My List

Things I couldn't help but notice from the table by the window of the Bryant Park Grill...




1. Grown ups like to throw snowballs, too.



2. A snow man. On a bench. Smoking a cigarette.



3. Real men wear stocking caps with ear flaps and pink hearts.



4. The couple next to me planning their wedding.



5. The couple behind me celebrating their 60th.



6. Two beautiful children decided to take it upon themselves to clear the snow off all of the tables and chairs. And relieve Mr. Snowman (see #2) of his detrimental habit.



I was so enamored at being in NYC that all of these things were new, and fresh, and amazing. But, I had been there for about thirteen minutes and I missed home. How is that possible? Because, independent streak aside, sitting alone at a table in the most beautiful city in the world makes you feel very, very small. I needed books.



So, I got up, walked to the NYC Public Library, and found Betsy Bird, librarian extraordinaire. She rocks. She showed me Pooh Bear. No, I mean the original Winnie the Pooh and his friends, the ones the stories are written about. They live in a glass box something akin the the Declaration of Independence. She showed me the original shelving system from 1911, and invited me out for drinks later with a bunch of her friends from the writing community. Oh, and Lemony Snicket might be there.




!



Well, turns out he was a no show. But I didn't leave without a good story. No sir. As Betsy introduced me to a bunch of people whose names I would never remember, I mingled as best I could. I was having a blast. Agents, editors, writers, I was with my people. We are a funny bunch.



As the circle of people I was standing with ebbed and flowed, I found myself talking with two gentlemen whose names I neglected to get the chance to forget.



"I'm Tracy, and I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," I said as I extended my hand to guy #1.



"John Scieszka."

!



I shake his hand and turn to guy #2: "Paul Zelinsky".



!



Had I known their names 20 minutes earlier, I would have blabbered and sputtered and acted like an idiot. Instead, I was reminded that these people who have helped to form and shape my career goals, my dreams, my Life To Do list are just like me. Well, you know what I mean.

I love my life.




I grinned the whole way home.

Long Time Coming

Has it really been that long since I posted? Yipes...

It is Hamline time again. I am so blessed to be a part of this group. Today, we workshopped a piece by Chris Campbell, dystopian-er extraordinaire. Yes, I made up a word. In fact, I will probably make quite a few over the next few days. That tends to happen when your brain turns to creative-happy-mush.

We heard Gene Yang talk about the story behind the story in his award winning American Born Chinese.

Jane Resh Thomas told us to 'go to the hot stove. You don't have to sit on it, just stand there and cook.' She was talking about the emotional hot spot in your writing, but it makes sense in all kinds of ways.

She also had us do a writing exercise where we crossed characters, events, and dialogues from our memories that wouldn't have normally come together and gave us ten minutes. Afterward, she called for volunteers to read, and the writing gods overcame my good senses. I raised my hand. Here is what came out. It was a cross of my sister and I in our cardboard box watching Mr. Roger's Neighborhood and my dad traveling for work.




The father watched his girls. So small, like kangaroos in a strange pouch.

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood..."

His travel bag cut into his shoulder.

"A beautiful day for a neighbor..."

The man on T.V. took off his shoes, one at a time, and replaced them with house shoes.

His father used to wear house shoes. Such fuss over what belonged inside, what belonged out. A lot of things were left out, kept on the other side of the door.

He looked down at his leather soles, his pressed suit pants. The shoulder bag pinched him again.

"Won't you be mine? Won't you be mine?"

He pulled off his shoes, his bag hitting the floor with a thud.

He crawled inside the box and breathed brown curls that smelled of Johnson's baby shampoo.

Tiny hands found his and his tie pulled as the one with the curls pressed against his chest and into his lap.

"Won't you be mine?"