Archive for January, 2010

The Problem With Going Home…

Monday, January 25th, 2010

That officially unrecorded song by anon (performed only a few times in dark, semi-smoky locations reeking of spilt beer and wrinkled pimientos before anon’s band became snarling strangers to one another and broke up) plays constantly in my head as we’re hitting the beaches, the harbor, the courtyards, the parks in the early a.m.—parks, beaches, playgrounds 5 minutes from each other—running him, showing him, running after him, strolling him:

Shoreline Park before 7am.

Heading into Santa Barbara on a 1/4 tank of gas. Dollar in my pocket, you don’t have to ask me if I’m happy. It’s written in my smile. So the highway captured me, well I turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.

SB Harbor, late afternoon.

Harbor lights are glowing, there’s a sunset in your eyes. With not a mile between us, you don’t have to ask me do I love you. Loved you all this time. Had a fight with the last horizon. I turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.

Sky to Ocean.


Feel my future open.

More Ledbetter.

I have run from this. Leaving you behind. Had a fight with the last horizon. Turned around. Moon is at my back tonight.

And I want you to know: I’ve loved you all this time.

Shoreline Park. Same early morning.

I want you to know: I’ve loved you all this time.

Little guy.

Cheesy little song. Though apt.

(lyrics reprinted with anon’s permission, because even though she forgets to water plants or remove bagels from the broiler in a timely manner, she actually remembered to copyright her songs)

Speaking of Mantas…

Monday, January 25th, 2010


I neglected to add this photo to my last post. I’m told snorkeling—which I’m not afraid to do, not really, not anymore—is far more shark-attracting than scuba diving—which I am afraid to do. But gazing at Mark’s photos makes me want to dive. So some day, when my toddler is all grown and married and I have grandchildren and I’m an octogenarian, say, I’ll have them push me into a pool and I’ll get PADI certified and then go on my first dive and maybe feed mantas. And if it’s that day the mako comes along with a liking for old lady flesh, so be it. I’ll have raised my son, I’ll have seen my grandchildren. And my husband—who is not afraid to scuba dive, despite having seen sharks and eels and monster lobsters protecting their monster young—my husband, who will no doubt live to be 100+—will have mandatory down time from his cuckoo spouse.

Until then, I’ll photo-gaze. Or glass-bottom-boat venture. Or snorkel…WHERE IN BLAZES ARE MY FINS?

Oceans To Write…

Friday, January 15th, 2010

I’ve been getting my fish-facts straight as they pertain to my children’s (middle-grade) novel. Editing for the 50th time (x 50 to the power of WTF) the fish-infused chapters and finding, to my horror, even now, facts I failed to check previously—tucked into my favorite editing place, my bed, while T naps or helps his Dadda wash dishes or is down for the night—editing, editing, gasping when finding an error (fishy, grammatical, or plot-wise)—editing, fingers tapped blue, neck stiffening despite enough pillows to furnish a Harem—still, I realize that apart from being mother and wife, this is what I love to do: Get my brain-screams on paper, then edit them into readable screamage. I could do it for hours. Weeks. Longer.

O Wrasse! You huge…

Fear lurks, though, like a moray eel slowly hunting in color-matched corals: Each time I edit, I make the story better—so even though the novel is ‘finished’, is it ever really finished? I wake up in the middle of the night muttering, GILLS, OF COURSE, GILLS, WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE, GILLS, GILLS, GILLS! If you were familiar with the heroine of my novel, GILLS would make perfect sense—and had you actually read my novel before I woke up muttering GILLS and inserted GILLS into the story appropriately, you would have thought to yourself: Huh—for the love of sea turtles, why the heck didn’t the author use GILLS in this novel? Yep. Fear.

O eel! You scary…

I suppose there’s more fear, like: My novel never getting published…But that’s such a boring fear. Booooooring. As my friend L, a-real-live-NYC-actress reminds me: It’s a numbers game! You have to hang tough and keep marketing (yourself) if you believe in your material.

O sea turtle! You amaze…

In between marketing and responding to LET ME SEE IT PB requests after certain agents read my (freqently more and more) mass-marketed query letter, I edit—I improve my novel and its fish-factiness. And I take my son to the beach and show him what inspires me and what I hope thrills him. I fill his bookshelves with ocean: Have I told you (I ask him, pulling out a well-illustrated, marine science-y little number) about the roughhead blenny? Come! Sit in Mama’s lap and take a look at THIS, my boy, my sweet, my precious love-cup! Ha ha!

O tiny blennies! You–cute?

Then back to the pillows, until what I read and edit and create loopy marginalia around puts even me to sleep and dreaming about unicorn fish and mantas that sing. To marketing, to marketing, jiggety-jig.

O manta! Sing, sing!


These amazing photos were taken by our dear friend, Mark Snyder, owner of Mark spends much of his life under water, surfacing for the lecture circuit, or to travel to another exotic dive spot, or to hang out on research boats shooting, shooting away into spectacular sunsets. His website is a beautiful place to visit—like stepping into a tranquil aquarium. His innovative way of lighting the world beneath the waves never fails to ignite the imagination of ocean-nerds like myself.

Relief For Haiti

Wednesday, January 13th, 2010

If you can:

Happy New Year! 2010201020102010 etc….

Monday, January 4th, 2010

1st morning. Swell, gulls, surfers, boogie boarders. 72 degrees. O Southern California!

Dana Point, CA Jan 1st 2010

And while I continue working on my next blog post, here is an archive from last year when we were barfing like maniacs and wondering how on earth to handle it with a 1 yr. old, also barfing. That was a time indeed.


And don’t forget to read my poems on Chaparral —because of course you have time to read poetry in your busy day, who doesn’t? Ha ha (uttered with more than a tinge of hysteria).