Friday, 13 June 2008
Good New! It WILL happen.
The novel Jesse Lives will be serialized in a weekly free magazine being distributed in the San Francisco Bay area starting in August called People's Art Lit To Go. I'll begin posting bigger sections on the blog in reasonable coordination with the paper version coming out. So come on back in August. Or move to the SF Bay area just so you can access the free mag. (No, please don't. I wouldn't want to be responsible for such a move even if the SF Bay area is a fine place to live.)
Friday, 28 March 2008
[delay due to possible publication]
[Just a note to anyone reading this blog on a regular basis. I have stopped for a few days because a possibility of having the novel serialized in a publication has arisen. As soon as I know whether this will happen or not, and if it is, whether it is OK with them that I continue the slower serialization here, I will begin posting pages again.]
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Jesse Lives! - Pg. 10
“Ye….s…s…s?” you would say, drawing it out long in your best imitation of a know-it-all psychiatrist.
OK, here’s the secret. Most folks think that real designers start from scratch and don’t borrow any ideas from anyone else. That would be plagiarism, right? But it’s not so. The human arm is the human arm. It’s more or less the shape of a tube, attached at one end, and capable of bending in the middle. So any sleeve must be some variation on a cylinder that accomodates bending if it is beyond a certain length. The basic shape is defined for you. There are only so many variations on that shape, and most of them have names. However, the designer does have unlimited choice regarding the material the cylinder will be made of, how much wider than the arm the cylinder will be at various points, how long or short the cylinder will be, and how it will be decorated.
Now, say you’re making your dress from one of those patterns you buy in a fabric shop. You get the right size pattern, but you might adjust some of the pieces to fit yourself better, if you know how. Or you might adjust some aspects of the pattern to show off your good parts and hide your bad parts. Are you designing? It depends on the extent of the changes you make. If your finished dress can still be recognized as coming from that pattern, probably not. But there comes a point when it can’t. And at that point, you’re designing.
And even before I moved to New York, I’d done that. Besides being a scientist, I had been making custom-designed and fit sweaters. I’d even had one in a catalogue, but I’d underpriced it rediculously and driven myself crazy working a rediculous amount of hours for almost no pay. I wanted to know how to do that in a way that would pay, if such a thing was possible. And in meeting Rosa, I thought I’d just met someone who knew.
That Monday morning, as I approached the subway station, I was thinking about Rosa and kicking myself for a good number of things. I was so lost in thought that I walked right past Jesse and found myself at the bottom of the steps. Usually, locating a token in my coin purse required
OK, here’s the secret. Most folks think that real designers start from scratch and don’t borrow any ideas from anyone else. That would be plagiarism, right? But it’s not so. The human arm is the human arm. It’s more or less the shape of a tube, attached at one end, and capable of bending in the middle. So any sleeve must be some variation on a cylinder that accomodates bending if it is beyond a certain length. The basic shape is defined for you. There are only so many variations on that shape, and most of them have names. However, the designer does have unlimited choice regarding the material the cylinder will be made of, how much wider than the arm the cylinder will be at various points, how long or short the cylinder will be, and how it will be decorated.
Now, say you’re making your dress from one of those patterns you buy in a fabric shop. You get the right size pattern, but you might adjust some of the pieces to fit yourself better, if you know how. Or you might adjust some aspects of the pattern to show off your good parts and hide your bad parts. Are you designing? It depends on the extent of the changes you make. If your finished dress can still be recognized as coming from that pattern, probably not. But there comes a point when it can’t. And at that point, you’re designing.
And even before I moved to New York, I’d done that. Besides being a scientist, I had been making custom-designed and fit sweaters. I’d even had one in a catalogue, but I’d underpriced it rediculously and driven myself crazy working a rediculous amount of hours for almost no pay. I wanted to know how to do that in a way that would pay, if such a thing was possible. And in meeting Rosa, I thought I’d just met someone who knew.
That Monday morning, as I approached the subway station, I was thinking about Rosa and kicking myself for a good number of things. I was so lost in thought that I walked right past Jesse and found myself at the bottom of the steps. Usually, locating a token in my coin purse required
Monday, 24 March 2008
Jesse Lives! - Pg. 9
what I hated more than anything else was identifying myself as a scientist. Every time that inevitable question came up, I cringed. If I admitted I was a scientist, a research scientist, a biochemist, two things happened.
First, the person that I was talking to labeled me with every stereotype he or she held regarding scientists, thus reaching several false conclusions regarding what sort of person I was. (This often resulted in some sort of stilted conversation regarding the area of my research in which neither of us was really very interested.)
Second, even though it was true, I was a scientist, and I probably wouldn’t have had the opportunity to come to New York if I hadn’t been, I felt like a liar. This was a corrulary of the first effect. I felt I’d just claimed to be a whole lot of things I wasn’t, and at the same time, I felt like I’d betrayed myself in passing up a chance to claim a single thing I really was (or wanted to be).
So what was it that I wanted to be able to claim to be? (Oh, the irony!) A designer. Yes, the same person who didn’t have the nerve to state a design opinion in the presence of a “real designer” wanted to be one. You may say “Yes, and I want to be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but that’s not going to happen,” and you’d be right. But you’d be wrong as well, because I already was a designer. That was another thing I didn’t know yet.
I can just hear you saying to yourself “Oh yeah, I bet she fit right in among all those other mildly insane folks she’s been jabbering on about.” I can’t blame you, unless perhaps you’re a designer, too. Perhaps you don’t know it?
Let me convince you. (Of course, I never would have had the nerve to say any of this to you had we actually met, but I’m very convincing when I’m talking to imaginary folks.) “A designer designs,” I would say, sagely.
First, the person that I was talking to labeled me with every stereotype he or she held regarding scientists, thus reaching several false conclusions regarding what sort of person I was. (This often resulted in some sort of stilted conversation regarding the area of my research in which neither of us was really very interested.)
Second, even though it was true, I was a scientist, and I probably wouldn’t have had the opportunity to come to New York if I hadn’t been, I felt like a liar. This was a corrulary of the first effect. I felt I’d just claimed to be a whole lot of things I wasn’t, and at the same time, I felt like I’d betrayed myself in passing up a chance to claim a single thing I really was (or wanted to be).
So what was it that I wanted to be able to claim to be? (Oh, the irony!) A designer. Yes, the same person who didn’t have the nerve to state a design opinion in the presence of a “real designer” wanted to be one. You may say “Yes, and I want to be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but that’s not going to happen,” and you’d be right. But you’d be wrong as well, because I already was a designer. That was another thing I didn’t know yet.
I can just hear you saying to yourself “Oh yeah, I bet she fit right in among all those other mildly insane folks she’s been jabbering on about.” I can’t blame you, unless perhaps you’re a designer, too. Perhaps you don’t know it?
Let me convince you. (Of course, I never would have had the nerve to say any of this to you had we actually met, but I’m very convincing when I’m talking to imaginary folks.) “A designer designs,” I would say, sagely.
Sunday, 23 March 2008
Jesse Lives! - Pg. 8
“Lisa,” I said, introducing myself. Jesse winced. Apparently he didn’t think the name fitted me. Either that or maybe he’d pricked himself on a thorn. “Is that really a dress you designed yourself?”
“It is.” Rosa had an English accent. “But I think I might add a rose brooch,” she smiled at Jesse. “Right here.” She held it on the left shoulder on the edge of the neckline and turned to me. “What do you think? Never hurts to add on a little bonus for the customer.”
Imagine that! In New York less than a month and I was being asked by a real live designer for an opinion on the placement of a brooch on a designer dress! I was so impressed with myself, I could hardly get a word out. And I was so afraid of saying something stupid that I didn’t dare express my true opinion. (I would have placed the rose on the waistline.) I wimped out. “I think you’re the designer,” I said.
“Me,” said Jesse, “I’d add the rose, yes. But I’d make it kind of sparkly. Make it detachable, and they can put it wherever they like. Folks like customizing things.” (Wish I’d said that, I thought.)
“Jesse,” said Rosa, “your genius is wasted on this corner.” She paid for her rose and went on down into the station. I paid for my six and went on to the newsstand. Jesse continued to hawk his wares.
The earth whirled around twice, dressed better than any of us, and it was Monday again.
Chapter 3.
At that point in time, I was earning my living as a scientist, a research scientist. It sounds impressive, prestigious, important. There are any number of fine adjectives you can attach to it. But my heart wasn’t in it. I resented having to pass up affordable theater tickets because something in the lab had to be attended to in the evening. (Sometimes I even scheduled experiments around other activities). I hated the jargon. I hated the atmosphere of competition and criticism. I hated giving lectures. But
“It is.” Rosa had an English accent. “But I think I might add a rose brooch,” she smiled at Jesse. “Right here.” She held it on the left shoulder on the edge of the neckline and turned to me. “What do you think? Never hurts to add on a little bonus for the customer.”
Imagine that! In New York less than a month and I was being asked by a real live designer for an opinion on the placement of a brooch on a designer dress! I was so impressed with myself, I could hardly get a word out. And I was so afraid of saying something stupid that I didn’t dare express my true opinion. (I would have placed the rose on the waistline.) I wimped out. “I think you’re the designer,” I said.
“Me,” said Jesse, “I’d add the rose, yes. But I’d make it kind of sparkly. Make it detachable, and they can put it wherever they like. Folks like customizing things.” (Wish I’d said that, I thought.)
“Jesse,” said Rosa, “your genius is wasted on this corner.” She paid for her rose and went on down into the station. I paid for my six and went on to the newsstand. Jesse continued to hawk his wares.
The earth whirled around twice, dressed better than any of us, and it was Monday again.
Chapter 3.
At that point in time, I was earning my living as a scientist, a research scientist. It sounds impressive, prestigious, important. There are any number of fine adjectives you can attach to it. But my heart wasn’t in it. I resented having to pass up affordable theater tickets because something in the lab had to be attended to in the evening. (Sometimes I even scheduled experiments around other activities). I hated the jargon. I hated the atmosphere of competition and criticism. I hated giving lectures. But
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Jesse Lives! - Pg. 7
“Michael, Jane. Isn’t new love grand? How about a rose or two to celebrate it?”
“Johnnie-boy! How’d you get you a fine woman like Sarah? Bet you brought her flowers, right? Just about time you sealed the deal, don’t you think? Right, Sarah? How about a rose?”
“Hey Sharleen! Hasn’t Joe’s bought you a rose every Saturday for a month now? How about buying him one?”
“How about a rose, Miss Claudie? There’s no shame in buying yourself roses.”
“I’ll take half a dozen if you tell me how it is that you speak German.”
“How it is? I speak it badly, that’s how. Learned a bit of it when I was in the army. Of course, I’ve forgotten most of it now. Louisa! Won't this pink rose’ll look grand on your new dress?”
The woman he had addressed as Louisa was alone. “Jesse,” she said (Now I knew his name!) “how do you do that?” She took the rose Jesse offered and held it against her dress, appraising her reflection in the nearest store window. “It does look good at that.”
“Louisa, I don’t know how I do it. I just look. You walk different when you’ve got a new dress on I guess, especially one you designed.” My jaw dropped. The street vendor I had hesitated to associate with was introducing me to a real fashion designer! Seeing the look on my face, Jesse added “Louisa’s a designer at Halston’s. Miss Louisa, this is Miss Claudie. She’s new around here.”
“Rosa, actually,” the woman said, offering her hand. “Only Jesse calls me Louisa.”
“Another old song,” Jesse murmured.
“Johnnie-boy! How’d you get you a fine woman like Sarah? Bet you brought her flowers, right? Just about time you sealed the deal, don’t you think? Right, Sarah? How about a rose?”
“Hey Sharleen! Hasn’t Joe’s bought you a rose every Saturday for a month now? How about buying him one?”
“How about a rose, Miss Claudie? There’s no shame in buying yourself roses.”
“I’ll take half a dozen if you tell me how it is that you speak German.”
“How it is? I speak it badly, that’s how. Learned a bit of it when I was in the army. Of course, I’ve forgotten most of it now. Louisa! Won't this pink rose’ll look grand on your new dress?”
The woman he had addressed as Louisa was alone. “Jesse,” she said (Now I knew his name!) “how do you do that?” She took the rose Jesse offered and held it against her dress, appraising her reflection in the nearest store window. “It does look good at that.”
“Louisa, I don’t know how I do it. I just look. You walk different when you’ve got a new dress on I guess, especially one you designed.” My jaw dropped. The street vendor I had hesitated to associate with was introducing me to a real fashion designer! Seeing the look on my face, Jesse added “Louisa’s a designer at Halston’s. Miss Louisa, this is Miss Claudie. She’s new around here.”
“Rosa, actually,” the woman said, offering her hand. “Only Jesse calls me Louisa.”
“Another old song,” Jesse murmured.
Friday, 21 March 2008
Jesse Lives! - Pg. 6
Chapter 2.
A few weeks after the time he brought me the token, after I had paid him back and begun paying thirty cents each day for my used Times, I arrived at the subway stop to find him conversing with a group of tourists in German. It was by no means perfect German. His accent lent his German a softness it generally lacked, and his word order and grammar were faulty. Many times he groped for words, miming and using his hands while watching the tourists to see if they understood. The Germans suggested words, both German and English, and with a lot of effort on all sides, communication was being accomplished. It was a lot better than I could have done with my two years of college German.
He spotted me and waved a Times. “Miss Claudie! Miss Claudie! Help me out, will you? These folks want to go to Times Square. Will you show them where to get the shuttle at 42nd?”
How could I not? How could I not do more? I got them a map at the token window. I showed them the route they would be taking. I got off at 42nd and walked them to the shuttle. (I did it all without speaking a word of German, I realized afterward.) I acted just like the West Virginian I was. And I felt proud of it. I decided that in this one respect, if nothing else, I would be true to my roots. I would help out any and all tourists I came upon needing help (especially Europeans). They, if no one else, would think of me as a real New Yorker, after all.
I resolved to ask Jesse his name (I still didn’t know his name yet) and to ask him how he came to speak German. and that weekend I had my chance. I headed out Saturday evening to buy the Sunday Times which becomes available in Manhattan usually around seven the evening before. Jesse didn’t deal in the Sunday Times. Those who bought it discarded it section by section, and there were sometime nine or more sections. Yet there he was outside the subway. He seemed to have diversified his business. Now he was selling roses, one by one, to the couples that passed in and out of the station, sounding as if he knew the history of each couple.
A few weeks after the time he brought me the token, after I had paid him back and begun paying thirty cents each day for my used Times, I arrived at the subway stop to find him conversing with a group of tourists in German. It was by no means perfect German. His accent lent his German a softness it generally lacked, and his word order and grammar were faulty. Many times he groped for words, miming and using his hands while watching the tourists to see if they understood. The Germans suggested words, both German and English, and with a lot of effort on all sides, communication was being accomplished. It was a lot better than I could have done with my two years of college German.
He spotted me and waved a Times. “Miss Claudie! Miss Claudie! Help me out, will you? These folks want to go to Times Square. Will you show them where to get the shuttle at 42nd?”
How could I not? How could I not do more? I got them a map at the token window. I showed them the route they would be taking. I got off at 42nd and walked them to the shuttle. (I did it all without speaking a word of German, I realized afterward.) I acted just like the West Virginian I was. And I felt proud of it. I decided that in this one respect, if nothing else, I would be true to my roots. I would help out any and all tourists I came upon needing help (especially Europeans). They, if no one else, would think of me as a real New Yorker, after all.
I resolved to ask Jesse his name (I still didn’t know his name yet) and to ask him how he came to speak German. and that weekend I had my chance. I headed out Saturday evening to buy the Sunday Times which becomes available in Manhattan usually around seven the evening before. Jesse didn’t deal in the Sunday Times. Those who bought it discarded it section by section, and there were sometime nine or more sections. Yet there he was outside the subway. He seemed to have diversified his business. Now he was selling roses, one by one, to the couples that passed in and out of the station, sounding as if he knew the history of each couple.
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