yesterday's kid issues, upgraded my Microsoft Office software, installed a new mouse (keyboard coming!) and printed the current chapter. I'll be back to work in a few minutes after a stern meeting with myself wherein I decided that I'd better get busy. 1,000 words in a day would be great, if it were every day. Which it simply isn't. So off I go. Wish me luck.

hard

2006-09-28T08:23:00.000-05:00

day yesterday. Man, parenting is tough stuff. Hard at work today, hopefully toward as positive an outcome. namaste...

from the journal

2006-09-27T06:02:00.000-05:00

Where Beckett and Evan's rooms were maintained according to General Eaton's exacting standards, the pink palace Anna inhabited was another world entirely. Beckett Eaton, age twelve, saw to it that his quarters were never untidy. Evan, age ten, could bounce a quarter on the rough wool blanket covering his extra-long twin bed. Anna Elizabeth Eaton, age eight, floated out of her impossibly soft white bed every morning, slid her tiny painted toenails into fuzzy pink slippers and skated across the wide-plank pine floorboards that had served generations of Eaton daughters since the house was built in 1803. The round carpet covering the floor of the turret in Anna's room, made by Grandmother Amelia Eaton while she was pregnant with the twins who didn't live the first summer, covered a precious, important secret. She'd heard Mama and the General talking about it once, how perhaps it would be better if Beckett moved in with Evan so Anna could have his room. It was a little eerie, that turret ... Anna worried, briefly. When the General decided, the die was cast. If he agreed with Mama, she'd lose everything: her gorgeous yellowed walls, once flat white, now alight with the sweetest dreams of all the little girls who'd come before; the white iron canopy bed with a down featherbed laying on the mattress that felt just like a cloud when she launched herself onto it from the floor; the turret where the poor dead girl told her troubles to Ken and Barbie.

favorites

2006-09-26T08:24:00.000-05:00

Elizabeth George's new book, What Came Before He Shot Her, coming in October. Sherry Thomas, on Tuesdays. Gabriela Montero "Bach and Beyond" (ok, it came out in September, but ...).

reading

2006-09-26T06:42:00.000-05:00

The Night Listener, after hearing Robin Williams on Fresh Aire with Terry Gross, and I am reminded of the Francine Prose I read a few weeks ago. The power of that work has become evident: I am reading (much more) closely and learning so much from it. Great writers really do write great sentences! I am completely smitten. I read some Armistead Maupin years ago when I worked at the Howard Brown Health Center (the Howard Brown Memorial Clinic, when I was there), but that was about getting a grounding sense of the culture of gay men. Now it's about reading as a writer... In other news, this morning I was sorting through the stacks of paper that come home from the elementary school while I was away. Apparently last Monday was Constitution Day or some such, the note from the Kindergarten teacher said that she was required to present information about The Constitution and would be curious to see what pieces the children retained. Ooh, I love this kind of thing! So, more than a week after the teacher presented the material, Kate and I had this conversation: "Hey Kate, did you ever hear anything about The Constitution?" "Yeah." "What is it?" "About the laws." "Who do you think wrote it?" "A lot of persons." "So ... is it a good thing or a bad thing?" "A really good thing."

in the news

2006-09-25T05:57:00.000-05:00

So I read a pseudo-news story about Bill Clinton this morning - something I do rarely. I stay far away from all that (non-)news in large measure because I get all riled up when I do read it ... ultimately too distracting. Anyway, the last paragraph reads:

"That's what's driving the terrorism," he said. "It's not just that there's an unresolved Arab-Israeli conflict. Osama Bin Laden and Dr. al-Zawahiri can convince young Sunni Arab men, who have (and some women) who have despairing conditions in their lives, that they get a one-way ticket to heaven in a hurry if they kill a lot of innocent people who don't share their reality."

I am reminded: I used to believe that baseball was a hitter's game. I saw it only from the perspective of the guy with the bat in his hand, so to me the game looked like a group of foolhardy adolescents with something to prove. Then I had a couple of kids, grew up a bit, and realized that to a far greater extent than offensive power, baseball is about the partnership of pitcher and catcher, mine against yours. Sure, it's a pitcher's game. Without starting (and relief, witness CWS 2006) pitching, a team is nowhere. But without a smart catcher who knows his pitchers and the game very well, the pitching isn't going to get the job done either. It takes those two guys working together -- the pitcher handles affairs at the plate, the catcher directs the entire effort. I really liked quite a lot of what happened while Clinton was president. But after reading that article this morning, which I read because I thought the former President probably had some insights to offer, I'm thinking of him as more of a batter than a pitcher or catcher. Without an entire administration backing him up, Clinton sounds like an angry aging hippie. He lacks both the finesse to pick the play and the right stuff to get it done. In baseball the situation is pretty transparent: the players take the field and we get to watch folks doing their jobs. Why can't we elect the guys behind these Presidents, the ones with the ideas and the answers and the visions for the future? I'd like to hear from the guy whose idea it was -- the one who said "hey, I know! We'll put it out there that they have weapons of mass destruction..."

home

2006-09-23T08:00:00.000-05:00

in time to watch a completely disappointing White Sox loss last night. One more game this season. The good news is that my writing and travel schedules can heat right up with no post-season distractions. Last year was thrilling, but awfully like work in many ways. Busy holiday weekend; back to work on Monday. Until then, best wishes for a sweet new year! L'Shana Tovah

big fork

2006-09-21T06:33:00.000-05:00

for breakfast, doesn't that sound about right? Heading home this time tomorrow. I'm ready.

quiet

2006-09-20T10:21:00.000-05:00

morning at the Red Lion Hotel, Kalispell. It's a cloudy, rainy, chilly day here; the colors change drastically overnight, it seems. I base this on nothing in particular, since I haven't yet been outside. There is no Starbucks in Kalispell. Nor Whitefish. Nor Columbia Falls. Not in West Glacier, either. And that's okay. Montana Coffee Traders is all over the place, one just a block up the street, and I think the coffee's better. Partly that's about the coffee and partly that's about the change of atmosphere. Starbucks is convienent but too processed, too commercial. But you know I am a big Nespresso fan, and that's the Nestle corporation (talk about commercial). And that's okay, too. Eleanor doesn't drink coffee, never has, doesn't like the taste of the stuff. Doesn't drink cognac or brandy either -- she believes that women who drink cognac are bullshitters, trying to insert themselves into social company to which they simply do not belong.

polebridge

2006-09-19T19:41:00.000-05:00

We struck out for Polebridge, MT early this morning -- a bridge player we met last night recommended it highly. So off we went, up the west side of the north fork of the Flathead River in the rain, headed toward what the girl at the coffee shop called a hippie commune. Once upon a time, that would have been the place for me. Now? They have rental cabins there, no running water. The apple turnover was great, the spicy cheese bread thing fresh from the oven was superb. The young homeschooled boy gave us the lowdown ... during the peak season, there are 50 full time residents in Polebridge. Come winter, only eight remain. Hard to imagine. They told us that the roads are plowed twice a week, correpsonding to delivery of the mail. Ahh, the wild, wild west. Shannon and I were third last night, so far today we're third again. If I'd been able to sleep, we might have played really well. But alas, my "take a nap" button doesn't work so well. sigh.... Tomorrow? Dunno yet. Stay tuned!

the eagle

2006-09-19T07:35:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was ... amazing. Shannon and I started out from Kalispell, heading to West Glacier, MT, our nearest entrance to Glacier National Park. We found a wonderful place for breakfast, Montana Coffee Traders where the people were friendly and the eggs benedict (all made fresh, even the hollandaise) was $6.95. Then we went looking to take the tour we'd chosen. We arrived at the helicopter place at the same time as two married couples, so six can fly far cheaper than two. With our temporary new friends, we could afford to fly over the park for a full hour (for just Shannon and me, to fly for an hour would have been $350 per person). Glacier National Park is magnificent -- this is the landscape that moves me. The glaciers and mountains are truly awesome, but it's the lakes that I found so spectacular. After the helicopter tour, we headed into the park, where we hopped on the Going-to-the-Sun road up to Logan Pass, beyond which the road is closed for the season. We stopped several times: to hop over rocks into a stream, to watch a mountain goat, to use the rustic potties. Then it was into Whitefish, where we bought tons of gifts and stayed for dinner. Made it back to the hotel in time to slap on a layer of lip gloss and head to the bridge game. Stayed up much too late, woke up earlier than I'd hoped. This morning we're heading out to find what the locals say is the best breakfast with the best view in Montana.

big sky

2006-09-18T20:22:00.000-05:00

arrived safely in Kalispell, Montana yesterday. Spent the day at Glacier National Park, had an absolutely splendid day. I took 116 pictures, two or three of which I'll post this evening. So much to be thankful for today..... it's game time. off to do what i came here to do. lots of love.

peace and quiet

2006-09-16T17:52:00.000-05:00

ain't all it's cracked up to be, you know? I took the family to the airport this morning, then ran around looking for a very specific item which, predictably, I couldn't find. Then I sat in an awful lot of traffic and got woefully lost before finally landing at my brother's place where ... sssssh, don't tell anyone ... I got to hold the baby! I'd cuddle them more often if they weren't so intoxicating. I've talked to my family about twelve times since I dropped them at 9:30 this morning. Finally home with a to-do list as big as the all outdoors. Outdoors! I'm going to Montana tomorrow! My plan is to work in the mornings and play in the afternoons and evenings and sleep all the rest. How likely? About as likely as the White Sox making the playoffs. Argh they are playing horribly, it is very disappointing. Perhaps something good will happen. About the manuscript -- moving right along. Had several really good work days and today I managed a huge score: I found my floorplan. Why's that important? Stay tuned.

wonder

2006-09-15T09:33:00.000-05:00

why I always seem to do the most and best work when it's absolutey gorgeous outside and nobody in their right mind would be sitting at a computer? I'm working furiously today and tomorrow, with a few interesting pauses, trying to get ready for my trip West. George is taking the girls and heading to New Jersey tomorrow morning (mazel tov Oren, Beth, Alex, Daniel & Peri!), I'll be gone by the time they get back on Sunday. As ever, I am apprehensive about aspects of this trip. But the excitement is building, too. Man, I hope they have Internet access out there, so I can share it with you!

WAY TO GO JEN JEWELL

happy anniversary

2006-09-14T06:48:00.000-05:00

Last night at dinner we celebrated five years with Tara. Her boyfriend Chris took the photo. Huge pile of work to get done today, manuscripts to fedex tomorrow afternoon. Leaving on Sunday morning, wildly excited about it. Next week, blogging on the road...

from the journal

2006-09-13T06:17:00.000-05:00

Before, with the communism, we was waiting on the line -- you couldn't buy nothing -- everywhere was empty shelves, even if you wanted to buy bread, or sugar, or chocolate, or even toilet paper. A big line, everybody waiting all night long, because for first or second in line it was a lot more choices, you know? It wasn't enough for everybody. They would give you coupons, and you could buy extra, you know, coupon, from friends. Or alcoholics. What wants alcoholics with sugar? For them, alcohol it's the most important. Cops, soldiers had extra place, the shelves full of everything. Friend of my mom? Her husband was a soldier, so she had card for the cop's place. Sometimes my mom? She borrow the card. We always have freezer full of meat against the day when it's going to be for us empty in the store. After the communism was over, you can buy everything in the store in my country. When the time came and communism fell, everybody was fighting in the street. With cops and soldiers, even they was shooting. It was danger, really really danger. Everybody was strike, do you know what it is? Strike? It was Walesa and the Church. The priests was talking about ... help people believe, be strong, not to give up. Then it was John Paul Second, you know? Came to Poland and people in my country, I dunno, feel like they got somebody who can gonna protect them. Not like that guy can protect you, but that's what they think, the guy is gonna protect them. Before, I was more sure of Polish people.

tea time

2006-09-12T08:58:00.000-05:00

From Teavana via Sherrie, who really should be a stylist. Called Rose of Suzhou. "This artisan display tea is comprised of a Globe Amaranth flower handtied with Suzhou (the Venice of China) green tea. Considered the tea of love, it will blossom as it steeps. Great for tea parties or a special gift for the tea lover in your life."

don't worry! everything's fine!

2006-09-11T14:37:00.000-05:00

Yay! Finally got them! been trying to post some cute pictures of my two unlucky patients: Joanna, who sliced open her finger at the ice rink on Saturday, and George who had some unexplained ... uh ... bleeding. Follow up with your family doctor. The internet is choking (probably blogger glut) or you'd have photos to put your mind at ease. All is well. I'm just stress eating. No, I'm just blaming bad food choices on the events of this weekend because it is convienent. The fact is I'm not in the mood for self-control on this front. The gym beckons. My thirteen -- Ulcerative Colitis. Man, life is sticky. I always believed being a grown-up meant fun. Wicked, up-all-night, hip-smacking, mind-blowing fun; I imagined dinners and parties and dresses and lipsticks and violins playing Bach and the twinkle of crystal in candlelight. My brother's baby is beautiful. I am blessed with the minor crises of an active, healthy family. Seems like the dream came true.

so far today

2006-09-11T11:43:00.000-05:00

i have eaten twelve Dunkin Donuts munchkins, one chocolate chip cookie (sans chocolate chips) and thirteen pills (prescription medications). yuck. i am resolved to do better.

two

2006-09-10T08:48:00.000-05:00

trips to the emergency room in two days -- too many.

i need a word

2006-09-09T10:31:00.000-05:00

that means soft: soft and fragile, like a souffle; soft and warm, like a puppy; soft and sustaining, like a viola; soft and sweet, like a kiss.

miscellania

2006-09-08T09:57:00.000-05:00

I know who did it. I even know why. Thrilling stuff, that. It's for me to know, and you to find out. Hang in there, I'm going to do my best to make it worthwhile. My brother and his wife had a baby. Welcome Tristan! Regarding the girls getaway: it looks like January will work best -- the bridge, family and college trips in October, November & December are all in place. There's an outside chance we will be far, far away in January &/or February, so I'm proceeding somewhat cautiously. Book selection: have you read Zadie Smith, On Beauty? Let me know what you think. Have another idea? It's a democratic group... A busy weekend ahead. Be well.

did i mention...

2006-09-07T15:07:00.000-05:00

That Jacobs is USA1? The New York Times is continuing its celebration of the antics last month in White Plains: Confusion at the Table, and Lady Luck Intervenes

character thursdays

2006-09-07T14:17:00.000-05:00

I gave myself the serious creeps this morning. Last night during the break in class, I was describing for Jill some of the problems I've been having in my story -- specific, technical, crime-scene kinds of things -- places I need to do some research, that sort of thing. Jill mentioned having seen a place on Ashland called U Spy Store; to the surprise of absolutely no one who knows me, I checked them out on the web first thing this morning. Take a look, then come back. Wow, huh? I glanced at all the tabs, selecting the obvious "books & videos" for my initial exploration. Yikes. I hesitated to click through any of the titles, afraid that the very act of googling "spy" and "store" together had won me free entry onto somebody's list. I'm sure that hitting that particular website elevated my IP address in someone's estimation. Imagine if I'd bought something! Seems like (best case) law enforcement types might hand-deliver books of that nature. Want to tell myself to get a life, right about now. We did a fun exercise last night in class; working with a character who's not yet especially prominent in the manuscript, we were asked to write a first-person monologue in which the character discusses his/her biggest flaw. Then, the second part, we had a best friend/spouse/co-worker (whatever) describe what s/he thought was the first character's biggest flaw. What a great way to learn about characters. I spent the morning reading the one of the two stories that'll be workshopped in class next time. I'll miss that class, so I read a bit extra-carefully and wrote copious notes. Lou wrote a beautiful piece in which an 89 year old woman confronts death and wins. Awesome.

what if the monkey

2006-09-07T10:36:00.000-05:00

took requests? I need some help. Please leave two or three random nouns in the comments. Much to report after class last night ... stay tuned!

from the journal

2006-09-06T06:32:00.000-05:00

"Anna, slow down," Beckett said. "You said she was acting weird this morning. Weird how?" "Well, she told me she'd run into an old friend and was meeting her for breakfast. Eleanor never has breakfast in public. She and Miguel always get a suite and come out half an hour before game time looking rested and fit and beautiful, and that's the only time you see them. The second they finish playing, either of them, they slide their cards into the tray and up they go, zipping up to the 33rd floor or wherever, into the suite. I don't know, maybe they hop into waiting limos and race over to some fancy restaurant, nobody ever sees them. It's part of their mystique, part of why people are fascinated by them: they don't hang out in the bar, they're never in the restaurants, you won't see them walking by. The only way you know if Miguel and Eleanor are at the tournament is to show up in the playing area. So now Eleanor shows up alone, gets to the hotel with some old friend nobody's ever heard of, and a couple of days later is out for a bit of breakfast? I mean, I guess she must have old friends, but ... How good of a friend could this woman be? I've never even heard of her. Then, here's where it gets even weirder. She called me twenty minutes late. Eleanor always/> calls me at noon. Not eleven fifty-nine, not twelve-o-one. You can set your watch by it. I do, obviously. I mean, she's my game day wakeup call.. Anyway, she called me twenty minutes late and was all strange on the phone." "Strange how?" "Well, she gets all lovey-dovey on the phone with me, which is totally not Eleanor Scout Lee. The Eleanor I know calls while she's doing ten other things. Most I usually get is a brusque 'You up?' Once in a blue moon she'll ask me to get the entry, but that's pretty rare. This time it was, like ... I dunno. Like she wanted to keep me on the phone, chatting away. She said she wasn't having a good time with her friend. All that, late and everything, it was pretty strange." "Ok, so then what?" "Beckett, can we cut the crap and find my partner?" "We are already hard at work on that. What happened next?" "So as soon as I got off the phone with her, I was like, 25 minutes late." "Late?" "Sure. Eleanor likes me there at quarter-till. Without fail. It's one of the major things with her. Gotta be there at least fifteen minutes early. So usually, I have 45 minutes to get up, get dressed and get down there. I usually make it. This morning I only had about twenty minutes. No way I could get there on time. So I hopped in the shower, quick curled my hair, tossed a coat of clear polish on my toes and tore out of there still buttoning my blouse. Of course it was ten till one, so it took forever for the elevator to come, and then when it did finally come we had to stop on every. Single. Floor. I get down there and it's like two minutes till one and I start looking for her. She'd got the entry, so I knew where to go..." "Wait a second. How'd you know where to go?" "Huh? She told me."

check this out

2006-09-05T15:48:00.000-05:00

The Hobgoblin of Little Minds: Attention Perverts!

responsibility is a big word

2006-09-05T08:46:00.000-05:00

swirl

2006-09-04T06:37:00.000-05:00

I spent a few minutes with Francine Prose yesterday. Nothing happened. I read for a dozen pages or more and she said, essentially, that great writers write great sentences. Okay. Not exactly the insight I was looking for, but then it does seem occasionally that I end up needing most what dropped in my lap while I was wishing for something else. However, I was thrilled when I read her thoughts about dialogue. The basic question: Does the dialogue serve only one purpose? Aha. I. Eleanor remembered that first time, too. She remembered the clamshell velvet booth, the genteel suits, the exotic stranger. Nerves alone would have been enough to set her ears on fire; but when the flush rose from her shoulders and she turned entirely red, Eleanor began to suspect the sweet wine was a player as well. "You're beautiful," Alex said. The flush burned even brighter; Eleanor smiled and glanced at her plate, toyed with a fork, took a sip of water, shifted in the booth, then folded her hands. "Are you nervous?" she asked. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful." Those were magic words. The flush began to recede, slowly at first but then it was just gone, disappeared, as if it had never been. Alex wasn't Miguel -- not her smart, funny, kind Miguel. Miguel made her feel safe. Miguel wouldn't have been nervous, and he'd have seen to it that Eleanor wasn't either. Miguel was her love, not Alex. Eleanor's ... what was it, a crush? Simple curiosity? Lust maybe? Whatever it was, it was gone before it ever got going. It was just that time was a factor: it took her more than two years to screw up the nerve to speak to Alex, then there were a few months courting to get to that fateful first dinner. Should she have been surprised, then, that it took her more than two years to get back out?

looking forward...

2006-09-03T10:58:00.000-05:00

Classes start this week. Well, one class starts this week, another in a couple of weeks. I'm thrilled, and nervous, and completely determined to make the most of this opportunity. It's been ages since my schedule permitted taking classes and this fall I get to take two -- one workshop and one exercise/practice lab. Yum. Can't wait. I'm running out of notebooks (I bought a bunch in spain last year, unique and absolutely perfect) but I have a good supply of smooth writing gel pens and I even checked the serial numbers on my laptop and battery to discover that I don't have one of those faulty catch-on-fire laptop batteries. Phew! The second crime has happened in Keeping Score. I knew it was coming and it even shocked me. The third is coming up quickly -- building up steam to the end. A bunch of trips upcoming, and the High Holidays, then the Fall Nationals in Hawaii. Keep your hands and arms inside the ride at all times. Might. I might fail.

finally

2006-09-02T06:50:00.000-05:00

Up to my eyeballs in Keeping Score. Can you imagine how desperately I'd like to be one of those writers who can sit down and pound out an entire novel-length work in 3 weeks? If I wasn't going to be gone for most of November I would probably jump into National Novel Writing Month. Except for a few trips in October, I'd just do it a month early. Or late, except December's a nightmare too. January seems open, maybe I can write a novel in January. Because February and March are pretty busy. Ahhh, April. How the time flies.... Sigh. I may fail.

reading

2006-09-01T13:53:00.000-05:00

I've selected A.M. Homes to read this fall -- I have all of her books on my desk, I'm reading them backward from the most recent. I'm also reading Francine Prose, her new volume on writing and reading. Armed and ready. Prose advocates close-reading: pulling back the cushy dressings of plot and story and voice and getting down to the nuts and bolts of language, sentence, word. I admit to being one of those horrible readers who's too easily seduced by action and dialog and a good story, one of those non-critical readers. This fall I'll endeavor to study as well as read. To read close, and maybe learn something. I'm just wading into Homes' story, some of the early passages are quite striking. I read them my old fashioned way, now am taking a break from the Prose to re-read the opening pages, closely this time. Imagine my surprise to notice that (65 pages in you think I'd have noticed already?) there are no chapters. It's just one big book, broken up by a double-wide chunk of white space. I'm not quite sure what's happening; as far as I can tell, Richard is in some pain and we're going to ride along with Homes as she figures out how to get him feeling better. Just in case, I thought yesterday, I'd be interested to read a review of this book. Handy dandy New York Times. I found this review first. Honestly? I knew less about the book after the review than I did before it. Just now I went back on a google search for the title so I could re-copy the URL and paste it here for you. Imagine my surprise to click on the first of two New York Times links and finding a different review. This second one, much easier to follow. Says the book is dreadful. Hm. In the half an hour I have before Joanna comes home from school, I'm going to take my pen and notebook and sit outside (it's bright and sunny, 80 with a cool breeze) and see what I can learn about writing from a book that's either brilliant or dreadful.

did i mention...

2006-08-31T12:21:00.000-05:00

...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

counting noses

2006-08-31T11:42:00.000-05:00

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.

from the journal

2006-08-30T06:17:00.000-05:00

"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

Miss Completely

2006-08-29T11:10:00.000-05:00

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.

Jacobs is USA1

2006-08-28T19:58:00.000-05:00

sniff sniff

2006-08-28T18:25:00.000-05:00

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...)

Half Way Home

2006-08-27T20:47:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-27T17:41:00.000-05:00

"Well," said Kate Jacobs, age five, "my dishwashing days will soon be over."

the universe is calling

2006-08-27T06:33:00.000-05:00

My horoscope today (courtesy of iVillage): The best creative inspiration is something that's commonly become known as 'the deadline.' This necessary intimidation is sponsored by the powers that be, prompted by their insatiable urge to get things done on time. Like it or not, you've got one -- and resistance is futile. On the iPod: Shoot the Moon, Norah Jones

And Then There Were Two

2006-08-26T21:06:00.000-05:00

Nickell barely unpacked the suitcases before they're heading back out. Ekeblad tomorrow. Very tough team, but I like our chances. Well done, Team Jacobs. Enough really is as good as a feast.

Advice From Kate

2006-08-25T20:41:00.000-05:00

Quit crying before you throw up. - Kate Jacobs, Aug 25, 2006

Half Done

2006-08-25T20:30:00.000-05:00

Jacobs leads Nickell, 138 to 68. Yay!

Jacobs v Nickell

2006-08-25T06:53:00.000-05:00

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.

Round of Four -- really, this time. I mean it.

2006-08-24T20:20:00.000-05:00

Not the round of eight masquerading as the round of four. The real thing. Tomorrow starts the 120 board odyssey, Jacobs vs. Nickell. Go George Go.

George in the NYT

2006-08-24T14:13:00.000-05:00

Good or bad, just spell his name right! One Wrong Signal Dashes Bermuda Bowl Hopes by Phillip Adler

It's Raining

2006-08-24T06:26:00.000-05:00

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.

Round of Eight

2006-08-23T07:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-23T06:48:00.000-05:00

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.

Round of Sixteen

2006-08-21T16:29:00.000-05:00

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.

Does This Sound Familiar?

2006-08-19T21:33:00.000-05:00

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....

2006-08-19T10:29:00.000-05:00

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.

Isn't She Cute???

2006-08-18T14:27:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-18T09:15:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-18T07:27:00.000-05:00

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?

Character Days

2006-08-17T06:18:00.000-05:00

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.

Journal Days

2006-08-16T15:24:00.000-05:00

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.

Dialect

2006-08-15T07:31:00.000-05:00

"< 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.

When I Look Back

2006-08-14T18:32:00.000-05:00

...on all this years from now, I think I will remember this as the year I wore a pink White Sox hat and had weekly pedicures.

Time Management

2006-08-14T16:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-14T06:23:00.000-05:00

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.

When Anna Met Eleanor

2006-08-13T21:27:00.000-05:00

Some nouns from George:

spring
dishes
grass
November
bicycle
pizza
bridge
animal
book
bread

Never thought I'd hear myself say it, but Eleanor's main problem is that she's a winner. That's how she got into this mess in the first place. She was nobody. Some anonymous good looking lady who showed up at the bridge club a couple of times, apparently. I first noticed her at the regional in November, one of those pizza-and-beer things for the novice players where they invite a couple of experts and have a nice little Q&A about such exciting topics as "What to do when they've called the director on you" and "Double, Double, What's the Trouble?" I think I was the free lesson or something, you know some ten or fifteen minute thing on takeout doubles or weak two's. Well, there was Eleanor all eager and listening while she took notes in brown leather journal with a fountain pen. She was so cute, you know, this pretty little thing all designer'ed up and wanting to learn and all that. What the hell, I thought, gave her my card. And wouldn't you know it but she called me right up. Like, thank you very much Anna, you'll be hearing from me; I head to the ladies room to pee and there's my phone ringing and it's her! "Anna, Eleanor Scout. Listen, I looked at your card and it says 'private lessons,' right there on the card. Are you taking on new students?" Well, what could I say? "Of course! Love to talk with you about it. LIsten, I'm in the john, how about we meet in the bar after the game and talk for a little bit?" There you have it. All my fault. I was playing the Tuesday/Wednesday knockouts with a client of Miguel's. The team was Miguel and his client, Wallace and Ferrigno, me and Crain. It was a little strange, sure. Only a little. Well, okay, not so little. I'd been sleeping with Miguel for a few tournaments (including that one). Must have been Wednesday, our opponents gave us a W/D after sixteen boards so we were celebrating with the client in the bar when Eleanor joined us. "Anna, hi," she said, walking right into the middle of the viper's pit. "Did you still want to have that drink, or ...?" She glanced at the group of men and gave a vague wave, like "or, are you tied up and later's better?" Miguel was driving me nuts, telling the client that I'd misjudged some stuff or we'd have won by more. He's such a snake, Miguel. Never a kind word for anybody else. He made it sound, I dunno, like he was paying Crain to play wiht me. So when the cute lady from the lecture turned up I was thrilled to get away. "Now's perfect, honey! I thought you'd forgotten about me," I lied. Whatshername grinned at me and we went and sat in a booth a few tables away. "Thanks," I told her with my friendly smile, "so glad to get away from all that for a minute." "Sure. Do you know those guys?" "'Fraid so," I nodded. "Teammates. One sort-of boyfriend." "The small guy?" "How'd you guess?" "He hasn't stopped looking over here since we sat down." Which was weird. I shrugged. "Who knows. So, how'd you do today?" I asked, figuring it was time to get down to business. I've done a gazillion of these conversations, they all follow a basic pattern. Client tells me how great he is, how he just needs a couple of pointers and a really good, trusting partner. Usually they want to give me a couple of hands showing their brilliance in the context of partner's fuckup. I have a general rule -- I'll listen to two hands for free. Anything mor and you better be prepared to pay me. Especially guys, who're just staring at my chest anyway. But Eleanor surprised me on the go. "I suck at bridge," she said, cheerfully I thought, considering what she actually said, "and I'd like to get better. What do you recommend?" This was new. Usually they say they've heard such nice things about me, that I'm a really good partner for novices who might be nervous, that they've aalways wanted to spend hours on end staring at a pretty girl and not get smacked. Nobody ever says it straight like that. What did I recommend? Man, I didn't really have an answer. Maybe she was expecting a sales pitch. I figured I could either win it in the bidding -- thrill her with an answer she doesn't expect -- or in the play -- talk her into hiring me, and then make her glad she did. "Hard to say," I hedged, opting instead to go low. "Since I haven't seen you play. Tell me a little about yourself and let's see what we can figure out," I motioned to the bartender with a wink and a smile. We ordered gin and tonics. God, you know, it's so hard. She was the coolest, sitting there all calm and cheerful, no idea what she'd walked into. The kind of woman you'd want to be friends with. Away from bridge. "A little about myself," she started, "from a bridge perspective." "Or not," I interrupted, truthfully hoping something would happen to jog my memory. You know I've never been good with names, right? So I'm sitting there drinking gin & tonic with a woman whose name I can't remember, trying to decide if it's going to work out for her to hire me, when Miguel decided to walk over and join us. More in the morning... Standard disclaimer: I may fail. I know that.

Bits and Bites

2006-08-13T10:06:00.000-05:00

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.

Working Title Goes Here

2006-08-13T07:19:00.000-05:00

Blogging. Wow.

I have put off blogging as long as I could. See, I have tended (in my writing life) to be somewhat lethargic (generous, don't you think?) -- so much so that I haven't really written a damned thing for a decade or so. Granted I was sorting out all that who and what stuff as young adults do, but still and all ... and now that I'm back writing, I don't want to waste a minute. In the late 80s, I went off to college with a fresh steno pad, a box of ballpoint pens, and my high school clippings pasted on notebook paper inside a three-ring-binder, ready to step back into the ranks of the underclass reporters from my exalted Managing Editor days. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't just follow the dream to its natural conclusion. But the school had no journalism program and the Lit guys gave me the creeps, so I followed the fun kids into Political Science and Economics. I told myself that I had half of the important stuff -- I was handy with a pen and paper -- but until I had something to write about, none of that skill was going to matter. So I had a lot of experiences. I became. Some things. Like, a bridge player. Played a tiny bit of bridge in college. At the time, I'd have said I played a lot of bridge (it wasn't all that much) -- I hung with a multicultural group of artists and musicians and intellectuals. They were dope smokers and card players who have grown up to be businessmen and actors and doctors and parents. I took up bridge again at a low point in my life and after some twists and turns met (at a bridge tournament) and married the love of my life. Together we have two daughters, one very loud dog, terrific baseball seats and ten thousand ACBL masterpoints. Okay, all but a few of those belong to my husband, a ten-time national champion. We travel extensively for bridge -- 100 days a year or more. Some of our best bridge-playing friends are at home fewer than 100 days each year. We are bridge players the way other people are swap-meet people. Or symphony-season people. Or tennis players. In lots of ways it goes beyond being a simple passion. I have a passion for fine wine. I am a bridge player.

Keeping Score

Laptop and notebook ready: I have been tuning up for a little over a year. I've practiced on short stories and learned quite a bit. I get to practice my craft at an amazing place, Story Studio Chicago -- home to a great group of writers at every stage of the game. I'm studying there a ton this fall, working hard on the manuscript I've started calling Keeping Score -- a novel about what happens at the tables and away from them when a prominent tournament bridge player disappears minutes before game time. My reluctance to start blogging has everything to do with my Midwestern work ethic. Any time I spend writing should be spent writing my manuscript, right? I've been building my stamina over the last couple of weeks, from getting out most of a paragraph on a "productive" day to pounding out a few thousand words each week. On a few really good days last week I was getting down about two thousand words a day. That was pretty exciting. I've been at work on character development and setting for quite a while, now I'm ready to put the pieces together and see what happens. I'm working toward a completed first draft by the end of the year. Ambitious. I gave the opening chapter to a group of readers and the feedback was amazing! Granted they're all my friends, but I've decided to trust their feedback and push forward. I realize that I may fail. But I don't think I will. This morning I'm taking a break from writing the story and daydreaming about selling the book. I've been reading the best writer, editor and agent blogs (love Miss Snark) and I'm starting to think about what the query letters are going to say. Jumping the gun? Probably. Just hope that someday there'll be a payoff pitch.... Did somebody say payoff pitch? White Sox vs. Tigers today, going for the sweep and a very real step back into contention for the Division... Go Sox Go!