Stephanie Gayle

I just paid money for the privilege of being locked down for seven hours on a Saturday in June at Grub Street's headquarters in Boston. The idea is to encourage writers to write for seven hours (with food-provided breaks---you know I wouldn't participate if food were withheld). I'm quite excited about it, despite my strong suspicion that the day will probably be the most beautiful day of all summer in Boston simply because I can't go outside for most of it. This will give me a chance to get started on book #3, a project I've been looking forward to and made some small forays at, but haven't had time to really get into. I want to roll about in the prose, muddy my hands with too many adjectives, and then peel the unwanted verbiage from me like so many blood-sucking leeches (how's that for a word picture?)

Seven hours sounds amazing. I could write a chapter in seven hours. Only one chapter you ask? One good chapter, I say. Or one that doesn't suck. Sometimes that's the same thing, especially in the land of first drafts.

I'll be holed up with other writers, all looking to pound out more words in one day than they probably do in most weeks. It's hard to find seven hours to write in unless you're willing to forego sleep (not usually) or eating (never) or the day job (it pays my bills). The strongest lure of pursuing a MFA was, for me, the time it provided to write. The strongest repellent? Um, the money it was going to cost me. So I chose day job and carving our time to write when I could. And I was fairly good about it, what with the timer and all. But I've been feeling a bit guilty lately about not spending enough time amongst the words, and I think this lockdown is just what I need.

I'll let you know how it goes once it's over. Until now, it's just something to look forward to. Internment never sounded so sweet...

Posted by Stephanie at 01:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

As a woman I've heard lots about the 'biological clock' that's supposed to be ticking inside me like a bomb. You know what? I've never heard a tick. Not once. Not even when I've been in the presence of uber-cute, precocious babies. Nope. So either my clock is broken or missing or the whole damn idea is a myth. But lately, I've been experiencing something else in a profound must-have, want-now, can't-wait way. House lust.

I want a house. I want a roof and windows and nice wooden floors and a fireplace. Please, please, a fireplace! I'd like a wee yard too because it's hard for me to conceive of 'house' without a bit of land (blame my semi-rural upbringing.) I want to fill the house with furniture I bought and decorate it with colors I like and bake masses of cookies in the kitchen (but not for future children--still no ticking!)

I've been perusing the Sunday Real estate section and browsing Craigslist for properties for sale. I'm getting familiar with the real estate lingo. Cozy=frigging tiny. As is=major work needed. Just gut renovated=expensive. Most of the listings don't stir me from my Goldilocks inspired criticisms. Too small, too big, etc. But occasionally I see one that makes my heart go pitter-patter (and then I remember I have an erratic heart beat so I discount that). But once in every two thousand listings I see one for sale that makes me wish I had money with which to purchase said house. Then I go look at my savings account in the hopes that the money has somehow gotten infused with rabbit-DNA and has begun breeding! (That hasn't happened...yet.)

But until then I have hope and house lust.

Posted by Stephanie at 06:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sometimes it's tough to be a writer. Such as when your royalty statement appears and you realize you sold negative books (it can happen!) or you get a rejection slip from an esteemed magazine addressed to someone other than you (I suppose an acceptance note addressed to someone other than you would be worse) or you're asked yet again, "So how's the book coming?"

What's with the third-degree inquisition? Do I show up at your job and demand to see the latest spreadsheet/hairstyle/auto repair/surgical scar? Et cetera and et cetera. No, I do not. But once people know you're a writer they'll ask how's it coming, how are sales, when is the next reading and it's great that they want to know. Except when you're not writing and sales suck (or you don't know--this is also very possible) and the next reading is never.

Sometimes (this weekend) I just want to eat foods grilled over firey charcoal chips (because the very handsome boyfriend does not believe in the blasphemy that is gas grills--don't get him started). Sometimes I want to go hiking through the woods and commune with Nature. Sometimes I want to go to the farm and buy lots of lovely food and watch movies and make drinking glasses from wine bottles and do anything but write. Sometimes. Those times, inevitably, are when people ask me, "So how's the writing coming?" I'm quite certain my agent is not paying them to ask (are you?). But it does keep me honest.

I say, "Right now, it's not really coming. But I plan to write more soon."
And I do.
Right after I finish this burger.

Posted by Stephanie at 07:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

When people ask me what I do I have two answers:
1. I'm a writer
2. I work at MIT (If I feel like playing, I tell them I'm a nuclear physicist--just to scare them.)

I rarely told people I was a writer until I'd sold my novel. That made me legitimate, or so I felt. But when they'd ask about my day job I'd be vague. I might mention finances or admin work, but I wouldn't offer many details. I figured it wasn't that interesting. When confronted by someone who says, "I'm in insurance" do you really press to hear the details of what type of insurance? Okay, you're more polite than I am.

My current job is interesting--it's in a very unique space known as "The Cube" in the MIT Media Lab. I do a lot of things, from balancing budgets to getting travel visas to ordering food for meetings. It keeps me busy. Very damn busy. But I like seeing the amazing work "my" graduate students (I often refer to them in the possessive) are producing. Being around smart people is stimulating. And I don't attend unecessary, boring staff meetings, which I've had to do for prior jobs and which drove me mental.

Today on the way to work I thought of Wallace Stevens. Wallace Stevens won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry and was offered a faculty position at Harvard. He turned it down because it would have meant giving up his vice-presidency at Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company where he had worked as a lawyer for nearly forty years. I thought of Wallace because I sometimes think of what it would mean to quit my day job and write full time. It isn't financially feasible yet, and it may never be, but more than that, I'm not sure it would suit me.

There is something satisfying in the work I do between 9-5 (and sometimes beyond). There is often human contact. As a writer I possess that splendid tendency toward escape. I worry that an all day opprtunity for fiction might lead to few (if any) human interractions on a daily basis. Not to mention I'm an absolute pill when bored. Sure, there are times I curse having to rise in the morning and abandon my work-in-progress for the daily commute but there's also something nice about working toward the return to home and story.

Posted by Stephanie at 07:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Damn, I'm sleepy. I could curl up in bed right now, only it's not even 9:00 PM. Long day at work. Oy. Then I came home and ate dinner and watched Jeopardy. The funniest bit was when I yelled, "What is ebony?" when the correct question was "What is ivory?" Damn you Monsieurs McCartney and and Wonder for confusing me!

Next, I tried to read an article about robotics. That didn't go over so well. It had a lot of...words. While generally I'm a crackerjack at the whole reading thing, it seems that exhaustion is able to render me stupid, even in the reading arena. Note to self: don't operate any heavy machinery in the next hour before bedtime.

But I realized I hadn't posted any new material for all five of may faithful readers and I felt guilty. (I majored in guilt with a minor in self-abuse. True story!) And instead of giving you fun stuff to read I'm telling you how tired I am. I just yawned. It's official. I'm boring myself.

Anyway, to reward you for reading this and to keep me from having to type any new thoughts (there aren't any--ha!) I'm going to post some links. Follow them at your peril or leisure or both.

The Office writer and actress Mindy Ephron has a blog called Thing I've Bought that I Love Enjoy!

Winona writes about fashion, but funny. My favorite feature of Daddy Likey is when she polls her three brothers, father and boyfriend on their first impressions of an outrageous fashion item.

I'm semi-addicted to design blogs because they're so fucking pretty. I browse them thinking "that would look lovely in my future home," forgetting that it's hard to fit real furniture into a cardboard fort. Anyway, DesignSponge is just one o fthose blogs I drool over.

Okay, that's three links. I think I'm done here.

Posted by Stephanie at 07:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When I was in fourth grade our teacher read to us from a book called Z for Zacahariah, by Robert C. O'Brien. He also wrote Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. Z for Zachariah has nothing to do with rats. What's it about? Um, a post-nuclear war survivor named Ann who is, as far as she knows, the only person alive in the world. So now I remember why I spent much of my childhood waiting for the missiles to blow us up and dust the landscape with deadly radiation. Thanks public school story time! Now here is my therapy bill.

As it turns out, I still remembered the book enough to want to read it again (sort of like picking at a wound ). The book, published in 1974, is no longer in print, but there are copies for sale through second-hand book sellers.

Here's the cover. You can tell some bad shit is about to go down.

Ann is our sixteen-year-old post-apocalyptic survivor. The novel is told through her journal entries (the style of the prose is a bit sparse for that age and gender, but no matter). Ann has mad skills. She farms, she can shoot a gun, she knows a bit about how to take apart and put back together stoves. Basically she can survive in a world without people (or electricity!)

Allow me to insert a plea here to YA authors of today: please create amazing, strong female characters like Ann. They have existed! They are appealing! Girls AND boys will like them. They don't need magic or credit cards. Okay, end rant.

Ann's less than ideal world grows more complicated when a person dressed in a green plastic radiation suit approaches. Suddenly she's no longer alone in the world. But surprise! That's not necessarily a good thing. Mr. Loomis, Adam to Ann's Eve, is a scientist who happens to be a bit of a control freak. He also thinks that novels are frivolous (novel haters=the evil). He tries to molest Ann. Again, why did they choose to read this to us in fourth grade? Had we been acting up? Okay, so the attempted assault scene is brief, but um, fourth grade....Hell, reading it now still gives me the jibblies.

Ann, however, proves a fearsome contender. She didn't survive for over a year on her own because a house elf was helping her. Ann is terrific because while she's practical and clever, she's also vulnerable and has dreams that she realizes will not come to pass given her situation.

Here's a sample paragraph:
And I thought: what would it be like, ten years from now, to be up here gathering greens some morning with children of my own? But that made me feel lonesome for my mother, a feeling I have tried hard to avoid. So I stood up to change the subject. I got out my pocketknife and cut a bunch of apple blossoms.

Damn I love that sentence, "So I stood up to change the subject." I can't tell you how much I wished I'd written it.

If you're less than terrified by post-nuclear scenarios and you're older than ten, consider reading this book. It's the sort of thing you'll remember two decades later.

Posted by Stephanie at 08:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

The other day I was reviewing my book contract (a lengthy document of 8.5x14 inch papers). I happened to notice that the royalty rate on ebooks is much more generous than that applied to hardcover or paperback copies sold. Wow, I thought. Better royalties. But who buys ebooks?

Relevance then kicked in. Because I was thinking about the format I noticed when my novel began popping up in ebook form, whether it be for the Kindle, the Microsoft reader or the Mobipocket.

But lo! It seems that there are plenty of stores selling the ebook format, even brick and mortar stores that I would have expected wouldn't (given the whole brick and mortar thing). Amazon has a separate ranking for its Kindle books. I myself, late adopter to technology that I am, have never read an ebook. I am a bound-paper kind of reader. But I'm beginning to suspect there are more folks reading books and newspapers and what have you on the electronic device of their choice than I had thought. And to these people I say this: buy my ebook! Because those royalty rates are nothing to sneeze at friends.

Posted by Stephanie at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

People who use the term "quarter life crisis."

Most of time they are referring to someone who is age twenty-five having a crisis. That's a quarter century crisis, friend. We're not all going to live to be 100 years old.

This also seems to be a way of making it possible to have a crisis prior to a mid-life crisis. How many crises do you want to have, people? I'll happily settle for one.

Posted by Stephanie at 07:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's the season of reincarnation and, to celebrate, my novel has undergone a chrysalis stage and emerged as a paperback.

Internal dialogue break:
Me: I think you mixed your metaphor in a blender there, Homes.
Other me: Don't call me Homes.
Me: Were you even paying attention in Biology?
Other me: Yes! It was Chemistry that was the snooze fest, remember?
Me: Oh god, yes. The monotone science teacher. And the flints! The thirty-year-old flints only monotone science teacher could operate.
Other me: The many adavtages of public schooling.
Me: Sing it, sister.

Back to business. May 6th marks the official release of MY SUMMER OF SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT in paperback. Check it out:

Now with 25 percent more flowers!!! Lighter too for less shoulder strain.

Go buy a copy and be the first of your friends to be seen toting summer's must have accessory! Because reading is always in style.

Posted by Stephanie at 08:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Overhearing a person talk about her new diet (into her cell phone, naturally): not so interesting. Listening to someone talk about all the food they cannot eat makes me want to run across the parking lot of Porter Square, into Dunkin Donuts, and stuff a donut into my mouth. Really. The mere concept of food deprivation gives me carb cravings.

Posted by Stephanie at 07:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm going to go on a chocolate factory tour on Saturday. So I can see "where the magic happens!" I'm very much looking forward to this. I remember watching factory-tour style videos on Mr. Rogers (the crayon tour!) and other various shows and I was fascinated. Seeing raw goods mashed and pulped and molded and whatnot into recognizable product is just riveting. Of course, I find watching clothes dry in see-though driers at laundromats kind of mesmerizing too, so....yeah.

I've actually been on a chocolate tour once before in Vermont. It was fun, but we couldn't get behind the glass where the machines were, though I totally would have worn a hair net and those detox-Reebox slipper things! I've high hopes that on this tour I can stand beside the machines and maybe, just maybe, touch an Ooompa Loompa. Kidding. I'd never touch an Oompa Loompa.

Would you touch this creature?

Posted by Stephanie at 09:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My Summer of Southern Discomfort hits stores next Tuesday, May 6th, in paperback form. So I've begun rattling my saber, i.e. calling and emailing bookstores to discuss readings. So far, the results have been a wee bit disheartening. A "no" and several non-reponses. Granted, the rejection had a good reason: their library is being remodeled. I need to place more calls. The onus of selling myself and my book is on me. But where I live authors litter the sidewalks like cigarette butts (I mean we're not actually lying on the ground, reeking of nicotine and ash. Not usually, anyway. We save that kind of behavior for special occasions.)

What authors look like when they've been partying.

I've done readings with a former Poet Laureate and an Academy-Award nominated writer, because they happen to be local. Gather a bunch of Boston/Cambridge authors and one of them probably has a Nobel prize rattling in his/her closet. Even where I work at MIT, a school better known for producing advanced technology than for supplying superior prose, we have Junot Diaz. Who won this year's Pulitzer Prize (and Powell's Tournament of Books!)

I sometimes wonder if I lived some place where authors were scarce, would booking readings be easier? But then would I be some place where there are so many reading venues? Probably not.

So I'll make more calls and I'm sure I'll book more readings. And while I don't have a Pulitzer or a Nobel I do have a Presidential Academic Fitness pin. I think I've just hit upon a new marketing strategy.

"Hello, events coordinator? This is Stephanie Gayle, Presidential Academic Fitness pin wearer and author, and I have a proposition for you."

Hell to the yeah!

Posted by Stephanie at 06:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)