So a song came up in my random lineup today. The song is called “Friends of P.”, and it’s by The Rentals, and the first time I ever heard it was the first semester of my freshman year of college. My roommate always had the college rock station on, so instead of my usual diet of Indigo Girls, Danny Elfman scores, and Sinead O’Connor, I listened to that.
Isn’t it amazing how one smell, one song, one glance at a photo, can transport you to another place and time?
In late August 1995, my mother drove me to Tallahassee, Florida, the home of FSU. I spent much of the car trip in tears because I was leaving my boyfriend and my cat (oh yeah, and my home/family). When my mom and I got to the dorm, we rearranged the beds and unpacked my stuff. She spent the night, and then, the next day, she left.
I remember walking around campus with my map. I had friends who were going to FSU, too, but I didn’t know when they’d arrive (and this is before cell phones, so you couldn’t just text somebody and find out where they were). I ate in the dining hall; I bought a few things from the campus store; I got my student ID and first ATM card, for Tallahassee State Bank, which had ATMs on campus. You could withdraw amounts starting at $5, with a 75-cent fee.
That night, a film school classmate of mine (we’d all met at Film School Orientation a few months earlier) called to invite me to the local coffeehouse. I remember setting the phone down and being completely blown away by the fact that I didn’t have to call anyone and ask if I could go out. I didn’t have to be back by a certain time.
I was on my own. And it all started that night.
Of course, in college, freedom means something different than it does once you hit the real world. Even if you’re working and paying your own way, you’re still in a bit of a cocoon. By the time you get to be a senior, you’re ready to strike out on your own, get away from campus, live your life.
When you’re living that life, looking for a job or working at one, when ATM cards are no longer a novelty and you’re so flush with cash that you can take out more than five bucks at a time… the independence of college life seems downright laughable.
But I can’t think of another moment in my life when I felt such a huge change in the fiber of my experience. Maybe the morning after my wedding, when I told the taxi driver, “I’m just waiting for my husband.” But nah, I think that’s second place. (And I know everything will shift around when there’s a baby in the picture… but I’m not there yet.)
Life is such an interesting journey, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s nice to crank an old song and wallow for a few minutes. Thanks for joining me in the wallowing!
Happy Tuesday!
~ Katie Alender
PS – Please jump over to my blog and enter my CONTEST! Win free stuff (or, if you’re international, win free stuff for a friend in the continental North America region)! Very fun goodies on the line.
PPS – We’re still taking applications for next year’s Debutantes! If you’re a 2010 debut author, click the “Got Pearls?” link in the sidebar… or pass it on to a friend!
July 7th, 2009
| Posted by Katie Alender | Katie Alender, change, college, nostalgia, school
| 6 Comments
There are those few moments in life so huge that by passing through them, you become someone different. You become a new version of you. And no matter what you told yourself before the event, it wouldn’t matter. You’d probably still charge ahead and do it.
Graduation. Marriage. Childbirth. Book deal. Buying a house. Moving. So one day you’re a college student, a single person, a struggling writer, a renter—and then suddenly you’re a graduate, a wife, a mother, a published author, or a homeowner. You’re essentially the same before and after the event, but you’re also different. You know important information now, and you have experience. You discover that marriage is no fairy tale, but hopefully many days of fun and companionship mixed with some wrangling over who is going to clean all those dirty dishes. A book deal is no happily ever after either: it’s the start of lots more hard work, and questions about when the next one is coming out.
I’ve always been a planner. I do my research, and I try to prepare. I probably read every book on childrearing I could find, but none of them were much help when I had to deal with a colicky baby on no sleep, or a two-year-old who threw a temper tantrum every time he left the playground. He’ll grow out of it, the experts said. And they were right. But in the midst of a crisis, I’m not very good at listening.
Right now I’m in the middle of moving. It’s one of the most stressful things we do in life. I am currently looking around at all our worldly possessions wondering who collected all this junk. Do I really want it? What’s the point in moving it? And I’m dreaming about our new home—the colors we’ll paint it, the flowers we’ll plant, and where everything will go.
But in the end, moving is just a hurdle I have to get over to get to that next step, that new self that knows a lot more about efficient packing and homeownership. No book or sage words of advice will spare me the experience. I just have to do it myself.
Happy Birthday America! Hope everyone has a great July 4th.
July 4th, 2009
| Posted by Meredith | 2009 Debs, Meredith Cole, Posed for Murder, emotions & attitudes, the past
| 7 Comments
Dear Eve at 12,
Your family is not as odd as you think they are (well, some of them are. But that’s not your problem). You’re doing fine. Your teeth will straighten out, you really do have good hair and your handwriting will improve (although in twenty years no one will write anything by hand anymore and it won’t matter).
Try not to worry. Trust me.
Dear Eve at 16,
Your family is as odd as you think they are. But that’s okay. Try paying attention in school, you really can learn some useful stuff. The math can be especially handy down the road when you go grocery shopping. You will not be cool just because you squeeze yourself into name brand jeans and an “alligator” sweater. You don’t have to dislike someone because of the music they like. Disco is a type of music; not a political statement. Listen to your instincts and never be afraid to speak up.
Try not to worry. Trust me.
Dear Eve at 20,
Alright with the fun already, could you maybe try to get to classes once in awhile? Relish this time. Okay, maybe a little less relishing and a bit more studying wouldn’t hurt. Don’t enter the wet T-Shirt contest. No … really … don’t.
Trust me.
Dear Eve at 24,
Stop trying to figure out who you are and just BE who you are. Everything you envision happening IS going to happen. And yes, it will all work out in the end. Be patient. Don’t say “yes” too soon. Definitely DON’T follow the hippie-guy to Montana. The one you’re waiting for is still out there and yes, he’s tall, Irish and has a red beard (don’t be fooled the first time you see him). He will open the door to everything you “see” happening but can’t quite imagine happening. Shaving your legs and armpits (or not shaving your legs and armpits, as the case may be) does NOT signify a political affiliation. Don’t let Suzy drive your Mustang. Hell, don’t buy the Mustang, I don’t care how adorable it is. It’s a lemon.
Trust yourself.
Love always,
~Deb Eve
July 3rd, 2009
| Posted by Eve | 2009 Debs, Eve Brown-Waite, First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria, childhood
| 4 Comments
We’re very happy to welcome guest author Sandra Kring to the ball. Her debut novel, Carry Me Home, was a Book Sense Notable pick and a 2005 Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award nominee. The Book of Bright Ideas was a 2006 Target Bookmarked selection, and Thank You for All Things was All You magazine’s book club pick for October, 2007. Her fourth book, How High the Moon, will be released April, 2010.
Anyone who comments today will be entered to win an autographed copy of Sandra’s book, Thank You for All Things!
There have been many times in my life when I would have welcomed a visit from my future-self, so she–armed with the knowledge of how the story would end–could reassure me that I’d be okay.
But looking back, I realize that it was something more powerful than a promise from the future that got me through an abusive childhood, the loss of a baby, divorce, and the journey from aspiring writer to published author. It was faith fueled by the youngest part of myself. The part of me that believed it was magic that made Mexican jumping beans pop, and that if I got a pair of PF Flyers, I really could jump over buildings.
It was this youngest part of me who whisked me off on this writing venture, and believed without a doubt that we’d reach our destination, even though we’d be riding on nothing but a wing and a prayer. Fortunately for me, when I get so wrapped up in adult worries that I start confusing dire thoughts with “reality,” Life, in its infinite wisdom, points me back to her. And so it did, when I was laboring to finish my fourth book.
I was a month behind deadline, 27,000 words beyond a sane word count, and still my child narrator–who by her own admission has a mind that wanders like a puppy without a leash–was going strong. After working 10-12 hours a day for weeks, the only thing dwindling faster than my resolve was my bank account. So in an effort to take a pause and a breath, I took my son for dinner at our favorite restaurant. When we arrived, I excused myself to go to the restroom.
I heard the little girls behind one of the two stalls, and guessed that the little one doing most of the talking was about three. She was in the middle of a story, but stopped when she heard me close the stall door. “Hey,” she said. “I think somebody’s in here. Is there somebody in here?”
“Yep,” I said, as I flinched, because even the simple act of hanging my purse on a hook, hurt my neck and shoulders.
“What’s your name?” she asked. I told her, and she replied with, “Oh. My name is Kea. And that’s Kendsey on the toilet.” I smiled as I unzipped and sat down.
“I can see you,” Kea said, her matter-of-fact delivery telling me she was oblivious to the fact that maybe that’s not something a stranger who is sitting on a toilet might want to hear.
I peered through the narrow gap alongside the stall door, but saw only bright wall tiles. “I can’t see you,” I told her.
“Down here,” she said. “Look under the wall.” And there she was, on hands and knees, staring up at me as I peed. Kea. With a head full of blond ringlets, Crayola Cornflower- Blue eyes, and pink cheeks.
“You have very pretty curls,” I told her as she blinked up at me.
“Yeah,” she said. “And I got a puffy shirt, too.”
Kea disappeared and Kendsey hissed. “Kea, don’t! You aren’t suppose to open the door when someone’s on the toilet!” (Obviously, the girls’ mother didn’t think to also tell them that you aren’t suppose to peek under bathroom stalls, a fact that had me giggling.)
“But I want to show the lady my puffy shirt!” Kea insisted.
Seconds later, while I was zipping my jeans, my stall door (latched with only a magnet) burst open, and there was Kea. She looked down at her pink shirt where a plastic-covered picture bubbled over her heart.
“See my puffy shirt?” she said. “It lights up when you poke it. See? You wanna poke it?”
I was glad my bladder was empty, because by the time I got back to the table, I was laughing so hard I could hardly hold myself up. And I laughed until my eyes watered and my shoulders sighed.
Here in the adult world, where we are inundated with daily responsibilities, subjected to misfortunes, and chronically exposed to negativity, it can be easy to cave to feelings of anxiety and hopelessness. When I find myself in this place again (as I surely will), I’ll remember sweet Kea, so innocent and trusting, plagued by none of the shoulds and have tos and you-can’t-do-that messages that often confine us adults to spaces tighter than a public restroom stall. Kea was my protagonist, and my youngest self made visible. An arrow that pointed me back to the part of me that writes for the sheer joy of telling a story and believes wholeheartedly that it will be good when I’m done. I smiled all the way home that day, and finished my book four days later.
Whatever your dream, I hope your youngest, most trusting self, will be your traveling companion.
July 1st, 2009
| Posted by admin | 09, 2009 Debs, guest author, the past
| 30 Comments
Dear Katie,
Oh, Katie, Katie, Katie.
There are a lot of things I could tell you but won’t, because as tempting as it would be to give you all the lottery numbers and sports scores, that would change a lot of things that I’d just as soon not change.
Instead, I’ll just tell you that, yes, this is definitely your awkward stage. And yes, you will grow out of it. The funny thing is that someday the things you’re being made fun of for are going to be the things that your life is about. It’s okay to be smart, when you’re grown up. In fact, it pays better than being dumb.
It’s also fine to be a prolific writer, no matter what the bastards in 8th grade history said to you that one day. Also, your 8th grade history teacher was a bastard for letting them say those things. (Never trust anyone who says the Civil War had nothing to do with slavery.)
Here’s the thing–someday you’ll be prettier and your hair won’t be so, you know, awkward, and you’ll be better at putting on makeup and getting dressed. But you’re never going to wake up in the morning feeling the way you think the popular kids feel. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that even the popular kids don’t feel the way you think they feel. Maybe they learned early on how to blow-dry their hair or perfectly poof their expensive shirts out of their expensive shorts, but that doesn’t guarantee happiness.
So what’s the purpose of all the angst and lonely nights spent listening to that one New Kids on the Block album, over and over again? Here’s a hint: someday you’re going to write about girls like you. And the girls that read about those girls are probably going to be like you, too. And letting them know they’re not alone is actually a pretty good legacy.
Now, put on those generic Keds and the too-bright lipstick and go work on your observation skills and compassion. Nobody is ever what they seem to be, and you, my dear, are no exception.
Fondly,
Katie Alender (that’s right, you’ll eventually find a boyfriend and get married–don’t worry, you’ll kind of know him when you see him)
PS – The pearl ring is on your top bookshelf, and the heartburn is from nitrates! Nitrates! Put the cheap lunchmeat away!
June 30th, 2009
| Posted by Katie Alender | 2009 Debs, Katie Alender, childhood, junior high school, nostalgia
| 8 Comments
Here are some interviews with Deb Kristina about REAL LIFE & LIARS that have appeared in the last week: Lansing City Pulse, Traverse Magazine online edition, and a review in her hometown paper, The Grand Rapids Press, saying the book is “bursting at the seams with believable people.” You can also catch an archived radio interview performed by old college newspaper pals, here.
Kristina also this week had a guest blog appearance featuring her dog, Lucky, (complete with pictures!) and a lengthy interview at Writer Unboxed which focuses a great deal on craft and process.
FIRST COMES LOVE, THEN COMES MALARIA is now featured at the Diva Toolbox. A humorous (and helpful) article about travel tips for women, written by Deb Eve also appears at the Diva Toolbox. And the podcast of Deb Eve’s interview with Janet Powers will be be airing soon.
A feature article about Deb Eve appears in today’s Staten Island Advance.
Friend of the Debs–and recent guest–Joshilyn Jackson hit the NYT Best Seller List this past week with THE GIRL WHO STOPPED SWIMMING! If you haven’t read it, Joshilyn’s novel is a contemporary ghost story with a Southern Gothic twist, and a perfect beach read. It’s out in paperback! Congrats, Joss!
June 28th, 2009
| Posted by admin | 2009 Debs, Eve Brown-Waite, First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria, Kristina Riggle, Real Life & Liars, childhood
| One Comment
The problem with telling “LMAO” stories is that, 99.9% of the time, you had to be there. For instance, here are three incidents that had me crying with laughter:
* The time in college when my roommate, who sucked at swallowing pills, tried to swallow one and came running down the hall gagging on it. Employing my lightning-fast (though misguided) reflexes, I leapt from my desk into the hallway, where I proceeded to try to Heimlich her. At which point she spat a tiny pill across the hallway and cried, “Katie, Katie, I’m not choking!”
* The time when the husb and I were driving somewhere with a friend in the backseat and one of us made an offhand remark about something, to which our friend replied, “Oh, yeah,” in what was basically a dismissive action, but which prompted about five minutes of all of us saying, “Oh, yeeeeaah,” in our best nasally wiseguy voices. Every time the laughter died down, someone else would say, “Oh, yeeeeah!” and start everybody going again.
* The time my family was playing Pictionary and one of us asked which was right and which was left, and my mother spit her coffee all over the gameboard and pieces.
So, even sitting here writing these down, I’m giggling to myself at the memories. Is there anything more incredible than laughing with our friends? More miraculous than sharing joy with people we care about?
Every time I see or think about a person whose life is falling apart because they spent their efforts in pursuit of a bigger house, nicer car, prettier wife, etc., I wonder what that person would change about the way they defined success.
Do you think Bernie Madoff would give his left arm right now to erase the massive wealth he gained and go to a life in a modest home in the suburbs, spending his weekends playing Pictionary with his family, having someone spit coffee on the board, and then everyone laughing until their sides ached?
Throughout my life, the friends I’ve kept over the years are the ones I’ve laughed with. And one of them, the one who could always, always makes me laugh, I married.
May your home be full of laughter, even if your house isn’t full of equity and your closets aren’t full of designer clothes.
~ Katie Alender
PS – In case you missed the News Flash, my big news this week is that Disney-Hyperion has decided that Bad Girls Don’t Die should be a 3-book series! So thank you so much for your support.
PPS – After Mother’s Day, we did “mom” posts, but we don’t have a “dad” week. So, Par, if you’re reading this, let me just say that I’m so glad to have you as a father, and I’m so glad we learned to get each other’s jokes… even if it took a little while. I still remember the time you told that guy that was bugging me to stop calling the house, and the time you stopped to help that old man with his broken down car in the parking lot at the office, even though you were in your fancy work clothes. I remember how, at my wedding, you reminded me to stop and look around at everyone’s faces, like I asked you to. And I especially remember how you told me you thought I should major in something that I could make a living doing–like writing. I’m happy and proud to be your Dar!
June 23rd, 2009
| Posted by Katie Alender | fathers, joy, nostalgia
| 7 Comments
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