rebeccakuder

Happy New Year, Crocodile!

Why is it that every year as January first approaches, I feel like Captain Hook with the crocodile?  The tick of the clock the crocodile swallowed reminds me of time passing, mortality, the end of things.  This year, more than ever before, I feel this immense need to rush things out of the house, banish all dust, all grime, all extraneous matter.  This includes wanting to empty my closets of junk (not a new feeling, and not exclusive to this time of year, but flaring up nonetheless) and wishing I had a few more hours, just a few, to set things in order.  To give me a false sense of calm.  As if somehow at midnight, something will turn back into a pumpkin (mixing my children’s stories here, but I don’t have much time to think of how to not!) and something will vanish, never to come back.

But this is true for each second that passes, isn’t it?  Why is this moment (11:59 pm) any different from any other moment?  This has been a hard year in many ways, for many of my people.  I’m not sad to let parts of 2010 go, and yet there’s my urge to halt the clocks, slow it all down, just for today, so I can…Do everything!  Fix everything! Recycle everything!  And feel something important somehow  more clear.

Instead I wish I could be “good form” about it (Captain Hook, in the real book by J.M. Barrie, is very concerned with what is “good form”) and just get out my sword, or hook, and greet the ticking crocodile with bravado.  “Hallo, you scaly fiend!” I’d say.  Wishing again for that dream of swashbuckling heroics and the liberation from clocks, from fear of time passing, from fear of mortality.

On the other side of today, I hope to find a little more of that courage.

May it be a brave and beautiful year for us all.

rebeccakuder

Possibly the best Christmas song…

…or at least a favorite in our house, is the Pogues “Fairytale of New York.”  Here’s a great live version.  I love Kirsty MacColl’s hair; I love her belting it out: she’s all around fabulous.  Shane McGown’s a mess, even in his prime, and because there are no subtitles, I’m pasting the lyrics here:

FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK

It was Christmas Eve babe

In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won’t see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I’ve got a feeling
This year’s for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They’ve got cars big as bars
They’ve got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It’s no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing “Galway Bay”
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You’re a bum
You’re a punk
You’re an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it’s our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can’t make it all alone
I’ve built my dreams around you

Kirsty MacColl was killed in a boating accident in Mexico in 2000.

Somehow, Shane MacGowan is still alive.

If Shane MacGowan can still be alive, maybe 2011 will magically, somehow, be a little better for us all.

rebeccakuder

The most wonderful time of the year…

Yes, I am being sarcastic!  When I hear that dreaded Andy Williams song, it usually makes me feel like hitting something.  All the stress and expectation and commercialism going on around my hearing that song–because I usually hear it when I have to go to some retail place around now–whirrs into a blend of loud, flashy junk, and makes my head and heart hurt.  Luckily, this year, I haven’t heard it more than a couple of times.

Luckily, my family doesn’t do a lot of hoopla for the holidays.  (When people ask, “So, you ready for Christmas?” I usually say, “Well, we don’t do much, so yeah, I’m ready!”  My reply does not get at the problem of people assuming that everyone is either Christian, or into Christmas for some other reason.)  I’m still a bit confused and ambivalent about what, if anything, to do at this time of year, considering that I was raised in the Christian traditions, and my husband was raised in the Jewish traditions, and neither of us are religious, and we tend to eschew the plastic and sugary.  We settled on celebrating winter solstice: the idea of bringing light into the house on the darkest day of the year.  This year, though, I took my daughter to the chiropractor that evening, and plan to give her a few belated solstice presents sometime before Christmas.

I don’t mean to sound like Scrooge.  I’m all for people getting together and enjoying good company.  If this is a religious holiday that means something to you, wonderful, celebrate it!  And I might try to read “A Child’s Christmas In Wales” aloud as I used to do when I was in college.  My daughter might sit through it this year, rather than just trying to eat the book.

With one minor illness after another, this year, this is also the time of year when I realize that I’m not going to send out the intended solstice cards I started to make, but maybe they can be new year’s cards.  It’s the time of year I wonder if I will still make the intended granola and cookies for the neighbors, or whether they will get their treats after this weekend’s food fest, before the food fest of next weekend.

It’s been a year of many illnesses in and around my friends and family.  Some fleeting (hooray!) but some will linger long.  Feeling the weight of all that happened this year, I’m realizing that nothing that can be given in a box has as much meaning to me as the people around me, those still holding on, those still holding onto each other, and those, not with us here anymore, but held and holding to via memories.

To the people: Thank you.

rebeccakuder

What I had for breakfast

Hello to the five loyal followers of my blog.  If you’ve really been paying attention, one or two of you might recall that I’ve snarked here and elsewhere that one reason blogs annoy me is that even if you are my dear friend, I don’t (necessarily) care what you had for breakfast.

But today, I am going to break my own rule.  Today, I made something that was so, so good, I feel it my duty to break the rule–and if you’re still reading, you must be curious, so why should I hold out on you?

I made brown rice last night.  At our house, my husband and I try to have lots of basic ingredients so we can throw things together to eat.  Beans, rice, etc. are good things to make ahead.  This morning, as a break from the ubiquitous oatmeal, I put into one of our thrift shop Creuset pans a couple cups of cooked brown rice, and maybe a half cup of milk, plus some maple syrup and nutmeg.   (I am not name-dropping Creuset to be pretentious, but because I adore these pans.  They are really expensive, but you can find them discounted or used, and even at retail, they are probably worth their price if you consider cost per use.  They are heavy and non-sticky, and also very beautiful.  I used the little yellow one, in this case, if you need me to paint more of a picture.)

I brought the stuff in the little yellow pan to a slow heat, actually slower than I had planned…I was getting impatient; time was passing and soon we’d be late for the day.  But then it started to warm, and heat, and I stirred it a bit, and it got very creamy.  I didn’t taste it, and thought I’d added too much maple syrup, and perhaps it could have used a little less, but it was so delicious that I’m thinking it is the new comfort food for brutally cold mornings.  I might have to go make some more now, in fact.  It was THAT GOOD.

And that basic recipe sings for more improvisation: cinnamon, honey, nuts, candied ginger, other aromatic and certainly savory spices, cheese, and so on.  Let me know if you try it, and what new variations you invent!

Bon appetit!

rebeccakuder

Things I’ve learned from not getting a publishing contract

I’m incredibly sad and disappointed to report that I’ve not been able to reach an agreement on the contract with the publisher who last year accepted my novel, The Watery Girl.

So the deal is off.

Aside from the encroaching self-doubt, which is always around (and sometimes latent), I’m sure I’ll find another publisher eventually.  Meanwhile, I will keep working on the mess-in-progress [update: the manuscript formerly known as “the mess-in-progress” is my novel, The Eight Mile Suspended Carnival].

When getting rejections from agents and publishers, my practice has been to allow myself anywhere from a few minutes to a day of self-pity.  It will take a bit longer to get over this one.  They accepted my novel more than a year ago, so the process of getting a contract and then negotiating has taken awhile.  If I can take a large view of it, this is for the best, but right now, it’s painful.

Here are a few things I have learned about how to navigate this terrain, in no particular order:

1) Talk to other writers and people who have been through this before.  Don’t be shy to ask questions.  Depend on (and thank) those people who offer smart advice.

2) Don’t announce anything until you have a signed contract.

3) Don’t sign a contract you’re not comfortable with–even when not signing leads to more delays and disappointments.  If you don’t have an agent, hire a professional to look over a contract before you sign it.

4) Be as dispassionate as you can about these negotiations.  Like buying a house, remember it’s a business transaction.  (This is difficult, because it is the nature of creative people to love what we create, so the risk of hurt is very close.)

5) There are no proper emoticons for certain kinds of disappointment.

6) Looking into the shadowy places can be terrifying, but is crucial to the evolution of an artist.

I know I have plenty more publishable words and stories in me.  Though I entertained the thought for a few minutes last night, I won’t let this make me quit writing.

As my wise mentor, Jim Krusoe, would say, “Onward.”