Skool

I am having a wonderful semester at the college where I teach, with engaged and talented students. I taught a section in my Memoir class about the graphic novel. We read Persepolis and then I had them draw, in graphic novel form, a scene from one of their essays. Below: students hard at work, and a few of the end results. So impressive!

In my other course, photographer Amy Tierney joined us last week as a guest speaker and told us what it was really like choosing to live a creative life. She's so creative that she insisted we take a class picture.

Look at those cool kids!

A Place Called Home

I am so happy. I have finally consolidated all my websites into one brand spankin' new one. You are just a few clicks away from seeing my new novel's book cover, reading about some upcoming writing workshops, and the like.

CLICK HERE

Thanks!

Rest Les

I was saddened to hear of the death of my wonderful writing teacher, Les Plesko. I met Les in 2003 and took a series of classes with him at UCLA extension, workshopping my first novel, "Swimming Upstream, Slowly." 

We were asked to bring only one page weekly to read aloud and get workshopped, and I was extremely put off by this technique... at first. I soon realized that perfecting that one page was an exercise of epic proportions. It forced the writer to tell the story, create the scene, in as succinct a way as possible.

Les threw little chocolate candies at us over the break, introduced us to literature we may not have heard of otherwise, and helped us all craft our novels with his generous and prescient feedback. It was also through his classes that I made some lifelong friends in David, Mary and Irene.

A beautiful memorial was held at Beyond Baroque last week, where countless writers eulogized our teacher, mentor and friend. In fact, I "borrowed" this blog title from his ex-student Jamie Schaffner, who ended her remembrance with a poignant, "Rest, rest, rest Les".

Here is what I contributed to his memorial book: 

Les Plesko was integral to my growth as a writer. After taking 3 classes with him, I completed my first novel and found a publisher soon after. Les focussed on the page, the paragraph, the sentence, the word. I have yet to meet a better editor. After one of his readings, I went to get my book signed. He asked me, "How do you spell your name again?" I said, "Hey, that's code for you don't remember my name!" and we both had a good laugh. "I'm so sorry," he said. "There are so many people here I'm just drawing blanks on everyone!"  Les was authentic, generous and supportive, and I will miss him.

Les will live on through his novels which can be found here. 

Janet Fitch, his friend, has also started a website to memorialize him, which can be found here.

Melissa in Wonderland

I have been enjoying spending writing time at the Writers Guild library. I am trying to finish a novel, but also doing some research for a potential new project. In preparation, I've been reading some scripts, including the 1933 version of Alice in Wonderland, penned by Joseph L. Mankiewicz. It is such a thrill paging through this original script, old and yellowed, full of humor and heart, with illustrations to boot. You definitely don't see scripts like these anymore. 

And check out the cast list...W.C. Fields as Humpty-Dumpty, Gary Cooper as the White Rabbit, Cary Grant as the Mock Turtle...

Pretty special!

Booked

Man, life has been busy lately.

The highlight of this week was a reading at the wonderful Book Soup.

I met my friend Lisa Harper in grad school. No sooner did we meet than we were impulsively road tripping up to Reno at 10pm one night with two other grad school pals. I think it took me a week to recover from that one.

Lisa was always a foodie, even before that term became hip. She would regale us with tales from her Princeton eating club - an idea very foreign to me, but intriguing nonetheless.

Our friendship continued long after our sun-soaked days in Davis. On a trip to visit me in L.A. she even met her husband (on the dance floor of The Derby).

A few years ago when Lisa asked me to contribute an essay on food to an anthology she was co-editing with Caroline Grant I couldn't help but laugh. She was the foodie, not me. But actually, at that time I had made strides in my culinary life - and it was thanks to an unlikely mentor: Rachael Ray. Eventually, I wrote my essay, and eventually they sold their book, and earlier in the week we had a reading of the book with all the L.A. contributers.

Little known fact: Zombie expert Max Brooks has an incredible green thumb. Upon hearing this, Lisa suggested he might have a good essay to contribute to the book, and she was right. Max joined in on the reading that night.

From left to right: Lisa Harper, Caroline Grant, Max Brooks, Melissa Clark, Dani Klein Modiset, Stacie Stukin and Lisa McNamara.

I am so proud to be part of this amazing book, and especially proud of my friend Lisa for seeing it through. You can purchase it here. 

On another note, I am booked for my summer plans. I head to Portugal very soon for a 3-week artist residency, and later in the summer I'm off to Montreal to celebrate a milestone birthday for my dad!

Some Writing/Teaching news...

I spent last Sunday night reading the terrifying, haunting, overwhelming "A Stolen Life" by Jaycee Dugard. Why did I read this cover to cover before going to bed? Um, not sure. The psychological enormity of the situation is beyond comprehension. Dugard proves to be an excellent writer - even her journal entries written at 11-years old show what a good writer she is.

Speaking of writing, I am on a panel this weekend and then teaching a few classes here as well. I'm looking forward to a new crop of people and the yummy food and drink that accompanies these events!

In other writing news, my piece, tentatively titled, "Rachael Ray Saved my Life" will be included in an anthology titled, "The Dish: Making the Food that Makes Your Family," forthcoming from Shambhala Publications (Fall, 2012). My friend Lisa co-edited this anthology with Caroline Grant and the sale of this project earlier this week marks the end of a very long search for the right publisher and the beginning of an exciting new chapter for them. I couldn't be more thrilled for them!

Open Mic Night

Earlier this evening I had the pleasure of attending an open mic night at the college where I teach. Though I'd announced it to my creative writing class, AND sent them a follow-up reminder email, none of them showed up. I mean, in a way I get it. Friday night, after a long school week...but boy did they miss out.

Open mics are classically full of awkward moments. This was no exception. But it was kind of delicious in those moments. So raw and innocent.

A few graduate student poets stood up and read their work. One even sang a song. I got up and read the first few pages of the novel that keeps getting rejected. In the middle of my reading, I gazed up and saw a sea of new people, first five, then ten, then twenty of them. I started feeling nervous. My voice even quivered as I read.

Two guys went up after me and sang a Ramones song. A girl got up and read a poem she'd written on the car ride home from snowboarding earlier in the day. It was really, really good. Another guy got up and started beat-boxing while his friend free-styled. More poems. More stories.

Then the snowboarder girl got back up and said she loved going to a cafe in Boyle Heights and writing poetry in her free time, and once, as the place was closing for the evening, a bunch of people writing there moved outside and started making up poems - one would start while another took over. She said it was the most amazing experience. She said she'd like to recreate it and invited anyone up to the mic with her. I was intrigued - tempted, even, but in the group were old students and I felt self-conscious. A graduate student finally joined her and together they improved poems - each more magical and brilliant than the next. My jaw was agape. My skin tingled. I knew I was in the presence of art - real art.

Sometimes it's daunting how everyone seems to want to write, but in a world that shakes violently on its own terms and unleashes a fury of tidal waves - insult on top of injury - what's the harm in trying to put one word in front of the other and then arranging it on your own terms until it is good, then better, then best?

That Last Post Got Me Thinking...

When I was in graduate school, Margaret Atwood came to visit our department for a week. She's a major reason I became a writer so I was very excited to spend time with her and even more thrilled when the department put me in charge of her. From the second I picked her up at the airport she was full of questions. ("What are those trees? Why does your seatbelt do that? Why are there so many personalized license plates?) My roommates and I hosted a dinner party for her at our house. Half the department came over to help us cook. When she arrived that night she said she'd already eaten, and spit an onion tart out into a napkin in front of the person who made it, claiming she thought it was a cheese tart. I tried to bond over being Canadian but she didn't seem to care. When she asked what my sign was and I said Virgo her face contorted into a sour grimace, "Uch," she said. "My ex-husband is a Virgo." I defended my sign, saying perhaps female Virgos were different than male Virgos, and while she was open to the argument, it wasn't the stimulating conversation I'd fantasized about having with her. Toward the end of the week I was growing weary of her. While crossing the street on campus, a local, celebrated yet quirky poet was walking toward us. Ms. Atwood nudged me away so we wouldn't cross his path and said "Uch, there's that man again." I prayed he didn't hear, though I imagine he did. When the week was through, when I was done driving her places, escorting her to classes, and dining with her, I handed her my tattered-from-reading copy of "Dancing Girls," her short story collection which started me on my own writing path. As she signed it I imagined something like, THANKS FOR DRIVING ME EVERYWHERE or NICE TO MEET A FELLOW CANOOK or even GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR WRITING. Instead, I simply got MARGARET ATWOOD.

I still love her work. I even follow her on Twitter. And despite our nonbonding, Margaret Atwood gave me the gift of a story, and for that this Virgo is grateful!

2011

Happy new year!

Toward the end of the year I always like to make a list of things I accomplished, big or small, during the year. In 2010 the accomplishment I am most proud of is learning to wear contact lenses! It is so freeing not being confined by frames (though I do miss the way the frames semi-hid the wrinkles around my eyes, oh well...) but I am surprised at how vulnerable it feels as well. Slowly but surely I am getting used to it. What has been your proudest accomplishment of 2010?

Tomorrow I head up to Big Bear with the family for a little ski vacation. I'm hoping all this L.A. rain will translate into powdery fresh mountain snow.

Meanwhile, here's a post I wrote for the book blog to which I contribute. I love being part of this group of women authors. Every month we're given a theme to write about and this time it was "Your Writing Journey." When you read about everybody's highs and lows it somehow normalizes this crazy profession.

Happy 2011 to everyone.

Writing Fellowship

Click here for the 2011 Emerging Voices application - this looks like a great one.

Julie and Julia and Melissa

Perhaps I've become a softie, but the movie Julie and Julia moved me to tears. Happily, I also experienced lots of laugh - some explosive ha's, a stream of giggles and more than one laugh-to-tears moment. Not only is this wonderful story about food - my new favorite subject - it is a story, two actually, about accomplishing your goals, realizing your dreams, finishing what you've started. 

The Julia part of the story, of course, deals with Julia Child as she and her husband move to Paris and Julia looks for 'something to do'. She is a foodie from the start and only when she enrolls in the Cordon Bleu does her passion get ignited.

Julie's passion for writing has been snuffed out by her government job, dealing with the aftermath of Sept. 11. It's hinted that she was a writer at Amherst and the one who was going to 'make something of her life'. When her friend starts a blog about her dating life, Julie thinks she might want to start a blog, too, and eventually decides to blog about cooking recipes from Julia Child's cookbook.

For both women, being published is their dangling carrot. Julia has a long and frustrating experience trying to get her recipes published, and although Julie is self-published via her blog, she constantly wonders if anyone's reading, who cares, etc. She wants something bigger, though what she's not sure.

The movie follows their struggles and their victories, both large and small - one in the 1940's, another in 2002. It's the same story, the need to connect on a grander scale.

Food is love, and makes me think of all the gourmet meals my mom made when I was a kid, and the meals Jen and Basil seemingly effortlessly whip up every time I'm there. During the movie I thought of all my foodie friends, like Lisa H. who's egg and pasta dish is now one of my staples, and Liz and Chris who often host fine dining experiences in their own home. 

Food is love, but writing is life, and I am reminded of this every time I head back into this second novel that is  causing me such angst. I question the very things Julie questioned, from 'who cares?' to 'nobody's going to die if you don't finish'. And I can so relate to Julia when, after getting rejected from another publisher, she says simply, sadly,  "Eight years of my life." Both women get their happy ending and this goes along with my theory that the only difference between people who live their dreams vs. people who don't is PERSEVERANCE.

And so, dear readers (if anyone's reading) I must go finish my novel, because if Julie and Julia can do it, so can I.

Yoga is my Cristal

Yesterday I completed the umpteenth draft of my new novel and turned it in to my writer friend Margaret for notes. I posted an update on Facebook announcing I'd be biking to beach yoga that night to celebrate. A friend from high school wrote back, "I'd figure a bottle of Cristal would be more appropriate." He was probably right - I could have used a bottle, or even a glass, to calm my frayed nerves. When I arrived at the restaurant to meet Margaret earlier that day, manuscript in hand, she said, "How are you feeling? Unfettered?" I was amazed that she pinpointed the emotion in a matter of seconds, but then as a fellow novelist, she should know. That night, I hopped on my bike and followed the path to Rose, where I locked it to a fence and joined some other friends near the water for a gentle yoga practice. We breathed with the tide, did Downward Dog on the incline and saluted the setting sun. Later we listened to musicians serenade us as we all joined in for the chorus of the various songs. At around 9pm we said our goodbyes and I got back on my bike feeling more centered and less unfettered, as the wind gently nudged me home under the light of a full and perfect moon. It was an appropriate celebration of an almost 4-year endeavor, and the best part was no hangover in the morning.