Announcing...my first novel!

I have finally, finally, finalized my first novel, titled Summer to Fall. (That's the cover...photo credit to me, a fortuitous beach moment.) Originally written in 1992-94, I shopped S2F around to editors and agents and received supportive words back in the mail (yes, this was in the Internet's childhood, when e-mail was not appropriate for manuscript sharing). Supportive words, yes; compliments, many; but no offers or contracts. YA fiction was not hot in that era, and nostalgia for the 1980s was, at that cultural moment, absolutely unimaginable.

So Summer to Fall dwelled in the latter-day version of the proverbial desk drawer—surfing from Nessa-computer to Nessa-computer, Mac Plus to Performa to iMac to PCs x 3. I've made lots of changes to that MSWord file over the decades...and now, I'm self-publishing this baby, thrilled to have seen it through.

Towards that end, I've posted some images here so that I can upload them to my Pinterest account. See, on Pinterest, I've established a board called Lara and Bryan's world, from Summer to Fall. In a superfine act of Internet criss-cross-apple-saucing, people who look at that Pinterest board will be directed here...and people reading this right now (that's you!) will be directed there. The mind boggles. 

And all for a humble little manuscript about two New York teenagers named Lara and Bryan who fell in love, once upon the 1980s. Dense with rock and roll, drizzled with jazz and even some classical piano, hemmed in by skyscrapers, awash in nighttime lights and dazzling Rockaway Beach sunshine, and dressed to the 80s nines...I hope you'll want to give Summer to Fall a read, once it's open for business. 

This is my author pic, courtesy of Steven Albert (please check out his artwork!) Steve took this photo in 1986 on a smoggy summer afternoon, up on my roof in Queens, NY. It may be my favorite portrait, and it certainly represents my book's world in a perfect microcosm.

And now, the crossover pics, below. My dear friend Joe Caffrey's gorgeous images fortuitously reinforce places and scenes that appear in S2F. Check out my Pinterest board for even more!

"You should write a book."

The year that I lived with my grandparents, age 8, I was given my first-ever weekly allowance. There really wouldn't have been any reason for me to get $1 a week back home in Queens, because I couldn't go shopping alone in the big city. But in Millinocket, Maine, I was free to walk from our house to the compact district known as "down street." I can still remember the sweaty feel of the dollar bill (or two, or three) that lay folded inside my pocket. The greeny scent that my hand carried when I brought it back upwards. And the planning, my thoughts of what-to-buy-this-time following the rhythmic pattern of my feet on the sidewalk.

At Newberry's, I'd become attached to series-type books like Trixie Belden, and I was always up for paper dolls or junk jewelry. I loved Barbies and coloring books and even office supplies (so I could pretend to be a secretary, like my mom). As I think back now, I can't recall when the seismic shift in my priorities took place...but there was, indeed, a climactic point in that third-grade year when it dawned on me that my life's ambition was to be an author. And immediately connected to that realization was a new use for my allowance money: now, I'd stride past Newberry's towards a pharmacy/stationer's called The Big L, because they had the best display of school supplies in town. Fingering the bills in my pocket, I'd deliberate in that aisle over binders, looseleaf, and pencils. The tools for this trade had to be just right. I craved the most inspiring blank piece of lined paper I could obtain, and I wanted the binder that encased it to be a heady combo of workmanlike and appealing. It had to feel right in my hands.

Once home, I would snap open the silver rings of the binder with care, slide the looseleaf sheets out of the plastic, and thread those three rings with the white poundage of possibility. And after this meticulous ceremony, I promise you, I wrote and wrote and wrote. I spent hours alone in my playroom writing, while hours flew past like a time-lapse film where the sun arcs over the house...morning, to day, to evening. My pencil penmanship on the lines smoothly conveyed my imagined stories, without much hesitation. Adult Nessa will tell you: that was magic.

Last weekend I was brought back to these third-grade reveries with a jolt. My kids wanted to stop at the B. Dalton bookstore, and I wandered in with them. They fanned out to their favorite spots, and I looked around aimlessly. Spreading before me, coming into collective focus, were piles and piles of remaindered, unwanted books...all colors and shapes, all topics and themes, all meticulously designed and hopeful. Some agent sold them, some editor bought them, and now some publishing house was whapping its forehead over the wastefulness of these paper-hogging tomes (if not dropping to its knees in the worst economy ever for the printed word). Of course, my heart sank for the writers who believed that people would eagerly read their stories, even as I experienced my familiar clanging jealousy that these authors got published. (Cue the moment where I berate myself for failing to achieve what I set out to do as a girl...the self-flagellation that ensues at every bookstore I enter.)

I lingered for a time at the young-adult section, the genre I settled upon decades ago as my writerly quarry. Twilight-inspired novels sprouted all over those shelves like some out-of-control black rosebush. Alongside the vamps and virgins, I spied another genre: books that centered on Internet chats, texting, and other clever communication devices of this age we live in. Not something I can imagine penning, even though I'm as much a net-izen as anyone. And I'm not a supernaturalist, either.

I veered away from YA, past manga abounding (my daughter's realm), and caught up with Willis reading a guidebook about insects. (He had seen a massive one the night before and was intently discerning what it was.) He sat bathed in a bright overhead light, and I sat next to him. I doubt he even recalls what I said--he was pretty engrossed in the insect manual--but I was overwhelmed, and had to voice what I was thinking to someone.

"Willis, I just realized..." My voice weakened, but then I said it. "When I was a little girl, you know, I decided I was going to write books someday. And just now, looking at all these books in this store that no one's gonna buy...you know, I have to accept...that is not going to happen."

He didn't say anything, but I went on. "People are always telling me, 'you should write a book,' and that's really wonderful of them, but there aren't ever going to be enough people who would want to read anything I'd write." There was this weird breathless feeling in my chest: part lifting of burden, and part airlessness left behind because I'd let go of something that had always felt so hopeful and pure and true. Oddly for me, I didn't cry. I just felt transformed, desolated.

I know my friends' intentions are supportive and honest when they say that I should write a book. I love them for it, and I wish I could believe what they believe. But adding to that sea of remainders...even being considered worthy enough to maybe join that sea of remainders...my childhood dream seems like a shedded carapace, and the me that has been inside it is tender, emerged, older and wiser.

I'm not saying I'll never be a writer...that's not my point. (I can't not write. It's breath to me.) It is my original childhood vision that has altered: that clutching of a book in my hands that has my name on the cover and my words arranged in orderly font, line after line, on an enviable thick block of pages. It feels yesterday, and wanting it hurts too much in the face of reality.

Leap, and the net will appear

I haven't posted a blog in months, because I unexpectedly became preoccupied with my occupation. It happened like this: suddenly in April, I learned that I was no longer classified as a writer/editor at my full-time, 14-years job. Instead, I was placed in a middle-management kind of slot, unceremoniously, with one boss instead of the variety of co-workers who've traditionally asked me for written pieces or editorial help. (And when I say variety, I mean it. I used to thrive on that constant swirl of interactions and work styles. I crave writing in different voices, for different audiences.)

This change-of-circumstances walloped me hard. I was stunned, actually, by the intensity of my emotions. I kept wondering: Who am I, really, to think that I should have any say in my professional fate? People get reassigned--and worse, downsized--all the time. I should be glad they want me at all; who cares what the position is. Right?

But it did not work that way. Try as I might, I could not convince myself that I was all right with this abrupt shift. I agonized, I seethed, and I felt bereft. And it took me weeks to really grasp why. I had held on in this office setting for 14 long years, through 10 bosses, unbelievable dramas, grueling deadlines, and demanding fundraising goals. At every turn, during each upper-level shake-up--and there were plenty--I was the one who would advise my co-workers, "Hold the boat." I'd say that with calmness and reassurance, and I meant it--because back then, I was a writer. Not the kind of writer that my kid-self had vowed to become...but at least I was a writer. Having made a career out of that skill was important to me and my self-esteem, down to my core. My surety had been grounded in it.

As this spring went along, it was clear that the change in my job was non-negotiable, and I despaired. I confided in some folks I know in our hometown, who don't work for my employer, and they described other professional opportunities that I, quite simply, had not allowed myself to consider. Liberating opportunities. Daring, also. And with no warning, I knew in an instant: I was ready.

I leapt.

Today was my last full-time day at the new-old job. I drifted through a day of mundane meetings, notes, hallway conversations, and strategizing. I didn't cry until I started writing this. But even though I'm sad to have moved on from a workplace as familiar as my own house, I'm proud that I made a momentous choice. Moreover, my family is supportive in every possible way, especially my older kids, whose own artistic selves are watching me closely. I won't describe my next-steps in detail, because it's all so new and evolving. Suffice it to say, creativity is at the heart of every choice I've made. My creativity. That was the net that was waiting for me, which I did not know when I decided to leap.

Manifesto

Page one: I am a mom. I look at any one of my children and my heart immediately fills with warmth and reaching, nurturance and ridiculous pride. This particular page has been written four times, in the whirling effort of labor and delivery. It was forged under fluorescent hospital lights, where a tone of worry and protectiveness was overlaid. It drives me like no other compulsion. On a weeknight, weary from the working world, it pushes me to stand at the stove, and when my children eat with gusto, this page’s work is momentarily done. It is the hunter-gatherer seeking affordable clothing that will be just cool enough.

Page two: I am an authority figure. More to the point: I’m like a football coach. In my head at all times is a game plan for each child (maybe not with all those x’s and o’s and arrows—though it would be cool if their lives were diagrammable like that). Strategy, rationale, the urgent need for success: all of these are in my mind with every parental mandate I deliver. And I’m not an easy coach, I know that. Sometimes my dictates seem far too frequent and pitched for my liking: I mean, fussing over fourth-grade homework assignments? Page three (see below) really does not want to care whether a kid achieves dominance over tricky mathematical word problems. Lord knows I never did. But it’s all part of the plan, isn’t it? What gates must my child go through before s/he can be deemed whole, successful, ready for adulthood? Which scouts does s/he need to impress? Which linebacker might take my child down? (See, this is where the football analogy may crumble, because I can’t say for sure if linebackers are those massive tackle-delivering guys, or what.)

 

Page three: I am a friend. Each one of my children’s faces inspires automatic, companionable devotion. I pine for their happiness and their satisfaction, and above all—because this is a guiding principle for me—I want them to seek joy and eschew strife. I love spending time with them as a friend would—you know, at the beauty salon with a daughter; at a museum with a dinosaur-loving son; on a train with every one of them (because we’re all train geeks). I love that we laugh at the same goofy things. I love that my iPod reflects their musical tastes as well as mine, and that there’s more overlap there than I ever imagined possible. I will offer advice as a friend whenever and however asked. I believe that each one of them knows this, but I understand that not always can they take me up on it. So in a sense, this friendship has vulnerabilities and potential pitfalls, because rejection is entirely possible. I am not deterred.

 

Page four: I am a writer. I watch the lives of four young people take shape, emerge, shift and grow, and as with everything else I encounter (literally), I am constantly taking notes. These people fascinate me. I know the genetic legacies they’re carrying—the personalities and appearances that resonate up from previous generations—and I’m just watching it all unreel with amazement and interest. The previous pages all lean on this page, though. They demand that I attempt to intervene and help lead these four stories. And with tearful intensity, they desire a happy ending for each. I wish they understood that once I sit down to write, I have no idea what will happen to my characters.

 

Page five is the person I was before these children were born. Before I met their father, even. It’s less a page than it is a film of places, people, times, and motivations that are quaint and nostalgic, now. The ill-starred fashion choices! The bumbling attempts at romance! The conversations with people I don’t see anymore! In a number of cases, in fact, those people are dead now, and I’m left to change and adapt. Thus, all of the above pages now lack the backup of some of my closest advisers and loved ones. I am forced to draw from reserves of strength that, in my youth, I had no reason to believe I would have.

 

All of this reflection has been prompted by a rejection letter from a college to my treasured oldest daughter. Every page of my being is challenged and affronted by this turn of events. Even more so, because the college decision and its implications for my daughter’s future—well, it’s not my game. It’s hers. I have to sigh and hope and believe (and I'm experienced in all of these). But there are tears in my eyes, regardless.

Pasmoimeme, c'est moi

"Not Myself". This is my song (YMMV—but don't stop me, I'm on a roll). I've lived it since I emerged into consciousness and started filling looseleaf binders with stories at age 8. It's about being a creater (not a creator), driven to produce art of some kind—music, writing, paintings, whatever. It's about the muse whose grip on you sometimes chokes. It's embracing the wide wonderment of impulses that you cannot control—and understanding that, sometimes, those impulses will swamp you with fear, or obsessive concern, or irrationality. Not forever; just momentarily. "Would you want me when I'm not myself? Wait it out while I am someone else?"

Exactly. Straight up, that lyric is addressed to my best friend of adolescence, Ria, who'd be hanging out with me and I'd randomly turn to her, eyes alight--"I need to write. Now." (Yeah, I was 14, a little drama there—but that was a powerful, overwhelming urge.) And bless her, she would get all excited and hand me a clean white sheet to write on, then she'd sit alongside and wait. Some poem that had flickered across my brain screen would take shape on the page in Bic pen scrawls—me transcribing the input, that's all. And afterwards, my relief would be indescribable. More than "whew"—more like "yeaaaah." Ria would seize that piece of paper, devour the words, and report back instantaneously. "Wow, Kip!" she'd say (my nickname, in those days.) "You did it again! This is amazing!" Who knew if she was right about my writing's quality? That wasn't the point. She was my champion, and that encouragement was everything in my uncertain young life.

And "Not Myself" speaks to my spouse, the man whose patience and calmness outweigh anyone's in my life experience. He doesn't always read the pages after they fling out behind me, and he doesn't really even know what dark thoughts cross like clouds across my sky sometimes. (Memories of distress past...worries about weird things that no one else thinks of...why must people smoke in proximity to a gasoline pump? this whole convenience store could blow sky-high!...desperate, clinging thoughts that I will never get published, I will fail at my calling.)

But Peter knows it's all roiling. He sees my facial expressions betraying my thoughts, and he feels the empty space in the bed when I can't sleep until everything's thought through for the night. Peter believes I will triumph and produce writing that matters. He waits it out. And he loves me in total, all the colors, all the words.
 

John Mayer evidently knows what a gift that kind of relationship could be. ("Suppose I said, you're my saving grace....") That soaring, gorgeous line symbolizes all my hopes, as well as my major good fortune in having met a person who makes me feel so wanted and comprehended, no matter whether it's poetry or prose that day.
 

So when I saw the "Not Myself" demo surface today, I reeled a little in my desk chair with anticipation. I wanted to hear it stripped bare...I wanted it vulnerable. I was not disappointed, and right after the song ended, I was gripped: I need to write. 
 

Two well-respected writers commented on this phenomenon of creativity and self, and since these quotes are also among my favorites ever, I thought I'd share them. P. L. Travers, who wrote the "Mary Poppins" books (and had a rollercoaster artistic journey of her own, I might add), was interviewed by the New Yorker in 1962. She observed about her writing process:

"I think if I should ever start to interpret I should be a little lost. I read my books over and think, How did she ever think of that? I sometimes roar with laughter at things I've written. I don't mean to be conceited; it's as though I were reading a book by someone else."
 

And in the summer of 1946, George Orwell wrote in an amazing essay, "Why I Write": "From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.... Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane."
 

Thus is one's relationship with the muse. I love it when people can articulate it; it's a deep comfort. I'm glad that John Mayer set it to pensive music.
 

Yeaaaah.

Writer's block

More like writer's blockhead. 'Cause I just realized, after a few weeks of insomnia-like behavior, that I'm desperately wanting to write something (bigger than a blog, understand), and I'm—yes—blocked! I guess I wasn't letting myself in on the secret till tonight. Always the last to know.

I sit here many nights into the single-digit hours, playing [evil, don't touch it, walk away] Snood; contemplating major projects (scanning my mom's pics, actually writing real Christmas cards, doing some genealogy); hanging with my friends online; checking e-mail...but I'm not writing. I'm stepping around the chalk outline of this project I need to launch.

It's not like I'm not writing—dribs, e-m's, blogs, drabs, and poems are happening year-round. However, truthfully, I've avoided the prospect of significant writing for a few years, now. I had rock-solid excuses: Gave birth twice (swelling our kid ranks to four). Job was stressful (that one's on repeat every day). Injured my back by falling off a futon, semi-attached to my spouse at the time (that hurt and took months to heal, but the picturesque quality never fades). Mother became sick, then after agonizing illness, died. Best friend died without any warning whatsoever.

But they are excuses, aren't they? Any one of them is a written piece waiting to emerge. And I fobbed on it.

Well, I feel like I can get a good night's sleep now, after this revelation. Perchance to dream, and hence to write? Geez, I hope so. If not, at least I know why now. Because I always read about "writer's block" and thought, "Hah. That must suck. Never happens to me." Ahhhh, but it does and it has. Zounds.

Thoughts After a Stressful Day

I don't know what I want. A new mother, swamped with responsibilities and saddled with work so that our family can keep its collective head above water, I just don't see where my wanting things makes sense.

 

Occasional whiffs of wants pass me almost constantly. They're tantalizing, and they make me ache and yearn, but they vaporize immediately. The baby fusses, or the phone rings, or the magazine I've been reading fitfully forces a different world-view on me...and those dreams, thoughts, ideas just float off, defeated.

 

And in retrospect, when I try to excavate the day's assemblage of wants for my husband (who probably fears for my sanity when he sees me lying in bed at impossible hours THINKING without resolution), the list I begin to renumerate sounds absurd and trite. I want to write books for a living. I want to have my own business instead of being at the mercy of a mercurial, imposing boss. I want to be home with my children where I belong. I want to continue to have the freedom to cook fabulous meals for my family (which I've been doing, as a balm, ever since my maternity leave began). I want to be the person I was once, who believed in herself, trusted in others, and wasn't afraid.

 

And that's really it: I'm afraid all the time. Bolluxed by fear and paralytic with uncertainty. Too many competing elements in my life; they overwhelm my inner urges and squelch them utterly.

 

Meanwhile, like clockwork, my breasts ebb and swell with my daughter's meals, and I continually anticipate those respites with relish. My kids, worn with the changes they're going through, try to make the bus every morning, tired and sluggish, infuriating their dad. Their dad, my husband, wants desperately for our household to return to a semblance of predictability: financially certainly, but also the basic functions of schedule and emotional stability (what we had of that, anyway). And our new family member, Lydia Frances, demands so little and gives so much to all of us. She is in no way the cause of the juncture I've come to. She is only part of its emotional urgency.

 

I can only sigh, reviewing this mental landscape in which I dwell. I don't imagine there's anything I can do to assuage the malcontent I feel. I can shrug it off quite frequently, buoyed by interactions with others, but it always returns, like an incoming tide encroaches on the sand. No amount of "spontaneous" consumerism can defray the feelings; no amount of talking it through can answer the questions. And nothing gets written. This last phrase is the neat, strong summary of what is wrong.