Stephanie Gayle

Today might have been one of those days, but the call of employment must be heeded, so I went to work.The T (subway for you non-locals) was operating in fine form this morning (by fine form I mean not at all). There were very many cranky people standing on the platform looking down the tunnel for a delayed train. At work I proceeded to spill a fourth of my coffee on my pants. Precious coffee wasted! Pants wet! Yuck. The day's workload has been increasing as I prepare to go on vacation and I'm worried that maybe I won't get to do laundry tonight and who needs clean undies anyway?

I haven't reached the point in my manuscript I had hoped to reach before leaving for vacation, and I realize I'm not going to have any more time to work on it (party tonight, packing/seeing cousin tomorrow). Bit of a bummer.

I keep telling myself, "Soon you will be overlooking the harbor and watching big boats dock and won't that be fun?" And it will. I know it will. I know I'll be 1000% more relaxed once I'm away. It's just that now...not so relaxing.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

If I have time I'll try to let y'all know what I'm taking to read on vacation (lots of mysteries--I dig mysteries). If I don't get to it, I'll do so upon my return (with reviews!). I think I have 7 books (maybe 8) in the suitcase. And I'm contemplating buying another because I'd really hate to run out of reading material. I could borrow a book from the very handsome boyfriend but I think he's bringing non-fiction exclusively. Hmph.

Oh, god. I just remembered. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I hate dental appointments. No good ever comes of them. Just pain and usually bad news.

Vacation can't come soon enough.

Posted by Stephanie at 01:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The other day I was (admittedly) whining that revising book #2 was hard. So freaking hard. Was writing book #1 this hard? Then it struck me. Much as mothers forget how difficult, gory, and altogether painful childbirth is so they can do it all over again I must have managed to forget that writing/editing is not so easy! Huh. My crap memory is actually protecting me. Or not. Suppose it depends on how you look at it.

So here's a note to my future self: you don't loved editing your first drafts. You never have. There will be moments when you're contemplating chapter cuts and character removals and you will want to hand it all to someone else and say, "Please fix this. Please." But you won't do that. Instead you'll stare at your pages and think "I have no idea if I'm improving this." But take heart! Occasionally you will have moments of genuine insight or clarity. Those moments are good, very good! And the editing will get done, though not as fast as you hoped. It never happens quickly.

For a great post on revision, check out Maureen Johnson's blog entry on the topic. Not only does it have good tips, but it also has pics of Cary Grant. Oh so dreamy.

Like pregnancy, after the labor pains you have a baby (of sorts). Even better: if the baby is handsome enough, you can sell it for money and acclaim. Whereas the world generally frowns on selling real babies.

So there you have it: writing is like pregnancy, sort of. Only better.

Posted by Stephanie at 11:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm back! I was experiencing technical difficulties. Damn SQL server socket! But thanks to the very, very, very handsome boyfriend's help (which involved driving to where the server is and bitch slapping it) we're back in business!

More good news: We spent this weekend in New Hampshire and saw lots of friends and played croquet, went hiking, sat in a hammock, almost tipped the hammock (frame and all), played new board games, journeyed on the lake in the paddle boat, sat in front of a wood fire, and generally had a fabulous, relaxing time. Much love to the Stuarts for hosting us and feeding us.

More more good news: Hurricane Dean didn't damage the Caribbean island I'll be flying to on Friday.

More more more good news: I'll be flying to the Caribbean on Friday and I'm bringing loads of recent fiction to read (a pleasure I've been denied the past 7 weeks). A good book+beautiful ocean=happiness.

Posted by Stephanie at 09:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Coffee, for you I
get out of my bed
and *sigh* go to work.

True story: I didn't drink coffee until after college. I made it through four years of undergrad without it. Of course, back then I had a two-liter a day soda habit, so maybe I didn't need it so much. But now that I no longer drink soda every five minutes, coffee and I are best friends. Even before I drank it I liked the scent of coffee beans. Earthy, dark, rich, with a little kick.

Now I have a medium coffee every single morning. The rare mornings that I don't develop into headachey, tired afternoons. Addicted? You bet. But when confronted with this evidence I tend to shrug. I think a coffee addiction is okay. And mine is mild. I'm not going to die like Balzac. Given all the writerly vices I could adopt: alcoholism, tobacco addiction, deep sea fishing, I think drinking coffee is pretty tame and requires less commitment than, say, a heroin habit.

I'm still anti-Starbucks (can't drink their stuff and can't write in coffee shops) though I do patronize other chains. Lately I can't walk into Dunkin Donuts because I might be confronted by a six-foot tall poster of Rachel Ray, and nothing provokes me quite like that woman. She's ubiquitous. She showed up on a box of Triscuits recently. Is no place on this world sacred from her? Not to mention no one in many family forgives her for that stupid $40 a day show she did on Food Network in which she routinely undertipped the wait staff. Undertipping is considered a sin where I come from.

Ahem. So yes: coffee good. Coffee excellent. Rachel Ray: bad. I think I've made my point here. And that point is: goddamn! Did they put decaf in my cup this morning?! Neurons not making the leap! Need help or nap.

Coffee, why hast thou
forsaken me in my hour
of desperate need?

Feel free to share your coffee haikus, or tips on how to battle sleepiness, with me.

Posted by Stephanie at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

So today at Amazon.com (yes I was checking my stats) I saw something odd. Something I had never seen before. Today I saw a copy of My Summer of Southern Discomfort available for sale in large print. Although the book has always had a large print placeholder, to my knowledge it isn't available in large print. Being naturally inquisitive, I investigated. The book is for sale by a third party seller (not Amazon) and its price? $10,000.99. I love the 99 cents bit. You know, because $10,000 isn't quite enough.

To all of my visually impaired readers contemplating buying this large print copy might I suggest an alternative? Send me $10,000 (a savings of 99 cents!) and I will personally create a large print copy of the book for you. I'm guessing it's a new seller testing the system, but it's an odd way to go about it. Check it out here.

Posted by Stephanie at 12:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Last Wednesday night I attended my first book club. Not as a reader, but as a writer. My friend Cheryl's book club had read my book so I came to answer questions they had and to talk about it. They fed me too, so I was happy. More folks have asked about the possibility of my visiting their book club. Will I visit your book club? Maybe. It's much more likely that I'll agree to phone in during your book club and take questions you and your fellow readers might have. If that sounds of interest, please email me at stephgayle at gmail dot com. Or click on the little tab to the right of this page that says "Email me." Please put BOOK CLUB in the title of your email and let me know when your club expects to meet (even a rough guess is good).

My schedule is getting semi-out-of-control for fall, but if I drop all friends and any pretense of a social life, I'm sure I can make time for you, my readers.

And know that, if I do talk to your book club, even if you can't see me, I will be wearing my awesome (thanks Jules!) Book Club t-shirt, with awesome back, as seen here.
If you haven't read, or seen, Fight Club then the t-shirt's joke won't really work for you. In that case you merely need know that I look fiiiiiiine in it.

Posted by Stephanie at 10:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

As previously discussed in December, thus far all my writing deadlines have been self-imposed (editing deadlines not so much--there I've been told by the publishers when to have the manuscript ready and returned). This, however, doesn't keep the deadline from assuming significance in my mind and causing me pain when I realize there is now way that I'll meet said deadline unless someone manages to create a wrinkle in the time-space continuum. Anyone? Anyone? No? Okay.

This brings me to missing deadlines. I don't like missing them. It makes me feel that I've failed, even though my writing instructor, Stratis, once told me that deadlines are guidelines and are supposed to serve as motivation, not punishment. I'm sure he's right. I just have a very hard time accepting that.

This brings me to the fact that I'm going to miss a deadline. Big time. I had hoped to have half the manuscript for book two edited by the time I leave for vacation in two weeks. Um...er...huh. That was ambitious of me! At the time I made that deadline I was, to be fair, cranking along at a good pace. I was also less busy with book promotion and other things.

So I'm not going to make it. Right now I'm 1/8 done with the manuscript. In two weeks' time I might be able to make it to 1/4. Might.

The trick now is remembering that speed does not equal quality and that, in two weeks, I will be on a beach, staring at an ocean, and missing deadlines will seem a much smaller thing.

Posted by Stephanie at 09:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Today I got an email from my editor telling me that we need to think about the catalog copy for the paperback version of MSOSD. Egads! Really? Yes, really. No matter that the book's only been in print 6 weeks--we need to start thinking ahead to next year, when the paperback comes out.

Here's the stuff you don't realize/know/think about pre-publication. You never know that you'll get requests for things that seem so far into the future it's bizarre, but you will. And usually when you're least expecting/prepared for it. For example, I'm now staring at the catalog copy, scrambling for ideas, aware that for every word I add I have to take a word away. You don't get many words to begin with, so it's tough.

Unlike my character,Natalie, I never had a life plan and I don't make plans that extend more than three months out. Thinking ahead is a new skill.

Posted by Stephanie at 02:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hey y'all: check it out. Another "local girl makes good" story about my library reading. It's a strange experience reading articles about yourself. You immediately hone in on any and all errors, misquotes, and unflattering pictures. And for me it's a little weird because reporters refer to me by my last name, which is also a first name and caused some confusion (still does) for others. I have a rule: only coaches are allowed to call me Gayle. So unless you're yelling at me to pick up the pace, increase the hustle, box out, or rebound, well, just call me Stephanie, okay? In print, I realize, last name is the standard reference. It's just going to take some getting used to, that's all.

Posted by Stephanie at 09:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Here's a write up on the reading I did at the EB Public Library on Monday.
Check it out!
Apparently they interviewed the heck of out my mother.

Posted by Stephanie at 10:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This morning I looked down and the pantry mousetrap's green light was not flashing. Fuck. I checked the trap by the oven. Also not blinking. Fuckity fuck. I wanted to weep. Two dead mice? What the hell? Having not yet had breakfast or even coffee I just wanted to crawl under my covers and let someone else deal with it. But then my acquired Catholic guilt kicked in and I made myself check the traps (after donning latex gloves) and readying the body bags. I checked the first trap, the trap by the stove, or the 'trap of death' as I refer to it. No mouse. Weird. I reset the trap and it blinked and then stopped blinking. The hell?

I checked trap two, sure my luck could not hold. Again, no corpse. Instead of relief I felt anger. These damn traps got me all prepared to have to face death and instead I got worked up for nothing.

Maybe it's the batteries. Maybe Kayla was right and they aren't supposed to blink like before. Or maybe the spirit of dead mice have returned to play havoc with my mind. To which I say: knock it off dead mice. I've got enough on my mind without you.

Posted by Stephanie at 09:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I miss Tracey. She went to Chicago for two whole weeks, leaving me in charge of keeping the garden/lawn and houseplants alive. And she's not here so I can't enjoy her company. Plus, there's one more thing. Tracey takes care of the wee mice who have, on past occasion, made it into our home.

We have these black box traps which zap the mice when they enter the box. Yes, zap dead. Feel free to rail at me.
Last night I saw something just out of the corner of my eye. I turned. On the floor, by the pantry door, the black box's light was flashing green. Crap, I thought. I looked at the box by the stove. No flashing light. Double crap.

I really, really missed Tracey. But I took a couple of deep breaths and grabbed several plastic bags. Then I realized I'd never opened a "full" trap before. More deep breaths. I decided to check how it worked on the non-flashing trap before I got the dead mouse from the flashing trap, so I bent down, and lifted the hinge and DEAD MOUSE!!!! Damn it! The non-flashing box had the dead mouse. I'd gotten my signals confused. Blinking: empty. Not blinking: full.

Luckily, I had bags at hand a strong stomach because this poor thing had been dead for some time. I gagged, tried to get its sad corpse into the bag with as little jiggling as necessary. Then I bagged those bags and took the animal once resembling a mouse to the garbage.

This did not make me enthusiastic about the dinner I was preparing. I washed my hands a lot and deodorized the air and breathed in and out. Then I reset the trap so that the light blinked. But during dinner and for several hours afterward I kept thinking of that sad little mouse's body, that looked like a cat toy with torn seams.

Flash to several hours later. I'm typing at my desk and Kayla comes upstairs to say she thinks that there's a mouse in the trap. "Another one?" I'm astounded. Luck is no lady, I'm thinking. But then after a minute I realize she made the same mistake I did and thought the blinking light meant there was a mouse inside. I assured her this was not the case and that I knew this from experience.

I've been looking at the traps ever since, making sure they're blinking. I hold my breath between the time I first set eyes on it and when it blinks (it's maybe one second but it feels like forever). Let's hope the lights keep flashing, shall we?

Posted by Stephanie at 01:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I swear I heard that phrase more than once last night. "It's so nice to see a hometown girl make good." As if the rest of the hometown girls are busy making not good: thieving, drinking, kicking puppies. Bad hometown girls! Bad!

Last night's reading at the East Bridgewater Public Library was fantastic. Several folks I haven't seen in many, many years came, including a classmate from my school days and the wife of my 5th grade basketball coach. I had to admit I don't play basketball anymore and I still wouldn't know how to "go left" if you paid me. Left? Where's that?

I began the evening by reading from a fourth grade story I'd unearthed earlier that day at my parents' house. It was about a rabbit rebelling against his magician overlord, rabbit unionization, and chocolate. Honestly if it wasn't dated I might mistake it for something I'd write now.

Then I read a brief excerpt from MSOSD and did a Q&A. The Q&A was marvelous. People asked lots of great questions. It's so much fun to answer good questions and have a dialogue with the people in front of you. It sure helped that I knew a lot of them and they happen to like me.

Honestly, it was tons of fun and I had a blast. I even poked around the children's library: it hasn't changed much!

So thanks to Jane Finlay, director of the library, and thanks to everyone who came out last night. It was wonderful to see you and to hear that I "made good." Could I get that in writing, do you think?

Posted by Stephanie at 10:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm off! To East Bridgewater, my hometown, where I'll be reading at the public library on Monday at 6:30 PM.
Until then I'll be visiting my Bumpa in the nursing home he has yet to escape from and playing Scrabble. Expect blog silence until late Monday/early Tuesday. Yes, my parents have a computer, but I'm pretty sure it's dedicated use is for playing poker online, and I prefer playing cards with people I can see and who are in the same room as me.

Posted by Stephanie at 09:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The most amazing thing just happened (no, it had nothing to do with Oprah). I just got recognized. I was purchasing a book at Porter Square Books and the young woman behind the counter did a mini double take. Then she smiled and I began thinking, "Does she think she knows me? Because we've never met. I'd remember those eyebrows. Man those are lovely. I wish my eyebrows looked like that." And then she apologized for not remembering my name and that's when I start thinking "Does she know me from my book?" So I gave her my last name (Porter Sq. has a book buyer program and they need your name to tally your books). Then she mentioned my book and I smiled and laughed and said something unintelligible because Holy Fried Tomatoes with Sprinkles! She knew me from my book and how cool is that?

I always argue with my friends that they wouldn't recognize more than two authors if they happened to be seated in a plane or trail or car full of them. Let's face it, authors don't have their images displayed everywhere as do movie stars (and generally with good reason).

But she totally recognized me which means: I really need to think about what I wear when I leave the house .

Posted by Stephanie at 04:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This week I've been having minor eye trouble. Every morning the corner of my right eye is bloodshot (only the corner) and this morning it was a little dischargey (ewww-that's quite a word). So I thought I should have it looked at lest it be pink eye and render my eye completely foul and pus-besmirched (ooh, another good word combo) before my reading on Monday. Nothing like showing up to your hometown with one red, weeping eye.

The doctor assured me it wasn't infectious or infected. He put drops in my eye (with an ease no other doctor has ever matched--truly my blink reflex is a marvel) and then looked at them. "Yup," he said, "You've got a tiny little injury. It'll heal by itself." Apparently there's a very wee hole in the midst of the bloodshot area. He compared it to a canker sore.

So I have a canker sore in my eye. Terrific! The good news is it should heal itself in a few days. The bad news is it seems I won't need that pirate eye patch after all. Oh well.

Posted by Stephanie at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

As part of my "everything 70s" project, I've been only allowing movies/shows made in or before 1978 into my Netflix queue. Last night I watched "Don't Look Now" with the very handsome boyfriend. About twenty minutes in I said, "I think I read the story this is based on." It's based on a Daphne du Maurier tale. In typical fashion it seemed familiar to me, but not enough for me to recognize completely. Anyway, about halfway in there's a sex scene and man alive! There is a lot of Donald Sutherland/Julie Christie rubbing of naughty bits. The very handsome boyfriend thought there was too much Sutherland ass, but I was enchanted, mostly because I think there is no way a similar sex scene would make it into a major motion picture today. Especially coming in under an NC-17 rating. It struck me anew how weirdly, falsely prudish Americans are about sex. I found that the second half of the film dragged (not enough ass!) but when it came time for the ending, the very handsome boyfriend said at one moment, "Wow, how Blair Witch," which struck me because I thought exactly the same thing. It's very alike in a critical moment--interesting. But by then I had remembered how the du Maurier story ended, so the ending was somewhat anticlimactic.

While I was remembering the ending, though, I recalled how much it surprised/scared me when I read it.

Take home lessons: Donald Sutherland's hair is amazing (truly, home perm?) and don't got to Venice. Just don't.

Posted by Stephanie at 09:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

For those of you living in caves: is it cooler in there? Are there bats? Do you have wi-fi? Oh, and also: have you seen this?
It's stunning! Robert Olen Butler's wife left him to join Ted Turner's harem, despite Robert's saving her, healing her, making her whole. Ungrateful wench! Apparently, Butler sent the email to his graduate students in order to preempt the story of the breakup, well, breaking. And in doing so he has mastered a passive-aggressive masterpiece in which he repeatedly mentions how his wife felt about his Pulitzer (inferior!) her past abuse (which he helped heal!) and just for kicks her intestinal trouble (awkward).

It's yet another instance where I find myself thinking that if I wrote this as fiction it might come off as over the top. What the hell do I know? I don't have a Pulitzer.

Oh my God, Butler was on NPR today talking about it! Crazy!
How many times can he say "she had Pulitzer envy?"

Posted by Stephanie at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)