total constant order

spots and stripes

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 18:26:12 GMT

She showed up under a palm leaf (no cabbages in my backyard). We took her to the vet and they scanned her like a bag of groceries. Finders keepers. My baby girl's got baggage-- fleas, ear mites, worms, the works. Now she's a nonstop motor rumbler, a talker and a walker. She climbs up my shoulder like a parrot. She never stops saying, "Merci...." even with her mouth full (see supercute video below).

Think I'm in love.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qyA-SkkEOM

photo meme

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 21:15:15 GMT

Take a picture of yourself right now.
don't change your clothes, don't fix your hair...just take a picture.
post that picture with NO editing.
post these instructions with your picture.

Right here...right now...

Ready for rush hour on Biscayne Boulevard.

twenty questions

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 12:55:06 GMT

1. What are your nicknames?
C-J. Lady Jane. Grasshopper. Skeletor.

2. What do you do before bedtime?
I plug myself into my noise-canceling headphones and listen to late night talk shows about ghosts and UFOs (no wonder I suffer from nightmares).

3. What fandom(s) are you most into at the moment?
I'm semi-obsessed with that TV show about ice road truckers.

4. What is your favorite scent?
Laura Ashley Number One (a discontinued perfume only found on EBay). I've worn it since seventh grade. When my boyfriend splurged on a bottle for my birthday, I almost cried.

5. What videogames are you playing at the moment?
I used to be a gamer girl, but the newer 3-D platform games leave me cold. I’d rather hook up my old Nintendo 64 and play Metroid.

6. What is your theme song?
When I was twelve, this boy in my math class used to sing, "Cheer up, Crissa-Jean," to the tune of "Daydream Believer." (Yeah. I was a moody little kid. You could say I was emo before the word became an adjective).

7. Do you trust easily?
Hell no.

8. Do you generally think before you act, or act before you think?
I'm way too obsessive. My mind is like a dog chewing on a bone.

9. Is there anything that has made you unhappy these days?
See above.

10. Do you have a good body-image?
In school, I used to wear baggy jackets and jeans in a futile attempt to look less like a string bean. Kids made fun of me for being skinny. My mom said I'd get over it. I'm over it.

11. Is being tagged fun?
It's an honor I take very seriously.

12. What websites do you visit daily?
http://www.coolhunting.com/
http://gridskipper.com/
http://www.cuteoverload.com/
And this one (duh).

13. What have you been seriously addicted to lately?
Caffeine. (Lately? Who am I kidding?)

14. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?
A super smart pixie chick!

15. What's the last song that got stuck in your head?
I'll show you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HW2gvO6icJA&feature=related

As he oozes around the room, I can't stop looking at the crucifix dripping with rosaries, the half-finished Rubik's cube, the bottle of hand sanitizer, and the top drawer (what's inside?)

16. What are your favorite items of clothing?
Fuzzy scarves, textured tights, and leather boots.
Obviously, I was born in the wrong city.

17. Do you think Rice Krispies are yummy?
Those sticky bricks of cereal studded with mini marshmallows? Major yum!

18. What would you do if you see saw $100 lying on the ground?
I can't even imagine. Once, my friend scooped a dollar off the sidewalk and little bits of rock candy tumbled out. BTW: It wasn’t rock candy.

19. What items could you not go without during the day?
my Iphone, digital camera, and Moleskine notebook (in case I feel like spying on people).

20. What should you be doing right now?
Grading semi-autobiographical prose poems from the students in my creative writing class. This week, I've read about a girl who got kidnapped in Columbia, an ex-soldier who held his son's hand for the first time, and an assorted variety of I-hate-my-ex boyfriend/girlfriend rants.

I should brew more coffee.

I'm in the Miami Herald!

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 13:06:21 GMT

It's finally here! Read the Miami Herald story online and watch the short documentary video.

Miami Herald meeting: part two

Wed, 30 Jul 2008 22:51:56 GMT

Candace calls herself a "visual journalist." When she lugged her video camera and tripod across the living room carpet like a Martian probe, I wondered what she had in mind.

"No talking head interviews," she said, rolling her eyes. "Very little dialogue. Lots of tight shots, you know?"

I knew.

We spent the morning "talking it out." The process reminded me of writing a book. What shots did we want to include? What could we cut out? How could we tell a story in three minutes?

She hovered over my laptop. "I love YouTube," she said. "I'm such a geek." She showed me her inspiration--a video diary, In My Language, that presents a first-person viewpoint of an autistic mind.

"It's all about tolerance," Candace told me.

I stooped over the dining room table and doodled in my notepad. Candace filmed a close-up of my hands. I hoped she wasn't sweating buckets, thanks to the busted A.C. When she rolled sound, the cat decided to snack on a bowl of crunchies. At least we weren't outside battling the mosquitoes anymore.

When I dragged out my childhood journals (splattered with t-shirt paint and Lisa Frank unicorn stickers), Candace flipped through the pages as if searching for archaeological evidence. I never imagined that somebody would videotape stills of my Batman doodles and crablike handwriting.
Candace said that the cartoons were "joyful."

I said, " Yeah. That's because I was in my head. The cartoons that I drew in my algebra books, on the other hand..."

I kept thinking about the signing I attended at Books&Books last week for my hero, John Dufresne. He talked a lot about art imitating life, how his protagonist, "Johnny," is just another version of himself. He said that novelists are forced to write about their lives and make it more interesting than reality. While working on a book, he often wonders: Is it a dream? Is it something I saw in a movie? Is it a memory?

"We pick at scabs," he said. "And we will until we die."

Working with the Miami Herald this past week, I met a wonderful cast of characters...from Patrick, the sharp-eyed photographer who perched me in the tree, thoughtful Laura, who listened and scribbled as I blabbed about my alter ego in cyberspace, and Candace, the former lit major who tells stories through pictures. I wondered what kind of portrait they would paint.

A visit from the Miami Herald

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 19:31:53 GMT

"Do the mosquito dance," I told Laura, the reporter from the Miami Herald, as we walked around the house where I grew up.

"Let's move fast," I said. "Looks like it's going to rain."

"What kind of fish are these?" she asked, peering into the koi pond. I explained that they're all named after planets in the solar system. We checked out the old Indian well, hand-dug by a tribe of Tequestas, where I once tossed icky kitchen potions (the type I dared my friends to drink).

On the deck, I scooped up a waterlogged air plant. "Don't they look like tribbles from Star Trek?"

She smiled at me. "Um. I'm not familiar with Star Trek."

"Watch out. I'm a big dork," I told her. "You've been warned."

We couldn't fend off the flesh-eating mosquitoes so we ducked inside the house. Laura said that she’d read Total Constant Order in one day (I had just dropped it in the mail!) My cheeks burned. All I could say was, "Thank you!" We talked about Fin's blog and how the YA market is becoming more interactive—not to mention, more popular—even with "grown up" readers.

Laura scribbled in her notebook. She had come armed with loads of interesting questions. Since I used to work in the trenches as a freelance writer, I know that sometimes it's hard to pull stories out of people. I tried to give her as much info as possible. We spoke for two hours. It felt like talking to a friend. Then Laura packed up her notebook and portable recorder and drove away, just as the Herald photographer pulled into the driveway.

"The skeeters are wicked here," he said, fanning his face.

"Welcome to the jungle," I said.

Don't let anybody tell you that modeling is easy. The photographer plunked me in a chair and murmured advice (Thank goodness...because I had no clue how to pose). "Hold your left shoulder with your right hand. Now open the fingers," he said.

"Yeah. This is how I always sit," I said, rolling my eyes.

He asked if I felt like climbing a tree.

"I'd rather sit in a tree than a chair," I said, lacing up my Chucks.

He propped a ladder beside one of my favorite fork-shaped oaks (a tree house used to rest in its branches) and laughed when I scurried up without it (I thought the ladder was a prop!) "Now find the light," he told me. "Angle your face toward the sun." It sounded like something Tyra Banks would say. But Tyra was right. Although the sky was fleeced with clouds, I caught a sliver of sunlight and tilted toward it. When the photog gave me a sneak-peek of the picture in his Canon digital, I knew he had orchestrated the shot with an expert eye.

When he left, the house felt bigger, quieter.

Then slowly it began to rain.

where I live: final photos (water water)

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 21:03:44 GMT

When snowbirds think of water, they might imagine the ocean. Instead I think of Biscayne Bay. No pound-pound-pounding waves or sand in your suit. It has its own secret rhythms--a slower waltz, the moon its metronome.

In one of my earliest short stories, I wrote, "Biscayne Bay is a ribbon in my bedroom window." I could look out and see a thin strip of blue--the same water where I tumbled off the docks as a little girl (and my dad tugged me out by my hair).

Every summer, we would drive to Shelburne, Vermont (where my family lived before I was born). I would sit on a sun-warmed boulder beside Lake Champagne and read books until dusk--the first novels I ever devoured--from Ramona Quimby to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I couldn't help making up my own stories about the lake monster, Champ, and I looked for his face in the waves but never found him.

Last weekend I visited my favorite reading spot--my boulder by the lake. I used to dream about writing my own books. I still wonder if I'm living in a dream.

PS: In Shelburne, you will find a fantabulous bookstore called The Flying Pig. They've got a great YA section broken down into smaller categories. I searched for my book, of course. When I didn't find it, I marched to the front desk. The clerk said it had sold out. "In fact, we've sold quite a few copies," she said. THANK YOU, VERMONT!

where I live: day six (flower-works)

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 13:46:51 GMT

purging cassia

royal poinciana

The summer skies explode with color. No fireworks required. When I look at their blazing petals, I hear crackles and sizzles in my head. If you listen carefully, you might hear them, too!

where I live: day five (bird on a wire)

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 13:25:02 GMT

When I was little, I'd pretend that the birds were spying on me. I'd see them perching on the power lines like notes on a scale...so still, they might've been robotic. My best friend, Suzanne, would look for spray-painted codes in the sidewalks---surveyor-speak (I know now). We would make up stories about trolls tunneling under the pavement.

Back then, it felt like the entire world was keeping secrets from us.

where I live: day four (the Chinese Bridge)

Wed, 02 Jul 2008 13:55:04 GMT

We used to call it "Thrill Hill," back when cars zoomed at shriek-inducing speeds over it. Now the Chinese Bridge has been restored to its original colors: blue, yellow, and red to represent the sky, the earth, and fire.

When I bike across it, I can't help raising my hands (roller coaster-style).

where I live: day three (lines in the sand)

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 13:21:47 GMT

So I was going to post a picture of a modern day Stonehenge--all the construction taking place in South Florida. I stumbled across this odd-looking pattern in a church's freshly mowed lawn. Now I'm not sure what to call it. A crop circle? (minus the crops) Or a landing pad for vacationing extra terrestrials? You tell me!

where I live: day two (land crabs are blue)

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 11:02:08 GMT

Florida land crabs remind me of spiders, their distant cousins, with their stalk-like eyes and slitty mouths. They march across the backyard in a conga line and plunk into the pool. After a hard rain, their holes fill up with water. Once in a while, they will even climb a tree.

where I live: day one (roots)

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 13:58:47 GMT

The author, Cynthia Lord is posting a picture a day of her hometown. She invited all of us in cyberspace to do the same.

For my first photo, I'm showing my roots. Here's a banyan tree hugging a coral rock wall in Palmetto Bay (once known as "unincorporated Miami-Dade County" when I was a kid...just a few miles south of the city). The trees remind me of a home for Mowgli in the Jungle Book. I walked barefoot on their massive branches and swung from their vines.

Sometimes I still do.

swimming behind my eyelids

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 15:45:10 GMT

I took a walk under the feather-duster palms and spotted a pair of manatees swimming in the Deering Estate park. They looked like tires bobbing in the water (and sounded as if they had caught a cold, judging by their phlegmy snorts).

Storm clouds bubbled on the horizon. A group of men in tuxedos were setting up for a party at the Deering mansion--hustling around with silver trays and bottles of wine.

I stood under the porch and looked up (not at stars...but at conch shells pasted into the ceiling)...

...and petals twisted into wrought iron.

"You have to leave now," said one of the tuxedo-dudes. So I turned and walked up the path. A silver fox darted into the bushes. I looked for him on my way back, but he had vanished with the breeze.

He keeps his secrets and so do I.

revise/reprise

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 22:08:58 GMT

"What are you doing over the break?" one of my students asked me. (She's writing a screenplay about vampires).

"Revising," I told her.

She smirked. "Really?"

"Yeah. Just like class."

Only now it's just me and my agent's notes. I flip through page after page and squint at her handwriting. "Huh?" she'll scribble in the margins. "Not clear."

When my head needs clearing, I hop on my bike and cruise. The royal poinciana trees have smeared the sidewalks with their lava-colored blossoms. I cruise over the Chinese Bridge, down to the People's Dock.

"Beware of Alligators," reads a sign tagged with crablike graffiti. It's low tide and the air smells like rain. When I peer over the water, I spot a pair of puffer fish nosing through the seaweed.

I turn and head back toward the road. As I hit the brakes, a truck swerves around me and parks in the dirt. A boy in a Marlins hat jumps out. He sets a metal cage on the ground, slides open the trapdoor, and a possum waddles into a thicket of ferns.

Once in a while, I'll spot a guy in pleated shorts and a golf shirt, practicing the bag pipes (it sounds like a flock of geese slowly dying). Or the middle-aged man who performs tai chi in the grass. Or the box turtle who nibbles dandelion weeds (I always think of him as Tea Biscuit, my childhood pet who ran...or crawled...away. I haven't seen him since the brushfire a month ago. I hope he scooted off with the peacocks). Someday I'll write about these mental postcards. For now, I'm taking notes in my head.

I haven't bonded with my bike in ages, thanks to the rain. Instead of daydreaming on my wheels, I hid inside a movie theatre. I caught a stunning film that my students have been drooling over. It's called The Fall and it's a story about storytelling...the way we recreate events in our minds and how every person sees it from a different angle.

A little girl listens to a bedside fable and creates a fantastical world in her imagination, at times pausing to correct the details ("He doesn't talk like that!") or casting real life people in her fictional universe. The narrative skillfully weaves between the adult and child's perspective of key events, allowing the audience to play along as they connect the threads.

As I watched, wide-eyed, I couldn't help thinking, "Isn't this just like writing...or reading...a book?"

Watch the trailer here

sequins and banjos

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 21:21:56 GMT

A week ago, I sat in my agent's office. Above her desk, a row of books towered like a shrine. I spotted my pastel-tinted hardcover, tucked in the corner. We chatted about a couple new projects in the works. It felt a little surreal, hearing someone else talk about the people in my head.

I held my breath. She told me two things. Although I'm working on something a bit different from my first novel, it's still a "Crissa book." I busted out a grin when she said my "girl characters" have their own thing going on. That's so important. I refuse to write a hot pink novel (though dreamy pastels are cool with me).

I think back to last weekend, when my boyfriend and I visited the Maritime Building next to the Whitehall Ferry. Talking Heads frontman, David Byrne, had transformed the cavernous second floor into a "sound sculpture." People stood in line, waiting for a chance to play the bulding...or rather, hunch over an antique organ connected to a spiderweb of "metal beams, plumbing, electrical conduits, and heating and water pipes" (according to the Creative Time website).

The Maritime Building hummed like a living thing. I stood near a clanking radiator and shot a video of a girl tickling the keyboard. Behind her, sunlight spilled down on another girl, who trotted around with a red umbrella. An old man with a mustache chased her with his enormous camera (He told us that she was the subject of his photo project. Yeah. Whatever).

That night, I slipped into a sparkly dress (which made me look like a mirror ball) and we slipped into a 1920s costume party called Shanghai Mermaid at a dusty factory in Red Hook. Everybody was decked out in sequins and sipping absinthe. I noticed a chick dressed like the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy--not to mention, a few fabulous drag queens. At midnight, a woman dropped out of the ceiling and performed a sash dance (similar to the booty-shaking fan dance she had performed earlier, only this time, suspended in mid air). I clapped so hard, my hands burned.

On the way out, a retro band strummed banjos and ukuleles. I recorded a few seconds of bleary footage on my digital camera.

Now I've got an avalanche of finals to grade and revisions to tackle. In the basement of my mind, plotlines simmer. New characters speak to me. I dream about them and sketch them with Pigma pens in my notepad.

For the moment, they are all mine.

home again

Tue, 20 May 2008 15:57:17 GMT

After months on the road, the book tour has finally ended. A big thank-you to HarperCollins, my agent, and my PR team, Karen and Tracey!

The day after I arrived home from Chicago, I woke early to teach a class. I walked to my car and found a pale dusting of ash across the windshield. Fire had swallowed the Everglades. Smoke thickened the breeze. I rubbed my eyes. They never stopped stinging.

When the Florida Center for Literary Arts invited me to teach a teen writing workshop, I thought: Man, this rocks. And I wish that something like this had existed back when I was in high-school, pestering my English teachers to read my Xeroxed novels-in-progress about swashbuckling elves.

The workshop lasted until late afternoon--a bit long, but the kids hung in there. At the end of the session, we shared their narrative poems about secret kisses behind the lockers (and boys who smelled like vinegar), knife-wielding murderers running through the woods, and the first time a boy sniffed glue in kindergarten (my favorite line of the day: "The walls started shaking.")

On the next Saturday circled on my calendar, I spoke with a panel of authors at the Barbara Seniors Harkins Foundation, which strives for the betterment of schools in South Florida. Beside me sat C. L. Freire, who writes fantasy for tweens. We passed the karaoke-style mic back and forth while the kids asked questions ("Do you know Chris Brown?"). Once they spotted my bouquet of lollipops, they stampeded down the aisle. A blue-eyed boy grabbed a sheet of paper and showed me his tag: Abstract. ("Where do you hit that up?" I asked. He said, "West Palm Beach.")

Now my calendar is empty. My only responsibility? Grading finals in a few weeks. It feels a little strange...like I should be doing something more for my book. But at this point, I have done everything I can do. My characters are wandering out there in the world, finding their way. They will come back and tell me what they've seen.

One last thing to write = the answers to this meme, which floated along to me a couple days ago.

What were you doing ten years ago?

Studying film in the UK. And chopping off my hair, shortly after this photo was snapped in the Irish countryside (one of the horses was an extra in the movie, Braveheart. Since he could only see out of one eye, he didn't flinch when the arrows flew through the air).

What's on your to-do list for today?

Write a letter to my friend in Norway (or maybe I'll record it on a CD), ride my bike and take a picture of the burning trees.

What are some snacks you enjoy?

I'm more of a savory kid than a sweet girl...but I can't resist Japanese candy. Here's the stash I brought home from San Fran.

What would you do if you were a billionaire?

Buy a brownstone in Brooklyn. Or maybe just a room with a view (as long as the view is in NYC). Also--my friends and I have this fantasy about creating a sanctuary for stray cats.

What are three of your bad habits?

Um. I'm way too obsessive. But you already knew that. I think four-letter words are funny and I drink too much coffee.

Where you have lived?

I was born and raised in Miami. During college, I lived as an exchange student in Prague, as well as Paris. I hope to live abroad again someday. I keep all my journals in a wicker chest in my bedroom (my version of a hope chest...the hope of traveling again).

What jobs you have had?

In my twenties, I wrote a weekly film column for a newspaper on the beach.

One summer, I worked as a production assistant (fancy phrase for "person who fetches things on the set). I tossed rose petals at the girls modeling spring dresses in a TV commercial. But man, I could get used to "craft services," (endless supplies of treats) and the lady who walked around with a tray of cafe con leche every morning.

I worked as a script consultant (fancy phrase for "person who reads fifteen feature-length scripts a week and tells the producer that they suck). I still remember some of the ridiculous lines from those awful pages, like, "Her stomach jumped like a tuna." (How does an actor perform that feat?) and "He was all over her like a wet noodle."

I was a journalist for many years. I interviewed crazy DJs during Winter Music Conference and high-rollers during Art Basel. Worst interview ever = A certain Icelandic triphop band which shall remain nameless. During our "chat," one of the dudes asked if my boyfriend could buy weed for them. The dude ignored all my questions. Instead, he dropped lines like, "Miami is a girlfriend who never stops smiling." Then he pretended to snort coke off the table.

Taught college: screenwriting, summer theatre camp, creative writing, you name it. Still do.

And my favorite job of all?

Exactly what I'm doing right now.

Last Stop: Chicago (Again)

Thu, 15 May 2008 16:57:47 GMT

Rain pounds the sidewalks. I duck into a pizza place on the corner of North Winchester Avenue. Across from me sits a scruffy kid, thumbing through a paperback about African Gray parrots (the same birds that decorate his sweatshirt). I lean back in a booth and dig out my Moleskine. In the past few months, the pages have swollen twice their original size.

As I scribble, I notice someone gawking at me: a boy with a trucker hat and a bandanna looped around his neck like a bank robber. Tattoos swirl down his pasty biceps (I spot a portrait of Edgar Allan Poe carved in his skin.) He hunches in the corner, talking to a clump of people about an "ex-friend."

"He was drinking all day," says Poe Junior. "I was like, 'Can't you come out for an hour?' I mean, I was only in town for the weekend. I'm so over it, man."

Seems like I've heard this conversation before...in another city...weeks ago. I can't remember anymore.

Poe Junior storms out. He jumps on his bike (fixed gear, of course...the handlebars strapped together with tape) and pedals into traffic.

I think about all the stories taking place around me. Stories with no ending...

During this trip, my PR team booked several events on a single day. The events took place in different suburbs (in different directions!) I was staying in Wicker Park, at a sweet little spot called The Ruby Room (like chilling in your own secret apartment above a Zen-like spa!) I woke before the sun and hopped in my cab. It took about an hour to reach Joilet (pronounced like the Shakespearean heroine, not "Jo-Lee-Hey," as I'd been mumbling with a French accent).

I wandered through the halls, lost as usual. As I passed the auditorium, I heard muffled voices. ("Maybe they have another speaker?" I wondered.) No worries. I always arrive early. I finally found the main office and an English teacher lead me back to the auditorium.

"They've been waiting," she told me.

Wait a second. I checked email on my cell phone. "It says I start at nine?"

"Uh...no," the teacher said.

Somehow...something got mixed up.

I asked, "How much time do I have?"

"Fifteen minutes," she told me.

I glanced at the stage, which swarmed with metal chairs and music stands. The teacher told me to project my slides on the burgundy curtain because they couldn't lower the screen, due to the stuff on the stage. It took a few minutes to set up my laptop (luckily I'd brought my VGA display adapter). As I sped through my presentation at light speed, I noticed Kathleen from Anderson's Bookshop, looking just as confused as me.

The students asked a couple questions ("How much money do you make? Have you met Oprah yet? What's your book about?") and then, they marched out.

"Sorry I missed everything," Kathleen said, as I sat cross-legged on the stage, signing books for the library.

"I missed everything, too," I told her.

"Wasn't it supposed to start at nine?" she asked.

The teachers ushered us outside. They kept talking about a "vampire book club," and the upcoming prom. A skater boy with a chain belt wandered past us, looking lost.

"Where are you supposed to be?" the teacher asked him.

He gawked at a crumpled sheet of paper. "Uh..."

She snatched the paper away. "Go to Attendance," she said, sighing. "See," she said, turning to me. "That's why we're working on our literacy program."

Kathleen drove me back to the bookstore in Downers Grove, where I caught the lunch hour train and rode back into the city. Next stop: Evergreen Park Library.

I spent the afternoon teaching a creative writing workshop for teens. When I finally had a chance to rest, I chatted with Gigi, the teen librarian, and she took me on a tour. I'd never seen a library with its own fireplace...all the bookshelves arranged at right angles, so you never feel lost. A gleaming display case featured a collection of mermaid toys.

"I started collecting anything Little Mermaid when I was a year old," said a handwritten note. "We have Ariel in every room of our house, on my walls, in the kitchen, the bathroom, and covering my bed."

Back downstairs, I spoke to a group of families with special needs kids. They asked a lot of tough questions, and I talked about the experiences that gave birth to my book. After the presentation, I chatted with the librarians as I waited for my cab. They cracked jokes about the characters who hang out all day in the computer lounge (like the woman who "talks to outer space" through the internet).

I hopped in a cab and sped back into the city. I closed my eyes, half-sleeping as we bumped over potholes. My boyfriend was waiting in Millennium Park. He wanted to swing by the Holiday Club, a Sinatra-style, old-school watering hole.

In our free time, we nibbled goodies at spots like Earwax (once a record store, now a veggie joint), and Avec, (local chef hangout), and combed the boutiques of Bucktown, where I snagged this Midwest t-shirt, courtesy of Campfire Goods.

At the Theater On The Lake, we saw, "As Told By The Vivian Girls," based on the stories and collage paintings of Henry Darger. Instead of simply watching the performance, we interacted as characters in Darger's fantasy world, in which several stories take place simultaneously in different rooms. The audience must wear paper masks and wander through the hallways and staircases in the sprawling theater, exploring multiple narratives, much like the "Choose Your Own Adventure" books that I devoured as a kid.

The performance was designed by Dog and Pony Theatre Company who managed to translate Darger's 15000 page novel, "Realms of the Unreal," into a ninety-minute glimpse inside an alternate reality.

I left the theater in a daze...the same dreamy fog that lingers after reading a favorite book. After all, I don't read books to "watch" a story. I read books to "become" the story.

We had become the story.

Upcoming Event: Evergreen Park, IL

Mon, 05 May 2008 18:24:37 GMT

Shout Out: San Francisco (and FBA)

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 20:56:16 GMT

A week ago, the kids at Capuchino high-school invited me to chat with their book club (aka "You Say Read, We Say Party"). I hadn't seen San Francisco since I was fourteen. All I remembered were the seal lions barking for their breakfast at Pier 39, and a street dude popping and locking beside a boombox on the sidewalk.

The school was perched on a hill, layered like a wedding cake (not a coffee cup, as I'd imagined). Out of all the schools I've visited, this one reminded me of my own--due to the "al fresco" atmosphere instead of the closed-in corridors of chillier cities. But my school never had a book club like this...or a culinary class (the F.E.A.S.T. program, which provided us with cobb salad and rhubarb pastries. Rock on!)

I shared the event with another newbie Y.A. author, Cecilia Galante. The protagonist of her debut novel, The Patron Saint of Butterflies, shares a lot in common with Fin. Both girls struggle to maintain control as their worlds spiral into chaos (Fin counts numbers and Agnes murmurs prayers).

Cecelia wore a lovely silk blouse adorned with butterflies (a gift from her sister, her sewed it by hand). Like me, Cecelia is an English teacher, and we had no trouble sharing the spotlight. We decided to take turns interviewing each other while a student camera crew filmed us like an E. Entertainment newscast. The Capuchino kids asked a lot of smart questions (nothing about walnuts or my romantic status). They wanted to know how our own experiences had shaped the events in our books. They also asked if I would continue to write books about mental disorders. I said, No. I'm not going to write about OCD again. But I'm going to keep writing about outsiders, that is, characters who don't quit fit in.

"I love outsiders," I said, and the room crackled with applause.

After the Q&A session, we sat and ate lunch with the kids (one of my favorite events so far!) I scooted a chair next to Alex, who didn't have a book because "My mom stole it from me and she read, like, a hundred pages at once." So I signed a sticker for him to take home. Alex told me about being straight edge, hanging out at the punk shows, and how people tend to judge others too quickly, even when they claim to be open-minded.

"So where are the X's on your hands?" I asked.

"I had them on yesterday and they washed off," he said, grinning.

I also met Dazzy, who shared a poem with me about "riding the bus and taking pictures with your eyes." And Malena, who wrote verses about reality TV, "which has nothing to do with reality at all."

I could've stayed with them all day. When they waved goodbye, I wondered what it would be like, growing up in California. (One girl wanted to know why Thayer talks like a Cali kid. I guess we use the same slang...except for "dog," while the West Coast peeps prefer, "cat," bringing to mind the Beat Generation).

Speaking of which...in my spare time, I visited the City Lights bookstore, the notorious Beat hangout (Maybe a few are still with us...like the leather-jacketed bum outside the door. He took my leftover quarters and sang, "Check it out!" No doubt, a poet in disguise).

I cruised through Japantown, with kimono-clad drummers and wind-up sushi in the windows. Caught a train ride to the Mission district, loaded with taqueria stands and trendy boutiques. I sipped lattes in North Beach at Cafe Trieste, which was packed with bohemian people scribbling on notepads and pecking away at their laptops. A mandolin and guitar duo strummed in the corner, making music like rain. I watched a French girl tuck her Papa's shoelaces inside his socks. "What's that? What are you doing?" he kept asking, but she just shrugged.

I also had a chance to visit the Redwood forest in Muir Woods. The gargantuan stump at the front entrance, marking time through tree rings, was straight out of the Hitchcock movie, Vertigo. The minty breeze made me shiver. Only a trickle of sunlight oozed through the thick branches (which truly scraped the sky). While taking a picture on the bridge, I got a weird feeling. Someone was watching me. When I spun around, I spotted a deer wobbling on stilt legs. She plowed through the stream and disappeared. Nobody else seemed to notice.

When I flew back to Miami, I had to teach a class. On the next day, I drove four hours to Saint Petersburg, and then back again, in time for an 8am class the following morning. Insanity, yes...but I couldn't miss the Florida Book Awards or the chance to bring home my medal. (much better than the Presidential Fitness prizes in 6th grade, back when Arnold Schwarzenegger urged us to dangle our chins above the monkey bars).

Before the banquet, I drove around Eckerd college, where my sister, Caren, graduated years ago. I remembered her roommates in bikinis, sunning on the ledges outside their dorms. (I kept wondering if they would fall off).

Next week, my niece, Corin, will don a cap and gown and receive her college diploma. Her baby sister will stand in the audience, just like I did, and probably try the cap on for size. When I was her age, I didn't have a camera. I took pictures with my eyes, just like Dazzy described, and sometimes, those are the images I remember most.

vlog review

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 13:57:43 GMT

I just discovered a video diary online (aka "vlog") in which this quick-witted girl, Madison, reviews her favorite books online. And she posted an entry about Total Constant Order. This rocks!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Akya1jg_7NA

ribbons

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 18:06:49 GMT

My editor emailed with more good news.

TOTAL CONSTANT ORDER was selected as a "VOYA Editor's Choice" Book for 2007.

That night, I took my niece to the Dade County fair. Cassie had won a red ribbon for her puppet of Jane Goodall (perched inside the sprawling Expo...on display beside the other celebrity puppets, including Jimmy Carter and Miley Cyrus.) We combed the booths--past The Hurricane Center where I picked up a poster of cloud formations.

"My uncle chases tornados," I told the guy behind the counter.

He rolled up the poster like a treasure map. "Is he crazy?"

I scooted past a robot on stilts (He danced a little salsa for us), and the Siamese Fighting Fish in glass jars, past the salad shooters and karate demos. When I was Cassie's age, I won a blue ribbon for my oil pastel rendition of "My Favorite Place in South Florida" (The Seaquarium, complete with a killer whale splashing in a pool).

We held hands on the Swings. The DJ blasted, "Love in This Club."

"Are you going to write another book?" Cassie asked me.

"I'm working on it," I told her.

"A book for kids?"

"Big kids," I said.

She smiled. "Excellent."

reading at Sweat Records: Miami

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 15:49:17 GMT

Big ups to everyone who came to Thursday night's reading at Sweat Records!

We settled into velvet purple couches, surrounded by crates of records (there's no better place in South Florida to find your favorite indie tunes) and black-and-white photos of Blondie and Vincent Gallo. I sipped mint tea with Soraya, one of my former students, who told me stories about Brazil and longboard surfing and the picnic we will share with the injured birds on Pelican island.

My friend, John, strummed original ballads on his guitar, minstrel-style. We finally got the DVD playing with a little help from Jason (who was kung-fu fighting on the Playstation).

Hugs to LoLo, who arranged the event. She is a walking encyclopedia of songs!

Double hugs to the TM Sisters for their rainbows and lightning bolts and digital photos. (They're the ones behind the camera)...

After the reading, we scooted next door to Churchills for cold mugs and conversation. Leave it to Miami to make this reading one of my favorites so far.

Thank you, Ligon!

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 16:22:12 GMT

I peeked into my P.O. Box today...and found a flurry of thank-you letters from Ligon Middle School in North Carolina. Sula sat with me and we looked through each and every one. Some of my favorite lines:

"I liked the way you made it fun to listen to you when you talked, and the way you wanted to show people the real Miami! PS: I'm not finished with the book but I love it so far."

"I love your Book and I think you did a very good job at my school. I love florida (even tough I have never been)."

"Thanks for being a nice person and coming in, and taking time to talk to us. I really appreciate all you talked about. The 'Real' Florida is interesting."

"The book is really great. OCD seems like a very dificult condition to live with. It is so amazing that it takes 2 years to make a book. I really enjoyed the things you shared."

...and this one, from George:

"Thank you for coming to visit my third period class yesterday. I learned a lot about the true Miami, and how it is different from how it is depicted on television and in movies. I also learned about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and that it is not funny, as they say it is on television. I enjoyed looking at the pictures of your cat, and your manatee, Whiskers. I found it interesting to hear about dealing with OCD and the different rituals. It was also interesting to hear about the road to releasing your novel, because I hope to become a writer one day."

Thanks for keeping it real, Ligon. I loved every word.

Shout Out: NYC

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 19:43:12 GMT

There's a lion in the library. Or rather, it's a dude dressed in a rumpled lion costume, like a walking stuffed animal. I hide behind a pillar and pray he doesn't notice me. As I bolt around the corner, I catch sight of him, kneeling down on the carpet and posing for a picture with literary punk rocker, Cecil Castellucci, and I wonder what alternate universe I've been zapped into...The New York Public Library's Books For The Teen Age.

Across my sweater, I wear a sticker ("Crissa-Jean Chappell: Total Constant Order). This compels people to stop and stare at my chest. A tiny woman peers up at me and asks, "Do you write for high school or elementary school?" I grin and say, "Teens." Apparently, this is the wrong answer. "Well, good luck with that," she says, scurrying away.

I spot another YA author, Jo Knowles--a person I've never met in real life...but in another dimension called cyberspace. I recognize her flowy locks, like a princess in a fairy tale.

She says, "I was wondering if that was you."

Yeah, it's me.

She and Cecil are chilling near a buffet loaded with nothing but cookies. Cecil sticks out her hand and says hello. Her shoes are decorated with skulls. I flip over my tote bag, which is skull-flavored, as well.

"Skulls are good," Cecil says.

Jo wants to know, "Where are our books?"

I warn her, "When you go over to the tables, people are going to talk to you."

The "tables" are stacked with this year's titles and arranged by category:

"The Soundtrack of Your Life," "Parents From Hell," "Dead and Relatively Dead Relatives."

I tell Jo, "Maybe you're in the dead section?"

Turns out, we're both in "Dealing With It."

I bump into Chris, the librarian who hosted my NYPL reading in the Bronx, just a few days ago. He takes a geeky picture of me, clutching my book, and counts, "Two, four, six," before the flash. I wish that I could bring him on tour with me. He gave the best introduction of all time--something like, "This is Crissa. She collects Japanese candy and pinback buttons and recorded stories on tape with her cousin, etc. etc."

"Best intro ever. It was borderline stalkerish," I say, giggling with Jack, the master of ceremonies. He's decked out in pink ruffles, bringing to mind proms of the 1970s. He rolls back his sleeves and shows off his "blingy" cufflinks.

I tell him, "My boyfriend has cufflinks shaped like safety pins."

Jack throws back his head and laughs.

After pacing around the crowd (under a swooping blue ceiling that reminds me of a snowglobe, minus the snow), I collapse in a front row chair (where nobody dares to sit). This scene is so intense, I need to take a break. I keep turning around and looking for my friend, Siobhan, but no sign of her yet.

I close my eyes and think of the movie we just watched at the Angelika theater (think: clouds painted on the ceiling and subways rumbling under your feet). We caught a matinee of Paranoid Park, Gus Van Sant's brilliant adaptation of the Blake Nelson novel. At first, I couldn't imagine how anyone would translate such an interior narrative to the big screen, but in Van Sant's hands, scenes are shot out of sequence, building suspense, along with a subjective sense of time. The main character's thoughts and feelings are translated into visual clues (like the columns of water spewing in the shower, as birds chitter in the background). Did I mention that Elliott Smith plays on the soundtrack? Did I mention that I left the theater in a daze, as if New York itself had morphed into a film?

Somebody waves at me. "Remember we met at a Radiohead concert?" he says.

It takes me a second to realize, it's Nico Medina (plus he's wearing a nametag). He tells me about his next book (about a "hoochie mama") and we both crack up, imagining what his nametag might say next time: "Nico Medina: Fat Hoochie Prom Queen."

Nico introduces me to the person standing beside him--a woman with movie star hair. "This is Rachel Cohn," he says.

I almost slide out of my seat. "Wow!" I squeal like a fangirl.

Rachel is about to duck out the door, but she takes a couple minutes to chat with me. "I used to be shy, too," she says (though it's hard to believe). Her rapid-fire speech (punctuated with giggles and one-liners) reminds me of wisecracking Cyd in her Gingerbread series.

Now it's time for the "keynote speech." I turn around in my chair. There's Siobhan, a few rows behind, wiggling her fingers at me. We're still glowing from our N. J. school visit (Franklin Middle School Author Day). I brought my stencils and the kids painted t-shirts with me in the art room. I also had a blast, meeting the other authors (During our lunch break, we ate sandwiches on a stage in the auditorium, making it seem like we were actors in an absurdist play).

A sign on the wall said: "We eat, talk, line up, and purchase food in an orderly fashion, using a pleasant conversational tone."

On the early morning bus ride to NJ, I sat next to Robert Lipsyte, another HarperCollins author. Turns out, he's the keynote speaker for the NYPL reception. He talks about "dick lit" (yes, this is an actual quote) and how boys are groomed to be team players, not individual thinkers. No wonder dudes get dissed for solitary activities, such as reading.

I scoot out of my chair and slink to the back of the room. There's no place to sit, so I plunk down on the floor. The lion sits in front of me, nodding his head. I lean against the wall and listen.

When the speech ends, everybody claps, long and hard. I want to tell Robert that I loved his speech, but he's already posing for pictures. So is Siobhan, along with Jo and Cecil. My boyfriend is texting my cell phone, something about the Whitney biennial in a Civil War armory. Later, we'll eat cupcakes and stroll through half-frozen parks. We'll party in a Brooklyn warehouse stacked with mile-high canvases, watch breakdancers tumble and spin on the concrete floor.

I will wake up on Easter morning, pack my suitcase, and fly south. I'll forget to bring a few things---my bag of stencils, a sweatshirt with a bird stitched into the tag. But of course...this only means one thing.

I will go back again.