I think most of the world's LEGOS are actually at my house.  And to all my new readers of LIE in the Netherlands -- welcome!!  I'd love to hear what you think of my debut novel. Truly, the author of LIE.

The other morning I was walking through Harlem -- on my way to teaching at The City College of New York and saw this poem by ee cummings written in chalk on the sidewalk. So I stopped to take a picture and a blind man swung into me and I said I was sorry as if I was fault. He asked where was I going and I said campus and he said I could walk with him the rest of the way, and so I did, and we talked about how walking was better than driving any day. All along I was thinking: what a strange, wonderful day so far and what does a blind man know about the thrill of driving a fast car?  I started thinking of how he became blind, was he always?  did he lose his sight in a car crash?  was acid thrown on his eyes, turning them white, scarred, useless? Did he know I was there and bump into me on purpose? Why did he leave me with a "be safe" as if I was the blind one on the streets of Harlem?  And who the hell wrote on that sidewalk: I carry your heart/I carry it in my heart. Anything strange and wonderful happening out there in cyberspace today? 

Truly, author of LIE     

I am a skeptical believer when it comes to all things astrology.  What does that mean?  I read my horoscope religiously.  I have even had my “chart” done  -- by the insightful and thoughtful Madam Lichtenstein.  But even so, I question how much is in the stars and how much is in ourselves when it comes to the creative sphere.

 

In trying to figure this out, this week, I interviewed Madam Lichtenstein aka Charlene Lichtenstein, author of HersScopes, now in its ninth printing with Simon and Schuster, and creator and writer of the must-read astrological blog Madame Lichtenstein’s Cosmic World at www.thestarryeye.typepad.com.

 

 

Every sign has a certain level of creativity.  For example: Libra in the social sphere --creativity through beautiful things; Sagittarius --more international and cosmopolitan; Taurus – might be inspired  food or food writing in particular; and with Scorpio in the area of passion and intensity. Something mysterious should inspire the Scorpion.

 

 

Don’t force the writing process. Sit down and try free thinking automatic thinking.  Just write anything.  But of course, there are some days that are more conducive to writing than others 

 

 

Aromatherapy.  Citrus.  Grapefruit or orange energize and activate the brain.

 

 Going back to your comment about days that may be more “conducive” to creativity --  as a woman there are always times of the month that are more productive creatively, but I don’t think you mean that, do you?

 

Not exactly  -- but I believe what you are speaking about the “void of course moons.”  You can be more creative during the void of the moon.  What is the “void of course  moons?”  The moon changes signs every couple of days and at one point it will go through  “tunnel” one side into the other.  Those are not great times for decision making.  Those times signal the strong possibility of  cloudy thinking, of the propensity to focus on wrong things.  But it’s a great time to focus on other things, especially in the creative fields such as writing.   I have a chart of the “void of course moons” on my website.

 

 

With HerScopes, I found that I wrote much better in the middle of the night. I would work all night: 11 o’clock I would sit down  -- and I’d write until 5 o’clock in the morning – in those moments of supreme quiet. 

 

I always think of a T.S. Elliot line about “bleeding between two lines” when I think of the character of the writer.  You have your real life and then you have your created space in the world that is of your writing – so writers naturally bleed between two lives.  For example, if you are writing your memoir you are writing your life and leading it at the same time.  The moon has this duality – and it could be related more closely to writers. 

 

 

 Yes, I do it all!  Tarot Readings. Charts.  See my website for details.     

 

I hope it’s fun to read – I like to have fun with it – I even like being a little spicy too.  Though people take astrology seriously, and so do I.  I can be very analytical.  I believe I have this kind of writing in me because I have a mixture of Scorpion and Sagittarian energy in me.

 

 

 

I wonder if it’s the right time to start a new piece?  The stars seem to say so!   Are the stars in your writing plans?

Never Quit!  That's what my fortune at the Chinese restaurant said tonight.  Not quite a fortune, but a command I try to live by.

I drew the right fortune cookie.  This past week, I had one of those weeks -- I taught two upper level communication classes at The City College of New York; gave a speech on writing fiction for young people that is "ripped from the headlines," to 50 or so wonderful young adult librarians in Suffolk County; and wrote a daily "guest editor blog" for the inspiring websiteshe writes (check out my blog entries... from "what we talk about when we talk about Titles" to rejection letter immunity!).

In between it all, I was chief cook and bottle washer in the  personal lives of an active 12-year-old (stressed from three days of state testing) and a 6-year-old (with a packed social calendar). I squeezed in some thinking (in the car)  and creative writing (early in the morning)  on a new idea and checked in regularly on my elderly dad (lunch time). So, I had to laugh when I got this fortune. I don't have time to even consider quitting. It's not an option.  And most of all, I like my life -- it's my good fortune!!

Truly, the author of LIE.

I love television. I worked in cable television for 20 years. However this is what my father called our T.V. -- "The Idiot Box."  Even so, I'm thinking that perhaps I should name this poem something else perhaps -- "Dirty Dishes" --see why toward the end. What do you think?   New section of this long, narrative poem highlighted in bold.

My father called it

the Idiot Box

like it was a nickname, or

term of endearment.

I was twelve.

He called me

Toots, a nickname,

a term of endearment.

Sometimes,   

Ignoramus.  

T.V. was always the Idiot Box.

                       *

The Idiot  Box:

knobs, broken off,

a pair of pliers plucked the channels.

The Idiot Box:

black and white,

rabbit ears,

sculpted wire coat hangers

caught the signals.

The Idiot Box:

a Buddha on a woman’s

long dresser, my mother’s dresser,

along the wall in the living room,

bowed to a pair of plaid easy chairs,

and a burnt orange couch.

In front of The Idiot Box:

my mother

peed

through

the bottom of her wheelchair

and was taken away,

a bad puppy,

out of sight.

            *

5, 7, 9 and 11,

the four channels of the Idiot Box.  

Don’t think we were far from the City.

We were the ‘Queen of the Sound,’

45 minutes from Broadway,

home of Tom Paine, author of “Common Sense,” 

a city founded by Huguenots, who fled

France and religious persecution –

New Rochelle;

an intersection of past and future,

a  T.V. antennae perched precariously

on our roof because who the hell needs

more than four channels of television, anyway?

We didn’t. 

            *

We could watch,  easy,

four or five hours of T.V. every day.

“The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.”

Families could be happy

with only a father
if they had a butler;

“The Brady Bunch.”

Fathers and mothers could remarry

if they had even numbers of girls and boys; 

Stop!  Stop!  And look around:

“The Partridge Family.”

Pile us on a bus

and we could be famous, live happy,

if we could only sing. 

 

                       *

4:30 movie Godzilla destroyed Japan

4:30 Godzilla destroyed Japan

Godzilla destroyed Japan

Godzilla destroyed

Godzilla

                       *

Life was arbitrary.

Somehow, we knew that already.

                       *

After school,

we fretted,

free, not free,

until we’d turned off  the T.V.,

and raced outside to greet him,

swore our homework was done, 

that we had spent the afternoon

playing in the sun.

I’d fix us supper.  

He’d switch on the news. 

Soon enough, he’d grunt:

I’d shut my ears.

Serve up peas.

What channel are they on? We’d laugh,

flee.

Stay tuned!  More soon!  Truly, the author of LIE

the critically-acclaimed young adult novel --about

the murder of an innocent young man of color-- 

-- from St. Martin's Press. 

Ah, childhood, some days are idyllic, and other days are not.  Here is a poem about those other days. If you've been reading along these posts, the new section of my original, long narrative poem, "The Idiot Box,"  is highlighted in bold.  Truly, the author of LIE. 

My father called it

the Idiot Box

like it was a nickname, or

term of endearment.

I was twelve.

He called me

Toots, a nickname,

a term of endearment.

Sometimes,   

Ignoramus.  

T.V. was always the Idiot Box.

                       *

The Idiot  Box:

knobs, broken off,

a pair of pliers plucked the channels.

The Idiot Box:

black and white,

rabbit ears,

sculpted wire coat hangers

caught the signals.

The Idiot Box:

a Buddha on a woman’s

long dresser, my mother’s dresser,

along the wall in the living room,

bowed to a pair of plaid easy chairs,

and a burnt orange couch.

In front of The Idiot Box:

my mother

peed

through

the bottom of her wheelchair

and was taken away,

a bad puppy,

out of sight.

            *

5, 7, 9 and 11,

the four channels of the Idiot Box.  

Don’t think we were far from the City.

We were the ‘Queen of the Sound,’

45 minutes from Broadway,

home of Tom Paine, author of “Common Sense,” 

a city founded by Huguenots, who fled

France and religious persecution –

New Rochelle;

an intersection of past and future,

a  T.V. antennae perched precariously

on our roof because who the hell needs

more than four channels of television, anyway?

We didn’t. 

            *

We could watch,  easy,

four or five hours of T.V. every day.

“The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.”

Families could be happy

with only a father
if they had a butler;

“The Brady Bunch.”

Fathers and mothers could remarry

if they had even numbers of girls and boys; 

Stop!  Stop!  And look around:

“The Partridge Family.”

Pile us on a bus

and we could be famous, live happy,

if we could only sing. 

 

                       *

4:30 movie Godzilla destroyed Japan

4:30 Godzilla destroyed Japan

Godzilla destroyed Japan

Godzilla destroyed

Godzilla

                       *

Life was arbitrary.

Somehow, we knew that already.

                       *

*

Stay tuned! More to come.  Truly the author of LIE.

Consider LIE, the critically-acclaimed young adult novel,

from St. Martin's Press, for your 2012 summer reading list!!

More poetry... Godzilla and the 4:30 movie (remember that?)  included in new section, which is highlighted in bold.  Truly author of LIE.

My father called it

the Idiot Box

like it was a nickname, or

term of endearment.

I was twelve.

He called me

Toots, a nickname,

a term of endearment.

Sometimes,   

Ignoramus.  

T.V. was always the Idiot Box.

                       *

The Idiot  Box:

knobs, broken off,

a pair of pliers plucked the channels.

The Idiot Box:

black and white,

rabbit ears,

sculpted wire coat hangers

caught the signals.

The Idiot Box:

a Buddha on a woman’s

long dresser, my mother’s dresser,

along the wall in the living room,

bowed to a pair of plaid easy chairs,

and a burnt orange couch.

In front of The Idiot Box:

my mother

peed

through

the bottom of her wheelchair

and was taken away,

a bad puppy,

out of sight.

            *

5, 7, 9 and 11,

the four channels of the Idiot Box.  

Don’t think we were far from the City.

We were the ‘Queen of the Sound,’

45 minutes from Broadway,

home of Tom Paine, author of “Common Sense,” 

a city founded by Huguenots, who fled

France and religious persecution –

New Rochelle;

an intersection of past and future,

a  T.V. antennae perched precariously

on our roof because who the hell needs

more than four channels of television, anyway?

We didn’t. 

            *

We could watch,  easy,

four or five hours of T.V. every day.

“The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.”

Families could be happy

with only a father
if they had a butler;

“The Brady Bunch.”

Fathers and mothers could remarry

if they had even numbers of girls and boys; 

Stop!  Stop!  And look around:

“The Partridge Family.”

Pile us on a bus

and we could be famous, live happy,

if we could only sing. 

 

                       *

                       *

Stay tuned... more to come of "The Idiot Box."

Truly, author LIE, the critically-acclaimed young adult novel from St. Martin's Press.

Today, Sunday, poetry continued...new section highlighted in bold at end. On a weekend when many families gather, this narrative poem looks at a family. Not a happy family. But do you agree (with Tolstoy) -- all unhappy families are unhappy in their own way? From the author of LIE, the must-read young adult novel about the aftermath of a hate crime -- from St. Martin's Press.

My father called it

the Idiot Box

like it was a nickname, or

term of endearment.

I was twelve.

He called me

Toots, a nickname,

a term of endearment.

Sometimes,   

Ignoramus.  

T.V. was always the Idiot Box.

                       *

The Idiot  Box:

knobs, broken off,

a pair of pliers plucked the channels.

The Idiot Box:

black and white,

rabbit ears,

sculpted wire coat hangers

caught the signals.

The Idiot Box:

a Buddha on a woman’s

long dresser, my mother’s dresser,

along the wall in the living room,

bowed to a pair of plaid easy chairs,

and a burnt orange couch.

In front of The Idiot Box:

my mother

peed

through

the bottom of her wheelchair

and was taken away,

a bad puppy,

out of sight.

            *

5, 7, 9 and 11,

the four channels of the Idiot Box.  

Don’t think we were far from the City.

We were the ‘Queen of the Sound,’

45 minutes from Broadway,

home of Tom Paine, author of “Common Sense,” 

a city founded by Huguenots, who fled

France and religious persecution –

New Rochelle;

an intersection of past and future,

a  T.V. antennae perched precariously

on our roof because who the hell needs

more than four channels of television, anyway?

We didn’t. 

            *

We could watch,  easy,

Stay tuned.  More to come. Truly, author of LIE

Truly, from the author of LIE -- a wish for a happy, healthy, joyful holiday weekend --

and more poetry! This long narrative poem is about a young girl, her childhood in the 1970s...and what defined her:  television, a single parent, (a father raising four kids), a mother who had a stroke, a sense of holding onto to what matters and letting go of what doesn't. I've added the next stanza, highlighted in bold. Stay tuned for more over the weekend.  And of course, if you are interested in more of my writing, read LIE.  

 

My father called it

the Idiot Box

like it was a nickname, or

term of endearment.

I was twelve.

He called me

Toots, a nickname,

a term of endearment.

Sometimes,   

Ignoramus.  

T.V. was always the Idiot Box.

                       *

The Idiot  Box:

knobs, broken off,

a pair of pliers plucked the channels.

The Idiot Box:

black and white,

rabbit ears,

sculpted wire coat hangers

caught the signals.

The Idiot Box:

a Buddha on a woman’s

long dresser, my mother’s dresser,

along the wall in the living room,

bowed to a pair of plaid easy chairs,

and a burnt orange couch.

In front of The Idiot Box:

my mother

peed

through

the bottom of her wheelchair

and was taken away,

a bad puppy,

out of sight.

            *

5, 7, 9 and 11,

            *

April... Poetry.  The idiot box. Hey, mambo. Hearts broken and House sold... From the author ofLIE, a critically-acclaimed young adult novel, a poem in honor of National Poetry Month in April. One stanza a day for the next few days, (it's a very long poem), a narrative poem that cuts very close to the bone: 

My father called it

the Idiot Box

like it was a nickname, or

term of endearment.

I was twelve.

He called me

Toots, a nickname,

a term of endearment.

Sometimes

Ignoramous.

T.V. was always the Idiot Box.

     *