April 2007 Archives

As I write this, my basement is filling up with water. Some sort of tempest swirled up from the bowels of the stratosphere and has, apparently tipped Toronto on its side so driving rain can attack the city from the left. It's always best to attack from the left.

Remember that.

I should get off the computer. That's the thunderstorm rule. Maybe so I don't get hit by e-shrapnel if my computer blows. Or maybe so I don't lose this document. I don't know but I'm willing to risk it in the name of discussing pseudonyms. Unintentional pun.

It used to be that you could drink water from the tap, talk on the phone and stand by the window during a good squall. Those days are gone. Now you're not even supposed to watch TV during a storm, lest Ari Gold blast out of the screen and take out your eye. And you can't use the down time to shower either. Death by electrocution.

If you're getting itchy about the pseudonym, hold tight, we're getting to that.

With all these limitations, one might think a nasty electrical storm might be the perfect time to do leg lifts. Maybe even crunches. But try to find a spot on the floor that's not near any TV, phone, window or stereo. Just try.

You might try to help your kids with their homework, but they've used the power failure as justification to lose themselves in PSPs. In the name of saving their eyes. Again with the name thing.

Everyone knows these new weather safety tips are just filler for a 24-hour weather channel. When you have to fill 1440 minutes of air time day after day, with nothing more to talk about than Elm pollen and fog, you have to start making weather sound more dangerous. You need conflict. High stakes. Like in a novel.

You just got excited there. You thought I was getting to the pseudonym thing. You were wrong.

Now we even have a weather feature called "Weather and Your Pet." If you watch it, you'll learn not to leave your Pomeranian outside when it's 20 below. And not to leave your Rottie in a car on a hot summer day. Sadly, there are humans who need to be told this.

On Canada's Weather Network, the hosts appear translucent. Like ghosts. It took my husband a long time to notice the transparency. It wasn't strange to him that a desk was showing through the anchor's blazer.

Which brings us to the pseudonym.

You didn't see the pseudonym coming that time, did you? You started thinking about ghosts and got all excited and off track. You're wondering if that sound you just heard in your basement is actually a ghost. You're thinking you should stop reading this blog and go check. If I were you, I'd do the same.

But then you'll never know how I was ever going to connect Ari Gold taking out your eye and shivering Pomeranians and Elm pollen and pen names.

According to the porn star name as pen name system--your middle name plus the street you grew up on--my pseudonym would be Carole Walpole, which sounds like a terrible author name. It sounds more like a cable station weather anchor who cannot figure out why every suit she buys is see-through.

And if I use my second street name, I'd be Carole Highcrest--which still sounds like a terrible author name. It sounds like a woman on a TV commercial who is frowning in the mirror because of the blueberry stains on her teeth.

If I use my third street name, I'd be Carole DeVere, who might have a dog in her purse. Maybe even in her glove compartment. Either way, she doesn't even read, let alone write.

So you see my problem. If I have to come up with a pen name, I need a new formula. Say...my 97-year-old Icelandic grandmother's first name and my dog's name.

Gudrun Ryder.

Sounds like a gal who knows to attack from the left, don't you think?

Did you watch American Idol last night? Is it just me or did Sanjaya blow everyone else away? Somebody backstage thought to dirty him up a bit with a glued-on stache and goatee and, combined with his smarmy make-sweet-love-to-the-camera eyes, I'm willing to bet the little girls of North America nearly passed out with adoration. He's not going home tonight.

And my inner prude so enjoyed Simon exposing Haley's when-will-Hugh-Hefner-call-already? game plan by commenting on how she comes out each week wearing less and less and strutting more and more. I fear if she makes it through tonight's cull, there may be a stripper pole on stage next Tuesday.

I apologize for a somewhat erratic post. Go get yourselves a wee drop of something restorative--you deserve it, poor darlings--and get yourselves over to What's Your Phobia? to do some serious unloading.

What inspired you to write Promise Not to Tell?

Drea and I were living in a cabin way out in the woods -- no electricity, running water, phone -- where sounds play tricks and nights seem to go on forever (especially for us insomniacs!). I started to think that I might like to write a ghost story, something that would capture the creepiness of those dark nights, the self-feeding paranoia of being so isolated -- but I wasn't sure what the story would be. An old railroad bed bordered our property. Sometimes, walking the dog there, I would pass a group of collapsed buildings that had been put up in the 60's or 70's, during the height of the back to the land movement that brought so many hopeful souls to Vermont. I was fascinated, and also sad -- what had begun with so much promise was now abadoned and in ruins. That was the beginning of the New Hope commune in Promise Not to Tell. So I knew I wanted to write a ghost story, and I had my setting, but I still didn't have a ghost. Inspiration came in the form of a dead bird.

Down the road from us, there was a small vegetable farm. One day in early spring I saw the farmer had put up a tall stake in the middle of the field. Dangling from the stake was a dead crow, hung upside down, string tied around its foot. I've worked on farms before and heard some old timers say that there is no more effective scarecrow then a dead friend or relation. A pretty morbid pest control practice, but there it is -- and it was an arresting image. I drove by the crow, day after day, while it quietly rotted.

When I sat down to begin the book, I started with the image of that crow, trusting the rest would come. As I described the dead bird, a dirty little hand appeared and began stroking the feathers. Soon, I saw the whole girl, and I knew I'd found my ghost.

Any sworn secrets you've been dying to share? I promise not to tell anyone...

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Although publicly, I still claim that the mime was a stranger to me... Hey! Wait a minute!

Which writers have influenced you most?

Harper Lee, John Irving, Sarah Waters, Kate Atkinson, Patricia Highsmith, Jayne Anne Phillips, Katherine Dunn, Shirley Jackson, Alice Sebold, Ruth Rendell, Donna Tartt, Anne-Marie MacDonald. (Gosh, I just realized there's only one man on that list!) I came to fiction from poetry, and when I'm stuck and uninspired, I always turn to the poets I love most: Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Bishop. I'm also a big fan of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

If you weren't a writer, what would you be?

I have this crazy fantasy of being a sheep farmer. I just love their faces and the smell of wool.

Did you ever receive a rejection that inspired you?

Actually, yes. An editor who passed on Promise wrote a glowing letter and called it a combination of The Lovely Bones and Pigtopia -- two books I love, and I thought "Okay, I have something here."

What's next?

I'm finishing up edits for my YA novel, coming from Dutton next year. It's about two misfit girls who fall in love. They spend a lot of time in an alternate universe, created by one of the girl's metally ill mother, where everyone has a fantasy self and dolls have the power to control fate. But the real world eventually invades, with interesting consequences. The working title is A Cure for Your LaSamba Blues, but it's in the process of being changed. I've got another book for adults coming from HarperCollins in 2008 as well -- Rabbit Island. It begins with 25-year-old Rhonda Farr witnessing a little girl being kidnapped by someone in a rabbit suit. Rhonda begins to make connections between this abduction and the disappearance of her best friend from childhood, whose brother is now the prime suspect in the current crime.

What shocks you most about being a parent?

You mean besides the fact that I now find myself talking about poop constantly? How little time I have for other things. When I was pregnant (and blissfully ignorant), I imagined sitting at my desk and writing for hours each day while the little one played contentedly at my feet. Ha! Anyone with kids knows this is not how it works. Sure, I can sit at my desk, but my keyboard gets pounded on, I get plastic tomatoes thrown at me (already a critic!), and am subjected to, "Mommy! Play! With! Me!"

But I'm not complaining. I love every second of being with my daughter and I feel incredibly lucky that I'm able to stay home with her. She's an inspiration -- especially when she talks about the purple lady who lives in our basement or the monsters behind the walls!

Any advice for aspiring writers?

Read, write, then read and write some more. It's a learn by doing process, and you get better with each draft. Above all, don't give up. I think that success in writing is all about perseverance. I'm living, breathing proof -- it took me four novels and two agents to get here, and let me tell you, it was all worth it!

Promise Not to Tell will hit bookstores April 10th, so get out there and buy it!

Marketing guru M.J. Rose is adamant about one thing--every book needs a good tagline. Patry Francis, author of Liar's Diary, and I took M.J.'s Buzz Your Book class last spring and rattled our brains to come up with taglines that spoke of not only the style of our books, but also our respective audiences.

The tagline I came up with for Town House is... an eccentric metropolitan tale for the anxious at heart. Not only does this help cement the book in your memory--building brand recognition--it reveals that the story might suit any urbanite (or urbanite at heart) who has:

1) ever been stressed or anxious--a near-permanent state for most city dwellers--and

2) a taste for the offbeat.

The tagline proved to be useful; HarperCollinsCanada has printed it on the back of the book, and my publicist at HarperCollins U.S. is using it in some of her publicity efforts.

Thank you, M.J.

I've recently discovered that taglines can be dropped into any area of your life. My very best friend, Jennifer, has a three-year-old daughter named Olivia. Olivia is a wild, redheaded human pinball who could probably do your quantam physics homework if you hadn't long ago had the good sense to drop the class. Since Olivia was born, she and I have shared a special not-quite-mother-daughter, not-quite-auntie-niece bond. She calls me her Tishie Mummy and I adore her.

Last Friday, Jennifer dragged me out of my office to go shopping. She needed to buy shoes and no mother on earth can focus on footwear with Olivia climbing out of her stroller and tearing out into the crowds with a giggle and a "bye-bye!"

I'd had my eye on a pair of sneakers myself for a few weeks, so I thought I'd come armed with a pocketful of bribery that might keep Olivia in the stroller: a red lollipop, a purple lollipop and a bag of tiny oatmeal cookies.

As Olivia climbed into my car, I told her I had something special for her. "What?" she asked.

I pulled out the handful of junk and showed her. I said, "Do you know why I brought this for you?"

Olivia shook her head.

Tagline alert..."Because Tishie Mummy is the mummy who cares," I said.

Jen and I left the mall happy, but too tired to speak. We nearly lost Olivia twice, we left Jen's new Diesel running shoes on a bench, and there was a very real possibility one of us swallowed Snow White's tiny rubber shoe at lunch. Even Olivia was exhausted, she nodded off in the back seat with her purple sucker poised in mid-air.

When I pulled into their driveway, Olivia's eyes flew open and she looked at me with a big grin. Then she popped the purple lollipop back in her mouth, looked out the window, and with a wiggle of her toes, she said to no one in particular, "I love my Tishie Mummy. She's the mummy who cares."

That's the kind of brand recognition I can get behind.