This is a writer's brain. . . it's exhausting.

I want to write a book. Like actually complete a book. I doubt I can, but I want to try.

*writes book that takes years. quickly discounts accomplishment*

I just want to get an agent. If I could only get an agent . . .

*after years of rejection gets agent*

I just want to sell this manuscript.

*after years of revision and rejection sells manuscript*

I just want decent critical reviews and a handful of readers.

*gets those. quickly discounts same.*

I just want more readers and to sell another book.

*does so. quickly discounts same. lather, rinse, repeat. Often multiple times.*

I just want a starred review.

(*fuck off. still waiting*)

I just want to win an award.

*gets a few. quickly discounts same.*

I just want to win a "real" award. The kind that comes with a sticker on the book.

(*again, fuck off. Who asked you? And see what I mean about discounting same. . . ?*)

I just want to write a book that matters.

*What does that even mean? And anyway, hard to tell. But let's just, for argument's sake, say that a handful of readers' notes could make one believe that maybe possibly they have done so. quickly discounts same.*

I just want to write the kind of book that's unique, that's different, that's never been done, that takes someone's breath away. . .

* . . . *

(I just needed to write that out so I could actually plow forward and write what I'm working on now. . . )

- gae

Good Things to Close out the Year.

If you want to read my New Year's resolutions, they are here on my regular blog (click on the link below):

http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/three-rs-of-2011-renew-resolve.html

Here, on my YA blog, I've decided to leave myself a little reminder gift to close out the year.

Here are my two author "blurbs" for The Pull of Gravity, each from a YA author I admire greatly, making them all the sweeter. I am honored that each of these authors read my book and felt strongly enough to allow their names to be on it. Such a good thing. Happy New Year to you all.

- gae



K. L. Going (author of Liberation of Gabriel King, St. Iggy, King of the Screwups, etc.):

"Gae Polisner writes with fluidity and grace.
The Pull of Gravity is a very moving story with so much heart. . . It will draw you in and keep you thinking long after you've closed the book."


and, Francisco X. Stork (author of Marcelo in the Real World and Last Summer of the Death Warriors):

"Part love story, part adventure story, funny and serious, the Pull of Gravity is a delightful read."

READ THESE BOOKS/Trying to Make the Good Moments Stick

As writers, and as humans in general (presuming writers fall into that category), we tend to hold on to the negative moments, the defeats, the upset (the one bad review amidst ten good reviews *crosses fingers and prays for this ratio*), while the good ones -- the things we thought nearly impossible but strove for and accomplished-- seem way more slippery and fleeting, somehow devalued, or at least harder to internalize and hold on to.

It's the human condition. In buddhism, it's referred to as Samsara.

I know more and more, as I embark on this sometimes-fickle journey toward publication, it is important to take the time to bask in the good things. I'm not good at it. At all. Instead, I'm always quickly thinking of what I didn't do, what more I could have done, and how much better I should have done it.

So, I'm making this post to memorialize for all the world (read, me) to remember: whatever the sales numbers, whatever less-than-glowing reviews the future may hold, here are four remarkable things that have happened already to The Pull of Gravity so far, and, by extension, to me.

As they say, if I die tomorrow, I should die happy*:

1. My family and a few friends read it and liked it a lot, and believed in my writing and the story (if you are amongst them, thank you);

2. My agent did the same;

3. The remarkable Frances Foster of Farrar Straus Giroux read it and loved it and then fought to acquire the manuscript;

4. KL Going and Francisco X. Stork, two of the young adult authors I admire most in the world, read it and liked it enough to give me a blurb knowing their names will be on its cover. That last part humbles me to no end.

And if you have not read The Liberation of Gabriel King or Marcelo in The Real World, and their many other magnificent books, you should. READ THESE BOOKS.

So, here's the deal. I'm walking away from the computer for an hour or so to internalize and really appreciate the good. Plenty of time for all the negative stuff later on...

and for burpees. Ugh. Yes, those too. ;)

-gae

*prefers not to die tomorrow.

Friday Feedback #2

Okay, you know the RULES.

Okay, well at least three of you do. But just in case, here they are again.
There's only three.
If you want more details, read this blog post here. http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/friday-feedback.html, or click on "the Rules" above, otherwise, just follow along.

I would like the following feedback (and will offer the same to you if you post an excerpt for me to read in the comments):

• If it is the first few paragraphs of a novel – as it is (again) today – tell me if it "hooks" you enough to make you want to keep reading, or not. If yes, why? If no, why not?

• What else (if anything) works for you, and why?

• What doesn’t work for you (if something doesn't) and why?


If you would like the same feedback, please post your brief excerpt at the end of your comment (and tell me what it is -- e.g. opening to a novel, short story, poem, etc...). Please post no more than 3 -5 paragraphs, 5 if they're short, 3 if they are long. If there's more, I will only read the first 3 -5 paragraphs. If the comment gets too long, feel free to reply in two separate comments. If you are a student from a particular class, please identify yourself as such. If not, let me know how you found me.

Today, I am posting the opening paragraphs from another WIP (Work In Progress) of mine called In Sight of Stars. The audience is Upper YA (16+). Because it is an opening chapter, the main question is, does it hook you? And there is a curse in it, so if that offends you, stop reading now. :)

If you're here, thanks for participating. Can't wait to read your stuff.

Week One


1.


My dad and I are walking through Soho. The day is bright and brisk. As we talk, our breath puffs out in front of us like steam from the street vents. Sarah is there with me. The sky turns dusky gray; the Empire State building towers ahead in pink-red glory. Dad laughs at something, and Sarah takes my hand.


Except, no. That’s not right. We’re not in Soho.


And Dad’s not there.


No one is there.


I scratch my ear.


“Try not to do that,” she says.


What?


I look up. The woman is still there.


Middle aged. Dark, frizzy hair. A little overweight.


Dr. Andersen.


No, that’s not right either. Alvarez.


Shit.


Art, I say, I met Sarah in art class. Is that what you asked me? I seriously can’t get my thoughts to collect.


Dr. Alvarez nods and I stare at the print on her wall. It’s a Van Gogh. Daubigny’s Garden. 1890. I think that’s why I’m willing to talk at all. Because of that print on her wall. If it had been anything else – a Monet, a Renoir – forget it. But it’s a Van Gogh, so there’s hope then.


“Tell me more about that,” she says.


I pull at my ear again. I try not to, but it itches.


My eyes go back to the print. The frame is wrong, too modern, and matted. You don’t really matte a Van Gogh. His paintings are expansive. The color should go right to the frame. I close my eyes and breathe. My throat feels too choked to swallow.

***

-gae

Sweet 16?

Hey, all,

I am honored to have fellow 2K11’er, Julia Karr, celebrating a week of her “16” tour on my blog.

Her debut YA novel, XVI, will be released on January 6, 2011. She’s the first 2K11’er to launch, so we like to call her our guinea pig!

Publishers Weekly says of XVI, "Gender politics and sexual awareness play prominent roles in Karr's thought-provoking dystopian debut."

And, btw, by commenting on this post, you will be automatically entered in a drawing to win an ARC of the book (as detailed below).







So, this is Julia. Yep, she's totally lovely. :)

And this is XVI:

(Great cover, no? Ahem.)

So, I’ve just started reading it, and all the 16-stuff has me thinking about when I turned 16, just like the main character Nina in XVI is about to do, with pretty chilling consequences.


For me 16 wasn't chilling, but it was a year full of highs and lows, and definitely a time that felt “on the brink” of things. And whatever you do, do not ask me about my sweet sixteen party, or worse, ask my parents. I still tear up at the thought of my teddy bear cake the boys sculpted boobs onto. But anyway, I digress.

One of the things I'm finding most intriguing about XVI so far, is that the book, set in the year 2150, is full of acronyms, and I thought I’d ask Julia about some of those here. So I did, and she answered. Consider it a lucky sneak peek at the very cool future world she creates in the story:

Okay, Julia, here we go:

PAVs - Pretty much everyone in XVI has a PAV. What is a PAV and how does it work?

Hi Gae! Thanks so much for having me! Now... on to the answers. A PAV is a Personal Audio Video. It works a lot like a cell phone, except it has 2 parts. A tiny, undetectable earpiece that operates anywhere (except in a dead zone - pretty much like now) and doesn’t have to have its receiver nearby. The receiver, however, is a whole lot more like a smart phone. It does everything from read text chips to projecting things like a keyboard or news alerts onto any surface - like a desk or a wall. People in XVI are pretty much always wired!


FeLS - Nina's friend, Sandy, wants to be chosen for FeLS. What is it? Why does she want to be chosen?

FeLS is the Federal Liaison Specialist program. It’s pretty much the only way out of low tier status for girls. A FeLS is a sixteen year old girl who has remained a virgin, is dedicated to leaving her family and friends for 2 years (with no contact) and is sent to various countries to interact with their government heads and dignitaries. But - it may not be exactly as it seems...

B.O.S.S. - That sounds intimidating (er, or is that just me?). What does it stand for?

Ah, B.O.S.S. the feared Bureau of Safety and Security. Of course, the only people who are scared of B.O.S.S. are people who understand exactly how sinister it is. Most citizens just feel like B.O.S.S. keeps them safe.

A.S.P. - What is A.S.P? Does it slither and bite?

A.S.P. is the Audio Surveillance Police. Oh, they can have a fierce bite if they pick up anti-government chatter!

HAL - And, last but not least, who on Earth is HAL?

Good old HAL. He’s the Hall Access Limiter. A robotic hall monitor. All school monitor bots are HAL. And, they are always right there when you least want them to be, checking hall passes, taking students to the principal’s office - yup - good old HAL.

***

Me: Sounds pretty interesting, yes!?

At any rate, Julia's got a mere five weeks before the release of XVI!
You heard me: FIVE weeks!

Julia, how are you hanging in there?


J: Wow! Only five weeks to go! Sheesh! It seemed so far away and now it seems so close! Next Friday morning (1 week), Random Number Generator will choose the lucky winner of a pre-order of XVI! And, all commenters will be entered in the Grand Prize drawing! Teasers of the Grand Prize will start to show up on my blog this week. (Click on the word blog to go to Julia's blog).


Gae, thanks so much for having me on the 16 Weeks to XVI tour. It’s been great fun! And, I can hardly wait for your book, The Pull of Gravity! (Spring is too far away! I want to read it now!)

(Julia, seriously, it was MY pleasure).


- gae

What's Your Unfickle? (Pursuing the Horizon)

I admit it. I'm Aesthetically fickle. What I loved to read, watch, look at, wear, this year, are likely not necessarily going to be the same things that resonate with me next year. I get sick of old things and fall in love with shiny, new things, with few exceptions (including my own works of fiction).

Even the books and movies I "love" seem to have a time and place for me, meaning, the few times I've gone back to reread or rewatch them, they just haven't held the same allure. As such, I don't often try to do so.

Of course, to every fickle rule, there are exceptions. And here are a few of mine (list definitely NOT exhaustive):

I never get sick of:

from A Wrinkle in Time

ANYTHING Maira Kalman, especially her picture books;

A Wrinkle In Time, The History of Love, Pride & Prejudice, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, and most things Dr. Seuss;

The Graduate, Swingers, The Swimmer, A Little Romance; Bridget Jones's Diary (the movie) (I know, sue me, I think it's Colin Firth);

a few select poems by e.e. cummings;

and, for some reason, the longest hold out, this poem by Stephen Crane which has resonated with me for more than 30 years:

"I saw a man pursuing the horizon"


I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never —”
“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.

I can't tell you exactly why this poem resonates for me year after year, only that I go back to it and when I do, it does.

What does this for you?

What's your unfickle?

-gae

The Word is Out!

I am not only at the six-month mark for the launch of my debut novel, The Pull of Gravity, FSG, May, 10, 2011, but today the Class of 2K11 has launched!

You can find us here: http://www.classof2k11.com/
(or, um, up there where I just linked us, whatever...) and if you think I'm excited, the answer is YES!!!

I am beside myself excited.

Not just because I think we have a roster of 19 amazing-sounding books (paranormal romance, literary, sci-fi, contemporary, dystopian, etc.), but because the 19 members of our class are some of the nicest, funniest, kindest, most supportive people I have ever, well, not yet* met.

To launch the site, we're doing a give-away of the entire Class of 2K10's books -- most of them signed. Sign up for our newsletter for a chance to win.

So, the word is out! Please help spread it. And, to my hubby, yes, the bird is the word. ;)

xo gae

*I've met Megan. She rocks! :D

inspiration and signs

Once you get a book published, people want you to talk a lot about your inspiration. And not in cliched generalizations. What made you write that book? How did you come up with that story. Writers should keep process journals, only because, by the time that book comes out, you've written one or two (or three) other manuscripts and the stories and reasons that were so clear at the time (if they ever were) have faded with time.

The Pull of Gravity (FSG, May 2011) has an Of Mice and Men theme running through it. Why I picked a classic, I definitely know, but why that classic, Of Mice and Men, I'm not completely sure, except for some vague and minor reasons.

All I know is once I picked it, I knew it was exactly the right choice. Not only for internal reasons, but I started to get small outward signs. I'd run across a sudden reference where it was seriously unexpected, Or, the biggest sign, while researching values on rare (scant even) original signed first editions with what's known as The Pendula included, I came across a copy inscribed by John Steinbeck to a man bearing the same unusual first name as the missing father the teens are searching for in the book. Even the last name was similar.

A few days ago, I woke up with an idea for a new young adult manuscript in my head. As always, I use the word idea loosely.

All I really knew is that it would be about two troubled teens and that it would have some important tie-in with Van Gogh.

I got the kids off to school and signed on to my computer to start writing with that overwhelming urge to get first thoughts down that any of us who write, know. I jotted three quick paragraphs and switched screens to attend to my morning ritual of email and facebook.

And there it was, my friend Lori's status update for the day: a quote by Vincent Van Gogh. And not any quote, but one that seemed to clearly resonate with the first paragraphs I'd just written, to mesh with the nebulous ideas swirling so frantically in my head.

Friday evening, I left Long Island for Washington DC for a whirlwind wedding weekend (and ten-plus hours of driving). Saturday morning, after breakfast -- and given that my mother, a talented artist, was with us -- we decided to squeeze in a visit to the Phillips Museum which happened to be around the corner from our hotel. We had heard it was a great museum (it is!) and my mother had always wanted to go.

As we reached the front entrance, I could see it was draped with a building-sized poster of Van Gogh's House at Arles. Sure, Van Gogh is a reasonably-obvious choice for any museum, on the other hand the museum was chock-full of amazing masters: Renoir, Cezanne, Degas, Monet, Manet, Bacon and Rubens, to name just a few.
  
When I reached the actual painting House at Arles, I stood for a while, feeling strangely connected. I've never spent a ton of time studying Van Gogh or anything, but certainly his paintings have always moved me. In person they are more beautiful.

There was no glass covering the work and I kept thinking how I could simply reach out and touch the very same paint Van Gogh touched and how magical that might be. The museum guard seemed to read my mind and hovered close by.

At any rate, I'm inspired now, and I hope the small signs continue. I believe in some minor way they let me know I'm on the right, if somewhat, mystifying path toward a new book.

Under Cover Blues

This week's post is here:

http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/10/under-cover-blues.html





cross your fingers for me, and thanks for reading.

-gae

Caps for Sale (semi-lazy post)

Oh, I wrote it.



And it took a long time.




But it's here:

http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/10/hats-for-sale.html

which is why I said, "semi-lazy."

Enjoy! :)

-gae

p.s. If you've never read the picture book, Caps for Sale, by Esphyr Slobodkina (say that three times fast! ;)) you should. Trust me. You really, really should.

-gae

It's Banned Books Week

http://blogcritics.org/books/article/banned-books-week-begins/


Did you know that John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men is a "banned" book? That, in some places, they are still continually trying to ban it?

Without Of Mice and Men there would be no Nick Gardner and Jaycee Amato, no Reginald "the Scoot" Reyland, and no The Pull of Gravity.

Quick, grab your copy. Read yourself a banned book today!

:D

Where Stories Come From . . .

This morning after my swim, as I floated and stared up at a sky so pure blue-gray that its solid, monotonous color was the only thing in my line of vision save for those little floater things (you know, the little paramecium that slip along the periphery of things, viscous, scientific and strange), a line came to me that I knew would likely be the last line of the novella I am working on, if, in fact, the novella ever comes to full fruition. And, trust me, it may, or may not.


That, and a conversation last evening with my dear friend Evelyn's husband, the gorgeous and gregarious (if slightly giddy ;)) Karlito, got me thinking again about where my stories come from -- my beginnings and middles and ends -- and how differently I seem to write than many of my friends who (enviably) write from well-formed ideas reduced to detailed outlines, their chapters and plot (oh dear god when will I EVER learn to plot?) mapped out before them in bulleted, organized glory.

I write with no such bulleted, organized glory.

For example, evolution of The Pull of Gravity: I read an article about this guy, see, and something about him intrigued me and I found myself wondering what his real life might be like. How what he had done (set out to walk across America to lose weight, in this case) would affect his marriage and, more importantly to me, his children, his family.

Here. This is a real photo of him walking:



He became the first central character driving the story, except that I knew that the story would be told from his son's perspective (I do not remember if the real guy has a son).

The second thing that happened was, as I was thinking vaguely about the story, my younger son spiked a fever, which brought the first line of the book to me, and the few lines that followed:

"A fever was what started everything. That, and the water tower, and the cherry cola. Well, also, Dad and his condition, and Mom being in Philadelphia and all."

Nothing else about the story had come to me yet. But I just started writing, and eventually a story unfolded.
Little known fact (nearly forgotten by me): the first working title of the book in my computer files was Fat Man Walking -- a far cry from Steinbeck, The Scoot, and the Pull of Gravity, now just The Pull of Gravity, eh?

Anyway, this is how I write, despite that all I had in this case was a character or two, some lines that appealed to me, and my own desire and intrigue. Lord knows how I got here from there.

For example, evolution of Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me: The title came to me one morning as I woke up. Nothing but that title. There was a reason that Kerouac was on my brain, and I was ruminating on my next YA, but other than that, and the sudden realization that somehow butterflies were also to be involved, I had little else when I set the manuscript in motion. How the rest unfolded remains a mystery to me.

For example, the evolution of Frankie Sky:

The first line, "The first time I see Frankie Schyler, he’s diving into the deep end of the Lawrenceville Country Club pool," came to me together with an image of a small boy, angelic looking, diving confidently into a swimming pool surrounded by onlookers, appearing to swim sort of miraculously, then drowning instead. I was in the pool, underwater, when the image came to me.



All of my stories are like this -- springing from bits and pieces, vague ideas, images that pull at me, call to me while I swim, or drive, or sleep. I suspect this is not the best way to write, and worse, I suspect it is why, while my writing is repeatedly praised, editors continue to struggle with my stories, my plotting, the way things unfold in my novels, over and over again.

Perhaps it is not the best way to write, but so far, it's the only way I know how.

If you write, how do your stories come to you?

How to Really be Alone

A Facebook friend posted a link to  this amazing short film by Andrea Dorfman this week called How to Be Alone (you should watch it because it's really, really great) and it got me to thinking about being alone and whether I truly know how to REALLY be alone anymore.

I know this question is not new, and that I am not the only one asking (hah, the irony, that I am not alone... ;))

I mean, the quick answer is I am alone most the time. My husband goes off to work, and my kids go off to school, and most days, unless I have a client in my paid-work world (er, that sounds like I am a street walker, I am really just a divorce mediator) I am reading alone, or writing alone, or swimming, usually alone.


But then I started thinking about how much my life has changed in the past few years -- about how much time I spend emailing or playing on facebook and all. And I realize that the new me is rarely "alone" and, perhaps forgetting how to be.

The old me used to write with a lovely, uninterrupted quiet that permeated the house and my brain and my soul, while the new me writes with facebook open on one screen and gmail open on the other, and takes constant breaks to skim back and forth between the two. The new me, leaves the computer occasionally, but takes my cell phone instead, constantly checking for that friendly wave or "ping." Sure, I still get my writing done, but there's a noise to all that, a chatter, and I wonder if there's a price tag to it, too.

Moreso, I watch my kids who always have some sort of interaction taking place. From the moment they wake up, till the time they go to sleep, there are friends hanging, text messages, online, interactive X-box games, facebook and endless screens.

As a kid, I spent hours a day lying around with nothing but my own self and a book; no other music, no friends, no other sound. It's some of the fondest time I remember. I fear we've lost that ability; that we've all lost sight of the beauty of being alone.

So for the next few days, with a nod to Andrea and her gorgeous little film, I'm going to try to unplug and shut down, and see if I still remember how. You know, to REALLY be alone.

Don't forget me while I'm gone.

-gae

Sneak peek at a work in progress...

So, writing-wise the summer has been both slow and all over the place. No good news on Swim Back to Me (my piece of women's fiction). No news, yet, on Frankie Sky (my YA option book).

Honestly, it's made it hard for me to concentrate, to focus and feel purposed. Writingwise, I've worked some on my piece of women's fiction in progress; i've worked some on a new piece of YA -- still untitled -- and I've worked some on revisions to Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me, which my agent loves but also has given me notes on.

The truth is, none of them seem to move me right now... I'm hoping with September and a change of pace, I'll find new energy and new inspiration. In the meantime, I'm slowly plugging along.

Still, with little to blog about, I decided to post a sneak peek at the current opening of Jack Kerouac... would love any thoughts and/or feedback. Does it hook you? Does it bore you? Do you want to know more?

Or do you want me to go back to the drawing board?

mood: angsty and restless. (And, yes, I know you didn't ask. ;))

Delias hyparete metarete – Common name – Painted Jezebel

Chapter One.

It is believed that the Jezebel’s brightly-colored underside

serves as a warning pattern to predatory animals.

     The butterflies arrived on a Saturday, but I waited till Sunday to open them since I needed Max’s help with the greenhouse. It was late April, and I had been dating Max Gordon a few weeks by then, but that particular day stuck with me because of how he built the greenhouse, and also because of what Aubrey had said.

     We were all in my room unpacking the boxes. I gave Max the box with the greenhouse parts, and Aubrey and I sat together on my bed tackling the ones with the butterfly larvae. Well, mostly, I tackled, while Aubrey flailed around bored on my bed.

     She used to like the butterflies almost as much as I did, but lately she seemed to be over them. Or maybe it was part of the whole thing with her and me and how we were growing apart. She wanted to blame Max for it, but I just think it was one of those things.

     “You could always go home,” I said without looking up at her. Instead, I worked at a piece of masking tape that sealed a small bubble-wrapped box with air holes in the top. In fairness to Aubrey, it was a gorgeous spring day outside. It’s not like I would have blamed her or anything.

     I glanced at Max. He sat at my desk, head down, earbuds in, working on the metal frame. Occasionally he’d sing some lyric out loud which was kind of funny because he liked old fashioned rock and roll by people like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix that I’d only ever heard of from my parents, so I had no idea of the words.

     “Under that apple suckling tree, oh yeah! That's underneath that tree, there's gonna be just you and me. Underneath that apple suckling tree, oh yeah!!”

     Aubrey looked over at him and rolled her eyes then gave me this look that said ‘what on earth do you possibly see in him?’ but I ignored her because I knew deep inside she was just jealous of how hot and heavy things had gotten between us. Plus, I didn’t care because I thought it was cute how Max liked the old music that pretty much no one listened to anymore. Even if the lyrics were seriously weird, especially the ones he was singing now.

     “Now, who's on the table, who's to tell me? Oh yeah! Who's on the table, who's to tell me? Oh yeah!”

     I laughed out loud avoiding Aubrey’s eyes, and kept working on the box instead. It was sealed tightly with clear packing tape and marked “FRAGILE” on one side and “JEZEBELS” on the other in black Sharpie. There was a second box still in the shipping carton marked “GLASSWINGS” but those were my Nana’s choice.

     Both the Jezebels and the Glasswings were gifts from my nana for my 16th birthday which wasn't really until the end of June. But since they were Tropicals they had to be flown in from Australia, so we ordered them early to allow for the shipping and to make sure the larvae would hatch in the spring.

     At least Nana still liked the butterflies even if Mom didn’t seem to care about them anymore. Which surprised me in a sad way, but less and less by then. Anyway, it was me who had chosen the Jezebels, while Nana had picked out the Glasswings.

     "Ooh, what about these here, Jean Louise?” she had squealed like a little kid as she ran her finger over the glossy catalogue photos of a specimen that looked like it was made of stained glass. And Nana was right, the Glasswings were beautiful, but for some reason I liked the Jezebels best. Especially, Delias hyparete metarete, common name Painted Jezebel, which looked like a boring gray moth on the top and hid its amazing colors underneath like a secret.

*  *  *

Jellyfish Jam

Ogden Nash once wrote:


"The Jellyfish
Who wants my jellyfish?
I'm not sellyfish!"

Hmmm... no offense, Ogden, but I think I can do better than that.

Jellyfish, jellyfish
with your long stringy arms
your gelatinous body,
so short on charms
your thoughtless mind,
your sucking fingers
your sting that burns like heck,
then lingers
your bulbous looks
like peeled-back brain,
you act aloof
then inject your pain,
oh Jellyfish, jellyfish,
through my hands you flutter,
can't you please ditch me
for the peanutbutter?

Hmmm... okay, maybe not.

So, why do I once again have jellyfish on my brain? Because it is August and they are out in full force. This morning's open water swim was a veritable jellyfish extravaganza. Especially the harmless moon jellies, which I don't really mind coexisting with.

But, now, the lions mane are out too, and during this morning's swim, my friend Evelyn got stung by one. A MERE 20 feet from me. And she's the second victim this season.

She called out and we stopped as she clutched at her arm and suggested we not "swim over there."

Er. Okay then. But we all know that jellyfish are like cockroaches: once you see one, you can be sure there are hundreds you can't see.

Then again, after the initial pain and creep out, she was fine and we all kept on swimming at her behest, so why is it that I spent the rest of my swim panicking and periodically jerking up out of the water to shriek like a girl?

What is it about jellyfish that elicit such fear in me?

Is it their long gelatinous bodies without faces? Or the slippery way they flutter as they catch in my fingers? What is it about them that has me slathering on $13/bottle Seasafe lotion that promises to deter them, and ordering a $79 Ecostinger long sleeved, full body swimsuit that promises to detract? Because, it's not their sting itself, since I have now been with two swimmers who have been stung and then been quickly fine enough to carry on.

Nope. It's just definitely the freak out factor. The fear of being accosted by some slimy, faceless alien from the deep.

So, I'm working on a new plan.

To be like Spongebob, friend to all the jellyfish in the sea.

I've got step one underway: the Jellyfish Jam.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dh1mDnmO1k&feature=related

So, click on the link, turn the music up, and dance it with me. Come on, you know you want to.

Words Can't Capture . . .

. . .this morning, my older (and often tired, lethargic, naysaying) son somewhat surprisingly came through and joined me during my 6:15 a.m. open water swim.

We had just bought him a brand new kayak in the hopes he would, but still, with a 14-yr-old (especially of the lethargic naysaying variety) you never know. After all, school just ended and there's a whole summer ahead of him, and I came in to wake him at 5:15 a.m.

"Let's go," I said. "You said you were coming."

And he did something miraculous: He got out of bed.

As we loaded the kayak on the car and strapped it on, I still had my doubts. As we arrived at the beach and unloaded and dragged it down to the waterline, I still had my doubts. As he looked at the seaweed and lapping waves that carried the potential jellyfish and other sealife he's heard me talking about for the past several weeks as I, myself, conquered the world of open water swims, and said, "Okay, I'm not touching that," I still had my doubts.

But then, he stepped in, sat down, and started paddling.

He had told me he had done plenty of kayaking at his week-long sleepaway camp over the past two summers, but I had never seen him, so really had no idea.

My mother's nerves tugged at the back of my brain, as off he went beyond the ropes to wait for me and the rest of the swimmers to join him.

And, then, it happened. It became abundantly clear that he was adept with the kayak; that he was even in his element. He steered away from us and cut across the water's surface like a pro.

As I swam along behind him, periodically glancing up to catch a glimpse of him in his flame red-orange kayak, a red life jacket and puff of brown hair moving farther and farther away from me, it filled me to see my boy this way: Capable. At peace. Self-assured.

It is an image I won't forget, though words will never capture the way it made me feel.

The Lure of Body Parts and Kissing my New Baby Goodbye

I've been in a sparkly, brightly-colored nail-polish phase (perhaps one I should title my Regression Period?), which, given my new penchant for open-water swimming, I suddenly realize could have some hazardous results.

Because while most of me is covered while I swim (wetsuit, bathing cap, neoprene booties), my short, shell-shaped nails flash beneath me in the murky water like a perfect set of ten sparkly lures.

So, now, I have visions of lifting my hands on each stroke with a series of sand eels and other creatures latched to the tips of my fingers.

In other news, I turned my new baby, my young adult manuscript which bears the working title Frankie Sky, into my agent today, which will receive a cover letter from her and travel on to my editor by tomorrow. Pursuant to my contract with FSG, they have the first option on the book. The few readers who have read the early version of it have given it a pretty hearty thumbs up. I look forward to seeing its journey. At least if it's a successful one. :)

Here's a brief excerpt from Chapter 4 of Frankie Sky.

* * *

I blink my eyes and look over at Simon’s cement frog again. The forget-me-nots are in full bloom. In a few weeks they’ll get this weird rot and turn black and we’ll quickly cut them back to the ground. But it’s okay, because already the bleeding hearts will be open, draping their white and pink teardrops over him. Those will last most of the summer. In fall, Mom will cut those back and encircle the frog in mums, and in winter everything will be dead, so instead, she’ll place a series of brightly-colored glass gazing balls around him. Because, in addition to all things drowning, Mom is excellent with her grief-appropriate gardening.

* * *
Now, off to paint my nails another shiny color. Maybe irridescent purple. :)

Do Something New

I'VE BEEN A LOT OF THINGS, and done a lot of things, in my life, if not nearly as much as I wished to: (in somewhat chronological order) gymnast, actress, special events coordinator, tv production assistant, flower seller, paralegal, lawyer, wife, mother, mediator, writer.

I've piloted a hot air balloon as part of a the crew, I've flown over the Bermuda triangle to Bimini for lunch with my uncle in a two-seater plane. I've been up the side of Mt. Blanc in a gondola. And, I've skied off the side of a black diamond ski slope. Er.

I'M STILL WAITING FOR MY WETSUIT TO TURN ME INTO A SUPERHERO. Having said that, I've never been a huge risk taker (never bungee jumped or sky dived or did half the things I thought I would), and the older I get -- and especially once I became a mother with two amazing boys that depend on me -- the less of a daredevil/adventurer I've become. If truth be told, my life has become pretty staid.

NEW THINGS. So, it's been interesting and exhilarating, if sometimes scary, after years and years of trying, to have a brand new career as a "real" published author ahead of me. It means all sorts of ways of putting myself out there (if not of the sky jumping variety). It means public appearances and readings, including ones across country alone. I have not travelled alone since I was a teenager. It means getting reviewed and putting myself out there for the ultimate success or the fall. Or the "dreaded" somewhere in between.

At the same time, I still want new ways, if slightly safer, to put myself out there. I've joined an open-water swim group, that starts out in the Long Island Sound this weekend. I've got my wetsuit, and my beanie cap and my booties and my gloves. But the email I just got from the group leader says, water temps are still in the mid-fifties. This means numb face, which may just be too tough for me to bear. Do I wait a few weeks till the water chugs up to 60 degrees? Or do I bite the buoy and put myself out there?

WHAT DO YOU DO to keep your world from getting old?

Books are like babies...

You write one (er, that's the short version...) and then you marvel at it, thinking it is the most magnificent baby you have ever seen. You coo at it. You show it off to your friends. If you're lucky, you get a publishing deal on it and send it out into the world (ok, my analogy is getting stretched a bit here, go with me).

Then, you write a second book. You think it will never be as beautiful, or funny or smart as your last book, that you can never love another manuscript as much as you loved that first one. But, out it comes and suddenly you realize that you do, you love it every bit as much. You think it's brilliant and funny, and you coo at it and tickle its feet (?). You want to send it out in the world to be loved and adored, as that first one was. 

My second (which is really my third) YA manuscript is about to take its first steps into the world: it goes to my agent this weekend, and then, hopefully, if she doesn't hate it (don't hate my second kid, don't hate my second kid...) off to my editor, as my "option" book (oh, dear G*d, pretty please, don't hate my second kid!).

So, without further ado, take a bubble gum cigar and wash your hands and take a peek (geez, don't cough on it like that!). Here's the first page of my new baby. His name is Frankie Sky (please don't hate my kid). I mean, just look at those cheeks, those fingers, those eyes! ;)



FRANKIE SKY

A Novel, by Gae H. Polisner

"It's so silly. All you do is get the heck out of your body when you die. My gosh, everybody's done it thousands of times. Just because they don't remember, it doesn't mean they haven't done it." - J D Salinger

  Chapter One


"It is not more surprising to be born twice than once." - Voltaire


The first time I see Frankie Schyler, he’s diving into the deep end of the Lawrenceville Country Club pool.

All around the pool, clear as day, are big white signs with black letters that say, “NO DIVING,” but, then, Frankie can’t know about those.

I’m not a fan of the water myself for good reason, and, thus, not prone to dive in after him. In fact, I’m not at the pool that day to swim. I’m tailing Mrs. Merrill from across the street.

Mrs. Merrill is beautiful, but in a hard way like Angelina Jolie, not in a soft, fragile way like Kate Winslet, or like my mother.

I’m not usually this nosy, but I’m tailing Mrs. Merrill for a reason. Which, unfortunately, has to do with my father.

The whole thing started totally by accident the week before. I’d been home early for lunch in between final exams – my last ones of 9th grade, ever – and was standing at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of orange juice. Mom was at her “job” at The Foundation, also known as the place that sucks the lifeblood from her. Well, at least whatever lifeblood she has left. Dad was at work, too, or so I assumed, at his job selling houses, which he’d finally started making money at again. Which put him in a better mood, which was good, because our house was bleak enough as it was.

                                                  *    *   *   *   *

Feeling Like the Real Deal

IT TOOK ME NEARLY TEN YEARS from the day I decided to really write a novel to the day I got a book deal, the book deal not being for the novel I initially wrote, OR the one after that, but for my Young Adult novel, The Pull of Gravity, I started (and finished) in between.

Maybe the length (and intensity) of the journey, and the fact that I still have eleven months before the book comes out, both make the fact of my book deal still feel unreal.

Which is why it is nice, along the way, to have those moments where I say, "okay, yes, this is really happening... finally."

Of course, the first was sitting in my editor, the legendary and wonderful Frances Foster's, small office in the flatiron building surrounded by "her" books, notably the fantastic Holes (!) by Louis Sachar and so many gorgeous and amazing picture books by Peter Sis.

Another, of course, was receiving a check in the mail from Macmillan (the umbrella publisher that my imprint, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, is under).

Another recent one was receiving some questions from copyediting about some of the smaller details in my book.

And, today, a new milestone, my author website is up, coordinated with the new look of my blog, all done by the really wonderful and amazing Kitty Meade of Ink2Art http://ink2art.com/.

So, one step at a time, I'm becoming the real deal. Whatever the real deal is.