A Week in Sicily

I've spent this week in Sicily. Not actually -- just in my mind and at my keyboard.

I wrote a short story two years ago in one sitting at the Starbucks in San Francisco at the corner of Bush and Grant (I think). First time I'd ever done that. I liked the story and recently pulled it out to reread it and to my surprise I liked it even better now.

A year ago I wrote a scene that I didn't think involved the same two characters.

On Monday, all of a sudden I knew how the two characters in the two-year-old story met. It came upon me like a memory. There were no hazy edges open to interpretation or to be colored in. It was as detailed and complete as if I'd just seen a movie depicting these events.

They met in Sicily.

And I realized that the fragmented scene I wrote a year ago was about the end of their relationship.

I've only spent six hours in Sicily -- an annoyingly enticing day excursion on a cruise that consisted of a lickety-split bus ride up to Taormina, a march through the amphitheater and a frustrating perp walk past what seemed like dozens of tantalizing restaurants not yet open for the day.

I want to go back -- not just in spirit, but also in body.

Nevertheless, I've been there all week. I've heard the water in the fountain at the small family-run hotel, I've seen the colors of the fish at the market at the edge of the sea and I've been surrounded by the fragrance of little white blossoms on the bushes outside my fictional window.

I have no way of knowing if any of that has any counterpart in reality. I guess I don't really care right now. I've entertained myself for days with unreeling the dialog that's going to have this woman start to fall in love with the man who will break her heart in the story I wrote two years ago.

So far I haven't been able to get myself to sit down and actually write that scene. Once it's written, even in shitty first draft, I won't be able to play with it the same way, to turn it over in my mind as I fall asleep, as I make tea in the morning and as I drive on the 405.

No wonder I never finish anything. It's too much fun to be in the middle

Spoke and Wheel

I spent the weekend watching the Tour of California. Went to Glendora on Saturday to watch the sprint, saw the start of the race Sunday morning in Santa Clarita and then positioned myself in front of a Shell station to watch all five laps of the finish in Thousand Oaks. Then came home to watch Tyler Hamilton on 60 Minutes.

I've never been able to quite decide what I think about Lance Armstrong. Yes, I have a Livestrong bracelet on my desk, but that's more about cancer than cycling. Yes, I love to see cyclists jackrabbit up amazingly steep slopes (like Alberto Contador this weekend in Italy). Yes, I follow the news about tainted meat, dodgy doctors in Italy and one after another Italian or Spanish rider who has to sit out a year or so. After watching Hamilton I'm still not sure what to think. I found Tyler believable, heart-renchingly so.

I still like cycling. I'm fascinated by the dedication, the gritty determination, the endless training, the sheer challenge of it -- and for the most part not for much money and not for much public glory. I just hope that all the under-25 riders I saw yesterday, people whose names are not yet known to the fans, who took time to sign autographs for little kids clutching Radio Shack and Leopard Trek jerseys instead of Kobe Bryant 33's, have figured out a way to make their way in the sport without the temptation of cheating.

And boy -- is this subject ripe for fiction. I'm already cooking up a great story told from the point of view of a soigneur.

Reading Aloud

As I have mentioned, I am experimenting with ways to slow down my reading. One of the things I started to do is to keep a log of the books I read, along with some analysis, in a thick-paper hard-covered journal. I write in it longhand with a fountain pen and I put only one book on each page. If nothing else, it's pretty to look at.

Now I have a new idea. Reading aloud.

I am a litigator by trade. I'm used to public speaking, used to arguing in open court and having people interrupt me to tell me they disagree with everything I'm saying. For some reason that is not intimidating to me. Yes, I get a little bit of butterflies in my stomach when I'm sitting in the courtroom waiting my turn, but the moment I get up and go to the counsel table, I forget about everyone else in that courtroom who is behind me and I only focus on the judge and the facts of my case.

But ask me to stand up in front of a friendly, supportive crowd of people and read two pages of my own creative work? Shaky voice, dry mouth, rushed words. It's amazing. It happens even when I'm in a workshop full of people I've known for years. I don't get it.

I've considered taking acting classes or joining Toastmasters to try to get more comfortable with delivering my own material. Maybe I will. But for now, I am going to read aloud. Just ten minutes a day. Get more used to the sound of my own voice and SLOW DOWN. Taste each syllable. Let the words roll on my tongue.

I'm starting with a set of short stories by Bernard MacLaverty. Just ten minutes. I set the timer on my phone and when it's time to stop a lovely trilling harp tone sounds. Then it's time to put down the book. No reading ahead of the class. I've only been doing this a few days so far, but I'm pleased to report that after just a few minutes I lose my self-consciousness and start to fall under the spell of the story and the language. I don't think about whether I still have a New York accent or if my voice is too low. I anticipate getting to read dialogue and can see the character come alive a bit.

This could be fun.

Chanel #29

I am too old to wear dark red lipstick, but I do anyway. By now, readers may have picked up that I have an affinity for all things ballet-related. A few months ago I read of a Chanel Rouge Coco lipstick color called "Ballet Russe." From the moment I saw the title I knew I had to have a tube and I knew I would love it. After all, my first ballet teacher, Ms. Elfrieda, had been with the Ballet Russe. This feeling got stronger and even more compelling when I realized that this color was #29 in the Chanel line-up. My birthday is January 29 and I've always considered 29 as a lucky number for me.

And, yes, it is a dark, dark red. It goes with my coloring but is a bit harsh on me. But I LOVE how it feels on and how it makes me feel to wear it. It's like I'm wearing a magic cloak and only good things will happen to me while I'm wearing it. I have two tubes -- one in my writing desk drawer and one in my purse. I prefer to wear it when no one else is around so as to have no interference with its special, magical powers. My writing seems to come more smoothly, I am less antsy in the chair, I can get all the things done I have in mind. That goes for my "real" lawyering work as well as my creative work.

At times like these I wish I were one of those bloggers who has figured out how to monetize her blog and that the people who run the U.S. arm of Chanel will decide I'm wonderful and ship me a lifetime supply of #29 Ballet Russe. Or, at the very least, I hope I am given warning if they decide to ever discontinue this color.

Glowing Rectangles

I heard recently that researchers at Stanford have discovered that we spend a horrifying percentage of each day staring at glowing rectangles. I tried to find more information on this and the only thing I could find is a piece in The Onion, so I don't know what to make of the report.

But it got me thinking. I was most taken by the term "glowing rectangles." I understand why it's used -- to capture the whole gamut from phones to iPads to television to computer screens. It evokes the idea of mind-numbing, non-personal, time-sucking ways of making our days flow by without realizing it.

After a while, when I tried to think of yet another sample of a glowing rectangle, I could only conjure up medieval illuminated manuscripts and other pieces of art. If I believed in past lives, I could easily convince myself that I once spent a lifetime toiling away creating nothing but the margins of books. When you think of the rarity, the mystique, the magic of books in those times, let alone the special beauty of an illuminated manuscript, it makes me wonder what the equivalent is today. It's hard to come up with the same power and the same promise. Now 15 years into the ubiquity of the internet it's silly to nominate it for that title. Any other ideas?

No Slices, Cash Only

Recently we went to lunch at Grimaldi's in Brooklyn. Great pizza and brusque, efficient New York service. The sign on the door warns you of what's ahead.

In the weeks since that lunch I've thought a lot about living a "no slices, cash only" life. It's sort of a no compromise, say what you mean, take it or leave it kind of approach that I've never imagined for myself. Not sure what the equivalent would be in the language of my life. But when I find someone asking me to do something I think is unreasonable or crossing that invisible line I find myself muttering "no slices."

Writer Gal

I recently needed to order new business cards. I had a lot of fun playing on the Vista Print website. When I finished designing my professional card, I decided I needed a card to reflect my writer status. They were so cheap I couldn't resist. And it would be nice to have something that only lists my email address and my cell phone to give to people I meet at writing classes, etc.

How fun. Not limited by the perceptions of what a lawyer's business card should or should not look like. And a place to list my blog address instead of scribbling it out for people in my largely unreadable handwriting.

I chose a design that has a little graphic of birds on branches of a tree. I have many bird-themed objects on my desk, all a reminder of Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird." The back side is a sage green.

They came yesterday. I'm just thrilled. The typeface is a bit smaller than would be ideal but I happily stuffed them in my wallet to distribute to --- well, I'm not sure. But my writing group meets tonight so I will be able to hand out at least eight of them.

3 Square Cafe - Re-inventory

Have a break from work and can get some writing done. Printed out my inventory list of writing projects and got in my car this morning. Just an excuse to find a shady, breezy place to write? With great pretzel bread?

Started my day with the same objective as on many other days -- to find an interesting place to pound out my thousand words and have a great cappuccino and a croissant. But the traffic and errand gods were not in agreement. I saw my vision of a quiet hour in Tanner's Coffee in Culver City and then Urth Caffe in Santa Monica dissolve into the mist ahead of my windshield on the 405.

Instead -- as the hour drew on toward noon - there is was -- a parking place just a block off Abbot Kinney and no line at 3 Square. My only decision now is whether to have a beer with lunch or allow myself the illusion that I will actually finalize my submission for a summer workshop this afternoon.