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CarrollBlog 10.31
Several times recently I was asked what it feels like to begin a new book. I struggled for an answer until I remembered something. Nineteen years ago I was sitting in the completely empty living room of the new apartment we'd rented and in which we still live today. The movers were coming tomorrow to bring the furniture and other stuff. I had come to check things out a day early just in case something needed attention. After making sure all was okay, I sat down in the middle of the living room floor and looked around for a long time. The wooden floors had recently been refinished and the place smelled strongly of wax. The walls were newly painted white. Nothing else was there. What I remembered was how deeply satisfying it was to sit in that empty room, knowing that in a day it would fill up with the furniture, objects, things of several peoples' lives. This was going to be home for at least a few years and everyone in our family loved this new space. Empty now, it was something in between-- home but not yet. Ours but not quite. Virginal. Pure, but undoubtedly the apartment all of us wanted. That is what it is like for me to begin a new novel. You've chosen a place to live for the next year or more but it has nothing inside it yet. Only the walls, the floors and the windows. Because you have created this space, only you can furnish it. But you're really looking forward to the task, no matter how long it takes. The other day I heard an interview with the writer Junot Diaz who said it took eleven years to write his new novel. Eleven years, two years, six months-- it doesn't matter. The writer chooses a space to inhabit. Next he will fill it with the best, the *only* furniture he knows how to make or find. If he is lucky and if he does it well, whoever comes to visit when it is finished will be completely happy with the way he has done it.

CarrollBlog 10.30
There was a bathtub next to the bed. Despite the fact there was another, separate bathroom a few feet away, here in this cavernous room was a large white bathtub next to the bed. The kind of bathtub you see in a 1970's Dean Martin or James Bond film where the macho hero takes bubblebaths together with a couple of beautiful women while drinking champagne and all of them flirt and wiggle their eyebrows about what's to come after they dry off. I sat on the bed (also large enough for a number of people to share a picnic) and smiled sort of crookedly. It was the sexiest, most seductive hotel room I've ever been in, much less stayed in. But here I was alone in it waiting to do my book tour things, knowing that when they were over I would come back here late in the evening, take a Coke out of the mini bar, watch TV till I was tired, and then go to sleep. In THE WOODEN SEA, the main character meets his younger self and they clash because the teenager is disappointed by what the man has done with "their" life. The kid wanted Hot Chicks! Action! An unending swirl of what the Italians call "movimenti." But the adult hadn't lived up to those dreams. I thought about that man and that book while I was sitting alone on that bed, looking at that bathtub that was every cool cat's wish and dream of where they should be at some high point in their life.
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This whole interview is wonderful, but you MUST watch the episode "Playing as an Artist" It's important and smart as hell.

http://www.bordersmedia.com/shows/live01/diaz.asp

CarrollBlog 10.29
For those of you unfamiliar with the series of novels for young readers, 'Nancy Drew' was a girl detective with a pure heart and an iron will who always caught the bad guy. She was sort of an American version of 'Tin Tin' in her day.

Nancy Drew
by Ron Koertge

Merely pretty, she made up for it with vim.
And she got to say things like, 'But, gosh,
what if these plans should fall into the wrong
hands?' And it was pretty clear she didn't mean
plans for a party or a trip to the museum, but
something involving espionage and a Nazi or two.

In fact, the handsome exchange student turns
out to be a Fascist sympathizer. When he snatches
Nancy along with some blueprints, she knows he
has something more sinister in mind than kissing
with his mouth open.

Locked in the pantry of an abandoned farm house,
Nancy makes a radio out of a shoelace and a muffin.
Pretty soon the police show up, and everything's
hunky dory.

Nancy accepts their thanks, but she's subdued.
It's not like her to fall for a cad. Even as she plans
a short vacation to sort out her emotions she knows
there will be a suspicious waiter, a woman in a green
off the shoulder dress, and her very jittery husband.

Very well. But no more handsome boys like the last on:
the part in his hair that was sheer propulsion, that way
he had of lifting his eyes to hers over the custard,
those feelings that made her not want to be brave
confident and daring, polite, sensitive and caring.

CarrollBlog 10.28
35/10

by Sharon Olds

Brushing out our daughter's brown
silken hair before the mirror
I see the grey gleaming on my head,
the silver-haired servant behind her. Why is it
just as we begin to go
they begin to arrive, the fold in my neck
clarifying as the fine bones of her
hips sharpen? As my skin shows
its dry pitting, she opens like a moist
precise flower on the tip of a cactus;
as my last chances to bear a child
are falling through my body, the duds among them,
her full purse of eggs, round and
firm as hard-boiled yolks, is about
to snap its clasp. I brush her tangled
fragrant hair at bedtime. It's an old
story--the oldest we have on our planet--
the story of replacement.

CarrollBlog 10.21
I'll be traveling all next week. I'll check in here if possible.
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"Those who have never realized with head and heart that two times two is five have never known passion."

Hans Kudszus
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"All adventures begin with drink. All end with women."

Natsume Soseki
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"The most beautiful moment of love is when you have the illusion it will last forever; the worst is when you realize it has already lasted too long."

Roberto Gervaso

CarrollBlog 10.20
Years ago I called the literary agent who was representing me at the time to congratulate her. One of her other clients had just had their latest novel reviewed with the highest praise on the front page of the New York Times Sunday book review section, something all novelists yearn for. Not only for the prestige, but because many people actually buy a book that is reviewed positively in that number one place. She said something I've never forgotten and was reminded of today. "Do you know what happens now? The next book they publish will be killed by the critics. It happens every time. Get a bunch of good reviews on one novel, you can almost be sure they'll have their knives out for you on the next." Since hearing that I've watched certain writers' careers and what she said was more or less true. Today a novelist whose last book was almost universally praised and sold millions of copies, newest work was reviewed in the Times. The review, as cruel as I've seen in a long time, ends by calling the book "an insult to the lumber industry."

CarrollBlog 10.19
This has been one of those days when I look at people and wonder what they looked/were like as children. The 30'ish waitress in the cafe is bossy, round, no nonsense but kind of pleasant when you get to know her. As a little girl was she the same? Did she order other kids around the playground, eat too many cookies, and start wearing makeup way too early? Or the thin middle aged guy at the bookstore who keeps nervously flickng hair off his forehead and doesn't ever want to take his hands out of his pockets. Was he just the opposite as a little boy but then for some reason--Trauma, broken heart, a loss of some kind that reset his compass-- changed drastically when he was around 20? Or did he just naturally grow out of that earlier aggressive personality and become someone altogether new? Some days it's just the reverse-- I look at kids and wonder what they'll turn into as adults. But today it's "Where's (little) Waldo in (big) Waldo" day.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGCJ46vyR9o

CarrollBlog 10.18
Everyone should travel now and then if only because you have to pack a bag. In doing so, you're forced to figure out what is essential or just vanity in your life for the next few days away from home. Which in itself is both a sort of Zen exercise and a surprisingly insightful self-appraisal. Do you take the good clothes that will show you off, or only okay/disposable things which you can afford to lose in case your suitcase ends up in Aleppo (which happened to a Viennese friend)? When I see people in airports or train stations pushing carts stacked to the top with bulging suitcases, I think unless they're emigrating to a new life, what could be in all those bags? Is that teetering pile a sign of indecision or self-indulgence? One smart person I know has three lists-- vacation, business, family trip. Depending on where they are going, they follow that list of what to pack exactly and never think about taking other things. They created their lists years ago and never vary from them unless a piece of clothing grows old or disappears. Then it is replaced with something as close to the original as possible. Yet on the other hand, life changes. What if you want the world to see you in your brand new cashmere sweater or leather coat? The friend with 3 lists solemnly shook his head when I asked this and answered, "I'll wear the sweater the next time they come to my house." How about the people who take a week to pack for a two day trip vs. the people who pack in fifteen minutes for a month's stay? Someone I know went from Europe to California for almost two years with one medium sized suitcase and a dog in a traveling box. That's all they had when they came back too-- the same suitcase and the same dog in the same box.

CarrollBlog 10.17
"You learn something new every day" Department:

She said to me with authority, "Men dress for themselves and on a few occasions, for women they're trying to impress. But women dress for three-- themselves, other women, and probably last for men. When I'm getting dressed I often think "Oh Julie will like these boots," or "Terry hates this necklace but I'm going to wear it anyway."

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On the cover of a tattoo magazine a photo of a barechested man literally covered with them smilingly points to his face. The headline reads:
"There's always room for one more!"

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someone wrote and finished their email with "and a fine day down the road to you."

CarrollBlog 10.15
Making Things Right
for my father
by Barbara Bloom

Driving through the apple orchards
heavy with fruit,
I realize I have let the anniversary of your death
slip by-ten years already, or is it eleven?
It's a gray morning, and the clouds press down,
obscuring the sun.

I wonder if you knew
when you had to be helped on with your shoes
for the ride to the hospital
that you would never again
stroke your cat
or walk into your lab room
with its walls lined with antique instruments and books.

What I remember most from that time
is standing by your bed
as you grew smaller and smaller,
less and less of you
who had so frightened me as a child,
and looking down at you
lying there quietly
when it was too late to talk.

I just held your hand
and told you I loved you.
I don't know what you heard
or what you knew,
but those words were all that was left
that could matter
before you leapt off
from your bed
in that tiny white room
into something huge.
-------------------------
The Hospital Window
James Dickey

I have just come down from my father.
Higher and higher he lies
Above me in a blue light
Shed by a tinted window.
I drop through six white floors
And then step out onto the pavement.

Still feeling my father ascend,
I start to cross the firm street,
My shoulder blades shining with all
The glass the huge building can raise.
Now I must turn round and face it,
And know his one pane from the others.

Each window possesses the sun
As though it burned there on a wick.
I wave, like a man catching fire.
All the deep-dyed windowpanes flash,
And, behind them, all the white rooms
They turn to the color of Heaven.

Ceremoniously, gravely, and weakly,
Dozens of pale hands are waving
Back, from inside their flames.
Yet one pure pane among these
Is the bright, erased blankness of nothing.
I know that my father is there,

In the shape of his death still living.
The traffic increases around me
Like a madness called down on my head.
The horns blast at me like shotguns,
And drivers lean out, driven crazy--
But now my propped-up father
Lifts his arm out of stillness at last.

The light from the window strikes me
And I turn as blue as a soul,
As the moment when I was born.
I am not afraid for my father--
Look! He is grinning; he is not

Afraid for my life, either,
As the wild engines stand at my knees
Shredding their gears and roaring,
And I hold each car in its place
For miles, inciting its horn
To blow down the walls of the world

That the dying may float without fear
In the bold blue gaze of my father.
Slowly I move to the sidewalk
With my pin-tingling hand half dead
At the end of my bloodless arm.
I carry it off in amazement,

High, still higher, still waving,
My recognized face fully mortal,
Yet not; not at all, in the pale,
Drained, otherworldly, stricken,
Created hue of stained glass.
I have just come down from my father.

CarrollBlog 10.12
He looked so serious and troubled that she put her hand on his shoulder and asked if anything was wrong.
"I was thinking about how often we make ourselves sad. Life makes us sad enough, but we do it to ourselves a lot and often for no good reason at all. Kaspar told me a story I can't stop thinking about: He knows this man who's short, fat, annoying, and nothing to look at. The other day the two of them were walking down the street and passed a bunch of beautiful young women. Half a block later the guy says, 'I hate growing older. Because it means I'll never have women like that again.' According to Kaspar, this guy is so completely nothing, he probably never once in his life HAD a woman like that. But now he's reminiscing about some good old days that never existed and mourning their passing."

from the new book
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and for DS in Kuala Lumpur teaching high school for the first time. Your request:

"A bell rang to mark the end of class. Kids flooded out into the halls with the manic, jailbreak energy that comes from being held prisoner in algebra class for forty-five minutes. Student cliques gathered like metal filings pulled by a magnet, bodies bumped or crashed into each other on their way to anywhere. Shouts and whistles, crazy laughter came from all over. Three minutes of freedom between periods. I remembered all of it. How could you ever forget being sixteen, full of equal measures of hope and shit?"

THE WOODEN SEA
-----------------------------
for those of you with bad memories:
http://oedb.org/library/features/the-memory-toolbox

CarrollBlog 10.11
Two of the most frequently asked questions of any writer are where do you get your ideas and where do you get your characters. I'll tell you about one of my characters. In the novel GLASS SOUP, there's an old man named Petras Urbsys who has a store in Vienna where he is selling his life. Now that he's old and can feel the end coming, he wants to get rid of the possessions he has accumulated over a lifetime. But he doesn't want to sell or just give them away to anyone. He loves his things and wants the next owners to love them too. So he rents a store, fills it with his belongings, and then screens interested customers to see if they should be 'allowed' to buy the important objects of his life. Where did Petras come from? One day after I'd just started writing the book and had no idea that I wanted a character like him, I saw a documentary about the Russian prison system under Stalin. What struck me most was the story of a tiny remote island where they sent "difficult" prisoners. According to the narrator, conditions there were so harsh that almost no one survived this camp. One scene in particular was haunting. On the beach was a makeshift cemetery for prisoners who'd died in that miserable place. Handwritten on the many primitive wooden grave markers were only the prisoners' names and when they had died. One marker belonged to a Petras Urbsys who died in the 1930's. Months later after creating the character for the book and where he would fit in the story, I remembered the documentary. I thought I'll give him that name, as if the real Petras had somehow survived the island and then gone on to live a long interesting life. At the end of it, he was a contented old man in Vienna carefully selling off the pieces of that life to people who would love them as he had.

CarrollBlog 10.10
People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own souls.

Carl Jung
------------------------------------
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent

Eleanor Roosevelt
-----------------------------------
All villains have mothers.

Elmore Leonard
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another one from GB:

http://damncoolpics.blogspot.com/search/label/Only%20in%20Japan

CarrollBlog 10.9
One of those night dreams where you wake up and immediately think what was THAT all about? Where did THAT come from? The surreal mix of the very real, the sort of real, the strange, the impossible, the improbable, and a pinch of sexuality thrown in to the recipe to give it an even odder aroma and taste. When I have dreams like this I try to figure out what was going on there. Next I think don't be stupid-- it doesn't signify anything. My brain's just having a yard sale. Then I worry it might mean EVERYTHING and in it somewhere is the solution to all my problems, I just have to decode the dream's peculiar hieroglyphics. In the end though I give up and mentally toss the whole thing into the back of my mind's cluttered closet with all the other dust covered dreams that have piled up in there, unsolved, over the years.
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interesting idea:

www.joost.com

CarrollBlog 10.8
I carry your heart with me (i carry it in

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

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interesting video from GB:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tS4OWiozmw

CarrollBlog 10.7
THE NIGHT HOUSE
by Billy Collins

Every day the body works in the fields of the world
mending a stone wall
or swinging a sickle through the tall grass--
the grass of civics, the grass of money--
and every night the body curls around itself
and listens for the soft bells of sleep.

But the heart is restless and rises
from the body in the middle of the night,
leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
with its thick, pictureless walls
to sit by itself at the kitchen table
and heat some milk in a pan.

And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe
and goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
and opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
and roams from room to room in the dark,
darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.

And the soul is up on the roof
in her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
singing a song about the wildness of the sea
until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
the way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,

resuming their daily colloquy,
talking to each other or themselves
even through the heat of the long afternoons.

Which is why the body-- that house of voices--
sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen
to stare into the distance,

to listen to all its names being called
before bending again to its labor.

CarrollBlog 10.6
"A teacher asked a class of first graders what color apples are. Most of the children answered 'Red,' a few said 'Green.' But one child raised his hand with another answer. 'White.'
The teacher patiently explained that apples were red or green, and sometimes yellow, but never white.
But the youngster insisted. Finally he said, 'Look inside.'"

from EMOTIONAL ALCHEMY by Tara Bennett-Goleman

-----------------------------------

Headline in California newspaper:

"Police receive a report of a newborn baby found in a trash can. Upon investigation, officers discover it is only a burrito."

CarrollBlog 10.5
In a recent interview someone asked if I thought fairy tales were important. I said in this day and age when kids have TV, dvd, cd's, video games, movies and TV on their iPods, etcetera, the importance of fairy tales is sliding fast down the slippery slope to oblivion. The great ones are so basic that in many ways they're not compelling to the young. Kids like to be wow'ed. Special effects, Dolby sound, Lucas Arts this and that, do that in a big way without the child having to move their mind muscles or imaginations an inch. I was thinking about it in the gym the other day when I saw something there that clicked into this idea well. I usually go to the gym around 9 or 10 in the morning because the place is relatively empty then. The people there at that time are usually in their forties and older. Sometimes a young person comes in but not many. TV's are up all over the room so that exercisers can watch if they want. What struck me this time was when the 40+ crowd is there alone, these televisions are almost always left off. But when younger people come in, the first thing they do is switch them on-- usually to MTV or sports channels. After I noticed this distinction I watched the next few times and it was invariably true-- the 40 and ups almost never turned on the tubes. The 20 or so's always turned them on immediately. I'm not sure what that signifies but I do think it ties in in some intrinsic way to why fairy tales have far less importance to children today. Why read or listen to Hansel and Gretel when Sponge Bob is only a click away?

CarrollBlog 10.4
From KW, a heartwarming little tale of romance and barter today in the vein of 'Sex and the City.'

THIS APPEARED ON CRAIG'S LIST
(http://forums.intpcentral.com/showthread.php?p=718957)

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm a beautiful (spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I'm articulate and classy. I'm not from New York. I'm looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don't think
I'm overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 - 250. But that's where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won't get me to Central Park West. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she's not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars, restaurants, gyms

-What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won't hurt my feelings

-Is there an age range I should be targeting (I'm 25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side so plain? I've seen really 'plain jane' boring types who have nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I've seen drop dead gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What's the story there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, investment banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults - I'm putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I'm being up front about it. I wouldn't be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn't able to match them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

THE ANSWER
Dear Pers-:

I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament. Firstly, I'm not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here's how I see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a crappy business deal. Here's why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money. Fine, simple. But here's the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity...in fact, it is very likely that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won't be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain, you're 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and hold...hence the rub...marriage. It doesn't make good business sense to "buy you" (which is what you're asking) so I'd rather lease. In case you think I'm being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It's as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as "articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful" as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K hasn't found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn't need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you're going about it the right way.
Classic "pump and dump." I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of connection please, let me know.

CarrollBlog 10.3
Some nice reader sent me a CD of music. When I was reading the list of the stuff she'd put on it, I saw "ZORBA" three times. Curious, I put the CD on and went to those three in particular. All of them were dance music-- an old Martha and the Vandellas song, a club version of Marvin Gaye's SEXUAL HEALING, and another equally zippy tune. I wrote to thank her for her gift and asked what she meant by the triple "Zorba." She wrote back and said on every CD she makes for people there are at least three Zorba tunes. Great music to dance to. Music you have to get up and dance to immediately on hearing. The Zorba part was of course reference to both the book and movie 'Zorba the Greek' where the great Zorba himself says to the Boss sometimes you are so lonely or happy that you must dance or you will die.

CarrollBlog 10.2
The poet Robert Creeley once gave a poetry reading. Afterwards he was asked by someone in the audience, "Is that a real poem, or did you just make it up yourself?"

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