Shameless Promotion

Catch and Kill and The Morning Show

If you find yourself utterly demotivated and remembering sad, quiet stories, may I suggest a double dose of just desserts with Catch and Kill and The Morning Show. Not only do both feature journalists working hard, but they also offer solid fuck yous to corrupt establishments that have gagged victims and those shepherding their important stories to the public.

Catch and Kill is a formidable account of a network’s not airing a story about a notorious predator’s (I won’t mention his name because he sucks) reign of terror. The Morning Show stars Jennifer Aniston, who, in my opinion, makes everything better.

But seriously…first I raced through Catch and Kill, appreciating its sober tone as Ronan Farrow details his experience of reporting a story that would have put me in the hospital in the first week. I have his other “foreign policy” book buried under other such books (three issues of Vanity Fair).

Over the last thirty years, I’ve read shelves of books about sexual assault and I was expecting something different from Catch and Kill, i.e. a bigger focus on the victims individual stories. Then I realized that these stories were not totally his to tell. In Farrow’s writing, there is this respectful space between victim and journalist, where he reports what is there, what is told, but he doesn’t assume the victim’s story or take it on as his. His story is about the behind the scenes of bringing forward his bombshell findings. He reveals the sick culture where he worked and the levels of treachery those above him fought to cover up.

While Catch and Kill may be a trigger for some, for me, it wasn’t. I admire journalists even more, especially the work that goes into writing the truth–and the danger. If you can’t tell your story, there are those who will go to ugly places with you and on your behalf.

On a sudsier note, there is little ugliness in The Morning Show, except for what beloved co-anchor Steve Carrell does to more than one accuser. Obviously, his role is inspired by a real anchor who was fired for bad behavior (that real anchor also sucks). “Asleep at the wheel” Jennifer Aniston is left co-anchorless and the male vultures (including the sociopathic Billy Crudup with his evil, twinkly eyes) want to pick her apart and leave her 50-something bones on the curb. We know from Friends that Jen does tantrum like no other. And so does Reese Witherspoon, whose outrage over lack of truth will buoy viewers.

While I’m only done with three episodes, I already know The Morning Show is the female empowerment pill that I need. It–along with Catch and Kill–gives me hope that the stories will come out, the good will win, the bad will go away (lose all their money and go directly to jail), and there will be no more coworkers who squeeze our shoulders and say, “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t touch you because of Anita Hill, right?” or much worse and lame.

I’d like to put aside every decade I spent looking over my shoulder and be excited for a healthier environment for everyone. Everyone. A few obvious things would have to happen first and I’ll give you three guesses as to what I’m thinking.

Here’s hoping you find inspiration in the books or shows you’re checking out these days.

Uncategorized

Predators, Romance, and Customer Service

Often, my week exists in tidy list format, so much so that I’ve started to keep a folder. To balance my left-brain tasks, I’m adding what reading and pop culture items have influenced my thoughts, mood, and creativity. This list-thing might only last three days. Two tops.

Ronan Farrow’s Catch and Kill: There are few things I love more than when predators’ misdeeds come to light and we can shun them forever. You can imagine my joy over Ronan Farrow’s gutsy reporting on the victims of Harvey Weinstein’s reign of terror. I’m thankful for the women who told their stories (and the ones who didn’t, you’re so brave too and I totally understand–really). I’m only halfway through and soaking up Farrow’s bold adventure.

Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston: My colleague handed me this book and said, “This is how romance is done.” Since starting it, I have only put it down to read the Ronan Farrow book, which is an anti-romance. McQuiston’s story is a big love story on steroids. You will turn into a human heart emoji while reading. Needs to be made into a movie ASAP.

I’ve followed Cat Marnell since she wrote for XoJane. I may not be alone in watching voyeuristically her skirting what seems a bottomless pit of demises. I am afraid to get too invested but am always happy when she shows proof of life. She has many talents and I’m grateful for her lesson on how to do a smokey eye. The one time I was on TV, the makeup artist gave me a smokey eye and it looked amazing. I haven’t been able to replicate it without appearing demonic. But Marnell does way more than this! Her insights, her travels are wildly entertaining. If you follow her on Twitter, you know she has a new book, Self Tanner for the Soul, on Audible after her first one, How to Murder Your Life.

I love reading writing tips. A lot of them, I already know, but they can still refresh your process. Sometimes, there are things you haven’t tried. For me, mystery writing is a skill that has eluded me, so these tips gave me hope that I do could commit many homicides in fiction.

A happy story of the week: As a last resort for my hair, I turned back the clock twenty years and went to a nearby Aveda store in search of their humectant pomade, the product I used in my thirties. I know, this is way too pretentious for words. It gets worse. The saleswoman was so kind that I asked her advice if I was using the right things for coarse, dry tree bark in a desert hair. She said yes, but then asked about my shampoo and conditioning habits. Long story short, I walked out with a bag of product (including samples). Good customer service seduces me every time. The Aveda woman and I could become best friends. Her colleague told me that my purse was washable. Before I left, I donated to breast cancer research.

Including shopping the Aveda on Fifth Avenue and 19th, I recommend blocking off three hours to watch Amazon Prime’s Modern Love episodes. I only watched the first one, which unexpectedly made me ugly cry. I haven’t felt an emotion beyond mildly dead inside for a while, so this was amazing.

Happy new week to everyone!

Uncategorized

51? Okay…

I am about to enter my 52nd year. Here are the monumental things that I’ve learned in the past 370 days:

The news is still terrible. My daily goal is not to make it worse.

I put half & half in my coffee now. WHO KNEW IT WAS SO DELICIOUS?

Instead of dessert after every meal, I keep it to once a week. Apparently, sugar is bad for you.

If you’re depressed, it helps to read something outside your realm, maybe even out of your depths. For me, that’s been jewelry, economics, and French philosophy. This didn’t make me smarter. In fact, I would still fail economics today, but I am way more pretentious now.

I’ve kicked my bad habit of going to Old Navy and buying shit that I only wear once. I hear Brooks Brothers is nice.

What has happened to my hair? Please advise.

My parents drilled into me the importance of doing chores. But since I’ve given up my bad Old Navy habit and will try to cook, I bargained with God who said it was okay to pay someone to clean the apartment.

Now I understand what Nora Ephron meant about her neck, but screw it. I am not a moviestar (yet).

The colonoscopy was not so bad. Having the stomach flu is way worse than the prep, but it’s comparable to IBS. The propofol was AH-MAY-ZING and I’m lucky to have health insurance.

I complain about little things now and I hate it.

When crimes are committed by people in our government, are there any repercussions? Just wondering, since I’m planning how to live my next life.

Sandwiched between light-hearted issues is grief. One of my precious elders died this year. When I think about him, it dawns on me that he’s really gone. He won’t call me “Space-tience” or help me make parallels between now and Ancient Rome (see what I said about being pretentious). Luckily, I still hear him in my head. Hic, haec, hoc, Mr. Cobb!

More and more, I sound like my mom, but she’s hilarious so that’s okay.

The Americans is so good–and eerie as hell. Under no circumstances do I think about exercising to the extent that I could look like Keri Russell. Instead, I ponder the Reagan years and how they contributed to today’s geopolitical (?) distress. Discuss.

Leopard prints. So maybe I went to Banana Republic and bought some embarrassing new pants I’ll only wear once (BR lets you use Old Navy credit card!!!).

With each year, my list of errands seems to grow. Is this real or a fabrication? I wonder what would happen if I didn’t run errands for a week.

I think about the children in cages every single day. I don’t even know what to say about this. It breaks my heart every day. If I had any skills, I would use them. For now, I just write a check.

This thought began in my twenties. If suddenly I had to live on a deserted island, would I be okay? There are a few things I would have to pack. Am I packed? Oh God, I should pack just in case. Friends, this is why my purse is so heavy.

I wrote another book but I’m afraid to admit it.

Fear of flying is gone. Fear of before-flying is the same.

Every day, I still wonder how I lucked out with Sam as my partner in crime. I can’t believe it–STILL. He cracks me up daily and is just so dreamy. Do I love him more than I did when he first stepped off the plane on December 17, 2009 for our first date? Yes, 10 years more!

And this is where I say that I don’t care about my birthday so much. My best birthday gift is to keep hanging with my loved ones and not worry so much (that it could all disappear). I still want cake, though.

Romantic Life Lessons, Writing Tips

Hamilton

When Hamilton first appeared on Broadway, I didn’t care. My historian parents would soon discover its existence and make us see it anyway. As a late-forty-something and new iPhone addict, I no longer had the band-width for academic things. Plus, it seemed manipulative for a play to feed me American history. Why did I want to know more…about anything?

The buzz grew. As presidential candidates began their tap dancing, I heard you, Hamilton, and your room where it happens. Obama even went to see it, blessing it as the best thing to exist in this galaxy. At the office and on Facebook, friends treated Hamilton seats like winning the golden ticket in a Willy Wonka chocolate bar. OMIGOD, you’re seeing it in eighteen months? You are so lucky! (You could die before then)

I rebelled against this peer pressure, which meant I had a budding interest. What a great time to be in theater ticket estate planning. When I croak, my nieces could inherit my Broadway tickets. Smug in my non-history-play-seeing (but still alert), I returned for my tenth viewing of Frankie Valli vowing to pay off his bandmate’s tax lien in Jersey Boys. Meanwhile the scent of 250-year-old treasury secretary wafted its way down to the West Village, at which point my mother, a famous historian, said, “Get us 6 seats, orchestra, anything in the next month.” Sure, Bonnie. I’ll do that.

For my mom, I’ll snooze my way through a history lesson with its creative rethinking of the birth of our nation. For Mom, I’ll even accept that Hamilton has a man-bun. But alas, my computer laughed me silly as I tried to purchase 6 seats together in the same year. That’s not only impossible, it’s the price of a Honda Civic circa 1991 (fact).

Mom and I said, “Whatever” to these results. We didn’t want to see it anyway. What’s this about non-Classical music in a period piece? We don’t even listen to hip hop (My iTunes purchases say differently). So, American history, hip hop, and a scarcity of tickets. No thanks!

All around me, the hype continued and I saw Lin-Manuel Miranda on shows, being happy and excited, not the least bit tired or jaded over being a sensation–again! He was in the thick of that wonderful genius bubble where you create something meaningful for the world. Damn him!

My friend from work finally went to see it and came back saying, “It’s nothing you’ve ever seen before. Another level.” Her review weighed on me. Another level means another level. I bought Ron Chernow’s book and started to read. The text was engrossing, as was LMM’s adorable book of uplifting tweets (600 pages shorter, tho). Add to this the synchronicity of my giving a Hamilton bill to my takeout delivery person multiple times per week.

But, people, my fever broke. I gave up pursuing the secret dream. Sort of like when I knew I wouldn’t be able to score a ride, shelter, and Duran Duran tickets in 1984.

When LMM did Hamilton in Puerto Rico, I saw it as a sign of renewal. Go. I even entered the contest to win a chance to fly to PR (I don’t like to fly) to see Hamilton. The realization took years to appear like a banner in my brain: I have to see Hamilton. I really have to see it. Over and over, I thought this. Tickets still too much. But I still have to go. I checked calendars. Asked my husband wouldn’t it be nice. No, he said. When the play Charlemagne opens, he’ll be there (he likes France).

Weeks went by. After a couple years of not wanting to go but secretly wanting to go. I started to think about going by myself. No follow through.

Last weekend, Sam and I were dying of boredom (it happens even when you love each other). He looked through the plays and clicked a few icons and said, “We’re seeing Hamilton tomorrow, 3 pm.”*

So.

Everyone was right. I won’t go into detail because I’m running out of ink. Just know that it’s a masterpiece. I am still thinking mostly about the labor involved in creating those three hours of joy. Hamilton is what happens when you work harder than anyone else. Great works take work. Writers who are stuck or crawling toward that agonizing finish line–answer that call to witness someone else’s talents. It might be the motivation you need at the exact right time.

The Hamilton ear worms are brutal, though.

(Okay, Mom. Now it’s your turn.)

*Yes, he’s really nice.

Shameless Promotion

Important Starspotting Update

Let me talk about great books I’m reading. And by books, I mean stars I’m spotting in the neighborhood. Someone needs to see them. If you think about it, without us, celebrity dies. We can’t have that happen so I will carry my fan flag high.

December 18, 2018. 5:30 pm. Upper West Side. 

I happened to be in a building and who gets on the elevator but Peter Riegert, the pickle man himself! If you haven’t already, rent Crossing Delancey immediately and etch it in your brain. Peter (I can call him Peter) is also the judge or bitchy lawyer on every single crime show. “Brrr, it’s getting cold,” he said to me that night. “Hahahahaha!” I said a little too loudly. But then someone interrupted our intimate conversation, apparently a friend of Peter. Whatever! I had to move on…

January 4, 2019: Noonish. Chelsea

Headed to Duane Reade for more Swiffer items, I saw, not for the first time, a very tall Ken Paves, hair guru to the stars, with lush gold locks walking his dog. And then I got home, Googled him, and realized it wasn’t really Ken. Of course, my public statement is that I totally saw him.

January 6, 2019: 3pm. Midtown

Sam and I went to see The Cher Show (so much fun). Not only do you get one Cher, but three dynamite Chers. Hello, Stephanie Block! Do you remember how you liked my gushing Tweet? And so did Jarrod Spector, who played Sonny (who also played Frankie Valli in Jersey Boys on Broadway–you see how I wind up in celebrity rabbit holes). During intermission, I heard this dude on the phone saying things only a son of Cher (Jesus?) would say. I turned and confirmed the sighting of Chaz and lovingly put him in my little notebook of stars. It was hard for me to snap out of it that day.

January 19, 2019: Afternoon. Chelsea

I was coming from Duane Reade, having purchased the orange Palmolive dishwashing liquid, and crossing 19th street when I saw a white-haired man in gym clothing (lycra). I knew that face so I stared, hard. It was Dan Abrams: Author of must-read Lincoln’s Last Trial and famous legal analyst on TV!  He passed me and I think he might have been scared–of me or Barry’s Boot Camp. Truth be told, he has breezed by me before in the same fashion. As if we are strangers.

I deserve a lot of applause because I see a celebrity every week, and not just by following her/him on Twitter. Do I talk about it endlessly? Not even once (except to three people). I am one of those fans who dares not interrupt the celebrity space by conversing naturally. Don’t mind me hiding in the bushes as Lady Gaga walks by. Sure, these are normal people, and I realize we all go through the indignity of colonoscopy prep, but celebrities are my one weakness. Along with many other things.

More updates to come because the stars can’t help but cross my path. Especially when I go looking for them.

 

 

 

Uncategorized

Why You Need to Write a $*#(%@-ing Synopsis

Ah, Twitter: the place where one goes to complain and tell others what to do. But for editors, it can be an informative hub. I remember the day(s) when writers raged about the sweet, innocent synopsis and told it where to go. Why did I need to write one? They are pointless. We don’t even use them. Seriously, I’ve written a gazillion books. I’ve got better things to do.

Don’t we all?

It is a seasonal rant, and often goes up into the ether unchecked. I vowed after the last one to take it seriously and list all the ways a synopsis helps the writer. Since it is a New Year, and I have told myself to Be Awesome every single day of 2019, here is my reasoning for why a synopsis is sacred:

A synopsis can be like the literary version of showing your work. If you can tell your story in short form, you really know your story. It’s a different kind of writing but valuable nonetheless. To write one effortlessly (agents/editors will love you for them), follow my plan and write a synopsis in a day. It is not the stomach flu.

An agent/editor uses the synopsis to see if the book could sell or work for a specific imprint. We may love your writing, but to know for sure if the story has all the bells and whistles, we need an idea of the plot, even the spoilers.

On the editor side, I use the synopsis (sometimes cutting and pasting) to explain to others why we need to buy this book or as rationale for why I bought the book. It is the ultimate butt-covering device.

Five months later, after reading a hundred other books after yours, I reread your synopsis to jog my memory so that we don’t put the wrong characters on your cover or mess up the back cover copy.

On some occasions when the book isn’t quite finished, a talented copywriter will piece together a gem of a blurb from your synopsis.

Overseas markets may become interested in your stories. To tantalize, say, Germany or Spain or France, we give them snippets of information, some of which comes from your synopsis, which we have to reread again.

There’s also that time when I have to edit a book and I’m not certain if it’s the one I think it is (you’ve written three more books since). So I read the synopsis for the fifth time. I give thanks to the synopsis gods for clarifying and saving me from embarrassment.

Ten years go by. I might be assigned to conjure a list of twenty of your past books to reissue in four box sets, but I don’t know which ones I’d put where. My brain isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Perhaps, organize by theme? This involves reading your synopsis or some version of a summary (which would be a distilled version of your synopsis) pronto. Another lamb sacrifice to the synopsis gods for showing me the way.

You may ask via Twitter, Why can’t the editors just write the synopsis for me? Because we don’t know the story as well as you do. Maybe we haven’t read it yet. Maybe we just don’t wanna. And writing a synopsis for the 20-30 authors (20 x at least 2 books per year) we work with means asking the FDA (AMA, FCC, ADA, ABA?) to approve human cloning. While synopses are not the most thrilling things for us to read, they are necessary and help ensure the sanity of your editor and the immortality of your books.

Thank you in advance for writing them.

Romantic Life Lessons

Happy Date-iversary! Let Me Count the Ways…

Happy First-Date-iversary to my beloved Sam. It’s been nine whole years since I went to JFK to pick him up for our first date. We hadn’t seen each other in almost three decades, since high school. Now, so many years later, it is easy to love Sam. Here are just a few reasons why…

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He loves a buffet, food spread, or five-course meal. A real foodie. The joy on his face is so worth my constant fear of food poisoning.

He is handy–and works hard to learn new tricks. Home Depot is his friend. His forays into TV installation are legendary. At first, he mounted our TV near the ceiling, then realized this wasn’t ideal.

It is fun to live with him. I’m not sure why. Is it his good nature? His non-smothering way? He’s just lovely, even in small spaces. In fact, I’m more comfortable when we’re in the same room. He makes really good coffee, too.

When he has time, he cooks and his meals are heavenly, except for the stuffed cabbage but I eat it anyway.

He is a book-worm and reads international news. A total smarty-pants.

He really loves my mother and brother (my deal breakers).

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Three times, he came with me to see Duran Duran in concert and even acted ecstatic for this picture.

When I am enraged or mean to him or having a meltdown, he takes it seriously but also isn’t freaked out by it.

Except for his camo shorts, which his nieces loathe, he dresses nicely for every occasion.

It is highly entertaining to hear Sam talk to customer service on the phone. He will go on for hours and get to the bottom of a problem–and get that $5.00 refund from a vending machine.

He is fearless. I mean, he might have anxieties, but if you want to jump out of a plane, he will do that, too. He can also tell you in minute detail how to put your butt through a glass shower door and get thirty-six stitches in your butt.

Sam has a strong moral compass. He does the right thing, helps people, and feels endless guilt if he causes harm. He just cares, even if the person is a shitbag.

Obviously, he is good-looking and charming. That’s only a fraction of why he’s so special.

In all the dating manuals, we’re encouraged to act a certain way. With Sam, the more attention he gets, the happier he is. It’s that simple, and so refreshing not to withhold the urge the text him with lots of emojis.

I love listening to him, even if he is ranting about things I don’t believe. The intellectual or emotional slant is always fascinating. Then he will change his mind a week later.

Sam is close to his brother and their daily conversations are a play in three acts with one twenty-minute intermission while Warren finishes shopping at Publix. The best theater around.

He doesn’t tell me about the near misses on his bike rides to and from work–and he wears a safety jacket and helmet. I just pray he comes home every night in one piece.

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He makes everything more fun! Travel, walking around the block, getting ice cream, dinner out, exercise, and even illness.

He will chase Yossi around the apartment, play fetch with him, and wrestle. The cat has him wrapped around his paw.

His anal retentiveness is adorable. I thought I was bad, but yeah, not even close.

Sam is one of those people who brightens up a place. He’s always good to have at a party and at home. If it’s open bar, do not have a karaoke machine.

When he walks down the street, he usually has a smile on his face, which is why people stop him to ask a question/directions.

He has his bad days, but understands how things shift. His self-awareness and overall understanding helps those who might have stormier outlooks (I’m not naming names).

I am so grateful that I get to spend every day with this special human being. Happy Nine Years, Cookie aka Love of My Life! When this picture was taken in 1984, I had no idea that you would be my husband someday….

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