Alone in NYC

Graffiti in Brooklyn

I was a finalist for two book awards in 2013 but didn't plan on attending the awards ceremony in New York City. "Mom, you have to go," my youngest son said. A shrug of my shoulder, and "I never win anything," was my reply. He rolled his eyes which he does often around me, but for the first time it seemed totally appropriate. I hate being a chicken and have tried to brainwash my children into never giving up. I'd been to NYC before but I'd had business meetings and cocktail-laced liaisons. I wasn't so social anymore.

At one time, I feared my propensity for aloneness, for solitude, and thought it meant I was strange. I didn’t understand that it was a choice. It’s what makes it possible for me to write for hours. People who live with their own thoughts successfully have found peace within themselves.

My social plans this time around were vague, built on an invisible platform of my own devise, a loner's version of whatever
wherein I wallowed in being an onlooker. But here’s the thing, I  improvised.

The three threads of continuity were the awards program on May 30, my efforts to engage New Yorkers by getting them to laugh, and my attempts to arrange a visit to the Museum of Morbid Anatomy in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn.

A Brooklyn native described the area as next to a canal that was a mob dumping ground.

On my happy-go-lucky way to the Museum of Morbid Anatomy I paused on the Union Street Bridge to snap this pic of the milky water in the canal.  Is the water that color to camouflage the bodies, or hasten their decomposition? Charming.

Couldn't find the entrance to the Museum of Morbid Anatomy. Turned the corner and entered this lonely alley. 

Retreated when a man entered from the far end of the alley near the red truck.  He wore a WWII German overcoat festooned with various medals. But for the tattoos and piercings, I might have mistaken him for someone on his way to a military reenactment. I tried to exit the alley at a leisurely pace. In other words, I tried not to run.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

I looked up into the friendly and kind eyes of a teenager. He knew I was frightened, but he was courteous and relayed no aggression. We were at the corner by now, and while there was no traffic, I felt less creeped out. Plus, I felt sorry for the kid. He looked something like this:





He showed me where to enter and rushed off on some urgent business. I waited in the lobby of the Proteus Gowanus Gallery for Laetitia Barbier, who is a contributor to Atlas Obscura and the Head Libarian at Morbid Anatomy Library. She'd generously rearranged her schedule to meet me at the Museum of Morbid Anatomy, a private museum in Brooklyn which "is committed to celebrating and providing materials dedicated to the places where death and beauty intersect." Laetitia is a beautiful European art historian who fell in love with an American artist and lives here now. She also introduced me to the work of  Joe Coleman. She's writing her dissertation on him and his art.

I love the back of Laetitia's knees!

The next night was the International Latino Book Awards and I won in both categories in which I was a finalist. Astonished is a good word to describe my emotions that night. I'd prepared myself for disappointment, not a double-win. A happy face in this picture, but my sympathies were totally with the people who didn't win. I wanted to go out drinking with them. Maybe go salsa dancing. I said nothing and left early . . . alone.

Back in my room, I quickly changed into more comfortable clothes and went for a walk passing Irish bars the concierge at my hotel had assured me I would enjoy. They were crowded and the laughter poured out into the streets. A couple of men raised their mugs to me. I walked as fast as I could in my beloved flip-flops, doubled back, passing more nightspots, and decided on a French Restaurant across the street from my hotel.

Cultural diversity is apparent at every turn of the head in NYC, and this bar was no different.  The place was empty except for two tables in the back, and the four blondes at the bar. Three of them were part of the same Polish family: mother, who must have been 12 when she gave birth to daughter, a tall gorgeous young woman with what appeared to be real double-D's. And her brother who was immensely nondescript.

I ordered a Margarita and the bartender, another tall blond, asked me what Tequila I preferred. Anejo with a dash of Triple sec and a squeeze of lime, on the rocks with salt. She was good friends with the Polish family. I took out my teeny notepad and made notes.

"Where are you from?" I ask the bartender.

"Serbia." She leans across the bar challenging me to make something of it.

"Oh, I thought Danish." That made the Polish family laugh. 

"Her boyfriend is half French and half Indian," one of them says.

"I need to stop drinking and get back to my writing," the beautiful, and now even more luscious blond says.

"Ha!" the bartender says, "her writing!"  

The gorgeous writer's family ostracize her in a friendly way. They talk about men they're seeing, or, at least, the ones the writer is seeing, has seen, when she's not drinking or writing or working. I  order another Margarita.

The writer asks the bartender if she's checked out Serbmatch.com. Apparently she is also a bartender at this restaurant, but has the night off.  Free drinks for her family?

An older man with a massive stomach encased in a nice suit comes in. He knows both bartenders. They treat him like shit and the one behind the bar makes a crack about older men going after younger women. Her face is contorted with disgust. The man looks confused. He really doesn't get it. All this time the younger women glance at me. Finally we stare openly at one another. The man ignores me; I'm too old for him. I order another drink and flex my triceps. I don't tell them I'm married or that I just won two awards for my first book.

The last of the tables is cleared and the Mexican waiter collapses on a chair, disgusted with his tips and orders a double Vodka. I scribble a note and take out my business card, give it to the succulent blond writerling who has braces on her bottom teeth: 

 Keep Writing!!!

PEACE LOVE & JOY DISCOUNT ON THE SANDOVAL SISTERS

As many of you know, the last few months have been rough on my family with two funerals, lots of travel, and a crushing workload for which we've had to play catch-up. There have been some high notes for me which have helped me keep my focus. The reviews for The Sandoval Sisters continue to be outstanding, and I want to share my good fortune with you.

Books make great presents. My gift to you is a special discount for the paperback version of The Sandoval Sisters’ Secret of Old Blood. $7.99 through the end of December. Go here to purchase: http://bit.ly/16J3A47

Be sure to enter this special discount code when you check out: UV8WT22L  

Peace, Joy, Love

Winding Roads With Old Friends

My first boss and mentor at ASU, Dr. Bernie Jackson, said birthdays were not a good measure of the passing of human time.  He preferred the term 'age-days', those unpredictable twists in life when you arrive at a point where you feel that you're in the right place at the right time doing the right thing.  They've been rare for me, but when it happened I felt time as if it were a tangible substance.  My generation would call it being in the moment. 

Most of us recognize those passages after they've happened.  A shift in perspective may occur, not so much in values or what interests us, but in how we view ourselves in the broader context of the world. With this usually comes acceptance; that's the age-day.  My trip to the East Coast for the ILBA solidified my recent age-day for me, and my friend Susan played a pivotal role.

My plan was to visit her in New Hampshire for three days and then spend four days in New York doing what I usually do while there: plays, dining, drinking, galleries, art and more art.

Susan and I have known each other for over 30 years.  We started at the same executive recruiting firm in Beverly Hills, and along with another team member, split from that business and formed our own company.  This after a little over a year in the headhunting biz.  I was the instigator, but Susan was right in there with me.  If you looked at the two of us back then, you might of thought we were a mismatch.

                                          Nice Girl  vs  Trouble

                                     
       

In many ways, we couldn't be more different.  She comes from a close-knit family, albeit one with a few kinks.  Still, her family dramas could be shown on network TV whereas those of my family could only be viewed on late night cable.  Susan is friendly and outgoing and makes friends easily.  I'm shy, but forced myself to drop my reserve during my business years.  My natural temperament suits a writer's life, but my "acting" extroverted permanently fractured that protective shell.  I'm a combo now. During this visit, I discovered more of the ways we're the same.

In her last year in the business, I became pregnant and got married.  Susan was my only  significant female friend in L.A., and she threw a baby shower for me.  Her mother was there, another woman who worked for me, and two of Susan's friends.  It's because of Susan that I was able to experience a normal event in a woman's life.  That sisterly gesture comes easy to her.  Susan is a community builder, a comadre. I mostly just try to pass for normal.

With Susan at Pine Point, Maine

A cocktail with a comadre would be nice here.

Susan came back to L.A. once in the intervening years. She remarried and had a son. We met once in Reno where she was attending a conference, and I've been back to visit her two or three times.  I've always enjoyed country walks and never get tired of looking for moose.  The weather turned cold. My shorts and flip-flops remained packed while I snuggled down inside borrowed fleece.

Moose Alley

This time she took me to the National Forest Bog, which wasn't like an Irish Bog (my only other Bog experience) with mummified remains in it, or so thick you can dig up the peat and burn it. 

 This is a lookout at the bog.  I think you hide in here and use binoculars for birding.

Clouds reflected on the surface of the bog. 

A Lady Slipper, an endangered flower thriving in the bog.

Susan drove without the dictatorship of a GPS.  She grew up here and knows the loops, short cuts, and back ways.  Conversation flowed.  We had quiet, comfortable moments.

Mommy and colt

Across the street is the shot I really wanted.  An abandoned house.

I wonder what stories the ghosts who live here might tell?

Susan and I in North Conway. White Mountains behind us.

So where is the age-day here?  My self-realization didn't arrive until New York, brought home by a young Serbian bartender whom I taught to make a skinny margarita and the Polish family sitting at the bar with me.

Next stop, NYC:

Metropolitan Museum of Art

Thanks and Appreciation Goes to . . .

I'm writing this in my hotel room in NYC on the morning of my departure back to Los Angeles.  I came to Manhattan to attend the 15th annual International Latino Book Awards with no expectations, even though I was pleased that my book was a finalist in two categories.  My competitors are skilled writers.  

The picture to your right was taken after I received my first award. The Sandoval Sisters' Secret of Old Blood took home first place for Best Historical Fiction and Best First Book.  There are many people who helped and encouraged me, but I want to focus on The Latino Author site this morning.

Authors still have to do a lot of their own marketing: we often have to beg for reviews.  Imagine my surprise this past January when a venue I had not yet contacted (euphemism for beseeched, pleaded, nagged) included me in their list of top 10 books for 2012.  Not only that, The Latino Author slotted me into a #5 position after best-selling authors Junot Diaz, Julia Alvarez, Sandra Cisneros, and Reyna Grande. 

“A brilliantly told story of the Sandoval Sisters and their life journeys during the mid-1800s. The author excellently interweaves much history of the United States and Mexico during that time. The book is written with great skill and talent.”

In some esteemed journals, book reviewers have begun to sound as if they’re walking a tightrope between keeping their jobs and telling the truth about what they really think.  What I like about Corina Martinez Chaudhry’s review in The Latino Author is that she sounds like a  book enthusiast who had an enjoyable read. Her inclusion of my book pumped me up at a time when my confidence was lagging.  My profound gratitude goes to her and The Latino Author for promoting my work.

From The Latino Author site:

What is the goal?

Can you imagine a world without writing, reading, books or being inspired?  Fortunately for us we live in a world of books from inspirational works to literary masterpieces.  It is these very things that inspired us to put this website together. 

•	We wanted to create a one-stop forum with writing tools, techniques, and information for emerging authors!
•	We wanted to inspire authors to write their “masterpiece” to share with the community and the world!
•	We wanted to provide a forum for readers to locate that special book and connect with their favorite author!
•	We wanted to showcase and extend the word on the many Latino authors that have inspired and enlightened us with their literary works and will continue to do so for many years to come!

Corina Martinez Chaudhry with Edward James Olmos

Who are we? A Leadership Team committed to making this forum the “Best-in-Class.”

We have a strong commitment to excellence and to bring more enthusiasm and passion to the Latino/Hispanic literary communities.  Our hope is to assist emerging authors realize their dream of writing and to broaden the sphere of author’s literary works.

Las Hermanas Sandoval

A special thank you to Pa'lante Latino. The International Latino Book Awards are tomorrow night in NYC and I will be attending.  The Sandoval Sisters is a finalist in two categories, but competition is stiff.  Whatever the outcome, my son and friends at Pa'lante Latino advised me to attend: "Youre already a winner." I was hoping that Victoria Cepeda and Efrain Nieves would be there. It's through their early support that I kept on plugging and the readership for this story written by a genuine half-Mexican has grown. Thank you to all my fans and friends.  

“Las Hermanas Sandoval” Women During Mexican-American War

SEPTEMBER 11, 2012 BY EFRAIN NIEVES 1 COMMENT

By Victoria Cepeda

Recently I had the pleasure of learning about Sandra Ramos O’Brient‘s work as she became a fan of Pa’lante. “Las Hermanas Sandoval” or The Sandoval Sisters is about women during the Mexican-American War who are caught in the crosshairs of history.  Ramos O’Briant  successfully blends the components which mark Latin American novels: passion, love lost, adventure, romance, erotica and sacrifice.