I did not forget my promise to blog at least once a month--but I've been blogging at the Fusebox Festival website instead.
Yesterday I actually bought a Stairway to Heaven at the Yard Sale in the Sky.
And the day before I swung on one of the Red Swings.
Long time no see. I was doing a tricky revision for most of February, and then I was in Ireland for a couple of weeks, researching my second book. (That period should really be a !, which is more how I feel about being able to take that trip.) It was gorgeous and terrifying--the left-hand driving at highway speeds on tiny shoulderless roads was the terror--and tremendously useful.
Anyway. I am now on a mission to post on this blog at least once a month -- I realize that's a low bar, shut up: I am like a nervous second grader, I need ACHIEVABLE GOALS to boost my confidence.
I am also going to tweet more often. Yeah you've been warned.
The point of both exercises is to meet writers and readers. I feel like there's this giant Intenet cocktail party going on and I'm sort of hovering at the edge of people's tables, eavesdropping, hoping they'll notice me; and then if they look over at me, I'm quickly looking away. Because I am 13.
Anyway: so more blogging! I want to talk about stories. But for now, some Ireland pictures.
Ross Castle in Killarney National Forest. I have to say well done (or Fair play to you! more Irish-ishly) to my super-cheap Canon point & shoot.
That was seriously the view from my room at this B&B in Dingle, Pax Guest House. Fair play to you iPhone camera (it gets jealous.)
That's a two-way road, just FYI.
Hello New York! I am here for SCBWI.
Hello classic tourist picture of Washington Square Park: In Winter.
Couple of blocks from my hotel! Moving uptown to the Hyatt tomorrow.
Hello finally meeting my excellent and charming agent David Dunton while simultaneously delighting in a pulled pork sandwich--what could be lovelier?
Hello High Line, you are unphotographably (by me at least) awesome, and worth wearing out my boots on:
Lots of people courting up here, or whatever you call it in New York.
Hello Metropolitan Museum, why do I always get stuck in your Crazy Masks section? Am I meant to put some masks in my current book?
I feel like the opposite of this guy today.Hello tomorrow, when I will meet my editor/publisher and other Penguin people, and maybe later go to the kidlit drink night at the Public House and maybe NOT stand awkwardly in the corner (that's just a working theory, don't hold me to it); and then hello SCBWI itself, which will be a whole other story.
Hello New York: thanks for being so chilly and gray (hurrah) and kind to me so far. Let's get together more often in the future.
I am listening to the Irish Tenors singing "Fairy Tale of New York" which is extremely disorienting, so forgive me if this makes less sense than usual.
"Even before she can get her knickers on, I've seen everything!"
I have been thinking a lot lately about art that is maybe not really art, at least not to me, because it feels like unprocessed fantasy. There is a hilarious episode of the Ricky Gervais show Extras in which Patrick Stewart, playing himself, explains his screenplay-in-process, which is essentially the unprocessed fantasy of a 12-year-old boy ("and then all her clothes fall off, and I see everything!"). If you haven't seen it yet, just go right now to watch this clip (it's under 4 minutes), because it is a lot better than this blog.
Anyway: was also just reading (in Minerva's Wreck, a ridiculously rich and gorgeous object/publication, which you want, believe me) about an ongoing performance art . . . project, I guess, which involves these two women, among other things, going to other people's performances or parties and ruining them.
That's a pretty hostile thing to do; and anger/hostility is the great juicy source for some extraordinary art. Same thing for a 12-year-old's sexual fantasies, for that matter--also the source of much great art, including arguably Ulysses.
But: source. Source of. You can't STOP THERE. You gotta make something with it, maybe something that unfolds in people's minds and hearts a bit, beyond just -- Wow, yep, you broke that. Or Yep, it would be fun if you could make women's clothes fall off with your mind! Or Sure, what if you got a new pretty young wife and your aging but more interesting wife didn't really mind, because she loved you so much! (Just saw The Lion in Winter -- truly delightful production but that play, especially towards the end, gets kinda Hugh Hefner Dreams of the Rood.)
So. Just saying. To me, just speaking for me, the juice is crucial, is absolutely necessary, but it isn't sufficient. You use the juice to stay true to the object, the performance, the whatever you are making, and hopefully to make it as amazing as possible (though that doesn't always happen). You don't just spray the juice out of your mouth.
I am so much crosser-sounding than usual. Maybe I'll switch to Ella Fitzgerald.