Shopping in SoHo

Do you have a special childhood friend who is always there for you? I was packing the car after a  weekend visiting my family in NYC, when Cathy emailed from Pennsylvania. She was coming to the city to find a dress for her son’s bar mitzvah: a fashion emergency! Cathy (right) and I (left) first met in a Central Park playground as toddlers and then went to The Dalton School together for fifteen years. My wonderful husband offered to drive the kids back to Maine on his own.

When we were growing up in Manhattan, SoHo (south of Houston St.) was the art center of the city. Since then, boutique shops have pushed art galleries uptown to lower rent Chelsea. Most downtown shops open at 11:00 AM; Manhattan is not a morning city. We lucked into a beautiful sunny day in the 60s.

Our first stop was Pylones (above) on 69 Spring St. for fun little gifts for my kids. I found bendable pencils in candy stripe colors that made even my teenaged son laugh. Since I was also doing research for my young adult novels, we stopped into Free People on 99 Spring St. Not for us.

When I was a teenager, I shopped at French Connection. I was pleased to see that the store (above) had grown up with me and was catering to adults with a funky style. I found a much needed winter/fall dress more than half off plus a wild turquoise and black spring/fall dress. Cathy needed something dressier.

I needed lunch. We shared an excellent Cobb salad with iced cappuccinos at Delicatessen at 54 Prince Street. The people watching was equally delicious. I love the conversational tidbits a writer can gather in the city. The hostess kindly took our photo (opening shot.)

Cathy found a dress that was almost right at Elie Tahari (to left) at 417 West Broadway. She had no luck in midtown department stores and in pricy Madison Avenue boutiques. On a boutique's racks uptown were only 0’s, 2’s, and 4’s. I said, “My daughter is a zero; she’s twelve years old!” The salesman laughed and found some real women’s sizes.

My friend Jennifer Scanlon, a scholar of fashion, has a theory: “Size zero: what does that say about women? That they want to disappear, not take up any space at all.” I ran into Jen on the plane back to Maine. Jen was born in the Bronx and grew up in around NYC. She now teaches Gender and Women’s Studies at Bowdoin College. She also went shopping in SoHo. She recommended Uniqlo on 546 Broadway for fun tops and multi-colored tights. I’ll have to check it out next visit. I stay with my parents in Yorkville, uptown by the East River. Jen recommends Park79 hotel for its location, cleanliness and affordability.

Where’s your favorite place to shop?

Maine Street

We’ve heard “Main Street” bandied about by politicians this election season. It’s shorthand for small town U.S.A. My town has a Maine Street. No, that’s not a typo. Brunswick is in Maine.

A pillared bank graces the brick sidewalks. The wide street was designed for horse drawn carriages. There were once cobblestones and Elm trees. It’s still tree lined.

I began my first novel, Moose Crossing, with a scene on Maine Street. My second novel, S.A.D, is also set in Brunswick and on the islands of Harpswell. Grand City Variety captures the old time feel of my town. Our daily paper, The Times Record, reported that this retro five-and-ten will shut at the end of this year.

There are other small businesses that are still thriving. I’m pleased to say we have an independent bookstore, the Gulf of Maine. It's a good place to find books by local authors and lots of novels.

Need steel-toed boots and Carhartt work clothes? Try Pennell’s, established 1889. That bright orange clothing is all the rage this time of year. Maine Street fashion keeps you safe. November marks the start of deer hunting season.

Brunswick pulls out all stops for Halloween. School children paint the windows.

My daughter’s team didn’t win a prize for “Horrorscope,” but I award them a blog star for originality.

That’s an underwater Halloween in a crystal ball. Global warming is scary! They painted the Little Dog Café, a great place to settle into a comfy chair with a cup of coffee.

On Halloween Brunswick children gather at the village green and then march down Maine Street accompanied by the junior high school band.

When you cross the bridge to Topsham, the street apparently loses its sense of humor and becomes Main Street. Keep driving and town gives way to farms on Rural Rt. 201.

Stop at Rocky Ridge Orchard in Bowdoin to pick apples or to buy your pumpkin. My teenaged son chose the biggest pumpkin: 56 pounds! He carried and carved it himself. My daughter is a fan of the barn swing.

We got cider and Cote’s ice cream at the farm shop. Their cider press dates from 1935.

The flag in the opening photo hangs from the rafters. Rocky Ridge is stocked full of Americana, country antiques and the best baked goods.

We brought home a mixed dozen of pumpkin, cider and chocolate doughnuts and an apple pie that was still warm.

Another good place for “donuts” is Frosty’s back in Brunswick, but you’d better go quickly. Rumor has it that Frosty’s may also be going out of business after more than 3 decades. Like Grand City Variety, they may not be able to renew their five year lease on Maine Street.

I met fellow blogger Tina Ramsey from In the Garden for pumpkin donuts at Frosty’s. I realized I had a problem once I walked in the door. I was looking for a big yellow dog (Tina’s profile image) and had no idea what Tina looked like. Luckily Tina and her mother, Jean, (another regular commenter on my blog) recognized me immediately. Not too many folks in Maine have long, black, curly hair.

Photo of Tina and me by Tina's husband

Tina and I met through our blogs when I was living in England last year. Tina grew up in Brunswick and attended the same elementary school as my children did. Now she lives in Tennessee after retiring from the army and is doing a degree in horticulture paid for by Uncle Sam. She and her husband are veterans of the Iraq War.

Reading In The Garden’s chatty comments is just like stopping by a front porch in Maine. Tina posted last week about our meeting. I’m suffering from blog lag – too many good things going on in life to keep up. Tina gave me a marker stone for my home, a gift she hand-makes for the bloggers that she meets. Thanks, Tina!

I’ve also connected with Brunswick School Board district 7 candidate Michele Joyce. Her friend from the Peace Corps in Africa is Shauna of Thinks Monthly in California, another commenter on my blog. Michele’s claim was that good people will find each other. I’m happy that a good person like Michele is running for School Board in my town. Isn’t it amazing that two blogging connections could lead back to Maine Street?

While on the topic of Brunswick politics, I'm endorsing Nick Livesay for Town Council At-Large. Nick grew up in Brunswick, graduated from Bowdoin College and has returned to raise his family. His work experience as an environmental consultant will be especially helpful for land use planning after the Naval Air Station closure.

Can you believe that Election Day is less than a week away?

Reflections on Writing, Art and Fashion

"Nantucket Red" watercolor by Sarah Laurence 8/14/08

Usually my two careers, writing and art, do not overlap. I paint outside in the summer and write novels during the school year. Last week I met a man who asked, “Novels and art? Is that right brain or left brain?”

I laughed and replied, “Both and neither. If I had a brain, I would choose at least one lucrative career, but I love them both.”

Lately the line between art and writing has blurred. It all started in my blog where my writing and photography came together. Three weeks ago I blogged about Jane Green’s novel, The Beach House. I had fun retracing her footsteps on Nantucket Island, where I spend time every summer.

Step Beach, Nantucket Island

The author discovered my book review on-line and admired my blog header painting. Jane was looking for a special gift for her partner who loves boats and Nantucket. She ended up buying him “Nantucket Red.” Her partner will get the joke: Nantucket Red is a cloth originally made on island that fades to pink. It’s popular with sailors.

Jane’s a blogger too, and much to my amusement, my painting is in her post “Planet Fashion Calling.” Jane is friends with Martha Stewart; they both live in chic Westport, Connecticut. Her novels and blog are full of amusing anecdotes about well-heeled suburban life. She also blogs about politics, cooking, parenting and writing. It’s a fun blog (in my sidebar.)

My eleven-year-old daughter (right) burst into giggles when she read the title, “No offense, Mommy, but you and fashion?”

I’ve never bothered keeping up with the latest trends. I’m short and hourglass shaped so shopping is a nightmare. Jeans need to be taken up inches in the rare case I find ones that fit. I like nice clothes but can’t understand why fashions change. I wear things until they have holes.

My favorite item in my wardrobe are these retro flower power boots from Arche that even my daughter calls cool.

My NYC friends call me bohemian. They say I can get away with it as a creative type. So the shoe fits, and it fits well in Maine. That is in the rare occasion I’m wearing shoes instead of hiking boots or flip flops.

In sandy-snowy-muddy Maine, folks dress for the weather, not for fashion. A newcomer asked if L.L.Bean boots and jeans would be okay to wear to a party. The host laughed, “Bean boots and jeans are always okay.”

L.L.Bean’s headquarters are in Freeport, the next town over. Several of the moms I know work the holiday season shift in the factory. One friend of mine edits the catalogue.

It was the contrast between small town Maine and my hometown of Manhattan that motivated me to start writing novels. After a year sabbatical in England, I’m writing a new book, NOT CRICKET, that puts two generations of Maine women at Oxford University.

Radcliffe Square, Oxford University

Fish out of water stories appeal to me. I don’t really fit in anywhere, and yet I look comfortable enough that strangers ask me for directions, no matter where I am. My agent, Jean Naggar, suggested that this lack of fit is part of what makes my writing good. It’s easy for me to stand back to get perspective.

It’s also important to get perspective in art. Halfway through my "Nantucket Red" painting, I flipped it upside down. When I was finished (thanks for waiting!) a woman approached to question me. I explained that I have to trick the rational left hemisphere of my brain which sees a boat. When a painting is upside down, my artistic right hemisphere can see a composition and check for balance.

It’s hard to see in the reproduction, but some red is worked into the seaweed and washed into the skyline. Red is the most difficult color to handle in watercolor. Other colors can be lifted off the paper with a sponge. Red stains like blood and mixes with green to make brown. I add the red last when the paper is dry.

I don’t paint exactly what is there. I removed the extra sailboats. The balance improved when I shifted the seagull to the right, but then he took flight. I had to paint him from memory. The sailboat kept swinging around its mooring.

I was working on a boat launch beach halfway between Jetties Beach and the Brant Point lighthouse so there were people dragging dinghies past me. Mosquitoes were buzzing. The painting looks so peaceful, but the process was turbulent. I still feel calm looking at it, remembering the beauty of the island.

When novelist Jane Green bought this painting, I was thrilled but somewhat disconcerted. It felt like my two careers had flipped. Was Jane a fellow writer or an art client? I learned that my agent co-represented Jane for her first book sold in the USA. Jane is English but now lives in the USA with an American, the reverse of me and my husband. I've gotten to know Jane a bit through our blogs and e-mails, and she's really nice. Our lives are like a reflection with the line between us blurred.

My art career is coming into sharper focus. I’ve added pages of watercolors and photos to my website. I've already had another inquiry about the "Nantucket Red" painting, but I don't sell duplicates (although I retain reproduction rights.) Watercolors look best in the original form.

This week the on-line journal nantucket-art.com posted a feature on me. Check it out. It’s a great way to get a sense of the art scene on the island. The journal is written in blog style. Answering Nantucket Art’s questions, I found myself mentioning my writing too.

An artist is the protagonist of my work in progress. It’s fun to be writing about art, to bring those two sides of me into one character. In fiction there need not be borders.

Americans in Oxford

Are they marketing to expats in Oxford or Americanophiles?

I feel more American living abroad. It happens every time I open my mouth. It doesn’t matter that I’m wearing a battered Barbour and muddy wellies or even that my husband is English. My accent declares that I’m not British.

We Americans grow up with a sense of England from watching Masterpiece Theater on public television. We expect Oxford to be just like Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, forgetting that it’s fiction and from another era.

In the two decades I have visited and occasionally lived in England, I’ve seen a great deal of convergence between our countries. There was the spread of first McDonalds and the GAP and now Starbucks etc. I wouldn’t call this a good trend, but my kids appreciate the super-sized “American cookies” (instead of “biscuits”) at train stations. A "coffee Americana" in Europe is what we could call "coffee black."

I am happy to find bagels in the supermarkets now even if they taste more like bread. My first homesick year living in London (1980’s) I actually called the American Embassy to ask where to buy bagels. They didn’t know. My fiancé found them in Leicester Square, and later I discovered a Jewish area in Brick Lane.

My notion of England must sound warped to British ears, and British concepts of America sound just as funny to me. In the very English department store Debenhams I found this display of “Maine New England” clothing. Where can I start? I have never seen landscape like that in my home state. I’m guessing the photo was shot in Cornwall, not in Maine. The pink-red shirt color is native to New England, but it’s called "Nantucket Red." It’s popular with sailors and preppies on an island in Massachusetts. Button-down, short sleeve shirts are much more prevalent in England than in the USA.

One advantage of living abroad during an election year is to have a filter from all the frenzy. I check the primary results in The New York Times on line and see the race covered by the English media. I’ve been less than impressed. Mary Dejevsky’s commentary in The Independent was typical of the English coverage, and I’m sure there are American equivalents. Too many articles focus on race vs. gender when discussing Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. Of course that is a key issue, but I find it demeaning to the candidates to reduce them to inherited characteristics.

There are clear policy differences between Clinton and Obama. Living under the National Health in England is bliss: no insurance forms or co-pays and everyone is covered. I can admire Clinton for wanting that for our nation. Then there’s the war. The British are very concerned about the War in Iraq, and yet they seem unaware that Obama has opposed the war since day one, without waffling, whereas Clinton voted for it before doing an about face.

Obama is a fascinating candidate for reasons that go beyond race. I’m reading his incredibly well written memoir Dreams of My Father. I found it prominently displayed at Paddington Train Station. The most compelling article I’ve read on Obama was by Andrew Sullivan in the Atlantic Monthly. Sullivan is British and Oxford educated but lives in the USA. If you read only one article about Obama, read that one to understand the political culture and the meaning of his candidacy. You can buy American magazines in England, but they cost as much as books. This one was worth it.

Walking through Oxford, I found this sign in a dorm room window. I’m guessing there’s a Rhodes or Marshall scholar in residence. President Bill Clinton was one himself, but I haven’t seen any Clinton signs for his wife. Ironically, I believe this window is at Univ, Bill’s college at Oxford.

Another memoir I’m reading is Rosa Ehrenreich’s A Garden of Paper Flowers about her time as a Marshall Scholar at Oxford. I can’t say I’m enjoying it. It’s a very subjective and whiny account that plays to stereotype: the American can’t fit in with the rigid, class-bound Brits. Her naivety is almost humorous. She chose Christ Church and then complains that it was too upper class and religious, when even a spot of research could have told her that.

Ehrenreich finds fault in the Oxford system compared to Harvard without realizing that she’s comparing undergraduate education to a graduate program. Of course graduate education in political science is going to be more theoretical, narrow and full of jargon. It’s a big part of the reason why I left academia myself.

It is much more fun being an undergraduate, especially in the American system. I took elective courses in music, forestry, literature and art history while studying politics. English students enjoy their undergraduate years too. Like Ehrenreich, my husband had fun rowing, but he also received a first rate education at Oxford and then at Harvard. Henry appreciated both despite their differences.

Ehrenreich does do a good job describing what it feels like being a confused ex-pat American at Oxford. Her personal reactions will help guide character development in my third novel. I’ve also talked to my cousin Peter Nohrnberg, who was another Marshall Scholar but at Magdalen College. I have 3 American friends who very much enjoyed their junior year at Oxford.

I studied abroad during my junior year too but at King’s College London. Last time I lived in England (2004), my husband was leading Colby-Bowdoin-Bates semester in London for Maine college students. This academic year Henry is doing a research fellowship at Oxford for his sabbatical while I'm researching my third novel. My work in progress places an American student at Oxford in the 1980’s and now.

The true experience probably falls somewhere between my good years and Ehrenreich’s misery. If there is misery, I’d like to find the humor in it as well. There is nothing like living abroad to give insight on a foreign culture but also on one’s own. We see ourselves in another’s eyes better than by looking in a mirror.

If you know of other books (fact or fiction) about Americans at Oxford, please comment below. I’d also love to hear some personal accounts. You can comment anonymously.

In case you were worried after my last post, the flood waters have receded. The sun has been shining for days! The crocuses are blooming through the muck, but there's snow/rain in the forecast. It's just like late mud season in Maine. Doesn’t this photo (click image to expand) look like an oil painting? It’s the digital zoom and the winter light.

Hampstead Fairies and Asian Restaurants

It was frizzling in London. My daughter and I coined that term to describe what English weather does to curly hair. It was not heavy rain but more persistent than drizzle. The last frost seemed a dream. Perfect time to enjoy the January sales! At half price, British goods are almost affordable for Americans.

The train to London on a family rail card off peak was under £40 ($80) for the four of us, including the underground (subway) for the day. Our train was late; that happens 20% of the time. The countryside between Oxford and London, along the Thames, is lovely. One hour later, we arrived in Paddington and split up.

Henry and our teenaged son headed to the recently reopened London Transport Museum. I blame my son’s interest in transportation on The Big Dig in Boston, as my son lived his first 3 formative years in its shadow. He also collects maps and spent a chunk of his Christmas money at Standfords Map Store, established in 1853. They had a tasty lunch at Lido in London’s China Town and then went to the British Museum, home of the Rosetta Stone (my mouse pad!)

My daughter and I went shopping in Hampstead Village, North London. Four years ago we lived nearby in Swiss Cottage and fell in love with the little village. Hampstead is full of alleys, quiet back streets and rose covered townhouses. At this time of year, nothing was blooming except for the sales.

My daughter and I both love the high street clothing store Jigsaw. Hampstead has its own Jigsaw Junior with the best tween clothing, stylish but not too grown up. There’s no Value Added Tax on kids’ clothing too. The adult Jigsaw is conveniently across the street but is less affordable. Hampstead has plenty of upmarket chainstores and boutiques.

Had the weather been nicer we might have taken a stroll in Hampstead Heath or gone for a snack at La Crêperie de Hampstead. Can you believe a stand that small has its own website? Then again, usually the line is very long.

Best place for lunch is Dim-T. They have a kid’s menu that is £4.50 ($9) with a choice of dim sum dumplings or a box lunch and ice cream. It didn’t include a drink. They make a really good fresh mint lemonade. The restaurant was full of families but has a hip atmosphere. I always order my favorite of dim sum which comes in stacked bamboo baskets. The best ones are prawn or vegetable. Don’t dip them in soy sauce – they create their own delicious broth inside as they steam.

After lunch we headed to the Hampstead equivalent (first photo) of Diagon Alley. Mystical Fairies is truly out of Harry Potter or a little girl’s fantasy. Words cannot describe the pink splendor.

We found the perfect gift for my niece’s seventh birthday. We chose the only item that wasn’t pink, lavender or baby blue, but still fit for a princess. The vaulted ceiling was painted blue with stars, twinkling with soft light. It’s a girly girl store, but tastefully done. No Disney in sight. My ten-year-old daughter is beyond the fairy princess stage, but it was fun to reminisce.

For dinner we met the guys at the best Japanese restaurant in London. Jinkichi is really, really good, even by Tokyo standards. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple yakatori restaurant that also serves good sushi and noodles. It’s tiny, like a sushi bar, with a few more tables in the basement. Best to book a table ahead as it’s always crowded.

If you’re not familiar with yakatori (meat and vegetable skewers cooked on an open grill in special sauce) you can order the first set menu designed for gaijin (foreigners.) The second set menu is for the more adventurous or for native Japanese and features delicacies such as chicken gizzard and liver. We started with the special eggplant appetizer (best I’ve ever had) and Agadashi Tofu (fried tofu in a broth like sauce) then ordered the first menu and some more a la carte later.

Everything was delicious, including the few bits of sushi. Henry ordered in Japanese although the waiter spoke English well. All the staff was Japanese as were half of the customers. Jinkichi is prepared for children – they fashion easy pincher chopsticks out of a rubber band and the chopstick wrapper.


Best of all, the meal was excellent value by London standards, about £70 ($140) for the four of us. Dinner was worth the trip in itself. We were back home in time for bed, dreaming of sugar fairies and a better exchange rate.

Black Tie at Oriel College, Oxford University

I realized my mistake only when I tried to sit. A long gown seemed appropriate for a black tie dinner at my husband’s alma mater. There was the added benefit of hiding my old shoes. When Henry was at Oriel, it was all male. No student would have had to hike her dress up to her knees to straddle the bench, although he would have worn an academic gown.

The men on the wall side actually climb onto the bench and then the narrow table to reach the other side. Grown men in tuxedos were stepping through china, linen napkins and wine glasses. The elders sat on chairs at the high table. I must have been one of the youngest at the Oriel Society dinner.

Framed in gold, Oriel forbears, such as Walter Raleigh, watched the scene with imperious detachment. The dark oak-paneled room had a high vaulted ceiling and was far longer than it was wide. Cavernous! Add brooms and it would be Hogwarts.


The dining hall at Christ Church (above), the grandest college at Oxford, was actually featured in the Harry Potter movies. This wealthy and aristocratic college was also the setting for Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. Oriel is more intimate, but the feeling is similar. Founded in 1326 Oriel has 300 undergraduates. Christ Church dates from 1524 and has 450 undergraduates. Oxford University is really a congregation of many small colleges with separate admissions and faculty. The colleges compete in sports and have individual identities.


Henry was in his element sporting his boating club blazer for coxing the second eight. Oriel is known for being the rowing college at Oxford. In Henry’s day there were fifteen 8-man boats, steered by a cox. At the Oxford bumps races a team moves up the rank by actually bumping into the next boat. The winning team tosses the cox into the river. Then the Head of the River has a big drinking party around a bonfire of an old boat followed by a bumps supper in the hall.

It appeared Oriel was also the drinking college. With every course came a different drink: champagne before dinner, white wine with the fish, red with the lamb and a dessert wine with the chocolate pudding. This was followed by two types of port, always passed to the left. The first port came in a silver flagon!


To my right was Tenzin Wilberforce, a Tibetan from India married to another Oriel alum, and to my left was Henry’s chum, Vince Warner. He was wearing a most unusual waistcoat, as were several distinguished gentlemen. I asked one man with silver hair, “What’s with the turtles on your waistcoat and bow tie?”

“Turtles? Turtles! My dear, those are tortoises.” Only the first eights crews are allowed to join the Tortoise Club.

Makes no sense to me. Turtles like water, and tortoises are slow land animals. It isn’t about making sense. The Leander Club of rowers wear pink hippos on their ties and have the exclusive right to enter the steward’s enclosure for the Henley Regatta.

The English are all about signaling who belongs in the inner enclosure. Like peacocks, they strut their plumage, marking their territory. Imagine the shock of an American woman flying into the flock, snapping pictures for her blog.


The gentleman in the butterfly-embroidered waistcoat asked if I was from Vogue! He belonged to no secret club. His talented wife, Marion Clegg, designed and embroidered his garment. The inspiration came from the Beatrix Potter story, The Tailor of Gloucester.

I am indeed living a fairytale. It hasn’t rained in the three weeks since we arrived, and I’m finally connected to the internet.

First Blog: From Maine to New York

How hard can it be to get from Maine to New York? Friday night (1/5/07) I was editing my first novel while waiting in the Portland airport for hours. They announce that Kennedy is closing due to weather delays. I rebook myself on a flight the next morning and call my husband, Henry. He says he’ll drive in to get me and leaves our twelve -year-old son babysitting his sleeping younger sister.

I get a call on my cell from Henry, “I’m okay, but the car is totaled.” A sudden rainstorm had made the car hydroplane off the highway into a ditch. Some college students, one a former boy scout, stopped to help. By two in the morning we are all back home in Brunswick, minus one Subaru. Henry doesn’t even have a scratch.

At the NYC Party: Petria, Me, Cathy, Jen, Llisa, Amy and Deb

On three hours of sleep, I still enjoy my friend’s party in New York Saturday night (1/6/07). She is the first of my Dalton School friends to turn forty and does it with style. There must have been thirty people there, and I talk to maybe twenty. Petria May, in peacock blue Pucci, quit law to open a vintage clothing store in the Berkshires. Llisa Demetrios, a sculptor from California wine country, bemoans the rising cost of bronze since 9/11. A New York investment banker reads only electronic books. He’s reading War and Peace on his Blackberry one sentence at a time. I promise a book group that I’ll visit when (and if) my novel gets published.

As I leave, my hostess asks if I met their friend the editor who just got promoted at a good publishing house.

What editor? Oh, well.

On Monday (1/8/07) it's raining sideways. I borrow a raincoat and umbrella from my mother and head out in a short skirt and high-heeled flower power boots to meet Jean Naggar, my agent, for a 12:30 lunch at A La Turka on East 74th. Only a few blocks from arriving on time, a man in a wheelchair asks, “Miss, can you help me?” He’d scattered about 20 quarters all over the sidewalk. What would the ethicist say? I bend down to help him, and my hair blows wildly in the wind. I’m wet and running late. I arrive at an empty restaurant and go downstairs to fix myself up. My hand comes away from the banister brown with varnish, but it scrubs off. It’s now 12:45 so I call my agent’s assistant only to learn that the time was meant to be 1:00. By then I’ve had time to look back over my manuscript.

Jean is always a delight and her enthusiasm infectious. She brought along her daughter Jennifer Weltz, who handles their foreign and film rights, because she thinks we have a lot in common. We do. Their advice is helpful and well worth the trip. I come home re-energized to tackle the final revisions. There is more rewriting than writing to creating a novel.

Visit my website: www.sarahlaurence.com