Swimming Pool

If it were just my cup running over, it would be one thing. But it is my salad bowl, my kitchen sink, no, my imaginary swimming pool that runneth over today.

This is my life.

Earlier this month, I spent two days in Vancouver with my film righting partner Joan Macbeth, working on a treatment for my novel When She Flew. Her condo is across a narrow strip of water from Granville Island, where we ferried to buy groceries and Indian food for lunch. We ended our time together excited and buzzing with new ideas.

The following week, I took the ferry again, twice, to Whidbey Island. The first time was to enjoy the company of a dear friend from the Bay Area, and talk about creating a writers retreat space in her home. The second time was to appear at Hedgebrook's production of a scene from my forthcoming book, Love Water Memory, and scenes from my friends' books as well, Carol Cassella and Erica Bauermeister. My words came out of actors' mouths. I was astonished and filled with a kind of joy I had not yet experienced as a writer. I imagine it's something like what songwriters feel when the audience sings along to their songs.

This past week, I performed with our new band, The Rejections and the Trailing Spouses, at Elliott Bay Books for Erica's launch of her gorgeous new novel, The Lost Art of Mixing. Along with Stephanie Kallos, Garth Stein, Ben Bauermeister, Paul Mariz and my hubster Matt Gani, we played "Paperback Writer" (although Erica's book is in hardcover) and the old Robert Johnson number "Come On in My Kitchen," to honor the cook heroine of the book. Playing in a band is my first love, creatively. I was always in one from age 16 to 30, when I met Matt and we became an acoustic duo. Full circle doesn't even come close to how gratifying this experience has been for me.

And then our wonderful collective, Seattle7Writers, invited 100+ writers to join us yesterday for a one-day writing intensive, filled with mini lessons and individual consultations, strong coffee, donuts, chocolate, cookies, popcorn from the brand spanking new S7W popcorn machine . . . and lots and lots of people writing. Joy is too small a word for what happens when you gaze over the crowd and hear: clickety tick tick tick x 100.

At the end of the day we decided to shake it up and presented our Q&A session as a game show: Ask an Author. All of our participating authors were funny and fun and informative as Garth led us through our nerve-wracking paces, answering surprise questions in under 30 seconds.

And then I thought, here comes the coup de grace, when we give our end-of-year donations to two organizations we love: 826 Seattle and Powerful Schools. But before Garth handed over the big checks, he gave me such a lovely shout out, and I couldn't very well hide or pooh-pooh him, and then Teri Hein of 826 said another nice thing from the stage, and I let it all in, and my eyes filled, and I was exhausted and drunk with having accomplished so much, and so, so grateful for my life and my friends, and for the community I live in, and for all the things I get to do.

Amazing grace. How sweet.

New Book Smell

I take the whole New Year thing seriously. I'm a sucker for opportunities to reflect and renew and take stock, to revisit old dreams, set new goals, find inspiration. And there's that feeling that—come January 1st—anything is possible, again. Sure, nature provides its own new beginning every year at spring time, but still, the new year holds its sway, as it did on Tuesday when hubby and I sat at the dining table and mapped out our paths for the coming year.

In 2013, that path includes the release of my new book, both thrilling and daunting, knowing the work ahead of me as I go out into the world to give public birth to it this spring. I loved writing the book, the story behind the story (listen here), and now the experience of working with my new publishing team at Gallery Books/ Simon and Schuster. On the eve of Hurricane Sandy, I visited New York to meet with them, and I was blown away by their incredible devotion to the book, and their intention to get it into the hands of as many readers as possible starting April 2.

This is how much they love it. They commissioned an artist to create this beautiful cover.

I cried when I saw it because it so thoughtfully reflects the story inside the pages. You can read more about the story here. If you pre-order a copy at the bottom of that page, your support will be noticed by the book industry, in a good way. Love Water Memory represents a brand new path for me with my writing career, and I'd love your help.

On April 2, there will be a launch party at Elliott Bay Books in Seattle. (Notice that I'm inviting you to come with plenty of notice?) Of course, if you can't make it, I'll be traveling through the Northwest and Bay Area and Denver to do readings and book clubs. I hope to see you somewhere, so check my schedule, which will be filling in very soon.

It's a brand new year and an opportunity to reconnect. As always, I thank my lucky stars for all of you who've been with me for all or part of this journey, and I wish you wonderful things in 2013 and beyond. Dream big!

Wedded

For Thanksgiving this year, our family had something extra to be thankful for: a wedding. My sister Sheri, who hosts the meal in her rural Colorado home every year, announced that she and her long-time beau Ken would marry the day after Thanksgiving.

We'd all assumed their coupledom without marriage was the way it would be, and it was fine. It was good, actually. They embody the spirit of love in everything they do, not only in their relationship. They are both teachers and members of the art community, and if those two things don't say love, well. They just do.

But they decided to marry each other in front of the forty-some-odd family members who all trekked to the San Luis Valley for a sunny Colorado weekend. We carried furniture out of their living room and brought in folding chairs, took our seats amid white and silver decorations, each with a champagne glass in hand. We listened to music from Ken's brother Gordon on violin, from Sheri's daughter Morgan and her boyfriend Abe, who sang a touching song that Abe's father wrote to his mother. Matt and I sang the Etta James classic At Last. And Sheri and Ken spoke to each other and to us about what they mean to each other, about what love looks like in real life (the way a mother watches her daughter sing, for instance, Ken noted). The Kleenex box made the rounds.

Sheri helping Daniel weave.

Sheri showed us a small weaving loom she'd made just for the occasion. We were each to weave a few rows during the day, using a color of yarn we picked. By the end, they would have a record of everyone who'd been there that day, all up close and personal, yarn to yarn to yarn, much like the way we were seated together in their living room.

They wed each other with words and with family and friends and with rings made by another friend. And then it was time for champagne. And kissing. Lots of kissing.

I write this because I was so moved that day by the simple beauty of love. And by each of the participants, who were fully there in support and to celebrate. And because Ken and Sheri are officially AARP age, not spring chickens, but so young and sweet and happy in their love, even after fourteen years together.

Later that night as the musicians in the family played songs, there came a request for a slow one, so Sheri and Ken could dance. Sheri asked us to play At Last again, so we handed out lyric sheets, everyone singing as the newlyweds took to the floor. Before I knew it, another couple had risen to dance, and then another. Pretty soon, every single person there was up dancing in the small living room.

Spontaneous love and celebration had erupted, once again. Gratitude and thanks to Ken and Sheri and our big extended family for the best Thanksgiving ever . . .

How Grateful Am I for Thee?

Let me count the ways (with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning).

1. I am grateful to those of you who read my books and find some insight, solace, confirmation or joy in them. Or just a good story.

2. I am grateful when above-mentioned yous write and tell me how my book(s) made you feel or what they made you think, even when it's not all good. Hopefully some good.

3. I am grateful to all you booksellers and librarians and publisher's reps and sales teams and marketing people and publicists, because you are the ones who convince the vast majority of readers out there to give one of my books a try.

4. I'm grateful to you whose decisions mean I even get to publish books: my agent and editor, the publisher and VPs and so many people I may never even meet.

5. I am grateful to my friends and family and husband for encouraging me to write, for supporting me when I do, for catching me when I stumble and cheering me on when I achieve a small miracle.

6. I am grateful to my teachers, the ones who challenged me and encouraged me. Except for my algebra teacher, but I suspect he doesn't care.

7. I am grateful to you, whoever you are, because you took the time to read this far, and I wish you gratitude and happiness and a large slab of pie on Thursday.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

My detective

Detective Q knocked on the door yesterday, and through the glass panes, I could see that he didn't look at all as I'd imagined him from talking on the phone. No jet black hair, but shaved bald. Younger than I thought, and dressed in a Huxtable kind of sweater and jeans. Detectives don't wear uniforms. I'd forgotten. (I spent quite a lot of time with law enforcement when researching my fourth novel, When She Flew.)

He had that stiff formality that cops do when they first meet you, a kind of guard they put up because, believe it or not, a lot of people don't like cops. "Nice home," he said, nodding, glancing around. "I love it up here." He meant my neighborhood, high on a Seattle hill. He used to work Queen Anne when he was in auto theft.

We sat at the dining table and he explained that he was going to show me some photo montages. I wished he'd say "lineups," because of the dramatic nature of that word, but "montages" seems to be the new way. Or maybe the Seattle way. He told me all kinds of things, that people may have different hair color in the photos than the suspect I was trying to identify, that their skin may seem darker or lighter, and that I might not recognize anyone in the photos, and that's okay. But Detective Q had faith in me, I could tell.

Our suspect was already in the hoosegow, having burgled elsewhere or bought drugs or sold drugs or something. Apparently he has 12 charges stacked up against him so far. My correct ID would really make the case against him. And all I could really remember was a long arm of tattoos outside a van window, a long black sideburn and high hairline, an ugliness to him, and a foul loud mouth.

"Ready," I said, nervous.

Voila, six swarthy looking men appeared before me, all in orange jumpsuits. Four had low hairlines and looked too young, too ethnic. I discounted them. "It's between two," I said, trying to shape the profile I saw into a full frontal face. "Which two?" the detective asked, tapping the table with his knuckles.

I pointed.

"Why this one?" he asked, pointing to the upper right corner photo.

"His hairline," I said.

"You mentioned his high hairline on the phone as well," he said, flipping through his notes.

He was helping me, I gather. "I think it's him," I said.

"Think?"

"Think pretty strongly?"

"100%? 95, 90%?" I'd been thinking 85.

"90," I said, and he nodded briskly and gathered up the papers after having me sign below the photo.

I didn't want him to leave yet, but he was about to. I told him I'd once written a book about police officers, and that I'd had a reader from the Seattle force, a female cop. He knew her. "By the book," he said, nodding. And then he relaxed. He told me how hard he knew it was to be the victim of a crime, even a property crime, that it could feel like such a violation. He told me that he missed working our hill, because he'd really loved taking care of all of the people on it. They were a nice group of folks, he said, and he looked nostalgic. "We're going to do the best we can with this," he said.

Tears came to my eyes. All this time, since the break-in, I've been swearing that I don't feel violated, I know it was just a stupid random act, that I'm not scared, that I'm okay. And tears came to my eyes, and he kept talking about taking care of people and how  people don't understand cops very well.

I shook the detective's big beefy awkward hand when he left. He said he'd call the DA from his car and get this thing rolling. I watched him walk away, and I felt safe again.

Recovery

My home was burgled a couple of weeks ago, in broad daylight, apparently by people so desperate for drugs they were willing to climb onto our roof and smash a skylight and windows to get in at 4:30pm on a Saturday. They took precious items, musical instruments and jewelry, the former expensive, the latter not so much. They took our laundry basket to haul their loot. They took my husband's running shoes and my yoga pants and medication out of my bedside table drawer.

And somehow, they didn't take our souls. They didn't get our trust, or our resolve that humans are for the most part a decent bunch. They didn't make us fearful. Their actions were so bizarre and random that we figured we were just the unlucky ones in their path.

Detective Quinones called yesterday to let us know that one of my husband's prized guitars had been located in a pawn shop, the owner there having called them immediately, figuring this guitar was not your average pawn shop item. Detective Quinones plays guitar, and understood how precious this one must have been to us. He told me the long story about the desperate people in the van, who after stealing our things fled and were immediately involved in a hit and run. The vehicle has been returned to its owner (it was stolen, of course), and we will get the guitar soon. We may get our other things, eventually. Most likely not all of them.

But they didn't get anything important. We didn't let them.

Addendum/Serendipity

I was looking for a particular photo this morning and to my surprise, found this, the senior photo I mentioned in my last post, the photo that got away. I wanted this one in my year book, but my mother's choice of me smiling like my typical "good girl" self got in. But this, this is who I wanted to be at 17. She still looks a little mysterious and sexy to me, but she also looks challenging and as though she might not suffer fools, and I wonder now if that wasn't really what I was after all along.