My usual state of affairs after the ferrets and dogs wreak havoc

I mean, how do they find the time, the solitude, the quiet? Do they have little cells hidden behind walls only accessible by pulling the candlestick on the mantle for a door to slide open? Or, do they banish family to outer Mongolia during the long hours typing away? I know the now famous story of how Mary Higgins Clark faced horrible tragedy, her husband dying of a heart attack in front of her,  and her mother-in-law upon seeing her son, collapsing and suffering the same fate. But Clark had tons of children to feed, so every morning at the crack of dawn she’d sit down and write until it was time to rally the children and go to work at her day job. So if she could find time and solitude to do it, why can’t I? I mean, I’ve no kids running around, the husband is at work, what’s the problem?

Louie picking out his next read

Dogs. A mother. Ferrets. Books. What? These reasons not good enough for you? You think dogs and a mother and ferrets and especially books sound really lame as an excuse? True. I lack discipline. I remember interviewing Laura Lippman, now a bestselling crime fiction author, about her writing habits, and she related a very strict modulated day . She stated clearly that always, no matter what was going on around her, or in her life, she spent 5 hours each day writing. 5 hours??? Good grief. 5 minutes is going good for me. And she’s writing intricate plots, psychological suspense! I’m only trying to push out another article!

So , again, what’s the problem? For example. This morning I awoke far too early for me, meaning around 8AM, and decided to get a head start on something, anything. I figured, well, hey, bring in the laptop and fiddle the keys around a little–it will let sleeping dogs lie. I gingerly slide out of bed, taking care not to accidentally brush my  toes against either dogs snoring at my feet. I make it as far as the bureau, and up shoots both heads, querying as to ‘what the heck are you doing? Don’t you know it’s too early to get up?’ I reassure them, stating ‘Go back to sleep, go back to sleep, I’ll be right back.’ Oh, didn’t y0u know? My dogs are skilled in five languages: Reassuring, Chastising, Commanding, Dinner Announcing, and Trick or Treat. They tend to be less capable of understanding Chastising and Commanding, for mysterious reasons. Anyhoo, off I go into the workroom, literally a foot away, and bring back my ancient Mac. They’re both in the same position, same spots, same puzzled expressions on their tousled hair heads. As I return to bed with computer, the one dog calls off his vigilance and relaxes back into Sleepyland. I am confident the other will do the same. No. He leaps down and turns to an area he has piddled at before, in my room, and now I’m up like a jack-in-the-box admonishing, ‘no no no!’ He goes around in circles, another bad sign–that’s his cue for number two. Now I know that I’ve got to get him outside, pronto. This dog apparently wasn’t trained to to his business in grass like normal four legged creatures. Or, our theory, he wasn’t trained on a leash by his original owner, because that’s how I have to walk him, and his fellow Bichon, having no fenced in back yard. The reasons why are of no value when the race against doggie do nots is at hand. I throw on some clothes while wrangling him away from his favorite spot, and keep him occupied while I try to locate my gardening clogs in vain. Out I go, no shoes, into the dew filled yard, and await the prize he’s trying to give me. That’s a typical dog interuptiss.

Lucky, the latest rescue dog, who loves everyone, and pees everywhere

Judy Bolton as a baby

The mother has an infinite ability to talk. She talks to me as I try to leave the house, hand on door nob, reading from the newspaper some article I *must* know about, such as how badly the Phillies lost again.  She talks during TV shows, usually exactly at the moment hush toned conversations revealing the entire sinister plot occur, which I miss, because she’s reading the latest obituary notices, especially pointing out those who were my age when they died. She talks as I’m trying to do chores, usually standing exactly where I need to go, to mop the floor, or retrieve some object, or to prevent non piddling dog from eating the mailman when he arrives. She is constantly reading out loud. Besides the newspaper, she will recite the TV guide, the the fine print on bills, even a list of resources on debt management off the web. So, what’s the big deal you ask? You aren’t trying to write at these junctures in time. No, I’m trying to finish various tasks so I can then go and write! And then there’s the, “I know you’re writing, but I just need to tell you this” moments. I gave her strict notice that when I’m writing, I need to be left alone. I need to concentrate. I need to complete sentences I’ve started with an idea in mind, that disappears once she prattles on about some cranky participant in her exercise class who wouldn’t clam up during her instructions on rotating arms. But, to little avail. She feels there’s always room for a teeny exception, especially when there’s an especially outstanding abode on House Hunters, the TV show for people with no life, and a great deal of home envy. For this, she’d needn’t disturb her settled self from her lounging chair. Her dulcet tones can be heard in Pittsburgh, shouting, ‘pick number three, pick house number three!’ Or, ‘I am so sick of granite counter tops!’ Oh, so am I mom, so am I.

Ferrets are self explanatory, if you have ferrets. If not, think curiosity of cats–on steroids. There’s a reason the phrases, ‘ferreted out , or ferreting out’ exist. They can go where no man has gone before–example: into closets climbing your hanging shoe holder to reach the top shelf where they promptly knock down everything you have carefully stored up there. Or: they scratch at the underlining of your box spring bed until they’ve created a hole big enough to crawl through and sleep, as though in a hammock. Or: they take great pleasure in finding out how many of my free standing stacked books they can dislodge in one shot. Answer–all of them. In other words, they are a handful to manage, and sometimes being the ringmaster of their circus leaves little time for writing.

Archie Goodwin's review of the book

Books. How could books possibly deter me from writing? They are everywhere. Everywhere. My workroom looks like a tropical storm flung volumes around until they settled on the most inconvenient spots, such as: computer tops, where my feet need to rest under the computer, on top of the printer, scanner, dog bed. They’re on the work table, under shelves, on shelves, around shelves, they even become shelves if there are enough of them. And there are enough of them. Sometimes the room is so crammed with books, the one dog is afraid to come in, the entrance space is so small. And this is but one room. I don’t need to continue, do I?

So, there’s my problem with being able to write. Most real writers would; persevere, carry on, muddle through, bite the bullet, keep writing come hell or high water, dig in, either sink or swim, work from dawn to dusk, work until the cows come home,  go with the flow,  sweat blood, try until they scrap the bottom of the barrel, continue even if there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell.  If I’m lucky I’ll have it made in the shade, make hay while the sun shines, if I get lemons, make lemonade. Or if I’m not, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, because it is what it is.

And if I can’t find anything better to write than all those fantastic cliches, I’ll be shit out of luck.

My loquacious mother and author and friend, Lisa Scottoline

And I am bedeviled as to the reason! I want to read—I really do! I look at my stacks of books and mentally salivate thinking of the scrumptious meals waiting within. I say to myself—‘Ok, after working on an article, or some jewelry, go into bed early, and take up a book.’ I read mostly before bed, or if I awake in the middle of the night unable to return to sleep, or before I am to start my day. But instead of acting upon my thoughts, I linger online, reading comments on the blog, or rereading my posts, or others. I go to flickr and spend hours perusing friend’s streams, I work in photoshop cleaning up vintage illustrations, I check all 600 odd Facebook pals statuses. In other words, I waste valuable reading time.

Only read as far as 2 AM

Got as far as a few tense moments

And again, I’ve no conscious reason for doing so. I was a good way through a typical early 30s title with the prerequisite mansions, rich suspects and capable amateur detective when I finally folded after giving it the old college try—it was boring enough to put a manic individual into a coma. Or so my itchy self says. So far I’ve ditched a not so wonderfully written book, a Woolrich, a Robinson, a golden age mystery, and after reading the book jackets—three! Three Ruth Rendells I’ve not yet read. Now I k now this is a serious desert spell, because I’ve read all that Rendell has published up until I no longer worked for a bookstore and got free reading copies. I now wait like the rest of the reading society for the book to be published—preferably in paperback, and I missed several when they were first published.

So what to do? I picked up yet another book, one that, gulp, I saw the film version before reading. It’s a forties or fifties title with a nice enough dust jacket, and a swift introduction into character and plot. And I know what happens next, which either should help, or completely destroy the suspense. I’ve gone a couple of chapters, and am dithering about continuing. Sigh. If this keeps up, I’ll have to turn in my biblio badge, and rip up my library card. Each day I hope the curse has been broken, and even Moby Dick will appeal to me. Here’s hoping it doesn’t come to that, and a nice comfortable cosy pulls me out of the no book is good enough blues. Wish me luck.

Admitted or not, sometimes trapped deep beneath layers of intellectual noise is the part of us that wants to don a wolf suit and run wild, unfettered by the concerns of real life. The men and women who create those special places are our real life magic makers. Even if we know they are just human beings like the rest of us, we still want them to be something more. After all, they’re the engineers of our childish delight. They provide the inspiration for our many hopes and dreams before waking life and guidance counselors come along to squash them flat. Somehow, this should earn some sort of life pass for those honorary Fairy Godparents of our ids.

Of course it never works out that way.

No matter how inured to the horrors of real life we are, there is that small child inside who is stunned when we find out it was the flu that took the gentle soul that breathed life into Kermit the Frog, stomach cancer that shortened the life of everyone’s favourite neighbor and this morning, a stroke that claimed the wit behind Max’s Wild Rumpus, Jennie’s World Mother Goose Theatre, and Mickey’s forays into the magic that happens when the world goes to bed. What we want for these people is the happily ever after that they provide for us. Anything else just isn’t right.

Who was Maurice Sendak? He was the name on all of those densely rendered books whose anarchic, antic spirit created delightfully naughty adventures sure to cause consternation and hilarity among parents and grandparents. His art and writing were the work of someone who knew the mind and soul of childhood. Growing up as the child of immigrants, growing up as a Jew during the thirties, growing up Gay, he understood how war, social liminalisation, and poverty could affect but never entirely kill the innocent fearlessness of childhood. As grey as adults might make reality, there was the indomitable force of childlike imagination that always prevailed.

His career was one of contradictions. Critics sometimes found the monsters in “Where the Wild Things Are” as too ugly. Some adults took issue with a naked Mickey running rampant through the dream world of the Night Kitchen. Children had no such problems. They got it. They saw the large-eyed furry beasts as snuggly consorts for the Wild Rumpus and Mickey’s bare penis as a mere detail (and probably far less disconcerting than the smooth, bare mound of a Ken Doll.)

Sendak’s eighty-three years were spent in the care of his extended family at first and then in the arms of his partner of fifty years, Eugene Glynn. His body of work includes collaborations with some of the best writers and artists in children’s literature. His theatrical works include an adaptation of Brundibar alongside playwright Tony Kushner. His interview with Terry Gross in 2011 shows a person still full of wit and possessed of the kind regard he had for the world in spite of its foibles. His contemplation of love, magic, and loss indicated he still had much to say. He wasn’t afraid to poke a little fun at himself or take on the likes of Stephen Colbert, either.

When an artist leaves the world, it is always tempting to wonder if there is some clue to their feelings about death in their work. Sendak addressed the subject in Higgelty Pigglety Pop or There Must Be More To Life. Written as a tribute to his ailing Sealyham Terrier, Jennie, he addresses the ultimate separation as a life transition to be faced like any other adventure. In the book, Jennie feels there has to be more to life than her pampered existence and takes off to explore the world, where she eventually becomes a famous actress. In the end, she sends this letter back to her master:

Hello,

Jennie

He was loved by those who knew him and beloved by those of us who grew up with his creative voice as part of our lives. To some, his work is a mere article of childhood ephemera. Now that he is gone, his work will be supplanted by celebrity vanity projects and tie-ins for the latest media/marketing juggernaut as the years he was among us recede into history. For the rest of us, the Wild Rumpus will never be over as long as we can open one of Sendak’s books and fall into that place where the wild things always are.

Alav hashalom.

Insect book

I receive e-mails from ABE.com, from time to time, regarding various fun book subjects, but one I never bothered clicking on is their monthly roundup of most expensive books. I suppose I didn’t think it was worth my attention, seeing as I couldn’t afford whatever it was that sold.  But, bored, my curiosity  finally piqued, I perused their page. What I found was very interesting, in that I’ve read none of them, other than many of Shakespeare’s plays, and most I’ve never heard of. To my surprise, the top money earner, at $30,00o is  Die Verwandlung or for we who can’t read German–Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. $30,000 buckeroonies! That’s a nice down payment on a house. With such a large sum, I can picture the seller writing himself a note check credit rating of those interested in purchasing the book. And my teeny brain goes on from there–how is this sum paid? Check? Credit card? Debit card? If you have that much in your account that you can use a debit card, I tip my my non-exsistent hat to you! (hats are too expensive these days). How about a chest full of gold doubloons? I realize $30,000 is a pittance to those who have money and collect books. I believe at one upscale book show in Manhattan, a signed The Maltese Falcon was going for $5o,000. Naturally, my husband who has no fear, or shame, asked to see it out of the case, and was permitted to touch it! Eek! My fiscal life flashed before my eyes, until it was safely back under glass. I’ve no doubt some Daddy Warbucks came along and bought it gushing about how the movie is one of his favorites. Apparently the 1915 Metamorphosis in German had less than a thousand copies printed, and the english edition wasn’t available until  1937. Famous book, small print run, eureka, pricey tome!

I have not, and will not ever read this book. Why you ask, or not, doesn’t matter I’m going to tell you anyway. Is it because I don’t like Kafka? No, but having never read him, the jury’s out.  Am I anti-German? No, my great great grandfather came over on the boat from Germany.(I’m pretty sure he never read Kakfa either).  Am I a snob in reverse–meaning, I won’t read ‘great lit’, only lowbrow romances? Hardly (does Thirty Shades of Grey count?) Do I have it in for anyone named Franz? (at first I typed in Frank when attributing authorship, thankfully I realized my error before posting, I can imagine the indignant Franz fans out there) No, no problem with the name, although when I see it, I do picture a family singing Edelweiss as they try to escape the Nazis. Do I hate insects? Bing! Bing! Bing! Right answer! I abhor insects in almost any form, excepting perhaps butterflies and ladybugs, although I have looked at them askance from time to time. I hate spiders and their webs–do you know that water will not bring a web down? I’ve tried, oh boy have I tried wiping out spiderwebs hanging from the facade of the house with a power wash hosing. No dice. And if by chance one does disappear, that nasty weaver simply spins another.

What crazy person would want ant stickers on their walls??

Ants, ugh ugh ugh. Every spring, ants in the potted plants drive my mother mad, and who has to deal? Me. Once we had a picnic with an old blanket as our table. I brought it back to the apartment without checking–next thing I knew an entire army was marching towards the cats in my bedroom, ready to crawl up and over to achieve their mission of  ransacking the kitchen. Then there are those horrible things that shed their crusty outside and leave it behind in the dirt for me to scoop up innocently in my hand while weeding. My screams have been known to wake  the comatose.

All of the crickets around my home wear spats.

No matter how cute Disney paints him, Jiminy Cricket cannot make me love those annoying noise polluters. Caterpillars?? Even colorful ones are not welcome. Yeah, I know I know, from hence butterflies are born. Couldn’t they stay hidden until their, ha, metamorphosis? Praying Mantis are protected by law, which means I have to stifle my stomping instinct.  The terrorist of bugs have been delivered to the USA by the Chinese. I’m apt to believe this is some kind of stealth warfare on their part. Their strategy? Insidiously introduce the most grotesque brown/grey textured leggy large insect that seems to propagate like flies (don’t get me started on flies) and watch how they take over every Americans home, driving the inhabitants mad, mad, mad! They don’t need to out job us, or lend us money into bankruptcy, those stink bugs will take down the American spirit one smelly squash at a time. And, and, and, they FLY! With a bone chilling hum, evoking thoughts of buzz saw massacres. They are sneaky, able to use camouflage to hide behind boxes, curtains, almost anything. Light pulls them up and over–usually to land on my computer screen. My screams these times can literally wake the dead–probably because there’s a cemetery right down the block.

Not a secret weapon??

So, famous, a classic, rare, who cares? If a man is turned into an insect in the plot, the most likely response from me is to slam the book shut and smash my heel violently all over the dust jacket. And considering my reverence for the written word, I’d never want to be responsible for the defamation and destruction of a book. Unless there are bookworms living within.

http://www.abebooks.com/books/RareBooks/franz-kafka-americans-frank/most-expensive-apr12.shtml