There is a secret to it–which I share in my new Writer On The Road column for Grub Street.  Enjoy!

Maybe wearing pants, maybe not. Just doing a quick setting check.

When all of the sudden, I Spy With My Little Eye....

....a Skypebomber! having a piece of bread.

But a mere snack is not distraction enough for our Skypebomber.

It soon becomes apparent he has other ideas:

Uh oh.

Such as luring Skypebomber No. 2 over to the couch

with aforementioned piece of bread...

And hoisting Skypebomber No. 2!

...so that, when the Cake Book Club convenes for a 2nd time to

discuss THE STORMCHASERS, you present a veritable totem pole

 of Skype Goodness!

The Cake Book Club, however, are drinking Kansas Tornadoes

(described as "rum, orange juice, grapefruit juice, pineapple juice, and more rum"),

so they don't care.

The Cake Book Club of Atlanta, GA, proving that a Kansas Tornado doesn't contain just dirt anymore.

Let the book club begin!

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to attend one of the big writers’ conferences–Bedloaf (excuse me, BREADloaf); AWP; BEA; The Muse & Marketplace? Is it helpful? Is it worth your time? Will it help you get published? Is it….scary?

My new Writer On The Road post for Grub Street dishing on the Muse, the AWP, and the Tucson Festival of Books is up NOW. Hopefully it’ll answer some of your questions.

Happy reading–and writing!

xo,
Jenna.

Audience for "Figuring Out Facts In Fiction" Panel, Tucson Festival of Books, 2012

In an age that’s said goodbye to typewriters & Kodak while embracing smartphones & Siri, do literary magazines still matter? You bet your boots–and here’s why. And it’s not just because THOSE WHO SAVE US wouldn’t exist without a literary magazine (The Briar Cliff Review). Promise.

My 2 cents on lit mags for The Review Review

Happy reading–in all forms!

Is it necessary to be a tortured soul to be a writer? Why *are* so many writers tortured? & why do so many of them seem to wear so much black? My answers in today’s advice column for Grub Street, up HERE.

Enjoy!

Read article here–bedankt!

XXX
Jenna.

…leaving eggs, deviled or otherwise, at my apartment door.

Now, this was a long time ago, so all these memories are suspect–especially Edmond’s.  We met when I was in my early 20s, living in my very first apartment ever, in Minneapolis. I was struggling to be a writer, which meant I wrote short stories at every available hour in the booth in my kitchen while working as a waitress, a prep chef in restaurants whose staff attire included a chef’s hat shaped like a garlic clove, and a bookstore manager. I was also leading a double life, interviewing Holocaust survivors for the Stephen Spielberg Survivors Of The Shoah Visual History Foundation. Once, in the restaurant where I had to wear the garlic clove hat, I was cubing baguettes to make croutons when one of my survivors came in. I hit the floor.

I was working on a very early draft of my first novel, THOSE WHO SAVE US, then too.  It was called “The Fruhstuck Review” (Fruhstuck, you should forgive the missing umlauts, means “breakfast” in German) and was about a recent college grad who wanted to be a writer traveling through Germany with her colorful mother, each asking the other, “How did the Holocaust happen here?”

I admit, Edmond was a witness to all this.

He was one of few people (I hope) to see me like this, at Matt’s bar, home of the infamous Jucy Lucy, in Minneapolis:

Edmond saw me writing, smoking pack after pack of cigarettes and downing gallons of coffee.

He saw me waiting as avidly as any junkyard dog to pounce on the mailman, all the better to tear open my rejection letters.

He saw me–and smelled me–coming home from the restaurant, reeking of garlic. And returning from survivor interviews with mascara stains  on my face (I cried in my car post-interview, listening to Brahms).  And leaving the building before dawn to get to work at the bookstore, a BORDERS flagship store I had the privilege of helping open, the only job I ever had that I loved.

Edmond also saw me as a new bride, a young woman grappling with the idea that being married meant I couldn’t date whomever I wanted, a woman who despite loving her young husband had no idea whatsoever how to be wed. And then a young separated woman trying to figure out how to be alone by throwing lots of dinner parties, crying, and writing a lot. And writing even more.

Edmond CLAIMS I used to stomp around in heavy boots in my apartment, which was right above his apartment, but I debate the veracity of that.

Edmond was there to listen to me dream aloud about publication, to hear me whine when I got yet another rejection, to comfort me when my marriage was breaking up and to laugh with me every single day, no matter what.  He was the first person to teach me a neighbor could be a dear friend, that sometimes your chosen family parachutes into your life by the happy accident of apartment geography.  We were close as family, in each other’s living rooms at all hours, constantly popping in and out like cuckoos–including whenever one of us left town.  Then, we had keys to each other’s homes, ostensibly to water plants (and, in my case, to take care of Edmond’s yellow cockatiel Buddy).  Instead, what sometimes happened was something like this:

This is Edmond and Plastiqua, my plastic blow-up doll, in my bed.  Plastiqua was a wedding gift to me by the best man (which actually explains a lot).  Plastiqua got around, especially in our building. One evening when Edmond was on a date, Plastiqua somehow migrated into his bed, where, bringing his date home, Edmond discovered her with a copy of the New Yorker and–Edmond CLAIMS, though I have absolutely no memory of this–an artfully positioned banana.

Edmond’s date naturally wanted to know why there was a blow-up doll in his bed and, since Edmond is gay, why she was female.

Edmond subsequently appeared at my door demanding to know how I was going to compensate him for destroying a date and maybe a relationship with a man who’d had a lot of potential.

I said I had no idea what he was talking about.

I came home from a trip the following week to find Edmond and Plastiqua enjoying the New Yorker in my bed.

I don’t remember whether Edmond told me then that he wanted to be a writer. He probably did, and I probably blocked it out because my reaction in those days to people telling me they wanted to be writers was a mental Yeah, yeah.  I was working a lot of temp jobs, waitress jobs, restaurant jobs, among people who had big dreams they liked to talk about but didn’t really feel like pursuing. The statement “I always wanted to be a writer!” was inevitably followed by, “…But I watch too much TV.” Or, “But I never seem to find the time. Maybe I’ll get around to it one of these days.”

With all the arrogance of my early 20s, I internally sneered and thought: If you were a real writer, you’d READ instead of watching TV. If you were a real writer, you’d FIND the time.

I still firmly believe you can’t be a writer without reading and that success in writing means understanding words; dexterity–through practice, talent, and luck–in putting them together; and finding the time. No matter what.

I knew Edmond understood words. His Christmas newsletters were the funniest things I’d ever read–never mind that he sent them out in July. They made me cry with laughter each time I reread them, which I did, often. Maybe I didn’t want to believe Edmond wanted to be a writer–because who needed that kind of competition? Living right below you in the same building, no less.

Then I moved away, to go to grad school in Boston, get divorced, get hundreds more rejection letters, start teaching, keep writing, finally publish my first novel. I missed Edmond sorely and kept in touch with him the way we did in the pre-Facebook olden days: monthly emails. The occasional phone call. Seeing each other when work brought us to each other’s cities. Our bond was always there, remarkable in that it was unremarkable: we were just as dear friends as ever.

Then Edmond told me he was working on a novel. I was in Minneapolis on book business for THOSE WHO SAVE US, and we were sitting in the grape arbor he’d built in his backyard. We were drinking wine and eating raspberries he’d picked, sun-warm, from his bushes. Edmond talked about the writing process, how miraculous it was when words came from nowhere, how pretentious he felt referring to himself as “a writer,” how protective he felt of his work–how much he dreaded the inevitable, innocent question, at parties, at job sites: “What’s your book about?”

I thought: Huh. I always KNEW Edmond could write. That’s a no-brainer. But he’s DOING it!  He’s a writer! Edmond is the real deal.

And now, 20 years after Edmond appeared in my life in his Easter Bunny suit with his deviled eggs (it’s MY story so I’m gonna tell it how I remember it), his first book is out:

King Perry

One reader on Amazon describes KING PERRY like this:

“This novel is at once gay vision quest and urban farce, all set in familiar locations in and around San Francisco.  The main characters are sexy, smart and endearing, in turn fallible and fearless. The story has as many curves as Lombard Street and in the end touches the deep-rooted need especially of gay men to be appreciated for their strengths and nurtured for the transformational power of their perceived weaknesses….This is a beautiful and fun read.”

I haven’t yet read KING PERRY because I’m waiting for my pre-ordered copies to be delivered. But it doesn’t surprise me at all that Edmond’s novel is full of magic and humor; fearful things to be faced; the reality of love–that it’s not always perfect and its all the stronger because of it–as its abiding theme.

I can’t wait to read KING PERRY.

And I hope that next time I get to Minneapolis, where Edmond still lives, the author–who has proved himself to be as full of never-give-up determination as every writer must be to realize his dream–will sign it for me.

To order KING PERRY in paperback or on Kindle, please click here.

Tornado-Warned storm, Reno County, KS 2/28/12

The red polygons signal that the storm is tornado-warned–and that it will affect the area within the three polygons, an unusually large warning area.  I’ve chased for seven years, and I’ve never seen a storm warned with triple polygons in February.  This storm signifies an active and violent start to the 2012 storm season. As experienced chasers, we have the equipment and ability to drive away from such storms. Tornado Alley residents are often not so lucky.

And deadly weather isn’t limited to Tornado Alley.  As 2011 showed us, with tornadoes striking Springfield, MA and Raleigh, NC, tornadoes can hit ANYWHERE and EVERYWHERE. What can YOU do to protect yourself and your family?

A lot–and easily. There is NO EXCUSE not to be prepared for this active weather season. Sign up for FREE text alerts from Wunderground. A Google search of “Wunderground text alerts” takes .14 seconds to bring you to the page. Click here and you’ll see the text/ email alerts link on the right-hand side of the page. Wunderground will even send your text alerts to Twitter. Or get a Red Cross weather radio to warn you. They cost $10 at Radio Shack. I know because I have one. If you live in Tornado Alley and you can’t spend $10 on a weather radio that can save your life, how much do you value your life?

The Black Room

We didn’t always take ourselves or the Oscars so seriously. There was a time, about 40 years of it, when we said, “Oh, it’s Oscars weekend already? Is that what you had said?” and plumped ourselves down on the couch to ogle the stars and snark about what they were wearing. At our most organized, we might throw some Trader Joe’s piggies in a blanket on a silver tray and toss on a ballgown from the back of the closet. (A writer girl needs to take advantage of every opportunity she has to pull out the tiara, in addition to using it to hold her hair back while brushing her teeth.)

But this was before the Black Room–which is what we began calling our study when we painted it high-gloss black.  This was way before we got asked to write our own screenplay, based on our own novel, written ten years earlier.

You Will Forgive A Shameless Plug For Our Own Novel, Won't You? Please?

Never mind that writing a screenplay doesn’t necessarily mean the screenplay will get used as anything more than a blueprint, if it’s used at all. Never mind that it doesn’t mean the movie will ever get made, for that matter.

It still gives us the excuse to take ourselves, and the Oscars, very seriously.

Watching the Oscars can now be considered, after all, part of the job description.

And so. We don our tiaras and choose our books, drinks, and movies in preparation for this very important weekend.

THE MOVIES

In previous years, B.S. (Before Screenplay), we watched the Oscars not to make predictions as to what movies would win which awards but as a barometer of what movies we should see.  As in, “Oh, I never heard of that movie–nominated for Best Picture? Cool. I guess I’d better see it.”  This year, being much more organized and serious, we actually managed to watch two, not one, TWO, of the Best Picture Nominees before the big night.

“The Descendants“–directed by & starring George Clooney (a recommendation in itself), about a family constellation that must reconfigure itself after the mom, George’s wife, dies (and P.S. she was cheating on him. WHY anyone would cheat on George Clooney could be, perhaps, the smallest plothole in this otherwise stellar movie–but we’ll leave that alone.)  “The Descendants” screenplay was adapted for the screen by Alexander Payne, who directed “About Schmidt” and “Sideways,” and I have to say I will pretty much drive over my own head to see anything Alexander Payne writes and directs. “The Descendants” is no exception. That’s my review.

“The Tree of Life“–directed by Terence Malick and starring Brad Pitt.  I have to confess to a vested interest in “The Tree Of Life” because I first heard about it when it was in production from Martin Lisius, president of Tempest Tours, the stormchase tour company I chased tornadoes with for six years while researching my second novel, THE STORMCHASERS (I now work as a hostess, guide & driver for the company). Martin is also the president of Prairie Pictures and Storm Stock, which provide bona-fide storm footage to directors in need.  Including, for “The Tree Of Life,” Terence Malick. “I just got to work with Brad Pitt,” Martin told me in 2010. “Pretty cool.”

So we watched “The Tree of Life,” which I can only describe as a poignant family story folded into a Museum of Natural History nature special about creationism. One of my readers commented on Facebook that although this movie confused her, the images played on the edges of her mind for days. My editor for THOSE WHO SAVE US said she thought it was the best film of 2011. See it for yourself & tell us what you think.

THE BOOKS

THE ODDS by Stewart O’Nan.

Back in my other life, B.S., I was a plain old novelist, and you know what, actually, this is still my real job. Next weekend I’ll be at the AWP conference in Chicago and I get to sit on a panel with Stewart O’Nan, who’s one of my favorite writers of all time. (This man can make what happens to the employees of a closing Red Lobster into a heart-stealing plot.) So I figured I should read his latest book, THE ODDS, about a couple on the brink of divorce taking one last gamble to save their marriage by going to Niagara Falls. Does it work? Read the book. What’s the Oscars connection?  There isn’t any–yet. Although I think THE ODDS would make a great short film.

THE DESCENDANTS, by Kaui Hart Hemmings.

So you thought it was just a movie, huh? Au contraire. Before the film, there was a novel. I’m reading THE DESCENDANTS to see how the book was transposed to screen–a certain amount of self-interest and learning curve involved.

WHAT YOU REALLY WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT: THE DRINKS

What are we drinking this Lost Weekend while watching The Oscars? As we are trying to dry out somewhat after a Lost Winter of Pinot, primarily Lucky Star, Layer Cake, Red Bicyclette, and that unbelievably cheap but delicious rooster wine from Trader Joe’s (come on, you know you know what I’m talking about), we are switching to:

BOULEVARD PALE ALE.

We have recently relocated from Boston, home of many novelists and writing school extraordinare Grub Street Writers, to a place specifically conducive to screenwriting.  Hollywood, you say? No! What a cliche. We live in The Middle now: Wichita, Kansas, and the reason this is specifically conducive to writing a screenplay is that we can pick the brains of the person we live with, photographer Jim Reed, who in addition to being a world-renowned and celebrated fine art photographer is also a screenwriter.  To salute our adopted new state, we drink Boulevard, manufactured just up Interstate 35 in Kansas City.

DIET CANADA DRY GINGERALE, a.k.a. BURP JUICE

You think this is a boring beverage? Seriously? Then you have not experienced the seismic gastronomic wonder that results when you drink a whole can of this at once and then say to your Oscars-watching partner, “Pull my finger.” Very refreshing.

And that’s all, except that as we sign off, we wish you the happiest Oscars-watching….and we wish we could raise a glass of this to you:

Veuve Cliquot, a.k.a. Wish Juice

…But we are saving this bottle for another very special occasion–the evening we might win the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay.  C’mon, a girl can dream, can’t she?  After all, that’s what writers do best.

To read the column, please click here.

Happy reading!