And Now For Something Completely Different

My latest mainstream women's fiction, If These Walls Could Talk, will be out on May 29th, less than three months from now. I thought I'd introduce you to one of the characters. The plan is for other characters to follow in April and May, but that's just a plan. Plans have been known to go astray.

In the meantime, enjoy!

Character: Dawn Young from Brooklyn, NY

Book: If These Walls Could Talk, coming May 29, 2007

Setting: October 2001, Brooklyn, NY

My name is Dawn Young. I live in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn with my husband, Milo, and our son, Zach. Our twelfth-floor apartment has great views of the Manhattan skyline . . . or maybe I should say had. Sadly, the skyline isn’t what it used to be since the terrorists flew airplanes into the World Trade Center last month, on what had been a glorious late summer morning. Now all that’s left of the Twin Towers is a mountain of rubble . . . and a cloud of dust as a heartbreaking reminder all can see for miles around. The dust will eventually fade. The memory of that day won't.

Hundreds of people are down there working at the site, clearing away the rubble and pulling out bodies. You mark my words. Lung ailments in New York are going to shoot up in a year or two. It can’t be healthy, breathing in all that dust and toxins. And the odor of decomposing bodies isn’t exactly good for a person’s respiratory system, either.

I was worried about after-effects of the attacks on Zach, who’s just nine. The truth is, he’s handling it better than me. Of course, Manhattan is kind of distant for him. His world is pretty much confined to Brooklyn. Milo and I, on the other hand, go there to work five days a week. I’m a nervous wreck. I can barely breathe on the subway. I find myself eying my fellow riders carefully, my suspicions rising when I see someone who looks Middle Eastern. I know it’s not right — I’m not behaving any better than the white folks who’ve been keeping my people down for hundreds of years — but I can’t help it. Who knows when some maniac might try to do underground what some other maniacs did so far above ground? And all the innocent people they'll take with them.

Those people in the Towers that day did nothing wrong. They were just going about their business, trying to make a living, like Milo and me. I just can’t imagine the fear of those people trapped on floors above the impact zone. One minute, to be laughing and joking about what was on TV last night, and the next faced with a horrible choice between burning to death or drowning in smoke. A lot of those poor folks ended up jumping out of windows 85 stories or more above street level. And every one of them was something special to somebody: Somebody’s son or daughter, somebody’s mother or father, somebody’s sibling, somebody’s dear friend. That awful morning left a lot of holes in the lives of a lot of people. It easily could have been Milo or me, leaving our Zach with one less parent and changing his life forever.

Both of us work in high rise buildings in midtown. I’m on the seventeenth floor, and he’s on the twenty-eighth. I know, I know. That’s too low for an airplane to slam into. Like that's really gonna make me feel safe. Before September 11th it never bothered me, but now I feel that it’s too damn high. If I never have to ride another elevator in my life, I’d be happy.

Fat chance of that happening. I can’t even get to my apartment without riding an elevator, unless, of course, the times when both elevators are out of service. Which lately has been happening a lot more often than I’m comfortable with.

When I was a kid growing up in East New York, the elevators terrified me. I’d be okay if I was with somebody, but I’d never ride by myself. If the last person got out before I did, I’d get off with them and take the stairs the rest of the way. That probably explains why I was so skinny as a kid.

These days, I’m what you call statuesque. Milo loves the way I’m built. He likes all the meat on my nice round booty and my big boobs. To be honest, I rather like my body myself. I’m not fat, just big. I do have a defined waistline. But I know I’m carrying more weight than I ought to be, even with my height. I’m tall, five-nine. When I wear heels I’m often taller than Milo, who’s barely five-eleven. I’m bigger than he is, too. Milo has always been on the thin side, and in the years since we got married he’s put on a few pounds around his middle, but that’s all.

I keep telling myself that by the time I turn forty I’ll be in shape. Not toothpick thin like all those women you see on TV. I want to be gloriously full-figured, but I want to be under two hundred pounds. It means dropping about forty pounds. I should be able to do it. I’ve still got a couple of years.

At this point in my life I’m too heavy to be huffing and puffing my way up twelve flights of stairs when the elevators are out at home. The building I live in has eighteen floors, technically seventeen when you consider that there’s no 13. Lots of buildings in New York go from floor 12 to 14 because people are superstitious. Still, with a building that tall I don’t see why they couldn’t have put in a third elevator. Even when one elevator is out, it takes forever to get down to the lobby.

I really wish Milo and I could afford a house. Not some silly co-op, not even a condo. Most of those are just glorified apartments. So what, they put in vanities and movie-star lights in the bathroom, parquet floors, and oak kitchen cabinets. It’s still an apartment. The residents still have to pack up their laundry and bring it downstairs.

My dream is to one day have a real house, two stories, with a front yard and a back yard with trees. A formal dining room with a big, beautiful table and a cabinet to display all my china instead of a nook tucked between the living room and the kitchen. Lots of windows dressed with beautiful treatments. A kitchen big enough to put a table for casual meals. A laundry room, where I can have my own washer and dryer.

To me, that’s the ultimate in convenience, having your own washer and dryer. Lots of people in the building have them now — dishwashers too — but they’re not supposed to. They’ll be in big trouble if the management finds out they’re there.

It’s nice to have dreams, but the reality is that I’ve got a much better shot at success of losing those forty pounds than I do of ever owning a home. This is New York, traditionally one of the most expensive real estate markets there is. Neither Milo nor I know anyone who has a house. Everyone on both sides of our families, plus all our friends are tenants, paying rent every month. Rent that goes up every year, I might add.

Don’t get me wrong. We live pretty good, better than a whole lot of people. We take a nice vacation every summer. Our car is always a new model. And we’re some of the best-dressed folks you’ve ever seen. I just get a little jealous when I hear people at work, who commute from the Island or Jersey, or even from Queens, talking about re-paving their driveways or having their houses pressure washed or painted. Sure, some of them make more money than I do, but some of them don’t.

Makes me wonder what Milo and I are doing wrong.

Read more about Dawn Young in my upcoming novel, If These Walls Could Talk, coming May 29, 2007 from Dafina Books.

A Heartbreaking Waste of a Life

I read an abysmally sad story this morning. Deamonte Driver, a 12-year-old impoverished boy in Maryland, died of an infection from an abscessed tooth. His family lives in transient conditions, their Medicaid was canceled, and when it was reinstated the papers were most likely sent to an address where they no longer lived.

The saddest thing about this is that a simple tooth extraction, at the cost of approximately $80, could have saved this child’s life. The appointment was made, but had to be canceled when Deamonte’s mother did not receive notice of the reinstatement of his Medicaid benefits.

There are major problems existing with dental care for poor children. Medicaid dentists are hard to find – the bureaucracy involved makes it unappealing to many practitioners – and transportation is often an issue. The lack of a steady address, and telephone service that is sometimes shut off can also complicate matters.

Cavities are as much a part of childhood as inflamed tonsils. I recall having an appalling number of cavities as a child, and all those ugly silver fillings (which I’ve since had replaced with porcelain!) We were all told to brush after every meal, but the fact is that many youngsters don’t.

Good teeth care is probably one of the most important things we can teach our children. It ranks right up there with courtesy toward other people, money management, and the imporance of education, so one doesn't find oneself in the predicament of Deamonte's mother, working low-end jobs with no health benefits. As a middle-aged woman, I wish that I’d taken better care of my teeth in my younger years, that I’d worn that retainer to hold onto my perfect bite after my braces were removed (an expense that my parents, with five children, could ill afford, and for which I will be eternally grateful, because I had terribly buck teeth.) An irrational fear of the dentist kept me away for a ten-year period back in the Eighties. I brushed regularly to maintain a pearly white smile, and while I developed no cavities, periodontal disease (disease of the gums and bones that hold the teeth in place) had taken hold. This has proven to be quite expensive to treat over the years. My husband jokes that our family has paid the tuition bills for our dentist’s children.

Sure, the kids have had work done, but it’s either routine maintenance, the application of veneer for additional protection, or oral surgery for the extraction of those in-the-way wisdom teeth. They are very good about brushing and flossing, and they’ve been blessed with strong, straight teeth. On the other hand, my husband and I have had abscesses, root canals, crowns, you name it. I could be wrong, but I’m inclined to believe that the problems we’re having now are directly linked to being lazy about flossing and postponing trips to the dentist.

We, at least, have good dental coverage. Little Deamonte Driver was doomed.

My Thoughts About Oscar

I have made it a point to watch the Academy Awards every year since I was in junior high. (I remember my mother telling me I could stay up if I wanted, always with the stern warning that I had school the next day and that I’d better not oversleep.)

I have fond memories of this, traditionally the most-watched show of the year. I recall one year in the late Sixties or early Seventies when Elizabeth Taylor presented the Best Picture award wearing a beautiful yellow dress that was particularly flattering to her tanned skin and black hair. I can still hear my father, who watched with me, saying with approval, “She knows what colors to wear.” Then there was that infamous streaker at the 1974 ceremonies, at the height of the craze. Barbra Streisand’s horrible sequined pajamas with the Peter Pan collar the year after she won Best Actress for Funny Girl. (I must say her taste in clothing, which of late runs toward elegant Donna Karan outfits, has improved drastically as she got older.)

Last night’s show was the first that made me consider going to bed. The show seemed to drag on eternally. Yes, I felt Ellen DeGeneres did a fine job as host, but the show was bogged down with montages for this and that and, curiously, with reaction shots of Jack Nicholson’s face. The show was on for nearly an hour before they presented the award for Supporting Performance, which I recall used to be the first award given out (and it was for a male performer, making me wonder if they’ve ever heard of the expression, “Ladies first.”) For the most part it was one long snooze. I actually felt sorry for the folks trapped in the audience. At least I had on my bathrobe and scuffies.

I was thrilled when Martin Scorcese finally won a Best Director trophy. It would have been difficult if the award, presented by three of Scorcese's directing colleagues rather than the usual actors, went to anyone else.

Someone early in the telecast said that "Anyone can win. It's much harder to lose." I have to agree with that observation. I must say that Eddie Murphy visibly handled the loss of Best Supporting Actor quite well, much better than Peter O’Toole, who looked truly stunned for several seconds after Forest Whitaker’s name was called as Best Actor. Naturally, the first thing I heard regarding the gala evening on the news this morning was how badly Eddie Murphy behaved after his loss, storming out of the venue shortly afterward. (Of course, this same TV station included in their website Oscar coverage that Singin’ in the Rain lost the Best Picture of 1953 Oscar to From Here to Eternity. There’s just two things wrong with that statement: Singin’ in the Rain – which happens to be one of my favorite movies – was released in 1952, not 1953. And it wasn’t even nominated, so it couldn’t have lost. So I take anything they report with a proverbial grain of salt.) But I do hope he behaved as graciously as he appeared when the camera panned in for a close-up reaction shot.

Regarding the hubbub about how the silly comedy Norbit destroyed Eddie Murphy’s chances to win an Oscar, that’s the type of thinking that cheapens the Oscars, making it more of a personal issue and less about the performance they gave in a particular role – which is supposed to be the sole reason for the vote. I haven’t seen Alan Arkin’s performance in Little Miss Sunshine, but I did see Eddie in Dreamgirls, and personally, I didn’t think he was all that hot. (Nor is a Golden Globe anything to turn up one's nose at, even if it is less prestigious than the Oscar.) As for Jennifer Hudson, I predict she will go on to a major music career and that Grammys are in her future but not necessarily a lot of films, since singing is her strong point and musicals aren’t in vogue. But she will hardly be the first Oscar winner whose movie career didn’t amount to much; there’s a long list. And I'm glad that she didn't fall out of her dress as she performed; her right boob seemed a little precarious as she sang.

So the best of 2006 has been decided, and now it’s on toward the best of 2007. Maybe next year’s telecast will be livelier. If not, I'll go on to bed, and it will mark the end of a tradition in my life that’s gone on for nearly forty years.

Something I Just Don't Get

Recently I've heard a lot about text messaging, usually about how kids often run up their cell phone bills (which have to be paid by their parents) by text messaging their friends constantly.

I don't get it. Typing out messages on a teensy phone pad, often having to hit keys two and three times if you want the second or third letter of the button. That seems like a hell of a lot of work, even for me (and I'm a very fast, very accurate typist.) I have a hard time with the tiny on-screen buttons of the navigator in my car. Isn't it s whole lot easier to just pick up the phone and call? Cheaper, too, since, as they say, "standard text messaging charges apply."

Then again, maybe I'm just getting old.

How Not to Do a Book Signing

Last Saturday I dragged myself 47 miles into the South Side of Chicago to do a book signing. I had set this up shortly after the first of the year. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Black History Month and all that.

Of course, life being life, by the time the date rolled around I had what was at best an upper respiratory infection, at worst walking pneumonia, likely caused by drainage during a root canal a few days before. In hindsight, I think I could deal with tooth pain - with the help of codeine-laced pain medication - better than I could that unrelenting cough that has exhausted me for over a week now.

This is why I try not to commit to anything in advance. It's impossible to predict one's circumstances weeks or months ahead of the actual time. In the past I’ve had to cancel events for all sorts of reasons, all of them valid. My father passed away . . . my husband accepted a position in another state and we’re preparing to relocate . . . I'm recovering from unexpected surgery.

Anyway, the mere fact that it’s February in Chicago should have told me something. The forecast for last Saturday did include snow. Fortunately, it happened early that morning, and by the time I set out the sun was shining and it was a balmy 28 degrees (considering the subzero temps earlier that week, I really mean balmy.) That didn’t change the fact that I would have preferred to stay home with my husband and see who could out-hack the other, since by this time he was also sick. (Picture it: Two middle-aged people laying in bed coughing at 3AM. It was, in a word, pathetic.)

As book signings go, this one turned out to be below average. The bookstore traffic was much less than usual, the staff told me. That might have been due to the snow that had been forecast . . . or it might have been due to the fact that a popular author was autographing her new book at a nearby Wal-Mart.

I did feel that there were some things that could have been done to make things go smoother. As I drove home, I remembered how my absolute favorite bookseller used to do things, which always put both me and her store at an advantage.

For one, she would set up a table in a prominent location (more about that later) the first thing that morning and have the books she ordered stacked on it for browsing, along with a sign saying I would be in the store later that day. As a result, people who were out and about hours before I arrived and were unable to come back while I was present often bought books in advance, leaving instructions on how they wanted them autographed and then returning at their convenience to pick them up.

Having my table set up beforehand also allowed me to get right to work at the business of selling books the moment I arrive. I hate having to hang around while bookstore staff go in the back to dig out a table, pull out the folding legs, put a tablecloth over it, bring out the books, etc., all of which takes several minutes to accomplish . . . once they finish with the people on the cashier line, of course. Fifteen minutes of my two-hour appearance can easily be lost in this process. It’s like, “Didn’t they know I was coming?”

My ideal bookseller would also place signs on the entry doors so that everyone entering the store would know I was going to be there. You can’t catch everyone – some people just don’t pay attention to the world around them – but this is a good effort. But the glass doors of this bookstore were covered with posters announcing that the latest Harry Potter book is coming in July, only five short months from now. Now, I ask you, does J.K. Rowling's massively successful series really need such advance publicity? I liken this to Oprah choosing Sidney Poitier’s autobiography to be her latest book club selection instead of some struggling author no one’s ever heard of. Okay, so she can do what she pleases, but it would be nice if some unknown could get some sales. It turns out that the edict to cover the doors with Harry Potter posters was handed down from Corporate.

Did I mention the table should be in a prominent location? At this store, my table was not on the first level by the fiction section, but upstairs . . . with the children’s books and the music CDs. Come on, folks. This one is common sense. Sure, the café is up there, too, but people come to book stores to browse, not to eat. I personally am old enough now where climbing stairs tends to leave me breathing hard, like I just carried a piece of furniture a half block. I can’t expect other people in my age group to climb a long flight to meet me if I’m not willing to do it myself. At my request the store personnel moved my table downstairs. Had I stayed there, I doubt I would have sold anything.

As I said, this signing didn’t rank among my more successful ones. But I passed on a few pointers to the store where I’ll be appearing tomorrow to wrap up Black History Month on things they can do to help move things along.

Truth be told, I’m not expecting much from the signing. Chicago is under a winter storm watch. In fact, if the weather is truly bad, I’ll reschedule.

That'll be it for me and book signings until June, when my 2007 releases will both be out. By that time of year, weather will not play a role.

So I'll skip Black History Month in the future. And I'll cross my fingers that subsequent books will be scheduled for the spring and summer months, at least while I call Chicagoland home.

Wish me luck!

Damn, I'm Good

I've spent the last week reading over the galleys for my new mainstream novel, If These Walls Could Talk (coming to a retailer near you the end of May.)

Watching me read galleys is probably pretty comical, with all the changes in expression. I grimace when I see my name misspelled on the copyright page, twist my lower lip nervously when I see that I left out the name of some important folks on the Acknowledgments page, and roll my eyes and utter all kinds of annoyed expressions, from the mild ("Oh, for crying out loud!") to the profane (What the fuck . . . .?") when I see that changes I requested in the copyedit stage have not been made.

But through it all, I am struck by the words on the pages before me. They're good, damn it! And they all came from li'l ol' me. This is a good story I've managed to put together from a teensy spark of imagination. And I don't impress easily.

While I'm writing, I tend to agonize over the words I choose, the phrasing I use. Part of me is yelling to get on with it already, that nobody's going to notice how well that sentence is constructed. But when I read over the finished product, I'm suddenly glad that I rewrote that sentence five times because I didn't like it. I'm glad that I did that paragraph over and over, right up until it was time to submit, improving it each time. I'm glad went over that sentence in my head as I drifted off to sleep instead of counting sheep.

Will anyone notice? Probably not. But I know. And when it comes to a job well done, sometimes that's enough.

God, I love my work.

Climb Ev'ry Mountain

Since I was a kid, I've known that Sir Edmund Hilary and Tenzing Norgay were the first two people to reach the summit of Mount Everest (with Sir Edmund's foot getting there slightly ahead of his companion,) way back in 1953. No small feat, since many people lost their lives trying to get to the top, before and after.

Mount Everest is, of course, the tallest mountain on earth, extending something like five miles into the sky, and located in a chilly climate to begin with. Chances are that most mountaintops will be considerably cooler than the ground.

But in recent months reports of climbers becoming disoriented and separated by sudden snowstorms on peaks right here in the U.S. have been in the news. Can someone explain to me why so many people climb mountains during winter months, December, January, February? Doesn't it make more sense to climb in the spring or summer: April, May, June? A party of three died in December trying to ascend Mount Hood on its most treacherous side. Another party of three was rescued yesterday.

I'm glad for those who were rescued and sorrowful for those who lost their lives. But I have to say that if for some reason mountain climbers can't climb during warmer months, when sudden, blinding snowstorms are less likely to be an issue, then perhaps they ought to consider taking up hiking.