James Frey wrote a book. A work based both literally and loosely on experience. He tried to offer his manuscript as fiction, but somewhere along the line, someone decided it should be a memoir. So, memoir it was! A Million Little Pieces was filled with truth and fiction and punctuation that would drive the sanest mind wild. The book took off like a rocket, sold a million little copies — then all the little fictionalized pieces were noticed. James was then reprimanded. Ostracized. Poo-poohed. Banished. Forever, it was thought.

But James Frey is back, and he’s written a work of fiction with punctuation that still feels like bamboo needles under the fingernails. His syntax is completely out of whack. I can’t even bear to discuss his run on sentences. Still, for all that’s conventionally “wrong” about this book, it’s one of the best damned reads I’ve had in a long while. Bright Shiny Morning. That’s what he’s given me and anyone else who dares pick up something that breaks every grammatical rule, as well as, your heart — a Bright Shiny Morning.

No one knows how to review the thing. I think that’s because there’s so much history with its author. For some, it’s hard to separate the writer from the written.

Myself? I don’t care about punctuation. If I remember correctly, Frank McCourt didn’t bother with any rules in Angela’s Ashes. Remember all those missing dialogue quotes? But what do I and the Pulitzer Prize people know about those little marks that set dialogue apart from prose? Pfft! I also don’t care if one’s memories are immaculately preserved within absolute truthfulness.  I don’t believe for a second that big grown-up Frank McCourt remembered every detail of little Frank McCourt’s life without embellishment, literary license, a flaw here and there.  I took a class one time where the teacher arranged for some hooded guy to abruptly bang open the classroom door and “rob” him. You know where I’m going here. Each student remembered differently. So must it be with writing memoir.  Especially when it comes to the memories of your childhood or when you were screaming-whacked out on drugs.

And precisely why I write fiction … except for this bloggy thing, of course, which is totally (or at least mostly) truthful — oh, and those nuts-and-bolts articles that are so boring they make my eyes bleed. Oh, yeah — and ad copy, and the miserably truthful material I write regarding homelessness at haspa.org.

There ain’t no bugs on me … there ain’t no bugs on me. There may be bugs on some’a you mugs, but there ain’t no bugs on meee.

Here’s my favorite version of the classic Leonard Cohen song. My kids call it the Shrek song. I call it beautiful, haunting.

Hallelujah

I understand only part of its esoteric words, but misunderstanding something’s full meaning doesn’t make it any less meaningful.

I live in Arizona where the trunks of people’s cars are festooned with “Support our Troops” magnets, sometimes three or four of them in a row; they fly little tattered American flags from their antennas and spend fifty bucks a year for hoo-rah vanity plates. Everyone goes to church three times a week, everyone loves war, mom and apple pie. The people across the street have a yellow ribbon on their door. Their son is in Iraq on his third — or is it his fourth? — rotation, their voices tremble when they talk of him.

Hallelujah

They put out a flag on the corner of their house this morning. Their son’s job is to drive along choking dirt roads and look for IEDs. They’re scared he’ll come home in a box. They’re scared he’ll come home different. They’re scared. They’re scared.

Hallelujah

I’m scared too. I don’t know what to say today except to fill my throat with a song from an animated movie whose meaning is slightly beyond me. Maybe I should tie a little flag on my car antenna, and shout hoo-rah from the window. Or maybe my life is better spent fixing dinner for my neighbors who don’t know what to do but hang a flag and a yellow ribbon on their house, and hope to hell their son comes home okay.

Me: Do you remember Underwear Boy?

Dan: The one in the tidy whities that we could see through our bedroom window? Yeah, why?

Me: We need curtains.

Dan: We have shades.

Me: I know, but we still need curtains. What if I want to walk through the house in my underwear?

Dan: No one will care.

Me: I don’t want anyone to call me Underwear Girl.

Dan: Then sew some curtains. Didn’t I just buy you a killer sewing machine?

Me: Yeah, but now I need to buy the material.

Dan: Buy the material.

Me: You mean it?

Dan: Yeah, Underwear Girl. Buy the material. But make it see-through. That makes me wild.

Me: (beating my chest in my best Tarzan voice) Yaaah-eeeh-yaah-eeeh-yaah. Tarzan go golf. Jane go shopping.

It’s naptime at the McCanta house. Hubby’s on the couch, mouth open, sweet and softly snoring. Dogs litter the hallway with their long bodies, legs all akimbo. Now and then, I hear the thump, thump of a tail in half-wag, then that silly whimper-scamper that dogs do when they dream. I’m working in my office, sorting through some papers and wishing to heaven for a double shot of something espresso-like, hot and thick like syrup. Something that burns all the way down and keeps me up half the night. But no. Dan and I quit drinking coffee three weeks ago. We did it abruptly. Meanly. Part of my new get-lean-and-tough regimen. My body was mad at me for days. Parts of me are still angry. Like my half-lidded afternoon eyes … oh, and my feet. My feet are mad. They’d rather be on the couch cuddled up with Dan instead of walking back and forth from desk to file cabinet putting away this endless pile of nonsensical papers and bill receipts.

Pfffftt!!!

Oh, wait! Is that the ice cream man I hear? YES!!! It’s the ice cream truck — the one that plays Popeye the Sailor Man over and over again until you think your ears are going to bleed. Let the hubby and the doggies sleep. I’ll be the one at the curb getting some chocolate covered Bon Bons. It’s not quite as good as a nice thick coffee something-or-other, but it comes a close second on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Give me enough Bon Bons (and maybe a little ZZ Top), and I just might make it through the day. Of course, if all else fails, I can always move my hubby over a bit, turn off the ZZ Top, and turn on the Zzzzzs.

Wilson the Labradoodle is five months old now. He’s getting his big boy teeth. With the help of some nice hard Nyla bones, lots and lots of chewy toys, and a bizillion admonitions to “Leave it!” if he even looks at a contraband item, he’s managed to pop through a number of very impressive pearlies. Today I noticed four new canines just peeking above the gum line. I couldn’t be a more proud doggie owner. Big boy teeth. Way to go, Wilson!

So far (may I repeat … so far), the furniture legs are still intact. There’s not been midnight raids on the dining table or the living room couch. The cushions haven’t been de-stuffed; the floor molding hasn’t been gouged out by teeth worrying their way down to bare wall and beyond. So far. Wilson’s actually been quite graceful with this puppy teething business. We’ve all worked hard to help him through this difficult time in a young pup’s life.

Here’s Wilson showing off his new toothy smile!

At last, the scars on my hands from needle-sharp baby teeth are beginning to heal. I notice also that Scarlett the Golden Retriever and surrogate big sister has a few less boo-boos on her puppy-beleaguered skin.

Way to go, Wilson!

Next will be his big-boy neutering. Yep, way to go, Wilson.

I met writers today. REAL writers! Folks who have published books sitting right there on bookstore shelves. Published WRITERS!!!

As I slobbered after them, trying hard to maintain my last semblance of decorum while drool ran down my chin, I noticed something odd. They walked on two legs just like the rest of us. Their feet touched the ground. They smiled at the commoners around them. Like they meant it. They seemed … honest to goodness … NORMAL.

Then, one of the Goddess Writers engaged me in conversation. ME? Yes, me. She confided that she sent out sixty-five query letters before she got her agent. SIXTY FIVE!!! She said only three responded to her sixty-five kind queries. Suddenly, this lovely young writer was more than normal. She was me. She was you. She said encouraging things like, Don’t give up, and Just keep querying, it’ll happen for you.

I loved her.

I think she loved me.

I promised (silently) that I wouldn’t let her down. I’d get out my Guide to Literary Agents and find sixty-five agents to nicely query. I’d research these agents and personalize each of the sixty-five letters, all of which I’ll mail on Monday. Then I’ll track each letter and its response, or lack thereof. If I don’t find an agent in sixty-five letters, I’ll send out another sixty-five. There are over 650 listings in my Guide, and certainly ONE of these fine folks would like to take on a new client. Certainly there’s ONE.

There’s a big fat old blazing fire under me at the moment.

Wish me luck! I’ll hold good thoughts for you.

Okay, so life is crazy goofy.  Me!  At my age … have decided to get in shape and grow a muscle.  Maybe two or even three.  For the past weeks, I’ve been working out with a personal trainer who stands over me and yells in my ear.  COME ON, WUSSY GIRL.  GIMME TEN MORE.  NOW!!!

Did I mention that I hate to sweat?

Noneheless, I’m doing it.  I’m growing a muscle.  Of course, you can’t see it yet, silly — it’s growing, not grown.  Sheesh.

You wonder why I’m torturing myself by spending hours every day in a gym that smells of man-sweat and iron weights?  I want to live long enough to see at least one of my novels published.  Simple as that.  As everyone in my family, I’ve developed a nasty habit of collecting cholesterol in my arteries.  Yeah, I’m still sorta young to have such cholesterol collecting ambitions, but I’ve always been something of a progeny.  Nevertheless, I’ve words to write and books to publish.  It’s as simple as that.

My apologies if I’ve been less-than attentive to my musings of late.  I’m busy growing a muscle.  Or two.

P.S.  The above picture is so NOT me, but courtesy of Getty Images.

Wilson the Labradoodle is growing up. Yesterday he received his first big-boy haircut. Yes, he’s growing up. Four months old now and using the great outdoors to do his business — every time! He knows sit, down, stay, come, wait, heel, kisses, off, leave it, stop that!, hey – what are you chewing?, oh no, wait, that’s my shoe, smile for the camera, and go to your naughty spot. Here’s Wilson in the car sporting his new hairdo:

Interestingly, this website has been recently getting a new do as well. Updated widgets and gadgets and whatnots that should make life easier for me. I thank Brian Tanaka for his kind and professional work. He’s a wizard! He somehow found an errant code I had embedded (yes, I’m a computer goober) that caused everything to go wacky — not unlike Wilson’s hair before his much-needed trim. Brian updated everything and magically made bad spammers go away. (I told you he’s a wizard.)

So, Wilson and Owner are now both trimmed and ready to go. We’ll probably need fixing again every now and then, but that’s why we have a groomer and a guru.

My thanks today go to a gifted woman named Kim who manages to make unkempt doggies look like a million bucks with just a pair of scissors and a few cookies. And a huge thanks to Brian Tanaka whose gentle approach to the fine art of computerizing stuff makes even goobers like me look better than deserved. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

If I were a bird, one might have called me “on the wing” today.  Away from the nest, but settled deep within an urgency to locate a source of food that might nourish my babies.  Myself.

I found today’s source of food in the whirring of a stationary bicycle as I crouched over it, urging my legs to go faster, faster.  Farther on.  Then, there was the scurrying of feet on a treadmill, my eyes watching the counter, tracking the time — interested in the perceived distance traveled while “on the wing.”

It’s interesting how we can travel without actually going anywhere.  Skittering.  Fluttering.  Still not an inch gained by all the activity.

Sometimes I have that sense of movement when I can nearly feel the wind pushing the hair back from my face, but I’ve not even made a step forward.  That was today when I bicycled the Alps, then briskly walked through a forest trail.  I moved miles away without leaving at all.  Amazing.

Amazing.

By normal standards, I wouldn’t have noticed an older man pushing his granddaughter through a store in a grocery cart any more than I’d have noticed anyone else in particular. I’m usually intent on sticking to my grocery list and scolding my hands that seem to delight in sneaking forbidden cookies and chips into my cart. But Grandfather and Granddaughter were parked in the middle of the aisle, deep in play and so enraptured with one another, I couldn’t help but notice. The little girl sat in the grocery cart, her body quaking with giggles, her eyes mesmerized by the antics of her grandfather who was dancing a jig, twirling about and tapping his feet to the rhythm of the muzak playing through the store. The dancing, giggling, twirling, tapping ended only with the return of Grandma (who had apparently been down another aisle), and now was back to get on with the serious business of shopping.

So often, my writing time seems much like that little grocery store scene. An idea delights me, twirling about my mind much like a dancing grandpa, but then serious grandma comes ’round and I have to get down to business and set the idea out properly before it’s lost.

I don’t know which I love better — the myriad ideas that float in and out, or the buckling down to choose one thought … one scene … then working at it until it’s right and good. I read somewhere that man, is above all the plaything of his memory.

I suppose, then, my plaything for today is rolling around the sound of a little girl’s high laughter in a grocery store. Oh, and the way her grandfather’s long, gray mustache bounced over his lips when he danced. That too!