November is...

November is...
Originally uploaded by nataliesap

National Novel Writing Month and I'm hoping to do just that - write at least a 50,000 word novel in a month.

This is the first time I've attempted this feat and I'm hoping that I can accomplish it and "win" NANO (to "win", means that you finish) which would be a massive accomplishment.

For me, the hardest part about writing a novel is getting the words out quickly, which means getting them out before I start obsessing over grammar and mechanics and spending an hour or two on one sentence or paragraph. Writing it hard work - really hard work - but it's work that I enjoy and I'm really committed to this new novel.

Before you ask, no, I haven't given up on my other novel by any means and am still working on it, although it's been on the back burner ever since we decided to switch the perspective again. This project is different in that its subject matter is based loosely on several experiences that are very personal and dear to me and to others I'm close to. I'm writing this novel for many reasons but primarily because I can't not write it - it's inside of me and wants to come out and has decided that now is the time.

I'm not good at writing pitches - that's something I really need to work on - but I had to write one when I signed up on the NaNo website so I thought I would end with it:

Those Who Remain Behind
by Ali K. La Pointe

When a teenage boy dies in a cabin fire, the lives of three woman - his mother, his girlfriend, and his teacher - are aligned in grief. But when the funeral is over and each woman goes her separate way, she finds that in the days that follow, she is not alone.

Those Who Remain Behind is the story of a boy trying to find his way to the afterworld and the woman who just can't let him go.

Pinkerton's Birthday

Pinkerton Pet Services
Originally uploaded by Jacob Cuthbertson

Tomorrow is Pinks birthday; she was born on Halloween but like me, she does not enjoy dressing incognito nor does she appreciate being approached by costumed folk. She does, however, enjoy a party (as does her mother) so we're throwing her one tomorrow.

It is going to be a good time for our little family: we are foregoing the traditional pumpkin-and-ghost motif, opting instead for a Pagan/Autumn themed party, which I'm thrilled about because it means no decorating or entertainment except for perhaps spreading a little pixie dust and the strains of Witchy Woman playing in the background. There will be games: Matt will no doubt challenge her to a rousing game of laser pen tag and when needed, I will open and close the hall closet door as she bats her black twist tie underneath it and then tries to retrieve it.

Birthdays are special; now that Matty and I are married, we are going to start infusing a few traditions into our little family dynamic and what better time to establish the first one than birthday time?

Birthdays are the one day a year that it's perfectly suitable for one to take complete ownership of the day: if Pinks wants to sit in the window for hours chirping spells to the black cat who has taken to crossing her path, well, that's just fine with us.

I believe in tradition but only when it's agreed upon and believed in, which is why I feel it's important for new families to affect their own customs and not just continue the traditions of others for traditions' sake. So, having said that, here are the ones we will put into action tomorrow:

1. Birthdays must be celebrated on the birthday itself, not on the weekend before or on the weekend after.

2. The birthday girl or boy gets to choose how she or he wants to spend the day and calling in sick to school or work is absolutely an option.

3. Birthday girls and boys will receive one substantial birthday present instead of a myriad of small gifts and when it is "first bicycle" year, the bicycle appear fully assembled at the foot of the bed before the aspiring cyclist awakes.

4. Birthday cards are not optional and must be signed with more sentiment than "Love, Matt"

(er, um, that was just an example, folks...)

5. Birthday girls and boys may begin talking up the upcoming birthday beginning on the first day of the birthday calendar month, i.e. on June 1st each year, I get to start saying "Guess how many days until my birthday" as many times as I want.

6. There must be a family photo to commemorate each birthday, each year.

7. Angelica Pinkerton is allowed to play with any toy of her choosing on her birthday, including all Ticonderoga pencils, hair clips, twist ties, bobby pins, closed safety pins, etc. - i.e. all of her favorites that her father usually takes away from her.

So, What's La Pointe of It All? It's this - I believe that birthdays are what we get in exchange for growing older which is why tomorrow we will be celebrating Angelica Pinkerton's first full year of life with the first of many La Pointe Family Birthday Bonanzas !

This is SO Weird...

Pitching a tent
Originally uploaded by John Adkins II

Hey gang -

Sorry I've been MIA the past few days - I'm trying to flesh out some ideas for a new novel; I've been caught up in memory and researching details and staying away from other thoughts.

Don't fret - I will be back tomorrow no doubt but until then, here's a freaky story I read this morning on CJane's blog (She's NieNie's sister and a fab blogger). It left me with goosebumps so I can just imagine how she felt experiencing it! Check it out but don't forget to return to La Pointe of It All tomorrow!

http://blog.cjanerun.com/

Fried Freedom

And They Mean It!
Originally uploaded by primadonna926

Did you watch Oprah yesterday?

Ok, so it's true - as much as I trash talk Oprah, I must admit that this season has been pretty awesome: consensual incest, Mike Tyson, Copenhagen, the Mermaid Girl (R.I.P), and what could be the answer to my future happiness - fried PBJ&Banana sandwiches.

I've been DVRing the show each day and watching it either with Matty while we eat dinner or while I wait for him to come home for dinner. Yesterday, I watched it while I was making dinner (a whole wheat crusted 3 cheese pizza, NOT out of a box or the freezer) and I was struck by this dude who admitted that yes, he had up and quit his full time job in the computer field to instead spend just THREE weeks a year selling fried PBJ&Banana sandwiches at the Texas State Fair.

I was gobsmacked - he traded approximately 1840 hours of work (I factored in 6 weeks vacation to give the guy a break) for three weeks at the fair. Now, even if he worked 24 hours a day for all 21 days of the fair, that would still mean he gained 1340 hours of his life back.

1340 hours of life. I can't fathom that - I commute 400 hours a year; add those house to the hours I spend at work, grading and planning from home, and conferencing with kids, and I work about 2600 hours a year, plus the 500 or so hours I spend tutoring: over 3000 hours a year. If I worked his 21 days at the fair, I would gain back 2500 hours of my life.

That's ridiculous - 2500 hours to live, love, laugh and be happy. To write, think, read, and reflect. To visit, travel, organize, and relax. I can't imagine how lovely life might be if I owned the hours in my day instead of owning a very small stock in them.

A tiny, tiny bit of stock.

What's La Pointe of It All? Well, I guess it's that I need to figure out what delicacy I can turn into deep fried deliciousness so I can get my ass to Texas for those three weeks each year and then, well, kick off my boots and enjoy some deep fried freedom.

Fauxthentic Vintage Tourism

Bucolic: pertaining to, or suggesting an idyllic rural life.

I think I'm on to something - screw trying to earn a living from writing or any of my other passions, I'm going to start a travel company focused on selling a bucolic experience to workaholics who hate themselves and want to feel like they are truly living the good life.

This morning we hopped in the car and headed west to Long Valley to meet up with Erik and Tiffany at Hacklebarney State Park for our 2nd Annual Hike and Drink.

Last year, we hiked and toured wineries somewhere along the NJ/PA border; this year, we decided to meet in the Chester area for some walking and talking, followed by some hot apple cider and homemade doughnuts.

I was REALLY looking forward to the doughnut part and even pumped my arms a bit up the last incline to burn a few extra calories.

Apparently, so were about 200 other people.

When we got to the apple cider/doughnut farm, the fields were parked full of cars - many with PA and NY license plates - and the line leading to the deep fried goodness resembled the one at Disney's Space Mountain back in its 1985 heyday.

The look in Tiffany's eyes spoke volumes: she didn't wake up on a Sunday morning to drive an hour, hike another hour, and not get her reward - she was willing to wait in that line.

Frightened by the thought of it, I slowly back peddled toward the car park and Matt instinctively followed my lead. Although Erik would have waited in the line because he is a righteous partner, he had us to use as an excuse not to and before long, we were caravaning away from the farm and back toward Chester.

That's when we hit the Chester Traffic Jam. Now, I've always known that Route 206 is a crapshoot in terms of traffic - I've been driving that stretch of road home to PA regularly since 2000 and I used to go there often on the weekend to hike and have a scone at Sally Lunn's - but never again will I go anywhere near that part of NJ on a fall weekend.

I'm warning you, folks - stay away from Chester on the weekend because it's become another stop on the Tri-State Fauxthentic VIntage Americana Tour.

That's right - just like New Hope was destroyed in the late 90s, followed by Lambertville a few years later, Chester has turned into a shit show of nostalgia seekers. Tempted by hot apple cider, corn mazes, and a Sunday "Farmer's Market", hoards of thrill seekers looking to find a slice of Rural American Experience - and perhaps a fauxthentic blanket chest or jelly jar - mobbed the streets of this quaintish village this afternoon.

Now, I say quaintish because only one side of the main drag comes anywhere near to being quaint. The South side of the main street is lined with a few attractive shops that appear promising at first sight but upon entering, one is oppressed with the bourgeois stock (yes, you guessed it, Vera Bradley products, mixed with faux Yurman and Tiffany costume jewelry and I think even some Wilton Armetale metal products that if one actually wanted to purchase, one would do so with a 20% off coupon at either Macy's or BB&B. Seriously).

The town has a few nice restaurants, Sally Lunn's scones and clotted cream do rock, and the coffee shop is pretty darn decent (there used to be a kick ass pie shop but no one ever got rich selling homemade pies). The clothing stores are pseudo upscale but geared toward the mom crowd and I don't mean the "Boden mom" crowd, I mean the "my mom" crowd so they are lost on me. While not to my tastes, the South side of the main drag is nice.

The, um, North side however is horrific: each shop is worse than the one before it and the wares sold by each are as moldering as the buildings that house them. Dolls, lawn ornaments, costumes, seasonal crap - ugh. I almost slit my wrists when we happened upon the Doll Hospital (yes, when a doll arm is ripped off in a bout of sibling tug-o-war, some freaks actually take the doll to this place for "surgery". That thought makes me puke in my mouth a little) but I was afraid I might stain someone's Fauxthentic Experience and he or she would sue me.

Because that's the thing about the Fauxthentic Experience - despite its cheesy, borderline creepiness, people prefer it to its actuality. Dude, I remember when a drive in the country on a Sunday afternoon was a routine part of life and if an apple cider/doughnut place appeared, fantastic - the family would veer off and make a 10 minute pit stop. If the fam happened upon a cute village while out driving, great: a lunch stop occurred and then if there was time and availability, perhaps a bit of window shopping took place.

But times have changed. Sadly, what I noticed yesterday was that most of the people stopping for cider or browsing a village shop were looking to purchase something that, unfortunately, can't be bought.


So, What's La Pointe of It All? Well, if you live in NY or NJ or anywhere else with a "Live to Work, don't Work to Live" mentality, please remember that authenticity is a way of living, not a destination.

There is a Place...

Support Our Troops
Originally uploaded by Sinister Rules

There is a place in this world -
not a home or a town or a city -

but a place that is larger than us most,
that is a desolate as an empty ferris wheel
or as deafening as an abandoned beach.

It's a place for men but it's full of boys who
live there in a disenfranchised
way by choice; And so they try to win,

but not just for winning's sake, which is why
i love those boys and fashion yellow ribbons
from outgrown futbol jerseys:

an exchange of mesh for flesh, in thanks.


** this is dedicated to my nephew, John Aloisio Affield **

615 Monroe

You Can Still Hear Old Frank Whispering
<>

We used to live in an apartment down the street,
five and a half blocks away, near Sinatra's old place.

It was the 18th place to house my stuff
but it was the first home I'd lived in since Ash Street.

Each square foot was packed with happiness, for a
total of 471 (which included him and me).

We were the first to sit in the living room,
eating from TV trays, lit in the light of the Empire State.

Climbing four flights of stairs with grocery laden arms
wasn't glamorous. Nor were the Guitar Heroes next door.

We found our new home while there in our old
and soon my life was packed and carried back down.

And tonight when I'm full of chat but not awake.
I'll ask him if he remembers the bed that was so high,

and he'll assure me its the one we're in.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Copenhagen
Originally uploaded by Daniel Niño

** Check out the blog below for an update on Me, Two Black Girls, and Some Bibles **

Maybe instead of running up credit card debt, emptying the savings account or "borrowing" from the college fund to pay for a superficial holiday at Disney World, the American family should fix its focus on visiting the true happiest place on Earth.

But where is that?

A recent survey awarded Denmark this honor, prompting Oprah to visit Copenhagen in an effort to figure out why this country is happier than others. Its citizens cited reasons such as universal health care, free post secondary education, and low to no crime as a few of the reasons they don't mind paying up to 60% of their salaries in income tax (the higher the salary, the higher the tax).

In Denmark, the slogan "less things, more life" pretty much sums up the value placed on happiness over wealth. Education is seen as a way to ensure health and happiness and people choose their line of work based solely on interest and not earning potential.

The work day in Denmark ends promptly at 4 pm - that's when people head to the market and then home to spend quality time with their families. Family, is after all, paramount in Denmark.

Which is why it might confuse people to learn that Danish parents leave their strollered babes unattended in public outside of cafes and shops while they run errands and socialize. Seriously, they do! And guess what? They do this with complete confidence and no one judges them!

(Remember when that British couple left their daughter asleep in their Spanish hotel room while they dined with friends below? And she was kidnapped? And the world turned a critical eye toward her parents, accusing them of everything from bad parenting to murder? Hmm, I wonder how the Danes reacted to that case. With compassion, perhaps? I know I did - it sounds perfectly reasonable to me)

So, What's La Pointe of It All? Is it true? Are Danes happier than Americans (seriously, need I ask?) or are they just more narcissistic?

Soul Searching

lose and find
Originally uploaded by Leonard John Matthews

Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing my mind: one minute I'm full of confidence and making choices that are best for me and the following moment I'm wallowing in self doubt, affected by the choices of others.

I don't want to live like that, which is why my this year's love is to stick to my new mantra, "WWCYD? Simple - Make the Choices Best for Me and Mine" (the C & Y standing, of course, for my everyday gurus, Celine and Yolandie).

I am so good at people - it's my one true talent, the way some people are good at basketball or baton twirling - but sometimes I am so bad at me and today was one of those days.

I'm not going to go in to whose choices I allowed to influence my mood today or the nature of those choices; let's just say they deflated me to the point that I wound up leaning (yes, not even standing still but LEANING) against the hand rail of an escalator at the Newport Mall in downtown Jersey City.

(well, ok, I was also there because my car was across the parking lot at Pep Boys getting an oil change, one that I've put off for months now because I'm married and in my married world, husbands should take care of car needs, not wives who scrub the undercarriages of commodes, but of course my husband can't drive a stick shift, so there you go)

So, there I was riding up and down the escalator, feeling lackluster and spiritless and why? All because some poor choice maker decided to have at my soul today and I accepted those poor choices. Pathetic.

I caught a reflection of myself in the J.C. Penney's window and realized I needed to take action and quick - the thought of that moment turning all Groundhog Day on me was enough to get me off of those mechanized stairs. Well, that and the thought of a grande nonfat Caramel Machiatto.

But of course the Newport Mall has a Coach store but no Starbucks and of course the Barnes and Noble shoved down a tunnel like wing is the size of my classroom and doesn't have a cafe, so I wound up sitting on the floor between Young Adult Fiction and Christian Literature slurping down a sucky Gloria Jean's nonfat coconut latte, slumming.

And that's where the story begins.

So What's La Pointe of It All? Tune in tomorrow to read the story of me , two 15 year old black girls from Jersey City, and some Bibles.

And no - I haven't found Jesus, although I have heard that he is the reason for the season.


** Update **

Bibles, Bibles, every where but not a word to read...

Hey Readers,

I wrote what was, I believe, a witty tale of my adventure buying two young black girls from Jersey City a couple of pocket Bibles but when I went to upload it to the blog, something went haywire and I lost the post!!

It was truly disheartening - kind of like when I was young and used to talk too loud while telling a story at the supper table and Butchie would shush me and I would lose all interest in continuing.

Yep, that's where I'm at: I don't have the heart or the energy to write it again.

So, What's La Pointe of It All? Simply, while I was reading some bad YA Fiction on the floor of a depressing B. Dalton/BN, I overheard two girls pining for pocket Bibles. They were calculating when they might have enough money to buy them when I stood up and offered to purchase them in exchange for a promise that they would continue to be good girls who would always choose Bibles over bling. They swore; I purchased. 'Nuff said.

To Avoid Suffering, Please Avoid the Following:

All Beings simply want to be happy and to avoid suffering.
Originally uploaded by Eastern Washington University

I'm not sure what I want out of this life but I do know what I don't want: I don't want to suffer.

Suffering is everywhere, particularly in the news, so I've decided it might be in my best interest to start compiling a list of situations to avoid.

1. Do not send Little La Pointe to college in order to avoid a phone call saying he or she has been knifed. That would cause a lot of suffering for the kid and for me.

2. Do not get cancer. My friend Dave at sentenceofdave.blogspot.com has been simultaneously reading and watching a tv show about cancer and he told me that, to make a long story short, getting cancer really, really sucks.

3. Do not run a marathon. Three people died while running the Detroit marathon today. The Detroit marathon, not the Dubai marathon. I'm mean yeah, everyone knows the conditions in Detroit aren't the best but I'm sure they didn't kill the runners. Running killed the runners. Yet another reason to walk for fitness...

4. Do not go to Mexico. Mexico has become home to the Olympics of Suffering: if it's not the weather that's going to kill you then the drug cartels will.

5. Do not trust anyone Oprah trusts. Um, self help "guru" James Arthur Ray? Mike Freakin' Tyson? Seriously.

That's it for now; don't worry, there are many more...

So, What's La Pointe of It All? I think the brick says it all.

Pretty Little Style

There is an ephemeral joy that comes from pretty little things - you know, knicknacks and do-dads, bits and bobbles, this and thats. Just the sight of a dainty pastel robin's egg or a crackled, white-washed picture frame can turn a mood, create an ambience and although that joy will fade, it always returns.

I adore pretty little things - such as the ones in this pic - but I'm not good at collecting them. Honestly, I'm not even very good at displaying the ones I'm given. No matter how hard I try, I just don't have an eye for detail and although I'm desperately trying to cultivate a sense of style, I'll ever intuit one.

Color scares me. My wardrobe consists primarily of blacks, greys, browns, and whites. I'm trying to branch out (I bought a pair of teal tights at Target the other day... to wear with my grey dress, of course) but it's not easy. Thankfully, the previous owners of our flat put color on the walls so at least I've got that going for me. Choosing a paint color to cover 500 square feet would absolutely cripple me.

Decorating scares me. It seems so, well, just so permanent. Buying furniture is a massive undertaking not only because it requires many decisions but also because once purchased, the cost alone anchors the piece in place. That $1200 couch is going to stay with you for a long time out of sheer guilt alone. Our kitchen needs a major overhaul on our minor budget and I don't even know where to begin, which is why the ugly white laminate countertop will continue to peel away from its surface.

But still, I want pretty things. I want my wardrobe and my home to look like those of my friends whose styles are so innate that their homes, wardrobes, even their handwriting, exude it.

I covet Erica's personal style because it is the outcrop of her patient, thoughtful nature (her shoes are kept in gorgeous little shoe bags and her jewelry is worn in a manner that accents the delicate lines of her features); patience is one particular quality that escapes me, therefore my shoes always need re-heeled or recycled and my jewelry highlights my expertly torn cuticles and ink stained pinkie finger.

My friend Amy can spot a gem in a pile of rubbish: give her a pile of home interiors catalogs and she'll find the one perfect item, such as a collection of pale blue milk glass jars, that when placed atop antique kitchen cabinets (the ones she and her father had the foresight to remove from her grandmother's farmhouse before it was razed) look as though they, too, were rescued from an estate sale.

Aym belongs to the same school of patient style as Erica, which is why she had her cabinets stripped and restored to a chic "eat your heart out, Pottery Barn" condition before they ever entered her home. For some reason, I never enrolled in that school so unlike the two of them, I take what I get and then fool myself into embracing its condition.

Like when I tried to create a Craftsmanlike atmosphere by "cleverly" thumbtacking a post card of the Chateau Frontenac above my grandmother's antique desk (which is in desperate need of refinishing and probably isn't a real antique). Needless to say, the effect was more elementary school arts and crafts than the aforementioned 20th Century movement.

So, What's La Pointe of It All? For those of us who are stylistically challenged, developing a sense of style is as difficult as it is for a non-writer to try develop a stylistic voice: it takes a hell of a lot of effort to make it appear natural and not forced or contrived.

Walk Away...

I need to walk away from my day to day life - not run away, just take a nice, leisurely walk down a tree lined country road that, eventually, winds its way back to where it began.

I need time to sort through my thoughts because unfortunately, I never stop thinking. My mind is always on the go - it never takes a nap (just ask Matt and he'll confirm that first hand, since he's the one who gets to listen to my sleep talking at least 5 nights a week) .

So, What's La Pointe of It All? Let's just say that I have ideas piled on ideas and would like a chance to make sense of them so I can put them to work.

I must admit...

... that this blog has been a bit maudlin lately so I thought I would switch gears and fluff it up a bit by taking a sec to reveal one of my little secrets... I adore cute, bouncy pop singers.

Olivia Newton-John, Cyndi Lauper, Madonna, Janet Jackson, Debbie Gibson, Tiffany, Wilson Philips, The Spice Girls, Xtina, Britney, Jessica Simpson, Hilary Duff, Lily Allen - I was in love with each one of them at some point, but none perhaps as much as I'm currently in love with Taylor Swift.

She's adorable - ridiculously adorable: she's sweet, classy, talented, and overall, just lovely. She's the Reese Witherspoon of the music industry: I want to pull on my cowboy boots and go out dancing with her.

She's from Pennsylvania (Wyommissing, to be exact), wrote her debut single about my country western husband (Tim McGraw), and, well, her middle name is the same as my first (Alison). But best of all, she won a national poetry contest at the age of 11. Sigh.

So, what's La Pointe of It All? All kids don't suck - some rock.

If the Children Are Our Future...

... then we need to seriously consider what we're going to do about the evil ones.

I'm serious - I'm talking about the truly evil ones, like the two eleven year old boys in England who earlier this year, lured two other boys out in to the woods where they then "robbed the boys of pocket money and a mobile phone before battering them with bricks, stabbing them with a sharpened stick, burning them with cigarettes, forcing to eat nettles and making them perform a sex act together".

If that wasn't enough, the two antichrists then picked up a broken sink abandoned nearby and dropped it on the head of one of the boys, then tied a noose around his neck before finally throwing him down a former railway embankment where they left him for dead.

An isolated incident? Um, afraid not - just open today's paper or go online to CNN and read about the five boys in Florida who, on Monday, doused a 15 year old boy with alcohol, SET HIM ON FIRE and then stood LAUGHING as they watched him burn. Why? Because the kid owed one of the kids forty bucks for a video game. SEVERAL of those boys were still laughing today when they were put into custody.

$40. Michael Brewer is now suffering in a hospital bed, 80% of his body covered in 2nd degree burns, because a group of asshole kids thought they would teach him a lesson because he owed one of them a pissing $40.

Sometimes, I am so sickened by this world that I feel bringing a child into it would be the most selfish choice I could ever make. It's bad enough worrying about what could happen to my precious child (anyone watch Oprah today?) but it's even worse worrying that my child could end up like one of the demons mentioned above: I don't believe that all evil children have evil parents. Many do, yes, but there are also many good people who beget evil children: what if I am one of them?

I am saying this on record here and now: if my child EVER plotted and executed a vicious attack on another breathing creature, I would have that child institutionalized and I would personally monitor his or her progress in order to determine the root of his or her evil. I would blame myself. I would look for source of my failure. I would hope that my child could be rehabilitated. I would spend every moment of my life praying for his or her soul. I would hope it was an isolated incident that was the result of a temporary chemical imbalance.

If my child ever committed such horrors and then laughed about it? Laughed a laugh that wasn't an expression of nerves? Well, then I would ask the court to take that child and put them somewhere far removed from the rest of the world. And I wouldn't want to know where. And I wouldn't blame myself. And I wouldn't entertain anyone who even uttered the word rehabilitation.

Why? Because that laughter would indicate to me that 1). it wasn't an isolated incident and more importantly that 2). my child was soulless.

So, What's La Pointe of It All? There are bad, selfish people and then there are evil, soulless people and then, worst of all, there are evil, soulless children who, I truly believe, if they aren't separated from the rest of society permanently, are going to be the ones to inherit this earth and then set it on fire and laugh while the good people burn.

From First to Third to First Again?

I'm co-writing a novel with my best friend Amy: she's the genius and I'm the talent. Sometimes we switch roles but mainly, we stick to those: she has an ariel view of each scene and the ability to zoom in details as needed, in addition to a vocabulary built for description. I, on the other hand, pay extraordinary attention to language and whereas I lack the ability to start from ground zero, I can build a mansion on the foundation of a small shed.

This is how we work: we brainstorm together via phone, text, and email. When we decide on the bones of a scene, she turns our brainstorming into a beautifully realized five page chapter, which she then sends to me to flesh out into a 15 - 20 page chapter.

When we started the original draft of Covenhaven, we wrote from a first person perspective. It wasn't a conscious decision; the words just came out like that.

Then one day during an editing session, I wondered if the perspective was off and began to obsess over it. I stopped writing and started reading: a store of YA novels, books written by writers on writing, textbooks, trade publications, etc., - all in an attempt to figure out which perspective would best serve my characters and drive our reader forward.

After a few weeks of debate, I decided first person wasn't working and that we needed to re-write everything employing third person. I called Aym and she agreed so I proceeded to make the changes (a long, painstaking task that was by no means enjoyable) and then resumed writing from the third person. That's when life got really busy: soon, it was 'tis the Christmas season, which turned into a winter of sick children, followed by a spring and summer of wedding planning.

Looking back, it seems like the first pages moved from conception to textual reality in a matter of minutes. Once we made the switch in perspective, every page since has crawled out in slow, belabored moves. But somehow, before we put a hold on our project (last spring when our lives and my wedding planning took priority), our manuscript had grown to 180 pages.

Tonight I opened our manuscript for the first time since May 17th. It popped open to what I assume is the last section I worked on (we don't always work in chronological order) and I began to read from there. I read a few paragraphs and then scrolled back to another chapter and read a section there and then back to yet another chapter and another section and well, I think we need to switch back to first person.

Which means rewriting over 180 pages.

Ugh. So, what's La Pointe Of It All? I need to talk to Aym. Although I am not looking forward to spending an incredible amount of time re-writing something for the third time, I think it may be necessary. Our main character has a unique perspective and we should showcase it; first person can do just that.

Ps. Thankfully, it's only 180 pages. John Irving had this same issue only he discovered it after Until I Find You was accepted for publication - and after he had written 800 pages...

The Secret

The other day, I saw an episode of Oprah about how one's life can change in a minute and although all of the stories brought tears to my eyes, one couple in particular captured my attention.

Christian and Stephanie Nielson survived a fiery plane crash: she suffered burns over 70% of her body, while Christian was burned over 30% of his.

I'm sure the before and after pictures shocked viewers: the couple was, and still is, gorgeous but that beauty has changed - at least superficially. The audience members' faces made that very clear.

But it wasn't their looks that mesmerized me - it was the way they occupied their space in this world: with grace and comfortable elegance. When Christian walked on stage and sat down and joined his wife, his body language spoke to me. He settled naturally in to his seat, threw an arm around his wife, crossed his legs in a nonchalant fashion that said, "We don't mind if you stare at us; we have not changed; we still adore one another; we are still out in the world, living our lives; we are happy because our choices are ours."

Matt was watching the program with me and he, too, noticed the way the couple carried themselves, and remarked that it was obvious that the couple had a lot of class.

"That guy is money - just look at how he sits. No one I know sits like that, except for Cliff and Jamie and well, they're British. That posture is just built into the British culture, right?"

I looked at Matty, and then at Christian and his lovely wife (who sat, carriage erect, in an outfit that matched her authentic loveliness) and I thought to myself, "that couple shares a secret that I would like us to share with them".

And I was jealous.

Yep, jealous of two burn victims who struggle daily with physical pain and emotional scars... but who still manage to live life beautifully and authentically because they know the secret and I don't.

I want my husband to sit like that.

I want to hold my shoulders erect like that.

When the show ended, the Nielsons stuck with me. I couldn't get them out of my head and not for the same reason that the rest of America is probably thinking of them. I want my marriage to mirror theirs.

I vowed that I would discover the secret, too.

This morning, I had coffee with my friend and wedding photographer Celine - she knows the secret, too, and in her defense, has been trying to tell it to me for years, I'm sure. As we sat at Starbucks looking at pics from Skye, I came upon a pic of my friend Cliff and bam! it hit me - Cliff and his wife Yolandie know the secret, too! I could see this in the pic - it was so apparent in his body language and, in retrospect, so clear in every interaction I've had with the two.

We started talking about Cliff and Yolandie and their amazing, authentic lives, which lead to me explaining my secret theory, which I supported with an allusion to "this couple I saw on Oprah last week who survived a plane crash".

Celine started to laugh, "You mean Nienie and Christian? They're friends of mine - you must read her blog, it's brilliant, you'll love it. They are amazing - she's like a modern version of a 1950's housewife: she can create, cook, craft, coddle, you name it, all while dressed to the nines and with a smile on her face. They live their lives according to their own choices but they never judge the choices of others, which is why they are so awesome".

I sat, stunned.

Of course Celine knows the Neilson. And now she knows Cliff and Yolandie.

So, What's La Pointe of It All? Well, if it's true what they say about the six degrees of separation, then perhaps I'm much closer to the secret than I thought!

Ps. if you are interested, here's the URL for Stephanie's blog:

http://nieniedialogues.blogspot.com/

SHUT UP!

Do you want to know a secret?

I HATE the sound of other people's laughter. Seriously, it makes my ears bleed, particularly when it's in the near distance, like next door.

I don't understand why outdoor gatherings make people laugh louder than when they are indoors. Whenever I'm outside, I make an attempt to be a calmer, more in control version of myself because I don't want to annoy others: the outdoors is a shared space, it belongs to no one and everyone. Other people, however, seem to think that the world is their personal soundstage and once outside in it, they can shriek and squeal and laugh with loud abandon.

Entitlement pisses me off: in Hoboken, people think that if they have a legal ID, some friends and access to an outdoor space they are practically obligated to utilize all three and make as much noise as possible while doing so.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not unrealistic. I believe in the right to gather outside and enjoy the company of others. What I don't believe in is polluting the air with banshee screams and estrogen infused howls - yes, most of the screamers are girls: there is NOTHING worse than the shrill cry of a twentysomething faux socialite (except the teen version).

So, What's La Pointe of It All? It's this: if you want to scream and shout, knock yourself out - but do it indoors so that the rest of us can enjoy the outdoors, too.

Lyrical To-Do

LYRIC
Originally uploaded by FotoEdge

This morning in lieu of bitching about how miserable I am, I'm going to have a bit of fun. I don't usually listen to music on my commute (because I'm too obsessed with audio books, as you know) but this morning was an exception (my new audio book sucks).

While listening, I thought it would be fun to make a lyrical to-do list, that is, a list of lyrics that mention something I would like to do. I'm gonna kick it off with Bloc Party, a band my friend Phil, or rather his MySpace page, introduced to me a few years ago.

"Let's drive to Brighton on the weekend" - Bloc Party

Um... eh... hmm. This isn't as easy and it's definitely not as fun as I thought it would be. I guess it's not something one can do off the top of one's head... or even with the help of the Internet. It just seems like Bloc Party is the only band offering me something to do - all of the other bands are just out there doing things instead of planning to do things.

So, what's La Pointe of It All? It's this - instead of talking about doing something, just do it.

Hungry Head

NSM Day 26a: PBJ
Originally uploaded by ★keaggy.com

I just ate my lunch.

I couldn't help myself: I've been up since 5:45 this morning and my body was craving lunch - not breakfast, but lunch (it wanted PBJ, not yogurt or cereal or any breakfasty foods).

Why is that? Is it because I'm really tired today and not functioning at full capacity? Is that the reason my body demanded I give it substantial fuel? If so, it doesn't seem to be helping my condition; I haven't perked up, I don't feel better, I'm still hungry.

Or am I? Hmm, actually, I don't think I am hungry. Instead, I think this morning's unsatisfying coffee and Adderall free weekend combo has left me out of sorts and confused, which is why I think I'm hungry and why my body seemed to crave food. My stomach isn't growling but my head most certainly is.

Living in my head has never been easy. My brain is like an awkward kid whose feet move faster than her body; I wish it there was enough time in the day for the one to naturally catch up to the other but there isn't, which is why it's time to fish out the Adderall.

For those of you who aren't ADD, I'm sure you've heard lots of fun stories about Adderall: it's legalized cocaine; it fills one with so much energy that one can perform superhuman feats with the slightest effort; it keeps one thin; it makes one smarter, etc.

Well, to someone who isn't ADD, I'm sure it does all of the above but for someone who is, well, it just makes thinking easier - a lot easier.
And yeah, it does keep weight off but that effect doesn't last forever; the body gets used to it after a while and thus adjusts itself accordingly.

I take it only during the work week so I can grade piles of essays, write lesson plans, teach 5 classes daily, organize loads of paperwork, meet with kids who need extra help after school, wrap my head around SAT Verbal so I can tutor more kids, make it home in one piece on the NJTP, shop for groceries, make dinner, clean the house and essentially, be a good wife and companion.

I'm a mess on the weekend when I don't take it; just ask my husband and he'll tell you how my equilibrium is thrown off, how I find comprehension difficult. Why don't I take it? Well, because I don't want my mind to become dependent on it and, well, because I need a break from realizing my brilliance.

So, what's La Pointe of It All? Well, I guess it's this: sometimes I wonder how I made it through life up to the point I went on medication but then I remember this: my life wasn't always so frantic and I had time to deal with my shortcomings. Given the luxury of time, I can usually deal with my periphrastic brain. Unfortunately, New Jersey charges way too much for its time.

Control the Caffeine, Control the Words

Love, love, LOVE this pic - it's so true!

There are few things in life that I can't live without - I'm not much of a material girl - but this pic pinpoints two things that I need in order to function: words and coffee.

I don't read blogs to live vicariously through others and I don't drink coffee to get high off caffeine. No, no , no - my real life is too much for me to schedule as is and, well, caffeine has little to no effect on me (thanks, ADD).

No, I read blogs to connect with other thinkers and writers, kinda like my version of a writer's retreat or writing group. I drink coffee for pretty much the same reason I read blogs, to feel - how did my boss put it that year he banned all coffee from our classrooms? like I'm in a "Parisian cafe"? Um, yep, he was right: I do want to feel like I'm in a Parisian cafe, don't we all?

Actually, no, according to his vision of what must go on there (he obviously never saw Amelie or perhaps he did watch it and all he remembers is the bathroom scene). To me, sitting in a "Parisian cafe" connotes feelings of being out in the world sucking nectar from the thriving whole instead of sitting annexed in a tiny, dimly lit cellar with the rest of those not allowed access to "the real world". To my boss, that phrase obviously reeks notes of subversion and perversion, no doubt thanks to the whole Feeney experience.

Coffee is communal and, as you have no doubt realized from previous blog entries, I dig community. The art of making or buying coffee is so much more than the act of drinking it, which is why combining blog reading with coffee drinking is about as close to Nirvana as I'll ever get.

So, what's La Pointe of It All? It's this: teaching should be communal but let's face it, it's not. It's weird and compartmentalized; superficial and lonely. I think the admin is so afraid of us making real connections with the kids or with the other teachers that its primary goals is to - in small, strange ways - retain control of our words and in order to do this, it must limit our coffee consumption.

Distance Makes the Heart Grow Sadder

Ugh. I miss my friends.

Now that the wedding celebrations have come and gone and my friends and I are no longer in hourly contact, I wonder if this is what it feels like to be old.

As a kid, I spent most of my time running amuck with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. Then as a teenager, I spent all of my time with the JAPS. In college, my roommate Erin and I were attached at the hip for weeks and months on end.

Then came adulthood and suddenly, it was weird to travel in an entourage (unless, of course, you're Seth Rogan or one of the Wu Tang Clan). Why? Well, because being alone is the sign of being an adult, right?

Alone = Independent = Mature.

Bluck. I hate the word "adult" as much as I hate the phrase "slow down". I don't wanna be an adult and I don't wanna slow down.

Adults suck. Adulthood sucks. Let's face it - one you are old enough to drive, have credit cards, and go to the bar, you've hit all the best benchmarks in life so why the need to grow up when you can do all of that in only 21 years? Why not stop at young adulthood instead of rushing through it only to get to adulthood and realize that it sucks? Man, that's one 'hood I do not want to hang in.

Why, in the eyes of the "adult community", does being an adult mean that it's no longer appropriate to spend entire unshowered weekends sitting on Amy's porch drinking wine coolers and gossiping? When did stopping for hoagies while canvassing the shopping malls of Central PA with Jen become such a luxury? Why do some people look at me funny when I seductively wrap a pashmina around my head yet Karen and Abbie think it's freakin' hilarious?

Grr, adulthood. Let's face it - I just can't be a part of it.

I want to stand in Julii's backyard with a bunch of teenagers and talk to her cousin about textiles while we watch as her parents are the only ones dancing to a Beatles cover band; I want to skip and hold hands with Yolandie as we walk to meet Liza, Strachan, and Sophia at the pub for yet another lazy Sunday afternoon and then I want us all to go back to the cottage to meet up with the rest of the gang; I want to spend a week hiking the West Highland Way with the Walking Girls and sleeping in whacked out farm house bed and breakfasts run by Vegan witches; I want to gather all the JAPS together at a cabin far, far away from The Poconos Country Place and spend the weekend watching Shag, Mystic Pizza, and Practical Magic while eating Middlesworth BBQ chips. I want to spend a weekend in Margate with JMac, counting out WW points in the morning, playing strip spelling bee at The Greenhouse and walking late night to the WaWa for giant Swedish Fish.

So, What's La Pointe Of It All? It's this - adults suck and I'll never be one.

And on that note, I need to go clean the litter box; I don't need to be an adult to be responsible.