Girls Weekend in the Hamptons

Last weekend I left my family to hang out with my childhood friends. Some I'd known since we were toddlers, others since high school. There is something special about a relationship that lasts so long, withstanding differences and distances. This group of seven knows me better than anyone. High school wasn't an easy time, but these girls made it easier. It was remarkable how well we all fell back into conversation as if it had been weeks instead of years.

We gathered at a summer house on Long Island, New York. Some of us are still in Manhattan, but others came from Florida, Washington D.C., Maine and as far as Italy. Jet lagged, job lagged, exhausted from raising children and dogs, we all looked a bit worn on that first evening.

After a dip in the saltwater pool and a glass of wine, we recovered like wilted flowers in fresh water. Laughter and secrets were shared. We stayed up too late and slept in. Nothing was planned but everything happened. Even the weather cooperated for our beach walks.

The only tragedy was forgetting to charge my camera battery, but photos couldn't have captured the inner happiness of being with old friends. They are part of who I am and part of the reason I now write for teens. There's a comfort in knowing that there are many more chapters ahead of us.

What about you: are you still in touch with your childhood friends or have you moved on?

Memory, Morality and Youthful Indiscretions

Psychologists have found that the mind pushes immoral acts into the past and recalls good deeds as happening more recently, creating a false sense of moral progress. Memory amplifies self-righteousness. The mind creates distance from unpleasant events. 

Benedict Carey’s “Why All Indiscretions Appear Youthful” reported how “people subconsciously maintain and massage their moral self-image.” One sentence about high school memories really resonated with me: “Those who hated their time in those locker-lined hallways feel further from their teenage selves than those who enjoyed it.” 

So that’s why I'm writing young adult fiction! It’s not just that I’m a parent of two terrific teens; I also enjoyed being a teenager. I went to a fabulous school in NYC. Not everything was perfect: my love life was a tangled mess and mean kids picked on me. I was not a typical teen, but I had a group of good friends who understood me then and now. Living in Manhattan gave us independence and plenty to do outside of school. We were bookish girls and not part of the “popular” crowd, but even good girls had bad fun.

Back in the 1980’s dance clubs gave free passes to high school girls. The drinking age and club admittance was 18, but fake ID's were easy to get in the Village. A bouncer at a club gave us the address. We went to clubs to dance but didn’t drink much because cocktails were expensive. We never drank to get drunk, and none of us drove. My friends’ midnight curfews meant we left clubs before the drug scene started. The worst thing that happened was Andy Warhol stole our cab on a rainy night. I bet he didn’t have a curfew!

Still, I look back on those years with amazement because no responsible parent would allow club hopping now. The legal drinking age in the USA went up to 21 when I was in college. Binge drinking has become a big problem at both high schools and colleges. My children consider alcohol to be as bad as I considered drugs at their age. Our mind may rearrange events to bolster our ethical self-image, but society also shifts our definition of moral behavior.

When I write for teens now, I take this shift of morality into consideration. In “as u like it” under aged drinking in Manhattan leads to consequences.  In my work in progress, NOT CRICKET (A MATCH FOR EVE), I'm facing a different moral landscape where the drinking age is 16 (for beer and wine) in England. I write about teens that act responsibly and sometimes make mistakes, just like I did. We learn from experience, and it appears, the good deeds will be remembered and our slips pushed into the past. I’m not sure if that’s disturbing or reassuring.

YA Book Blog Watch:

Lisa Schroeder blogged about Binge Drinking for The Comtemps, a new blog penned by a group of authors who write contemporary realistic young adult fiction.

Presenting Lenore asked, "Does a YA Novel Have To Be Accessible?"

The Story Siren posted a list of  2011 Debut YA Authors

Reading in Colorposted a list of 2011 Debut YA/MG Authors of Color.

Stella's Last Walk

I write with shaky fingers as tears stream down my face. 

No dog lies at my cold feet. 

The only trace is a well-worn patch on my office floor. 

Stella was frequently mistaken for a puppy at age six. 

Her golden coat hid the tumors. 

She went from healthy to dying in a matter of weeks. 

There was nothing we could do other than make her last week perfect 

and her death painless at home.

Stella came into our lives when my husband was having health problems. 

That mischievous fluff-ball chased away tears and retrieved laughter. 

 Now that my husband is well, it seems unreal that this lively bundle of joy is gone.

As my daughter said, 

“I was supposed to say goodbye to her when I went away to college five years from now.” 

At an age when even good friends alternate from kind to cruel as hormones ebb, 

a loyal pet was a safe harbor.

Stella demanded walks in all weather, keeping us fit.
We took her on our sabbatical to England. 

She tongue mopped the kitchen floor and shredded garbage for easy recycling. 

 Dirty socks were matched with their owners. 

She had good taste in music, teaching my children to be more careful with their iPods.

Our house sounds quiet. 

 We notice her absence even more than her presence in our busy lives. 

 Once we were welcomed with genuflections of ecstasy. 

 The worst part now is coming home.

Nothing is left but these photos of our last walks at Popham Beach and Bailey Island. 

That final week was a gift, a time to take Stella to special places, 

knowing that when we returned that she’d still be inside us. 

My daughter labeled those final days“sehnsucht,” 

a longing for what we cannot experience, sort of the opposite of déjà vu. 

She discovered this uniquely German word and taught it to me.

The hardest act of love is letting go.

Stella by Starlight 7/16/04-9/24/10

Romantic Québec City

We didn’t have enough time to fly to Europe for our 20th anniversary, 
but the drive to Québec City from coastal Maine was only 5 hours.

It was a gorgeous road lined in lupines. We passed a moose by a lake and very little traffic. Once we crossed the border to Canada, all signs were in French. The evergreen mountains transformed to rural France in both landscape and architecture.

A wide bridge spans the Saint Lawrence River to Québec City. Boardwalks above (first photo) and dockside (above) were designed for romantic promenades, sunset included.

A
very
thick
wall
encircles
the
Old
City.

This isn’t France?

Québec
was 
built 
into 
a 
cliff 
with 
steep 
sidewalks 
and 
stairways.

There were plenty of cafés to rest tired feet. We sat outside on Parisian style wicker chairs, even in the rain.

The boardwalk overlooking the river had verandas for shelter too. Despite being so far north, the city was designed for outdoor seating. At one “exterior” restaurant we were offered blankets as the staff fired up the heaters. The food was definitely French although not always as refined.


Our hotel breakfast at Auberge Saint-Antoine was divine, especially the French Toast with caramelized apples and nuts that tasted like tarte tatin. Lattes were served traditionally in a bowl (photo by Henry Laurence.)  We felt very pampered and relaxed.

I spoke as much French as English. I recall years ago not being able to understand Canadian French, but now everyone except for the older residents speaks traditional French. We truly felt like we were in a forgotten city of France.


The setting was wonderful, but even better was the company. Henry asked me if I’d ever been any happier. I could think of special moments like our wedding, the birth of our children and of some blissful moments alone in Africa, but I’ve never been in a happier place in life. And I don’t just mean Québec. This is the picture of happiness.


Winner: the prize ARC of The Accidental Adventures of India McAllister by Charlotte Agell goes to Stacy Nyikos @ Out There.

Cake Calamities and Clematis

When I hadn’t posted my blog all day, my dad emailed and my husband came home early from work. They feared the worst. I was baking my famous sponge cake. Honestly, it was not my fault this time. In a World Cup Soccer moment, my twenty-year-old cake mixer took a dive when the ref wasn’t watching.

I dropped my book (okay, maybe I shouldn’t have been reading) and raced the dog to the batter that had splattered on the floor. “If you want to bake a cake, you have to break some eggs.” In my case, two batches. My apologies to the neighbors, who may have passed by the screen door. I don’t usually swear like a fish wife.

The birthday girl poked her head in to ask, "Is it safe?"  No glass shards this time. I am now the mother of two teenagers. The older one is canoeing for 7 weeks in the wilderness so the more recently minted teen is an only child this month. As much as I’m missing my son, I’m really enjoying the one-on-one time with my daughter.

I’m sure many parents would disagree, but teenagers are more fun than younger children. It’s the age of both reflection and impulsive choices, of maturing into a unique person. I love the intense discussions and even the questioning. You don’t get unconditional love; you have to earn it.

Although it was her birthday, my 13-year-old daughter gave me a wonderful gift. She first said people over 35 can’t be cool, but then she made a few exceptions. According to her I’m a “cool mom.” The reason is “I don’t try.”


Our cool day in Brunswick, Maine:

• Hot cocoa with whipped cream and cinnamon twists at The Wheelhouse Café
• Run into 2 neighbors who don’t recognize my grown up daughter
• Buy novels at Gulf of Maine Books and pick up free Mockingjay tattoos
• Try on high-heeled, pointy-toed shoes at Wyler Gallery
• Meet Dad for lunch too at Wild Oats Bakery and Café
• Sink into a comfy sofa to watch Letters to Juliet at Eveningstar Cinema (trailer below)
• Read the ARC of The Ruby Notebook by Laura Resau (review coming in September)
• And a weekend birthday party with friends to see the movie Eclipse

Romance in Tuscany with a Shakespeare theme. What’s not to love?

As for the images, they are of our clematis that usually peaks on my daughter’s birthday, but this year was 2 weeks early. Every year the roots grow deeper, the vine climbs higher and the blooms are more exuberant. Just like my beautiful daughter.

What else is blooming in my garden: late lupines, hydrangea, lilies, pansies, lobelia and yummy Early Bird and Cherry Tomatoes. For more Garden Blogger Bloom Day posts go to May Dreams Garden. I’ll come visit tomorrow while my daughter is at her first paid babysitting job. Don’t blink. They grow up fast.

25th High School Reunion in NYC

I thought I’d matured, but I felt a familiar wave of insecurity going back to school. It all came back: the cliques, the gossip and the physical scrutiny. A reunion could be a living nightmare. Who really wants to return to high school?

I spent my formative years at an artsy, academically intense private school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I loved Dalton, but it was tough. The class of ‘85 was assigned the library, and did I ever want to escape into a book, just like I used to. Instead I made the rounds and talked to almost everybody. It was especially nice to thank some of my former teachers. I had an excellent education.

About 40% of our class of 100 had returned and several of us had been in school together for 15 years. Everyone remembered me, but there were some I had difficulty recognizing. Time had changed men more than women physically, but the group dynamics hadn’t shifted.

The good news is most people get nicer over time. A girl who had tormented me in middle school recently sent an apologetic email, anticipating our reunion.  Worst experience: the woman who took out her BlackBerry as soon as I approached her “cool” clique. I laughed it off. Everyone else was friendly and eager to catch up.

I was still the oddball bohemian, but that was okay. I was lucky to have a group of friends who appreciated my differences back in high school. We are still close today. What touched me was how supportive everyone else was about my writing, even though I’m not published yet. People were eager to read my novels and hear about life in Maine. Most were still in NYC or in other big cities, working in business, law, real estate etc. Best gossip: two divorced classmates had hooked up.

The after party was at the Wright Bar in the Guggenheim Museum. Revisiting high school was easier with a drink in hand, and I’m not much of a drinker.

What did I learn? The people who seemed happiest in high school seemed the least satisfied with adulthood. Conformity is only a teen survival skill. Fulfillment comes from searching inside for your own creative spark. A good school, like mine, provides a broad choice of matches.

As for the painful experiences, they make great material. That’s the best thing about being a writer. The main reason I write young adult fiction (as well as adult fiction) is that the teen years made me who I am today. I write the books I would have wanted to read back then. High school has pigeonholes, but birds can fly. My advice to teens: open your wings.

Sea Change

Wolfe's Neck Park, Freeport in September

I've been looking after a loved one who spent two days in the hospital. It's a big relief to be through it. This photo says it all.

Blog Watch:

• Interested in healing the planet? Read this fine book review @ Plant Whatever Brings You Joy. Sounds like a must read for gardeners.
  
• Bee Drunken has become a steward at Jane Austen's house and takes us on an engaging tour. Talk about a literary dream job.
• Congratulations to Mary Ellen @ Adopting ME - she searched for a year in a tough economy and just found a job!
  
• Welcome a brand new blog: She Brews Good Ale, named after a Shakespeare quotation. The blogger is starting a brewery to help fund her PhD in Philosophy. She brews good humor too. Cheers!
• Feel free to borrow this "blog watch" meme for your blog, just link back to me.
  

Laughter Beats the Blues

I haven't been online much lately, but don't blame lilac season . . .

. . . or the beautiful wildflowers in our woods.

Our fridge died at the start of a heat wave. The new fridge won’t be delivered for 2 weeks. Yes, Maine is really that remote and does occasionally hit 90. We have been living out of two coolers, reloading them with ice daily.

In our short spring in May you can’t leave out any food. Our house gets over run by carpenter ants, foraging from the woods. The woods also produce the lovely wildflowers you see in this post so it’s not all bad. Or so I thought.

Then my itchy dog was diagnosed with scabies, which I’d thought was a medieval affliction. Wild animals pass it to dogs. It can pass to humans too. I had to vacuum and spray every room Stella inhabited and wash all the bedding (hers and ours) in hot, soapy water. I wore a medical mask, rubber gloves and Wellington boots. At least the insecticide finished off the ants too.

I’m still trying to use the few remaining school days to keep writing. My household misadventures might be amusing if they were happening to someone else. So I’m sharing.

It’s better to laugh than to cry. I watched a video clip of one of my husband’s former students who visited us recently. Hari Kondabolu (above) lives in New York City but does not work on Wall Street. He’s a comedian, with a masters in human rights from the LSE. No kidding. The degree works well for him when accused of being politically incorrect or insensitive. If you need a laugh too, watch him here on Jimmy Kimmel:

Diaries, Cyberspace and Privacy

Sunset from Bailey Island, Harpswell

Did you keep a diary? I still do, but I write in it less frequently since I started my blog two years ago. Visiting my family in NYC, I brought back a stack of diaries that I’d kept since 1978 (I was turning eleven in 5th grade.)

These pages are the secret garden of my childhood. They show me the world through younger eyes.

I started my first journal as a response to an exercise at school. We had to keep a daily journal for a month. I loved the regular writing and reflection. I kept it going on my own, showing nobody. I did it for fun, the first indicator that I would grow up to be a writer. I played with words like blocks, safely in private.

In 1978 I was reading Harriet the Spy, The Secret Garden and Laura Ingalls Wilder. I started writing a novel but never finished it. I saw the King and I on Broadway and the movie of Grease. On TV my favorite show was Charlie’s Angels and Roots moved me deeply. I couldn’t understand the cruelty of slavery. I asked, “What happens when you die?” I gave my 1979 journal the name Janet after reading The Diary of Anne Frank – Anne’s diary was called Kitty. I mentioned the meanness of kids at school, the embarrassment of our sex ed. class and the thrill of my first boyfriend and kiss.

There is something special about writing only for yourself. You can be more honest. Perhaps that’s the wrong word. I’m honest in my blog, but I’m very selective about what I share. I fuss over grammar and style. My audience is always there. My rule of thumb is to assume that the last person I’d want to read my blog will find it online. My blog is as much a product of what I omit as what I include.

Omission is the dark matter of cyberspace. Do you remember the concept of dark matter from Astronomy? It makes up the bulk of the universe, but it is invisible. It has mass but no luminosity. We detect dark matter only by the gravitational force that it exerts on galaxies. Dark matter is the missing mass in our universe. My secrets are mine.

The best and the worst thing about blogging is its public nature. I love being able to share my thoughts and to get feedback. The community that has assembled around my blog is very special. I just don’t want my words to hurt someone or myself unintentionally. I’m a private blogger – is that an oxymoron?

I have been thinking about privacy issues in cyberspace lately. My 11-year-old daughter opened a Facebook account using her real name without my permission. She hid her face in the profile shot, and the pages were only accessible to her “friends.” Still, I was not comfortable with her real name being visible. Cyberspace has predators who target children.

Youthful indiscretions can get a child in trouble or even hurt her future employment prospects. My daughter’s lack of self-awareness in a public arena had already been revealed: she posted photos of a sleepover party at 2:45 am. It didn’t occur to her that her parents would see the time stamp. Think of all the dumb things you did as a teenager; would you want your mistakes to haunt you later?

Our compromise was that my daughter had to cancel her Facebook account and open a new one with a dummy name. As her “friend” my husband can view her pages. In monitoring our children and setting rules, we are protecting our daughter from herself. The issue of parental guidance is the same as in past generations, but the universe has expanded. My daughter keeps a handwritten journal too that we don’t check. There is room for personal exploration and raw honesty in private. My daughter wants to be a writer too.

Parody of Facebook on BBC’s The Wall

Blog Watch: I created this column to share the highlights of the blogs I read regularly. The visibility of blogs might pose a challenge to privacy, but it brings us together in a good way too. This week I want to draw your attention to David McMahon@authorblog. I listed David under “expat blogs” in my sidebar since he grew up in India and now resides in Australia. David is a journalist and an author, but he blogs about cyberspace and travel more than about writing books. He has a fun sense of humor and takes stunning photos. Check out his “Posts of Note” which is like my “Blog Watch.” Thank you, David, for expanding my horizon.

Our Backyard Forest at Sunrise

NYC Blog Lag

Only posting weekly, I’m a bit behind. Call it blog lag. Two weeks ago I traveled to NYC for Thanksgiving and to gather material for NOT CRICKET (A MATCH FOR EVE). My novel is set mostly in England, but the narrative starts in Manhattan where I grew up.

On Thanksgiving I met my old school friend in Central Park. Cathy and I chatted while my daughter snapped parade photos. We found the ideal spot, sitting on a hill in Central Park. Even the weather was perfectly warm.

Everyone agreed that Kermit was still the best balloon. Back in high school and over college vacations, my school friends and I would meet on the night before the parade to watch the balloons blown up near the Museum of Natural History. It was a teenaged party scene back then. It’s hard to believe that I am now the mother of a teenaged boy.

My son and I took a long walk through Central Park. For gym in high school I jogged around the reservoir twice a week.

The reservoir is a great place to spot migrating waterfowl, like these Northern Shovelers. Can you believe it? Wildlife in the middle of Manhattan!

When the leaves are down, you get a good view of the Guggenheim Museum. Autumn can bring bright blue skies even in the big city. Frank Lloyd’s architecture is as stunning as sculpture.

On another day I took the subway downtown to meet Elizabeth from About New York. We agreed that Tea and Sympathy was a perfect replica of an English teashop down to the waxed tablecloths in flowered chintz, the same pattern Elizabeth had in her home growing up.

We ordered a cream tea. Elizabeth told me about her new children’s book that is out now. It was fun to put a face and an English accent to this blogger. I’ve always enjoyed her take on NYC.

Tea was a warm break from my fieldwork. Since one of my characters lives in the Village, I’d spent the afternoon walking the streets. West Village has changed since my teenaged ramblings; it’s become rather posh.

East Village (above) was just as I remembered with its rent control walk-ups and funky shops. I enjoyed this urban garden on 9th Street:

Earlier I had met my brother for lunch at Basta Pasta off Union Square. I’d laughed when he’d said, “that’s a Japanese restaurant.” He wasn’t joking! Only in New York, or maybe Tokyo, would you find Japanese-Italian fusion cuisine. My tomato-mozzarella-shitake mushroom pasta was quite good. I always trust city restaurants with open kitchens. The servers and clients were mostly Japanese.

Sounds like a full day? It wasn’t over. I had one more friend to meet for drinks and dinner. Marika Josephson used to work for my agent; now she’s an assistant editor at a new kids magazine, KidSpirit. They publish articles and artwork submitted by children aged 11-15.

For NOT CRICKET I needed to check out the bar scene around Union Square. Marika, in her 20’s, is my drinking consultant. I loved how she suggested 4 bars and only one restaurant for our night out.

I chose The Beauty Bar because it sounded the most outrageous. A beauty salon turned into a bar? That sounded even stranger than Japanese Italian food. They serve a good pint, and the retro furnishing was a laugh. There are still old-fashioned hood hair dryers, and the back room becomes a disco late at night.

For dinner we had tasty Tex-Mex food at the Mesa Grill. We highly recommend the margaritas mixed with cactus flower juice. Better than the food was the company. Marika and I had been e-mailing each other for more than a year but had never met. It felt more like catching up with an old friend than meeting someone new.

I had a similar feeling meeting author/blogger Jane Green (above.) Jane and I met in cyberspace last summer when I reviewed her novel, The Beach House. She found my blog and then ended up buying one of my paintings. We became writing partners to urge each other through our next novels. I’m now about halfway through the first draft, and Jane’s in the home stretch. This productive partnership and similar US/UK backgrounds brought us closer together, but we had never met in person.

My 11-year-old daughter was worried that Jane could turn out to be a 40-year-old man. Have I raised her well or what?

Jane and I had planned to have dinner in NYC, but I ended up driving out to see her in Connecticut when childcare for her 4 kids fell apart. She often blogs about cooking, and her Coulibiac was delicious. Jane is a very involved mother, and her children were sweet.

We fell easily into chatting about books and life. I joked that this was the closest either of us would get to internet dating. We agreed that it was a great first date with an excellent future. Here’s her post on our fun time together.

The only sad part was heading home. If you haven’t met people, you can’t miss them. Leaving New York this time, I left more friends behind. I’m also nostalgic for the city, for the funny little bars and restaurants that could only exist in New York. I’ve left the city, but it never leaves me.

It’s still good to be back home in Maine. Clear blue skies made for a beautiful and fast flight (a record 3 hours door to door!) We circled over the islands of Casco Bay and Portland with the mountains on the horizon. The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see. I can’t believe I live in such a beautiful location.

My children were waiting for me in the driveway, and my dog was standing up in the mudroom to see out the window. My husband came home early. It had only been a few days apart, but I’d missed them so much.

Last weekend two of my artist friends threw a party. It was anything but quiet: rooms of artists, architects, craftsmen, authors and academics. Their 1920’s home is like a gallery with new artwork from many artists changing monthly.

We talked about art, books, travel and politics. Many had volunteered hours for the Obama campaign. Everyone was in high spirits. The economic woes haven’t spread north to Maine although our host noted that art is the canary in the coalmine. Art, like books, isn’t selling.

I walked home, just across the street, as snow was falling. The light frosting reminded me of the sweetness of winter, of time spent reading by the fire and skiing in the woods. Christmas trees glittered from the windows. My family will be coming here for the next holidays.

I’m back to work on my novel with Jane writing hers an e-mail away. Blogs keep us all connected too.

Blog Watch: Thanks to everyone who participated in last week's Blogger Book Boost. Great book recommendations in the comments! I've just added hotlinks to all the Book Boost posts at the end of mine. I can update it if you want to join. Congratulations to Willow Manor (in my sidebar) for being Blog of Note.